“What, no passport, Lord Dewhurst?” Moldavi said. “No identification papers. What a surprise.”
“If you don’t mind,” Voss said, and began to carefully scoop the items back into his pockets. “Do you wish to know…the purpose of my visit…or do you wish to sit about sipping women’s liqueur?” His speech was slow and careful.
“Personally I prefer the…women’s liqueur, as you call it. I rather appreciated the gray expression on your face when you smelled it.” Moldavi stood and came toward Voss.
By now, Angelica’s heart was beating furiously. Although she couldn’t tell what precisely was going on, she knew that something was not as it appeared. Was he hurt?
Did Moldavi have some sort of power over him?
Other than that brief connection of their gazes, Voss hadn’t acknowledged Angelica at all. Surely if he’d come to abduct her—or to save her—he would have at least made reference to her presence.
Moving only his eyes, Voss glanced at Moldavi, then at the other two vampires. His actions were still slow and careful, and he’d tottered backward so near the fireplace that Angelica had a sudden jolt of fear that he’d fall into it. He seemed labored, and Moldavi seemed to be enjoying it.
“Or was it the glass? Cut crystal?” asked Moldavi, turning back to lift his own glass from the table, his rings clinking against its stem. “Perhaps it was this particular sort of cork?” His eyes narrowed in delight, giving Angelica the impression he was a cat playing with a mouse.
“I am in possession of…information,” Voss said. He raised his hand to his forehead as if to wipe it off, then his fingers slid weakly to settle on his chest, curling into his shirt and tucking under the edge of his coat.
Voss. What is it?
“What sort of information?” Moldavi asked lazily. He swirled his glass and looked at the dark purplish liquid inside. “The only thing I want to know about Woodmore is that he is dead.”
“Then…about your emperor’s…future.” Voss tripped and Angelica gasped, barely catching herself from leaping out of her chair as he grabbed the edge of the massive fireplace…just missing falling into the blazing flames.
As he did so, and made an awkward little spin, something slipped from the hand behind him. The small packet tumbled into the fire. Then Voss looked directly at Angelica, held her gaze with purpose. His lips moved; he seemed to be counting: three, two… Suddenly, with effort, he pushed himself off the edge of the fireplace and rolled along the wall away from the enclosure.
Boom!
Angelica screamed as an explosion of smoke erupted from the fireplace. The room was enveloped in a billowing, ugly, purple cloud, and the last thing she saw before the space became dark was Voss’s silhouette, hugging the wall.
Shouts and curses and coughing filled the air, but over it all, she heard him call out her name.
“Angelica!”
She didn’t think about all of the reasons she shouldn’t—she simply moved toward where she’d seen him last. Voss was an infinitely better option than Moldavi.
Thick smoke filled her nose and eyes, and she breathed its heavy air that was unlike any smoke she’d ever smelled. Fingers grasped at her in the fog, low and weak, and she knew it was Voss. “Angelica.” His voice was near her ear. She grasped at him, felt the hard muscle in his arm and clung to his solid figure. Voss. Yes.
The sounds of rage, of furnishings crashing and grunts and exclamations of pain told her Moldavi and his men were furious and intent on finding them.
Something crashed above—a window breaking to release the smoke.
Someone bumped into her from behind. She stifled a gasp and skittered away, grasping Voss’s arm tighter, as he staggered and half ran with her.
He seemed to know where he was going, and pulled her down, jerking her along in a crouching stagger rather than a run. She stumbled after him, with him, tripping, bumping and jolting, and then there was a pause as he slammed an arm into her, shoving her back against the wall. The smoke had lessened enough that she could see his eyes glowing through it. Smoldering red-orange, close to Angelica, intense and frightening…but soft when he turned them on her.
Suddenly they were moving again, out of the smoke and into some other space. She heard the door close behind them, found that they were in a narrow, dark hall. She could see, and breathe, and there was Voss, grabbing her hand with more strength than moments before…and they ran.
Angelica stumbled and Voss steadied her. She could tell that whatever had weakened him—if it hadn’t all been a ruse—was no longer in effect. He was fast, so fast, strong, and she held on to him for dear life. In fact, her feet hardly touched the ground after he slid his arm around her waist.
He navigated them through a twisty corridor, up and down steps, and suddenly they were going through doors, slipping into chambers, shops and even a pub. All at once, they were outside, under a dawning sky, bursting from the building onto a street.
No one on the walkway seemed to notice their sudden appearance, and Angelica couldn’t have hoped to find her way back through if her life depended on it. Nor did she have any idea where she was, other than a shop-filled rue in Paris.
“Quickly,” Voss said, when she paused to catch her breath. He let her feet slide to the ground, and released her except to hold her fingers in his warm ones. “The sun is rising.”
Right. The sun was no friend to vampires.
Perhaps it was because he didn’t wish to draw attention to them, but now Voss walked more slowly along the street. Since it was just beginning to dawn, revelers were stumbling home after a long night, and early shopkeepers and porters were out preparing for the day.
Voss had removed his coat and carried it under his arm and, with a flirtatious smile and a lightning-quick exchange of coin, he induced a tawdry-looking woman to part with her cloak. He draped the heavily sweet, smoke-scented wrap around Angelica’s shoulders, covering her tattered evening frock, and hurried her along. She noticed he stayed close to the buildings, obviously trying to avoid direct beams from the emerging sun.
Angelica had no idea what he’d planned, but certainly she hadn’t expected to be hustled along to a very proper, very expensive-looking hotel—La Maison—as she was. Voss breezed in through the main door as if he weren’t dressed in the most outdated trousers and his face wasn’t marked with dirt and smoke. Hers likely was as well, Angelica realized, and remembered the blood from her nose. She ducked her head to hide her face, mortification flushing her cheeks. What was he thinking?
Without pause, he directed her up a flight of stairs to a third story, produced a key and flung the door open to a well-furnished chamber. Light from the new sun poured through three tall windows, cascading over two chairs and a chaise, a screened-off corner next to a footed bathtub and a small fireplace. And a large bed. Her body went cold, and then warm, and then shivery. She did not look at him.
“Blasted chambermaid,” Voss muttered, still standing in the entrance. “Told her to keep the curtains drawn.” He looked at Angelica almost sidewise, his lips pressed flat as if he were trying to be casual…yet perhaps a bit discomfited. “If you don’t mind?”
She walked into the chamber, a bit dazed, but realizing with a start he meant for her to close the drapes so he could enter. Angelica walked over to do so, opening the windows to allow the summer breeze access. One of them was actually a glass door leading to a small balcony, and she walked out onto it to look down over the creamy buildings of Paris. Then she came back in, pulling the light under-drapes closed and leaving the heavy over-curtains pulled back in their original position. Still, the room was much dimmer than when they’d entered.
It occurred to her at that moment what an awful, dark life a vampir must lead.
It also occurred to her that, with the sun rising, they would be safe—at least for the day—from any pursuit by Moldavi’s vampirs.
She turned to look at Voss, who’d come into the room now that it was safe and closed the door behind him. The sni
ck of a bolt told her he’d secured the door, and her heart stopped.
Was he locking someone out, or locking her in?
He stood in the shadowy alcove of the doorway, his dirty white shirt tight over broad shoulders and a V of golden skin showing from where it had come undone at the throat. The purple and red neckcloth she’d recognized from her dream hung loosely around his throat. He was so handsome, a creature of every shade of gold and honey. So warm and rich. Her mouth became dry, and she had a flash of the memory of those full lips closing down on hers. He still held the dark bundle of coat in his hands, and she saw him clasp it closer to his belly in a short, quick jerk.
They stared at each other for a moment, their eyes meeting, holding. Even the flare of light in his golden-green ones didn’t send a warning bolt rushing through her.
“Angelica.” His voice was little more than a breath, yet it sounded as if he were in pain.
“Thank you,” she managed to say, and broke away from his gaze. What now? What did they do now?
“Are you hurt? At all?” He remained where he was, across the chamber. But his eyes scanned over her as she dropped the cloak, and she felt the weight of them as if they were his hands.
Angelica shivered. If only… “I’m not hurt.” She remembered her bloodied nose, and knew she had bruises elsewhere on her from the horrible horseback ride and her vain attempts to escape. But she supposed her fate could have been much worse at the hands of Moldavi.
“Well, then. A bath might perhaps be in order,” Voss said suddenly, briskly. He turned away, but not before she saw a flash of white at his lips. Fangs.
Angelica swallowed again. Had she left the frying pan and fallen into a blazing fire instead?
But yet…this was Voss. Hadn’t he ordered her away from him when he sneaked into her bedchamber? If he meant to attack her, he could easily have done it then. Nor did he have to send for Corvindale when he took her to Black Maude’s, when he stopped his own attack.
No. It was clear Voss didn’t intend to hurt her.
He didn’t intend to hurt her. But the look in his eyes…
“A bath…Oh, yes, please!” she replied, looking down at the once-beautiful rose-pink gown. She’d been wearing it for nearly a week. Torn, stained, the ruffles and trims flattened…the frock would never be the same. She hadn’t had the courage to glance in the mirror, for fear of what she’d see.
“Right,” said Voss, pausing as he dug through a satchel. “I was speaking of a bath for myself…but of course, ladies first.”
She looked over at him, surprised at his lack of chivalry—and then saw that he was smiling in jest. Her mouth softened. “Thank you,” she said again, her voice low. “Truly.”
He looked away, and his face settled with what was surely pain. “I shall call for a bath and leave you to your privacy.”
“No,” Angelica said before she could think. “No, I don’t want to be left alone. Please. I’ll forgo the bath…if you can stand me unwashed.”
Voss laughed this time, and although he moved stiffly, it seemed easier. “Not only do I not wish to ‘stand’ you unbathed, but I also wouldn’t dream of imposing my own unwashed self upon you. I do believe it can be managed with a modicum of propriety, my dear. If you will trust me.”
Those last words hung in the air between them and, as if realizing what he’d said, Voss suddenly turned away.
“There is a screen, you know,” he said, gesturing to the corner.
“Yes,” she replied.
He walked over to a row of four bell pulls, obviously each for different needs, and yanked on the second one.
“What’s wrong with your arm?” Angelica asked, noticing that he’d continued to favor his right side. He’d hardly been able to lift it to reach for the bell pull, in fact.
Voss glanced at her. “Of all the questions you might have asked me, that’s the one you choose? Not, ‘Where did you come from, Voss?’ Or ‘How did you find me?’ ‘Why are we here?’ Or even ‘What are we going to do now, Voss?’”
Angelica smiled in spite of herself. She liked this man. “Ah, but I wouldn’t call you Voss,” she replied, her voice dropping in a way that made her flush.
Their eyes met again, stopping her heart, making her belly flip and flutter. Making her want…something.
His eyes were hot, so hot and so vibrant she could sense the need from him even across the room. Even from that simple connection of gazes. He took two rapid steps toward her, then halted, spinning half away as if he’d been shot.
“It will be well-nigh impossible for me to remain in the same chamber as you,” he said. “Without wanting to…Without wanting…you.” His voice was low, very low, and not nearly as smooth as she was used to. “It’s part of the affliction…the need for blood. We have to have it to survive. But it’s not just blood,” he continued. “It’s you. I’m dying for the need of you, Angelica.”
Her breath clogged and she found herself hypnotized, not merely by his gaze, but his words, as well. Her hand crept to her throat, settling there before she realized it, offering nothing but weak protection.
“And so,” he said, his voice gravelly, his golden eyes burning hot. She even saw his nose lift a bit, as if scenting the air. He closed his eyes briefly, then reopened them. “I had my valet prepare something for you. To help. To help you trust me.”
He gestured to a flat metal case no larger than the palm of her hand. It sat on the table in the center of the chamber; perhaps he had taken it out earlier, or just now when digging through his satchel.
“What is it?”
“Open it. Wear it,” was all he said, and then turned away, bumping into one of the chairs. He paused, his fingers closed around the top of it, whitening as they dug into the upholstery.
She did as he bid, opening the thick silver case. It was lined with lead. Inside, she found a chain intertwined with the stem of a plant. It was a necklace made from some herb, fortified by a gold chain so that it wouldn’t break.
“I don’t understand,” she said, lifting it, smelling the small, oblong leaves that grew in clusters from their stem. They had a faint, minty scent and some of them boasted tiny, fuzzy lavender flowers.
“Wear it and I won’t be able to approach you.”
Before she could reply, there was a brisk, businesslike knock at the door.
“That would be the bath,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to step behind the screen? And take that with you, if you please.”
He spoke in French, rapidly and yet with his customary charm, to the maids. It took some time, but the bath was moved behind the folding screen and filled with steaming water by a small army of chambermaids. A second, smaller tub was brought in for Voss to use, and Angelica couldn’t help but appreciate his consideration.
There was lovely, scented French soap and warm towels, along with a clean robe and shift. One of the servants assisted Angelica in peeling off her filthy, worn clothing. She had taken Voss’s suggestion and stepped behind the folding screen, and now she slid gratefully into the tub. The choker-like necklace settled around her neck, plastering to her throat and dipping into its hollow.
“Take these filthy ones,” Voss directed from beyond the screen, still in French but much more fluidly than Angelica could speak, “and bring back some clean clothing for the lady.”
She thought briefly about arguing—Maia certainly would. It wasn’t proper for a woman to accept gifts from a man, especially something as intimate as clothing. But how ridiculous it would be not to accept something so practical, and even more so to posture about it. Sometimes, propriety was so illogical.
So she said nothing, humming to herself to cover up the sounds of his own bath as she washed quickly. After, a maid assisted her in dressing in a loose lawn shift and long peignoir.
Her damp hair pinned up loosely, dripping occasionally down her neck or onto her shoulder, Angelica emerged from behind the screen to find that Voss had also finished his ablutions. Her humming stopped.
> All at once, the maids were gone, and they were alone—now in a far more intimate environment of warm, damp skin that had recently been bare, the scents of lavender, lemon and orange in the air, and fewer layers of clothing.
“Explain this,” Angelica said, sitting on one of the chairs. She hooked a finger under the necklace and lifted it from her skin. Her fingers trembled but she kept her voice calm. Her belly was in knots.
Voss gave her a crooked smile. “Again with the irrelevant questions, my dear. All you need know is that it is a great deterrent to me.”
“To you? Not to anyone else?”
“I’m afraid not.” He turned away and Angelica gasped. The shirt he’d donned was not only worn so thin it was nearly transparent, but the fact that his skin was damp and caused the fabric to cling made it easy for her to see the ugly, dark lines through it.
“My God, Dewhurst…what is that?”
He looked back, frowning. “What?”
But she’d already risen from her chair, moving toward him automatically, reaching for the shoulder where she’d seen something that looked like horrible scarring. Twisting black lines radiating from the back of his shoulder and along his arm, down past where the shirt no longer stuck to his skin. It was no wonder he could hardly move.
“Don’t,” he said, but it was too late…she’d already moved close enough to touch him.
Remembering the necklace, she stopped and stepped back a pace. “Does it pain you?” she asked, once again lifting the leaf-entwined chain, smelling its mint, now damp from her bath.
His face drawn, his lips flat, Voss nodded, then gave a shrug. “A bit.”
She stepped back again and saw his chest moved in an easier breath. Odd, fascinating…and a bit frightening.
Angelica sat in a chair across from him, leaving what she judged was space enough for his comfort. “Is it the proximity? The smell? The sight? I thought it was silver that repelled vampires. That was the way Granny Grapes told us.”
Bad Boys of the Night: Eight Sizzling Paranormal Romances: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set Page 95
