by Minda Webber
"Slight?" Asher asked, dumbstruck. His second impression of her had been right: The woman was touched in the head.
"Well, maybe a bit more than slight," Jane admitted, glancing around nervously. "I do hope the horrid little thing isn't planning a second attack."
"Hmm," Asher said thoughtfully, feeling full of mischief. "I imagine the poor little fellow was a scout for a much larger army. This cliffside is notorious for spider armies."
Jane's face paled. "Spider armies? Here?"
"At least fifty or sixty of them," Asher continued mercilessly, his expression deadpan as he extended his arm. "Each with their own spider general. I think it's time I escorted you back inside—away from the battlefield."
"Fifty or sixty armies of tiny spiders?" Jane repeated belligerently, catching on and ignoring his extended arm. Asher was playing with her fears, just like her cousins did. Just like Count Dracul would do. He was dismissing another's concerns as if they were nothing more than dust in the wind.
"Your manners are truly appalling, to tease a lady about the slight aversion she might have to hairy little legs crawling all over her," she snapped, starting up the pathway without him. "So, sirrah, I will escort myself. And I also want to mention that I despise cobwebs and hard-hearted rakes."
Asher smiled reluctantly as he watched Jane stomp away. He would like to have his own hairy legs crawling all over her—and if that mad thought didn't beat all, he wondered what did.
Everything at Stake
"To stake or not to stake, that is the question," Jane said, sneaking down the stairway to the library. She wondered if Shakespeare ever had similar problems. "Here I am, a twenty-three-year-old ape-leader, and I'm at a house party with more than a few single gentlemen. Yet, instead of hunting a husband like any intelligent lady nearing the shelf would do, I'm hunting a vampire. A handsome, arrogant, mesmerizing vampire."
"I dislike it immensely," she went on, "creeping around in the dead of night trying to do what's best. Gee, thanks, Clair," she muttered to herself, wishing her friend hadn't told her what she had.
After spying Jane returning from her walk along the cliffside, Clair had mentioned that Asher had a habit of drinking brandy in the library after everyone else went to bed. That was why Jane was now tripping about in the dark, hoping no one would discover her. If Asher were there, Jane would pretend that she couldn't sleep and had come for a book. It was late, and Asher would be drinking, so perhaps she might be able to seduce him into kissing her. And then, after the kiss…
After the kiss was the part Jane was having concerns about. How far should she go in her enticement? How far was too far? She didn't really know what went on with overheated vampires, or if vampires even got overheated. No one had ever told her what to do with a wolf—not the werewolf kind, but the woman-devouring kind. Well, the woman-devouring kind of vampire with great sexual appetites.
She had changed into a different gown, one with a much higher neckline. It was off-white, with rows of lace at the bodice. (After seeing her reflection, Jane had unhappily decided that she looked like a big pillow. She really was going to have cut back on the chocolate.) It was not certainly evening wear designed to titillate. But it would do what it was designed for; hiding the Van Helsing model-four stake in its pocket.
Reaching the library, she hesitated briefly and took a deep breath. Then she pushed open the large, ornate door and stepped within, efficiently shutting it behind her.
Her target stood a little to the left of some floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He was casually flipping through a volume of poetry. Briefly Jane wondered if he was checking out the quote from Paradise Lost.
Candlelight in the room gave golden tints to Asher's copper-colored hair. He wore no cravat, and his shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a large portion of strong, smooth chest of a whiter shade of pale. His aura of mystique and masculine beauty called to Jane, stunning her with its magnetism. Her body tingling in strange places, Jane couldn't take her eyes off this power and strength she had only guessed at. This was one dangerous vampire. Yet watching the muscles in his chest ripple slightly, she felt a happy fluttering in her stomach, as though a hundred butterflies were tickling her insides.
"Jane, what are you doing here?" the earl asked, observing her expression and wondering if she was still mad at him.
He watched the pinkish flush spread from her cheeks to her neck. Idly he wondered if her other cheeks would turn red when lightly spanked. And did she have freckles on her bum? It was an intriguing idea, and one he most definitely wished to explore. But regrettably he might never know what lay hidden under her skirt—virgin territory being priced as it was.
"I wanted to get a book. I wasn't sleepy," she explained sheepishly.
"Milton?" Asher asked, studying her. She didn't appear irritated with him. What was she really doing here? Did she want a kiss, or was it truly a book she was after? Could she not sleep because she was thinking of him—as he had been of her, much to his discontent.
"Dante."
She grinned impishly. He found himself grinning reluctantly back.
Asher stood up and walked over to the bookshelf, and pulled down a thick black volume. He strode over and handed it to her. "Dante," he said.
"Thank you."
Jane looked uncomfortable and out of her depth. Asher decided to admit something that had been plaguing him. "Oh, you were correct. I looked up that quote and it was Milton."
Her eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't know earls knew how to apologize."
He smiled at her wickedly. "I'll let you in on a little secret. We earls only apologize late at night, when we are alone with a lady who intrigues us."
"Then you must be saying it three hundred and sixty nights a year."
Asher laughed. "Touché."
The earl's warm laughter and the smile in his eyes disconcerted Jane. She immediately turned her attention to the floor, where she just happened to notice a piece of fur stuck on the front left foot of the green brocade settee. Absentmindedly she remarked, "It sure is hard to get good help these days."
"What?" Asher asked, looking confused.
Glancing up, she felt her blush deepen. "Nothing." Ninny! Birdbrain! she berated herself silently. She should be batting her eyelashes or hanging on his arm. She was a total disaster at seduction. She should have had some training in the amorous arts. Instead her lessons had consisted of learning how to kill two vampires with one stone, and to never attack two vampires with one stake—or was that to never attack one vampire with two stakes? Jane sometimes got the rules confused. There were so very many, and they were so very varied. Who would have thought that the training manual for undead-slaying was over twelve hundred pages of dead weight, all in small print?
"I take it you avoided any marching spider armies," Asher said, unable to resist.
Jane shook her head ruefully. Her temper fit had long passed. "I apologize for being such a… ninny."
He smiled. "I find you rather adorable."
She frowned slightly, silently begging, Don't let him be charming now. No, not now! She didn't want to hurt Asher; she'd rather kiss him silly and do those other things people did in the dark behind closed doors. But what choice did she have?
The earl moved closer, stopping but a few scant inches away. His nostrils flaring, he breathed in her unique scent—the scent of jasmine and misty woods in the rural mountains of Germany. He could hear the rapid beating of her heart, sense her blood pulsing just beneath the skin of her neck.
His hunger had grown ravenous. In point of fact, he thought of drinking from her with a growling anticipation, somehow sensing that she would be good to the last drop. Just like that Swiss miss he had sampled while touring the Alps several years ago. Perhaps even better, if his pulse rate was any indication.
He couldn't seem to take his eyes off her. The flickering flames in the nearby stone hearth highlighted her figure, revealing her rounded hips and full, rather remarkable breasts.
"When you were
kissed before, by your legion of men, did you enjoy it?" he asked, his hunger changing slightly. He wanted her desperately. He needed her desperately. He was aching to sink himself into her—and not his teeth. He hadn't felt lust this strong since he was a mere stripling of a vampire, one hundred and one years of age.
"It was nice," Jane said shyly.
"Nice?" Asher repeated, shaking his head to clear away the lust. He scolded himself silently. He couldn't take her virginity—but he could take a taste of her breasts and neck.
"Oh, Jane, I can do so much better than nice," he boasted, pulling her swiftly into his arms, bending his head and kissing her passionately. Her lips were very soft, and he savored their sweetness.
He could hear the blood rushing through her veins. As a child his mother had scolded him not to play with his food. As a fully functional adult, playing with his food remained half the fun. And what fun this morsel would be!
He deepened the kiss, and she opened her mouth to him. He used his tongue to ravish it thoroughly. She tasted wonderful, like golden honey after the bees had feasted on orange blossoms in the late spring. Her smell was almost as good, reminding him of hot, sultry nights and sweet kisses beneath the moonlight.
He had always enjoyed kissing and extended foreplay. But kissing Jane was an elevation to a primal experience of raw lust that he had never before experienced. He wanted to rip off her clothes and plunge into her wet, hot body. Yet, at the same time, he wanted to simply wrap her in his arms and hold on tight.
Waiting to exhale, Jane savored her first kiss. She tasted the dark depths of the earl's mouth, the sweetness and the tart tang like apple cider wine. It was a heady experience, like a walk in the clouds. Asher's kiss was better than brandy, better than strawberries with fresh clotted cream, better than chocolate and even better than spotting the yellow-bellied sapsucker. She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, running her fingers through the silky smoothness of his burnished hair as he yanked down her gown, revealing her breasts.
"Amazing," Asher mumbled. Awe-inspiring, he thought.
She was so lost to passion that she sighed wistfully into his mouth, and she felt her toes curl up in her slippers.
Hearing her sigh, Asher moved from licking her breasts to her neck, taking tiny nibbles as his muscles began to clench. Blood rushed to his groin, his cock growing heavy and hot. Jane's neck was glorious, was heaven on earth. This little virginal friend of Clair's had fired his blood to a feverish pitch. He didn't understand it, but at the moment he didn't really care.
The earl's cold breath on her neck drew Jane back to her senses. Regretfully she fingered the stake in her pocket. Still she hesitated, hating herself and her heritage. Her mind was screaming no, her heart was screaming no, but she could see her father in her mind's eye shouting, "Yes!" and berating her for un-Van Helsing-like hesitation.
Gathering resolve and duty around her like a cold, wet blanket, Jane removed the stake and lifted it high behind Asher's back. She would plunge it down and end his undead life on the count of three.
In her head, she counted: "One… two… four." No, three, she thought. I should say "three." Yet again she hesitated, for Asher continued to explore her neck with tiny, heavenly kisses.
She wouldn't do this—couldn't do this—to Asher, Clair or herself, she decided, starting to lower the stake. She didn't know what she would do about her father and his threats, but this just wasn't going to work. Maybe she could smuggle her stuff to Clair's. But on the next full moon, would Ian eat her birds? She could smuggle them to Dr. Frankenstein, but would he add unseemly appendages to them?
Her heart bruised, she lowered her stake a bit more. Deep in her heart she knew that the man savoring her neck couldn't be the depraved, drooling Count Dracul of legend.
At that precise moment, Jane felt a prick of fangs on her neck: the true kiss of a vampire on a Van Helsing! Curses, what sacrilege!
Frightened and guilt-ridden, her father's words flowing through her mind like a flash flood, Jane steeled herself. "One small stab for man, one giant stab for mankind," she gasped.
His fangs pierced her skin, gently breaking it, and apprehension gave way to panic. Instinctively she struck—and just in the nick of time to save herself from a wicked love bite.
Her stake caught Asher square in his left buttock, since she had lowered it from the center of his back. She could felt the sharpened point sinking through the taut flesh. Her stomach turned over, leaving her both queasy and breathless.
Carried away by his passion, Lord Asher was momentarily stunned by the burning in his backside. The pain became sharper as he threw back his head and roared in pain and rage.
Outraged as Jane's betrayal hit him full force, Asher roughly shoved her away. She crashed upon the carpet by the green brocade settee, legs sprawled wide. "I'll kill you for this!" he hissed.
In shock, on the floor, Jane said, "You can't kill me. What would Baron Huntsley say?" She wailed in abject misery.
"Do you think I give a bloody damn about Huntsley or you?" he growled.
"Clair would be upset if you sucked me dry," Jane suggested, her voice thick with misery. "I'm sorry. Really sorry. Really, really sorry," she blurted, staring in morbid fascination at the red glowing eyes of the enraged vampire before her. She remembered the words from the childhood song she'd sung with her brother: "Dracul, the red-eyed vampire (vampire!), had some very wicked teeth. And if ever you got near him (near him), you would find yourself deceased…"
Damn. She was going to go down in history as the Van Helsing who'd staked Dracul in his fanny. Her father would have it written on her headstone. For if looks could kill, her demise would come at any moment.
Jane knew she should be more frightened, but all she felt was numb. So numb that she forgot the state of her gown, her exposed pale breasts. If she raised a white flag, she wondered, would Asher call a truce? Staring at his glowering expression and deadly fangs, she guessed not.
"You bloodthirsty bitch!" Asher spat furiously. Ignoring the sight of Jane's marvelous breasts, he reached behind himself and touched the embedded stake. He winced in pain as he shook his head in disbelief. He was not going to go gently into this good night. He could feel his fangs extending, his eyes were blue flames. And he watched in further seething disbelief as Jane leaned over and threw up all over the carpet, splattering his boots.
"That really rips it," he snarled. His dignity was in tatters, his ass was aching and Renfield would gripe that he had another hole in his clothing. At this rate he'd be naked before April. What a scold the valet was going to give him.
Embarrassed and still nauseous, Jane sneaked a peak at Asher, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. She could feel his anger like the blast of a coal furnace. Yet the vampire's eyes were so glacial, she felt ice shards piercing her to the very center of her soul. He reached around again, gritted his teeth, and yanked out the stake. His eyes shut against the agony.
Jane turned her head, not wanting to see more of his blood spilling. She managed to shakily make it to her knees, sad that she was about to die and hadn't had her nightly chocolate. She hoped Brandon would avenge her. And what would Spot and Orville do? Orville would probably be served for dinner by her heartless father.
"I'm sorry you're hurt, but—," Jane began, swallowing against the tightness in her chest. She was cut off abruptly by her foe's next remark.
"You viperous witch!" Asher had never been angrier. This crackpot female was at the bottom of all his problems. He was outraged that she had tried to stake him. He was incensed that such a small, plain woman hadn't been more interested in his seduction. Her interest was not in winning his heart, but in removing it.
"Just who the bloody hell do you think you are?" he asked, clenching and unclenching his fists. If it weren't for Clair, he would have ripped out her throat. "No one stakes the Earl of Wolverton! Most certainly not some short, mousy chit!" Yet as incredible as it seemed, it appeared that the calumnious Jane had done just that. And to add in
sult to injury, he had ignominiously been staked in the arse!
Leaning down over her, the earl shook a finger in her face, which made Jane mad. The major was always doing that. And while she might owe her father familial duty, she didn't owe Asher anything. Surprisingly, she slapped his finger away, which only enraged the earl more. He leapt upon her, knocking her breath out as they fell to the floor, Asher on top and Jane on bottom.
Gasping for air, she fought his great weight, her fists striking his broad chest without result. Asher apparently felt nothing. Terrified and still in shock, Jane understood all too clearly that she was going to be dead before dawn, dead to the world. Yes, this path she'd taken definitely came to a dead end.
However, remarkable as it seemed, in some small part Jane felt a great relief, as though a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She had struck and failed. But in her failure, Asher retained his life. Which was the only truly good thing from this whole debacle, as it had been from her previous failures.
"Why did you stake me?" Asher growled, his fangs glistening in the candlelight. He glared down at her beneath him, his pulse beating in his temple as he waged a terrible battle to control his rage.
"Why?" She could hear the anger, pain and confusion all in that one word. "Why, Jane? Tell me before I spill your treacherous blood."
Trying to wither her with his gaze, Asher watched a tear trace a path down the woman's freckled cheek. Something deep within him stirred. If it were sympathy, he would rip it out by the root and force-feed it to the lunatic beneath him.
Glaring at her, Asher realized that she was one female he would never forget. But just what in the bloody hell did she want?
He felt like a jackass. Betrayed by a kiss? How utterly degrading. It was beneath him. He was an earl, for heaven's sake! A master vampire! And yet, plain Miss Paine in the Ass had stabbed him. And if other immortals found out the exact location of his humiliating wound, he'd never put it behind him. He'd stake all he owned that he'd go through eternity as the butt of their jests.
