The Vampire Dimitri rd-2

by Колин Глисон

  If he climbed into that carriage with her, he knew what was going to happen.

  “My lord,” the hack driver said, allowing the barest hint of impatience in his voice as he looked around. “Shall I—er—transport the lady, and return for you?”

  “No,” Dimitri said at last, stepping onto the stair. Then he paused and looked at the driver and, making a quick, probably foolish, decision, gave him Rubey’s direction.

  He couldn’t take Maia home looking as she was, and himself the same. If anyone saw them in their respective conditions, let alone together, Maia would be ruined. At least they could get a change of clothing and washed up at Rubey’s, and perhaps something that would even hide the mauling marks he’d left on her skin. Damn it all. Damn me.

  He snatched the morbid thoughts away and continued on logically. Aside of getting cleaned up, going to Rubey’s would be the easiest way to get word to Giordan and Voss that he and Maia were safe. Despite Voss’s change back to mortality, the establishment remained a central location through which those familiar with the Dracule communicated and socialized. They knew Rubey could be counted on for confidentiality and secrecy even if she and her ladies weren’t providing services.

  It was the most expedient, prudent thing to do. Just like intercepting her before she waltzed at the masquerade ball.

  With uncustomary care, he climbed into what he now perceived as his own personal hell and settled onto the bench seat across from his own personal tormentor. As the door closed behind him, its latch clicking into place with finality, Dimitri looked across at Maia.

  She was not, as one might expect after such a harrowing experience, huddled in the corner, wide-eyed and meek. Not Maia.

  He steered his thoughts around. Perhaps it would be best if he went back to thinking of her as Miss Woodmore.

  “You could have killed me,” were her first words. Not shouted at the pitch or volume that set his ears to ringing, but in a low, hushed tone.

  That was the first sign that something was truly wrong.

  “Which time?” he replied, hiding behind a bored tone. Not thinking about how right she was. How close he’d come to doing just that.

  He could, of course, see quite clearly in the dark. Everything was tinged bottle-green, and all shades of that hue and black, but he could easily discern the enticing curves of her collarbones, the sagging bodice of the simple dress she was wearing, the fact that her hair hung in a messy knot at the left side of the back of her neck, and that her mouth was a hard, flat line. He was not looking at the tiny marks on her shoulder. Definitely not remembering the taste of her…skin, lifeblood, scent, mouth—

  “That’s a very good question,” Miss Woodmore replied, shifting a bit in her seat. Her very movement sent a shimmer of her essence toward him and he had to turn away, trying not to allow the scent to reach him. “Both times, in fact. The time when you threw a stake at me and hit the vampire and the time you jumped out of a window and dragged me with you.”

  Dimitri opened his mouth to correct her—after all, he’d thrown the stake at the vampire, not at her—but thought better of it. Perhaps if he simply didn’t talk, he could get through this carriage ride with nothing more than having to listen to her reprimand him.

  And that was much preferable to other things that could happen herein.

  Things that he simply was not going to allow himself to think about. Or remember.

  Like the moment when he really had nearly killed her, when he was so filled with her essence…her lifeblood flooding his mouth, coppery and sweet, her skin beneath his hands as he forgot where he was…who she was…what he was doing. He took, and took, molding her with his hands, tasting, sipping, drawing on her, from her…

  He closed his eyes, his fingers trembling, and tried not to smell her. He rested his head against the side of the carriage and pushed it all away.

  Had he lost the chance to free himself from Lucifer? Black despair started to build inside him and he squeezed his eyes closed. And yet, he would do it again.

  Oh, he would do it again.

  Don’t think about it now.

  “How are you feeling?” She broke the silence with a voice that was soft, perhaps a bit husky with…worry.

  Dimitri opened his eyes. No, that would not be a good direction for the conversation to go. It would be better to fight with her, keep her hackles up and therefore her at a distance.

  The cold, hard ball in his gut had begun to grow and swell, despite the fact that he wasn’t going to allow himself to think about what he’d done. What, after decades of control, of sacrifice, he’d given in to. And how good it made him feel. About how she moaned and writhed against him, pleading for something she didn’t understand.

  Lucifer’s dark soul, he’d nearly killed her.

  It was only a miracle that had brought him out of the maelstrom of need and pleasure. A miracle.

  He examined her in the green-gray light. Even now, he could see how drawn her skin was. The ghostly pallor, evident to his sharp eyes.

  He should ask her how she was feeling. But he couldn’t speak for fear of what might come out. And so he pulled his cloak of cold, hard emotion around him and looked over at her with deliberately steady eyes. “Other than a rather nasty experience, I couldn’t be better,” he said, deliberately leaving the “experience” unspecified.

  She bit her lower lip and lifted her chin in a gesture that he’d come to recognize as one of stubbornness.

  Just then, the carriage stopped and it was all Dimitri could do to keep from leaping out with alacrity.

  Instead he lifted one eyebrow and said, “We’ve arrived at Rubey’s. It’s not a place frequented by ladies of your esteem, and I’ll preempt your complaints and criticism by offering my apologies now. I suspect we’ll find not only Dewhurst but Cale here, as well, and perhaps even your brother. As well, Rubey will allow you to put yourself to rights before returning to Blackmont Hall.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but, right on cue, the carriage door opened. Dimitri fairly lunged out, drawing in the refuse and smoke-scented air of London.

  It was infinitely better than the essence inside the carriage.

  Rubey, Maia learned, was the proprietress, or more accurately, the brothel owner. The moment it became clear to Maia that Corvindale had brought her to a brothel, she turned to glare at him and found him watching her with that condescending look as if to remind her that he’d already apologized.

  She looked away and instead allowed herself to be brought into a luxuriously decorated residence that smelled faintly of floral and tobacco. Although she had no idea what a house of ill repute looked like, it certainly wasn’t this tastefully and elegantly appointed place.

  The woman named Rubey, who looked comfortably like her name—for she had strawberry-blond hair and intelligent blue eyes, and spoke with a bit of an Irish lilt—took one look at Maia, then at the bare-chested earl, and immediately clamped her lips closed.

  Corvindale, of course, was lavish with commands and directions, and Rubey was efficient and yet less than obeisant in her response. But her eyes were wide and shocked, if not speculative, and she said nothing as she rang for a maid. Apparently, despite Corvindale’s certainty, neither Dewhurst nor Mr. Cale were currently present.

  Not long after, Maia found herself in the deepest, warmest, most fragrant bath she could ever recall having. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she rested back against its edge, as pleasure washed over her, followed by confusion and anger and a variety of other emotions.

  She’d sent the maid away as soon as she slid into the bath, telling her to return only when she rang for her. Maia needed time alone.

  She could scarcely account for everything that had happened since yesterday afternoon—for the sun was just rising and it was a new day. Come to think of it, she could scarcely comprehend everything that had happened, and that she’d experienced, since Corvindale became her reluctant guardian. Everything from the existence of vampires, to being
attacked, fed upon and kidnapped by them…along with her sister becoming engaged to one of them, who had become mortal once again.

  In her exhausted and confused state, she could no longer ignore the loneliness that she often forced herself to disregard, that sense of having no one with whom she could truly talk and share the things that worried her. She let it all pour out in tears, silent and furious recriminations punctuated by violent splashes, and even a rash of prayerful words directed to Above.

  Maia was grateful for the steamy water, for she used it to wash away the tears of frustration and anger and confusion, and when she was finished, she rang for the maid.

  Determined to be as strong and resilient as she always was—for if she weren’t, no one else would be—Maia allowed the maid to wash her hair and to thoroughly bathe her before helping her out of the tub.

  Her dress, shift and corset were replaced by ones from Rubey, and despite Maia’s suspicion that they’d be scandalous, she was pleased to find the garments tasteful and stylish.

  Shortly after, her damp hair pinned in a loose braid over one side of her neck, strategically placed to hide the marks there, Maia found herself in a parlorlike chamber, waiting for she wasn’t certain what.

  Rubey came in, looking fresh and elegant in a light green dress of muslin. She was carrying a tray and that was when Maia realized how hungry she was.

  “I’ve met your sister,” Rubey said, offering Maia a short glass filled with amber liquid. “Here, a bit of the Irish gold for you, as my papa called it,” she explained when Maia hesitated. “After what you’ve been through, you should have twice as much.”

  Maia took it and sipped the burning liquid as her hostess arranged cheese and bread on a small plate and offered it to her.

  “You’ve met Angelica?” Maia asked, sipping more of what she presumed was whiskey. Rubey was right, it made her feel better. Warmer and a bit looser.

  “She was here some time ago with Voss,” Rubey explained as Maia nibbled on the cheese. “The night of the masquerade ball where the vampires attacked. By the by, Dimitri has sent word to her that you’re found and safe.”

  “I appreciate knowing that. Thank you. You seem more than a bit familiar with the Dracule,” Maia said, and noticed for the first time that Rubey had bite marks on her neck, just below the ear. The sight reminded her of her own experience, and her stomach did a little flutter. “Are you one of them?”

  “Stars, no, and I wouldn’t if they asked me. In fact, they have,” Rubey added with a wave of her hand. “I’ve been offered more than once to turn Dracule, and I’ve declined every time. Why would I want to live forever, and then be damned at the end of time?”

  Maia flinched at the woman’s use of the blunt word, but found herself fascinated nevertheless. Here was someone who might actually answer her questions without prevarication. “Is that truly how it is?”

  Rubey nodded gravely. “It’s unnatural, is what I say to Giordan. He’s kind enough to me, and visits frequently when he’s in London, but I’m merely a replacement for—someone else. And who’d want to live forever anyway? The same, day after day after day? Everyone you know and love, dying without you, while you’re staying the same? Everything dies, everything has a season and a cycle—that’s the way God made it. I don’t mind a few gray hairs, either. But the sagging I can do without.” She flashed a bit of a smile as she made a subtle gesture to her bosom.

  Maia nearly blushed, but the woman was perhaps a decade or more older than she, and perhaps sagging was a concern. “Do you mean to say that Corvindale has made a pact with the devil? And that’s how he’s become a vampire?”

  “They all have, for one reason or another, made such an agreement. But Dimitri has been trying to break the covenant for over a hundred years. That’s why he studies so much, and why he refuses to drink or feed from mortals. Although—” her eyes glinted “—that appears to have changed.”

  Maia’s cheeks warmed. “He certainly didn’t want to, but it was the only way I could think to get him out of there. He was too weak to stand.”

  Rubey’s eyes widened. “Do you mean to say, you saved Dimitri? Oh, how he must have loved that!”

  Maia blushed more. “I can’t say that’s the whole of it, but—”

  She stopped as the parlor door opened.

  “Speak of the devil,” Rubey said slyly, garnering her a sharp, annoyed glance from Corvindale.

  He strode in as if he owned the place and helped himself to a glass of the same whiskey Maia had tasted. His serving was much more generous than hers. After a brief survey of the chamber—which was furnished with a sofa, where Maia sat facing two armchairs, one of which was occupied by their hostess, he disdained all of the seating possibilities and remained standing near a tall, narrow table to her left.

  The expression on his face was haughty and removed, as always. But Maia found herself unable to keep anticipation from fluttering in her middle as she looked at him. His very presence changed the energy in the room, shrinking it, making it warmer. More interesting.

  He’d obviously bathed, as well, for his hair was damp and spiked in sharp points around the collar of his pristine white shirt. He stood holding his drink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to display darkly haired skin the color of suntanned leather. Elegant wrists connected strong, wide hands to muscular forearms, and Maia knew fully well the shape and girth of his upper arms and shoulders. She swallowed and averted her gaze from the loose ties at the throat of his shirt where just a hint of dark hair showed.

  “Enlightening your guest with the darkest secrets of my race, are you, Rubey?” His words might have been light if it weren’t for the way his eyes bored into the titian-haired woman.

  She didn’t seem to mind. “She was just telling me how it all happened. Quite a story.”

  “I’m certain she was,” he replied without glancing at Maia. “But it was beyond foolish of her to become involved in the matter. Things would have worked out much better if she’d simply stayed home.”

  Maia went rigid. “If it weren’t for me, Lord Corvindale,” she said in her iciest voice, “no one would have known about the ruby hairpin. Which is what led me to investigate Mrs. Throckmullins.”

  “And there’s where you went wrong, Miss Woodmore. You should never have been investigating anyone. Dewhurst and Cale had things well in hand. They would have found me soon enough.”

  Maia could not hold back an improper snort. “I merely went for an afternoon call—”

  “Nor should you have gone alone.”

  “I didn’t go alone, you dratted man. Do you think I have feathers for brains? I had three footmen with me. How was I to know that Mrs. Throckmullins was your former mistress, and that she would have invited me into tea and then poisoned me? I certainly couldn’t have brought three footmen into her parlor, now, could I?”

  He raised the whiskey. “Very well. I stand corrected. You could have done nothing to prevent Lerina from drugging and abducting you.”

  Maia drew herself up even more, ignoring the avid interest on Rubey’s face. “Just as you could have done nothing to prevent her from abducting you. Because of course, being the Earl of Corvindale, you know all and see all and could clearly foresee every possible circumstance. Which is precisely why you ended up in the condition in which I found you.”

  Rubey drew in a sharp intake of breath that sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh.

  “Furthermore,” Maia continued, unable to stop herself, “if I hadn’t managed not only to free myself from being chained to a chaise lounge and then gone in search of you, you would probably be dead by now from loss of blood.”

  “Dracule don’t die from loss of blood,” he sneered.

  “Even when tied up by ruby necklaces?”

  “You were tied up by rubies, Dimitri?” Their hostess looked much too intrigued by such a concept, her eyes narrowing contemplatively. “Now there’s a fascinating idea.”

  “Is my carriage here yet?” Corvindale snar
led at her. “Perhaps you ought to go check.”

  “Oh, but I find this conversation very stimulating.”

  “Go.” He didn’t roar, but the room vibrated as if he had. Rubey rose reluctantly and started toward the door, not at all cowed.

  But Maia wasn’t finished; no indeed. She had so much to say to the arrogant, impossible, infuriating man in front of her, she didn’t know if she’d be done in a week. “And then you throw a stake at me—”

  “I threw it at the vampire who was holding you—”

  “You could have stabbed me!”

  “Of course I wouldn’t have, you addled woman. Do you think I’m completely incompetent? I knew precisely what I was doing, as is evident by the fact that you are here, intact, and so am I.”

  “And then you jump through a second-story window,” Maia continued, her mind blazing with fury, the words tumbling out, “and take me with you! We could have been killed!”

  “Dracule don’t die from a fall—”

  “But people like me do!” she shrieked, leaping to her feet. Maia drew in a deep breath and realized she’d truly gone mad. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was addled. She reached down for her glass, taking the last swallow of her whiskey while managing not to cough or choke. She heard the faint click of the door closing behind Rubey.

  Corvindale didn’t seem to notice; for he was watching Maia from over the rim of his own glass, his eyes dark and steady. Wary. “The fact is,” he said in his chilly voice, “that you were perfectly safe once the rubies were out of my proximity.”

  “And how,” she said sweetly, but with a steely edge, “did it happen that those blasted rubies got out of your proximity?” Her hands planted on her hips, she glowered up at him.

  “Speaking of rubies,” he said, setting his glass on the table with a definite clunk, “why in the goddamned bloody hell did you not use them?”