by Sharon Page
“But how could it work? It makes no sense. Anyway, how do you know all of these things?” Her gaze narrowed. “Who are you?”
He was astounded she hadn’t yet guessed he was a vampire. Given how much he wanted her beautiful blood, he was amazed he’d hidden it so well. “I know about the preternatural beings that live in London.”
“How? Do you know Mrs. Darkwell? Is that how you know about me?”
“It doesn’t matter how I know about you. All that matters is that I can change you. I can free you, if you let me. Now, no more questions. I will lead you tonight. Then you can make your decision.”
Watching her turn to the window and stare out, he felt a strange pang in his chest. The light from street flares caressed her face as they passed them. She had a sweet face. An upturned nose, plump lips. Large, guileless indigo-blue eyes.
She wore a cloak he had loaned her. The night was cool. The hood engulfed her, the hems trailed below her feet. He never bothered with a coach, and he kept no servants. He had needed the hackney to bring her. He knew the Royal Society would have spies watching the house—it had been easy to enter the minds of their weak sentry, to make those young, stupid men believe they were seeing nothing, then he had walked Lady Ophelia out, right under their noses.
She had a core of strength, but she was vulnerable. He could sense it about her. Normally, as a vampire, he would prey on weaknesses in mortals. But because he admired her courage and strength, her susceptibility provoked his sympathy.
He didn’t want to hurt her. He couldn’t understand why the thought of taking her power and taking her life was hurting him so much. He’d had to kill as a soldier and as a vampire. He had to do this to protect his sister. Why did the thought of taking her life fill him with so much guilt?
It hurt in his gut. That was something he’d never experienced before.
“A bookshop in Charing Cross? This is where your experts reside?” Ophelia held on to the hood of Ravenhunt’s cloak as she surveyed the front of the shop. The cloak trailed behind her, and the hood dipped over her eyes.
The store looked well weathered. Paint on the once-elegant sign was faded. The glass in the front was dusty.
“This is one,” he answered. “The others, whom you will meet soon, reside in far more interesting places.”
She couldn’t understand him. He had come up with this strange tale that she had to make love to him, yet in the hackney he had sat back in the shadow and had acted as if he wanted to avoid her. On the other hand, she had done the same, determined to avoid him.
He had saved her life.
She kept remembering that. He had come to her rescue, and he was offering to give her the one thing she wanted in the world—freedom from her wretched power. The freedom to be among people. To go home. What did she have to lose, really, by believing in him? She couldn’t go on living alone.
But could she be intimate with him? A small voice inside whispered this might be her only chance to ever know what it was like to hold a man. To make love . . .
Ravenhunt held the door open to the shop, waiting for her. Books were stacked up against the bow window, hinting that there were so many inside it would be impossible to move between them.
She stood at the door but didn’t go in. “I really do not see how a bookseller can prove I will be ‘cured’ of my cursed power by—by doing things with you.”
“Come in, Lady Ophelia,” was all he said.
She didn’t. “Who are these experts? I think I have the right to know. Where are these interesting places? I’m not going to take one more step until you tell me.”
“Trust me.”
Gah. It was an impasse, yet he was in control, and she knew he knew it.
She hated to give in, but she would learn more if she went inside. She would learn nothing if she stayed on the threshold. Glaring at Ravenhunt, she let him win this round, and she went in.
The dust on some of the books tickled her nose. Ophelia sneezed. But she didn’t care about the slightly musty smell. She liked it. She had always dreamed of being able to walk into a bookstore again. After she had come into her power, she was never allowed to go out. She’d dreamed of going to places—to stores, Hyde Park, museums and galleries, Gunter’s for treats, to balls and parties. And to bookstores. She had so longed to go to a bookstore again.
Then she realized something strange. “It is late at night. Why is the store open?”
“The owner works late. He is a historian as well as a merchant.”
She was surprised. For once Ravenhunt gave her an answer. She couldn’t resist examining the books on the shelves. Moonlight spilled in through the window and illuminated them. A glow of candlelight came from the back of the shop.
She ran her gloved fingers over the row right in front of her eyes. Gilt lettering on the spines gleamed at her. “I could spend a lifetime in here,” she mused.
“A bluestocking?”
She blushed. That was a term for bookish ladies, but ordinary ladies. “I’ve always wanted to come to a bookshop. And go to a modiste, a milliner’s, a confectionary . . . I’ve never been able to do any of those things.”
“I am sure Guidon would be happy to part with as many books as you desire.”
Ophelia assumed Mr. Guidon owned the shop. “I have no money.”
“They will be a gift from me,” Ravenhunt said. “After all, I’ve kidnapped you. Buying books is one more way to make amends, I hope.”
Ophelia saw one in front of her. The Elgin Marbles, it was titled, and she tugged it out and opened it. Pen-and-ink drawings greeted her eyes, rich with detail. Oh, she was almost willing to say yes to his offer, just to hug this book to her chest and never let it go.
But she didn’t want to take gifts from him.
Though he saw the longing in her eyes as she gazed at the pictures, Raven knew it was going to take much more than books to make amends. A lot more than that to seduce her. “Let’s go to the back of the shop and you can meet Guidon.”
The narrow space forced her to bump against his chest. Blood. Sweet skin. Beautiful feminine smells.
A shock of desire went through him. Pain ran through his jaw, and he felt the bones of it grind and shift.
His fangs erupted.
He had to keep his face turned away, his lips covering them. Ophelia’s scent was even more dominant to him here than it had been in the carriage.
Her scent was a temptation that made his jaws ache with hunger and desire. She was walking in front of him to the back of the shop. She’d pushed back her hood. Her pale hair was twirled and pinned in a chignon that bared her neck. Her skin was dewy, soft, tempting. It would be like biting into an iced cake—delicious, decadent, sheer damned pleasure.
Damn. Jade hadn’t told him his hunger for her would get worse.
He hung back and let her walk ahead. The sight of her neck left his jaw aching with the pressure of his elongated fangs, and had given him the hardest, heaviest erection he’d had in years.
Making love to her was going to be easy. Hurting her was not.
Ophelia had expected a bookish-looking sort of man. A bit plump, with spectacles and little hair, or very thin and hawkish looking. She hadn’t expected Mr. Guidon would be so tiny he looked like a gnome, with wild tufts of yellowish hair. He wasn’t sitting on his stool, he was perched on it, the way a hawk would wait on a branch before flying in pursuit of prey.
Before she or Ravenhunt spoke, the small bookseller leapt off his seat and made a decorous bow in front of her. “My lady, I am at your service.”
“How do you know who I am?”
“His—I mean, Mr. Ravenhunt told me.”
Ravenhunt cleared his throat and said, “I told him days ago, when you first came back with me, Lady Ophelia.”
“Came back with you? I take it he does not know you kidnapped me?” she asked sardonically.
“I do know that, my lady.” Guidon took her hand and led her into a small parlor at the back of the store, one th
at looked out over a tiny, dark yard. She pulled her hand away, her cheeks flaming. Smoke rose from the bookseller’s palm.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I should not have let you touch me. I might have hurt you. I probably have hurt you.”
His strange little face studied her with a grave expression. “No, my lady, I assure you, you did not. You cannot harm me with just a small touch like that.” He held out his hand. Ink stained his fingers, but there was no sign of a burn. Even though there had been smoke. “Now please take a seat and be comfortable. I shall make tea.”
Ravenhunt remained standing as she sat. “One moment,” he said stiffly. Then he followed Guidon out.
What was he up to? Telling Guidon to agree with his ridiculous story? Well, she was not going to accept anything just on this strange man’s assurance. She wanted proof.
Her face went hot. Heavens, how could she even discuss this with this odd, little bookseller?
What madness had she tumbled into?
Raven followed the vampire Guidon into the small kitchen. He spoke in Guidon’s thoughts while the vampire poured water into his kettle. Somehow she hasn’t figured out that I am a vampire. She cannot find out. I have to seduce her, and she is not going to let that happen if she thinks I’m an undead demon who wants to suck her blood.
Guidon scuttled to a crockery jar and put biscuits on a gilt-rimmed plate. He made a sound of disapproval. My lord, she will find out. You think she is naïve and unknowledgeable, but she is not. I think, under other circumstances, she would have put clues together quickly and have determined you are not mortal.
Raven leaned against the door frame, stepping back to allow the troll-like vampire to move swiftly around his tiny space, assembling the accoutrements for tea on a silver tray. How do you know that, Guidon?
I know of her from my studies of the history and genealogy of the metaphysical beings of England. I know Mrs. Darkwell. Lady Ophelia has had many shocks in her young life, and I am sure that being taken prisoner was most troubling for her. She has endured a great deal. She is by nature a very clever young has endured a great deal. She is by nature a very clever young woman, yet given the grave weight weighing upon her, I suspect her mind is not working as well as it should. She is distressed, and that has slowed her wits where you are concerned. What reason did you give her for appearing naked to rescue her?
He had told Guidon about that by thought. My reasoning was meager and transparent. She should have been more suspicious. I think, because she was frightened and I had saved her life, she was accepting.
He could see the vampire’s point. Ophelia had endured a lot, and she was probably too overwhelmed to take in any more—to really try to guess what he was.
Guidon spun around. His large, protruding eyes were wild with anger. I will not allow you to do this to this innocent young woman. To take her power will kill her.
That’s why I came to you, damn it. I don’t want to hurt her. But the vampire queen Jade will destroy my sister if I refuse. Is there any way I can take her power without hurting her?
You truly do not want to kill her. You? You are an assassin—
Damn it, I know what I am. Even through thought, the words came out as an angry shout. I shouldn’t care, but I do. She doesn’t deserve to die. But I can’t sacrifice Frederica to protect her. There has to be a way to save them both.
There is. Steam poured out of the kettle’s spout, and its lid rattled under the pressure. Guidon plucked it off the heat and poured it into his teapot. She must fall in love with you.
Hades, how would her falling in love with me save her? He sounded like Ophelia. She hadn’t believed his story; he didn’t believe Guidon’s. How am I going to make her do that anyway? I’m the vampire who kidnapped her.
I do not know exactly why it works, but I know her antecedents, and I know from where she came. I know that love, both given and received, will protect her.
So where does she come from?
That you do not need to know. But mark my words, she also needs your true love to protect her.
Raven shrugged. I think I can do that. She’s quite sweet and lovely. She possesses an ingenious mind and a strong character.
Guidon set the teapot on the tray. He wagged his finger. You must understand this. If she does not die when you take her power, you probably will.
It didn’t surprise him. He kept his face expressionless and remarked carelessly, “There’s always a catch.”
Guidon considered him. “Is it a price you are willing to pay?”
“To save two innocent women? Hell, as a soldier I was willing to give my life for our mad king, our fat regent, and my wretched country. Yes, I am willing to die.”
“Let me give you something, my lord—”
“I am not ‘my lord’ any longer,” Raven growled quietly. “To that world, I am dead, and there is another marquis.”
Guidon nodded, then he disappeared, leaving the tea tray on a small table. Raven followed. The small gnome-like man had gone to the very back of the shop. He unlocked a door with a large, iron key. Inside was a closet, with shelves of books. “The rarest volumes. The only old ones to survive. This one will explain to you what you must do.”
As he drew it out and blew dust from it, Guidon was blushing.
The librarian pressed it into his hands. “There are steps you must take in this seduction, or it will not work. It explains how you can protect her, and how the power will destroy you.”
What had they been discussing in secret? Ophelia watched both Ravenhunt and Mr. Guidon with suspicion. Carrying a tea tray, the small bookseller was actually blushing. Ravenhunt stroked his jaw, obviously worried about something, and he carried a leather-bound book beneath his arm. The book was closed with a tarnished hasp.
Guidon set down the tray and Ravenhunt said quickly, “So you see, Lady Ophelia has been kept a prisoner for years, Guidon. She has never had the chance to visit a bookshop and buy books. I’ve offered to buy her whatever her heart desires. But I don’t think she wants to accept a gift from me.”
She jerked her head up, startled. “No, I don’t want—”
“Would you accept a gift from me, my lady?” Guidon asked. “I am so troubled by what you have had to endure. I would like to give you several books.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t. This is your livelihood.”
“Not my sole one. I am also a historian of the metaphysical world of England. And I wish to give you this gift. It would break my heart if you do not accept.”
“Then I shall.” She smiled at him, but frowned at Ravenhunt. He was up to something. She did not think he had been discussing gifts in the back of the shop.
Mr. Guidon poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her. “Now, I shall explain to you how you can be free of your power.” He had been blushing—now he turned flaming red.
“It—it is true that in-intimacy does it,” he stuttered. “I mean, it takes your power away. You must—he must—it is about making—”
The poor man ran his finger around his collar. Finally, a flood of words exploded from him. “Making love allows the power to be taken from you. It takes time, though. It cannot be done quickly. There must be a seduction. And love will protect you.”
He poured tea and literally threw it down his throat.
“But why do I have this power? Where did it come from?” How could he know about it? Was any of this really the truth?
“It is a power you inherited, my dear, from your mother. She did not have the same power, you see, but in you, this is how it was manifested.”
“I don’t understand. My mother was quite normal.”
“It is hard to explain, my dear. But I believe your mother would want you to be free of your power now, Lady Ophelia.”
“How could you know that? What do you know of my mother?”
Ravenhunt got to his feet, grasped her arm, and forced her to stand. “We should go now,” Ravenhunt said. “The sooner we leave, the sooner you will be free,
my dear.”
She tried to protest, but Ravenhunt hurried her out of the shop. In the back, in Guidon’s cluttered parlor, a clock chimed twelve. The hackney had waited, black horses whinnying and pawing restlessly. Ravenhunt had paid the man several shillings to keep him there. Street flares lit up the street, and the smoke of fires wafted across the moon like ghostly fingers.
Ophelia stood just outside the shop, feeling lost inside. Even though Guidon had told her that it was true that intimacy with Ravenhunt would free her, it had felt unreal.
But now was the time for reality. She was supposed to return to Ravenhunt’s home. Allow him those intimacies. It didn’t matter about love and desire. This was a mechanical thing she was supposed to do, a series of impersonal steps that would free her forever.
Except it wasn’t impersonal. She couldn’t look at it that way.
“Let us go,” he said coolly. “It’s only midnight. It’s not late yet.”
“Are we going to your house? Are we going to—to do things?”
He came up to her, his expression gentle. Softly, he stroked the back of his gloved hand along her cheek. Just for a moment. She willed herself not to draw away. If she wanted freedom, she had to accept his every touch—at least the small, quick touches that she could permit before she feared hurting him.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Then where are we going? To see more experts? I—I am willing to believe you.” But am I willing to do it? I don’t know. I’m scared.
Gently, he put thumb and forefinger to her chin and tipped up her face. She caught her breath. The heat and sizzle began where the pad of his thumb touched her skin. His lips came close to hers. Her lips tingled in anticipation.
But he didn’t kiss her.
“Seduction should be a slow and enticing thing, Ophelia. I am not going to force myself on you. I know exactly how to make you want to make love. Just trust me.”
She had already accepted she would have to. At the lack of a kiss, she felt a pang of disappointment. She’d begun to enjoy them. “Let us go, then. I do not want to do things slowly. I need to be free. I cannot live like this anymore. I will do it—”
