The White Lily (Vampire Blood series)

by Juliette Cross

  One thing she knew without a doubt, if she let herself care for Friedrich the way she longed to, she’d end up heartbroken and shattered even worse than before. She couldn’t allow herself to become embroiled in such a mess. Her children needed her now. They’d had enough instability in their young lives already. She must be strong and resist…for them. If not to save her poor, romantic heart from dreaming of happily-ever-afters that would never come true.

  A soft rapping came at the door. Helena said she’d bring up a tray. Brenna hurried to the door and swung it open, her breath catching at the sight of Friedrich filling the doorway.

  Holding a covered silver tray in one hand and a crystal carafe of red claret in the other, he was dressed in evening wear, except he’d cast off the coat, waistcoat, and cravat, leaving his dress shirt unbuttoned at the top. His warm gaze skirted down her frame, then he closed his eyes.

  “Your Grace?”

  When he opened them, they glowed a brilliant blue like a sapphire held up to the sun. She’d seen the effect of his vampire senses rising to the surface when he was impassioned before—that night in his carriage, the day he discovered her printing press, and last night in his parlor. She wanted to take a step back. Or forward. She couldn’t decide so she didn’t move at all.

  “I brought you dinner. Since you didn’t come down yourself.”

  Rather than injecting accusation in his tone to make her feel guilty for avoiding him, his voice was appeasing and gentle.

  “May I come in?”

  “Of—of course.” She stepped aside for him to enter and closed the door, tightening the silk ties of the robe before she followed him.

  He set the tray on the sideboard near the window. “Please sit and I’ll serve you.”

  Feeling awkward, for it was highly improper for a duke to serve anyone, she sat on the chaise facing the fire and waited. Within a moment, he returned to her side and offered a large napkin. She unfolded it in her lap, then she took the plate from him.

  “I could’ve served myself.”

  “I know.” He walked back to the sideboard. The wine carafe clinked against the glass as he poured.

  She stared down at a plate of beef-rolled asparagus with a dollop of mustard, golden-crusted sweetbreads, grapes, cheese, sugary cream-stuffed pastries, candied almonds, and three bite-sized pieces of dark chocolate in the shape of nestling doves. The sweets equaled the portions of savory. Her mouth watered.

  He returned and took a seat next to her. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked gently. He leaned across her body and set her glass of wine on a circular marble table to her right. Instantly, her pulse tripped faster at his nearness. However, for once he didn’t crowd into her space. Though he did relax his free arm along the back of the chaise and stretched his legs in a manner that reminded her what a large, intimidating man he was.

  “Yes.” She stared down at her plate. She started with a beef roll. “It looks like someone has told you about my addiction to sweets.”

  “No one needed to tell me anything.” He sipped his wine, drawing her gaze to his seductive mouth. His voice even, steady, controlled, yet tempered with a softness she’d not quite heard before. Similar to the tenor he used before he left her in the garden. “I watch you, Brennalyn. I know what you like.”

  Just like that, the casual conversation flipped her mind to the things he did to her with that beautiful mouth. She turned away and took a sip of wine, then bit into a sweetbread with a juicy meat and herb filling.

  “You certainly have an expert cook,” she added lightly. “I believe Beatrice has taken a liking to him.”

  “The feeling is mutual. Olog is a bear in his kitchen, but he turns into a little cub when Beatrice is around from what I’ve observed.”

  Once again, it surprised her that he’d taken such an interest in these children he didn’t even know. He’d apparently ensured that Beatrice was getting on well with the cook.

  Brenna relaxed, smiling. “She couldn’t stop talking about all the things she learned today. She informed me she’d been rolling pastry dough all wrong,” she said on a laugh. “It’s wonderful to see her so happy.” She set the half-eaten sweetbread down and wiped her hand on the napkin. “If I am to be honest, they’re all quite happy here. I must….” She felt his fingers gently tugging on a lock of her hair, similar to the way he did the first night she sat in his parlor, frightened out of her mind. “I must thank you for taking us in. For being so kind to the children. If I’ve appeared ungrateful at all, I want you to know that I’m not. Quite the opposite.”

  His generosity overwhelmed her. He didn’t simply provide shelter for them but showed them unnatural kindness and care. The way he opened his kitchen to Beatrice, the way he offered his studio to Izzy and Denny who had a fondness for art, and the way he had his personal guard offer sword lessons to her boys. He could’ve simply ignored them. Left them to their own devices. Put them up in servants’ quarters and kept them out of his way. That’s what she would’ve expected Elliott would’ve done with children not his own. And all she’d done so far was dwell on the fact that he’d thrown out her gowns without permission and bought her new ones.

  She pulled her gaze from her plate and faced him. He was quietly observing her, a softer expression she’d never seen on his face.

  There was no comparing Elliott to this man, so vastly different, in every possible way. This man was more beautiful, more intelligent, more compassionate, more…everything. Which meant that if he broke her heart, there would be no recovery for her. Which is why she needed to keep her distance. Emotionally.

  “Your children are orphans of Terrington,” he said, his voice a sonorous melody in the dark. “It is my duty to be sure they are cared for.”

  Her chest tightened. “Of course, they are.” Duty, that’s what motivated him.

  “But because they are your children, I would care for them as if they were my own.”

  She was sure she stopped breathing altogether.

  He leaned away and switched his glass of wine into the other hand, the one no longer curling a finger into her hair. He was giving her space.

  “Please. Finish your dinner.”

  She sipped her wine and nibbled on the cheese. “You never did ask me about being the White Lily,” she murmured, staring at her half-eaten plate. “About why I did it.”

  “That’s because I know why.”

  “Oh, really.” She smiled mockingly. “And what do you think you know?”

  He wasn’t smiling now, assessing her with keen scrutiny. “You took the role of the White Lily because you have great courage but an even greater heart.”

  He tilted his head, gaze roving her face as if discovering secrets by mere physical observation, as if he could reach inside and divine her inmost self by willing it to him. “You see someone in need, and your first instinct is to sacrifice yourself, your own needs to help them. You see three orphaned brothers who might’ve been separated in a poor house, so you take them in and give them a home.

  “You see an adolescent girl who might’ve easily become a servant in a rich man’s house, her beauty possibly luring the lecherous sort, so you take her in as your eldest daughter under your guidance and protection.

  “You see another girl, plain but skilled, who could be abused by toiling in the kitchen of an unkind master, so you take her into your home as well. Then a precious little girl, talented but too curious to be obedient, comes to your doorstep. So you take her, too, knowing she would be a burden to someone less understanding than yourself.

  “And finally, you are presented with a frightened boy who doesn’t speak and might’ve been lost on the streets as a mute beggar who has nothing to offer the working world. Only a kind heart. And so again…”

  His voice roughened with heavy passion, the velvety timbre catching. He swallowed hard before going on, his heated gaze fixed and demanding her not to break from him. She didn’t. Finally, he went on. Softer. Hesitant.

  “And so again,
you take him in. Why did you become the White Lily, risking your life to print rebellious words and inspire hope to the people of the north? Because you are Brennalyn Snow. A woman who has known loss and pain and the cold winds of bleak misfortune. A woman who yearns for something better. Not just for herself but for those she loves, and for those she doesn’t even know.” He shook his head gently, brow creasing in disbelief. “A woman I—”

  He stopped suddenly and stood, his chest heaving. Much like her own. He stepped toward the mantel where he set the half-full glass of wine and braced both hands on the white marble. Lowering his head, his shoulders hunched, he didn’t say another word.

  Brenna let it all sink in. Let him sink in, straight through her skin to her flesh down to the marrow of her bones, seeping into the very cells that made up her body where she knew he would remain forever. In that single moment, he’d let his façade of charm and cultured beauty fall away, revealing the tender soul beneath. Her heart hammered within her breast as neither of them spoke at all. She gulped down the last of her wine as time morphed the palpable tension into a thin thread twining from her bosom through his broad, unbending back and wrapping him in a tight hold. A fragile, delicate bond that kept them connected and yet still apart. Too far apart.

  When he finally lifted the fire iron next to the fire and shifted the logs, apparently unwilling to speak of what just transpired, she set her plate aside and cleared her throat.

  “So where did you and your captain go today?” she asked gently, hoping to lure him back to her side.

  She did. He set the iron back in its holder and took his place beside her again. “We rode partway to Ferriday to see if we could scent other vampires in the area. We combed through the woodland paths as well,” he replied, speaking in his carefree tone that told her he was in full command of himself once again.

  She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Probably best not to go seeking those tender parts of one another. Best to keep things easy and light and away from those dark places where souls were unraveled and hearts were broken.

  “And did you find any?”

  “No,” he responded coolly. “We’ll hunt the eastern road tomorrow. We want to be sure there are no others about.”

  “What happened to the one from the ball?”

  “He’s here. In my dungeon.”

  She set her napkin aside. “Here? That monster?”

  His mouth slid into a smoldering smile, recapturing his hypnotic charisma she knew too well. “We are all monsters here at Winter Hill.”

  “Don’t tease me.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Friedrich, that vampire was a blood-lusting animal. What if he gets out? What if he finds the children? What if—”

  He slid closer. “Shhh.” He swept the mass of her hair over one shoulder to her back, the backs of his fingers trailing along her throat, the slight touch sending a sensitive tingle over her skin. “The dungeon cells here are inescapable. Trust me. My grandfather built this place, and he was a tough bastard who made sure his prison was strong enough to withstand the railings of the most powerful of vampires.” He glided the pads of his fingers along her nape, stroking his thumb up along the curve from neck to shoulder. “The one I’ve got down there now is newly made. His bloodlust may be strong, but he isn’t. And the longer he goes without feeding, the weaker he becomes.”

  “Why don’t you…you know, get rid of him?”

  “You mean kill him?” he asked, arching a brow, smiling wider, flashing his fangs. “I should’ve known my Brennalyn wouldn’t be squeamish about execution.”

  She didn’t miss the possessive my, but her senses were slowly being lulled into a dreamy state with the gentle caresses of his fingers. “I’m not like most women. I see a problem, I want to address it and amend it. I see a crime, I don’t mind justice with a blade.”

  “No, kitten.” His voice dropped to a velvety rumble, like the roll of gentle thunder before a summer rain. “You are not like most women. You aren’t like any woman I know.”

  He grazed his thumb along the edge of her jaw then angled her face toward his. She was sure he would kiss her, but then his arm reached across, brushing her breasts toward the plate on the side table. “I know you like chocolates. I picked them especially for you.”

  He lifted a piece to her lips and waited for her to open, his bright gaze heavy on her mouth. “Open for me.”

  And though he was referring to her mouth, there was passionate intent behind his soft bidding. He wanted her to yield, to succumb to him on the most elemental level. She felt a tug not just on her body, but on her soul, too. She couldn’t do that. Could she?

  His otherworldly blue gaze shifted from her mouth to her eyes. “Open for me, Brennalyn.” A gentle command reinforced with steel and might. He swept the chocolate along her lower lip.

  She parted her lips and slid her tongue out to taste. A guttural groan hummed in the duke’s chest.

  “Wider, kitten.”

  Unable to withstand his seductive, purring voice another moment, she opened her mouth and let him feed her. He slipped in his index finger with melted chocolate on the tip and she sucked it clean as he pulled his finger free and away from her mouth. The chocolate was decadent, but the man who fed her was pure intoxication.

  He leaned forward. She chewed and swallowed, and then closed her eyes, readying for his kiss.

  Nothing.

  No hands touched her. No mouth met her own.

  Opening her eyes, her stomach leapt at his nearness and the intensity of his shifting expression, from ravenous predator to ardent lover to fierce protector all in the blink of a moment.

  He reached into her lap and coiled his fingers around her hand, lifting them to his lips in a painfully slow motion. Grazing his sensual lips in a slow caress on each individual finger till he got to the pinky where he flipped her hand, gazing down at its smallness in the large palm of his own. For a long moment, he did nothing but stare, her breathing becoming more labored as he bent his head. His dark hair slid against her wrist as he pressed his mouth to the center of her palm, grazing one kiss, then another before gliding to her inner wrist. Nuzzling and inhaling her scent before he opened his warm mouth on her pulse, he suckled a soft, wet kiss. Too brief before he lifted his head again and swept an agonizing, hungry look over her face.

  “Good night, kitten.”

  He stood, and with a deep, regal bow, he turned, marched out, and closed the door behind him with a soft snick, leaving Brenna stupefied, breathless, aroused…and more in love with him than ever before.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After she awoke next to an empty plate, ravaged of every edible morsel in bed the night before when Friedrich had left her feeling vulnerable, she dressed—in one of his dresses, not one of her own—and coiled her hair in a braided bun at the nape of her neck, grabbed her shawl, then shuffled downstairs. The children were once more nowhere to be found. She didn’t know whether to be exasperated or pleasantly surprised.

  As she stepped out into the corridor below Pearl Tower, she glanced out the window, realizing the first heavy snow had fallen last night. They were settling into deep winter now. She sighed, thinking it fortunate timing. That is, if one could call the burning of one’s house coinciding with the winter break from school fortunate.

  The town magistrate, Mr. Figgs, had spread the word that school would be out until she had recovered from the fire, but now that the first heavy snow had hit, there would be proper reason to keep the schoolhouse closed for the coming weeks. Besides, she hadn’t even broached the topic of returning to teaching, but she knew that would be another argument she’d likely lose with the duke. He was insistent that none of them leave the castle walls for the time being. And Brenna agreed.

  “Oh, there you are,” said Sylvia, stepping from the hallway leading to the kitchen. “Did you want some breakfast? Cook has already started on preparations for dinner with Beatrice.”

  “No. I’m not very hungry. Bu
t maybe some tea. I’d like to see Beatrice, though.”

  “Oh, well come on, then.” Sylvia led them back down the narrow hall and down a short flight of steps. The aroma of savory herbs and roast lamb wafted up along with a wave of heat from the ovens. “I swear, that sweet girl loves to help in the kitchen.”

  Brenna smiled. “She’s always had an affinity for cooking. She wouldn’t even let me cook our meals back at our home.”

  A pang of wistfulness swept through Brenna, thinking of their cozy home that always felt overcrowded but full of joy. Since she’d arrived, she’d spent little time with her children, as they were scattered all over the castle grounds, cavorting from one place to another.

  As they stepped into the steamy kitchen, Beatrice stood alongside the beefy cook who did indeed resemble a bear with his height and girth. He was folding small triangles of dough around dollops of some sort of stuffing while Beatrice watched him carefully and repeated what he was doing more slowly.

  “No, girl. The bottom folds in first or the meat stuffing will cook right out and fall apart in the oven.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Beatrice, seeming to be fine with his gruff correction.

  Olog nodded with satisfaction at her next attempt as they strode closer.

  “Good morning,” said Brenna.

  Beatrice’s bright eyes popped up with a wide smile. “Morning, Mimi! I’m learning how to make proper trifold pastries. You know, like the pretty ones in Mr. Carol’s window.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear.”

  Beatrice spent many hours staring longingly into the baker’s window in Terrington. Not because she necessarily wanted to try his pastries but because she wanted to know how to bake them as lovely as he did.

  “Thank you, um, Olog, for your patience.”

  “Not at all,” he rumbled. “By the time you leave, she’ll be a proper cook for any house in all of Izeling.” He gave a sharp nod then pointed a flour-covered hand to the table. “You finish these up and I’ll make the butter-yolk glaze.”