The Vampire Dimitri (17 page)

Her eyes went immediately to the simple lace edging of her bodice…and the thin red scratch peeking up from behind it. Such a tiny wound; no worse than if she'd scraped herself with the edge of her fingernail. The bleeding had stopped last night and it was hardly noticeable, except when one was looking for it.

Maia bit her lip again and tried to pull up the neckline to further hide it. It wasn't so much that it was ugly, but what it represented.

Ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, she looked away and took in the rest of her image.

Her brown hair was smooth, pulled back in a simple twist for morning. Neat, if unexceptional. The hollows under her hazel eyes were darker than usual. Her cheeks were still pink from the mortifying thoughts of moments ago. And her mouth, with its fuller upper lip. She tried to press it flatter, so that both lips seemed to match…but she couldn't keep the top one from appearing swollen and off balance. Messy.

With a snort of disgust—for usually it was Angelica who spent time fawning in front of the mirror—Maia stalked out of the chamber. She was neat and well-groomed this morning, if a little plain in her simple coiffure and muslin day-dress. She didn't look any different than she did any other day—which was to say, well. Rather pretty, in fact.

But it didn't matter one whit how she looked. She simply didn't want to appear that she was overset by what had happened last night…or, alternatively, that she was trying to—what was the word?—
appeal
to him.

Of course not.

Corvindale was no more than an arrogant, rude, stormy earl who thought he controlled everyone. Glowering at her from across the seat in the carriage, he'd looked at her as if it were her fault that they were in there together. But then…he'd moved.

Maia's throat went dry as she remembered him, looming over her, gathering her up and crushing her to him. His hands, his mouth, the strength of his body against hers. Her knees felt weak, and she actually had to grip the railing of the staircase.

It was his enthralling of me. His hypnotism.

He made me want to touch him.

Maia couldn't banish the stark image of his head bent over
her bared bodice, the dark splay of his fingers against the pale color of her gown and lighter skin. And with it, even now, came the jolts of hot pleasure, panging in her belly and lower. Definitely lower.

Biting her lip, Maia shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind and to dislodge the memories. She felt no guilt.

Why should she?

She remembered when he looked at her so intently, catching her eyes and holding her gaze. He'd lured her in, just like Galtier the
vampir
had done to countless women in Granny Grapes's stories. Although…Maia frowned. In the stories, the women never realized what had happened to them. They didn't remember.

Then another thought struck her. Had he done it previously, at the masquerade ball? Was that why she'd been so bold?

The last vestige of guilt that might have lingered fled, leaving her much relieved. Certainly one little kiss after a few champagne drinks when her fiancé had been gone for eighteen months wasn't the worst sin in the world, but Maia had had no little pang of remorse for it.

Especially since she hadn't been able to completely forget it. But now it had all become clear to her. She wasn't complicit in anything. It hadn't really been her fault.

Lifting her head high, she squared her shoulders and continued down the stairs to the foyer. The butler, Crewston, was still waiting patiently and she handed him the note for Alexander.

“Where is the earl?” she asked.

“In his study, of course, miss,” he replied.

Relief flooded her. At least he wasn't in his bedchamber. Her face heated again at the thought…which was now accompanied by a tactile memory from when her hands had
settled against his linen-covered chest last night…and she shoved the accompanying images away.

Thus, her knock on the door to his study was bold and loud. If she had a squiggle of nervousness, Maia quickly squashed it and drew in a deep breath.

When he bade her enter, in the same annoyed voice as he always had, she opened the door with confidence and strode inside. Immediately she smelled the age and must of old paper and worn leather, and a hint of pine mingling with woodsmoke and cedar. Masculine smells that reminded her of her father's library…and yet, not precisely.

As always, the curtains were drawn nearly completely together over each of the three windows that studded the exterior wall. And as before, she felt compelled to walk to the other end of the long chamber to open them. But this time she resisted the urge, understanding now why he blocked the sun. Nevertheless, the room was well-lit with lamps and candles so that it was as bright as day. And there was the barest crack of sunlight triangling through one set of drapes at the far end.

Books lined the walls, many of the shelves appearing to be two and three rows deep. Piles of other tomes, messy and awkward, littered the floor, his desk, the table, even the cupboard where he kept whiskey and brandy. Papers joined them, scrolls, sheafs of parchment bound together, along with pens and ink. Maia had noticed on previous occasions that the majority of the works he studied weren't written in English, but in a variety of languages—from Greek to Latin to Aramaic to others she didn't recognize.

He was writing when she came in, and even from her stance, she could see the splotches of ink on the paper. His penmanship was dark and bold, and rushed. He wrote with his left hand, and when he lifted it to dip the pen to refill its
ink, she caught a glimpse of the smudge along the side of his palm. One of the perils of being left-handed, which was why she used blotting paper.

She doubted he would take kindly to the suggestion.

“What—” He looked up from beneath ferocious black brows. “Miss Woodmore.” He sounded exceedingly displeased.

She tried not to look at him, but it was difficult not to notice the strong, bare forearms resting on the desk. The color of well-tanned leather, they were covered with dark hair and surprisingly muscular. His wrists were solid and his square hands capable and ink-stained, dusted with more hair on the backs of them. His coat was nowhere to be seen; nor was a waistcoat or neckcloth. Although, perhaps that rumpled pile in the corner chair was the coat. The white shirt he wore fit over broad shoulders and the string that tied it at the neck was loose, and it sagged, showing the hollow of his throat. And—Maia's knees went weak again—a little bit of dark hair springing up from beneath.

“I have something I believe you should see,” she said, ignoring the squirming in her gut and the flush rising once again in her cheeks. Stepping closer, she offered him the letter from Dewhurst.

Corvindale hesitated, then, muttering something under his breath, fairly snatched the missive from her hand. He barely glanced at her, and Maia found that no small relief. He seemed even more ill-tempered than usual.

Unable to stand still while he read the note, she walked to the far window and pulled the curtains open. Wide. With a good, hard, sweep of the heavy fabric.

Corvindale flinched, but she wasn't certain if it was from the letter or from her bold disregard for his preferences.

It occurred to her, then, that she should be furious with
the man for luring her into such improper situations. Why wasn't she?

Why, instead of being angry, or feeling violated—which she
should
feel—was she merely overwhelmed by the sensations…the eroticism…of the interludes? Recalling them with the same sort of wonder as she did those hot, red dreams?

Why—

“Where did you get this?” he said, breaking the silence.

Maia turned. “It doesn't matter. It's obviously to Angelica from Lord Dewhurst. She hadn't read it.”

He glanced down at the letter, his lips twisting, then back up at her. “So you count lifting seals as another of your talents, Miss Woodmore?”

“Another of my talents?”

The lips she'd kissed last night flattened into a mere line. “There are too many to enumerate, but I would count your aptitude for arguing excessively about the most minor of details and your uncanny sense for disrupting the most pleasant of days as two of your most well-honed abilities.”

Maia lifted her chin and walked over to the middle window, which sat at the halfway point of the chamber. Casting him an arch glance, she grasped each curtain panel, one of which overlapped the other, and yanked them apart with a flourish. A blast of sunlight cascaded into the room, bringing a soft, yellow glow to the piles of books and papers…and just brushing the edge of his desk. Still, the part of the room where his desk and the doorway were located was still swathed in shadow.

“Do go on, my lord,” she said. “You flatter me so.”

His scowl grew darker. “Miss Woodmore, you are impossible.”

“More flattery, Lord Corvindale? Incidentally,” she continued, “the most important part of lifting a seal is not the
lifting itself, but how one replaces it. It's important to ensure that the edges of the wax line up perfectly to its original outline.”

“Thank you, Miss Woodmore. I shall sleep much better this afternoon, knowing that trick.” Was it her imagination, or did his lips move slightly up at the corners?

No. Absurd.

“I suppose you will expect Mrs. Hunburgh to prepare something special for your tea with Mr. Bradington today,” Corvindale said, looking back down at his curling paper as he dipped his pen into the inkwell.

Maia opened her mouth to ask the obvious, then closed it. Of course Corvindale would know everything that occurred in his house. “No, indeed,” she replied. “I'm certain that Alexander and I won't confine our visit to the parlor. A walk in the garden would be most lovely, don't you agree, my lord?”

“It would certainly be my preference.” He looked back down at his work, and Maia was struck by how heartfelt his response was. She felt momentarily ashamed for her sly comment. But then he continued, thus absolving her from any guilt. “That way I won't be obligated to listen to your giggles and his waxing poetic over your beauty, and whatever other inane conversation you must be compelled to have.”

Maia gritted her teeth but didn't reply. She supposed she had rather asked for it, at least this time. She considered whether she wanted to raise his ire further by opening the last set of curtains, and, unaccountably annoyed by the businesslike scratch of his pen over paper, she was nearly ready to do so when he looked up.

“Still here, Miss Woodmore?”

It was, she realized later, the studiously blank, emotionless expression on his face that did it. There was not a hint of
shame, nor sympathy, nor consideration therein. Only boredom showed there, and barely that at all. The man was less emotional than a brick walkway.

And that was what set her off.

“Yes, Lord Corvindale, I am still here, although heaven knows why I remain in the presence of such a vile beast of a man. You took advantage of me—of our situation last night—and I demand an apology. You might be a vampire, but that doesn't give you the freedom to enthrall women to—to get them to…” Here she couldn't help but trail off, because the last thing Maia wanted to do was to put into words what had actually happened. And if she did that, she'd be forced to recall all of the details.

Which wasn't a prudent thing.

“I might have been ruined, Lord Corvindale,” she finished.

His brows drove together and his mouth became a hard line. “Miss Woodmore, you overstep. I've allowed you to flaunt your regard for my hospitality and my wishes by leaving your vases of flowers in every corner of my house—including this room—and the curtains wide in the parlors, your gloves and wraps and shoes on tables, and listening to you and your sister and my sister giggling at all hours of the day. I've even disregarded your invasion of my private chambers and this study. But you will receive no apology from me for the events of early this morning.”

“My brother has always spoken so well of you, my lord,” Maia said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “He made me believe you were a man of honor and that was why he entrusted us to you. And I've been willing to overlook your rudeness and arrogance, and, now, even the fact that you are a vampire. But your violation of my trust last night is in no way acceptable.”

His laugh was short and sharp and bitter. “On the contrary, Miss Woodmore. It is with deep regret that I inform you that, despite my endeavors to remove your knowledge of my Draculian afflication from your mind, all effort on my part to do so failed. In short, Miss Woodmore, you appear to somehow have become immune to Draculian thrall.”

“What—” Maia froze, staring at him. “That's nonsense.”

He lifted a brow. “In fact, I wish it were, Miss Woodmore. Indeed, despite three attempts last evening, as I have done hundreds of times to others in the past, I could not hypnotize you. You were never enthralled. Which means that you were fully aware of and participatory in everything that occurred in the carriage.”

N
arcise heard a noise.

Her first reaction was relief: Had Chas forgotten something and returned?

He'd only been gone a few hours—perhaps he'd been in London, still putting things in order and making preparations, and had come back. Or realized that he didn't need to go after all. Perhaps they'd already rescued Angelica.

But that was a brief, initial reaction that soon fled.

She listened intently, the hair prickling at the base of her neck. Likely it had been a mouse or squirrel, knocking a little bit of rubble across the concrete floor. Or maybe it was the guard that Chas had arranged, or even Dimitri bringing her—

The slight scuff of a foot, so faint a mortal would never hear it, had Narcise slipping off the bed and reaching for her sabre. That was one good thing Cezar had done: taught her to fight with a blade. He'd allowed her to learn, likely as much for his own entertainment purposes—watching her duel with men who wanted to fuck her—as to give her a
false sense of hope that it might be a useful skill in gaining her freedom someday.

In the end, it hadn't. It had been Chas who'd freed her, not her own abilities—a fact which made her alternately furious and grateful.

Slipping the sword from its leather sheath, she turned on light feet and moved into the shadows.

The slender but lethal blade comforting in her hand, Narcise stood in a corner behind the doorway and wondered if she would be better served waiting for whoever it was to come in, or if she should rush through the door and meet them on her own terms. But she didn't have the chance to make such a decision.

Just as the door opened, she scented him and whipped out from behind it.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, shoving the point of her blade up against Giordan's chest. Just below the hollow of his throat.

“I have no bloody idea,” he replied. Eyes flashing, he grabbed the blade with his bare hand, yanking it away from his skin. It sliced along the inside of his palm and fingers, and immediately, his bloodscent permeated the air.

Narcise stepped back, allowing the sword to fall away, her heart pounding. Rich and warm and familiar, the essence of him filled her nose. Despite the loathing that settled like a stone in her belly, she couldn't dismiss her body's instant reaction: the blood in her own veins surged, her gums swelled, threatening to eject her incisors, and her mouth watered. Awareness prickled her. She swallowed hard.

“You did that purposely,” Narcise snapped, backing away.

Giordan's expression was no less hostile. “As did you, my dear.”

She used a cloth to wipe his blood from her blade and
shoved it back into its sheath. “I ask yet again—what are you doing here?” Then she shook her head. “Forget that. Just leave.”

“Nothing would please me more,” he replied. His eyes raked over her, making Narcise feel, for the first time in a long time, as if she were dirty and used. “But Woodmore sent me. He indicated there was something I was to retrieve. Now that I've arrived, I can only presume he meant you.”

“Certainly not,” she replied. “I'm to stay here—perfectly safe—until his return with Angelica.”

“And if he doesn't return?” Giordan asked mildly. He'd walked over and picked up one of the blankets to wipe the cut on his hand.

“I'll go to Dimitri. He'll protect me.”

“I never thought of you as one who needs protection, Narcise. You take very good care of yourself.”

“Except when I'm locked away by my brother.”

Giordan looked at her. “Even then, you were formidable. In your own way.”

She turned away, dwelling on how much she hated him and not the waves of memory, familiarity and emotion that threatened to soften her. “I don't know why Chas sent you here, but I'm not leaving. Especially with you. Just go.”

“You don't know why he sent me here?” He gave a sharp laugh. “I certainly do. Here, where I could smell him all over you. Where I could scent both of you on the bed and against the wall and everywhere else. The entire place reeks of you two, together. That, my dear, is why he sent me here.”

Narcise turned back, all casualness. “Then why prolong the agony, Giordan? There's no reason for you to stay and stew in your jealousy.” Her heart thumped hard and her knees felt weak.

His eyes flared red and the next thing she knew, he was
there in front of her. His bloodied hand curved around her throat, bringing the scent of temptation much too close. “Jealousy? You believe that's what I feel? You're a fool, Narcise.” He shifted his fingers to cup her jaw no less gently. “If I still wanted you, a bloody damned vampire hunter wouldn't keep me away.”

His fingers were strong, and she couldn't keep from inhaling him: the fresh blood, the masculine scent of him, the heat emanating from his body.

“I think we've always known what you really wanted,” she managed to say, managed to keep the bitterness from roiling in her. Blocked the horrible images still burned into her memory. “And it wasn't me, was it, Giordan? My brother is a much bigger prize.”

“Obviously you haven't told Woodmore that. Or he wouldn't have bothered to send me here.” Giordan moved closer, his legs brushing against hers. Though he was broader, they were nearly the same height, and his eyes bored into hers.

She couldn't help it. She stepped back, twisting her face away, and his grip loosened. Her heart was in her throat now and another move closer could make her knees buckle. She wanted to shove him back but she didn't dare touch him. Instead she wiped his blood from her chin and onto her trousers. “Why do
you
think he sent me here?” Giordan insisted. Moving closer again. His fangs gleamed now, showing just a bit beneath his lips. “Why, Narcise?”

She could see the pulse pounding in his throat, the vulnerable golden skin in the V of his loosened shirt. Now his hand whipped out, curling into the front of her man's shirt. He shoved her back, into the wall.

Her sword…damn, she'd left it in its sheath. In the
corner. But she was strong, as strong as he was. He didn't frighten her.

“Just can't keep from touching me, can you, Giordan?” she taunted, though her mouth was dry. Her heart choked her, pounding hard in her chest. “Isn't that why he sent you?”

His eyes blazed, steady and yet somehow cold, and his fingers tightened around the linen of her shirt. He yanked her toward him, her body slamming into his as he released her shirt. His arms whipped around her, one at the back of her neck, pinning her thick hair in place, and the other grabbing her hip and pulling her up against his body.

He'd knocked the breath out of her, and for a moment Narcise could only look up into his eyes, ringed with the glow of red fire. Her knees trembled. Her insides swirled.

His bloodscent filled her nose, still oozing from his cut, still printed on her fingers, tempting and rich.

She hated him, hated how he'd humiliated her and used her…but her body knew his too well. Craved it still.

Giordan tightened his grip at the back of her skull to border on pain, holding her head from moving, wrapping her hair around his wrist. His face came closer, his mouth full and ready, his fangs teasing beneath his upper lip, and Narcise closed her eyes. Her own lips softened, her heart raced. She braced herself, feeling the shudder of pleasure already building inside her.

He brushed his lips over hers. So lightly, it was like a breeze. A lush, familiar breeze. She held back a sigh. Then he came back, his parted mouth fitting over hers, a little tease of his hot, sleek tongue swirling around her lips. Warmth shuttled through her in a forceful blast and she followed him, tasting, wanting more.

He released her. Shoved her away so that she bumped against the wall, her eyes flying open.

The smug satisfaction on his face had her leaping for her sword.

“Bastard,” she said, somersaulting over the bed to get to her sheath. She whipped out the blade and faced him. “Get out, Giordan. Or I will use it.”

“As I said,” he repeated, his eyes cold again, his fangs retracted, “if I wanted you, no one would keep me away. Not even you.”

Furious, she lunged, blade out and swiping lethally through the air. He jumped nimbly aside, his eyes filled with arrogant humor. She came at him again, slicing and swirling, but he avoided her much too easily, infuriating her even further.

“You're too overset, my dear. You're acting out in haste and—” he twisted and vaulted gracefully over the bed anger. You're sloppy.”

The chamber was red in her vision, colored red and hot with her fury, and Narcise drew in a deep breath as she spun around. Away from him. He was right, Luce damn him.

She had to gather her control. Breathing heavily, she paused, then turned, holding the saber at the ready.

He stood there, across the room, his breathing a bit heavier but by no means was he out of breath, the bastard. He wasn't even in a readied fighting position. His short, rich brown curls clustered over his head like that of a Greek god and she knew that the rest of him was as golden and muscular as one, as well. Blood streaked his shirt and stained his hand, where it had slowed to an ooze, and on his trousers.

Narcise met his eyes and lifted her chin. Holding his gaze, she took the point of her sword and opened the palm of her
other hand to it. She saw the flare in his eyes, the widening of his nostrils, and she waited.

“Don't be a fool,” he said, his voice taut.

She raised her brow. “What is it, Giordan? Don't trust yourself to stay in control?”

“I haven't fed. In two weeks.”

A little shiver raced over her. That was a long time. Particularly for him.

“If you cut yourself, you know exactly what will happen.”

She did indeed, and the very thought had her trembling inside. Hot and trembly and frightened. And needy. She swallowed hard. “Get out,” she said, stepping back so that he could get to the door. “I'll not say it again, Giordan.”

He cast her one last inscrutable look, then strode past her to the door. His fingers on the handle, he yanked it open and turned back. “I never figured you for a coward, Narcise.”

She slammed the door behind him, wishing for a lock.

It was a long time before she stopped trembling. And even longer until she managed to dry her tears.

 

He couldn't get her scent off his hands. It was as if he'd dipped his fingers into the inkwell of Miss Maia Woodmore, and now they were stained for good.

Dimitri closed his eyes. He had, in fact, dipped his fingers, his mouth, himself into her inkwell—so to speak. He couldn't slip any more deeply into that inky abyss where he would lose himself, lose control, lose the great walls he'd constructed. Where he'd
feel.

His disgusted snort was loud enough to pull himself out of the mental miasma.
Satan's bloody bones, the woman's got me thinking in metaphors.

He focused his attention on the scenery of London passing
by the window of his carriage. The same carriage in which the incident with Miss Woodmore had occurred early this morning, and the reason he didn't seem able to dismiss it from his mind. Aside from the fact that her very self permeated the cushions.

Braving the sun and getting out of Blackmont Hall early this afternoon—after a fitful attempt to gain a few hours' sleep—had been the lesser of two evils. He hadn't been jesting when he enthusiastically agreed with Miss Woodmore's suggestion that she and Bradington spend their time walking in the garden. But Dimitri hadn't thought any further than the benefit of getting them out of the parlor, which was too near his study for vampiric ears, and hadn't considered the fact that the garden was, in fact, just outside the windows of his study.

He simply wouldn't be able to endure listening to the slushy, sloppy romantic prattle of the reunited lovers.

And it was only partly because, to his great mortification, he had once endowed his own sloppy, romantic prattle upon the lovely, if not improper, Meg. Many, many decades ago.

When he was young and foolish and in love.

He'd been so in love, in fact, that he'd traded his soul in order to live with her forever.

Or so he'd thought.

Bitterness twisted inside him, and Dimitri settled on that unpleasant emotion. It was much better than thinking on feminine inkwells, which had the infuriating result of his belly softening and his veins swelling.

He glanced out the window of the carriage and saw that they'd turned onto Bond and were making their way along a street filled with shops and ladies patronizing them. Their maids and footmen followed along, carrying packages and
navigating around dogs, street vendors, dirty-faced urchins and well-dressed gentlemen.

When he'd climbed into his vehicle, Dimitri had no particular destination in mind. He'd simply needed to leave. And Tren, smart man that he was, knew better than to ask if he wasn't given a direction…and also better than to allow his master to sit in the drive, waiting for the journey to commence. So he'd clucked to the horses and started off.

Dimitri had considered visiting Rubey's, which was, to put it bluntly, a brothel that catered specifically to the needs of the Dracule. Its eponymously named proprietress, one in a long line of women who'd taken on the name of the original madam, was a particular friend of Giordan Cale—and Voss, as well. She was also exceedingly astute for a mortal woman, as well as attractive, sensual and maternal—all at once.

However, Dimitri had no use for one of Rubey's women. Certainly there'd been times—rare times—over the last century when he had taken his pleasure, and usually given some in return…but that was always after he'd fed, when the blood thirst wasn't on him…though there'd been the one incident when his body had gotten ahead of him. He still had the scars on his arm where he'd ended up driving his fangs, instead of into the heaving, writhing woman beneath him.