She cried out as she was swept into a maelstrom of sensations—the cool sheets beneath her, the heat of Rayven's kisses, the smoothness of his skin, the fire in his touch, the husky sound of his voice as he whispered to her in a language she did not understand. And always she had the feeling that he was holding back, that he was afraid to let go for fear of hurting her.
She called his name as the waves of ecstacy crested in an explosion of heat and color, closed her eyes as rivers of pleasure rippled through her.
She felt Rayven's teeth at her throat, felt him convulse one last time. Joy rose up within her as shudders of delight wracked his body. He sighed deeply, and she felt the tension drain out of him.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked gruffly.
"No, my lord." She forced him to look at her. "I love you, Rayven. Please don't let your fear of what might happen ruin what we have."
"Rhianna, you don't understand…" How could he tell her how it was, how closely the lust for blood was tied up with his desire, that he would never be free of the fear that plagued him, that he would ever be afraid that the hunger would overpower his self-control, that one night his control would shatter and he would drink and drink until he had destroyed her.
"I love you with all my heart and soul," she said again, more forcefully this time. "Please believe that."
He rose up on his elbows and stared down at her. Was it possible that his love for her was stronger than the hunger, that his love for Rhianna would protect her from the blood lust? Maybe she was right, he mused. One small sip of her precious blood quieted the hunger stirred by his desire.
"I'm not afraid of what you are, my lord. I believe in the power of our love, but you have to believe, too."
Her words soothed his troubled soul as nothing else could. Rolling onto his side, he cradled her in his arms and held her tight.
"I pray you are right, beloved," he murmured.
"I know I am. I love you."
"And I love you." He pulled his cloak over the two of them, then drew her into his arms once more.
It had been centuries since he had dared to pray, but now he closed his eyes and beseeched the God of his youth to protect the woman who rested so trustingly in his arms, even if it meant protecting her from himself.
Chapter Twenty
They had been in London for almost two weeks the night Rayven rented a carriage and they went for a drive through Hyde Park, down Rotten Row. It had once been known as the route du roi, Rayven informed her. The king's path. The park had once been owned by Westminster Abbey, he added, but Henry VIII had closed it off, stocked it with deer, and kept it as a royal chase. Charles I had opened it to the people in 1635.
Rhianna nodded as she gazed at the vast green expanse. Rayven had been alive during the reign of Henry VIII. He had been alive when Charles I opened Hyde Park.
"Rhianna. Rhianna?"
"Hmmm?"
"Would you like to go to supper?"
"What?"
Rayven cocked his head to one side. "You seem far away, my sweet. Is something wrong?"
"No, no, nothing's wrong."
Unable to resist, Rayven let his mind touch hers. He drew in a sharp breath as he followed the path of her thoughts, wondering if she would ever fully accept him for what he was.
"Does what I am bother you so much?" he asked quietly.
"Bother me?" She shook her head. "No, my lord. It's just so hard to comprehend. It's astonishing to realize just how long you've lived, how much you've seen."
Rayven nodded. Kings and queens had come and gone, yet he remained.
"What did you ask me before?"
"I wondered if you were hungry."
"Yes, a little."
He took her to dinner at The King's Arms. It was an elegant restaurant, the finest she had ever seen. The tables were covered with fine white linen cloths and matching napkins. Sparkling crystal glassware and gleaming silver added to the opulence of the setting. Dark red velvet drapes hung at the windows; the chairs were covered in the same rich fabric.
As she glanced around the room at the equally elegant men and women who occupied the surrounding tables, Rhianna wondered what her mother would think if she could see her now.
Sitting there, waiting to be served, she was aware of Rayven's dark-eyed gaze moving over her. Feeling self-conscious, she ran her hand over her hair, then fingered the gold locket at her throat. "Is something wrong?"
"No." He shook his head, thinking how lovely she was. The mauve gown she wore complemented the color of her hair and skin. The room was filled with fashionably dressed women, yet she put them all to shame.
"You're staring at me."
The corner of his mouth crooked up in a smile as he leaned across the table. "I fear I cannot help it. You are the most ravishing woman in the room."
A faint flush crept into her cheeks. "Thank you."
He lifted her hand, his lips brushing her fingertips, and wondered how he had survived four centuries without her. She smiled, and he no longer missed the sun. She laughed, and he forgot the loneliness that had been his constant companion. She touched him, and stilled the hunger that had tormented him for so long he could scarce remember a time when it did not. Rhianna.
He had never been more conscious of time passing than he was now. Each day brought him closer to losing her, closer to the time when he would go back to his empty life, his empty bed.
And yet, even as each day made their future separation more painful, he knew he had to let her go. It would be cruel to subject her to a life with him. Already, she was changing her ways to his. She stayed up until dawn so that she could be with him until the deathlike sleep claimed him. Once an early riser, she slept later each day, losing precious hours of daylight. He did not want to subject her to a life spent in darkness. He did not want to rob her of the beauty of the daylight world. She loved the sunshine, the flowers. There was no sun in the darkness of his world; the brilliantly hued blossoms she loved faded to gray in the light of the moon.
Rhianna ordered dinner; he ordered a glass of red wine.
She had just finished dinner when Rayven heard a familiar voice. Looking up, he saw Dallon Montroy making his way toward their table.
"Rayven," the viscount said, inclining his head.
"Montroy."
"Rhianna." Dallon took the hand she offered and brushed his lips across her knuckles.
"How are you, Dallon?" she asked, smiling up at him. As always, he was dressed to the nines, from his smartly cut redingote with its black velvet collar to his gray-and-black-striped trousers.
"Quite well, thank you. No need to ask how you are," Dallon said, his gaze moving over her appreciatively. "It seems married life agrees with you. And you," he said, glancing at Rayven. "Mind if I join you?"
"Of course not," Rhianna said.
Montroy sat down in the booth beside Rayven. "What brings the two of you to London?"
"Shopping," Rhianna said with a grin. "I fear Lord Rayven will be a pauper by the time we return home."
"No fear of that," Dallon said, chuckling softly. "I daresay he could afford to buy out half the shops in the city. Isn't that right, my lord?"
Rayven grunted softly. "Perhaps."
"What brings you to London?" Rhianna asked.
"Business," Montroy replied with a grimace. "Fortunately, it will be concluded quickly. I'm planning to go to the theater later. If you're not busy, you're welcome to join me in my box."
Rhianna looked inquiringly at Rayven.
"Whatever you wish, my sweet," he replied coolly.
"I think not," Rhianna said, "but thank you for the invitation."
Dallon nodded, all too aware of Rayven's jealousy. He was about to take his leave when the strains of a waltz filled the room. Feeling suddenly reckless, and a little curious to see if he could prick Rayven's eternally cool demeanor, he said, "With your permission, Rayven, I should like to dance with Rhianna."
A muscle ticked in Rayven's jaw as he fought to keep hol
d of his temper. "Perhaps you should ask her."
Rhianna looked at her husband. Tension hummed between the two men like a wire drawn taut. "My lord?"
"It's up to you, my sweet," Rayven said.
"I should like very much to dance, if you don't mind."
With a curt nod, Rayven gave his consent. He did not want her dancing with anyone else, especially Montroy, but he couldn't dance with her himself, not here, where the small dance floor was lined with gilt-edged mirrors from floor to ceiling.
Montroy rose smoothly to his feet and offered Rhianna his arm. With a half-smile at Rayven, she stood up and placed her hand on Dallon's arm.
Hands clenched into tight fists, Rayven watched them wend their way toward the dance floor. Jealousy made a hard, ugly knot in his belly as he watched Montroy twirl Rhianna around the floor. Rhianna's skirts swirled around her ankles; the lamplight streaked her hair with gold. How well they looked together, two mortals in the prime of life, their skin glowing with good health, young hearts beating fast as they whirled around the room. He didn't miss the admiration in the viscount's eyes, or the way the man smiled at Rhianna.
He's in love with her, Rayven thought. The knowledge filled him with the urge to kill, to rip out Montroy's heart and grind it into the dust.
He took a deep breath, his hands clenching and unclenching, as he watched them walk back to the table. Rhianna's cheeks were rosy, her eyes shining, as she took her seat across from him.
Schooling his features into an impassive mask, Rayven lifted his wineglass and drained it in a single swallow.
"Thank you, Dallon," Rhianna said.
She smiled at Montroy, and Rayven was consumed with the urge to strike out at the other man, to grab Rhianna by the arm and shout to the world that she belonged to him.
"I should be going," Dallon said. He kissed Rhianna's hand, then sketched a bow in Rayven's direction. "Good evening, my lord."
"Montroy."
Dallon felt himself go suddenly cold, as if ice had formed on his spine, as his gaze met Rayven's. For a moment, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could scarcely think.
Then Rayven looked away, and the world was set to rights again.
Dallon shook his head, wondering if he had imagined the coldness, the unspoken warning he had read in Rayven's devil-black eyes.
"Good night," he said again. Turning on his heel, he stifled the urge to bolt from the room.
"Did you enjoy your dance?" Rayven asked.
"Yes, very much," Rhianna replied, "though I would rather have danced with you."
"Another time," he said. "Are you ready to go?"
Rhianna nodded, perplexed by his clipped tone, his curt manner. Surely he could not be angry with her because she had danced one dance with Ballon.
Bevins was waiting outside with the carriage. He took one look at Rayven's face and quickly opened the carriage door. He felt a rush of compassion for Rhianna as he handed her into the coach, nodded at Rayven, then closed the door behind them.
They rode in silence back to the hotel. Rhianna stared out the window of the carriage, wondering what she had done to make her husband so angry with her.
"He's in love with you."
"What? Who?"
"Montroy."
"That's absurd. He doesn't know anything about me."
"Love isn't based on knowledge," Rayven replied quietly. "If it was, you would not be sitting here with me."
Rhianna turned to face him. Even in the dim light, he could read her expression clearly. Her eyes were filled with confusion and compassion. How foolish she was, to think she knew him because he had told her a little of his life, because they had made love. He had done things of which he was ashamed, things for which his soul would be forever damned.
His gaze moved over her, his heart aching at the vast gulf that yawned between them. She had no concept of evil. If she did, she would have run screaming from his presence before she ever let him touch her that first time. She was the epitome of innocence, of goodness.
Filled with self-revulsion, he curled his hands into tight fists. He should never have denied her with his touch, never should have interfered in her life.
Rhianna reached for his hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry, my lord husband."
Rayven frowned. "For what?"
"For whatever I've done to upset you so."
"You've done nothing amiss, Rhianna."
"What's wrong then? Won't you tell me?"
He gazed deep into her eyes, felt the love he saw reflected in their clear blue depths soothe his anger, his doubts. She was his. For one year. And already more than three months had gone by. Never before had time passed so quickly.
"Tell me," he urged softly. "Tell me that you love me."
She moved closer to him, her arms wrapping around his waist as she gazed up at him. "I love you," she said fervently. "Never doubt it, my lord. I love you more than I ever thought possible."
With a wordless cry, he crushed her to his chest, his mouth closing over hers in a fierce passionate kiss that left her lips bruised. His tongue plundered the depths of her mouth, his hands stroked her hair, caressed her thighs, lingered over the sweetly rounded curve of her breast.
"Mine," he whispered hoarsely. "Tell me that you're mine."
"You know I am," she replied, hardly able to speak for the rapid beating of her heart. "Rayven, please, tell me what's troubling you."
"Not now." He bent her backward on the seat, his hands delving under her skirts, lifting her petticoats, parting her drawers.
"My lord… Rayven…" She gasped as his fingertips slid over the sensitive flesh along her inner thigh. "The hotel… We'll be there soon."
"Don't make me wait, Rhianna. I need you. Now." He drew back, his dark eyes seeking hers, waiting for her to refuse him.
In answer, she drew his head toward hers and kissed him. She didn't know what demons were driving him; she only knew she could not refuse him.
He fumbled with his trousers, and then he was on top of her, his weight resting on his elbows as he plunged deep within her. His breath fanned her face, his tongue swept into her mouth, branding her as his.
It was quick and fierce. She cried out once and then clutched his shoulders as pleasure washed over her. His hands and lips were like lightning, burning hot wherever they touched, until the storm he had unleased within her culminated in a crash of thunder that left her breathless.
He rode the storm with her, his lips worshiping her, his voice filled with adoration as he whispered his love. She felt the sharp prick of his teeth at her neck, the sudden sensual sweetness that exploded within her as he shuddered convulsively, then lay still, his breathing harsh and uneven against the curve of her throat.
Feeling replete, her heart swelling with tenderness, she stroked his hair. It was soft and silky. She felt him tremble as her hands caressed his nape, heard him mutter something unintelligible under his breath as he sat up.
He fastened his trousers, then rearranged her undergarments, quickly and efficiently, as if he did such a thing every day.
"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive."
"I took you like a rutting stag."
Sitting up, she smoothed her skirts. "I'm sorry you did not find it pleasurable, my lord husband."
He stared at her. "And you did?"
Rhianna nodded. She glanced out the window, surprised to find they were on a country road. "Where are we?"
"Outside the city."
"But…" She felt a rush of color wash into her cheeks. "How did Bevins know…"
"I spoke to his mind, my sweet, and told him we wished to take the long way home."
"Oh." Her cheeks burned hotter with the knowledge that Bevins knew what they had done.
A smile played over Rayven's lips as he rapped on the roof of the carriage. Moments later, the coach swung around, heading back to London.
Rayven put his arm around Rhianna's shoulders, and she snuggled a
gainst him, warm and trusting as a child. Moments later, she was asleep.
When they reached the hotel, he carried her to their suite. She murmured something unintelligible but didn't waken as he undressed her and put her to bed.
For a moment, he stood watching her sleep, noting the thickness of her lashes, the soft sensuality of her mouth, the golden halo of her hair.
He undressed, intending to join her in bed; then, reluctant to retire when it was so close to dawn, he went to the window and stared into the night. Once, the darkness had been his only companion. He had welcomed it, knowing it hid his ugliness from the world. And then Rhianna had come into his life, chasing away the darkness, the loneliness, making him wish for a way of life that was forever lost to him, stolen from him centuries ago.
Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead against the cool glass and imagined what it would be like if he were a mortal man again. In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking hand-in-hand in the sunlight with Rhianna, saw her nursing a fair-haired infant, saw himself surrounded by children.
A fierce ache tore at his heart as he turned away from the window and slammed his hand against a table. The wood shattered beneath the force of the blow. A splinter an inch thick pierced his palm.
"Rayven!" Rhianna sat up in bed, the covers clutched to her breast as she peered into the darkness. "Rayven!"
"I'm here," he replied. "Go back to sleep."
"What was that noise?"
"Nothing."
She lit the lamp, then slid out of bed and hurried to his side. She frowned at the taut line of his jaw, then gasped when she saw the sliver of wood embedded in his flesh.
"What happened?" She stared up at him, waiting for an explanation.
He shook his head, not wanting to explain, not certain he could explain.
"Here, let me help you," she said, reaching for his hand.
"No!" Muttering an oath, he jerked the splinter from his flesh. Dark red blood flowed freely from the wound to pool in his palm.
Cursed blood. Unholy blood.
Not knowing what possessed him to do such a thing, he cupped his hand and drank the blood from his palm, feeling a perverse pleasure at the look of horror that spread across her face.
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