Be Mine Tonight (12 page)

Worse yet, would the woman who called Marie a wench for rejecting him be repulsed when faced with the reality of what he was? It was one thing for her to make such claims of love and devotion when she believed it nothing more than a story, but what if she learned it was true?

God help him. He had tried to stay away from her, tried to resist her temptation, but he was simply not strong enough. He hadn’t fed off a human in decades, perhaps even centuries, he had lost
track, but he couldn’t go two days without giving in to Pru’s allure.

She matched the demanding fervor of his kiss with an intensity of her own that in anyone else he might mistake as desperation, but not with Pru. This was passion and desire, pure and simple. She wanted him as a woman wanted a man, and it damn near killed him.

Pru didn’t know that he was a monster. She didn’t know the terrible things he had done, and yet it felt as though she knew him better than anyone, even Molyneux.

This woman wanted him enough to risk her reputation by kissing him in the garden where anyone might find them. She wanted him badly enough to ask for his embrace, and not the embrace of the demon inside him, or the man he once was, but
his
embrace.

Her hands roamed his back and shoulders, up to his hair, where they tangled in a death grip. Did she think he planned to leave her? Even if he had such a notion, he wasn’t strong enough to pull away. Not yet. He hadn’t had enough of her yet. He doubted he ever would.

This woman was dangerous to him—more dangerous than any religious zealot or demon hunter. Somehow, she had managed to find a tiny thread of him that was still human, that part of him that hungered for human contact. She had found it and she fed it and it sated him more than blood ever could.

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t tempted to bite her.
He was, but his desire for her as a man was far stronger than his hunger for her blood.

He wanted her to love him. Sweet God, he wanted her to know what he was and have her look at him without fear or revulsion in her eyes.

She was so sweet in his arms, so supple and graceful, her spine arched beneath his palm. Her skin flushed, warming her perfumed skin and surrounding him with her scent. Like mulled wine, she was, full-bodied and rich with spices. She would burst on his tongue like the most exotic of tastes.

Pliant breasts pressed against his chest. He moved one of his hands from her back to splay her side, then up, pushing between them until he cupped one gentle mound in his hand. She was soft yet firm in his palm. He squeezed her, gently. She sighed against his mouth, pressing her hips into his groin. His cock throbbed in response. Damn the tightness of her bodice. There was no way he could get his hand inside without doing damage to her gown.

He could unfasten it. Or he could rend it from her with one tear. Or he could just bend her over a bench and…

The taste of blood filled his mouth. It was faint, hardly anything at all, really. He might not have noticed were it not for the fact that the blood wasn’t his own. It was Pru’s.

Good God, she had nicked her tongue on one of his fangs. Thank Christ—and he meant that—that she hadn’t noticed.

But he had. And the demon part of him had. Oh, God, it was a faint taste, but it was every bit as heady and marvelous as he’d dreamed it would be.

The muscles in his gums contracted, pushing his fangs farther from their sheaths. She would notice soon. One wrong sweep of her tongue and he’d do more than nick her.

Hunger cramped his stomach, clawed at his insides, climbed up to his chest. His muscles stiffened, tensed for the strike. He could move so quickly she wouldn’t feel it until it was too late. He could bury his fangs in the softness of her breast, or the smooth column of her throat, and be drunk on her essence before she knew what was happening.

He couldn’t do it. Gathering his strength, Chapel pushed Pru away. She stumbled backward, but she didn’t fall and he made no move to catch her. It wasn’t safe. His breath was ragged, the night roaring in his ears.

“Chapel?” Her voice was thick and low with longing. How
he
longed to give her what they both wanted, but it was what he wanted that had him ready to run if necessary. He’d rather hurt her feelings than hurt her physically.

“I have to go,” he gasped, and winced at the rough edge to his voice. Yes, he had to go. His control was so fragile right now. He could hear the tremulous pounding of her heart, smell her desire, feel her heat. The taste of her, however faint, burned on his tongue, driving him mad with hunger.

“What’s wrong?” She reached for him, but he lurched just out of reach, his stomach cramping so hard it almost doubled him over.

It would be so easy to claim her. Bend her over his arm, or perhaps take her to the soft grass. He could do it where no one would notice—on the inside of her thigh, high up so he could slip his fingers inside her as he drank. Or he could bite her
there,
between the damp lips of her sex, bring her to climax as she sated his hunger.

But she wouldn’t sate him. He hadn’t fed enough recently. If he lost control now, he would kill her, just as Dreux had killed that poor girl the night before he killed himself.

Oh, God.

“I’m sorry.” It was trite, but he wanted her to know she hadn’t done anything wrong. “I’m not…I’m sorry.” Pivoting on his heel, he fled then. He ran past the house toward the darkness beyond. His eyes saw every obstacle, every hole, every rut. When he knew it was safe and far too dark for human eyes, he took to the sky and sped toward the nearest, largest town.

In his heart he knew what he was about to do was wrong, but it had to be done. He couldn’t keep putting people at risk with his hunger, not when he knew what would quench it.

Time to find out if Molyneux’s theories were right. Time to risk everything he believed and clung to, because he would not risk Pru’s safety for his own beliefs.

And he would admit, if only to himself, that, if and when the time came that he took Pru’s blood,
he could trust himself not to kill her, because right now he couldn’t do that. And he would rather burn in the dawn than harm her. Not her.

He flew for a long, long time. He wasn’t worried, the evening was still relatively young, and he would be back in time to investigate the cellar before Marcus made his entrance. Even if he wasn’t, Molyneux was there to make certain things went as they should. Molyneux would make sure Marcus didn’t go into that cellar without him. An old priest he might be, but Molyneux was still one crafty bastard.

After some of the things the young man had said to him the other night, Chapel didn’t trust him not to go into the cellar earlier. Marcus wasn’t stupid enough to go in while it was still dark, though. Chapel was worried he would go at dawn, when people thought vampires were at their weakest.

Wrong. Those fragile hours of waning day and fading night were when a vampire was at his most dangerous. Temple would be tired, but the survival instinct would be kicking in with a vengeance. Dawn had a way of making a vampire edgy and unpredictable.

Which was why Chapel had asked Molyneux to watch Grey’s room. Chapel would be useless once the sun began to rise, but Molyneux could make certain that Marcus did not get into that cellar.

But he had to admit it, right now he really didn’t care about Marcus Grey and whether or not the man was stupid enough to risk facing Temple’s
wrath. He was focused solely on his own hunger.

He could make all the excuses he wanted. He could justify it any way he wanted, but it boiled down to the same thing: he was about to break the vow he’d made the day Dreux committed suicide. After hundreds of years, he was giving in to his darker nature.

His true nature.

He found his destination with little effort. The house had stood in the same part of town for many years now, passed down through the generations, sometimes family to family, other times purchased or gambled away. But always, the occupants stayed the same. He had never been inside, but he knew Reign often came here for…relief.

The madam looked up as he entered the brothel, her eyes brightening as they lighted upon him.

“Good evening, sir. What is your pleasure?”

“I need girls.” That edge was still in his voice, but not as much now.

The madam smiled. “Of course you do. Come with me.”

He followed her down the narrow hall to a parlor where a dozen prostitutes lounged in flimsy, frothy lingerie like a box of expensive candies.

The woman was still smiling, evidently proud of her stable, and rightfully so. They were all healthy women, glowing with vitality. No common whorehouse, this.

“Here are the ladies who are not already engaged for the night. Go ahead and pick whomever you would like.”

He shot her a lazy glance. “I want all of them.”

Her eyes widened. “All of them?” Then she smiled seductively. “As you wish, sir, so long as you can afford to pay.”

Chapel pulled a wad of notes from inside his jacket. He had learned over the years to always carry money, since he never knew what kind of situation he might find himself in.

He handed the madam the bills. “Is that enough?”

Her heavily shadowed eyes brightened as she counted. “Yes, sir. This will get you twelve girls, certainly. Ladies, this gentleman would like to spend some time with the lot of you.”

The girls began making all the appropriate noises as the madam turned to go. Chapel stopped her with a hand upon her arm. Her questioning gaze met his. “Sir?”

A slow smile curved Chapel’s lips. His gums ached as they receded, the muscles in his jaw forcing his fangs to lengthen. Saliva moistened his dry mouth as instinct began to overwhelm him.

“I do not want twelve.”

She colored, something he’d wager she didn’t do very often anymore. “But sir, I thought you said you wanted them all.”

He met her wide and inviting gaze with the smile of a cat eyeing a particularly plump mouse. He leaned closer to the woman, breathing in her perfume and warmth. Deliberately, he exhaled near her ear. “I do.”

She shuddered. He was so close he could see the gooseflesh on her skin, smell the fear and arousal coursing through her veins. He did noth
ing to persuade her, but she tilted her neck in invitation anyway. They always did, as though there was something so very tempting about his embrace. He should back away, but she was so close and so willing and he was so very, very hungry….

“I believe, my dear madam, that
you
bring the number to thirteen.”

E
ither she was like poison to the man, or there was something seriously wrong with Chapel.

As she sat at her dressing table in her nightgown, brushing her hair, Pru reflected rather glumly upon the evening. Her beautiful gown that she had worn for nothing more than a few moments’ notice was draped over the back of a chair near her armoire. Tomorrow it would be packed away, and God only knows if she’d ever wear it again.

Setting the brush on the vanity, she stood. What had happened to Chapel to send him away like that? He had doubled over as though in pain and then fled into the night. Had he returned? If he had, he hadn’t bothered to make an appearance at
the party. Not even Father Molyneux knew where he was.

And Pru hadn’t dared tell anyone that she had seen him in the garden. That her kiss had been what had sent him screaming into the darkness.

Maybe screaming wasn’t the appropriate term, given that he hadn’t screamed at all, but he might as well have.

How was she supposed to experience passion when the one man she wanted to experience it with wouldn’t yield to her?

A soft sound permeated her thoughts. What was that? It came again. It was a knock at her door.

Hope suffused her. Was it Chapel? Quickly, quietly, she sped across the carpet and opened the door. But it wasn’t Chapel her sinking heart encountered there outside her room. It was Marcus, holding a cloth bundle in his arms.

“Marcus, what are you doing here?” It wasn’t nearly chastising enough when it came out as a whisper.

He backed her into the room and followed her, closing the door behind him. Dear God, what was he about?

He thrust the bundle at her. “Put these on and come with me.”

Pru accepted the offering, seeing now that it was men’s clothing.

“Why are you giving me men’s clothing?” Had she more vanity, she might think he was trying to seduce her into running away with him, but Marcus wasn’t the kind to run—or seduce, for that matter.

“You can’t very well go into the ruins in that.” He gestured to her nightclothes.

“The ruins?” The mere mention was enough to send her heart skipping. “We’re going to the ruins? Now?”

He nodded. “Go dress.”

This impatience was hardly like him. Pru turned toward her dressing room, but her pace was slow. “But dawn’s not for at least another two hours.”

“That’s why we’re going in now. The priest is still asleep and Chapel is gone.”

“Gone?” That stopped her in her tracks. “Where is he?”

Marcus came up behind her, gently but insistently pushing her toward her dressing room. “I’m not sure. He didn’t go to the site, but that’s just a matter of time. That’s why we need to go now.”

Pru dug her heels into the carpet. “Why are we going without him or Molyneux?”

A sigh of exasperation escaped Marcus’s lips. Hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “Because I want you to have whatever is in that cellar, Pru. I want it to be your choice, no one else’s. Do you understand?”

She thought so, but seeing Marcus so intense was a little distracting. He was worried that Molyneux and Chapel might try to make off with the Grail before she had a chance to use it.

She didn’t want to think so lowly of either the priest or Chapel, but what did she know of their motives? She trusted them both, but their first allegiance was to the church, not to her.

“I’ll be as quick as I can be,” she assured him, dashing into the dressing room.

The only things that fit properly were the stockings. The trousers were too big in the waist and tight in the hips and several inches too long. The shirt was too big as well, but she tucked it into the trousers to fill out the waist. The coat fit better—it probably belonged to a small man or a boy. She wore her own boots and pinned her hair up into a messy bun.

Marcus was pacing her room when she stepped out of the dressing area. “How do I look?”

“Ridiculous,” he replied with a smile. “Ready?”

She nodded. Oh, yes, she was ready.

They left her room and crept down the stairs. Outside, he led her behind the house toward the stables, where two horses waited. Giving her a boost up, he then climbed up on his own, spurring it in the direction of the dig.

It was dark, the moon low in the sky. There was just enough light to see a few steps ahead, but that was all they and their mounts needed. These horses knew the way every bit as well as Marcus and Pru did. Around her the night sang its song and whispered delicate chants. An owl hooted, a bat swooped by, so close she could hear the thrum of its wings.

There was so much peace in the night. The breeze was cool and refreshing under the light of the moon, as opposed to the sometimes sticky heat of the day.

It wasn’t a short ride to the site, nor was it a long one. The property had bordered the original
southern boundary of the estate, almost a mile from the house. It took just enough time for her to think about Chapel and the kiss they’d shared.

I’ve thought of little else
, he had confessed, his voice as molten as his gaze.

So she couldn’t be poison to him, then, could she? If he wanted to kiss her so badly, why had he run off as he had?

Why torture herself this way? Had she not larger issues with which to concern herself? No doubt the next time she saw Chapel he would not only apologize for his actions, but offer an explanation for them as well.

With that matter resolved, Pru turned her thoughts to the Grail. Would it be there when she and Marcus entered the cellar? Yes, yes. It had to be. She refused to think otherwise at this point.

What would she do with her new extension on life? There were so many places she wanted to see, so many things she wanted to experience. Choosing a place to begin was overwhelming.

But one thing she wanted to do no matter what was make love to Chapel. She wasn’t ashamed to admit it, though it was brazen of her. One thing she was not going to do once she was cured was go back to living her life as society thought she should. Life was too short for regrets, and when her time finally did come, she didn’t plan on regretting anything she had—or hadn’t—done.

She thought about those places she wanted to visit—and she imagined having Chapel there with her. They would explore the wonders of
Greece by night, see the moonlight shimmer on the Black Sea. Sunset over the Carpathian Mountains was no doubt breathtaking.

These were the thoughts that took her the rest of the way to the dig site and put a smile on her lips. Her heart was light, quick with anticipation as she and Marcus took the first step down to the cellar entrance. The steps were rough and uneven, but they were wide, so there was little danger of her falling.

Marcus held the lamp high as they descended. As the small golden halo of light touched the cellar entrance, Pru hesitated.

The door was open.

Had it opened on its own, or was there someone else there? She looked down. There were footprints pressed into the dirt, but they could belong to the workmen, not intruders. They could be Marcus’s.

Had Marcus already gone inside, despite his promise to wait for her? Or were there thieves afoot? She opened her mouth to ask, but he turned and shook his head at her, his expression a mixture of fear and anger. No, it hadn’t been him.

Nervously, she glanced around, but the night offered her no sign or sound of guests, unwelcome or otherwise.

Hadn’t Marcus assigned men to watch the entrance? A discovery as important as the Grail warranted protection. This was not a detail Marcus would have overlooked.

Perhaps, then, it was his men who were inside, satisfying their own curiosity. But perhaps it was
Chapel. What if he had come to investigate the cellar? What if he and Molyneux meant to steal the cup from her? What if the reason he left her was because he felt too guilty about planning to betray her?

Enough questions. The answers she sought were inside the cellar and she and Marcus were going to find them. If anyone was in there trying to steal her Grail, she was going to give them a fight. She hadn’t come this far to lose.

Air filled her lungs as she took a deep, steadying breath. Her knees trembled slightly as Marcus handed her the lantern, pulled a pistol from his coat and pushed the door open enough for them to enter. Did he think whoever had been in there was still present? And did he think this person enough of a threat that he might have to shoot him?

Please don’t let it be Chapel.

There was no light but their lamp inside the damp, dirt-scented room. There was no sound save for their breathing—her own seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

The lamp only lit a few feet in front of them clearly. She turned the wick up to brighten the flame. She and Marcus stood side by side, their gazes taking in every detail.

The cellar was like a monk’s cell. A cot sat in the corner, with a nightstand beside it. There was a lamp there as well. The blankets on the cot were wrinkled, as though someone had rested there recently.

A rough table was against the other wall, with
but one chair pushed under it. On the wall above it was a painting of a medieval knight and his lady.

Someone had once lived here. He couldn’t live here still, could he?

“There’s no one here,” Marcus announced, having made a sweep of the small cell. The pistol went back inside his coat.

“But there was.” Pru voiced what they both knew. “Does it look as though anything is missing?”

“I’m not sure I would know if there was,” he replied. “Look for disturbed dust.”

Pru looked, but either the lamplight wasn’t enough or nothing had been moved.

Or there had been someone living there, and that someone kept a tidy house.

A tapestry on the far wall caught her attention and she raised the lamp for a better look. It was slightly askew, and what looked like a passageway peeked from behind it.

Good God, what was this place?

Pru moved forward. The Grail could be down that passage. Heart hammering, she took another step, and then another. She was almost there, just on the other side of the cot, when she stumbled. She had tripped over something.

Lowering the lamp to light her path, she looked down. Her heart jumped into her throat.

“Oh, my Lord.”

Broken glass was scattered across the dirt floor. A tankard and a shirt were ground into the rubble. But that wasn’t what terrified her.

It was the dead man staring up at her with lifeless eyes that froze the scream in her throat and tightened her chest until she thought she might pass out.

He was dressed all in black, with long hair and a beard, and his face had been mutilated. It was as if a wild animal had mauled him.

Bile rose in her throat. Who would have done such a thing? More importantly, was that person still there, waiting to do the same to her?

“Pru?” Marcus’s voice was full of concern. “What is it?”

He was coming toward her even as she whirled on her heel.

She stumbled backward as she tried to avoid stepping on the poor man’s corpse. Had she been wearing heavy skirts she might not have felt the taunt resistance of something tugging at her legs, but felt it she did. She felt it a mere second before she heard a soft punting sound.

A stinging pain struck her in the breast. She gasped in the darkness, almost losing her grip on the lamp. She looked down and saw a small dart sticking out of her chest. What the devil?

She had apparently set off some kind of trap. Perhaps that was what had happened to the poor man on the floor. Was she now going to meet a similar fate?

“Pru?” Marcus’s voice sounded thick in her ears. “Pru!”

Her knees buckled as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Marcus caught her, but not before the
lamp rolled from her fingers onto the dirt floor, illuminating the rest of the man in black.

Her vision swam as sweat beaded along her upper lip.

Poison. She had been poisoned.

“I don’t want to die!” A sob lodged in her throat as she clung to Marcus’s shoulders.

“I’ll get help.” She’d never heard Marcus sound so frightened. “Rest easy, Pru. I’ll be right back.”

He lifted her and put her on the cot. “Don’t move,” he instructed.

Move? Where the devil was she going to go?

She was so stupid. Why hadn’t she stayed in her room? Why hadn’t she tried to talk Marcus into waiting, at least till daylight? Or until Chapel could have come with them?

She trusted Chapel. And a part of her thought he would have been able to keep her safe. She might not have had much time left, but now her brashness had cost her whatever she might have enjoyed.

She wouldn’t even get a chance to say good-bye.

So this was what peace felt like.

Soaring through the waning night sky, Chapel felt a lightness that he hadn’t known in centuries. It was as though by committing this one unpardonable sin and damning his soul, he had bought himself contentment.

The madam had known what he was as soon as he’d smiled at her. Oddly enough, the sight of his fangs had extinguished the fear from her gaze.
All he had to do was mention Reign and she and her girls knew exactly how to service him. He didn’t have to worry about losing control, because the madam was there to make sure he stopped when he had taken enough of one girl and gave him another. He took a little from each—not even enough to weaken them—but it was enough to strengthen him as he hadn’t been strengthened in a very long time. He didn’t give his own blood, so there was no danger of passing his curse.

He could resist Pru now. He didn’t have to worry about hurting her, or worse. He would not force his bite upon her as he had Marie. He could kiss her, touch her and not fear that he would lose control—not of his demon anyway. He couldn’t guarantee the man inside him wouldn’t go absolutely mad when he touched her.

And he would touch her. If she let him, he’d do more than just touch. It didn’t matter that she was a gently bred lady and most likely a virgin. He wanted her and she was old enough to know what she was doing. Virgin, yes, but she wasn’t green.

He would take his time with her. He would make it good for her. He would caress her, taste her, worship her until she was limp and sated in his arms. He would possess her with long, easy strokes, and watch her face as her pleasure built to a crescendo.