by Nancy Gideon
“What were you and Pembrook discussing?” His tone was caressing, his purpose cold steel.
“He came to apologize for the other night.”
“Is that all?”
When she didn’t answer right away, his forefinger curved about her jaw, raising her chin so she couldn’t look away from him. She could feel the intensity of his stare burning, penetrating, as if he could actually see into her mind. She rebelled against the intrusion.
“Yes,” she lied, just to see what he would do. Then she gasped as the pressure of his thoughts seemed to force themselves upon hers, ruthlessly. She tried to pull away in a stifled panic, but his grip tightened, his fingertips indenting flesh and muscle. And though she was afraid of a strength that could pulverize fragile bone, she staunchly refused to yield to his intimidation.
“Please, my lord. You hurt me.”
Instantly, his grasp relaxed, easing before bruises formed to become a gentle stroke along stubborn jaw and down slender neck. He smiled slowly. “You are a remarkably strong woman.”
“I do not like to be bullied, sir.”
“I shall remember that.” His fingers massaged her throat. “There are much more pleasurable means of persuasion.”
He took a step closer, and her hand rose automatically to hold him at bay. But the moment her palm pushed against his chest, the desire to struggle was gone. The feel of him beneath the staid evening wear was too intriguing.
“Your heart beats like a tiny bird’s when startled to flight,” he observed. “Haven’t I promised not to harm you?”
“I’m not afraid,” she stated boldly.
“No?” A smile quirked his sensuously shaped lips.
“Nor should you be. I told Wesley nothing.”
His smile widened, and his eyes heated to a deep golden fire. A responsive warmth started inside her. She felt strangely compelled to seek the firm wall of his chest, wanting to languish there and lift up for his kisses. But instead, she ducked her head and wiggled quickly from his grasp and his control.
“I’ll tell my father you are here.”
“I thought you were not afraid,” he taunted gently, as she hurried to the door.
She paused there and looked back at him, favoring him with a small, provocative smile. “I’m not. But I’m not foolish, either.”
The sound of his amused chuckle followed her down the hall as did his soft call of, “Sleep well, Arabella.”
SHE DID SLEEP well, deeply and dreamlessly and undisturbed. When she woke, it was past dawn, and though wondrously refreshed, she was plagued with a sense of disappointment. How alone she felt, as if Louis had chosen to desert her. But that was silly. How could a dream desert one?
She could have pondered over that until in a fever of distress, so she chose not to. Instead, she dressed and went down to breakfast, greeting her father with a cheery smile, as if he were the only man of note in her life. “Good morning, Father.”
“I have left a mountain of paperwork for you this morning, my dear. Are you certain you don’t mind being trapped inside on such a promising day?”
“Oh, not at all. I shall take some time to walk about if my eyes grow weary, but never fear, I shall finish before you arrive home.”
Stuart nodded somewhat distractedly. She waited for him to speak, wondering over his hesitance.
“I received a note from Wesley Pembrook, asking me to meet him today. Have you any notion of what that’s about?”
“No,” she began slowly, not raising her eyes to his probing gaze. “Should I?”
“I was wondering if it had anything to do with the two of you.”
Her gaze flew up at that, full of fire and fury. “Father, there is no two of us, and there is not going to be. I can’t make myself more clear than that.”
“Now, Bella, I’m aware that Wesley overstepped his bounds the other night, but you cannot hold eagerness against a man when he’s smitten with a pretty woman.”
“He—he told you?”
“He said he was rather forward with his kisses and you resisted, as well you should.” He sounded proud of her fortitude, but not distressed by his protégé’s aggression. And Arabella was furious.
“Is that how he explained it?”
“I do not care to intrude upon what goes on between you and your suitors, Arabella. I only wish that you would seriously entertain any proposals you might receive.”
“Has Wesley said something to you?” She gasped in dismay.
“Not yet. But I feel it is only a matter of time.”
“Oh, Father—”
“Now, Bella, do not go missish on me. We can discuss this at another time. I have early rounds to do before my lecture. I’ll try not to be too late.”
But he was, despite his best-intentioned claim. And it was dark before Arabella happened to glance at the clock in her father’s study to see the hour was past seven. She sighed and regarded through weary eyes the stack of transcriptions she’d completed. Enough, she decided, pushing back from her chair meaning to see to her neglected supper when a furtive tap sounded upon the rear door to her father’s office.
Wondering who would come calling at such an hour and at the rear entrance, Arabella went to the door and opened it without thinking. There, on the shadowed stoop, stood three men supporting a fourth. It was too dismal to make out their individual faces, but their style of clothing was rough and of lower class origin.
“I’m sorry, but my father is unable to receive any patients. You’ll have to try the hospital.”
“Oh, Miss, I think you be mistakin’ the reason for us being here,” growled the one closest to her. He stepped forward a bit, just far enough for the light from within to highlight his coarse features and a black-toothed smile. His accent was of the East End. “I be Mac Reeves, and what I gots for yer dear daddy won’t keep long.”
Arabella’s eyes had adjusted enough to the dimness to make out some details of the others. The men on either end were big, burly brutes with looks that were bovine and cruel. The man in the middle was quite obviously dead.
Chapter Five
“STEP ON OUTTA the way, there, ye gawky chit,” one of the bulky duo called. “I done risked me neck enough fer one night and don’t mean to be caught dandling some cove we done stole from the hospital crib.”
Arabella gasped in horror. The men were graverobbers, and the corpse they carried had been exhumed from the hospital’s burial ground. “You can’t bring... that in here!”
“Why the ’ell not? Payin’ good money for it, you are.”
“Shut yer trap, Ollie,” snarled Reeves. “Now, Miss, like I was saying, this here delivery ain’t gonna keep long and we ain’t gonna dally about. We wants our money and we wants to git. Where’s the doc?”
Though loath to tell the likes of them that she was alone in the house, she could think of no other way to stall them. “He’s on his way and should be here momentarily. If you’ll just be kind enough to wait—”
She started to shut the door, meaning to bolt it from inside, when Reeves slapped a meaty hand against the wood, levering it open. “We wants our pay and we wants it now.”
“Please—” Arabella cried, truly frightened as the man Ollie grabbed her arm and roughly shoved her aside. She stumbled and would have fallen if strong arms hadn’t caught her from behind. She was righted and before she was aware of movement, Louis had crossed in front of her, his hand wedging beneath her assailant’s chin, lifting him, all two hundred plus pounds of him, right off his feet. In a matter of seconds, the florid face took on a bluish cast and the man’s feral eyes bugged. Louis was choking him.
“My lord, stop!” She placed her hands upon his shoulders in a plaintive gesture. She could feel the raw power beneath her palms and the anger surging like an unstoppable tide. Ollie flopped within his
crushing grip like a well-hooked fish. “Louis, please. Release him,” she insisted.
With one disdainful push, Ollie was propelled thirty feet backward, where he came to rest upon the cobbles of the mews. His shaking hands rose to his bruised throat, rubbing anxiously as he struggled for breath. But it was Louis’s voice, so low, so certain, that put terror in his face. “You touch her again and you will find someone digging you from your eternal rest.”
There was an uneasy silence, then Reeves, always the businessman, stepped forward. “We weren’t meaning the lady no harm, sir. We jus’ be wantin’ pay fer our night’s work.”
“And you will be paid when you return for the... waste. Now, put that on the table inside, and be quick.”
A wheezing Ollie scrambled up and warily helped his mate maneuver the corpse into Howland’s office while Reeves surveyed the finely dressed gent who shielded the doctor’s daughter. My lord, she’d called him. If the bloke was of title, Reeves scented out a possible fortune to be made. He wasn’t above blackmail, not at all, and even as his men were draping the lifeless body across the table, his mind avidly hatched schemes of profit. When his two underlings scurried out, he made a show of doffing his tattered cap and grinned at the ashen-faced lady.
“Tell the good doctor that it’s sorry we are that we missed him, but that we’ll be back. He can count on it.”
The door slammed in his grinning face.
VERY AWARE OF the fragile figure clutching at his back, Louis turned slowly and let Arabella sag into his embrace. It was dangerous folly for him to hold her. He knew it, yet he couldn’t resist. So warm and sweet, so filled with the pulsing of life. She nestled into him like a trusting kitten, shivering weakly, clinging with surprising strength. The thought of the street vermin placing her in jeopardy sent hot rage coursing through him, but the fact that he was the greater threat was slow to surface. Because he wanted her close, he wanted to enjoy the feel of her.
He lowered his face into the untidy spill of her dark hair. Soft, smelling of some crisp spring herb. He nuzzled those glossy tresses, nudging without real purpose until he found himself at her bared throat. Sleek and fair. Vulnerable. Drawn to the rapid beat channeling down that slender column, he pressed his mouth against it, feeling the beat of life beckoning seductively. His eyes rolled and drifted shut and his hunger rose, cleverly disguised as passion.
A week, a long, torturous week since he’d last drawn nourishment. His insides burned with a glassy fire. So cold, so cruel, that searing heat, gnawing for want of satisfaction. He could feel the doctor’s powders working in him. They blunted his perceptions, numbed his senses, reduced his powers. But they did nothing to curb his voracious appetite. The emptiness was like damnation, endless and agonizing. Inescapable. And the cure was here, offered so sweetly.
Wait. Howland is coming. Wait for him. Wait for a chance at life.
But he couldn’t heed that internal command. The need was too strong, too immediate. And the monster within roared to life. An exquisite pain shot through his gums, lancing all the way up to his cheekbones, and he moaned softly into the smooth curve of her neck as the changes began that would allow him to sate his hunger. Hunger so fierce it was like madness. There was no hope of halting it until Arabella sighed, blissfully unaware of her precarious situation. Her hand lifted, touching shyly to the back of his head, stroking gently through his hair. And remarkably, inexplicably, the beast in him was tamed in an instant.
“Bella.” My God, what had he been about to do?
She stirred in his arms, her face lifting, her gaze beseeching. What did she see? Surely not the monster, for there was no fear or revulsion in her eyes, no hypnotized daze. Was it the man he’d been? He’d almost forgotten what that man was like, yet Arabella Howland brought memory back with the expectant part of her lips. And that man’s desire was as strong as a fiend’s hunger.
He cupped her cheek in his palm and felt her shiver at his touch. It was probably chilled, but she didn’t withdraw. Instead, she leaned into him, her eyes slipping shut in anticipation of his kiss. Quickly, he ran his tongue along the line of his teeth to make sure they were even. Then he lowered his head and took her eager lips with all the urgency of the man who’d walked three centuries before.
He couldn’t remember the women of his time being so bold in their pursuit. Yet when Arabella encouraged his kisses most aggressively, he quite liked it. There was such a wellspring of natural passion to her, nothing cunning or calculated. She chased new sensations with a scientist’s curiosity and a child’s delight. And her enthusiasm carried him away with it.
Her mouth was warm and giving, slanting, tasting, teasing over his, tantalizing his senses to a provoking degree. The tip of her tongue danced along his lower lip before dipping in to tempt his into a fanciful waltz. When he pulled back in a circumspect caution, she caught his face between her palms, holding him still to prolong that thrusting, tangling union. Finally, he cuffed her wrists within his hands and gently, firmly pried her away.
And the sight of her, all passion-flushed and panting, was worse than the intoxicating taste of her kisses.
“Little one, you play with fire when you play with me,” he rumbled. “Push too far and you will get burnt. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
With her eyelids at a sultry half-mast, she smiled and explained quite calmly, “I like to explore the unknown. The danger only adds to the challenge. I learned that from my father.”
“And what I would teach you, your father would not wish you to know.”
“Teach me, Louis.” She pressed forward against the restraint of his grip, her bosom flattening upon his shirt front, her well-kissed lips moist and ready.
“No, signorina. The time is not right. It would be unwise and unsafe.”
Her eyes flew open, registering her objections. “But, Louis—”
“Hush, little one.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Your father is here.”
Arabella heard nothing above the pounding of her own excited pulse, but then the door to her father’s office opened and he stood there assessing the scene through eyes that grew outraged when they fixed upon her lightly bruised and swollen mouth.
“What is going on here? Would you please explain—”
Arabella took a quick stride forward, interrupting him with a grand gesture. “No, would you care to explain—this?”
The sight of the cadaver effectively distracted his temper. He crossed to the corpse with a disgraceful eagerness, waving a dismissing hand at his daughter. “Leave us, Arabella.”
She drew a deep breath, readying her protest when Louis lifted her hand in his. That breath stayed suspended as he carried her fingertips up for a light kiss. His gaze, bright and golden, delved into her own.
“Go,” was all he said in a soft undertone, and despite her reluctance, she couldn’t resist the command. Like the dreams. She was moving away, backing from the enticing sight of him even when she longed to stay, as if he was giving her a firm mental push, one she could not disobey.
WHEN THE DOOR closed behind her, Stuart turned full attention to the body, well aware of the marquis lingering at his shoulder.
“The fools,” he grumbled, as he checked the corpse’s extremities. “The hypostasis is complete. See the way the underside of the body is discolored from the settling of blood? This man has been dead for more than eight hours.” Then he looked up angrily at Louis. “What were you doing with my daughter?”
“I was kissing her,” he revealed blandly.
“How?”
The yellowish eyes narrowed and the marquis’s accent thickened as he drawled, “The way a man kisses a woman who wants to be kissed. Not with the sloppy greed of your pupil, Pembrook.” His features twisted with disgust. “It was of her own will.”
“Was it? At least Wesley is human and I needn’t fear for her lif
e.”
“Just for her virtue. I will be human again, too.” And his eyes flared with a determination to match the doctor’s. “Now, what must we do?”
Drawn back to the work at hand, Howland observed him carefully. “Your color is good. Have you—abstained?”
“Yes.”
Stuart lifted up one of his hands, noting the chill of his unnaturally pale flesh. “How do you feel?”
“Weak.”
The doctor glanced up chidingly. “And?”
“Hungry.”
No comment. “Keep your hand up and out. I want to try something. Let’s see how the serum is working. Quite a residual effect should have built up in your system by now.”
Louis stood patiently, palm outstretched, until he saw what the doctor meant to place in it. He jerked back with a savage hiss of breath. “Silver.”
“Yes. Now put your hand out.”
“No.”
“Do it.”
Slowly, his hand inched out and he held himself rigid while distrustful eyes watched the physician lower the silver-handled letter opener into the exposed well of his palm. Louis gasped when it touched, expecting a sear and sizzle that never came. Perplexed, he prodded the handle with a cautious forefinger, then lifted it with an amused smile.
“It doesn’t burn. Normally, this much concentrated silver would have eaten right through my flesh.”
“Good. Your resistance is building. And once we remove the corrupt humors from your body and replenish it with a pure flow—”
“Do it now!”
“I’m afraid not.”
