The Demon Count's Daughter

by Anne Stuart

  Panic set in. "I . . . I thought it might be nice if we . . . if we just slept together. It would be comforting." I floundered helplessly before the amusement and something else in his silver-blue eyes. "I mean, without . . ."

  "I know you mean without . . ." he mocked me gently. "Unfortunately for you, life doesn't work out that way."

  "What do you mean?" I whispered.

  "I warned you that you would push me too far, and there would be no turning back, Lucy." One hand went gently behind my neck, under my damp, heavy hair, and I felt myself being lifted gently to him. His lips met mine in a kiss that brooked no refusals, no hesitation, no subter­fuge. And without thinking I answered it, giving him all of myself with my mouth.

  His lips traveled along my neck, leaving a trail of burning kisses on my damp skin. One strong hand cupped my full breast, and involuntarily I stiffened.

  He pulled away swiftly, as if burned, and I wanted to cry out in disappointment. "Are you going to fight me?" he asked softly, his voice husky with desire.

  I shook my head slowly. "No, I won't fight you."

  I put my hands behind his neck, twining my fingers through the dark blond curls, and pressed my lips against the thin, angry line of his scar. "But Evan," I whispered shyly in his ear, "be careful of me. I'm not very brave."

  He looked down at me, those strong, lean hands framing my face as he sought to read everything in my eyes. "My angel," he said, and this time the endearment was not mocking, "I will be very, very careful." And pulling me into his arms, he lay down on the pallet beside me, holding me gently, comfortably, until my trembling stopped, and I was no longer cold.

  With deft, careful hands he removed the poor sodden scraps of my clothing before I was even aware of it. Turning in his arms I could feel his strong, rough-textured hands on my skin, my thighs, my hips, my breasts, stroking, reassuring, exciting me in ways I had never even dared dream of. My head was pressed against his shoulder, my eyes tightly shut as he continued to caress me, and if the core of fear within me had yet to be dissolved, why then I had perfect faith that no one but Evan would be able to do it.

  He smelled like salt water and leather and sweat—an enticingly masculine odor that made me snuggle deeper against him. One brave, tenta­tive hand crept out and touched his broad chest, and I heard an approving murmur from deep within his throat as his clever, clever hands kneaded away my terror. As they reached be­tween my thighs I stiffened once more in fright, but this time he refused to back off. With gentle, inexorable strength he forced them apart, strok­ing gently, murmuring soft, comforting words until his hand found me, and I stiffened with something other than fear as he began a new sort of caress, one that made my hips arch in pleasure, and my hands gripped Evan's shoulders tightly as I tried to stifle the gasp of joy that escaped my lips.

  Pulling my head away from the comforting haven of his shoulders, I looked up and met his shadowy eyes. I kissed his mouth, opening mine beneath his probing tongue, and my body shivered with delight. Tentatively I ran my hands along the smooth, lean sides of him, over his firm, flat stomach. And then his hand grasped mine and brought it lower, so that I caught and held him. A groan of pleasure sounded in the back of his throat, and I felt a small surge of triumph wash over me, that I was able to give something back to him.

  "God," he muttered softly, as his mouth moved along my skin, "you are so damned beautiful."

  I squirmed beneath his hands, my breath com­ing in short, shallow gasps, longing for something

  I didn't recognize. "So are you," I said in a soft, breathless laugh, and found myself a victim once more of that fierce, gentle, demanding mouth.

  And then his big, strong body covered mine, crushing any last protests I might have made. As one hand smoothed my tangled hair away from my forehead, the other parted my thighs. "This will hurt, my love, but only for a moment." And then I felt first a gentle pressure, gradually in­creasing till there was a sharp moment of agoniz­ing pain. And then it was past, and my body re­laxed in the aftermath of the sharp, cruel hurt.

  "Is that all?" I whispered in Evan's ear, my lips touching the old scar once more.

  He looked down at me and smiled, a look of inexpressible tenderness in his usually cold eyes. "No," he murmured. "The best part is left." And with that he began to move, very slowly and gently at first, gradually increasing as he could feel me respond. The heat surged through my loins, and I could feel the pressure building, building, until I thought I might explode. And then, to my amazement, I did, as I felt myself flooded with warmth, and the moonlit room swirled away into nothingness, and all I knew was Evan's lovely, strong body within me, his rough voice murmuring, "Now, now." And I heard a sharp cry of pleasure in the dimness and recog­nized it as my own.

  After a long while, when our breathing had re­turned to normal, he moved off me, his arms still keeping me prisoner against his broad, strong chest. I could hear the racing of his heart, could feel my own beating a similar tattoo. "Christ," I said fervently, "I do love you." My only re­sponse was a tightening in his arms. But for the time being that was enough.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I was an apt pupil. By the time the moon disap­peared and the sun rose on that tiny, deserted island, I had had two more lessons in the ancient art of making love. My bones ached, my lips were bruised from kisses, and I was exceedingly tender in various strategic spots. I was also blissfully, idiotically happy as I lay wide awake in Evan's arms, listening to the sound of his heavy breath­ing, feeling the warmth of his body against mine. Never had I felt so in harmony with the world, and foolishly I envisioned nothing but more of such happiness in the future.

  There was no reason under the sun, I decided, that Evan would have followed me, fought with me, rescued me, unless he was in love with me. It was only natural for him to fight the affliction; after a wife like his first one he was bound to be nervous of the whole idea of love and marriage. I felt nothing but a smug pride that I had over­come his scruples thus far, and I envisioned a small, lovely little wedding in the near future. Mother would adore him at first sight, and Father —well, he'd be a good match for my intimidating father. I couldn't wait till they met.

  As Evan's eyes opened and looked down on me lying sleepily in his arms, I had the very good sense to keep all these plans to myself. He would have to come to terms with it all in his own time. That he would, sooner or later, I had no doubt.

  "How long have you been awake?" he asked gently, kissing me softly on the forehead. "Didn't I wear you out enough last night?"

  I chuckled softly. "You did indeed." I ran a curious hand along his thigh, tracing the recent knife wound with careful fingers, and felt his reaction. "I still have some energy left, however."

  He smiled, and I was filled with such love I almost wept. "Do you now? Well, you'll have to take pity on my declining years for a bit. You wore me out."

  "Good!" I sat up abruptly, not in the slightest bit self-conscious of my nude body in the early morning sunlight. "Are you sure we have to go back to Venice?"

  "I thought you loved Venice?" he questioned lazily, watching me out of narrowed eyes.

  "Oh, I do. But I like this little island even bet­ter. There is only one problem with it."

  "And that is?"

  "No food. And I am absolutely starving!"

  He laughed. "Nights like last night do build up an appetite," he agreed with false sobriety. "If you can somehow make yourself decent in that rag of a dress, I will take you back to Venice and treat you to the biggest breakfast you've ever eaten."

  Jumping out of bed, I examined the pathetic rag that Tonetti had procured for me. "I doubt if it will be Florian's in this apparel." I searched around the dirt floor for my scraps of undercloth­ing and began dressing with slow, deliberate re­luctance.

  "There's a trattoria not far from Edentide where no one will stare too badly," he promised, watch­ing me out of hooded eyes. "And you may have fried eels, polenta, squassetto, pasta, and what­ever else pleases your
greedy little heart."

  As I watched him dress quickly with his usual pantherish grace I would have almost foregone all that lovely food for the sake of another day on this enchanted island. I opened my mouth to say as much, then thought better of it. Instinc­tively I knew better than to push Evan too far too fast. He needed time to come to terms with me, and that was the least I could give him.

  Therefore I was deliberately cheerful during the long ride back to Venice. We found a small shawl to drape around my low-cut shoulders and give me at least the appearance of decency. There was no way the dress could look like anything other than a rag, but with my hairpins lost and my long, thick, black hair trailing down my back, I looked rather slatternly anyway. With Evan to protect me, I had no fear I would suffer any importunities.

  True to his word, Evan fed me nobly in a small cafe only a few steps away from Edentide and surpassed me in appetite. The black-haired giant­ess with the ragged clothing did, however, create more than her share of confusion, but a glower from Evan's cold, angry eyes was enough to scare away the boldest admirer. Only one person failed to see the warning and came up with such an outrageous suggestion that my companion nearly strangled him on the spot. As it was, all Evan had to do was rise to his full, menacing height, which was almost a foot taller than the young macaroni, and the area around our table was quickly de­serted.

  As he sat back down again I chuckled, and his eyes met mine ruefully. "I don't suppose there's any chance you didn't understand him?"

  "No chance at all. You should have named some colossal price for me . . . that would have scared him off faster than anything." I took another sip of the deliciously warm, strong coffee.

  He reached out one strong hand and touched my face in a light, lingering gesture that was al­most, but not quite, a caress. "He probably would have sold his mother to meet the price." The look in his eyes was inexpressibly tender, and I melted all over again. "Are you ready to go?"

  It struck me then as very strange: that he had yet to ask me why I had been wandering out alone last night. However, I had enough sense not to initiate the conversation, so full of questions I didn't know yet whether I could answer. Draining my coffee, I rose. "I suppose so. Would you rather I go back alone? We're only a short ways away."

  He shook his head, and I noticed a slight grim- ness around his well-shaped mouth. "With your luck you would be grabbed within two yards of the palazzo. I'll see you to your door."

  Flattered as I was by this concern, a certain uneasiness began to play beneath my ribs. I had no idea what excuse I would give Maggie, if I would bother to lie to her at all. If she got one good look at Evan she would know the truth any­way. But still no word of the future had come from Evan's mouth, and patient though I was de­termined to be, I would have been much happier to have heard some expression of affection from his firmly shut lips.

  Belatedly I remembered Tonetti. I had com­fortably assumed that he had escaped safely last night with the all-important paper, but now doubts were beginning to cloud my assurance. As far as I could tell, the Austrians had been interested in me alone—a scented little fribble like Tonetti should have been counted as inconsequential. When I saw Uncle Mark I would have to pour out the details of the last few days of espionage and see if he could find out what happened.

  We mounted the steps slowly, both of us re­luctant. Before I had time to knock on the great oak door it was flung open, and a harassed and wild-eyed Maggie greeted me with a loud shriek.

  "Miss Luciana!" she yelped, enfolding me into her exuberant embrace, dragging me into the darkened hallway. "Where the bloody hell have you been? We've been scared out of our minds!"

  Carefully I detached her clinging hands as the door closed behind us, but to my amazement Evan was still there, his eyes unreadable, a cold, un­smiling expression about his scarred, handsome face.

  "Who's we?" I questioned, a feeling of despera­tion settling in.

  I heard a small crash ahead of me and knew before I looked up that Uncle Mark had taken up residence in the ancient walls of Edentide.

  I was totally unprepared, however, for the look of recognition and respect on his face. "Fitzpat­rick!" he greeted Evan, moving past me with barely a glance and clasping his hand in a hearty grip. "I should have known that you'd be here. Did Bones arrange to have you watch over Luci­ana?"

  For the first time in my life I felt as if I had been given a crushing blow to my vitals. I stood stock still, motionless, waiting for Evan to answer.

  Those silver-blue eyes came nowhere near me. "If you'd bothered to check before you came rac­ing after her you would have known that," he said in an unexpectedly kind voice. "Bones wouldn't have sent her off without arranging pro­tection, Ferland. Much as I disapprove of this whole insane scheme, Bones still has that much sense."

  "You must have been the man she saw at the train station, then," Uncle Mark continued. "What an idiot I've been! All I can do is thank God you've been around to keep an eye on the little minx. . . . At least this blasted Tonetti's never bothered to make contact. Damn it, it's no job for a lady! She could have been killed."

  I kept my face averted, but I could feel Evan's eyes rest on me, and I waited for him to expose me. "Just so," he said briefly. "The entire idea of sending a young, inexperienced female into a dangerous situation like this is not only absurd but doomed to failure. I've been trying to scare Lucy out of Venice ever since she arrived, but with no luck. I'm handing her over to you, now, Ferland. I'm sure I can count on you to see that she leaves by the early evening train?" There was a note of steel in his cool voice. "I don't have time to look after her anymore, and we can't afford having her get in the way. Besides, I'm sure Bones would like her back in one piece."

  I felt my body flinch slightly as if from a blow, and I caught Maggie's sympathetic glance from out of the corner of my eye.

  "You can count on me, Fitzpatrick," Uncle Mark said heartily. "I never wanted her to come in the first place. Well, all's well that ends well." He stroked his mustache, well pleased.

  At Uncle Mark's fatuous words a bolt of cold, hard rage swept over me, mixing with my shame and mortification. I threw back my shoulders, tossed my still damp hair back, and met Evan's unreadable eyes with a brilliant, cheerful gaze.

  "You tricky little thing," Uncle Mark chided me with a misguided attempt at playfulness. "It looks like your brief sojourn as a spy is over. You never let on that Fitzpatrick here was keeping an eye on you. I would have felt a lot easier about the whole thing. Evan's one of Lord Bateman's top men."

  "Oh, he's very, very good," I said brightly in a high clear voice. "I had no idea, uncle, that he was working for Bones. You know how gullible I can be; I thought he had conceived a grand pas­sion for me and that was why he was following me around Venice. Isn't that absurd?" If my brittle voice was close to tears Uncle Mark was too ob­tuse to notice.

  "Well, well, when all's said and done, Evan's a very clever fellow," he remarked cheerfully. "And I'm sure you're delighted that he was just doing his job. You've never had any interest in young men; though damn me, it's about time you did. Well, we'll get you back to England and see what we can do about it. Wouldn't want her to end up on the shelf, would we?" he questioned Evan jovially, and I nearly screamed.

  "Well, I've had a fascinating time," I said brightly, quick to change the subject. "But I'm quite exhausted. I think I'd like a bath, Maggie, and a rest, if we're to catch the train this evening." Turning my back on the three of them, I started off in the direction of the kitchen. The tears were beginning to come, and I wanted to be well out of the way as quickly as possible.

  I paused by the door, counting on the dimness to shield my tear-streaked face from Evan's cold, prying, spying, damnable eyes. "Good-bye, Mr. Fitzpatrick. It's been most instructive." And before he had a chance to reply, if he even wanted to, I turned and continued with deliberate and unhur­ried grace into the kitchen, closing the door be­hind me with a soft click.

  Maggie wasn't far behi
nd me. One look at my stony, tear-streaked face, however, and she kept all her questions to herself. "It won't take long to get the bath ready, Miss Lucy. The gentlemen have left the house for a bit; you could go on up to your room."

  "I'll bathe here," I said numbly, dragging the huge iron washtub into the middle of the room.

  "Do you want to talk about it?" she questioned in a low voice.

  "No, Maggie. Not now, and maybe not ever." And coldly, grimly, I turned my face away from her sympathy, lest I give way completely.

  I have always detested self-pity, but oh, my God, I did feel so damnably sorry for myself. I sat in the tub and soaked away the stains and traces of the last twenty-four hours and knew I had only myself to blame for it all. Only my absurd com­placence that had me ready to believe a man like Evan Fitzpatrick would fall in love at first sight simply because I did. If I had left him alone he would have watched me from a distance, protect­ing me from Holger's brigands and leaving my pathetic virginity intact.

  But no, I had had to chase, and flirt, and tease, and finally invite him into my bed, all under the mistaken notion that he had developed a grand passion for me and was too shy and cynical to do anything about it.

  Shy! He was about as shy as an adder. And as honest and straightforward. Why hadn't he simply told me? I had certainly given him chances enough. All he'd had to do was look at me out of those aloof, beautiful silver-blue eyes and say, "Child, I am not following you for any reason other than espionage." But he'd allowed me to trick myself—no, even encouraged it.

  "You're getting the floor wet with all that splash­ing," Maggie said dryly. "And I won't have time to wash it before we catch the train, what with all the packing I have to do."

  "Then it can mold and mildew with my bless­ings," I said bitterly. "And this whole house can tumble into the lagoon for all I care."

  "Miss Lucy," Maggie said gently.

  "Don't call me that!" I cried, splashing some more. "My name is Luciana. If some idiot of an English spy can't get my name straight that doesn't mean you have to forget after twenty-three years."