Tugging her head gently backward, he laid waste to her inhibitions with devastating finesse. He brushed his lips back and forth across hers, then gently licked his way into her mouth, ravishing and seducing with each lazy stroke of his tongue. He kissed like a creature with an eternity to devote to her pleasure. He kissed like a vampire.
Portia clung to his waistcoat, but she could still feel herself falling, tumbling into some dark abyss where only he and the tantalizing promise of his kiss existed. She could barely hear the ribald hoots and catcalls of the hell’s patrons through the roaring in her ears.
She might have been content to throw herself into that abyss, never to emerge, if not for the sudden sting on the inside of her bottom lip. She didn’t realize she’d been nicked by one of Julian’s fangs until she tasted the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. He tasted it, too. His sharply indrawn breath that wasn’t actually a breath at all threatened to suck the remaining air from her lungs. He jerked away from her as if she had been the one to bite him.
His nostrils were flared, his pupils dilated. Although he didn’t move a muscle, his entire body seemed to be vibrating with some sort of primitive hunger.
Portia touched a trembling hand to her lips. Her white glove came away smudged with a single droplet of blood. Julian closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were as hard and opaque as black quartz.
One of the men cleared his throat, then jerked a shoulder toward the stairs. “You and yer lady can rent one o’ the rooms upstairs for a shilling or two.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Julian said smoothly, gathering her back into his arms as if they were the most loving of spouses. “I’ve discovered that anything worth having, including your wife, is worth waiting for.”
To the appreciative chuckles of the crowd, he laid claim to his winnings, including Portia’s velvet choker, and wrapped his coat around her shoulders. Before she could utter so much as a token protest, he had swept her out of the gambling hell and into the night.
Driven forward by Julian’s possessive grip on her elbow, Portia struggled to hold on to her bonnet and reticule and match his long strides.
His good-natured veneer of charm had vanished, leaving his jaw stern and his profile impenetrable. She could not stop stealing curious glances at that profile. Despite the excesses of wine and women she had witnessed in the gambling hell, dissipation hadn’t left a single scar on his face. His strong aquiline nose, the sensual cut of his full lips, and his cleft chin possessed the same Byronic beauty she remembered only too well. Byron had been moldering in his Nottinghamshire crypt for nearly two years now, the victim of a mysterious fever and his own excesses, but thanks to the vampire who had stolen his soul Julian remained frozen forever in the first potent flush of manhood.
The snow had finally stopped. The muted glow of the streetlamps veiled his eyes and cast sinister shadows beneath his high cheekbones.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
“To your carriage.”
“I don’t have a carriage. It was rented and the driver refused to linger in this neighborhood after dark.”
“Which would make him far more intelligent than you, would it not?”
“You can insult me all you like, but I have no intention of storming off in a huff.”
“Then I’ll take you where you belong,” he said shortly. “Home.”
She dug in her heels, bringing them both to an abrupt halt. “I can’t let you do that.”
He swung around to face her. “Why not?”
She opened her mouth, but hesitated a heartbeat too long.
He held up a hand. “Wait. Let me guess. I’m probably no longer welcome in my brother’s household. After all, what father in his right mind would want me lurking around his helpless child?” He snorted. “Adrian would probably run me through with one of Caroline’s parasols before I could open my arms and croon, ‘Come here, Eloisa, and meet your Uncle Julian. My, what a pretty little neck you have!’”
“So you did get the letter Caroline sent when Eloisa was born!” Portia said accusingly. “Why didn’t you ever reply?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I did. You know the post can be notoriously unreliable.”
She narrowed her eyes, suspecting that it wasn’t the post that was notorious or unreliable. “Well, it was quite thoughtless of you to leave us wondering about your whereabouts for so long. For all we knew, you could have been—”
“Undead?” he offered when she hesitated. In response to her chiding glance, he sighed. “If you won’t allow me to escort you home, then how would you suggest I dispose of you? Should I just drop you off at the next gambling hell we come to?”
Portia slipped on her bonnet and knotted its satin ribbons in a jaunty bow beneath her chin, knowing she would need all of the courage it could provide. “I was hoping I could accompany you to your lodgings.”
All traces of humor vanished from Julian’s face, leaving it as cool and polished as a mask. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe that would be advisable. Since you found your way here, I’m going to assume that you’ll be equally adept at finding your way home.” He sketched her a crisp bow. “Good night, Miss Cabot. Give my brother and his family my fondest regards.”
He turned and started to stride away as if he had every intention of leaving her standing all alone on that street corner, still wrapped in the warm tobacco-and-spice scented folds of his coat.
“If you won’t take me to your lodgings,” she called after him, “I’ll simply follow you.”
Julian swung around. As he came striding back toward her, his face set in ruthless lines, Portia had to resist the overwhelming urge to go stumbling backward.
He stopped a scant foot from her, his dark eyes blazing. “First you come barging into the seediest of gambling hells like you’re bloody Queen Elizabeth. Then you volunteer to accompany a man like me—no, a monster like me—to his lodgings? Have you no care for your reputation, woman? For your very life?”
“It’s not my life that concerns me at the moment. It’s yours.”
“I don’t have a life, sweetheart. Only an existence.”
“Which could be rapidly drawing to an end if you don’t at least listen to what I have to say.”
He swore in fluent French. Portia lifted her chin, refusing to blush. She had heard far more colorful oaths from Adrian’s lips, most of those in English.
A man went stumbling past them, reeking of unwashed flesh and cheap gin. As the stranger’s greedy gaze raked over the ample swell of Portia’s breasts, Julian bared his teeth and growled, the primal sound lifting every hair on her nape. The man lurched into a clumsy trot, barely missing a lamppost as he cast a terrified glance over his shoulder.
“It appears I’m not the only beast prowling the streets of London tonight.” Julian stroked his chin, visibly struggling with her demand. “Very well,” he finally bit off. “If you insist, I’ll take you to my lodgings. But only if you promise you’ll leave me to rest in peace once you’ve had your way and your say.” Without waiting for her pledge, he offered her his arm.
Still haunted by the echo of that growl, Portia hesitated for the briefest second before resting her gloved hand in the crook of his arm.
To Portia’s surprise the rickety stairs leading to Julian’s rented lodgings deep in the heart of the Strand led up instead of down. She had expected to find him inhabiting some luxurious cellar flat, much like his secret chamber in the dungeon of Trevelyan Castle, his and Adrian’s boyhood home.
That chamber had been draped in cashmere and Chinese silk and adorned with Chippendale furniture, numerous busts and paintings, and a marble chess set where he could while away the daylight hours when he wasn’t sleeping in the ornate wooden coffin that dominated the room. Julian had always been a vampire who prized his comforts, creature and otherwise.
Which was why it was such a shock to her sensibilities when he swept open the door at the top of the shadowy staircase to reveal a na
rrow, low-ceilinged room that was little more than a garret. The room was furnished with a battered armoire, a shabby wing-chair, and a scarred table flanked by two ladder-back chairs, all carved from the cheapest of pines. A lamp burned low on the table, sending shadows creeping over the peeling paint on the walls. If not for the sheets of thick black crepe draped over the dormer windows, no one would have guessed that there was a vampire in residence.
In lieu of a coffin, a sagging cast-iron bedstead slumped in one corner. Portia accepted Julian’s unspoken invitation to precede him into the room, averting her eyes from its rumpled bedclothes.
As she turned to face him, he closed the door and leaned his back against it, surveying her through heavy-lidded eyes. “So little Portia Cabot is all grown up.”
Warned by the wary edge in his voice that he was none too pleased by the notion, Portia shrugged. “It was bound to happen. I couldn’t stay a naïve young girl besotted with Byron’s poetry forever.”
“More’s the pity,” Julian muttered.
Abandoning his post by the door, he brushed past her to get to the table. After blowing the dust out of a pair of mismatched goblets, he poured two drinks from the amber bottle resting next to them. He offered her one of them, his long, elegant fingers cradling the bowl of the goblet.
She took it and brought it to her nose, eyeing him suspiciously as she sniffed at the ruby red liquid.
“Don’t worry, it’s only port,” he assured her, a spark of amusement lighting his eyes. “And cheap port at that. But it’s all I can afford at the moment.”
She took a tentative sip of the musky wine. “Just how much have you had to drink tonight?”
“Not nearly enough,” he said, leaning against the table and draining his glass in one deep swig. He lifted the empty goblet to her in a mocking toast. “I do hope you’ll forgive my ill temper. You interrupted my evening meal and I tend to get a bit cranky when I’m hungry.”
Portia choked on the port, her eyes widening in horror. “Those women back there at the g-gambling hell? You were going to…eat them?”
He opened his mouth, then evidently thought better of what he was about to say and closed it again. “If you’re asking me if I was going to kill them, the answer is no. I prefer to think of them as more of a tasty little snack.”
When her eyes only widened further, he sighed. “There’s only so much rare roast beef and butcher shop blood a vampire can stomach. As I was traveling the world in the past few years, I made a fascinating discovery. It seems that wherever I go, there are always women willing—no, eager—to offer me a little sip of themselves. I take just what I need to survive, and in return…I make sure they get what they need.” His jaded gaze flicked over the pale scars on her throat. “Since you were the first woman I ever drank from, I suppose I have you to thank for teaching me that lesson.”
Portia almost hated him in that moment. Hated him for taking an act born out of desperation and tenderness and trying to turn it into something sordid and dirty.
As if that wasn’t enough of an affront, he took one step toward her, then another. “I’m not nearly so careless or clumsy as I was with you. I’ve even learned to drink from other places so the scars won’t be so visible.” He lifted one hand to her throat, his fingertips caressing the marks he had left on her with a seductive tenderness that made her shiver. “Did you know there’s a particularly juicy little artery on the inside of a woman’s thigh, just below—”
“Stop it!” Portia shouted, slapping his hand away. “Stop being so horrid! I know exactly what you’re trying to do and it’s not going to work!”
He backed away from her, holding up both hands in mocking surrender. “You never did scare easily, did you, Bright Eyes?”
He was wrong. She was terrified. Terrified of the way her pulse had raced beneath his fingertips. Terrified of the power his touch still had over her. Terrified she might be no better than those women who were willing and eager to satisfy his cravings as long as he satisfied theirs.
But he wasn’t the only one who had learned how to bluff in the past few years. She smiled at him, using her dimples to their best advantage. “I hate to wound your legendary vanity, but I have no intention of scurrying out the door just because you say ‘Boo!’ to me.”
She shrugged off his coat and tossed it toward the bed, removed her bonnet and set it carefully on the table, then began to tug off her gloves one finger at a time. As she slipped out of her pelisse, one of Julian’s eyebrows shot up, as if to inquire just what garment she might consider removing next.
Keeping the ribbons of her reticule looped around her wrist, she settled herself gingerly on the edge of the wing-chair and took another dainty sip of the port. “Your growling and posturing might impress the sort of women you’re accustomed to consorting with, but quite frankly, I find them to be a bit of a bore.”
The dark wing of Julian’s eyebrow shot even higher. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cabot. I obviously mistook you for the enchanting child who used to hang on my every syllable with breathless delight.”
“I’m afraid even the most enchanting of children must someday grow up. I hope it won’t disappoint you to learn that I no longer believe in mermaids, leprechauns, or werewolves.”
“But you still believe in me.”
Portia barely managed to hide her start. Had he developed a talent for reading minds along with his other dark gifts?
“You still believe in the existence of vampires,” he clarified to her keen relief.
“I haven’t any choice, have I? Not when your brother has spent the last five years driving the worst of them out of London.”
“Well, that would explain why they’re overrunning the alleys of Florence and Madrid.” Scowling, Julian poured himself another glass of port and settled one lean hip against the opposite corner of the table. “Adrian has obviously been neglecting his duties as your guardian. I would have thought he’d have you married off by now to some wealthy viscount or earl who could give you a half dozen babes to keep you in the nursery where you belong.”
“I’ve been out of the nursery for several years now and I’ve no intention of going back. At least not for a very long while. So tell me,” she said, blinking up at him, “while you were traveling the world learning how to enslave weak-willed women with your seductive powers, you didn’t stumble across anything else of interest, did you? Like, for instance, your immortal soul?”
He rested the goblet on the table, then patted the pockets of his waistcoat, as if the one thing that held the power to restore him to humanity was of no more import than a lost riding glove or a misplaced cravat. “Damn thing’s proved to be devilishly slippery. I haven’t had a single vampire stroll up to me and offer to let me tear out their throat so I can suck my stolen soul out of them.”
“So you never even found the vampire who sired Duvalier, the one who inherited your soul after Duvalier was destroyed?”
“I’m afraid not. Unless they’re feeding, vampires are a notoriously close-mouthed lot, even amongst themselves.”
Portia frowned. Something in his tone made her suspect that he wasn’t being completely forthcoming. “So you didn’t find your soul, but you did find time to prove yourself a hero on the battlefields of Burma?”
He lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “How difficult is it to be a hero when you can’t die? Why shouldn’t I volunteer to lead every charge? Sneak behind enemy lines and rescue every fallen soldier? I had nothing to lose.”
“Unless the sun came out.”
His lips slanted in a mocking smile. “It was monsoon season.”
“Since he bestowed a knighthood upon you, I gather the king was more impressed with your efforts than you were.”
“The dreamers of this world are always looking for a hero. I suppose the king is no different from any other man.”
“Or woman,” she remarked, meeting his gaze boldly.
He straightened, folding his arms over his chest. “Perhaps it’s ti
me you told me exactly what you’re looking for, Portia. Because if it’s a hero, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
Unnerved by his unblinking stare, she rose from the chair and strolled over to the window. Easing aside the veil of crepe, she peered into the dimly lit alley below. Every shadow seemed to hide some faceless menace, yet none of them was more dangerous to her than the man waiting—not so patiently—for her reply.
She traded a bracing glance with her reflection in the glass, then let the crepe fall and turned to face him. “I’m looking for a murderer.”
The grim words hung in the air between them until Julian threw back his head with a hearty laugh and said, “Then I suppose you have come to the right place after all, haven’t you?”
Four
Portia felt the blood drain from her face. “So it’s true,” she breathed, her fingers biting into the sleek satin of her reticule.
“That I’m a murderer? That I’ve taken human life in order to survive? I hate to crush the last of your girlhood illusions about me, sweetheart, but in that respect I’m no different from any other soldier in His Majesty’s Army.”
She drew in a deep breath to steady her voice. “I wasn’t talking about battle. I was talking about those women in Charing Cross and Whitechapel.”
The sparkle of amusement in his eyes faded. He frowned. “What women?”
“The four women who have died since you returned to London. The four women who were drained of every last drop of their blood by some merciless fiend.”
Julian’s frown deepened. He turned away from her, toward the brick fireplace. “Just when did these murders take place?”
“The first was a fortnight ago, just before Adrian received word that you’d been spotted in London. The next two followed shortly thereafter. Then just three nights ago, a fourth woman was found in an alley behind the Blessed Mary church, her corpse still warm.”
The Vampire Who Loved Me Page 4