by Sharon Page
“I apologize for taking so long to prepare this.”
Ophelia sputtered. “You should apologize for making me your prisoner.”
“Considering I saved your life, pretty one, you should be thanking me.”
“Saved my life? What rubbish—”
She broke off. Ravenhunt stood at the side of the bed, one elbow propped against the bed column. She had forgotten how tall he was—over six feet. Gracefully, he settled on the edge of her bed. She fought against the ropes, but couldn’t get her hands close enough to touch him.
A moment ago, she would have happily slapped her hands all over him to hurt him. Now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to kill him. Not until she found out the meaning behind his cryptic words.
What did he mean, he had saved her life?
She opened her mouth to form a question and a spoon slipped in. Something creamy touched her tongue. Hunger made her close her lips around the silver spoon and suck off something that tasted like sweetened chocolate. It startled her. It was dark and lush and wonderful. She had never tasted anything so good.
She released the spoon. Stared up at him. “Who begins a meal with the dessert?”
Shadows clung to his high cheekbones and full lips. His smile was gone, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Someone who is trying to make amends.”
Firelight reflected on his dark, dark eyes, making them gleam like the eyes of a predator. She flinched.
He looked away and pressed another spoonful of the creamy chocolate to her lips. “I forgot you need light.”
He put the spoon down. The bed creaked, the mattress lifting as he stood up, long legs straightening. Firelight limned him with a reddish-gold glow as he moved across the room. A light flared, then another and another. He left two candles on the vanity, and returned, carrying one to the bedside table.
Strangely, the fact she could see him made her hope that seeing her might touch some decency in him. The way he had fed her was surprisingly gentle. And he had spoken of wanting to make amends.
“Why are you doing this? No one would pay a ransom for me, if that’s what you desire.”
Her brother and sister thought she was dead, after all. Her younger brother, Harold, known as Harry, was now the earl and head of her family. Harry would dismiss a demand for ransom as the work of a madman. “Can you not just let me go?”
Ravenhunt studied her. His rubbed his fingers against his temple as if his head ached. “If I cut the ropes securing your arms,” he said finally, “can I have your word you won’t touch me and attempt to kill me?”
She hesitated.
“It would not serve you to try to kill me, my dear. There are men who want to make you their prisoner and experiment on you. Do you understand of what I am speaking?”
“No, I have no idea.” Experiments? Like men of science? Fear clawed at her again—he had to be mad.
She had to play along. The only weapon she had right now was making him believe she was going to be obedient and docile.
“You will have to trust me for now,” he said.
She nodded, biting back her real desire to scream at him, to tell him he was insane.
Her arms were numb. To have them free, to not feel so vulnerable, she would agree to anything. “I promise I will not touch you,” she whispered.
Silver flashed in front of the candle’s flame. A knife blade.
He stretched over her, his large chest moving close to her face. Grasping the rope, he sliced one, then the other. Her arms fell limply against the bed.
She wriggled her fingers. “Oh, that hurts,” she gasped as feeling returned.
His hand came close to hers, then he drew it back. “I wanted to massage your hands. They must be sore.”
“They are beyond sore!”
He sighed. “I am an assassin, Lady Ophelia. You have seen an inordinate amount of kindness from me. More than I’ve shown anyone in a long time.”
“A-an assassin,” she parroted numbly. Strangely, she didn’t feel any deeper fear at the word. It was as if she had reached the limit of horror she could comprehend and nothing more could go in.
“Can you sit up?” he continued, as if she had not spoken. She struggled to do so. He moved around her, careful not to brush against her. She pushed up, the covers falling away. Her hair was a mess, half-falling from her pins, hanging around her in a tangle of gold.
Her assassin dutifully tucked two pillows behind her back.
This was madness.
“After I’ve eaten, are you planning to kill me?” Ophelia truly didn’t know how she could speak so coolly. Exhaustion had settled on her. She’d been on a bed for hours, unable to sleep, starving, and the drug she’d inhaled still made her feel a bit dizzy. She was almost too tired to care if he tried to kill her.
“I do not intend to kill you. But you have to know I did not take you of my own volition. This is an assignment for me, and I was paid handsomely to do it.”
“Who paid you?” she whispered.
“I have no idea.”
She made a sound of frustration. “That makes no sense. How could you not know?”
He didn’t answer, and realization dawned. “You’re going to give me to this person,” she gasped.
“No, I am not.”
“What do you mean, you are not?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Should she be relieved? “Then what are you going to do?”
He shrugged in that languorous way of gentlemen. “I don’t yet know.”
He was a madman. “What will this unknown person do, since you are double-crossing him?”
“I assume he will attempt to destroy me,” Ravenhunt answered, as if he were speaking of the weather. “He would also come after you—or send someone else to do what I did not. That is the reason you have to stay with me. You will be safe with me.”
“No,” she said. Then stronger, for her head was clearing, “No, I am not going to stay with you. You are insane.”
He sighed, turning away from her and back to the tray. “You rescue a woman,” he muttered to himself. “The first woman you have ever bothered to save. Do you see any appreciation for your trouble?”
“Rescue me?” she sputtered. “Stop saying that! You took me prisoner—”
A plate thrust at her, the food almost toppling onto her chest. Surprise broke off her words. Her stomach ached at the anticipation of digging into ham, eggs, and potatoes. Abruptly he set it down on her lap, forcing her to grab the plate to prevent it spilling.
A slightly bitter, brewed scent filled the air. She glanced over. A silver urn flashed as he poured coffee in a cup. He downed half of it without any sweetening. Black. Then he grimaced. “Cannot drink this stuff,” he muttered. He spat it back into the cup and set the cup aside.
“I deserve to know what you are going to do to me!” she demanded.
A sardonic laugh left his lips. “I would tell you if I had any idea.” Then he sighed. He poured coffee into another delicate cup and held it out to her.
With her hands still a bit numb, she wrapped both around the warm china.
“This is the entire tale, Lady Ophelia. I agreed to kidnap you, an innocent young woman, which was unusual for me. Normally I am paid to destroy beings. But I was promised a fortune as payment, and I could not resist. As I said, I was to hand you over to my client.”
He paused, rubbing his chin.
The hot coffee was making her head wake up. Frowning, she said, “You promised me the entire tale. I think I deserve that.”
Broad shoulders moved in another languorous shrug. “The man knows about your power. I believe he wanted you to experiment on you—find out how your power works, how it can be controlled, if someone else could obtain your power.”
“No one could do that.”
Matter-of-factly, he said, “There are ways.”
“Who would want it? It’s a curse—”
“Not for someone who would want to be indestructible. I was to give y
ou to him after I acquired you. Tonight I went and told him he’s not going to get you. Now, eat.”
Ophelia took a bite of her ham. “You speak as though you do know who paid you to capture me.”
When Ravenhunt said nothing, and she’d swallowed more bites of his delicious food, she added, “Can you give me any hints?”
“This is not a parlor guessing game, Lady Ophelia. This is serious. The only place I can be certain you will be safe is with me.”
“Why should you care to keep me safe?”
“You are young and you don’t deserve to die. Nor do you deserve to be cut open and studied.”
Her stomach rebelled. She turned and suddenly a chamber pot was in front of her and she lost every morsel of food she’d just eaten into its depths. Facing it, she whispered, “C-cut open?”
“It is what men of science do to try to understand people like you.”
Oh God. Her insides heaved again. Ophelia lurched over the pot he held. It hurt terribly for there was nothing left in her to come up.
She hated to be sick in front of him. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to be . . . home.
At least back at Mrs. Darkwell’s, which was as close to a home as she possessed. Never would she have dreamed that Darkwell’s prison would feel like a safe home.
Ravenhunt’s gloved hand moved toward her head. He stopped before he touched her and withdrew his hand. “Do you want a glass of water?” he asked.
She ignored the question. “Am I really supposed to believe the man who kidnapped me is actually my rescuer?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t. I don’t trust you. And remember, I do have the power to kill you.” She tried to look menacing. She lifted her hand toward him in a blatant threat.
Instead of retreating, he reached out. His hand gripped hers.
“What are you doing?” she cried. She tried to pull free. She could spare him if she broke the touch in time.
He would not release her. He moved his hand so he was holding hers. He threaded his fingers between hers.
Heat burned between their hands. This had never happened before. Her hand screamed with pain, but smoke rose from his fingers. His hand appeared to be burning. Terror grabbed her, strangling her voice.
Lifting their joined hands, Ravenhunt watched the smoke with detached fascination. How could he bear the pain? It was as if it were happening to another man, not him.
Finally he drew her hand toward his chest.
“No.” She fought to pull back. “That will kill you and I won’t do it.”
“I’m interested to discover if it will. There’s only one way to find out.” Prying her fingers open, he pressed her hand to the skin of his throat, above his collar points.
“It will kill you,” she said desperately. “Perhaps not right now, but it will. Why would you be so foolish if you know about my power?”
Smoke—or steam—poured out from under her palm on his neck. Fine powder, like dust motes, floated into the air.
“It appears your hand burns me,” he observed.
She could not do it . . . she could not knowingly kill him. “Yes, it is burning you. How can you stand such pain? Please, let us stop this.”
Thank heavens, the madman listened. Slowly he removed her hand. He tipped his head to expose his throat to candlelight.
Her hand went to her mouth, but it did not smother her cry of horror.
A large, red burn in the shape of her hand curled around his neck. Smoke still rose from it, and blood and fluid oozed out.
“Why did you do that? Why did you force me to hurt you?”
“It will heal. In minutes it will be gone. But at least we have answered an important question.” Ravenhunt sighed. “I hoped I would have a great degree of immunity to your powers. It’s unfortunate—I was looking forward to kissing you.”
Pushing back his thick black hair, he got up from the bed.
She blinked. Already the burn on his neck was healing. The skin had grown over the wound, new and pale. It was astonishing.
“It will have to wait until later. I have to go out now, my dear.”
But she refused to be abandoned again, not when she had so many questions. “What did it mean that you healed so quickly?” Ophelia demanded. “And just because that happened, it does not mean you are not going to die.”
An amused smile lifted Ravenhunt’s lips. Fathomless and black, his eyes glinted at her. Candlelight shone along his irises as if they were mirrors. “I can assure you I won’t die. But kissing you will have to wait until later. I have to go out.”
“I am never going to kiss you—”
But in the blink of an eye, he had left. He veritably disappeared from the room, he’d gone so quickly.
She was no longer tied to the bed. She could escape.
He would never forget what it was like to kiss Lord Simon Black’s hot, hard mouth.
Valde, son of the woman who called herself Mrs. Darkwell, pulled open the door of the crypt that bore the name Black, the family name of the Earls of Darlington.
“Simon,” he whispered as he walked down the steps into the cool, dark depths of the tomb. His voice came out hoarse. His heart ached with great pain.
Stone coffins lay in neat rows within. The air was not dank or musty, for he came here many nights—at least once each week. Valde ducked his head to miss the low threshold, for he stood seven feet tall. Slowly he walked to the coffin he wanted. Unlike those for the earls, this one was simple. There was no effigy of his beloved Simon on the lid.
He touched the lid, running his hand over the marble.
Closing his eyes, he remembered the first time he had stripped off his clothes with the handsome, blond young man he’d loved . . .
It had been after a ritualistic ceremony. He was a demigod, or at least was one quarter god, and he had been determined to learn the secrets of black magic. Simon, an earl’s son, had been drawn to the warlock world, and was also trying to learn the dark arts.
After the ceremony, they had been alone in the field where the chanting and spell-casting had taken place. It was mid-summer, the air sultry and moist. He wore a robe of black silk with nothing beneath. The soft summer breeze was like a naughty caress when it slipped up his robe.
Simon had worn a gentleman’s attire. White shirt, waistcoat, tailcoat, breeches, and boots.
The air had felt charged—as if it might burst into storm. But there was no storm threatening. It had been mutual awareness, mutual desire.
He had known the invitation to touch was there when he’d gazed into Simon’s blue eyes. He cupped the lad’s cheek. Ran his thumb over those full, tempting lips. Velvety and more fascinating than any woman’s, for they were as plump as a female’s but firm and slightly rough because they belonged to a man.
He’d slid his hand around Simon’s strong neck. Drew the lad close to him.
Breathless moment. God, so arousing and breathless.
His mouth had touched Simon’s lips.
It had been like coming to life. Hot desire ran through his body. His staff had gone stiff as a brick, pushing hungrily at his trousers.
Kissing Simon like an eager swain, Valde had recognized the young man of twenty-two was a virgin when it came to the matter of two men making love.
Slowly, he had undone the cravat that held Simon’s shirt points against the golden stubble of his throat and jaw. He’d kissed the exposed neck, loving the scratch of stubble, the scent of cologne on the young man’s dewy skin.
He caressed Lord Simon’s broad chest. One mere pass of his hand had the lad’s nipples pointy and erect. Then he’d undone Simon’s trousers. There had been one murmur of protest from the innocent young man, but he’d silenced that with a passionate kiss.
Then his hand had slid into Simon’s small clothes and had wrapped around a thick, straining, vein-covered cock . . .
Valde touched the coffin, closing his eyes to fight grief.
He could not open the coffin. Simon was not
undead. There was no beautiful, un-aged face for him to caress. No perfect vampire or demon lips to kiss.
They had taken the man he had loved and had killed him before he had immortal life.
The damned vampire assassin who had taken Simon, who had been working for one of the evil vampire queens, had left him with a decaying corpse.
He hated them—the vampires and the queens.
Hated the Royal Society, even though that group of vampire slayers believed he was one of them.
He knew what he wanted. He was the bastard son of a demi-goddess, and he was denied the power of a god. For a short time, as a child, he had been possessed of the magical powers of a god, with the ability to change weather, to move things with mere thought, and to make mere mortals fall in love with him and do whatever he asked. But as punishment for being the bastard son of a mortal, all of his power vanished when he reached the age of eight. When he had finally become just old enough to understand that his power could let him rule the mortal world, it was taken away from him.
Then he was taken from his beautiful mother, Mrs. Darkwell, who was the daughter of the goddess Aphrodite.
He knew the gods and goddesses of old legends did exist—but they could interact no longer with the human world. The only time they could intervene was when one of their own came into the mortal world.
Aphrodite’s daughter had done that. She had fallen in love with a mortal.
And he, as her son, had paid the price.
He had been forced to live as a mortal boy, working like a servant on the farm of an angry and brutal mortal man.
What he wanted was power.
He wanted his chance to rule.
Valde wanted revenge.
And he knew there was a woman who had the power to kill with just her touch. If he had that power, he could have all the vengeance he wanted.
He knew where she was—with that damned vampire assassin. The one who had taken Simon from him.
It was going to be a pleasure to begin his reign of terror—starting with the destruction of the vampire Ravenhunt.