by Sharon Page
She forced her eyelids up and saw a girl standing at her bedside.
Miranda. The child was twelve, her golden hair still caught up in braids that did not tame the tempestuous curl. Her skirts skimmed below her knee. The child blinked rapidly, her blue eyes glistening, and tears streaked her cheeks. “Are you…all right, Aunt Eugenia? I felt the heat. You aren’t going to die now, are you?”
Good heavens, the girl had brought her back to life. She was weak still and could not sit up, but Eugenia felt the beat of her heart grow stronger and faster.
Her niece had pulled her back from the afterlife, and had, well, resurrected her.
She had encountered such strong magic only once before—in the vampire Zayan.
Exhausted by the ordeal of saving her aunt’s life, Miranda collapsed at Eugenia’s side. Weakly, Eugenia embraced the slim, shaking girl, and she whispered soothing words until Miranda stopped trembling.
“I don’t know what I did,” Miranda whispered against Eugenia’s bosom.
“You saved my life,” Eugenia answered softly. “You were a brave and wonderful girl. You are very special, my dear.”
She tried to make it sound simple and matter-of-fact for the child, but Eugenia knew it was anything but. Her niece possessed magic that made demons and vampires look like fumbling amateur mesmerists.
Now she knew what her mission must be. What would happen to Miranda as her dear niece grew up with this astonishing magical power? She might belong to the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena, but Eugenia knew exactly what the men of the Royal Society would want to do—either destroy Miranda or hold her captive to study her. The girl needed to be protected from that. Miranda would need a great deal of help. She must learn to fit into society while keeping this power a secret. And Eugenia knew how great and dangerous a task that was.
“Dear sweet girl,” Eugenia whispered, stroking her niece’s slender back, “I will take care of you. Always.”
1
Captured
From the diary of Miss Miranda Bond
1 March, 1819
There is nothing more exasperating than the sound of a woman in pleasure if that woman is not you and there is very little hope that the woman will ever be you.
It is said, I think, that momentous journeys begin with the smallest impetus…. Well, perhaps it has been said only by me, but it sounds very well, so I shall use it as my motto, my mantra, my slogan for the campaign I am about to embark upon.
That cry of pleasure was my impetus.
To save my debt-ridden family, I will race to the windswept moors—to the estate of the mysterious and notorious Lord Blackthorne. Rumors of his strange, erotic tastes abound, but I believe not one of those salacious tales is true. Blackthorne saved my brother’s life on the bloody battlefield of Waterloo, and I know him to be a true hero.
It is more than the necessity of saving my family. From the letters we have exchanged for a precious, glorious year now, I know I love him.
So I must go to him, seduce him, and marry him.
Assuming I do not get lost, robbed, or murdered on the way….
15 March, 1819
“I want to plunge deep inside you, angel. I want to make you scream.”
Miranda shut her eyes and felt a shiver of anticipation tumble from her bare nape to her low back. He was here, again, hidden in the shadows behind her. His voice was purely erotic—the sound of it low and deep, rich and sexual. Completely male—both lusty and unapologetic.
It isn’t real. It is a dream, Miranda, her inner thoughts warned.
How could she know that? She was part of the dream—lost in it—but somehow she knew it was just a fantasy, and that if she forced her eyes to open, this exquisite moment would disappear.
His large hand settled on her neck. Skin-to-skin. No gloves. She was feeling a slightly roughened, long-fingered gentleman’s palm caressing her nape.
To have a man’s bare hand touch her flesh? It was exotic. Forbidden. Fire sizzled down her spine.
Miranda arched her back and daringly pressed her derriere against the man standing behind her.
Proper ladies did not do such things.
But the whole point was she could not be a proper lady anymore.
Tall. She knew he was tall. She couldn’t see him, but she could sense his head above hers. His long hair hung loose, and silky strands teased her skin above her bodice. She couldn’t hear him breathe, and when he didn’t speak, there was no sound at all.
She was staring into a cheval mirror, seeing nothing but her own reflection and the darkness surrounding her. She could never see him at first. Slowly, her dream world would reveal him to her.
His finger lazily drew circles on the back of her neck. “Do you want me deep in you, angel?” His voice held a wry, teasing note. “I can’t enter you—unless you tell me ‘yes.’”
Something hard—and thick—poked against her rump.
She knew what it was. Each night her dreams had become more daring. Last night, her last night spent in her own bed before leaving her home, she’d lost her virginity in her dream.
Not in reality, though. And in her dream world she had never seen the face of the man to whom she’d surrendered.
Was he Lord Blackthorne? Did she never see the man in her dreams because she had never seen Blackthorne?
Yet the scandalous, shocking, carnal things he did to her in her dreams felt so real.
Suddenly, her clothes fell away. The weight of gown and skirts simply dropped to the floor, though no hand had unfastened them. Her corset unlaced by itself, compelled by the magic in her dream.
“Y-yes.” She spoke on a tremble, her voice filled with passion, nerves, and frustration. “I want you inside.”
His hand skimmed along the round curve of her rump to cup the underside of her thigh. He coaxed her to raise her leg and perch her foot on a silk-cushioned stool. It opened her nether regions to his hands, and his fingers invaded.
She was so wet, drenched with juices.
“This is how I like you, angel. Slick and wet and open for me.”
He never used her name. But she was certain she knew his—that her fantasy was indeed Lawrence Adrian Phillip South-wick, the Earl of Blackthorne.
Miranda tensed, then moaned with delight as he opened her wider. All she could think of was his fingers: two inside her, spreading her open; then three—impossibly, he slid three fingers deep into her core, and flicked his thumb back and forth over the most sensitive spot at the junction of her nether lips.
“You belong to me, love.”
She did. From the moment she had opened his first letter, she had.
“You belong to me,” she said in return; though in her dreams, she took action more than she spoke. She did things like saucily turn to try to see him while she licked her lips. “And I want you deep.”
She couldn’t see him. Darkness slanted over his face. All she could see was his wide chest—all ridged muscle and hard nipples and rippling skin. Then he gripped her hair, yanked it free from her pins, wound the length of it around his wrist. Holding her like his captive, he surged into her.
It felt so good. Good enough to melt her like chocolate in the sun.
How she did scream. And, oh, but he did go deep. Right to her womb, and delicious agony spiraled through her. How could it feel so good when it made her sob and whimper and howl?
But the very exquisite agony of it was so…addictive.
He’d vowed to make her scream, and he did. With his hard thrusts, with the ruthless lunge of his groin against hers, with his low, ragged growls and the harsh rush of his breath against her ear. Her bottom slapped against him, her cheeks shimmering with each bounce. Her breasts danced in front of her—until he clasped them and tugged on her nipples, twisting them until she begged him to stop…
Then begged for more.
“Come.” He said it as a command. She was at the precipice, wound up like a spring, like a keg of gunpowder awaiting
the sizzle of the fuse. And on that word, she burst.
Sheer pleasure took command, and all she could do was surrender her body to the intense, wonderful wash of it. She cried out, cried out to heaven above, let her head fall forward and back, until she was dizzy with the ecstasy.
He held her through her wild dance, chuckling gently by her ear. Then the pulses of her wet quim began to ease and she could finally drag in a desperate breath. Sweat drenched her.
Something cold touched her skin.
Cool and sharp, something that felt like a knife’s blade ran along the side of her neck, from her jaw to the lobe of her ear.
Miranda froze in horror. It was not a knife. The flash of white in the mirror stole her breath.
Fangs lapped over Blackthorne’s lips. She could not see his mouth—it was too dark, but moonlight glimmered on his two long, curved teeth, like those on a wolf. It wasn’t possible.
But on some nights she had dreamed of demons chasing her; she’d imagined pounding feet and animal-like growls, and powerful hands reaching for her.
Oh God, she was sliding into one of those dreams. She shook helplessly. She didn’t want to dream of demons now. She wanted this luxurious erotic dream. For one night, she wanted to be free of fear.
She blinked and his fangs were gone.
“Not tonight, my love,” he murmured. “It is not the night to make you mine. Not yet.”
Make you mine. But what did he mean about biting? The shadows seemed to be swallowing the air around her. She wanted to wake up. It wasn’t real—it was just a dream. But she could smell her sweat and his. The tangy aroma of his seed rose from between her thighs. She felt damp, sticky, and sore. All those sensations seemed more real than a pinch to her arm.
How could it feel so real when she was asleep?
The window flew wide on a clatter of glass panes and creaking wooden frame. “Goodness!” She almost jumped out of her skin. Darkness rushed inside as though the night air was pouring into the room.
No, not darkness. In her dream, everything she saw seemed distorted and confused. She didn’t even know what room she was in. She now saw the walls surrounding her were stone. Embroidered tapestries hung upon them. Could she be dreaming of Blackthorne’s castle?
A man now stood in front of the window, inside the room. Another naked man with golden hair that fell past his shoulders. He was erect, ready to take her.
Her dream lover held her shoulders and turned her to face the man who had—who had just flown in through the window.
His golden hair flew around him, shielding his face. His voice seemed to thrum in her blood. “Until you learn about the power of three, you are in mortal danger, Miss Bond.”
She was afraid now. Wake up. Wake up! Miranda shouted it in her head, but she was trapped in the shadowed room, imprisoned by the hands on her shoulders.
“What is the power of three?” she demanded. She yelled it, hoping it would snap her free of her dream. Dreamers never died, did they? They fell but never reached the ground. They might be struck, or shot, or be drowning, but they woke before the end.
Didn’t they?
A sharp, sudden pain ripped into her neck. Screams filled the room and flew out into the night. The screams belonged to her. She could see her body and realized she was floating in the top of the room, just below the ceiling. Her arms and legs were stretched wide, her hair streamed back like a cape, and she coasted on the cool air wafting in through the window.
But she was looking down on herself below, as though she were soaring over her body. The golden-haired man prowled toward her below. Her mouth was wide open in a shriek, but she could hear no sound. His erection wobbled in front of him, reflecting moonlight. Naked, defined by the hard bulges and curves of solid muscle, his body seemed to glow blue-white within the shadows.
He tipped his head up and fangs shot out of his mouth.
He bent to her neck and she felt a dull ripple of pain as she saw his canines penetrate her neck below. Air currents began to spin her. She slowly circled and watched as two demons drank the blood from her body, gulping hungrily, making low moans of appreciation.
Wake up. Wake up.
She was sinking back to her body now, losing blood and growing weak. If she didn’t wake up, she would die—
The golden-haired man lifted from her neck. “Now, angel, we take your power. And make you ours for eternity.”
“We know what you are, Miranda,” the other man murmured behind her. “A witch.”
On a fierce scream, she bolted upright. A heavy fur throw slid down her lap, and the world lurched drastically to the left. Miranda pitched against the side of a moving room but struck softness. A clattering sound, rhythmic but jarring, hammered into her brain. Somewhere, horses gave muffled whinnies.
She was in her carriage, or rather, one of her brother’s carriages. Her corset clamped her lungs, dug into her ribs, and prevented her from taking a deep breath. Lace along her neckline itched, her skirts were tangled around her legs, and her feet throbbed hotly in her tightly laced half boots.
She was alive. Alive and alone. And safe.
It had all been a dream. Thank heaven.
“I am not a witch,” she shouted aloud to the empty carriage. But she was shaking, despite the fierce way she was hugging herself.
Two weeks ago, she had written down her plan to save her impoverished brother and his wife by racing to Lord Blackthorne and convincing him to marry her. How trivial poverty seemed now.
The day after she’d made her plans, a vampire slayer named James Ryder had come to her brother’s house. Like her Aunt Eugenia, Ryder was a member of the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena. And once he began to ask her questions, she realized he knew of her special power.
Aunt Eugenia had warned her never to tell anyone—not even the Royal Society. So she had pretended not to understand him and had played a vapor-brained twit until he’d left in frustration.
But Ryder had come upon her in the park.
You are a demon. Or a witch, he’d said. Only an evil, otherworldly being can possess the power of magic. And as a slayer, it is my sworn duty to destroy you.
The intense, almost fanatical fire in his blue eyes had terrified her. It certainly proved she wasn’t a woman to swoon—she’d never had a better reason to faint. But she’d stayed on her feet, determined to fight for her life. She had blustered that he must be mad, that she knew nothing of magic, and was certainly no witch. And inside, she had been thinking, I’ve saved lives. That’s all I’ve ever done. But after all, how many innocent women had been burned at stakes through history?
The Royal Society believes you must be removed, he’d said coolly. He’d stroked her cheek, and she’d been too horrified to pull away from his touch. You’ll never know when it will happen, love. But I promise it will hurt. Then he’d slipped away and disappeared in the crowd of the ton that filled the park. Simon and Caroline had caught up with her, and though she’d lied about what happened, she knew they’d sensed her terror.
The Royal Society wanted her dead. She couldn’t put her family at risk. And by staying, she was putting Aunt Eugenia in danger.
Lord Blackthorne was the only one she could turn to. He’d told her—in letters—that he was falling in love with her. She prayed it was true. She prayed that she could go to him and find safety. And through his power and wealth, she could also protect her family.
“Hold hard!”
The coachman was shouting. That was no dream; his furious shout was real. Suddenly, the carriage skidded on the road and the horses screamed in terror.
“What is it?” Miranda cried, clinging to the seat. But over the clatter of the traces, the frightening creaking of the carriage, she did not think anyone would hear.
The wheels seemed to catch in the road and tipped to the right, then swung back over to the left. Men—the coachman, the outriders who thought they were escorting her on her brother’s orders—shouted and hollered. A lot of
colorful cursing filled the air. But they were going to overturn…
There was no way to stop it. Miranda grabbed the seat, but the force of the spill threw her. The other side of the carriage slammed her back and she tumbled around as the carriage went over. Her face hit the frame of the window, stunning her. Had she lost all her teeth? Broken her cheek? Pain shot through her and her stomach churned.
The side of the carriage scraped across the rutted ground as the horses tried to run, dragging the heavy carriage behind them.
Then it stopped.
Miranda let her head fall to rest against the wall. Oh dear God.
She wanted to be sick.
Women were supposed to swoon over far less. But she was going to stay conscious, even if it killed her. Her lower lip stung and she wiped her hand across it. Of course, blood instantly streaked her white muslin glove. She tasted the coppery tang on her tongue.
Someone wrenched open the door that was now above her. Brilliant sunlight and cool air poured in.
“Miss? Are you all right, miss?”
“Yes.” And she was. Though she was lying on her back and her feet stuck up in the air. Her skirts had tangled around her legs, her pelisse had wrapped itself around her arms. It was a most undignified situation, and her head ached like blazes.
The coachman flushed red. “Would you allow me to help you out, Miss Bond?”
“I don’t see how else I’ll get out.” Blasted clothes. “What happened?”
His hand came down—he tried to grasp her wrist without actually looking at her. Apparently, he didn’t want to be accused of behaving improperly. She sighed, then grasped his hand.
“The horses went mad,” he said. “And then, out of nowhere, some sort of creature appeared in front of us. We tried to rein in, but the horses were wild with fear. Then the carriage went over.”
“A creature? Do you mean a wolf? A wild dog?”
“No, my lady, it wasn’t that.” He pulled her upward, and she struggled to gain purchase against a wall or the seat, something to lift her out.
This was certainly an adventure. When had she ever had to hike up her skirts to climb out of an upturned carriage, then slide off the wall, which was now up in the air like the roof?