The Trelayne Inheritance

by Colleen Shannon

  As he’d soon discover.

  Delicately teething the bluish vein, she pried open his fist. Then she nibbled her way down his fingers, pausing to suckle them and then teethe them daintily, one by one. Giving the instincts she’d stifled all her life free rein at last.

  Groaning a muffled protest, he pushed his free hand through her thick hair, caught the nape of her neck and lifted her face to his. He kissed her full bore, making no allowances for her innocence and no excuses for his needs. His lips were hard, and sensual, and demanding.

  She sank back against the squabs, half frightened at the passion she’d incited, but then he softened slightly. The tip of his tongue delicately rimmed her mouth. Her lips tingled as much as her nipples. Automatically she opened to the pleasure like a trumpet vine thirsty for morning dew.

  He filled her with a far more heady moisture in the intimate thrust of his tongue. It was the first time she’d been kissed so. For an instant, the previously dominant analytical part of her brain took over.

  The French reputedly started this type of kiss. She’d wondered how it could be pleasurable to have a slippery tongue inside one’s mouth. She’d avoided the intimacy with her few previous suitors, but they hadn’t been masters of the art, either.

  How appropriate that this silver tongued devil should taste so sweet. Maximillian Britton was as good at kissing as he was at everything else. He wasn’t slippery; he was soft, strength sheathed with velvet that knew exactly how to fill her yearning warmth, caress her and make her open wider to accommodate him.

  And the images filling her head, she knew, were the ones he intended her to feel. This wildly sensual, intimate act was but a foretaste of the greater pleasure to come. Would he feel so good there, too? Fill her so utterly, pleasuring them both?

  But then her appraisal of these strange new sensations ended. She couldn’t think. She could only feel. Tingles danced from her lips, her tongue, down her neck, through her torso, centering in the softness that yearned to be likewise filled.

  He dipped and swayed, and coaxed her to even greater boldness. Then she was doing battle with his tongue, learning the most thrilling victory of all.

  In this intimate war of foreplay, there was no loser–only two winners. For, strangely, the more she gave, the less he took.

  And the more he tried to please her.

  Boneless, without will or identity, Angel sank back against the squabs and reveled in sinful pleasure as the carriage bore her away under the stars.

  From a crouched position, Shelly Holmes vaulted to the top of the stone wall surrounding the Britton estate. There had been a time when she’d wished to cure herself of her lupine ailment, but of late, especially at times like this, she found her curse quite useful. Lycanthropy endowed her with abilities far beyond those of a normal human, giving her a unique chance of catching the Beefsteak Killer. Who had better odds of defeating an old, deadly vampire? A woman skilled in the detective arts, or a werewolf skilled in the detective arts?

  Her husky chuckle came out like a whine. On all fours, easy now in her bristly canine skin, she jumped the twenty feet to the ground. Soundless, she crept through the heavy brush, her grey eyes phosphorescent green in the night. She saw tiny living things scurrying away under grass and leaves. For an instant, as a rabbit made a terrified dash for its hole, the primitive instinct to swoop down on it and consume it whole, bones and hide included, almost overcame her.

  She quelled it. Her quarry here this night was larger and far more dangerous.

  No matter how much she’d lectured herself that Miss Blythe Corbett, the foolish chit, deserved the disaster she courted, Shelly hadn’t been able to return to her room above the stables, close the curtains against the lure of the moon and go to sleep. The girl, with her unusual blend of intelligence, determination and scientific skills, merited more than vampire fodder, which is what she’d ultimately become if she allowed herself to come under Britton’s sway.

  Shelly couldn’t allow that. No, even knowing she was imperiling the more important investigation, Shelly still had to follow the credo that had led her on this unusual path--where there was mystery to be solved and innocence to be saved Shelly Holmes needed no fresher meat.

  Undressed for the change, Shelly had opened her windows wide and exulted in the siren lure of the moonlight. When the transformation came over her, she embraced it. Leaping down, she ignored the frantic stamp of terrified horses, narrowly evading one of her own drunken grooms rounding a corner of the barn. He blinked after her, crossing himself. She paused long enough to bare her fangs at him. He stepped back, knocking his foolish head into a tree, and passed out cold.

  Just as well. He’d think he’d hallucinated when he came to.

  But on the second corner, she came face to face with Gustav. He froze, staring at her with more astonishment than fear. She sniffed him, aware he had a stench that reminded her of a vampire, yet was a bit…different. He was an odd one, but now was not the time to debate his character. Brushing past him, knocking him to the ground, she ran out to the open road.

  Her easy lope had soon caught up with and surpassed the black Britton coach. She planned to beat them inside and find a way to avert the tryst Britton obviously intended. The vial of powder she’d taken out of her medicinals bounced comfortably around the leather thong encircling her neck. She’d mixed the palliative herself and hoped it would be the antidote to the aphrodisiac her ancient text promised.

  However, she had no illusions about her task. Shelly knew this enemy was the most dangerous she’d ever faced. Far worse than the murderers she’d helped put behind bars when she was a mere woman, worse even than the werewolf she’d helped defeat on the Cornish moors two years ago, becoming a werewolf herself when she was bitten in the process.

  If all went well, Miss Blythe Corbett wouldn’t even realize she’d been rescued by that bold, irritating woman who spoke too frankly and saw too much. And the killer, if Max Britton were the one with the slanted tooth, wouldn’t even know who’d subverted his dastardly plans.

  The hulk of the ancient estate blocked the moonlight. Shelly looked up. No modern architectural marvel, this. Britton Castle looked like exactly what it was: the usual estate of landed gentry who’d shed generations of blood to keep the pile of moldering stones.

  Shelly used her nose to break a casement window and ease it open. She slipped inside.

  The carriage had stopped before either of them realized it. There came the rattle of the stairs being put down. Angel and Max, who’d been lying entwined on the seat, sat up, lethargic with the seductive heat that was slow to wane even as cold night air coasted over them.

  The coachman stood respectfully aside, face turned away, awaiting their descent.

  Angel’s heavy lids raised. She looked at the man holding her in his arms, as if he couldn’t bear to let her go. His mouth was lax and wet with their passionate kisses. The lamps beaming outside the door seemed caught in his golden hair, bestowing a halo-like glow around his head. Again, she was struck at how much he resembled a fallen angel. But then she realized those eyes, dilated and so dark they were primeval pine instead of emerald green, were fixed on her neck.

  Angel looked down. Somehow her bodice had slipped, revealing her chemise and the deep swell of her bosom. Any other man would be staring at her cleavage.

  Maximillian Britton looked at her neck, his eyes dark with a savage hunger that should have terrified her.

  It didn’t. Vaguely she was a bit worried by that, especially when Max licked his lips. For an instant, she thought she saw fangs.

  That didn’t terrify her, either. Before she could face that appalling truth and wonder why, the chill night air seemed to recall him to the proprieties.

  Shoving his hand through his hair, he turned that brilliant smile her way. No evidence of fangs now. He stepped down and offered his hand, saying formally, “Welcome to Britton Castle, Miss Blythe Corbett. Would you care to join me in a glass of wine?”

  Without
hesitation, Angel accepted his hand and descended. She wasn’t sure what they’d started this night, but she knew it was too late to turn back.

  In human form, attired in the long duster she’d also rolled about her neck, Shelly hovered over the liquor tray in his salon. Which would he choose? Surely not the brandy. Not the Irish whiskey. By all accounts, Maximillian Britton was probably a vampire, but he’d been raised as a gentleman. No, it would be the ratafia or the sherry.

  Shelly held the vial of powder up to the light. She had enough for one bottle, not two. She could hardly hide behind the couch and sprinkle the powder into the chit’s glass at the propitious moment. The more urgent his desire for the girl, the more likely he’d be to hew to the proprieties when he could. Ratafia was the generally accepted night cap for a proper lady.

  Shelly took a chance on the ratafia.

  Dumping the contents of the vial into the crystal decanter, she swirled it around, watching it dissolve. A smile curled at her wide mouth as she wondered if the palliative would affect Max too. In a way that would doubtless most disconcert him.

  Her laugh echoed in the lovely room as she pictured the look on his face if he couldn’t perform. She clapped her hand over her mouth as she heard footsteps enter the black and white marble foyer. Time to go upstairs and search his chambers.

  She might as well kill two birds with one stone. If Max were a vampire, he’d need the requisite soil to sleep on. Of course, since this land was the soil that birthed him, he already slept on the soil of his birth, but surely he had a special bed of some kind in his suite. That would be all the proof positive she needed. She’d already verified that Sir Alexander was a vampire by following him one night and watching him suck blood from a doe.

  She’d intended to hide and examine the creature after he was finished to see if he left a crooked fang mark. But when he was finished, Alexander had tossed the poor dead, drained thing into the river, which was running hard with the spring rains.

  To hide the evidence, no doubt.

  Given the way Max whisked the girl to his lair this night, Shelly feared she already knew which of the two men had a taste for lovely young virgins. But to justify arresting a peer of the realm, she needed physical evidence, not circumstance.

  Indubitably, it was best she remain within screaming distance if she was wrong about Max’s intentions toward the girl. Shelly went out a side door as the main salon door opened. She waited until the hall was empty of servants and then stole her way upstairs.

  As she went, she appraised her surroundings. She’d have expected the inside of the house to match the grim exterior, but the walls were painted white, and Britton’s predilection for paintings ran to sunny seascapes, and portraits of happy families. The decor was bright and cheerful, and gas lights glowed everywhere.

  As she walked upstairs, Shelly looked closer at the enormous painting that held pride of place between the second and first floor landings.

  It depicted a dark man who looked most unlike Max next to a lovely blond woman with Max’s perfect features and bright green eyes. The range of rough and tumble five boys looked to be anywhere between fifteen and eight, and they were all dark like their father. One lovely young blond girl stood with her hand on her mother’s chair arm. The youngest child, a blond baby, chubby and gleeful, on his mother’s lap, was obviously Max. She didn’t need the brass plate, saying simply, “The tenth Earl of Trelayne and family” to know whom she stared at.

  She didn’t remember hearing about any siblings. And the way the family were dressed…the garb of over a hundred years ago. Unless they were costumed, she was looking at incontrovertible proof, hung bold as you please for all to see, of Max’s advanced age.

  He was a vampire.

  Inside his cheerful salon, with extreme effort, Max mastered the dark hunger that had almost consumed him there in the carriage. Thank God his coachman had interrupted. Max looked at the girl, so sensual yet innocent as she stood blinking in the lights. Didn’t she know what she did to him?

  The unwelcome thought came that perhaps she knew precisely what she did to him. Her gown hung precariously low on her shoulders, and only the peep of white lace at her bosom spared her modesty. Max clenched his hands on the need to finish gravity’s job. He swung aside to the liquor tray and grabbed the safest spirit there.

  He hated the stuff, but he was too polite to swig the brandy as he longed to. He poured two glasses of ratafia. He handed one to the girl. She set it aside, raising her arms to him, her mouth lifted for his kiss.

  His head lowered until he felt the heat of her skin, scented the womanly essence their embrace had incited. His nostrils flared, but he stumbled back and drank his wine in one gulp.

  She pouted, her lips already red from his kisses. “Why did you bring me here then?”

  In a word–madness. Madness to want to save her from Alexander’s clutches, madness to want to make love to Eileen’s daughter, whom he…Max violently shoved the dark memories away. He lifted the glass to Angel’s lips. What a ridiculous name for her when she was more like Lilith incarnate. “Drink.”

  She took one sip, made a face and pushed the glass away. She wandered the salon, appraising the bright yellow striped divan facing two cherry red padded Sheraton chairs. The carpet underfoot had the same touches of red and yellow that gave the room its tasteful, but bright atmosphere. She touched the delicate figurine on a white marble topped table and then whirled on him.

  Apparently she, like most everyone who saw his recently redesigned house, expected something different.

  “Where’s the dungeon?”

  His lips twitched. “Next to the seraglio where I have my harem imprisoned.”

  She didn’t crack a smile, merely nodded emphatically. “I thought so. Do I get to see it?”

  “I save the thumb screws for special occasions.”

  “This is my first ball ever. Isn’t that special enough?”

  “Next time you come, I’ll let you try out the iron maiden.” He gave her a provoking look. “A device tailor made for one of your bent, I might add.” There. He’d finally silenced that saucy tongue.

  She shot back, “You assume I’ll still deserve that appellation after tonight.” She broke into lilting laughter at the look on his face.

  Damn, did nothing disconcert this American miss? Most women were tongue-tied when he played these verbal games with them. Not Angel. She tossed his bon mots right back.

  There was a better way to handle her. Surely the aphrodisiac would be losing some of its effect by now. He strolled across the carpet to set his hands lightly on her shoulders. He nuzzled her ear, safely avoiding her neck, then trailed the tip of his tongue over the outline of that lush mouth, whispering into it, “Bold words require bold deeds, my little iron maiden. You play a dangerous game, but I’ll join you gladly if you like.” He gently cupped her breast. He expected her to pull away now that he’d called her bluff. She was still an innocent, after all.

  Instead, she leaned into his touch. “My mother always said ‘Tomorrow’s a gift, but today’s a blessing.’ I don’t think I ever understood what she meant until tonight.” She twined her arms about his neck, closing her eyes as she kissed his strong chin, so she didn’t see the shock in his eyes.

  Eileen…Max’s semi hardness, which had been strangely softening since he drank the wine, went flaccid. God, memories he had aplenty, regrets even more, over his long life, but none made him ache with sadness like his memories of Eileen. Even Angel’s wandering lips couldn’t distract him.

  He remembered the last time he saw Eileen before she left for America. He’d tried to talk her into staying, but she’d insisted, hoping the new land and new air so far away would help her find a cure for her ailment.

  She hadn’t succeeded. He knew that better than anyone. For he’d been the last one to see her alive.

  He looked down at her daughter, kissing the hollow of his throat with more enthusiasm than experience. He’d been immediately drawn to Angel becau
se Eileen had passed her looks, her strength, her sensuality, to her daughter, along with her love of his family motto.

  How would Angel react if she found out the saying of her childhood was emblazoned on the Britton crest? He set her away from him. “Stop it. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  He dragged her before a mirror so she could see her own scandalous image, her dress half off her shoulders, her mouth red with his kisses. Her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, she looked nothing like the cool, contained scientist she claimed to be. He wondered why his own passions didn’t soar out of control, for she was so sensuous, so ripe for the taking…maybe he wasn’t too old for gallantry yet. “Ask yourself why they bought a maid a dress that should only be worn by a woman of the world.”

  “Because they wanted me to look my best.”

  He shook his head. “No, Angel. You’re not dressed like that to please yourself. You’re dressed like that to tempt me.”

  Shock finally dimmed the fevered glitter in her eyes. “Why?”

  That was much harder to explain. When he turned aside to drink another glass of ratafia to collect his thoughts, she wandered the room, touching a statue here or a pillow there. Learning, he knew, by the touch of her hands, his things, his likes, his needs.

  He turned back to her, glad the wine had dulled his raging desire enough for him to be able to think clearly. His hand clenched hard about the wine glass.

  Angel had her head back now as she stared at the bucolic mural he’d recently had painted on his ceiling to further brighten the salon. Her long neck was arched, her jugular vein exposed.

  All he had to do was lunge forward and sink his fangs into that warmth and life…No amount of wine could assuage that need.

  Growling in physical pain, Max jerkily turned aside from the one thing forbidden to him. His hand went for comfort to the unusual watch in his pocket.

  Angel turned in time to see it. “Why do you carry that huge thing?”

  “Why do you ask so many questions? If you’re finished with your wine, I’ll have my coachman take you home.” He turned to the door.