Night Novellas: Night Thief & Night Angel

by Lisa Kessler

  Before he could answer, she rushed into the darkness.

  Marguerite closed her eyes and took a deep breath, forcing her pulse to slow. When she opened her eyes again she felt focused, back in control. Ready.

  With practiced skill, she quietly lifted the worn latch on the gate and slipped inside the courtyard. Instead of approaching the well-lit main house, she hurried into the shadows along the high stone wall surrounding her master’s estate.

  Her large skirts rustled if she moved too quickly, so she kept a steady pace without rushing. When she reached the stables, she slipped inside and checked each stall and tack room to be sure she was alone.

  Hidden in the room with the saddles and bridles, she made quick work of her corset. She sighed with relief when the bindings loosened and she pulled in her first deep breath of the night. If her cousin Callia got any better at tightly lacing her corset, she would be lucky to remain conscious.

  Slipping her gown down her body, she stepped free of the garment and bundled the dress into an empty Hessian cloth bag.

  Moonlight filtered through a tiny window, bathing her in eerie blue light. Her hands rubbed at her tender ribs as Kane’s touch filled her mind. In all the time she’d watched him, nothing prepared her for the desire he inspired with a simple touch.

  He was nothing like the French nobles she encountered.

  Instead of the usual dismissal and judgment, Kane’s gaze made her feel alive and empowered.

  She also noticed he didn’t wear a tie at his collar. His rebellion against the French nobility caught her attention even before the gold of his watch. Although his hair was blond and his eyes were blue, his skin was not the powdered pale of wealthy French men. His bronzed flesh resembled the tone of the laborers and farmers, as if he welcomed the summer sun to kiss his body without the barrier of a shirt and coat.

  Enough. She would never see him again anyway.

  Once she’d stripped down to her sheath and bloomers, Marguerite opened her satchel and poured her treasures across the top of the large trunk. Tomorrow, she could sell two pieces at the marketplace. Any more than that would draw too many questions.

  She selected the silver tongs and a ruby broach, then tucked her satchel into the bag with her gown and shoved it behind the barrel of grain.

  I hunger.

  The whisper startled her and she dropped the broach.

  He was calling. She had to hurry.

  She snatched the treasure from the stable floor and tucked it into her bosom before shimmying into her gown.

  Although the dress was painfully out of fashion, her Master detested corseted gowns with large skirts. He preferred the empire-waist dresses he knew in life.

  The bay stallion beside her pawed at the door to his stall.

  “Napoleon, hush.” The horse flipped his head, but stepped back from the door.

  Marguerite checked herself in the mirror and unknotted her hair. Combing it through with her fingers, she pressed her lips together, her gaze locked on the velvet choker circling her neck.

  She wouldn’t have to do this much longer. There was almost enough money for her to escape with Callia. Very soon.

  Checking the tie at the back of her dress, she fiddled with the bow before reaching up to reassure herself that her trinkets were hidden and safe inside the bodice.

  Now she was ready. Marguerite left the stable and walked to the main house with her head held high.

  She opened the tall doors to the library and stepped inside.

  Antoine sat up from the settee wiping his mouth with his forearm. The woman beneath him sobbed. At least she still lived.

  For now.

  “Finally, ma chérie.” He stood and straightened his frock coat before following her stare to his houseguest. He smirked and gave Marguerite his attention. “You knew I hungered. This would not have been necessary if you had been here, where you belong.”

  Marguerite bit back the urge to tell him where he belonged and tipped her head instead. “Forgive me. I still need to eat.”

  “Of course you do.” He approached her and it took all her will to keep from flinching.

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  Antoine frowned. “Where were you tonight?”

  She glanced up. “I visited the Marquis on your behalf. To collect the commission, remember? He wants you to paint his—”

  “Who else was there?” He circled her as if she were on trial.

  Marguerite frowned. “The Marquis, his wife and daughters.”

  Stars flooded her vision when he struck her, sending her stumbling across the room. She could taste the blood filling her mouth where her teeth had stabbed through her lip.

  He stormed toward her, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her to her feet. “Liar! I smell him.”

  She refused to let him see her cry. Refused. She dug her nails into her palms. “It could be anyone. I passed many on the street.”

  “You harlot.” He pressed against her while his free hand slid up her hip. “Filthy whore.”

  She spat a mouthful of blood in his face. Antoine released his hold on her hair, laughing as he licked the blood from his lips. “I adore when you fight back.”

  In one swift move, he clutched her close to him, ripped the velvet choker from her neck, and sank his fangs into her flesh. Pain ripped through her, and she screamed in spite of herself, struggling to break free until her limbs became too heavy to move.

  Maybe this time she would die.

  Chapter Three

  Kane wanted to follow her when she vanished into the shadows, but sunrise was less than two hours away. He couldn’t risk it.

  This woman was a criminal, not so different from those he fed on. Yet, instead of exacting justice, he found himself curious about her motives. He clenched his fist at his own hypocrisy. He should be above this temptation. And yet…

  The lingering taste of her sweet blood from their kiss tormented him, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way she felt in his arms, the way her lips returned his kiss, passion for passion. Her spirit and desire weren’t handicapped by civilized etiquette or feigned nobility.

  Her clever mind and self-confidence were like a breath of fresh air. Her beauty, the sound of her laughter, and the way her gaze challenged him haunted his thoughts.

  He had to see her again.

  Kane removed his frock coat and walked to his den, unbuttoning the stifling shirt as he went. Once free of the restricting fabric, he could think. Although it had taken him a few weeks to track down Le Voleur D’or, tonight he had more information. She wouldn’t slip through his fingers this time.

  At his desk, he hastily penned a note for Gerard, instructing him that he would like to purchase a painting from Antoine Berjon. Have Berjon’s maidservant bring a selection for me to view this evening.

  He placed his pen into the inkwell and reclined in his chair, staring into the fire. Never in his long life had he wished for daylight, but the thought of seeing the sunshine on her golden hair…

  Kane rubbed at the scarred skin over his heart, wiping away the curious ache throbbing there. With a groan of frustration, he crossed to the window. Resting his forearm against the window frame, he stared into the darkness.

  She was out there right now. He closed his eyes, allowing the thoughts of the mortals around him to enter his mind—familiar concerns over money and threats of famine. He took a deep breath, opening his consciousness even further, searching for his golden beauty.

  His.

  The following night, the sun dipped below the horizon, and in the darkness below his home, Kane’s heart beat again. His chest pulled in a breath, and he opened his eyes with one singular thought.

  He needed to see her.

  Racing up from the depths, he entered his bedchamber.

  He pulled on his breeches and shirt as he opened his door.

  The buttons could wait.

  “Gerard, is my task complete?”

  The moment he entered the
parlor he had his answer.

  She stood at the window, turning just as he entered. Gerard came to him and immediately fumbled at the unfastened shirt buttons. Kane waved him away.

  “Thank you, Gerard. That will be all.”

  “But sir, your attire…”

  Kane pulled his gaze from Marguerite and gave his servant his full attention, grinding his teeth to keep from shoving the man. “That will be all.”

  Gerard gave him a proper nod, followed by a sigh of surrender. While he appreciated his employee’s intentions to make him appear a proper gentleman, it was wasted effort.

  Kane had no intention of conforming to French society, and no desire to be a “gentleman.”

  Once they were alone, he made his way to her, frowning.

  She looked too pale. Her heartbeat fluttered, tempting him, but it was weaker than it should have been.

  Tonight a large, gothic cross dangled from the choker adorning her tender throat, and a lace veil covered her face. Instead of the corseted gown draping her in yards of needless fabric, she wore a simple black dress that accented her pale skin.

  She quickly focused her attention on the window again.

  “The paintings you requested are on the table, Monsieur.”

  Kane frowned, gently grasping her elbow. “Are you ill, Rita?”

  “I fear I gave you the wrong idea last night.” Her blue eyes glistened when she looked at him through the dark lace.

  Carefully, Kane lifted the veil, finding a dark bruise on her cheek and her lower lip swollen. Rage burned through him. He took several deep breaths to calm himself, but the jaguar within wanted its freedom, wanted to tear apart whoever had hurt her. “Who did this?”

  She shook her head and stepped back. “It is none of your concern.”

  He could hear her heart pounding, fast but light. “You are frightened.”

  “If you wish to purchase a painting, please look them over. Otherwise, I will be on my way.” Her fingers closed into fists at her sides.

  Kane stepped in front of her, blocking her path to the door. Emotions flared on her face and she flinched.

  Her fear doused the heat of his rage and left him completely off-balance. Kane wandered over to the artwork, at a loss as to what he should say or do.

  His gaze stopped on one of the still-life paintings. The composition seemed typical at first. A vase of flowers, some seashells…

  And a decaying shark’s head.

  He turned, lifting the painting toward her. “This is… unique.”

  The lace veil covered her face again. “As I said, my master is not well. He calls that one Still Life with Flowers, Shells, a Shark’s Head, and Petrifications.”

  Kane stared at the rotting shark skull, wondering what would possess an artist well known for his tender renderings of roses to sully their pure beauty with the corpse of a predator.

  He replaced the painting. “He did this to you.”

  “I am sorry the art does not meet your needs.” She crossed in front of him without making any contact. “I will collect my things and go.”

  Kane gave her room, watching her slide the canvas back into her large velvet bag. “Forgive me if I have done something to offend you.”

  She stopped for a moment and sighed. “I never should have come here last night.” Rita met his eyes. Kane caught a flash of the rebellion through her veil, the thief evident in her gaze. “I am no damsel in distress, and I do not need to be rescued.”

  “The bruise says otherwise.”

  A faint hint of color flushed her cheeks. “I am still alive.

  Others have not been so lucky.”

  His body tensed. “And if I offer to kill him for you?”

  She surprised him with humorless laughter. “If only that were possible.”

  “Is he so well-guarded?”

  She rested the bag of canvases on his table and met his eyes. “Tell me why I needed to visit you at night, Monsieur.”

  He frowned. “This was the time available to me.”

  “Forget for a moment that I am a supposed weak-minded woman.” The rhythm of her heart increased. “Perhaps, imagine instead that I was truly Le Voleur D’or. Would I not look into the lifestyle of a wealthy man in my city? In fact, if I were Le Voleur D’or, I might even offer jewels to some of his staff in return for information.”

  Kane’s heartbeat raced. What exactly had this clever thief discovered about him? None of his staff knew his hidden nature, although some of them might suspect him to be a demon. After all, he’d never been seen during the day.

  He cleared his throat. “Why would Le Voleur D’or care about my lifestyle?”

  “Is she not also a person? Perhaps she is forced to steal…” She paused and shook her head slowly. “This is not about a petty thief, Monsieur. This is about why you called me here at night.”

  “Have you forgotten my name?”

  She surprised him by taking a step closer. “I only call those I trust by name.”

  “What exactly have I done to betray your trust?” He raised a brow at her innuendo.

  She sighed and shook her head, reaching for her velvet bag. “You are a charming waste of my time.” She walked around him. “Au revoir.”

  “Rita, wait.” She stopped, but didn’t turn to face him. “I want to help you.”

  Marguerite froze in the doorway and closed her eyes. After receiving Gerard’s request for her presence that morning, she had made inquiries.

  And they had confirmed her worst suspicions.

  Kane Bordeaux was hiding something, possibly something horrific. She had suspected as much after touching his cool hand, cutting her tongue on his tooth during an impassioned kiss, and seeing her master’s violent reaction to catching his scent on her skin. She feared her suspicions were true. After discovering not a single member of his staff had ever seen him in the sunlight, her fears became real.

  Slowly, she turned. Why did he have to look so heavenly in the moonlight? His unkempt blond mane framed his tanned, chiseled face, and her eyes couldn’t help but feast on his bare chest. Rarely did a French gentleman ever show his flesh so brazenly, but Kane bore no shame in his body.

  He looked as if he’d just lain with a woman, and in spite of Marguerite’s fear, she flushed with heat at the thought.

  Her gaze stopped at a large scar on the left side of his chest just over his heart. Had someone tried to end his existence just as she wished to end her Master’s?

  He took one step closer, jarring her from her thoughts.

  “I can help you.”

  “I do not believe you can.” She moved to the door, hoping her stern expression masked the fact that her heart now resided in her throat. “You cannot even trust me with the truth.”

  Something flashed in his blue eyes, but instead of attacking her, his mouth curved into an inviting smile. “You intrigue me, Le Voleur D’or. Give me this night to prove myself to you. I give you my word, if I do not, I will never contact you again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I never confessed to being Le Voleur D’or.”

  “Not in so many words.” Kane offered her his hand.

  “There is something I would like to show you.”

  Surely, if he intended to kill her, he would have done so already. She had given him ample opportunity. Against her better judgment, she left her things in his study and followed Kane to his stable.

  Six grey Arabians greeted them, nickering and pawing at their doors.

  “My friends, this is Marguerite Rousseau.” He approached the black Friesian stallion flipping his head at the end of the barn aisle. Kane smoothed the beast’s forelock and ran his hand down the sleek curve of its neck.

  “This is Kukulkan.”

  Marguerite approached the massive horse, smiling when his upper lip rubbed at her outstretched hand. “You have an interesting name.”

  “He is named after a Mayan god.”

  “Mayan?” She ran her hand down the stallion’s neck.

  �
��Yes. Do you know of their race?”

  He stood so close behind her that a single step back would press her against his still bare chest. Marguerite resisted the temptation, keeping her focus on the majestic animal in front of her.

  “They were natives in the New World, no?”

  “My people.”

  Marguerite turned and found herself so close to him that her heart fluttered and her skin tingled with heat. “But they have been gone…”

  His cool fingers brushed her cheek, and she lost her train of thought. He lifted her veil and his gaze fell to the cut on her lip, his thumb barely touching her mouth.

  He met her eyes. “They are not gone.”

  Kane bent to kiss her lips with enough tenderness to make her heart melt. No man had ever kissed her with such care. Her lips tingled with his affections, and gradually he coaxed her mouth open so he could taste her. She moaned and allowed her hands to explore his bare, chiseled torso.

  When Kane broke the kiss, her knees felt weak. He reached up to run his thumb along her lower lip, and she realized there was no pain. No swelling.

  Marguerite gasped, bringing her hand to her healed mouth. Her eyes met his, but before she could inquire, Kane kissed her forehead.

  “Do you ride?”

  Derailed by his question, she stepped back, glancing down at her inappropriate riding attire. “I did not come prepared.”

  “Does that mean you do ride?”

  “Yes.” Marguerite raised her chin slightly, trying not to smile. “My father taught me. I am a fine equestrian.”

  The mention of her father tugged at her heart. He’d taught her to ride before her mother died. Before wine and ale became his mistress.

  “Your father owned horses?” He entered a darkened room beside the stalls.

  Her back stiffened, ready to defend her family’s poor station. “My father managed a stable for a Marquis.”

  But Kane returned without a trace of judgment in his eyes. She’d never met such a baffling, wealthy Frenchman in her life.

  “We did not have horses in my homeland. I had never ridden until I arrived in France.” He handed her a pair of breeches. “You can wear these.”