The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein

by Minda Webber

  Dr. Frankenstein, I Presume

  "Hmmm?" Now that was an answer, she noted dismally. She was finally rendered speechless. Uncle Victor would be stunned. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Clair knew she should be running for her life. But no, that was too melodramatic. Instead, she stood her ground like one of the Elgin statues all London was agog over.

  Should she apologize for dropping in unannounced at his bedtime, or should she pretend to faint? No, fainting was too dangerous. The sly baron might decide a midnight snack was in order, and she would be the main aperitif.

  Peeking up at him from beneath her eyelashes, Clair felt her adrenaline surge. Her morbid curiosity seemed to be overcoming the worst of her fears. Her mind, a steel trap-like device, was already compartmentalizing facts. She was in the presence of a vampire. He could be centuries old. Who knew what secrets he had learned over the years? It was utterly terrifying, utterly illuminating, and utterly bloody remarkable. Clair was spellbound. Her host had a powerful, predatory air, a wild energy about him that was almost primitive. If he was centuries old, he was well preserved. Hmm, very well preserved.

  "Madame, and I use the term loosely, I am waiting for an answer!" Baron Harold Ian Huntsley's voice was clipped, the evident rage enough to release her from her bemusement.

  As nonchalantly as possible in the presence of the Baron and his very predatory glare, Clair took a tiny step back—an infinitesimal step. When the attractive aristocrat remained absolutely still, she took another step backward, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the threat of danger.

  Clair had the strangest sensation that the baron was stalking her, even though he hadn't moved a muscle. "So this is what a mouse feels like," she muttered.

  "I beg pardon," he asked arrogantly, watching her with blazing eyes.

  Clair blinked. The man radiated hostility, and most of it she feared was directed at her. "This isn't what it looks like. Not at all. This is a mission of science," she explained.

  "Science?" Baron Huntsley snarled, once again revealing sharp white teeth. He studied her with a hard glint in his eyes. "You look as though you are standing in my basement uninvited."

  "Well, I am. I mean, I obviously am here in your basement uninvited. If I weren't here, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Not at all," she protested, biting her lower lip nervously, wishing she were in India right now, or even the London stews, that hotbed of thieves, murderers, and prostitutes. She wished she were anywhere but here. Baron Huntsley would be a frightening figure even if he were not part of the supernatural world. Quickly she recited to herself again, "The truth at all costs."

  Ian, Baron Huntsley, stared at the woman who had dared interrupt his solitude. He asked, his tone icy, "So, why have you broken into my basement?" He didn't know her game, but he would find it out. No one stole from him. Still, this five-foot-three-inch bit of bluster and bravado didn't look like a thief. Actually, he surmised as he studied her, with her fraying black cape, she looked like a reject from the London stews.

  Clair dramatically waved her hands in the air. Baron Huntsley was truly formidable. "Broken in? Appearances can be deceiving," she said with a false smile.

  Slyly examining him from top to bottom, Clair began compiling scientific facts, wondering if the devastatingly handsome baron could turn into a bat. She wondered too why he was back so early from the party. She wondered if he was going to bite her neck, and if he did, would she mind terribly? He was a rather handsome dog for a vampire. And he had such broad, strong shoulders. His legs were very long, his thighs heavily muscled. She wondered if he ever got cramped in his crypt.

  "With what were you planning to make away? Just what in my basement would interest a thief?" the baron asked.

  "I was not stealing anything. I could never be a thief. It just isn't in my genetic makeup," Clair answered honestly. She hesitated a moment, then added, "With the exception of a corpse or two." Although Clair really didn't consider it thievery to rob graves—at least of their bodies. The dead were generally dead—unless they were the undead or her uncle Victor had gotten hold of them.

  The baron raised a brow, his aristocratic features sharply delineated by the flickering candlelight.

  "Medical purposes… the corpses," she explained.

  She's insane, Ian thought sadly. Such a beauty. She didn't look like a lunatic.

  Staring right at her, he thought of another reason she might have come. He asked, "Are you here to compromise me, then?"

  Clair was shocked. "No! What a ludicrous thought. I value my blood and my bloodline too much to do such an unladylike thing as that. No, I am here to compromise your coffin. But since you seem rather in a hurry and appear to be in a bleak mood, I think I'll just take my leave now," she went on in a convoluted manner, hoping to dazzle the wily baron with a profusion of words, allowing her to slip away unnoticed. She took a step around him.

  Ian blocked the woman's route with his muscular body, his eyes widening in surprise. He was momentarily speechless, a first for him. He had seen and done many things in his jaded lifetime, some things he would carry to his grave as scars upon his soul. But he had never seen anything like this small Amazon standing quite proudly, although quite stupidly, in front of him.

  In spite of his shock, he couldn't help but notice how pretty she was, what with her tawny gold-brown hair and her huge eyes. They were gray, the color of the rain-streaked skies over his beloved Welsh mountains.

  "My coffin?" He finally processed what she'd said. "What coffin?"

  "Baron Huntsley," Clair started, then stopped. "I assume you are Baron Ian Huntsley of Yorkshire and Balmoria in Wales?" He nodded, so she continued. "That dog won't hunt, Baron Huntsley. You are not going to play that old game."

  When he remained silent, she scowled. It was so like a man to play the innocent when he was guilty of hiding secrets. But this secret couldn't be hidden. It was staring them both in the face: his crypt.

  Her Frankenstein curiosity taking over, Clair forgot most of her fear. Yes, this was the baron's crypt. This was where he probably slept the day away, dreaming of ill-gotten gains of blood and who knew what else a creature of the night like himself might dare to dream in the depths of sleep.

  "What game are you speaking about?" Ian was fascinated in spite of himself. He should call the Bow Street runners, he thought. He should call his staff and have her thrown out, but he'd rather have his staff throw her into his bed. She was a petite beauty and she was in his territory now, right where she'd put herself.

  He drew closer, nostrils flaring slightly as he breathed in her scent. She smelled of winter, fresh and frosty. He found it remarkably stimulating.

  Dramatically, the woman pointed and chastised him. "How about that great big stone coffin in the corner? My lord, you are deliberately trying to draw my attention away from it."

  "Oh, that coffin," Ian replied stiffly, questions flooding his mind. He wondered if any of the enemies he had made spying for the British government had something to do with this. He wondered if she was playing a game, and if so, what were the rules? He wondered if the woman was mad as a hatter. Then he wondered if he himself was mad as a hatter for listening to her demented ramblings in his basement on a Tuesday night. Surely he was. But though curiosity had killed many a cat, he was as curious as any cat—and not as easily killed… nine lives or not.

  Clair smiled smugly, her fright easing. The baron had not rushed her. He had not attacked her, leading her to believe that he probably wouldn't. She felt fairly safe—as safe as one could feel in the presence of a crusty, mad vampire. And though he was a handsome devil, he would still have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool a Frankenstein. And he went to bed in the mornings.

  "Yes, that coffin." She pointed primly to the massive stone monument. "Your coffin."

  "Actually, that's my ancestor, the second Baron Huntsley's coffin."

  She snorted.

  The unladylike noise from the woman caught Ian unaware a
nd had him staring at her transfixed. He arched a brow as he observed the way the candlelight highlighted the golden strands of her hair. Parts of it had become undone from her braid, giving her a wild, tousled look, as though she had just stepped from a lover's bed. He wanted to be that lover, although he couldn't tell much about her figure with that grotesque cape she was wearing. Still, that didn't stop the flow of blood to his groin.

  She actually gave a little laugh then, the sound chiming in the darkness like the brisk bells of St. Matthew's Chapel. "Baron Huntsley, somehow I knew you would say that."

  Ian cocked his head to study her. "If you knew the coffin was my great-great-grandfather's, why pretend it's mine?"

  Again she snorted. "No, I know it is yours. Your coffin. Although I do find it odd that you are returning to it so soon, after only leaving it a few hours ago."

  He'd been right. She was mad. What a pity. Such a beautiful woman to be raving. "Returning to it? Do I look like a corpse to you?"

  "Not now." She stopped, groping in her pocket and pulling out a watch. "But in six hours you will be."

  "I will be what?" Ian asked with the barest modicum of civility, wondering why he was still standing there arguing with a Bedlamite.

  "You will be a corpse."

  Ian smiled. It was a smile devoid of all warmth and humor. "I do so love challenges. Are you planning on killing me?"

  He should be concerned, he supposed, but instead he was simply intrigued. It had been a long time since he had felt this way. Life had become a blur of days and nights, blending into one stark shade of gray. Nothing was special anymore, or remarkable; all was mundane.

  Lately he had wondered if something essential in life had passed him by some afternoon when he was hunting or playing cards. For the past five years, the joys of his life had faded into the vague nothingness of memories. That is, until tonight, when he had been alerted by the sound of footsteps making their way to his basement and he had silently followed. Suddenly the night had seemed more alive than it had in years, as if a fresh stiff breeze were blowing away the cobwebs in his mind. Unfortunately, it appeared his savior was a loon.

  She stared at his mouth. "Do you plan on biting me?" she asked.

  Ian looked her up and down. "I can't tell in that awful cape. Are you good enough to eat?"

  Clair cocked her head, glaring at him. "No." The baron really was too saucy for his own good. But then, she reasoned, vampires were masters of manipulation and seduction. Still, she would be no one's puppet, even if this vampire did make her heart almost stop with his rich, husky voice and his attractive features.

  "Then why would I bite you?" he asked.

  She gave him a look which named him stupid. "You're a vampire, of course."

  Ian Huntsley, fifth Baron of Huntsley, threw back his head and laughed. Long and hard.

  "I see no humor in this remarkable and riveting discovery," Clair said haughtily. "After all, it took great skill and courage to track you to your lair."

  He chuckled. "My lair… ?" Suddenly the chuckles faded and he growled, "Madame, I do believe you have a screw loose. Maybe more than one."

  Clair glared at him. "How dare you presume to say such a thing? I, sirrah, am a scientist!"

  Ian eyed the woman, a scowl darkening his features. "That makes little sense. No sane person I know, a scientist especially, would enter the… what did you call it? Ah yes, the lair of a vampire alone, at night, with no protection!"

  She could be killed pulling such stunts as this, he knew. London was a dangerous place, especially at night. All kinds of creatures were lurking about. And this small woman was out seeking bloodsucking demons and God knew what else. In addition, as bad luck would have it, she was seeking them in his home. The group of men with which he sometimes did business, would not be pleased if they found out about this night's adventure.

  "I am not just anyone," the woman stated dramatically, her nose stuck proudly in the air. "I am Clair Elizabeth Frankenstein, niece to Dr. Victor Frankenstein and niece also to Dr. Johann Tieck."

  "Oh, good Lord," Ian groaned. "You are niece to both a quack and a deranged writer."

  Until that point, Clair had been cautiously keeping her distance between the devil and the deep blue sea, mainly this baron of vampires. But hearing the unkind remarks the man made about her uncles, Clair threw caution to the wind. Dashing forward, she closed the distance and slapped Ian smartly across the face.

  "How dare you demean my uncles? They are great men, worthy of the Frankenstein name!"

  Ian looked down at the furious spitting kitten and had to clench his teeth to stop from grinning. "I am sorry, Miss Frankenstein. I lost my good manners at the surprise of your illustrious family heritage."

  She eyed him suspiciously. He was staring at her neck and he had all those white teeth. Those big white teeth. THOSE BIG WHITE TEETH!

  "Stop staring at my neck," she demanded bravely, feeling far from courageous, wondering how those big white teeth would feel in her neck. She bet they would hurt tremendously. Then her mind spun down other scientific avenues. Would she like sleeping underground… so far, far underground? If she became one of the undead, would the dastardly baron let her have a nightlight in her coffin so that she could continue her research after-hours? She would insist upon it. After all, if she were to become immortal, she would certainly take advantage of some fringe benefits.

  "My lord, I would appreciate it if you would leave off eyeing my neck. You make me feel rather like a lush roast pig."

  "Your neck? I am staring at your breasts," Ian corrected devilishly, his eyes devouring how her cloak draped open and revealed the pale expanse of the upper slopes of her generous bosom. Lush was the right word indeed for what he could see of her figure. He licked his lips. He did so delight in large-chested women; there was so much more to nip and suck.

  Clair gasped, closing her cloak. "You, my lord, are a bounder. I heard you were a rake beyond reason. I see the rumors are correct."

  "I thought you heard I was a vampire?" Ian reminded her, grinning and enjoying her chagrin.

  "Are they mutually exclusive?"

  "Probably not," he retorted. "But, more to the point, who is spreading such rumors, compromising my good name?" Ian asked the question nonchalantly, but it was anything but casual. Whoever was telling such tales must be taken care of, and quickly. All Huntsleys demanded loyalty first and foremost; lives depended upon it. Betrayal was not a laughing matter, and certainly not one Ian took lightly.

  Gracing Clair with a look that had scared grown men, he waited impatiently. The stubborn wench remained silent. Ian knew she was afraid—he could smell the fear on her—yet she held her ground like a Spartan.

  "Come, who has been telling tales about me?" Ian questioned.

  "Who would dare?"

  "You are being evasive."

  "You are being elusive."

  "You are prevaricating," Ian growled, arms crossed tightly against his chest.

  "You are posturing." Clair grinned.

  Ian snorted. "Possibly, but then you are staking your life on it, aren't you? Creeping down my basement stairs, all alone…" He narrowed his gaze, studying her again, fresh anger spurting though his veins and pounding through his body. He had been betrayed, slandered, his sanctuary had been invaded, and worst of all, this beautiful woman had placed herself at risk.

  "Staked my life on it? Well, that's better than being staked," she hedged. She didn't like the gleam in his eyes. He looked hungry for something other than her blood. She fanned herself.

  He took a step closer. She took a step back. She was no fool. She recognized danger when she saw it; it didn't have to jump up and bite her on the neck.

  "You are a dangerous man," she admitted, more to herself than to Ian.

  "Let me show you just how dangerous…" He trailed off suggestively.

  Her mind was a mass of swirling convictions, warnings, and yearnings as she peered up at him from beneath thick brown lashes. Suddenly, she slapped
her head with her palm. "You are doing it again!"

  "What?"

  "Trying to draw my attention away from your coffin."

  "My great-great-grandfather's coffin," he corrected.

  Clair scanned his body quickly, then glanced over at the coffin. "It looks as if it would fit you perfectly."

  "That's ridiculous. One size fits all in coffins," he snapped, wondering what it would be like to taste her. Probably heaven—or, more likely, hell. Getting involved with a Frankenstein would be like standing up to an avalanche: downhill all the way.

  "In a pig's eye, they do." The way she said it caused the baron to break into laughter again.

  Without thought Clair took two steps forward and kicked him in the shin, her eyes flashing fire. "I don't like being laughed at."

  Realizing what she had done, Clair bit back a groan. She had bearded the lion in his den and then attacked him. Her aunt Mary was right. Her temper was going to get her into serious trouble. And it looked as though tonight was the night, for an enraged vampire could only spell trouble with a big, fat capital T.

  Ian noted the variety of expressions crossing Clair's face. First there was anger, then chagrin, then fear, then remorse, and finally terror. Although Ian generally preferred people to maintain a healthy fear of him, he didn't like it from this small powder keg. So, before she could run screaming into the night, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  She tasted like the first snow of winter—soft, wet, and invigorating. She tasted special, creating in him an addiction that would not soon be satisfied. He felt the blood rushing to his groin, making him as stiff as a poker. This Clair Frankenstein felt just right in his arms, neither too tall nor too short. She made him hunger. She tasted so good that he had to taste her again.

  Clair felt the air whoosh out of her lungs as the soft heat of Baron Huntsley's lips pressed against her and his arms enclosed her tightly. How dare he be so forward? How dare he try and seduce her with his vampire tricks? Her mind screamed these things, but a small voice was whispering how delicious and decadent it all was.