by Eve Silver
He reached down and lifted something else from the seat. The yellowed magazine that held the story her father had found so fascinating. Polidori’s The Vampyre.
Offering it to her, he held her gaze, and she sensed that unlike her candle dish, he had not retrieved this out of care and kindness, but for another reason entirely. Cautious and watchful, she took the pages from him, her pulse speeding up, her thoughts tumbling to and fro as a strange expectation suffused her.
I am not an easy...man.
I have been alone for a very long while.
You have not read Byron’s The Giaour?… It is a poem about a monster damned to drain life from those it loves.
Something clicked inside her, a key in a lock.
No. What was she thinking? It was not possible.
The Vampyre.
The smoky ideas that had eluded her a moment past coalesced, and she was left speechless and overwhelmed.
Impossible. And…not. It explained so much.
He stared at her, unsmiling, severe. She had the thought that he knew the direction her suppositions traveled. That he wanted them to flow toward that impossible conclusion.
Her breath stuttered to a stop, trapped in her lungs, and she stared at him, suddenly certain. Certain of the impossible, the terrible, the mad.
Inexorably drawn, her gaze dipped to the magazine once more. The seconds ticked past, protracted and sluggish.
“You did not kill those people at King’s College,” she whispered, the words so soft she wondered that he could hear her at all. When he made no reply, she raised her head and realized that he waited only for that, that he wanted her to look at him as he made his response.
“No, I did not kill them.” His eyes, liquid mercury, gleamed in the dim light, boring deep inside her.
“But you could have.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and held herself tight. “You could have because...”
There was both sorrow and resignation etched on his face as he finished the thought that she dared not speak aloud. “Because I am—” He paused, and she waited, her breath stalled in her chest, then he shook his head and finished, “I am not like other men.”
And suddenly, that assertion was laced with a multitude of subtle inferences and implications that she was not yet ready to drag into the light.
In that moment, though she knew not its source, she felt his suffering as her own.
Whatever his tormented secrets, she recognized in him like to like, knew that whatever horrors he had known and seen, whatever mysteries lurked in his heart, he was even more alone than she.
That he needed her as she needed him.
17
At Killian’s instruction, the coach set off. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the velvet squabs, baring the strong column of his throat. Once, Sarah stretched out her hand, almost brave enough to lay her fingers against his neck and feel the steady, solid throb of the pulse that beat beneath his skin. In the end, she dropped her hand and contented herself with letting her gaze roam his features. Her heart swelled with the knowledge that he had come for her.
He had cared enough to come for her.
She concentrated on the wonder of that rather than the multitude of questions that their cryptic dialogue had skirted.
Mindful of the light, she leaned close to the window and peeked through the lifted edge of the blind as the carriage rocked to a halt before Killian’s town home in Berkeley Square. His was the last house in a row of very large, very tall houses. There was a black ironwork fence surrounding the entirety, with a break at the stairs that ascended to the front door, and another that descended to the servants’ entry.
Sarah counted four floors, each with three large rectangular windows across the front, save for the ground floor, which had two windows to the left of the front door.
After a moment, the liveried footman opened the carriage door and waited as Sarah gathered her candle dish and the magazine. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, staring at the curled and faded pages...wondering...
Raising her gaze, she found Killian watching her, his expression bland and cool.
She turned away, and let the footman hand her down from the coach. Killian descended behind her. She glanced back to see that he had put his spectacles in place to shade his eyes. He kept his head bowed, his thick, honey gold hair falling forward to veil his features.
Without a word, he offered his arm, and she sensed that any questions she had would be better spoken indoors rather than out here, for it was clear that even this dim, cloud-filtered light was uncomfortable for him.
They ascended the stairs and he did not wait for a butler or maid to open the door, but opened it himself and gestured for Sarah to precede him inside. The hallway was dark but beautiful. Paneled walls of rich gleaming wood. A semi-circular console table just inside the entry with a vase of deep red roses. There was thought and artistry in the presentation.
The scent of beeswax left a faint signature in the air, topped by the breath of the roses. Killian drew off his gloves and tossed them on the table, then swung his cloak from about his broad shoulders and handed it to a maid who stepped forward and curtsied before taking the garment from his hands.
Sarah caught her breath as Killian stepped around behind her to stand close at her back. His breath fanned her neck, sending shivers of awareness dancing across her skin.
“May I?” he murmured, and she nodded, wordless. He took her cloak and passed it to the maid. And then they were alone. He radiated warmth. She could feel it through all the layers of her clothing and his. How long since she had been warm? Truly warm? Body, heart, and mind. She had been frozen for so long. Certainly, since her father had died, but at this moment, she thought she had been frozen even before that, her existence held within a rigid box that was imposed by her sex, by society, by expectations. Despite her father’s nature, the fact that he had viewed her as an asset in his work and treated her not merely as a daughter, but as a person in her own right, she had been denied the opportunity to be all that she dreamed. She was grateful that her father had fed her curiosity, stimulated her mind. Even so, she had felt that she could only walk so far along the road before she met a solid gate that barred her passage.
She looked at Killian and asked, “Why?” He did not request clarification. He seemed to understand what she asked. Why me? What is it that draws you?
He removed his dark spectacles and looked down at her for a long moment, his expression solemn. Then he rested his palm on the top of her head. “Because your thoughts, your intellect, your dry wit appeal to me.” He slid his hand lower and brushed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. She caught her breath at the contact, struck by the urge to take his thumb in her mouth, to suck on it and taste his skin. “Because the things you say are interesting or funny or wise. Or simply soothing, the sound of your voice, the cadence of your speech.” He stroked his fingertips along her throat, his gaze never leaving hers, then let them slide along her breastbone, and lower, to her waist, her hip. There, he stopped, resting his palm on the side of her hip so his long, strong fingers curved to follow the curve of her buttock. He leaned a little closer. “Because you are not fearless but brave. Because you have a moral core that guides your choices.”
His pupils were dark, surrounded by a thin rim of gray.
Her breath came too fast, too shallow.
“Because,” he said as he walked around her so he stood at her back and leaned close to speak against her ear, his hand sliding forward, his long fingers splayed across her belly. Society would have her protest, refuse his touch, but at this moment Sarah could not think of a single reason to heed society’s norms and expectations. She liked the feel of his hands on her far too much.
“You make me feel things I had thought buried,” he continued. She let her head tip back to rest against him. “I want to touch you, Sarah, caress you, make you cry out in pleasure. I want to coddle you and protect you, even as I want to set you free.
I want to watch you fly. I want to give you the world.”
With his hand curled around the back of her neck, he walked around so he faced her once more. “Have you been with a man?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.
Her voice was gone, stolen by the heat of his fingers on her skin and the look in his eyes. Her only answer was a shake of her head.
“I want you, Sarah,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers. “I have wanted you from the moment I first saw you. I want to kiss you, taste you. I want you in my arms and underneath me in my bed. I want to fill your body and your thoughts. I want to hear you scream my name.”
His words wound through her thoughts, making her see the picture he painted. Her breath came too fast, uneven. Her head spun. She wanted all he described. She wanted him.
She leaned toward him. It was enough. With a sound of pleasure, he pulled her against him, his mouth on hers, hard, demanding. His tongue slid past her lips and she opened in invitation, tasting him, teasing him. He moved his lips to her throat, his tongue tasting her skin, her pulse beating a wild and wicked tattoo.
And then he stepped away.
“What…” Sarah wet her lips.
“Choose,” he said. “Choose while your thoughts are not muddled by my kisses. Choose to walk to your left and I will ring the maid to serve tea in the parlor.”
“And my second choice?” she asked, still breathless.
Killian offered his hand, his lashes sweeping down to hide his eyes.
Take his hand and follow where he led. Take his hand and follow to a place where he would kiss her and taste her and make her scream his name.
She took his hand. His lashes swept up, his gaze triumphant and joyous.
Killian twined his fingers with hers and led her through the house, up carpeted stairs with banisters of gleaming polished wood, through hallways lit only by lamplight, the heavy draperies pulled across the windows.
At last, they reached a heavy double door, and he threw it open then drew her inside.
“My lair,” he murmured, and a tickle of apprehension crawled through her at his choice of words.
She hesitated then stepped deeper into the chamber. The walls were covered in blue paper that had a subtle texture, like velvet. A thick, soft carpet of darker blue with a design of green and yellow birds covered the floor. There were two large chairs before the fireplace, each matched with a low footstool. A spacious room, handsome in appearance.
“You like fine things,” she observed.
“I do.”
“Yet you work in one of the poorest hospitals in the city.”
An instant of silence. Then, “Because they do not have fine things. I dislike the imbalance.”
She recalled the way he tucked shillings into the night nurse’s apron and realized that she had already known this about him, though she had not defined it in such a pared down manner.
Her feelings for him bubbled to the surface, and she turned away lest he read them in her gaze. The feelings she had for him were too new, too raw. She was not ready to explain, perhaps to have them rebuffed. She did not think she could bear that.
Pressing her lips together, she shifted closer to the fireplace. Above the oaken mantelpiece was a large painting of a river. The dominant colors were blue and aqua and yellow and gold. She gazed up in mute wonder, drawn into the beauty and brightness of the watercolor.
“Turner,” Killian murmured from behind her. “Some call him the painter of light.”
It was true. The painting embodied light, captured it and set it free, pure and brilliant. And Killian hung it in his chamber, he who clung only to the shadows.
The thought made her sad.
He was not a creature of light. That much was clear.
“Do you long for it, for the sunlight? For the warmth of it on your skin?” She could not tear her eyes from the painting. She felt as though the sun’s rays poured from the canvas to touch her face.
“No, I do not long for it. Not anymore. The moonlight has a cool and wonderful beauty, the night its own sweet music.” He moved close behind her. She could feel the heat of him. “I remember the sunlight with a vague and hazy fondness, but I do not long for it. It was a small sacrifice in exchange for all I have gained. I have learned to love the night.”
His words brought so many questions to her lips, questions she dared not ask for she was not yet certain what she would do with the answers. She closed her eyes, every sense tingling with awareness, with the knowledge that he was so close. All she had to do was reach out and she could know the answers to untold mysteries. About him. About herself.
If only she dared.
Dipping his head until his nose grazed the skin of her neck, he breathed in, his nearness and his action combining to set her heart racing. She ached for the stroke of his hand, the feel of his lips.
Closing her eyes, she leaned back a little into his embrace.
“Be certain, Sarah,” he whispered against the side of her throat, sending a tinkling cascade dancing through her.
She knew all he meant with those softly voiced words. Be certain it was this she wanted, him she wanted. The unconventional life he offered. She did not know where he meant this to lead, but she could not imagine he offered her forever. She imagined he wanted her for his mistress for a time, and she refused to let societal judgment steal this joy. She would be his mistress and she would enjoy the moments they had together to the fullest.
“I am certain,” she whispered. She had no wish to cling to her past, had no idea of her future. In this moment, she was changed from the woman she had always been. In this moment, she wanted only to live, to allow herself that luxury, that beauty. To know Killian’s touch, to offer him her love, even if this day was all she ever had of him, all they ever shared.
Tomorrow would come regardless, and it would hold the same fears and uncertainties whether she indulged her heart or not. So, for one shining snippet of the unfurling ribbon that was her life, she would grab hold of what she wanted and take what she could.
Reaching up, she pulled the pins from her hair and let it fall about her shoulders and down her back.
“Your hair is beautiful, a sleek, dark curtain with just a whisper of wayward curl at the ends.” He stroked his palm down the length, emphasizing his point. That touch made her mouth go dry and her pulse jerk like a skittish colt.
“You are beautiful, Sarah.” His words and the rich, lovely cadence of his voice mesmerized her. “The pink flush of your skin—” he drew his thumb along the edge of her jaw “—the lush curve of your lips—” his fingers slid to her lips, rubbed and stroked, and as her mouth opened on a gasp, the tip of his index finger dipped inside “—you are so lovely to me.”
On instinct, she licked his fingertip, then closed her teeth on him and bit down.
His sharp intake of breath stabbed through her, sinking to her breasts, her belly, her trembling legs. Because she knew she ignited him. There was a lush and heady pleasure in that.
“You bite,” he murmured.
She hesitated but an instant, then whispered, “As, I suspect, do you.” There. She had done it. Acknowledged the secret that hovered between them. On some level, she understood. And she knew that he would not hurt her.
He pulled her toward him then, taking her mouth in a hungry kiss, his tongue tasting her, his teeth nipping lightly at her lips. Pleasure spilled through her blood like a tide, making her breath rasp and her pulse race. Her skin felt too tight. Her clothes were unbearable fetters, and she hissed a sigh of relief as he began to loosen them. He slid each piece from her, kissing and caressing every inch of skin he bared. He ran his tongue along the top of her breast, and she arched her back, offering herself to him. She wanted the rest of her clothing gone. She wanted his mouth on her everywhere.
Modesty demanded she blush and protest. Desire demanded that she open her mouth and taste him as he tasted her. She twined her fingers in his hair and brought her mouth to his, certain that if she did not kiss him
, she would not survive it. The flavor of his kiss was heady, more wonderful than the finest wine she had ever sampled.
The cool air in the room touched her, making her shiver. The sheets of his bed were even cooler as he guided her there and pressed her back against them, his fingers splayed lightly across her throat. She could feel her pulse drumming against his fingertips.
With a groan, he traced his tongue along her jaw, her throat, his mouth coming to lie against her pulse. He kissed her there, his mouth open, insistent. She arched her neck, the graze of his teeth making her gasp, sending spiraling tendrils of need winding through her veins.
Feeling weightless and dizzy and wonderfully alive, she lay back and watched as he dragged off his coat, then his shirt, pulling the cloth over his head and down his arms. He bared the wonderful mystery of his chest, covered in dark gold hair that tapered to a thin line down the middle of his taut belly. She had seen shirtless men before, but none had been Killian. She came up on her knees and traced the tips of two fingers along the ridges of muscle that formed his chest, his belly.
“You are lovely,” she whispered. He was. But she had expected that, expected the lithe, lean lines and sculpted edges. She studied him in open curiosity, awed and amazed, and he laughed, a low wicked chuckle that stroked her senses.
His eyes never left hers as he prowled closer to rest his knee between her own on the mattress. He kissed her and eased her back so she lay beneath him.
Her body arched of its own accord, instinctively seeking his touch as he trailed his fingers down her neck, along her collar bone, to the swell of her breast above the thin cotton of her chemise. Feeling like a bow drawn taut, bent to its limit, she waited to see what he would do next.
A gasp escaped her, and it became a purr as he closed his hand about the soft flesh of her breast, stroked his thumb over her tight nipple through the thin cloth of her chemise. He lowered his head and closed his lips on her through the cloth, gentle suction that gave way to a more demanding pull. The sensation was like fire and ice and fireworks exploding in the sky, only the explosion was inside her, inside her blood, an aching need that spread. Heat. Liquid heat.
