by Kim Lenox
“Do you know how beautiful you are, Mina?”
Seizing her by the torso, he lifted her and took one into his mouth. He suckled, caressing the swollen peak with three terse strokes of his tongue. She groaned and staved her fingers through his hair.
“Mark . . . ,” she breathed near his ear. “Are you sure you’re able?”
He rolled, caging her beneath him, reveling in the crush of her breasts, so soft, against the hardness of his chest. Braced on one arm, he plucked a pin from her hair.
“I want . . .”
He pulled another.
“My damn . . .”
And another.
“Wedding night.”
He lowered himself for a kiss.
“Wait.” She stiffened in his arms.
“No,” he murmured, kissing her neck, tasting her skin with his lips and tongue. “No more waiting.”
She pressed the flats of her hands against his chest. She forced his gaze to hers. Her eyes were shining; her smile, dazed. “I have a special gown, just for tonight.”
“That’s not important.” He was so hard, and so ready, he could probably penetrate her through his damn trousers.
“It’s important to me,” she countered softly, sliding out from under him. “I want things to be perfect. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
She tugged her corset up to cover her breasts, but her bodice still sagged alluringly. He wanted to pounce.
He scowled, knowing he must be a gentler lover . . . at least tonight. “Very well.”
“I’ll be back.”
“Hurry.”
Her eyes sparkling, she disappeared into the darkened depths of the dressing room. Mark wrenched his shirt off his shoulders and tossed the garment to the chair. With his toe, he pried his boot off, and then the other. Collapsing back onto the bed, he closed his eyes and fended off thoughts of morbid reality, choosing instead to imagine how it would be, moments from now, deep inside his soft, welcoming wife.
How much time passed, he wasn’t sure, but . . . something fluttered down against his bare skin. The scent of roses perfumed the air. Mark’s eyes flew open—only to be covered by a swath of cool . . . dark . . . cloth. His necktie. The band tightened as unseen hands knotted the ends at the back of his head. She straddled him.
“Mina . . .”
“Shhhhhh.” Her cool fingertip pressed against his lips, silencing him.
He did not probe the darkness, did not wish to see her with his mind. Rather he surrendered to the sensuality of her touch. Hands tore at the fastenings to his trousers. Aroused by her enthusiasm, he assisted her. Lips and hands pressed against his naked torso. Her tongue traced downward along the center of his chest, over his stomach.
Lower . . . lower . . .
Mark groaned and buried his hands in her hair.
Mina drew the brush once more through her unpinned hair. She doused the dressing room lamp and pushed the door open, thinking to find Mark on the bed just where she’d left him—handsome, smoldery-eyed and waiting to take up where they’d left off. But the room was dark, save for a shaft of moonlight streaming in through the open windows. Very romantic. After the disturbing events of the previous days, she’d been very fastidious in locking her windows, but she felt completely safe with Mark. The idea of making love to him on a bed strewn with moonlight held a definite appeal. She sniffed, detecting the fragrance of roses as well. Where would roses have come from?
A sound came from the bed—a groan.
“Mark?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. There was only the sound of movement . . . thrashing against the sheets.
Fear struck through her heart. What if he’d fallen ill again? She moved closer, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. The dark coverlet slid off the mattress to puddle onto the floor. In its absence were white sheets. Someone lay atop them, moving . . . writhing . . . becoming not one person, but two.
“Mina. Darling. Yes.”
Shock jolted Mina through.
Could there be an imposter in her bed?
At the bedside table she struggled with the lamp, her hands shaking. At last, light streamed out. Mina stared at the bed. A blond woman, clad only in a thin chemise, crouched over her husband’s—
“Mark!” Mina shrieked.
Lucinda threw back her head, flinging her hair in a brilliant arc. The sound of her guttural laughter filled the room. Mark stripped the band from his eyes.
His eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. He shoved her off. “Lucinda.”
The countess swung her face toward Mina and grinned. “I told you he was mine.”
Like something out of a nightmare, her eyes rolled erratically in their sockets. Before Mina could even react to the impossibility of such a thing, Lucinda sprang, hurtling through the air, and slammed into her. Mina crashed backward. Her head struck the carpet.
She twisted—rolled and kicked—but still, her attacker clambered on top, straddling her shoulders, pinning her with extraordinary strength. Wiry, viselike hands seized Mina’s throat—
Only to be wrenched off.
Mark dragged Lucinda away by the wrists. Mina scooted backward, retreating into the corner.
“You don’t touch my wife,” Mark seethed, his face a mask of fury.
“Ha! Your wife.” Lucinda writhed and coiled like a snake, her legs and feet dragging and kicking. “Not for long. I’ll cut her. I’ll cut her to pieces.”
With a curse, Mark hurled her against the wall. A framed oil crashed to the floor. Lucinda sagged, but she immediately sprang to life, bizarrely climbing up the wall on her hands and knees, to half crawl, half slither out the window. Mark leapt against the window frame, looking out. The muscles of his bare shoulders and back bunched with tension, and for a moment Mina expected him to leap out after Lucinda.
Instead he came to her.
“Mina.” He crouched. “Are you hurt?”
Mina pressed back into the corner, flinching from his touch.
“Did she hurt you?” Mark demanded.
“Don’t. Don’t touch me. Please.” Mina pushed his hand away.
She’d wedged herself against the corner as far as she could go. In the foray, the slender strap of her white satin gown had snapped. She clutched the garment in place over the swell of her breast. Dark tresses fell over her bare shoulders. God, he ached to touch her but . . . horror gleamed in her wide eyes, as if he were a huge arachnid with eight fuzzy jointed legs. Or worse, as if he were no different than one of the Dark Bride’s bug-eyed fiends.
Of course . . . his eyes. They glowed bronze and his skin fluxed with heat, an effect of his turning, brought on by the skirmish with Lucinda. He would also be larger now, both in height and in muscled bulk. He again tried to touch her, to soothe her fear, but she raised her hands and arms defensively . . . fearfully . . . against him.
“I said don’t touch me.”
He backed away, his hands held level with his shoulders. His chest tightened, realizing the terror and disbelief she must be experiencing. This was not how he’d wanted her to learn the truth about him. “I won’t hurt you, Mina. I would never hurt you.”
Her thoughts screamed: Betrayal. Fear. Loss.
“What are you?” she demanded, her eyes filling with tears.
He was no longer “Mark” to her. He’d become a “what,” not a “who.” He turned from her, wanting to deny the revulsion in her eyes. She saw him as a monster, which of course, despite all his arrogance, wealth and power—was exactly what he was. He stared at the black blot of the window.
He considered rushing toward her and forcing his touch. Already, too much time had passed; soon, lethe, the power to make her forget, would become impossible. His colder, crueler self insisted he stand and accept her judgment, no matter the consequence. His duplicity revealed, he deserved no less than her scorn.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” The whispered question arose from the corner. “One of the beings my father sought to prove?
An immortal.”
He closed his eyes. “Yes.”
Somehow, amidst all the turmoil and misery of the moment, he found relief in the confession.
“What is Lucinda?”
Like the toadies, Lucinda had been empty. She’d not given off any energy whatsoever, dark or light. Just . . . nothing. Was she the Dark Bride? He did not know. He turned from the window.
“Something worse. I’ve got to go after her, else she’ll come back.”
A tear streamed over her cheek.
“Go.” She nodded, swiping it away. “Go.”
Mina jerked awake to stinging eyes and a sick heart. Mark . . .
For one hopeful moment, she told herself everything had been a nightmare. Of course it had been. There were no such thing as immortals, and Lucinda could not have—
Her eyes came into focus on the chair she’d wedged beneath the door handle. Slowly, she lifted the coverlet and discovered that yes—she’d slept in not one of her dressing gowns, but two, buttoned up tight to her neck. And her boots. Hearing a sound behind her, she froze. A low, masculine snore.
Rolling carefully so as not to shake the bed, she looked over her shoulder. Mark sprawled beside her, on his stomach . . . naked. One fist curled in the tangle of her hair. She could not help but wonder if the touch were purposeful or a simple coincidence of sharing a bed. How he’d gotten back inside the room, she didn’t know. Her head thundered with memories of the night before.
There was so much she didn’t know or understand.
The dim light revealed his shoulders, his back, his sculpted buttocks and legs. There were also faint tracings around his upper arms, his wrists and his ankles, healed scars. Just hours ago he’d been a glowing-eyed beast, but now . . . now he looked like a sleeping warrior angel. Which was the truth? Both, she suspected. Her father had told her of the ancient legends. Only then, she hadn’t believed.
She ought to be amazed and out of her mind with delight at finding herself in the company of an immortal, something her mind still declared as wholly impossible . But she could find no pleasure within her fractured heart. She could only grieve the loss of the man she’d believed to be her husband. Her “safe place” had turned out to be the most dangerous choice of all—at least for her heart.
“Caught you looking,” Mark growled sleepily, his blue eyes narrowed and smoldering. His arm snaked across her waist. Linen scooted under her buttocks and her shoulders as he dragged her across the sheet, underneath him, caging her within the prison of his arms and his legs. She pushed her hands to the bare skin of his chest. Heat and male scent enveloped her. God save her, but she felt every flex of every muscle . . . especially that muscle, long, hard and unapologetic against her stomach. Her body went to flames. His unsmiling face hovered above hers, so close that his hair brushed her cheek.
“Mina . . .” He drew the backs of his knuckles against her cheek . . . her throat . . .
She wanted to melt, to allow his touch, his kiss, his possession. But she couldn’t. He sought to control her through desire. Certainly, he’d had plenty of practice with other women and even other wives throughout his existence. Her heart pounding, she shoved free—only, she knew, because he allowed it—and escaped from beneath the coverlet to stand on shaking legs beside the bed. Her mind imposed control.
“I’d rather assumed you wouldn’t return.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” He clasped the blanket against his hip and rolled to his side. Lithe and muscular, he appeared a sensual, demanding emperor in her bed. His blue eyes blazed with heat. “You’re not going to let a little thing like immortality come between us, are you? We are married, Mina.”
“Don’t say that,” she hissed, her eyes widening. “We’re not married. Not really.”
Nostrils flaring, he pushed up onto one hand. The muscles on his abdomen lengthened and flexed. “Yes, we are.”
Her mouth went dry as paper. She double- and triple-knotted the sash of her robe. “I married you under false pretense.”
“What false pretense?”
“I was led to believe I was marrying a man,” she retorted.
“I am a man.” Danger lurked in the depths of his eyes. “I can prove it, too . . . if only you’ll come back to bed.”
Everything about him mesmerized her. The way he looked at her, the way he spoke her name. God save her, she burned for him.
“You stay here,” she ordered.
She had to remove herself and fortify her defenses. She escaped into the dressing room, and silently—frantically—set about clothing herself. The memory of their passionate prelude to lovemaking the night before sent her blood scalding through her skin and her cheeks. She’d been nothing but strategy to him, strategy to get to her father and the scrolls. She didn’t even know the man on the other side of her dressing room door. He was a stranger. She supposed she ought to be trembling—crying, destroyed and afraid. But over the past three months, she’d braced herself for anything. Even for this, it seemed. Once dressed, she took a moment to steel herself, before turning the handle. Emerging, she found him upright on the mattress, his arms crossed over his bent knees. The coverlet hung low across his naked hips. How was she supposed to think with him looking like that?
“Why didn’t you dress?” she demanded sharply.
“You told me to stay here.”
She indicated the dressing room. “In there, if you please.”
“Someone’s at the door.” He cocked his head nonchalantly.
“I didn’t hear anyone knock.”
A knock sounded on the door.
Apparently he could see through wood . . . and probably through her clothes too.
She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Is it anyone I should be concerned about?”
A bizarre image sprang to mind, one of Lucinda waiting on the other side with spinning eyes and wild hair. Given the events of last night, she couldn’t discount such a possibility.
A wry smile tugged his lip. “I believe it’s coffee. While you were in there, I called down to the kitchen on the speaking tube. Damn convenient.”
Mina wrenched the chair from underneath the handle and slowly opened the door. Just as Mark foretold, the upstairs maid held a silver tray, topped by a full coffee service. There was also a small platter of toast, bacon and sausages, which this morning, only served to offend Mi-na’s stomach. The girl curtsied.
“Good morning and congratulations on your wedding, Lady Alexander. His lordship ordered coffee,” the girl said. “I see you’ve already dressed. Would you be requiring my assistance with your hair? Perhaps his lordship would like a bath prepared?”
“No, but thank you, Jane.” Taking the tray into her hands, Mina closed the door with the tip of her shoe. She set the tray on the escritoire.
“Are you hungry?” she asked blandly. Although she avoided his gaze, his eyes followed her every movement like twin beams of heat.
“No.”
Perhaps he’d already eaten. Perhaps he’d eaten Lucinda.
“Mina . . . are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
He muttered a curse and arose from the bed, clasping the sheet at his hip. “Mina.”
“What?” she answered, too sharply.
He closed the distance between them. The faint light coming in through the windows revealed every muscular cut and striation along his arms, his chest and stomach. Certainly, he realized his effect. Mina held her ground, refusing to retreat.
“I’m still me. I’m still Mark.”
Her heart threatened to burst with all the emotion she sought to contain. At last, she met his eyes.
“Do you know that I never believed my father? Like everyone else, I thought him a fool in pursuit of a fool’s quest.” She gave out a rueful laugh. “But, my God, he was right to believe in the possibility of immortality. Just look. Here you are. You found me . . . you married me . . . because you wanted to get to those blasted scrolls.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
>
“Why?”
“My life depends on them.”
“Your life? Your immortal life?”
“Yes, Mina.” He nodded. “For centuries I have been a member of an order of immortals known as the Shadow Guard. Six months ago, while participating in the hunt for Jack the Ripper—”
“Jack the Ripper?” Mina gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Yes,” Mark answered. “In order to battle him on his own level, I entered into a deteriorative state known as Transcension. It’s a slow, progressive disease of the mind, an affliction normally suffered by a small population of mortals.”
“Mortals such as Jack the Ripper?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, my God.”
“The Guard hunts such souls, ending their mortal lives, and dispatching them to a secure underworld prison. I’m not a danger to you now, Mina. I swear it. But I don’t know how long I’ve got before I change. Before I become one of the souls I once hunted.”
His gaze held her. A frown turned his lips. Earnest. He looked so earnest. Yet his revelation terrified her.
“Your spells . . . they are a result of that deterioration?”
“That’s right.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Immortals such as I do not recover. But I will, Mina. I will. The scrolls contain the knowledge I need.”
For a fleeting second, she saw desperation flicker behind the brilliant blue of his eyes.
Mina’s mind blurred with the complexity of it all, trying to align prior knowledge and events with the present. She tried to sequence her questions into orderly and systematic categories, but one image haunted her: that of Lucinda, and her spinning eyes.
“How is Lucinda involved in all this?”
“I swear to you, I do not know.” His blue eyes examined her face. “Our relationship was exactly as I explained it to you, no more and no less. Her appearance last night in this room was as much a shock to me as it was to you. I suspect, though, she was recruited by darker forces at work here in the city.”
“Recruited? By . . . dark forces?” Mina raised a hand to her temple, feeling dizzy. “That sounds mad.” But her mind presented all the peculiarities of the previous months, and suddenly, dark forces seemed a fully plausible explanation.