by Колин Глисон
“What do you want, Maia?” He forced steel into his voice, forced his expression into stone. His heart rammed hard inside.
Her face changed, the affection fleeing. “That night with Mr. Virgil,” she said, “the Incident…I had a dream about it tonight. About things I don’t remember happening. The whole night, almost, is blank in my mind.”
Dimitri raised a brow. “That’s not unusual for a traumatic situation, Miss Woodmore. People often forget what happened to them.”
“Yes, and sometimes with a bit of help from a vampire and his thrall. Is that what happened? Did you alter my memory?”
“What makes you think I’m capable of such a thing?” he prevaricated. His glass was empty and he put it on the cabinet. He had a feeling he was going to need all of his faculties. “And if so, why would I do that?”
“Don’t be absurd. You know you are. You’ve attempted it.
You said I’ve become immune to your thrall. Did you manage to do it that night?”
“It was best that way.”
“What happened?”
What didn’t happen? Dimitri drew in a deep breath.
“Your Mr. Virgil wasn’t taking you to Gretna Green for your elopement. He was taking you to an establishment in Haymarket that…well, Miss Woodmore, if you found your self offended by Rubey’s place, you would have been beyond frightened at this place. A marketplace of sorts for young, virginal women. You wouldn’t have been able to leave.”
He watched the disbelief and then horror filter over her delicate features. She’d stopped rearranging his books and now stood as if frozen. “And then what happened?”
“I followed you when I recognized you. Of course, your brother had pointed you and your sister out to me in the past.” And the impression she’d made on Dimitri had been strong and unforgettable, even then. Even from a distance.
Especially when he passed by and breathed in the perfume that was her. “I was able to extricate you from the woman who owned the…establishment…with little fanfare. Then I saw that you were taken safely home in a hack.”
“Did she have a mustache?” she whispered, and he nodded in response. “I dreamed of her.”
The hypnotism was weakening; which was no surprise, as he’d been unable to inflict it upon her recently. Something had happened since that night in Haymarket that made her immune to his thrall. His thrall. He felt a little uncomfortable niggle in the back of his mind when he recalled Voss telling him that he couldn’t enthrall Angelica, either. Was it something about the Woodmore sisters that made them indifferent to a Draculian thrall?
But no, for Lerina had managed to ensnare Maia when they were trapped. He didn’t understand it.
Maia was talking slowly, pulling things out of her memory. “I have a recollection…in the hack. We…you were there. You had a cut on your cheek, and one on your hand—I remember now. You weren’t wearing gloves.”
He held back a snort. “Even in the midst of such a harrowing experience, whilst you were clothed in boy breeches and a cap, you commented on my lack of gloves with your nose in the air. And a little sniff of disdain.”
“I did not.” She gave that same little sniff, lifting her pert nose.
He found himself hardly able to keep a smile in check and raised his brow instead.
“I…we were discussing herbal poultices for your cuts,” she said slowly, as if unraveling the memory like a thread. “You were promoting the benefits of dried woad.”
“You were under the impression that Dioscorides’s recipe for slippery elm and comfrey was the best treatment. I confess, I was amazed to learn that you were not only familiar with his writings, but that you’d read them in their native Greek. And so I commenced with a discussion to see if it was possible.”
“You,” she said, the corners of her mouth tipping up a bit again, “were singing the praises of John Gerard, simply because he was a native Englishman.”
“Aside of the fact that he was a friend of my father’s, the benefit of having a medicinal written only about plants native to the local soil, my dear Miss Woodmore, is much more efficacious than one written by an ancient. There is always the problem of translation.”
“Not if one does the translation oneself,” she reminded him. “As I did.”
“That was precisely what you said that evening.”
Their eyes met and he saw the clarity back in hers. She remembered it all now.
He’d never forgotten it.
He’d almost kissed her that night. Secure in the fact that he could mottle her mind and twist her memory, he’d nearly given in to the sudden, inexplicable urge. And now he was thankful, so very thankful, that he hadn’t done so.
Because he would never be able to explain that.
All at once, a rush of desire flooded him. He stood halfway across the long chamber from her, and all he could think about was what was beneath that loose, flimsy night rail.
Dimitri turned away, his fingers trembling, his gums suddenly tight and swelling. There was an odd ache in his middle.
“Has it occurred to you,” she said suddenly, “that I might be with child?”
Had it occurred to him? Oh, yes, oh, yes, indeed. By the Fates, by God, by Luce’s black heart, it had occurred to him.
“I pray you are not,” he managed to say. He’d been so careful over the years, for any child he sired could also be bound to Lucifer because of the agreement Vlad Tepes had made with the devil. It was inconceivable that he would visit such a burden on his child. It was a good thing he’d never had a great sexual appetite.
He looked away from Maia. Until now.
“I’m not,” she said softly.
Relief rushed over him so strongly he nearly sighed aloud.
Thank God, thank God. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I couldn’t marry Alexander until I knew for certain.”
“I’m certain he’ll appreciate that.” The words came from between stiff lips. “Are you finished, Miss Woodmore? I have things to attend to.” He gestured vaguely to his desk.
She straightened, pulling her shoulders back and outlining her breasts even more readily. Dimitri studied his hand. His fingers weren’t quite steady.
“Yes. Thank you for your time,” she said. There was more than a bit of sarcasm in her tone, but he ignored it.
He must ignore her as she walked past him toward the door, taking with her that thick, sweet-smelling hair, those delicate feet and slender wrists, those full, erotic lips.
“La Belle et la Bête?” she asked, pausing at his desk.
Leave. By all that is holy, by all that is damned, please leave.
“It’s a French fairy tale,” he said, forcing boredom into his voice.
“I’m familiar with it. This version, in fact.” She glanced at him. “How do you find it?”
“I haven’t finished it yet,” he growled. “Which I might perhaps be able to do if you’d leave me be.”
She looked up at him, quite close now as she skirted the desk, and he could hardly meet her eyes. He struggled to keep his breathing steady, to keep the pounding of his heart inaudible as it reverberated his torso. His fangs threatened and he pressed his lips together because all he could think of was how close she was. How much he wanted to touch her.
And of course, how he could not. Ever. Again.
To slide his hands over that ivory skin, to gather her against him and bury his face in her hair, to cover that impudent mouth that alternately argued and smiled and lectured and challenged.
He turned his attention to the ever-present throbbing on his shoulder, focusing on the pain there. It didn’t seem to be as harsh as it used to be…or perhaps he was becoming even more inured to it.
“Is everything all right, Corvindale?” she asked. Her night rail billowed out enough that it nearly brushed the tops of his boots. Her essence filled his nose.
“Other than the fact that you’re disturbing my studies, yes, of course,” he replied and managed to step back wi
thout appearing to retreat.
“Very well, then,” she said. “Good night.”
She left.
Maia fled to her chamber.
Her stomach was in an upheaval, swirling and pitching like a ship in a storm.
She’d thought for a moment that he was going to…do something. Reach for her. Touch her. Ask her to stay.
Tell her not to marry Alexander.
But he’d been the same cold, harsh Corvindale.
She sat on her bed. Perhaps not quite the same. There had been those moments of softness. She hadn’t imagined them.
Had she?
Flopping back onto her bed, she looked up into the darkness, misery welling up inside her. Emptiness filled her chest, making it hollow and cold.
She closed her eyes at the sting of tears. Foolish, addled woman.
That was she. Foolish. Addled. In love with a cold, hard man. The wrong man.
Foolish…
Maia must have slept, for she dreamed.
He was there in her dreams again, but this time she recognized him. The wide, strong hands, the dark hair, the smooth sensual brush of lips, the flash of fangs as they slid easily into her shoulder.
For the second time that night, she woke suddenly, heart pounding, breathless.
Her dreams were so real. Her body was damp and alive, throbbing and tight…but she was alone.
Maia sat up. All at once she remembered the dream she’d had when Corvindale was gone, the dark, frightening one. The dream that must have been…could it have been…what he was experiencing? At the hands of Mrs. Throckmullins?
Did that mean that…
She swallowed hard, heat rushing through her. Could that mean that, just now, he was dreaming the same thing that she had been?
Heart thumping madly, hardly realizing what she was doing, Maia slid off the high bed to the floor. She glanced at the window to see a faint glow in the distance, out over the rooftops. Dawn was near. Her feet made no noise on the wood planks as she went to the door and opened it.
If he were dreaming what she was dreaming…
Her fingers closed around the doorknob and she hesitated. Her knees trembled. She knew what she wanted to do. What she was about to do…but would it make any difference? Would it not only cause deeper problems?
But as she stood there in the shadows, half in the corridor, half in her chamber, she realized that she stood on a different threshold.
If she went back to bed, she would remain Maia Woodmore, soon to be Mrs. Bradington, peer of the ton, the epitome of propriety and gentility. She’d marry Alexander and they would be happy together, they would have children, God willing, and she would have a very even, calm, proper life. And she would never forget the Earl of Corvindale.
And if she didn’t go back to bed… Her insides filled with butterflies, and for a moment she almost swooned with fear and apprehension…and hope.
If she didn’t go back to bed…anything could happen.
Good or bad.
Loving or hurtful.
Maia closed her eyes, struggled and made her decision, closing the door softly.
18
Wherein All Is Laid Bare
Dimitri woke to find himself hard, hot, damp and tangled in the bedcovers. His fangs were fully extended, his body swollen with need. The Mark on his shoulder shuttled pain through his limbs, but even that deep agony wasn’t enough to chase the potent dreams from his thoughts.
All at once, he realized his chamber door was ajar. Opening. That was what had awakened him from the dream.
He smelled her.
Satan’s stones. Dimitri froze, holding his breath, pulling himself out of the sleek, hot dream with great effort.
He dared not move. He could hardly think as she slipped into the chamber and closed the door behind her. His heart pounded, filling his ears, and in his mind he kept thinking, no, no, no, no.
Yet his body raged and beckoned.
If it had been anyone else disturbing him, he could have bellowed and ordered them out. Or even leaped from the bed to show them the door.
But he was paralyzed.
She stopped next to the bed, and he looked up at her in the dark, able to see the details of her face, even the curl of a lock of hair over the white night rail.
“Maia,” he managed to say. “What are you doing here?” Get out.
Her eyes found his in the dim light. He saw her draw in a deep breath and bite her lower lip. “I’m not certain,” she replied.
“Then leave. Now.” His breathing had become unsteady and he gripped the bedcoverings, curling his fingers into them, forcing his body to remain still. Like stone.
“I’m going to call off the wedding.” She was close enough that her gown brushed the side of his bed. His hand, wrapped in a sheet, rested on the edge right next to it.
He forced himself to remain rigid. Tight.
“That would be outside of foolish,” he said, his voice harsh and grating even to his own ears. “Maia. What are you doing?”
“I’m here,” she said, shifting. The warm cotton gown brushed the back of his wrist and Dimitri’s fingers released the crumpled bedcoverings all on their own.
“Here?” He forced an edge of disdain into his tone. “Whatever for?”
She shook her head as if to clear it, her eyes steady on him, as if to somehow read the lie there, even in the dark.
And then she touched him. Her fingers, settling gently on his bare wrist next to the edge of the mattress, released him from his paralysis. He was done.
His arm lurched, moving before his conscious thought, and his hand whipped out, dragging her onto the bed. His other hand moved around to slide fingers into her hair, guiding her lush warmth down onto him. Yes.
Maia didn’t pull back, didn’t resist. If she had, he’d have released her immediately. But, foolishly, she came willingly, sliding onto the bed, her knees pinning her blousy night rail to the mattress before she collapsed next to him, tangled in the soft cotton.
Dimitri was aware of a rushing sound in his ears, of a warning voice in his head, but it was too late. He had her. In his arms, wrapping Maia in the warmth of his body and the tangled bedclothes, their flesh separated only by a flimsy gown. Wild need surged through him, and he ignored all of the reasons he should send her away.
Taking care not to cut her with his fangs, he covered her mouth with his, drinking desperately from the corners of her lips, sliding over and across them, nibbling and sucking as she shifted against him, her mouth hot and teasing in a slick, sensual kiss, her breasts rounding against his chest.
He gathered her close, imprinting her body against his, capturing her against him with one bent leg and his hands, sliding along her slender back, pulling her onto him, into him, close. She burned him.
His breathing was out of control, his body tight and throbbing, his fangs jutting so far that his mouth hurt.
“Maia,” he managed to say, focusing on the sudden sharp pain from his Mark. Ah, that was it. If the pain became worse, then Luce was unhappy with his actions. And right now, now that he’d stopped, now that he was set to do the right thing, to send her away, the pain was white-hot, blasting and searing down his side and around by his left hip. An incentive for him to change his mind. “This is your last chance. Leave now.”
Perhaps her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, for she focused on him, met his gaze. “I’m not going to leave,” she said. “Unless you truly do not want me.”
Even then, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t send her away.
“Very well,” he said in a harsh voice, horribly aware that his Mark eased. That Lucifer approved. “I will give you nothing, Maia. Do you understand? This is nothing more than me, taking what you offer.”
“Is that not how it’s always been?” she replied.
“You must wed Bradington,” he said, grasping the front of her gown as he twisted around, shoving her back onto the bed, curving over her, pinning her down with the weight of his hips. “I can
give you nothing else,” he said again. “Nothing. And wedding him will save you.”
“I make no promises,” she replied.
“Nor do I.” And, his patience gone, his goodwill trampled, he shoved his conscience away. She’d come to him. He’d warned her off. He grabbed her gown with his other hand and yanked, renting it down the middle with a loud, violent tear that made her slender body jerk.
With a little more care, but no lesser intent, he whipped the cloth away and bent to her again, covering her mouth with his. She reached up and slid her arms around him, pulling him down so that they were skin to skin, her soft, pale and silky curves rising up into his hard, hirsute body. So warm. Her long hair caught beneath them, and he tugged it away, threading his fingers in and around it.
He buried his face in her neck, tasting the hot, sensitive skin there, his lips tracing the curve of her shoulder as he struggled to keep from sinking his fangs deep. The need pounded in him, in his swollen gums and thrusting teeth, through his veins, in his cock, tight and raging against her thigh. Maia shuddered and sighed as he sucked hard on the delicate rise of her shoulder, still fighting to keep from sinking deep and drinking of her.
Dimitri moved to her breast, covering the taut rise of nipple with his mouth, sliding his tongue around the sensitive little tip. She dug her fingers into his hair, arching closer as he licked and gently sucked, his fangs gently surrounding the areola, brushing her skin with their tips. One little nick… She exuded heat, and the musky, sweet scent of desire filled his nostrils as she writhed and moaned against him.
He slid his hand down between her legs, finding her slick and swollen. She shifted against him, lifting up into his palm, and he pressed down into her, trembling a little at her passionate response. Sliding a finger inside, into the tight heat, Dimitri shifted as he teased and slid in and out and around, releasing her lush musky scent, turning his vision red and cloudy. Desire pounded in him and his gums throbbed, his cock shifting insistently next to her. Maia gasped something, reaching out blindly, her hands pulling at his shoulder, drawing him close.
He could wait no longer. Dimitri moved quickly and decisively, rising back up to rear over her slender white body and sliding his leg between hers. She curled her fingers around his shoulders, pulling him down as he fitted himself inside her. Maia’s gasp was swallowed by the roaring in his ears as he slid in, deep, filling. His muscles shuddered with the effort of control…she was sleek and tight and he found his face buried once again in her throat as he moved rhythmically: away, then closer, away…closer. Hot, damp, smelling of her, that sensitive, erotic spot…
