Julian swallowed, his tongue sweeping over his parched lips in a vain attempt to moisten them. His voice had deepened to a raspy croak. “He drained me of my strength with the crucifix. Starved me. Refused to let me drink.”
He struggled to pull away from her, but he lost his balance and stumbled to his knees, his body wracked by uncontrollable shivers.
Portia dropped to her knees beside him. “You’re dying,” she whispered, no longer able to deny the staggering evidence before her.
He nodded. “I don’t have much…time left. You’ll be safe once it’s done. Duvalier will make sure we’re discovered.” A bitter smile curved his lips. “The bastard never could resist…showing off his handiwork. Do you see those manacles over there?” he asked, pointing to the rusty chains dangling from hooks embedded deeply in the stone wall. “I need you to use them to chain me to the wall.”
She recoiled, unable to hide her distaste. “Like some sort of animal?”
“I am an animal, Portia. The sooner you accept it, the safer you’ll be.”
She shook her head, her voice steady despite the tears trickling down her cheeks. “I won’t do it. I won’t leave you chained up to starve like some sort of rabid dog.”
He closed his hands over her upper arms, his fingers biting into her tender flesh with bruising force. “Damn it, girl, you have to listen to me! I don’t know how much longer I can trust myself not to…hurt you.”
“You can drink from me,” she urged. “Just enough to keep you alive until someone comes for us.”
He made a strangled sound deep in his throat and she understood for the first time that this was about more than just bloodlust. “Don’t you understand? If I allow myself to take that first taste of you, I won’t be able to stop. Not until it’s too late for the both of us.” He shifted one hand to her face, his unsteady fingers stroking a sooty curl from her cheek with devastating tenderness. “Please, Bright Eyes, I’m begging you…”
Portia closed her eyes to block out his pleading gaze, knowing what she had to do. When she opened them, she was able to offer him a smile through her tears. “Why, Julian, you know I’d do anything for you. Anything at all.”
Ignoring the threat of those deadly fangs, she cupped his face in her hands and pressed the softness of her lips to his…
Portia opened her eyes to gaze up at the canopy of her bed, both her body and her heart consumed by a wistful ache. As strange as it seemed, she wanted to summon back the dream. To return to that crypt and the ghost of her former self. That girl had been so sure of herself, willing to sacrifice everything—even her life—for the beautiful boy she had loved with such innocence and passion.
The dream had only served to remind her that Julian had once been willing to do the same. That he would have ended his existence as a soulless husk with no hope of salvation rather than risk hurting her. She rolled to her side, hugging her pillow to her breast in a vain attempt to dull the ache in her heart, and wondered what had changed. Just what hold did this Valentine have over him?
She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing it would be far wiser to wish for a dreamless sleep. But before her wish could be granted, the notes of a distant melody came drifting to her ears. Still hugging the pillow, she sat up, blinking in bewilderment. Had her dream somehow conjured up another ghost from her past?
Drawing her silk dressing gown over her night rail, she climbed down from the bed and padded to the door. She eased it open, half expecting to discover the music existed only in her overwrought imagination. But it grew a whisper louder—a bittersweet lullaby being played for the dreaming occupants of the mansion.
Knotting the sash of her dressing gown, she hurried down the stairs. Instead of discouraging her, the shadows that draped the deserted corridors of the house seemed to welcome her, drawing her deeper into their embrace with each step. The next thing she knew she was easing open the door of the music room, her thirsty senses drinking in the notes pouring out of the grand pianoforte beneath the window.
Julian sat at the instrument, his fingers dancing over the keys with a lover’s grace, coaxing forth a response that was both tender and passionate. The sunlight might be his mortal enemy, but the moonlight streaming through the broad bay window clearly adored him. Her silvery rays kissed the glossy silk of his hair and caressed his strong masculine profile, limning it in silver.
It took Portia a puzzled moment to identify the piece he was playing as the first movement of Mozart’s “Requiem,” the only section the composer had completed before his tragic death at the age of thirty-five. She had heard the piece played on the towering pipe organs of more than one cathedral but never on the piano and never with such haunting depth of feeling. As rendered by Julian’s ardent hands, it wasn’t difficult to believe the requiem had been commissioned, as both gossip and legend claimed, by a mysterious stranger who had turned out to be a harbinger of Mozart’s own death. Julian played it as both triumphal march and lamentation—the song of a man celebrating and mourning his own mortality before his voice was forever silenced.
He poured all of his hunger and passion into the piece, bringing it to a close with a dramatic flourish. The final note hung in the air like the tolling of a cathedral bell on a crisp, cold midnight.
When even its echo had faded, Portia said softly, “For a man who claims his soul belongs to the devil, you still play like an angel.”
He didn’t look the least bit startled to find her standing in the doorway. “It’s one of my favorite pieces. Do you remember the words they found written in the margins of the score—Fac eas, Domine, de morte transire ad vitam?” he recited, the Latin rolling effortlessly off of his tongue.
Portia wasn’t nearly as fluent in the language. She’d always been too busy reading about leprechauns and fairies to bother with such dry subjects. “Let, oh Lord, souls,” she murmured, “enter through death…into eternal life.”
“It’s a pity I couldn’t have warned the poor bloke that eternal life isn’t everything it’s reputed to be. So have you come to turn the pages of my music, Bright Eyes?” he asked, his crooked smile reminding her of the many happy hours she’d spent doing just that at Trevelyan Castle before she’d discovered he was a vampire.
“I would have sworn you were playing from memory.”
“So I was.” He nodded toward the sheet music opened on the stand. “But I’m not nearly as familiar with this next piece. I could use an extra hand…or two.” He slid over on the mahogany bench to make room for her. When she hesitated, he added, “As my eternal bride-to-be, there’s really no need for you to cling to your maidenly modesty.”
Unable to resist the challenging sparkle in his eye, Portia marched across the room and slid onto the bench next to him. She reached across him to open the first page of the piece, refusing to shy away from the press of his muscular thigh against hers or the fleeting brush of his elbow against the softness of her breast.
As she watched his deft hands stroke the achingly tender Beethoven melody from the keys, it was only too easy to imagine them dancing over her own flesh with equal skill. She could not help but wonder what breathless song he might coax from her lips with those long, aristocratic fingers. Feeling a flush creep into her cheeks, she stole a look at his face only to find him watching her instead of the music.
Plagued by a niggling suspicion, she reached over and flipped the sheet of music a full measure before he reached the end of the page. He kept playing without missing a single note.
She cleared her throat with enough force to be heard over the rippling passage.
Julian’s fingers froze on the keys, bringing the piece to a discordant halt. “Oh, dear. I’ve been found out, haven’t I?” His nose brushed her unbound curls as he leaned over and whispered, “If you must know, I’ve always played from memory—even at the castle. I just never could resist the way you leaned across me to turn the pages or the scent of your hair.”
This time she leaned away from him. “Why, Julian Kane, you really are
an incorrigible rogue!” She struggled to keep her lips pressed together in stern disapproval, but could not stop them from tilting up at the corners.
He tweaked the tip of her nose. “Only when it comes to you, Portia Cabot.”
She wanted to believe him so badly that she didn’t even protest when his gaze drifted from her nose to her mouth. When he gently tipped up her chin with one finger to expose the softness of her lips. When he lowered his head, his own lips parting as they brushed over hers with the fluid grace of a butterfly’s wing.
“Unca Jules! Unca Jules!”
They sprang apart and swiveled around as one to find Eloisa standing in the doorway. With her bare feet and treacle-and-jam stained nightdress, she looked like a grubby little angel. Although Portia knew she should be grateful for the timely interruption, she wanted to kick herself for leaving the door ajar.
Before either of them could react, Eloisa flew across the room, scrambling right over Portia’s knees to bound into Julian’s lap.
At first he appeared at a complete loss to find a strange toddler bouncing up and down on his lap, but then a delighted grin slowly spread across his face. “Why, you must be Eloisa! I’d know those eyes anywhere.” He glanced at Portia, plainly baffled. “But how on earth does she know who I am?”
Portia attempted a cavalier shrug, realizing it might be too late to avoid a confession of her own. “I can’t possibly hazard a guess. Although I suppose there’s a chance that I might have shown her your miniature one or two…thousand times.”
To her keen relief, Eloisa jerked on his shirtfront at precisely that moment, demanding his attention. She was scowling up into his face with unnerving concentration, her nose wrinkled.
“Does she bite?” he asked, eyeing her nervously.
“Only buttons, cushion tassels, pearls, and the occasional kitten. But the kittens tend to bite back so that discourages her.”
Eloisa reached up to stroke his cheek with her chubby little fingers. “Pretty,” she crooned, a smile dimpling her plump cheeks.
Portia burst out laughing. “You needn’t look so horrified. It only proves that no female can resist your charms.”
“Except for you,” he retorted, slanting her a wry glance over his niece’s honey gold curls.
“Eloisa!”
This time it was a white-faced Caroline standing in the doorway with Eloisa’s nurse hovering behind her, wringing her apron. When Caroline saw her daughter in Julian’s lap, she went a shade paler.
She strode across the room, the unfastened sash of her dressing gown sailing behind her, and whisked Eloisa out of his arms. “You’re a very naughty girl, Ellie,” she scolded, burying her face in her daughter’s curls. “You gave both Nurse and Mummy a terrible fright.”
“Unca Jules!” Eloisa crowed, wriggling her arms free of her mother’s stranglehold so she could reach for Julian. “Pretty!”
“It’s all right, sweeting.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’d best let Nurse tuck you back into bed before your little toes freeze clean off.”
While Julian watched, his expression guarded, Caroline reluctantly surrendered Eloisa to the waiting nurse.
As the woman carried away the sniffling child, Portia said, “The music probably woke her. It was my fault, not Julian’s. I shouldn’t have left the door ajar.”
“And I should have found a quieter pastime to amuse myself. It’s just that the hours between dusk and dawn can be very long and lonely.” Julian slid off the piano bench and rose to face her sister, a mocking smile playing around his mouth. “There’s really no need for you to fret, Caro. A wee morsel like that would hardly be enough to whet my appetite.”
After giving them both a stiff bow, he strode from the room.
Caroline stood there in the moonlight, her face stricken. “I’m sorry, Portia. When I saw her empty bed, I thought…”
“I know what you thought. And so did he.”
Without another word, Portia slipped past her sister and out of the room, already dreading the long, lonely hours she would spend in her own empty bed.
Twelve
Portia stood in the entrance hall of the mansion the following night, gazing at her reflection in the looking glass with the same horrified fascination one might give to a particularly beautiful garden spider.
She was almost glad that Adrian had taken Caroline and Eloisa and retreated to Larkin and Vivienne’s town house to spare his wife from having to watch her little sister depart on such a dangerous mission. She wasn’t sure she wanted any of her family to witness her startling transformation.
She’d smothered the natural roses in her cheeks beneath a layer of ivory face powder. The flawless mask only made the rouged scarlet of her lips and the dark graceful arch of her brows that much more striking. She’d instructed her maid to sleek her hair up and away from her face with a pair of mother-of-pearl combs, then to allow the glossy ringlets to tumble freely down her back. The unfamiliar style revealed a hint of a widow’s peak and sculpted cheekbones that were normally hidden by a soft fringe of curls, making her look both older and more worldly.
The startling whiteness of her face and powdered bosom only made the glossy black satin of her gown seem more decadent. Its artfully ruched bodice was cut deep and off the shoulder, imbuing her neck with a swanlike grace accentuated by her black velvet choker.
Her eyes were glittering with a fevered excitement, making her look like a stranger even to herself. Oddly enough, she had never looked—or felt—more alive.
“Death becomes you, my dear.”
At that smoky masculine murmur, Portia whirled around to find Julian standing just behind her, the gleam of appreciation in his eye unmistakable. She could not resist sneaking a look back at the mirror only to be rewarded by the unsettling vision of herself standing all alone.
She returned her attention to Julian, trying not to notice how dashing he looked with the crisp white of his ruffled shirt peeking out from the elegant lines of his black silk waistcoat and cutaway tailcoat. A pair of ivory trousers hugged his lean hips, tapering down over black leather Wellingtons polished to a dazzling sheen.
She tweaked his flawlessly tied cravat in what she hoped was a sisterly manner. “I don’t suppose you’ve been giving Wilbury pointers on how to creep up on people and frighten them half out of their wits?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The shameless old sneak taught me everything I know.”
“I heard that!” The quavery voice drifted to their ears from a nearby room.
Shaking her head, Portia turned back to the mirror. “I rather think this look suits me. Perhaps I have a natural affinity for evil.”
“Something I’ve long suspected,” he said, an unmistakable ripple of amusement in his voice.
She twined a curl around her finger. “You’re just jealous because you can’t admire your own reflection. With a face that pretty, I’m sure you used to spend hours in front of the mirror before you became a vampire.”
“Once I met you, I never needed a mirror. Every time I looked in your eyes, I saw everything about myself that I needed to know.”
Portia’s startled gaze shot to where his reflection should have been. By the time she had gathered enough of her scattered wits to turn around, he was already reaching into the pocket of his coat and withdrawing a glass scent bottle.
“I’m guessing that’s not holy water,” she ventured as he withdrew the delicate stopper. The musky floral scent of wild orchids assailed her nose, the fragrance so rich and sensual it made her feel slightly drunk just to inhale it.
“This should help to mask your scent.” He tilted the bottle to wet the tip of his forefinger. “If there’s anything a vampire can smell, it’s fresh human.”
“What do I smell like to you?” she asked, genuinely curious.
He dabbed some of the cologne in the delicate hollow of her throat, his lashes sweeping down to veil his eyes. “You smell like blackberry scones fresh from the oven, so sweet and crumbly you
can’t wait to sink your teeth into them.” His touch still brisk and impersonal, he dabbed another drop behind each of her ears. “You smell like sunlight warming the petals of a rose at the very peak of its bloom.” He used one finger to boldly anoint the cleft between her breasts, his nostrils flaring as if not even the overpowering scent of the cologne could completely mask her scent. “You smell like a woman…” he lifted his gaze to hers “…who needs a man.”
What Portia needed at that moment was a way to draw breath into her suddenly starved lungs. But before she could find it, he had moved away to accept her mink-lined mantle from a waiting footman. She supposed it was fortunate that the servants in Adrian’s household were well compensated for both their service and their discretion.
Julian swept the sleeveless cape around her shoulders, his deft hands fastening the frog beneath her chin as if she were no older than Eloisa. “If we’re going to be convincing tonight, you’ll have to gaze adoringly at me.” His mocking gaze flicked to her face. “As I recall, you used to be quite adept at it.”
“I suppose I can pretend you’re a particularly succulent syllabub.” She sighed wistfully. “I do so love a nice creamy custard.”
“Does that mean you might try to take a nip out of me before the night is done?”
She bared her pearly white teeth at him.
He studied them with a critical eye. “I know it doesn’t come naturally but do try to keep your mouth shut tonight.”
She bared her teeth again, adding a hiss.
“Now that was more convincing.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we go, my lady? The first thing a vampire must learn is to never squander a moment of the night.”
Portia tucked her hands deeper into her muff and stole a furtive look at Julian. His good humor had vanished. He seemed to be growing more distant with each revolution of the carriage’s wheels. Although their knees brushed every time the vehicle jolted through a fresh rut, he could just as easily have been half a world away instead of sharing the plush squabs of the carriage seat with her. He gazed out the window at the frost-draped fields sparkling in the moonlight, his forbidding profile reminding her that the night was his domain and she was entering it at her own peril.
The Vampire Who Loved Me Page 13