Jankyn’s wife Efrica’s outraged response to that could be heard clearly over the laughter as Lachann left the hall. He knew his kinsmen would soon return to the problem he had just presented to them. There could be a growing threat to the one thing all MacNachtons prized above anything else, the precious gift that had been denied them for too long—their children. He wondered if the Hunters would soon become the Hunted.
He stepped into his bedchamber and looked at the tub set before the fire. Adeline was still in it, her head resting against the rim and her glorious hair hanging over the edge. Lachann quietly shut the door behind him and walked over to the bath. His heart clenched with guilt and regret when he saw the tears on her face, for he knew it was his fault that she was so unhappy, perhaps even hurt.
“Adeline,” he said quietly as he crouched by the tub and lightly stroked her hair.
Adeline nearly cursed and hurriedly wiped away her tears. It was just her bad luck to be caught while still deep in her misery. She drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around her breasts, suddenly embarrassed by her nudity.
“Ye shouldnae be here,” she said. “I am in my bath.”
“Which has grown cool.” He grabbed one of the large drying cloths, stood up, and held it open. “Come out of there. We need to talk.”
Not wanting to have a serious discussion while naked, Adeline quickly stepped out of the tub. Instead of wrapping her in the drying cloth, however, Lachann slowly and meticulously dried her off. By the time he was done and grasped another large drying cloth to wrap her in, Adeline was not sure she had the wits left to have any discussion at all. Even the self-disgust she felt over how easily she melted beneath his touch did not cool her ardor by much.
Lachann walked over to his bed and sat down, settling Adeline on his lap. He badly wanted to make love to her but knew he had to talk first. If she was going to be angry with him, she would be even more so if he took his pleasure of her first, for she would rightly see that as a trick of some kind to lull her into accepting what might not be acceptable to her.
“Adeline, why were ye crying?” he asked.
“I got some soap in my eye, is all,” she muttered, refusing to look at him.
He grasped her by the chin and forced her to face him. “Such a poor liar ye are. Ye think I have taken the lad but nay ye, dinnae ye?”
“Osgar belongs here. These are his people. Nan was kind to suggest that I could stay and raise Osgar but—”
“Nay, no buts. That is what ye will do. Why do ye think I so openly claimed Osgar? It was so that there would be no question of ye having a place in his life. Nan is too old, has been too much alone, to suddenly take on the care of a small boy. He would have been fostered within the clan and I made my claim, got her approval, before anyone else could step in and do so. Since ye are nay his blood kin, ye would have no power to change that. Now ye do.”
“Because ye say it is so?”
“Aye, and nay. It is so because ye are mine.” He kissed the mark on her neck when she frowned. “Have ye nay wondered why this mark hasnae faded away?”
Adeline looked at the wrist he had fed from and saw no hint that he had ever sunk his teeth in there. Then she touched the mark on her neck. It should have faded. There should be no mark at all, if all her experience with Osgar and now Lachann told her right.
“Why hasnae it faded away?”
“Because it is the mark a mon gives to his mate. Everyone who saw ye today saw that mark and kenned that ye were my mate. I had already claimed ye in their eyes.” He nodded when she stared at him in open-mouthed shock. “Best close that bonnie mouth, lass, or I will be kissing ye and we will ne’er finish this talk. ’Tis past time we had it and I need to get it all said.”
“A mating mark? Ye gave me a mark that says we are mated?”
She did not sound angry, just confused, and Lachann breathed an inner sigh of relief. “That first time I kissed ye I ached to give ye that mark. ’Tis why I backed away so quickly. I still distrusted Outsiders and I didnae want to mark one. But I couldnae stay away long, could I? And, yet, I kenned that ’tis difficult for someone outside the clan to ken what the mark means and I hadnae warned ye, either. That was wrong of me.”
Adeline touched the mark, knowing she should be angry at him for claiming her without even letting her know she had been claimed, but too happy to care. She was his. She, Lachann, and Osgar could be a family and live in this huge, safe castle together. It was far more than she had hoped for. Then she frowned. He had not said he loved her. Mate did not equal love.
“Does this mean ye care for me, Lachann?” she asked with a timidity that made her cross.
“Ah, lass, I more than care although I will admit that I didnae see it at the time.” He kissed her. “I saw it while I was trussed to that tree thinking I might ne’er see ye again. Aye, I love ye.” He laughed softly when she flung her arms around his neck and held him tightly. “It would be nice if ye loved me too but I am prepared to work to make ye give me your heart.”
“Oh, Lachann, ye have had it almost from the start,” she whispered against his neck as she began to unlace his shirt.
“Love, I would like nothing more than to make love to ye right now but there is more ye must ken, things about being one of us that ye need to learn.”
She leaned back to look at him. “We are married in the eyes of your clan?” He nodded. “Osgar is our son?” He smiled and nodded again. “We can have bairns of our own?”
“I pray so and it has certainly been shown that a MacNachton and an Outsider can breed weel,” he said as he pushed her down onto the bed and then began to throw off his clothes.
“Then I dinnae really need to ken any more.”
“Weel, ye do, but I think we will wait a wee bit before we finish this talk.”
Lachann made love to her so tenderly and thoroughly, Adeline thought she would happily drown in his love if that were possible. They exchanged caresses and kisses until they were both mad with need for each other. When he joined their bodies, the knowledge that he was hers only added to her pleasure. The release they shared was so strong and sweet that she was not surprised when it made her cry.
“Ah, love, dinnae cry,” Lachann said after he had cleaned them both off and rejoined her in their bed, holding her close.
“Just happy tears, Lachann. I am just verra, verra happy.” She sighed. “I now have a home and a mon I love who loves me, and Osgar has a family. It is just that my happiness is so great it overflows my heart.” She kissed his cheek and teased, “And I will love ye even when ye are old and gray.”
“Ah, that is something we need to talk about. It may weel be a verra long time before either of us is old and gray.” He proceeded to explain all about the longevity of the MacNachtons and how that longevity appeared to pass to their mates. The way her eyes rounded as he spoke began to make him nervous. “Does that frighten ye?”
“That I may have a lot more than fifty years with ye?” She laughed and hugged him. “Oh, Lachann, ’tis wondrous. I shall have years and years and years to love ye. Could anything be more wonderful!”
He smiled down at her. “Nay, love, nothing could be more wonderful than years of loving ye and being loved by ye. I look forward to every one of them.”
Taken by Darkness
ALEXANDRA IVY
Chapter One
Regency England
London
The townhouse situated in the heart of Mayfair was predictably beautiful.
Located close to Hyde Park, it boasted a columned portico, as well as a large terrace that overlooked a tidy garden with a gazebo. The windows were high and arched, spilling light onto the cobbled street that was clogged with expensive carriages. Along the roof a row of marble statues peered down at the arriving guests, impervious to the chill in the late April breeze.
The interior was equally elegant.
There were acres of marble with gilt molding and crimson wall panels. And the furnishings offered a hint o
f the Egyptian influence (an unfortunate fashion introduced by the Prince Regent). There was also a profusion of artwork chosen more to impress society than with any genuine appreciation.
Upstairs the ballroom was a blaze of color as the guests twirled beneath the glowing chandeliers, the room so crowded that it seemed as if all of England was in attendance.
In truth, Lord Treadwell’s spring ball was the unofficial beginning to the London Season, and one of the most sought-after invitations of the entire year. Mothers threatened to toss themselves into the Thames if their daughters were not among the fortunate debutantes on the guest list, and politically ambitious gentlemen had been known to offer discreet bribes just to step over the threshold.
It was a collection of the most stylish and powerful bluebloods in all England, but as one they came to a breathless halt as the latest guest swept through the double doors and regarded the crowd with a bored gaze.
Victor, Marquis DeRosa, was worthy of their attention.
Although not a large gentleman, he possessed the sort of sleek, chiseled muscles that were shown to perfection in his tailored black coat and white satin knee breeches.
His countenance was carved along noble lines with a wide brow, an aquiline nose, and a full mouth that could harden with cruelty or soften with a sensuous promise. His hair was as dark and glossy as a raven’s wing, and allowed to fall to his shoulders rather than being cut à la Titus as many of the young bucks, contrasting sharply with his pale skin.
But it was his eyes that caught and held the attention of most.
Pure silver in color, they were rimmed with a circle of black and so piercing that few would dare to meet his gaze. They were the eyes of a predator. A ruthless hunter that considered humans prey. And a mere glance was enough to make poor mortals tremble.
Some in fear.
Some in desire.
All in respect.
They might not have comprehended why they reacted so strongly to the sophisticated Marquis DeRosa, but they instinctively bowed to his will.
A small, mocking smile curved Victor’s lips as he prowled toward his host and hostess, who were fluttering with a panicked delight at his unexpected arrival.
After all, Victor had been in Venice for the past six months, returning to London only the evening before. No one was aware of his presence in the city. Besides, he rarely condescended to attend such tedious human parties even before leaving London.
Why would he?
As the clan chief of the London vampires, he was the most powerful demon in England. He had only to lift his finger to have an entire harem of beautiful females, human or demon, to sate his hungers. For blood or sex.
And as for entertainment . . .
After ten centuries of indulging in the most exotic and rare pleasure to be discovered throughout the world (from being the only male on an island filled with female wood sprites, to pitting his strength against the lethal Yegni demon), a mundane society ball was laughably dull.
Or at least it should be.
He disguised his rueful grimace as his gaze covertly skimmed the crowd until he discovered the one female in London, perhaps in all the world, who could have lured him to the stuffy, overcrowded townhouse.
She was here. He’d already caught the scent of ripe peaches. Yes. There she was. Miss Juliet Lawrence.
His unbeating heart jerked with an excitement that he didn’t entirely appreciate.
The female was beautiful enough. From her imp father she had inherited delicate features and a long mane of curls the vibrant color of autumn leaves. She had also been blessed with faintly slanted eyes that were the palest shade of green. But, unlike most imps, she was slender rather than lush, with an innate grace that had first captured his attention when she had arrived in London two years before.
Beauty, however, was not enough to explain his ruthless fascination for the woman. Especially considering her mother was a witch.
He hated witches.
Not only because his one weakness as a vampire was magic, but because his brother, Dante, had been abducted by a coven of witches and chained with their spells for all eternity.
Worthless whores.
And worse, Juliet was currently under the protection of a powerful mage, Justin, Lord Hawthorne.
He hated mages as thoroughly as he hated witches. Especially arrogant, pompous mages who didn’t possess the sense to defer to their betters.
So why was he growing consumed with the savage need to claim Miss Lawrence as his own?
Victor had tried to accept that it was nothing more than the fact that Juliet stubbornly refused to succumb to his seduction. It had been centuries since a woman had pretended indifference to his charms. What was more enticing than a prey that was clever enough to put up a struggle?
He had even traveled to Venice to prove that his enthrallment with the female was nothing more than a passing bit of insanity that was easily dismissed.
Unfortunately, all he had managed to prove was that Miss Juliet Lawrence was destined to plague him regardless of the distance between them.
He had filled his nights with the most alluring females and lavish amusements, but he could not rid himself of the aching need to return to London.
And Juliet.
His lips twisted as he watched her stiffen and slowly turn in his direction, belatedly sensing his presence. A predictable expression of dismay rippled over her beautiful features before she was covertly edging through the crowd, clearly preparing to bolt.
He moved forward, a flare of anticipation jolting through him. The chase was on and she was not going to escape.
Beginning tonight, Juliet was going to pay for reducing him to little more than a eunuch.
“My lord . . .” Unaware how close he came to a swift, bloody death, Lord Treadwell stepped directly in Victor’s path and grasped his arm. “We never expected . . . such a delight . . .”
Victor leashed his violent urge to rip out the throat of his host. Even if Juliet managed to slip away, there was nowhere she could hide.
Instead, he peered down at the pudgy fingers that were crushing the fall of Brussels lace that peeked from the hem of his jacket sleeve.
“So I perceive,” he drawled, his voice cold. “My dear Charles, have a care for my lace if not for my poor, abused arm.”
Treadwell jerked back his hand, reaching beneath his puce jacket for a handkerchief to mop the sweat from his flushed face.
“A thousand apologies.” The nobleman nervously cleared his throat, his customary air of smug superiority notably absent. “Please, allow me to introduce my wife.” He waved an absent hand toward the plump blonde less than half his age who stood behind him. “Letty, this is Marquis DeRosa. DeRosa, my wife, Lady Treadwell.”
Victor offered a graceful bow. “Enchanted.”
“Oh.” The woman rapidly waved her fan, her eyes wide and her lips parted in feminine awe. “Oh.”
Treadwell gave a bluff laugh, clapping Victor on the shoulder as if he had every right to touch the most powerful demon in England.
“I say, you quite overwhelmed the poor gal.” He winked at Victor, indifferent to his wife’s sudden embarrassment. “Let me escort you round the back way to the card room. That way, you won’t be bothered with the giggling petticoats. Give a man an ache in the head. Always best to avoid ’em when you can, eh?”
“Which only proves just how little you know me, Treadwell.” Victor’s tone was edged with a warning that made the fat idiot pale in fear. “Remain with your wife. I am capable of determining my own destination.”
“Oh . . . , I say. Of course. Certainly.”
Dismissing the idiot from his mind, Victor turned toward the dance floor, parting the thick crowd with a wave of his slender hand. Distantly, he was aware of the avid gazes following his slow, elegant stride and the whispers of excitement that rippled through the room, but his attention was focused on the scent of sweet peaches.
At last leaving behind the gawking crowd, Victo
r made his way along the dimly lit corridor, bypassing the various salons and antechambers until he reached the narrow door leading onto the back terrace.
Stepping into the chilled night air, Victor paused, his senses instinctively searching the garden and shadowed mews for any hint of danger. At the same moment his gaze was busily savoring the sight of Juliet leaning against the stone railing.
As a vampire, Victor had no need for the moonlight to reveal the pure, delicate lines of her profile or the fire in her curls that were currently pulled into a knot at the back of her head. He did, however, fully appreciate the wash of silver light that shimmered over alabaster skin and added a hint of mystery to the pale emerald eyes.
His gaze lowered to her gown, which was a delicate white lace over a gold sheath and cut in Grecian lines to emphasize the tempting mounds of her breasts. Then slowly his gaze lifted, lingering on the long, bare curve of her throat.
Victor’s fangs ached with a swift, brutal hunger.
Bloody hell. He had been too long without a woman.
With an effort, Victor resisted the urge to charge across the terrace and crush the female into his arms. Although she was not a practicing witch, and her imp blood was diluted, she did possess her own share of powers. Including the ability to resist his attempts to glamour her.
If he was going to lure her to his bed, it was going to take skill and patience.
For some ridiculous reason the knowledge sent a tingle of anticipation down his spine.
Madness.
Strolling forward, Victor allowed his gaze to boldly travel over her tense body, a faint smile curving his lips.
“Did you think you could hide from me, sweet Juliet?” he murmured.
The emerald eyes flashed with annoyance, but she couldn’t disguise the fluttering beat of her heart or the potent scent of her awareness.
Miss Juliet Lawrence might wish him in hell, but she desired him.
“Actually, I was attempting to avoid the sudden influx of vermin, my lord,” she drawled in overly sweet tones.
“Victor,” he corrected, not halting until he had her firmly trapped against the stone railing, his fierce gaze sweeping over her flushed face.
Born to Bite Bundle Page 36