Midnight Pleasures

by Amanda Ashley

  Rhianna took a step back, her gaze searching his. He was trying to shock her, to frighten her. Why?

  Turning away, she went to the commode and soaked a cloth in water, then carried it back to him. Wordlessly, she took his injured hand in hers and pressed the cold cloth to his palm, holding it in place between her hands.

  "Won't you tell me what happened?" she asked quietly.

  He felt his gaze drawn to hers, felt the anger drain out of him, vanquished by the love shining in her eyes.

  "I was wishing," he said gruffly, "wishing for things that can never be." He lifted his other hand to her cheek, his knuckles running back and forth over her soft flesh. "Wishing that I could spend my days at your side, that I could give you…" He took a deep breath. "Wishing I could give you a son."

  "Oh, Rayven," she murmured, "It's what I wish for, too."

  Slowly, he shook his head. "It will never happen, Rhianna. I cannot father a child."

  "Why not?" she asked, perplexed. "You're able to…" A faint flush tinged her cheeks. "You know."

  "You still don't understand, do you, my sweet?"

  He shook his head. "The dead cannot create life."

  She looked up at him, saddened by the bitter sorrow in the depths of his eyes. Certain no words could comfort him, she led him back to bed, drew him into her arms, and held him close until the dawn took him away.

  She didn't go out at all that day. Shopping held no appeal, nor did the thought of mingling with other people. She had always taken her life for granted, assumed she would marry and have children, watch her children grow up and have children of their own. She would watch the seasons change, count the passing years, until her life ended.

  What was it like for Rayven, to remain forever the same while all around him the world changed, people changed? What would he do when Bevins was gone? Who would look after him? Who would guard his lair while he slept his deathlike sleep? He had said he would soon have to leave the valley, that he had already stayed too long. What was it like for him, to watch others grow old and die, to know he dared not stay too long in any one place lest people notice he never changed, that the passing years had no claim on him?

  She knew without doubt that the people in the valley would destroy Rayven if they knew what he was. Vampyre. Undead. He was supposed to be a monster, yet he had treated her with naught but kindness. At her urging, he had provided a shelter for the poor and the homeless, insisting she tell no one what he had done. He could have preyed upon the villagers without mercy, taking what he needed to survive, yet he existed on the blood of sheep mixed with wine, taking human blood only when necessary, and then only in small amounts.

  She should have been afraid of him, appalled at what he was, yet she felt only pity and compassion, and an overwhelming feeling of love that defied logic or reason. She loved him and she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

  She spent the day in their room, watching him sleep, thinking how beautiful he was until, needing to touch him, she stretched out beside him on the bed, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

  Rayven woke at dusk to find Rhianna asleep in his arms. It still surprised him to wake and find her there, especially after what had happened the night before. For centuries, there had been no one beside him when he aroused from his deathlike sleep. No one in his bed. No one of importance in his life save Bevins. And then he had purchased a dirty-faced girl from her father, and his whole world had changed. He had brought other girls to the castle. None stood out in his mind. They had become a faceless blur in his memory. They had stirred nothing within him—not affection, and certainly not love. They had made no changes in his life, held no interest for him other than the sustenance they had unknowingly provided.

  Rhianna. She had not been the first girl he had brought to his castle, but he knew she would be the last.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Rhianna walked slowly down the street, lost in thought.

  In the past three weeks, Bevins had taken her on several sightseeing tours. They had gone to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. Rhianna had been surprised to learn that the museum had been founded in 1776. She had been fascinated by the lifelike wax figures of the famous and the infamous, repulsed by the Chamber of Horrors that depicted gruesome scenes from the Battle of Trafalgar.

  Bevins had taken her to see St. Paul's Cathedral, which was over a hundred years old. The dome had been breathtaking, the nave a thing of exquisite beauty.

  She had stared in wonder at Westminster Abbey. It was there, in that magnificent edifice, that all the kings and queens of England had been crowned.

  They had gone to see the Tower of London, where two of Henry VIII's wives had been executed, as well as Sir Thomas More and William Penn. Rhianna had shivered as she imagined being imprisoned in the Tower of London to await her execution. She had imagined the fear of kneeling on the gallows, of waiting for the ax to fall.

  They had walked through the Traitor's Gate, seen the Bloody Tower and the Wakefield Tower.

  They had toured Trafalgar Square, watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and all the while she had wished it was Rayven walking beside her, showing her the sights.

  London was an amazing city, so different from the quiet village where she had spent most of her life. So filled with activity and noise—the incessant sound of wheels and horses' hooves making their way over the pavement, the bell of the muffin man, the cries of street peddlars who sold everything from eggs to knives, dolls, rat poison and books. Street urchins were everywhere, carrying packages, holding horses for finely clad gentlemen, fetching cabs, or doing cartwheels in the street in hopes of earning a ha'penny.

  Now she paused to peer into one of the shop windows. It seemed strange to be out on her own, without Bevins hovering in the background. He had gone off on an errand of some kind, and she had grabbed at the chance to go out alone. No doubt Bevins would be angry with her when she got back to the hotel, but she hadn't gone far and wouldn't be gone long.

  She tilted her head to one side, admiring one of the bonnets displayed in the window of the millinery shop. It was a darling little thing, a confection of natural straw, colorful flowers, and lavender ribbons. She didn't need another hat; she had bought several in the last few weeks. But she wanted this one, and there was no reason why she shouldn't have it. Rayven had given her carte blanche to buy whatever she wished.

  She was about to enter the shop when she saw Dallon Montroy striding down the street toward her. Women on both sides of the street paused to look at him as he passed by, and she couldn't blame them. Old or young, they turned to watch him as he walked toward her. He cut quite a dashing figure in his hunter-green coat, mustard waistcoat, and buff-colored breeches. The sun gilded his hair, making him look very much like the prince Bridgitte had once thought him to be.

  "Rhianna!" he exclaimed, catching both her hands in his. "How nice to see you. And how very pretty you look." He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. "That's a most fetching gown."

  She flushed with pleasure as his gaze moved over her in a boldly admiring glance. "Thank you, Dallon. It's good to see you, too."

  He nodded toward the shop window. "See something you like?"

  Rhianna nodded. "That one," she said, pointing. "The straw one with the ribbons and flowers. It's darling."

  "Then you should have it." He smiled at her as he offered her his arm.

  "I really don't need another bonnet," she said, but she didn't argue as he led her into the shop.

  Dallon plucked the bonnet from the window, then stood to one side, his arms crossed over his chest, while she tried it on.

  The shopkeeper, a rather buxom woman with curly gray hair, beamed at the prospect of a sale as Rhianna admired herself in the mirror.

  "It's perfect, madam. Imported from France." The shopkeeper slid a glance at Dallon, and Rhianna knew the woman thought he was her husband. "It suits the lady well, don't you think so, my lord?"

  "Indeed," Dallon said. "We'll take i
t."

  Rhianna met his gaze in the mirror, and shook her head. "No, Dallon."

  "I want to," he said, and ignoring her protests, he paid for the hat, insisting she wear it.

  Feeling lighthearted, Rhianna tied the ribbons under her chin.

  "Come," Dallon said, taking her by the arm, "let's go have tea so everyone can see how pretty you look in your new chapeau."

  Rhianna shook her head. "I'd like to, really, but I can't."

  "Of course you can."

  "I need to get back." She glanced at the setting sun. Rayven would be waking soon. He would expect her to be there. "Rayven will be…"

  "Rayven will be what?"

  "Waiting for me."

  "Let him wait, Rhianna. A little jealousy is good for a man."

  "Is it?" she asked dubiously.

  "One cup of tea," he urged. "What can it hurt?"

  "I can't, Dallon. Please, I must go."

  "What's he done to you, Rhianna?" Montroy asked, his voice sharp with concern. "You're his wife, not his slave. You're entitled to a life of your own, friends of your own."

  "You don't understand…"

  "I had hoped to be more than your friend, Rhianna," Dallon said quietly. "But that's not possible now."

  "Dallon, you mustn't say these things to me. It isn't proper."

  "I know, and I'm sorry. But I can't help the way I feel." He took her hand in his, his thumb sliding back and forth across her knuckles. "Please don't deny me the pleasure of a few minutes of your company."

  She knew she should refuse, knew Rayven would be angry if he found out, but she couldn't ignore the gentle pleading in Montroy's eyes, or rebuff his offer of friendship.

  'Very well," she said. "But I must be back at the hotel before dark."

  "You will be. I promise," Dallon said.

  They spent a pleasant hour talking about trivial things. She told Dallon about her tour of the city; he told her about the new carriage he had purchased, together with a pair of high-stepping matched grays to pull it.

  Feeling relaxed and at ease in his presence, Rhianna forgot about the time until she realized the sun had set.

  "Ill be late!" she exclaimed.

  "I'll walk you back to the hotel."

  "No! Good-bye, Dallon. Thank you for the hat, and the tea." Jumping to her feet, she grabbed her reticule and ran out of the cafe.

  Her heart was pounding, her brow sheened with perspiration, when she reached the hotel. Forcing herself to take a deep calming breath, she opened the door to their bedroom and stepped inside.

  Rayven was standing at the window, looking out. He turned around as she closed the door. His dark gaze swept over her from head to heel.

  "I'm sorry I'm late," Rhianna said. Tossing her handbag on a chair, she smoothed her skirts, removed her gloves. "Where's Bevins? I should like to order supper."

  "I've ordered for you."

  "Oh?" She clasped her hands to still their trembling. "Thank you."

  "Where have you been?"

  "Shopping. I… I got a new hat. Do you like it?"

  He nodded, his dark stare fixed upon her face.

  "I think I'll freshen up."

  "You cannot wash away your lies, Rhianna."

  She swallowed hard, her fingers worrying the folds of her skirt. "Lies, my lord?"

  "You've been with Montroy again."

  There was no point in denying it. "Yes. We took tea together."

  "Where?"

  He was watching her intently, his dark eyes unblinking. His very stillness intimidated her.

  "In a little tearoom just down the street. Across from the millinery shop."

  His eyes narrowed ominously as he crossed the room, and then he was standing in front of her, so close she could feel the heat of his breath upon her face. "Did he buy you the hat?"

  She swallowed against the fear congealing in her throat. "Wh… why do you ask?"

  "His scent is on the bonnet, on your hands. Did he buy it for you, Rhianna?"

  "He saw me admiring it in the window and bought it for me. I didn't want him to, but he insisted."

  A muscle clenched in his jaw. She had spent time with Montroy. Alone.

  "Nothing happened," Rhianna said. She laid a placating hand on his arm. "We had tea, that's all. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke. Please forgive me."

  He turned away from her, not wanting her to see the jealousy that was eating at his soul. "There's nothing to forgive. You're not a prisoner here, Rhianna. It's unfair of me to expect you to lock yourself in this room until nightfall."

  "Oh, Rayven." She closed the distance between them. Slipping her arms around his waist, she laid her cheek against his back, wishing she could ease the hurt she had caused.

  "I'm sorry," he said stiffly.

  "You've nothing to be sorry for."

  "I want to kill him," he said gruffly. "I'm jealous of every hour, every minute, you spend with anyone else."

  "There's nothing for you to be jealous of. Dallon is just a friend, nothing more. That's all he'll ever be."

  "I know." Rayven took a deep breath and released it in a long, slow sigh. "I've never been in love before," he said, as if confessing a guilty secret. "I look at Montroy and see what I might have been had I not lusted after Lysandra. What's the good of living four hundred years if one has to live alone?"

  One of his hands covered hers, his thumb tracing aimless patterns across the back of her hand.

  "When I was young, I had dreams of glory. I was the finest knight of the realm. I had a name men respected and feared. I had lands and riches, my pick of desirable women. I could have had a good life, a wife, children. But I threw it all away to chase a woman who looked like an angel and turned out to be the spawn of the devil."

  "I'm sorry, Rayven, so sorry." She kissed the faint hollow between his shoulder blades. "But I said it before, and I'll say it again. I'm glad you're a vampyre. If you'd never met Lysandra, you would have died hundreds of years ago, and I would never have met you."

  She walked around to stand in front of him. "I love you, my lord husband," she said fervently. "I'm glad you bought me from my father. You've given me a wonderful education, provided for my mother and sisters far better than my father was able. I love you," she said again. "No one but you."

  With a sigh, he drew her into his arms and held her close. "You have no idea how much you mean to me, Rhianna," he murmured, "and I fear there aren't words enough to tell you. Forgive me for my jealousy. I have no excuse except that I've never loved anyone before."

  She stood on tiptoe, wanting to kiss him, to reassure him, only to draw back as there was a knock at the door.

  "Your supper is here," Rayven said.

  "I'll get it." She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then went to open the door.

  A young man dressed in hotel livery handed her a covered tray. "Will there be anything else, madam?"

  "No, thank you." Closing the door, she carried the tray to the table. "Will you sit with me while I eat?"

  With a nod, Rayven crossed the floor and sat down opposite her.

  "You never told me where Bevins is."

  "He asked for the night off."

  "Oh?" She lifted the tray, and the aroma of roast mutton and potatoes filled the room.

  "Rhianna."

  She looked up, her smile fading. "What?"

  He looked at her a long moment, then slowly shook his head. "You make me ashamed of what I am."

  "Ashamed? Why?"

  He shook his head. How could he explain it to her when he didn't understand it himself? He had thought himself long since resigned to what he was. He forced himself to drink the blood of sheep when it gave him no pleasure, denying what he craved, denying what he was. He shut himself up in Castle Rayven, or in one of his other holdings, keeping out of the way of mortals, protecting them even as he shut himself up in a prison of his own making. He had been proud of himself for learning to control the fierce hunger that drove him, pleased that he no longer had to
kill to feed, that he had found a measure of peace within himself.

  And then he had bought Rhianna and realized anew how vast was the gulf between himself and the rest of the world. Her goodness and light emphasized the darkness that dwelled within him.

  And he was ashamed of the lives he had taken, the blood he had spilled, the evil that slept restlessly within him, under control but never completely vanquished. He still could not believe that she loved him, knew he was unworthy of her affection.

  Just this one year. Please, just let me have this one year, and then I'll let her go.

  "Rayven, talk to me."

  "There's nothing to talk about."

  "You're brooding again, worrying about me, about us, aren't you?"

  "I think you begin to know me too well."

  "Has there been no happiness in your life these past four centuries?"

  He sat back, his expression thoughtful, and then he nodded. "Of course."

  "Tell me about those times."

  With a sigh, he began to tell her of his past.

  In the beginning, after he had learned to control the hunger, when he had come to terms with what he was, he had traveled the world. The jungles of Africa, the wonders of Egypt. He had toured France and Spain and Greece, spent a year in South America wandering through the ruins of an ancient culture. During that long-ago time, he had learned to read and gained an appreciation for the written word.

  He had learned to appreciate fine art, had developed a love for music, for the theater. He had courted many beautiful women, though he had allowed none to get close to him. And when he tired of being a vagabond, he had come back here, to the land of his birth, to the place where, one fateful night, his life had been changed forever.

  He had been Vampyre for a hundred years when he'd bought the castle at the top of Devil Tree Mountain and withdrawn from the rest of the world. And every twenty or thirty years thereafter, when people began to wonder about him, he had taken his leave. But he always returned to this place.

  Rhianna sat back, sighing. "You've seen so much," she murmured. "Done so much." She shook her head. "I should think you would be glad for the opportunities you've had."