Never Been Bit (8 page)

None of Eynsford’s half brothers knew about Cait’s powers of second sight or about the coven. “Of course ye do. It’s a very handsome head. I’d hate for ye ta lose it as well.”

The viscount dipped his very handsome head closer to hers and whispered, “Did you notice my brother’s face? Weston, I mean. The scar across his cheek?”

How could she miss it? The line stretched from his ear to his mouth. It was a most notable disfigurement, though it made him appear dangerous and dashing at the same time. She nodded.

“One of MacQuarrie’s kind did that to him. With only her fingernail. And
we
can heal from anything. Imagine what could happen to a sweet thing like yourself, Sorcha. Vampyres are not to be trifled with.”

“But Lord Blodswell and Lord Kettering,” she began as they reached the stables. “They became human once more.”

“Anomalies, sweetheart. Blodswell was just as surprised by his transformation as anyone else. No one, not even a vampyre, has ever heard of such things before. It wouldn’t do for you to pin your hopes on such a probability.”

No, it wouldn’t. But if it
was
possible, if Alec
could
be transformed back… she knew what to look for, didn’t she?

Both Kettering and Blodswell had suffered chest pains before becoming human again. Elspeth believed their hearts had been flexing, preparing to beat once more after each had met his true love. And Blodswell had suffered from headaches and the inability to drink from anyone other than Rhiannon. If Alec began to show such signs, Sorcha would certainly recognize them.

Radbourne swung from his saddle and offered his hand to her. “You look a million miles away.”

Sorcha accepted his assistance and landed safely on her feet. “Just woolgatherin’.”

One dark brow rose in mild amusement. “Somehow that statement terrifies me.”

“Well, then ye frighten too easily, Archer.” She grinned up at him, so handsome and wolfish, and wished she felt something for him. A fluttering in her belly. A dryness in her mouth. Something other than a simple appreciation of his sense of humor and wolfish nature.

Sticking to her original course would be so much simpler.

Find a Lycan and help make him fall in love with her. This Lycan would probably make a fine husband, in fact. But all she could think about was the brooding vampyre somewhere behind them in the darkness of Kent and the soul-searing way his kiss had stolen her breath.

Radbourne tipped his hat in farewell as he remounted.

“Do remember what I said.”

“Of course,” she agreed with a nod. “I’m certain I will find it very difficult ta think of anythin’ else.”

At that moment, both Hadley twins rode up behind them.

“Pray say you’ll save me a dance tomorrow evening, Miss Ferguson?” unscarred Grayson Hadley asked.

Weston Hadley’s face dropped. “I was going to ask her, Gray.”

His twin shrugged. “I usually beat you out, Wes.”

How strange life was turning out to be. She had not one Lycan’s attention, but three. Sorcha shook her head with a laugh. “Thank ye both for the flattery. I would be honored ta dance with each of ye tomorrow.” A few hours ago she would have been floating up to the clouds with this, heady from her spectacular success. But something else now weighed her down. She turned her attention once again to the viscount. “Will ye tell Cait that I would like very much ta speak with her?”

“It’ll be my honor, sweetheart.”

“And tell her I willna appreciate it if she puts me off again.”

She could tell Radbourne bit back a grin because his amber eyes twinkled with mirth. “I shall toss her over my shoulder and personally deliver her to you in the morning, Sorcha. Will that do?”

She couldn’t help but giggle at that particular image.

Blast, why didn’t Lord Radbourne make her heart leap?

“That will do very nicely, sir.”

Chapter Seven

Alec managed to unfold the Hythe’s groom from the ducal carriage and left him to sleep off the remnants of whatever Sorcha had used to drug the poor lad. For a moment he watched the young man’s chest rise and fall with each breath he took in his deep slumber.

Finally, filled with the most bizarre sense of jealousy, Alec stalked back toward the castle. He snorted at his own foolishness. Jealous of a poor, uneducated English groom.

But the man
would
sleep peacefully, and Alec was certain that particular luxury was not in his immediate future. Not after he’d kissed Sorcha. Not when all he could think about was tasting her on his tongue. Not when he needed every bit of strength he had to keep from marching up to her room and finishing what they started that evening.

But that would be the most foolish thing he could do. She was
Sorcha
, for God’s sake. He’d known her since her birth. And, despite her wholly intoxicating and innocent kisses, she wanted someone else,
something
else. And he’d gone down that road before. He knew how that particular story ended, and it wasn’t in his favor.

He stalked toward the garden path and glared up at the night sky. The damned moon was nearly full. A few more nights and those drooling beasts she seemed so enamored with would transform into actual snarling wolves.

After this evening’s debacle, he could well imagine her finding a way to place herself directly in their path. And then… well, then she’d be forever lost. No longer the sweet, innocent he adored, the lass he cared so much for.

Alec couldn’t allow that to happen. But he also couldn’t allow himself to care for her anymore than he already did.

Ruin lay down that road. He needed to think. He needed to feed.
Butcher shop in the village
. Sorcha’s melodic voice echoed in his ears. Damn it all to hell. He’d already determined that there was no one in the tavern he could take from. So he didn’t really have a choice, did he?

Besides, he really should retrieve the horse he’d ridden into Folkestone and keep Bexley from wondering what had happened to him.

Alec looked over his shoulder to make certain no one was about in the garden. Certain no one would see his rapid disappearance, he bolted off in the direction of the village and that damned butcher shop.

He grumbled to himself as he picked the lock of the darkened building, searching for his evening meal. He could have been at home where he could partake of all the wenches he wanted at
Brysi
, the club for those of his kind. It was a veritable fountain, with Cyprians lining up to share the pleasure that came with coupling with a vampyre. There was no desperation in those women’s eyes. There was no fear. No enchantment was needed to get one of them to accept him. In fact, he’d become something of a legend at
Brysi
, known for his stamina and the amount of pleasure he could give a wench in exchange for her life force. But here he was, stuck in Godforsaken nowhere and forced to scour a butcher shop to find sustenance.

He shivered lightly. Lamb had been one of his favorite meals when he was alive. But not anymore. Thankfully, everything he needed was right there before him. Except for a warm body to drink from. Perhaps that was better, because the very thought of a warm body made him think of Sorcha.

Sorcha… What would she think if she could see him now? Standing in a butcher shop, partaking of his evening meal. Hell, the chit had come up with the idea. And it was bloody brilliant. He wouldn’t have to face the conscience of a single whore. Nor that of a single widow. He wouldn’t deflower a single innocent.

But the very thought of Sorcha made his body react. He’d known as soon as he’d volunteered to give her first kiss that he was dicked in the nob. She should have shrunk shyly away from him. But no. Not Sorcha. She had to throw her whole self into it. Every delectable inch of herself.

He glanced down at the glass of life-giving fluid he sipped from a cup there in the dark. It would be so easy to blame the whole encounter on the wood sprite. But, truth be told, he’d wanted to kiss her as badly as she’d wanted to be kissed. How the devil had that happened? If someone had asked him only hours earlier how he felt about Sorcha Ferguson, he’d have said she was a very nice lass. Now all he could think was that she was a sorceress in the disguise of a young maiden, one who was bent on his destruction.

He could still taste her on his tongue, even after his second glass of animal blood. She had tasted as good as she smelled. Why hadn’t he ever noticed her smell before?

Three things he’d discovered about Sorcha—she smelled like apple blossoms, had freckles that he’d bet covered more than that pert little nose, and she was bent on selfdestruction.

Alec muttered as he let himself out of the butcher shop and stepped into the darkened street. He startled when a voice spoke from the darkness. “What on earth were you doing in there?” Bexley asked. Of course, someone would catch him. And, with his good fortune, it would be the Duchess of Hythe’s grandson, a known reprobate and defiler of women.

Alex could already imagine the conversation they might have.
Well, Bexley, you remember that chit you saw with your sister, Miss Ferguson? Well, I want to drink her blood. But I settled for the stores the butcher had set aside. Aren’t you glad you asked?

He snorted out loud instead. Not very gentlemanly of him.

Not at all.

“Are you foxed?” Bexley asked when he got nothing from Alec.

God, he wished he was foxed. It would be so easy if he could wash his troubles away with a bottle of whisky. But he was doomed to live this life where he couldn’t imbibe spirits, couldn’t eat real food, and couldn’t partake of Sorcha Ferguson. “No, I’m not foxed,” he finally said.

“What were you doing in the butcher shop?”

Bexley wasn’t going to let this die, was he?

“I just got a little turned around,” Alec mumbled.

“You mistook the butcher shop for the tavern?” Bexley asked and then laughed so hard he bent at the middle, clutching his stomach.

“So glad you find it humorous.”

Bexley had obviously enjoyed himself more than Alec had this night.

“I’m going back to Castle Hythe. Are you coming?” Alec crossed the street toward the stables, with the earl quick on his heels.

“First Radbourne and his brothers left, and now you?”

Bexley complained. “I hope the lot of you learns patience sometime soon.” He clucked his tongue.

Reaching the stables, Alec gestured to the young lad in the yard to retrieve his horse. “Patience?” He glanced back over his shoulder to glare at Bexley. It wasn’t patience Alec lacked. In fact, he had it in abundance. He’d shown it tonight when he’d set Sorcha away from himself.

“If at first you don’t succeed, you have to try again,” the earl coaxed. “In fact, I have two lovely wenches waiting inside for us. Come and join me for a bit of fun first?” When Alec didn’t respond, a corner of Bexley’s lips lifted in a sideways grin. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the chits.” He faked a look of a shock and gasped. “Don’t tell me you’re an innocent?” He could probably hear Alec’s teeth grinding, because he suddenly sobered. “Fine,” he huffed. “If you insist, I’ll abandon my pursuit of the two barmaids and escort you back to Castle Hythe. Then I’ll get you some warm milk and read you a story to help you sleep.” He muttered something even Alec couldn’t hear, but it sounded like
damn them all.

“You needn’t give up your pursuit of the wenches, Bexley,” Alec said. Then he took a jab at the man. “Some of us don’t need to chase skirts the way you do. Women simply drop at my feet, ready for a tumble. Must be my dark eyes.”

“So, that’s how it is?” Bexley countered. “You’ve had enough for one night?”

He’d had enough of Bexley. But not nearly enough of Sorcha Ferguson. He’d most definitely had enough of this conversation.

The stable boy brought Alec’s horse into the yard and handed him the reins. Alec pressed a coin into the lad’s hand. “Many thanks.”

“Best get mine too,” Bexley grumbled, sending the boy back into the stables once more.

Alec sighed as he swung up into his saddle. He would have been happy to ride back to Castle Hythe alone, but he wouldn’t have that luxury now. He couldn’t abandon Bexley, much as he’d like to. Instead, he waited for the earl to mount his own steed, and then the pair of them started back for Castle Hythe in relative silence.

Apparently, the earl was annoyed about leaving the village earlier than he’d wanted, because he barely made a sound most of the way, uttering only an occasional grunt or grumble.

After finally reaching Hythe grounds, Alec glanced over at Bexley. The fellow hadn’t needed to leave on his account.

And if he truly had a lovely pair of wenches waiting for him in Folkestone, that would explain his surliness. “There’s a pretty little maid who works in the kitchens. I could put in a good word for you,” he offered. Just because Alec was miserable in Kent didn’t mean Bexley had to be.

But the earl just laughed. “I had
her
yesterday.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Alec returned as they both came to a stop in front of the stables.

After they had handed their horses off to a couple of grooms, they entered the castle and started toward the duke’s study. Behind them, the Hythes’ butler coughed gently to get their attention.

“Did you need something?” Bexley asked the man.

“A letter came for Mr. MacQuarrie,” the butler said as he held out a silver salver with the note on top.

Alec took the note and gazed down at the elegant scrawl he knew by heart.
Cait
. It was from Cait. The room began to spin a bit, or perhaps it was just his world turning upside down. What could she possibly want from him?

“Good night, all,” Alec grunted as he dashed up the stairs to his own quarters, determined to answer that question. He ripped into the letter, tearing apart the sealing wax with haste, so anxious to see what she had to say that he couldn’t move quickly enough.

My dear friend Alec,

I am certain you have no wish to hear from me, and that saddens me more than you know. Please be aware that I have always valued your friendship and hold you in the highest esteem. I have been worried about you these past months and was relieved when I learned you would be staying at Castle Hythe for a time. You belong among the living.