She felt her heart start to pound, an unnecessary reminder of what she was about to do. She extended her hand and felt her fingertips brush his. His touch was warm, not at all like the cold, clammy skin she thought the Undead were supposed to have. As if she knew anything but what she saw in the movies. His fingers grasped hers, and he drew her down to the couch. Her blood seemed to thunder in her ears, yet when he spoke, his voice was all she heard.
“Put your arms around my neck.”
There was no bad-boy leer, no display of teeth, only the hooded eyes that glittered at her from beneath the tangle of long hair. She obeyed, and when parts of her body came into contact with his, it was as if it was for the first time. His bulk dwarfed her, his heat washed over her, and in the background, always there, the latent power of his body and mind lingered, like an idling engine waiting to be revved. For a second she was afraid, but the sexual response she felt flare in her own foolish body swamped any sensible messages her feeble mind tried to send.
“Relax,” purred the engine into her ear.
She tried to release the tension from her body, tried to block all the alarms her mind wanted to send. It would be better, after all, to surrender to the sexuality of his touch. Sex was a human function, and if she could convince herself that this was all it was, she could do this. Besides, he felt sooo good . . . like a fire on a raw winter evening or a shelter on a stormy night.
She felt his mouth on her forehead, pressing soft kisses against her temple. The first two were leisurely and gentle, but as his mouth trailed down her face, his kisses grew hungry, demanding. By the time his mouth reached hers, the tenderness was gone, replaced by an insistence that told her he needed her. Now.
Her journey began in breath that was gone in an instant.
Just as she felt she would suffocate, he released her mouth and dragged his own down her neck to a point just above the hardness of her collarbone. She felt a prick of her skin and gasped at the twinge of pain, but the discomfort was gone in a heartbeat. His mouth drew on her, and with each pull she felt herself transported further and further from any reality she had ever known.
Her mind reasserted itself, but it was not controlled by any conscious thoughts or dictates on her part. Rather, it was merely the vehicle for her journey, drawn along the conduit of lifeblood that flowed from her to him, and spurred by the physical sensations that bound her and carried her away. All her inhibitions were cut loose. All the restraints placed on her by her job, her upbringing, her family and peers vanished in an explosion of light, and she felt a freedom she’d never before experienced. There was no good and evil, no right and wrong. Temptation, seduction, intimacy, and acceptance . . . all was human experience, to be cherished as such. And at the end of the journey death waited, but even that seemed not an ending, but merely a point. The destination of one journey, perhaps, but the beginning of another.
Her mind slowed, exhausted from the wild ride, and she wanted nothing more than to reach her destination so she could sleep. The light faded into gray, and darkness settled around her like a comfortable throw.
“Tia . . . Tia . . . ”
She vaguely heard her name. It was too loud. She wished they’d be quiet so she could sleep.
“Tia, come on, wake up! It’s over. You can’t sleep now.”
The voices were more insistent, and someone was shaking her.
“Go ’way.”
Tia heard a crack, and the stinging across her face brought her back to Rose Hill’s kitchen. She put a hand to her tingling cheek and opened her eyes to see both Dallas and Gillie in front of her. She stared at Dallas, trying to remember what had happened. The ashen skin and glittering eyes were gone in the rosy kitchen light, and she wondered if any of it had been real or if it had been one long dream.
“You’re going to be all right, Tia.”
“I’m so tired.” It was easier than explaining how she really felt. Dizzy and weak, like she had just been on the biggest roller coaster in the world.
“I know,” said Dallas. “But you can’t go to sleep yet. I want you to have something to eat. Then both of us can rest.”
The mention of food made her stomach join her head in spinning. “Not hungry. Just want to sleep.”
“Soon. But first you need to build yourself back up. Gillie’s got a steak sandwich here for you, so be a good girl and eat up.”
Gillie pushed a plate in front of her, and when she raised her eyes from the meat still dripping juice onto the plate to Dallas’ eyes, she knew she wasn’t going anywhere until she forced herself to take a bite.
The simple-minded existence of the Undead. Dallas had ridiculed Conner Flynne for leading such a life, but Dallas’ own life had been just as simple and uncomplicated. He had the townhouse, the inn, Gillie, and a few human associates. Other than Gillie, there had been no close human relationships, and there had certainly been no Brotherhood entanglements. There had been no apprentice and no contacts with any enforcers. Now, in the span of just four days, one of his men was dead, another two missing, he had l’ enforcier himself knocking on his door, and he had a human female with a vampire mark living under his roof. And it wasn’t over yet.
Flynne and St. James were dead, but his men were still unaccounted for. And Drago was sure to soon be darkening his door again. More than once he had announced disdain for Drago. In his show of bravado with St. James it had been easy to dismiss l’ enforcier and his warnings, but the fact remained that two vampires had just been dispatched to the True Death. That was an action Dallas knew would not go without consequences, and even if only half the rumors he had heard about Drago were true, those consequences would not be pleasant.
But as weighing as Drago was on his mind, Dallas had more immediate concerns to deal with. He had marked Tia more heavily than he had intended, and only through the intervention and help of Gillie did she still live. She was asleep now, Gillie having banished Dallas from her room for the remainder of the night and day. Dallas smiled tiredly as he descended to his cellar chamber. Gillie had appointed himself Tia’s guardian angel. What did that make Dallas? The answer came all too easily. He had played the role of the demon this night, and he had played it well.
Twelve
TIA’S SENSE OF smell brought her back to the realm of everyday, if not normal, existence. The strength of hot, black coffee vied with the delight of hot cinnamon bread and bacon to tempt her nose. She gingerly pushed herself to a sitting position on the grand bed, rubbing her eyes and willing her body to function. If the meal tasted half as good as it smelled, she wanted to be able to enjoy it to its fullest.
She blinked her eyes and was greeted by Gillie carrying the biggest bed tray she had ever seen.
“How are you feeling tonight, Miss Tia?”
“Better. And I’m famished. I’ve never smelled anything so good. But what time is it?”
“Six o’clock. You slept all day, but I’m glad to see the long sleep has revived you.” He carefully set the tray on the bed before her. Besides the coffee, bacon, and bread there was orange juice, a slab of ham, and fried potatoes. A breakfast fit for a king at six o’clock at night. A subtle reminder that her life had indeed taken a sharp left turn from the road of normalcy.
Tia didn’t want to think about that yet. She took a sip of the coffee and indulged in an entire pat of butter on the slice of warm bread, eventually doing justice to the coffee, juice, bread, and bacon before slowing down to ask Gillie the inevitable question.
“Is it all true, Gillie? Last night? Or did I just have the dream to end all dreams?”
“A lot happened last night, I’m afraid, and I wasn’t witness to all of it. To what exactly are you referring, miss?”
She had to smile at that. Did anything faze Gillie? “Well, let’s start with the big one. That Dallas is a . . . God, I can’t even say it.”
“A preter
natural being commonly referred to by us humble humans as a vampire? Yes, quite true.”
“And Conner Flynne and St. James?”
Gillie nodded.
“I don’t understand. How can such . . . things . . . really exist without the world knowing about them?”
“Without knowing? There isn’t a country on earth that doesn’t have some sort of legend of the Undead. Where do you think such stories come from?”
“Stories, yes. But in all this time no one has realized that there’s truth to the stories?”
“Flynne and St. James aside, vampires are very cautious creatures. You see how easily Mr. Allgate has been able to live in this community undetected. But that’s not all. The vampire community takes care of its own. Humans who learn the truth are swiftly dealt with.”
“But you’ve known what he is for a long time.”
A wistful smile preceded Gillie’s answer. “Yes, twenty-five years. But I’m his seneschal. As such, I could never betray him.”
“You’re his what?”
“Seneschal. It’s a very old word, but one I prefer to ‘servant’ or ‘steward’.”
“And now I know the truth. So what happens to me?” She looked down at the remains on the bed tray. “Is this my final meal?” She asked the question half as a joke, but the food she had just eaten sat hard in the pit of her stomach, and she had no appetite for anything more.
“Mr. Allgate will not allow harm to come to you. If he had wanted you dead, he would have killed you last night.”
A dubious reassurance. “How is he so sure I won’t try to harm him?”
“You’ll have to ask him that yourself. Take your time bathing and dressing. He won’t be up for another hour and a half.” Gillie took the bed tray in hand. “If you need anything, use the intercom on the wall.”
“Thank you, Gillie.” The thank-you was definitely for the meal. She didn’t know how grateful she was for the confirmation that the man she had made love to was a “preternatural being.” She wasn’t even sure what the word meant. Alien? Supernatural? Well, she’d be enlightened thoroughly tonight. She wasn’t sure if she looked forward to it or not.
SHE WAITED IN THE gardens, enjoying the colors of the flowers before the darkening sky leeched the reds and pinks from the blooms. She hadn’t wanted to wait in the parlor. Even though Gillie and Scott MacLaren had cleaned up the mess as though it had never happened, the memory of the fight with Conner was too fresh in her mind. She also hadn’t wanted to wait on the veranda. The memory of sharing blood with Dallas was even fresher. The garden, on the other hand, had an undefiled solitude and pristine beauty to it. She wished she knew the names for all the various flowering trees and shrubs, but gardening had never been one of her hobbies. She knew well what roses looked like, though, and was puzzled by the lack of roses on the estate. The name of the place was Rose Hill, after all.
He was standing behind her before she realized he had come up the path. She told herself she should be accustomed to his stealth by now, but his sudden appearances always managed to surprise her.
“No, no roses. It’s a widely held theory among occultists that the petals and fragrance are a bane to all evil. As much as I’d like to dismiss such rubbish, I’m afraid that evil does include me, for I do find the aroma of roses most repellent.”
How did he know what she was thinking? She turned to face him. His disquieting stealth was one thing. The magnetism of his blatant sexuality and latent strength was something that not only struck her anew every time she saw him, but truly shook her. Her body seemed to have a will completely independent of her mind. “Why the name, then? Why ‘Rose Hill’?”
He stood for a moment, his gaze on her face, but somehow looking through and beyond her as well. She waited patiently for his answer, knowing full well he had heard her.
THE QUESTION WAS an easy one—as easy as it had been to find her in the gardens. He was attuned to her scent and her presence even more than he had been before last night. It was the mark. The part of her that was his now, this day and forever more. Even her thoughts, nothing more than general impressions before, were as clear to him as words on a page.
And yet her question, as simple and innocent as it was, caught him off guard. He had expected her first question to be something about bats, fangs, or some other such nonsense. Instead, she was asking about roses. Her question did more than take him unawares, though. It stirred a memory long sleeping.
Sydney, 1788.
Dalys lay awake in his tent outside the place the Captain had christened Rose Hill and listened to the steady patter and drip of rain against fabric. A pretty name, he thought, for this piece of sodden earth. Tomorrow he and his fellow convicts were to begin building a settlement at Rose Hill. A smile fended off the chill in the air. He already knew how it would go. The marines and lads alike would look to him. His skills and endurance had made him indispensable in only a few months. Another smile, this one with a twist, came at his next thought. The very skills that ensured his survival in this hell had landed him here in the first place. But St. James would yet pay. Revenge would keep Dalys Aldgate alive. He would make his way somehow back to England. And he would live again.
Dallas sighed. The memory, created when he was still human, was bittersweet when recalled by his nonhuman mind. St. James, both father and son, had paid. Revenge had indeed kept Dalys alive. He had made his way back to England. But life? Could his existence now, so far from the boundaries of human experience, be called life?
He was aware that she was waiting for him to answer.
“I was a convict in New South Wales. Slave labor. It was my job to help build the first settlement there. The captain called the place Rose Hill. When I built this townhouse in 1828, the name seemed a natural.”
She frowned in thought. He waited for the inevitable next question.
“New South Wales? Then you are the author of the diary?”
That, too, was a surprise. He hadn’t realized she had found and read the diary. He nodded.
“It was fascinating, but I couldn’t tell who all the people you referred to were. And, of course I didn’t know you had written it.”
“Are you ready to hear the whole story?”
Her eyes sought his, and even in the lowering darkness he could see the blue of her eyes and the hunger that shone in their depths. For the story, of course, but also for him. In spite of knowing what he was, her desire was apparent.
It was the mark again. The vampiric mirror was a powerful device. A product of the power of the vampire’s eyes, it was an indispensable tool for manipulation, destruction, and the resulting pleasure such actions brought. As forceful as the mirror was, though, the mark was stronger. It was a blood tie, and nothing on earth was more elemental, more binding in its pure essence, than that.
He offered his hand to her as a test. She hesitated, and he saw evidence of the conflict behind her eyes in the lines on her forehead. Finally, however, her fingertips stretched out to graze his, tentatively at first, then she interlocked her slender fingers with his large ones. She stood waiting, as if to be led on a journey, but when he didn’t move, she reached for his other hand. The small move set waves of desire surging through him, and still holding both her hands, he pulled her forward until the heat from her body rode his, spurring him to explore the mark further. He canted his head, his mouth inches from hers, and paused, waiting for her. The mark didn’t disappoint. She leaned forward, and when her lips brushed his, her passion was apparent even in the light touch. The warm scent of her blood and the ardor of her body nearly undid him, and he pulled back from her before deepening the kiss. The test had been conclusive enough.
A moment of sadness held him still. If the mirror hadn’t taken her will, the mark had. He frowned. Such a prospect had never bothered him before. He had always enjoyed his dominance, as all vampires did.
Why then, did it disturb him to know that the only reason she wanted him was the influence of the mark?
“I think we’d better get to it,” she breathed.
“What?”
“The story.”
He exhaled a long breath. “Of course. The story. Where shall we sit?”
She nodded toward the lawn that sloped gently from the garden up to the trees ringing the yard. “How about there?”
“The grass?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
He smiled. “As you wish.”
They settled on the lush green of the lawn, and he began where all good stories should begin.
“I was born in London in 1766. As St. James was so fond of saying, I was born and bred a commoner. I was luckier than most, though. Maybe it was because of my size, or maybe my mind was quicker than most, but I was apprenticed to a farrier at a young age. His wife was something of a saint. She saw that I was well fed and taught me to read and write. Many apprentices weren’t so fortunate. A good many were considered nothing more than cheap labor and treated as such. By the time I was twenty, I was managing the Knights Chaise Company out of Knightsbridge. We hired out chaises, mostly for the young and wealthy.”
“What’s a ‘chaise’?”
“A carriage. It was a good life. Viscount St. James took it all away from me.”
“Not this one. Not Jermyn.”
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