Born to Bite Bundle

by Hannah Howell

  “Believe as you will.” Annoyed with herself for having voiced such a private hurt, Ellie feigned an irreverent smile as if she’d been bamming him all along. “In any case, Mac Eric is certainly adorable.”

  “Moch-éirigh, wench,” Mr. Macane growled good-naturedly. “And if you must know, it’s you I find captivating.”

  “Did you just compare me to your dog?” Ellie gave her head an exaggerated shake. “And to think the gossips pegged you as an accomplished rake.”

  His sea-green eyes focused so intently on her face that Ellie didn’t even register any movement in the room until she realized there was now a mere hairsbreadth between them.

  “Do not belittle your own worth or underestimate the power of your beauty.” His voice was low, his gaze seductively honest. “While it’s true many so-called ladies are both interchangeable and forgettable, you are not one of them. The others may remember me, but they do not want me. They seek the idea of me. A moment, a night, a dance . . . something to talk about over tea. You are a mystery.”

  Ellie gazed up at him, captivated as much by his intoxicating proximity as by his words. There was little ambient light in the small kitchen, but somehow she could see him clearly. Pale skin, high cheekbones, dark eyelashes framing light-green eyes. Even more striking were the bare neck at six o’clock in the morning and the contrasting chestnut mane caught in a leather band at the nape.

  The most disconcerting of all, however, was how he smelled—or, rather, how he didn’t smell. Ellie had always been uncomfortably aware of the odor of others—dust, sweat, too much perfume. Mr. Macane’s scent was almost too light to be detected, pleasing to the senses but impossible to place, even for Ellie’s nose. She felt herself leaning into him, face upturned and mouth parted, trying to inhale his very essence.

  His gaze dropped to her lips, as if he thought her angling for a kiss. Perhaps she was. He was so strong, so charming, so larger-than-life. And if his words could be believed, he was just as tempted as she was.

  He dipped his head until their mouths were but a few inches apart.

  “A few years from now,” he murmured quietly, “some other buck will be cutting a new swath, and my name will be forgotten. What makes me who I am is what I think about who I am. You must prize your own values above those that are forced upon you by Society.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “And when a bedazzled swain foolishly compares your beauty to that of his dog, just say thank you.”

  “Thank you, foolish swain.” She returned his smile without retreating to a safer distance.

  One of his hands lifted, coming ever so close to her face, but hesitating before going so far as to touch. Ellie’s body tingled, her every muscle tense with expectation and want. His fingers trembled. Longing to know how his ungloved hand would feel pressed against her cheek, she tilted her head just a fraction—but that’s all it took.

  His hand cradled her face; his thumb gently caressed her cheek. The heat of his gaze never left hers. He lifted his other hand to the back of her neck to tangle in the mass of curls she hadn’t bothered to tame. He splayed his fingers against her nape as if meaning to pull her to him, but there was no need, because she was already falling forward, eager for his kiss.

  His lower lip brushed hers, sending shivers of delight down her spine. She gripped his upper arms for balance, and because she’d been dying to feel the hard muscle beneath his jacket from the first moment she saw him. Impossibly, he felt even bigger than he looked, as if he could lift an entire carriage if he had a mind to. At the moment, Ellie seemed to be the only thing on his mind.

  Lips parted, he rubbed his mouth softly against hers, once, twice. The third time, he traced the path with the tip of his tongue, as if yearning to know the taste of her skin, of her mouth. He pressed his body against hers, and this time when their lips touched, she felt—teeth.

  On her ankle.

  Loud barking filled the small kitchen as the puppy used claws and teeth to drive them apart, attempting to scale them both, as an adventurer would climb a mountain.

  Startled, Ellie took a step out of harm’s way just as the puppy all but launched herself into her master’s arms—where Ellie herself had been, just seconds ago. For a precious, incredible moment.

  “My apologies,” he managed to get out between dodging effusive puppy kisses. “It would seem Moch-éirigh is a bit jealous. You know how Scottish women can be.”

  Ellie shook her head. “What would I know about Scottish women?”

  “ ‘Elspeth’ is as Scottish as Moch-éirigh.” Twisting, he wrangled the puppy out of his hair. “An Elspeth by any other name—”

  “Call me Ellie,” she interrupted before he could mangle Shakespeare further. “Only my mother calls me Elspeth.”

  “As you wish, Ellie. You may call me Cain. Not even my mother calls me Mártainn.” He winked, as if waiting for her to catch on to a private joke. When she realized he’d used the puppy’s antics to distract her into first-naming each other, she burst out laughing.

  “You’re shameless.”

  “And more.”

  The kitchen door burst open and a half dozen scullery maids rushed in. Their wide eyes went from the puppy, to Mr. Macane, to Ellie . . . and there they stayed. Probably they’d like an explanation for what an unchaperoned young miss was doing alone with one of the dashing male guests. Undoubtedly they hoped for an indication of why this clandestine rendezvous was in the kitchen. With a dog.

  Since she hadn’t an explanation for any of it, Ellie simply smiled at the staff, dipped a half curtsey at Cain, and escaped without acknowledging the questioning stares.

  When she reached her bedchamber, Ellie crawled back atop the mattress with her stomach full and her mind relentlessly reliving the feel of Cain’s mouth rubbing against hers and the sensation of his tongue tasting her lips. She dozed and awoke feeling strangely flushed.

  The sound of her mother moving about the adjoining room indicated Ellie had overslept—and was likely in danger of missing the picnic.

  She scrambled out of bed and rang for a maid. Last night, the thought of a picnic had seemed deathly boring, but now she couldn’t wait. She was eager to see how Cain would comport himself in the light of day. Would he be the consummate rake, flirting shamelessly with the other ladies as if no stolen moments had passed between them? Or would things be . . . different somehow? Ellie wasn’t so silly as to believe a single kiss would convert him from hedonist to lovesick suitor, but she couldn’t stifle the sudden wish that her wardrobe wasn’t so plain and her jewels nonexistent. A moment’s dalliance with Ellie Ramsay was all well and good when otherwise unengaged in the kitchens, but even in her finest gown, she would look a proper dowd when she stood amongst all the other young ladies.

  Ellie groaned. Miss Breckenridge would certainly be present and in her rights to demand news of progress regarding her claim. Ellie had been so busy casting sheep’s eyes at Mr. Macane, she’d completely forgotten she was meant to be investigating his potential undeadness. There had probably been any number of reflective surfaces in the kitchen, and if she’d had her mind on her pocketbook rather than the taste of his lips, she could’ve proven the myth false in a trice.

  In the meantime, however, Ellie meant to make the most of the weekend. Mama might be content to spend every moment sequestered in her bedchamber, but a ton house party was a rare opportunity for actual fun, and Ellie was damned if she’d let it pass by unenjoyed.

  As soon as she put her hair to rights, Ellie headed straight for the hall . . . only to be waylaid by a voice from her mother’s shadowy bedchamber.

  “Elspeth, where are you going at this ungodly hour?” Mama emerged from her chamber, somehow able to pull off an aura of regal hauteur despite being enshrouded in a flowing caftan.

  “It’s half two, Mama.” Ellie gestured at the crack of light streaming from the bottom of the still-closed curtains. “There’s to be a picnic and perhaps riding.”

  “But you can’t go out there!” Her mot
her’s strong hand once again grasped Ellie by the wrist. “You could get . . . sun fatigue.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mama. I won’t forget my parasol.” Ellie tugged her wrist free and strode toward the door, then paused as she recollected an earlier concern. “Speaking of remembering things . . . All the furor over birthdays made me realize I can’t precisely recall my own age. I know this sounds ridiculous, but . . . How old am I, again?” She laughed lightly to cover her embarrassment.

  Mama wandered away, as if just now noticing the small landscapes dotting the walls. “You’ll be two-and-twenty,” she answered distractedly. “The same as your friend. Don’t ask such silly questions.”

  Frowning, Ellie watched her mother straighten the already straight frames, then turned and left the chamber before another argument erupted. But as she walked to join the others, Ellie couldn’t shake the suspicion that her eternally self-controlled mother had been unaccountably fidgety. It was unsettling to think Mama might have been hiding something, but Ellie couldn’t possibly imagine what there could be to lie about. Except for the niggling suspicion that Ellie had already turned two-and-twenty. Last year.

  Before Ellie could consider the topic further, Miss Breckenridge spied her approaching and motioned her over to the small crowd. The marble antechamber smelled strongly of soaps and colognes. Lord Lovenip was nowhere in sight.

  “I hope you’re hungry.” Miss Breckenridge fairly skipped across the entranceway to the front doors. “Cook has outdone herself!”

  The butler flung open the doors. A passel of footmen bearing large baskets lined the pathway curving down the hillside. Beaming, Miss Breckenridge stepped across the threshold to lead the way, her guests filing out behind her.

  Bringing up the rear, Ellie overheard one gentleman murmur to another, “Got yours?”

  “It’s the only method of survival,” his companion replied with an irreverent grin. “Cheers!”

  Laughing and jostling, they removed metal flasks from their waistcoats, clinked them together, then took turns downing healthy swigs.

  Spirits of some kind, no doubt, but whatever it was had to be better than warm ratafia. After the events of this morning, Ellie couldn’t help but wish they’d offer some to her, too.

  In unison, the two men swiveled to face her, flasks in hand. “Fancy a nip?”

  Surprised at their apparent ability to read her mind, Ellie was startled into accepting one of the flasks. Although the gentlemen were watching her more vacantly than expectantly, they were now the only three left dawdling in the house. She might as well take a courtesy sip and have done, so they could catch up with the others.

  Having successfully rationalized astoundingly unladylike behavior, Ellie gingerly tipped the flask just enough to taste its contents. Liquid fire scalded her throat and scorched her nostrils. Flask outstretched, she doubled over, coughing. Whatever it was, it was even worse than ratafia.

  She hastened from the two gentlemen lest they offer her more spirits, only to freeze on the front steps when the sun’s rays hit her full on. The conversation with her mother had discomfited her so much that she’d forgotten her parasol after all. She’d been a child the last time she’d strolled in the sun unprotected, and all she could remember of that outing was ending up in bed for a week. But she was older now. Stronger. Besides, if she went back for a parasol, she’d lose the group completely and, like as not, end up arguing with her mother again.

  Sighing, she curved a hand over her eyes to shield them from the blinding glare and hurried across the lawn.

  Whether as a result of the sun’s heat or the effects of the devil’s own whiskey, she was dizzy and thickheaded by the time she rejoined the group. Not only were the guests’ individual scents overpowering to Ellie’s nose, she fancied she could hear their breaths, even their heartbeats, and was oddly distracted by every glimpse of a bare throat or ungloved wrist. It seemed all the ladies had been hoping for Mr. Macane’s accompaniment.

  A steadying arm circled about Ellie’s waist. Who . . . ? Ah. Miss Breckenridge.

  “Are you quite all right?” Her client’s brow knit, her voice low with concern. “You don’t look at all the thing.”

  “All your fault,” Ellie managed uncharitably. “Can’t stop thinking about vamp—”

  “Shhh.” Miss Breckenridge spun her away from the others. “Your breath smells like spirits.” She clapped a hand to her forehead as if she, too, had a devil of a headache. “Never say my brothers offered you drinks from their flasks.”

  Ellie blinked slowly. “Those were your brothers?’

  “Of course those audacious pups are my brothers—hence their humiliating stories today at breakfast. Oh! Of course. You didn’t come down.” Miss Breckenridge tsked. “You should know better than to imbibe spirits on an empty stomach, Miss Ramsay, and you oughtn’t sample anything my brothers offer, no matter how full your stomach. Why don’t you return to your chamber and lie down? Ring Cook for some soup. It’s miraculous, I promise.”

  “All right,” Ellie mumbled, disappointed to be returning indoors a mere fifteen minutes into the day’s adventure but seeing no other recourse. With her head spinning so, she would never manage a long hike in the sun.

  “You do look deathly pale.” Miss Breckenridge placed her hand on Ellie’s arm. “I shall have to accompany you.”

  “No, no, it’s your birthday.” Embarrassment flooded Ellie’s cheeks. “I’ll be fine in time for dinner; don’t you worry.”

  Miss Breckenridge’s pursed lips exposed her skepticism, but already her name was being called by various members of the party. “I’ll have my brothers take you. They did this; the least they can do is escort you inside.”

  “I’m fine,” Ellie lied, willing her spine to steady. The last thing she wanted was more witnesses to this humiliation. “Go ahead. Truly.”

  Without waiting for a response, she headed toward the house. She concentrated so hard on not tumbling insensate into the grass that at first she failed to notice she’d walked slightly off-target and was rapidly approaching the side of the manor, rather than the front door. Just as she turned to correct her mistake, the sound of rapid panting caught her attention. She lurched forward. With one hand splayed against the bricks for balance, Ellie leaned her head around the corner.

  A large greenhouse protruded from rear of the manor. And there, frolicking in the conservatory’s long shadow, was Cain’s puppy.

  Chapter Seven

  Cain wandered restlessly amongst the dense greenery in the darkest nook of the conservatory, hoping to avoid both servants and revelers whilst his puppy cavorted out-of-doors.

  His fractured shoulder was healing, although not as quickly as he would have liked. If he had been thinking about his injury, he would’ve spirited away one of the party’s insipid coquettes for a drop or two during last night’s card-playing. Instead, he had been thinking about the bonny Miss Ramsay. That is, when he was capable of rational thought at all.

  After centuries of fruitless searching and prolonged homesickness, he had crossed paths with renegade vampire Aggie Munro. At long last, he could see an end to decade upon decade of solitary hunting, peppered by the occasional wild pup that invariably grew old and died, leaving Cain to walk his path alone. No more. If he could not talk the deserter into accompanying him peaceably, he would return her forcibly. He had not gotten close to his quarry just to fail now.

  Then there was the question of returning Miss Ramsay—Ellie—to her real family. Whomever they might be. Depending on how much detail Aggie had Compelled her human companion to forget, Ellie might never recall her true life . . . or even her true name. “Elspeth Ramsay” was much too Scottish for a modern English rose. Aggie might have stolen her as a child, might have used enough Compulsion on the parents so that they even forgot they were parents, violating virtually every sacred tenet of the rigid Code at once. Unforgivable, as far as Cain was concerned, but the Elders valued his brawn, not his opinions. He was simply required to deliver Aggie
to their mercy.

  Victory was finally at hand . . . if unexpectedly bittersweet. Cain had no desire to turn Ellie’s world upside down and then abandon her in the wilds of England to fend for herself, but what choice did he have? He certainly couldn’t drag a human girl into the heart of vampire territory. Not without her becoming just another servant.

  Without freedom, she would not be allowed to leave the keep, much less to return to England. Cain could never consign another person to the same desolate homesickness he himself had suffered. And he would never forgive himself if Ellie were Compelled to spend the rest of her life serving the Elders.

  So why did he feel like he was losing something important?

  Cain leaned his good shoulder against the conservatory wall. He bloody well knew why he regretted leaving Ellie. Because he liked her, dammit.

  She was bonny, clever, delightfully skeptical. . . . He’d actually had to work to charm her and was not at all confident as to the extent of his success. She, for her part, had managed to charm him quite effortlessly, with her arch wit and unpredictability. Yet her very mortality ensured he could never have her. His clan only accepted fellow vampires as mates, and he would not turn her. Conversion had been banned for centuries, for good reason: Only one in a hundred survived the process. Even were it legal, it would still not be worth the risk. Besides, what he liked best about Ellie was her humanness. He’d damn near sprained his cheek muscles keeping his smiles at bay so as not to flash his fangs on accident. Being in her company was simply good fun.

  Even if she could accept him for who and what he was, he still could not have her. Regardless of his clan’s laws against mating with a human, Cain wouldn’t be able to bear falling in love with someone who would grow old when he would not, who would die when he would not, who would leave this world—and him—forever.

  The slight squeak of a hinge set his muscles on edge. If the sound heralded the arrival of servants or a groundskeeper, his gift of thought compulsion would keep unwanted questions at bay. But if the entire party had decided to take a turn amongst the exotic flowers, his blood-weakened state might not afford him the energy needed to Compel a multitude of people at once. He would be forced to . . . mingle.