Bite at First Sight

by Brooklyn Ann

  Cassandra made a small distressed sound and curled up tighter under the quilt. She was having a nightmare.

  “Shhh, it’s all right, Querida.” Rafe neared the bed and slowly reached out to stroke her cheek with his left hand—an action he’d never have been able to do if not for her. The realization was humbling…and it would take humility to save her.

  Reluctantly, he withdrew his newly healed hand and pulled the bedcovers up over her shoulders before placing a chaste kiss on her brow. “I’ll return soon. There’s something I must do first.”

  God help him, he didn’t want to leave her, not even for an hour. Before he could succumb to the temptation to climb back into bed and hold her, Rafe turned away, threw another log on the fire, and left to feed.

  He took his meal from a passing mortal at the end of the street and rushed back to Burnrath House, the death clock still ticking in his mind. “I won’t let her die.” He repeated the mantra under his breath as he squeezed the leather ball in his pocket to exercise his spasming muscles.

  Once settled in his study with a cigar and a snifter of brandy, Rafe closed his eyes and mentally listed all vampires he could call “friend.” Damnably few suited such a description. And even fewer were able to Change a mortal at this time. Ian had Changed his bride the same night Rafe had Changed the writer John Polidori, and his newest friend, Vincent Tremayne, Lord of Cornwall, had Changed his ward—illegally—only last year.

  A surprised chuckle escaped his lips. Since when did he consider Tremayne to be a friend? The vampire had caused an inconceivable amount of trouble for Rafe and Ian—beginning with delaying Rafe from taking over London and ending with the lot of them having to testify to the Elders on Vincent’s behalf.

  Yet somehow, throughout the debacle, Rafe had grown fond of the Lord of Cornwall and his brave fledgling, Lydia. And it would serve Vincent right to be called for a favor. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to help with Rafe’s predicament.

  Rafe drew deeply on his cigar and swirled the brandy in his glass. He’d become amicable with a few other vampires over the centuries. He could only hope one would offer aid in his time of need. Setting down the glass, he picked up his quill and parchment and began to write.

  After composing five letters, Rafe sealed them and took out another piece of parchment, dread and humiliation coiling throughout his being. Loath as he was to admit ineptitude, Ian had to know of the strife in London, as well as Rafe’s catastrophic situation with Cassandra. At least he could take comfort in hoping the Duke of Burnrath might be able to provide a solution to at least one of his problems. Taking up the quill, he explained his predicament as succinctly as possible. A chord of discomfort rang along his nerves as he sealed the missive with the Lord of London’s insignia.

  Setting down the seal, Rafe stood and stretched, marveling at the new strength in his left arm. Eyeing the letters, he prayed that they would provide salvation for the woman responsible for making him whole again. With renewed hope, he tucked the letters in his breast pocket and went upstairs to help Cassandra dress.

  When he opened the door, he spied her shapely silhouette behind the privacy screen. It appeared that she had tried to dress herself.

  “Thank goodness, you’re here,” she said. “Wakley will be here any minute for another lesson, and I cannot get these accursed laces tied!”

  “My apologies, Querida.” He quickly crossed the room and tied up the back of her dark blue wool gown, biting his lip against a hiss of pain as his arm spasmed.

  Thankfully, she was too distracted to notice. “Tonight he’s going to educate me on the muscles and ligaments in the hands so I am prepared for the fine work on yours.”

  Honestly, she seemed more nervous than he was about the upcoming operation.

  Unable to resist, he kissed her ear. “I have full confidence in your abilities, Dr. Burton.”

  She beamed at his praise and hurried down the stairs just as Anthony escorted Wakley to the drawing room.

  The surgeon’s usual jovial face was ruddy with rage.

  Cassandra’s brows drew together in concern. “Are you quite all right, Mr. Wakley?”

  He heaved a gargantuan sigh. “It’s that blasted cur, James Johnson.”

  “The editor of the Medico-Chirurgical Review?”

  Wakley nodded impatiently. “The scoundrel all but accused me of burning down my own house to collect the insurance money!”

  “That bastardo,” Rafe growled. “The insurance company declared you innocent of fraud and compensated you two years ago.”

  Rafe knew because he and Ian had personally ensured that Wakley received rightful recompense for a tragedy for which they felt responsible. He wondered if the tightfisted insurance man still had nightmares.

  Wakley didn’t appear to have heard him and continued in high dudgeon. “As a journalist, he has all the morality without a scintilla of the intellect of Machiavelli. His bad faith as a controversialist is neutralized by his utter feebleness. In his method of arguing he resembles a clumsy card sharper who, with all imaginable disposition to slip a card, has not sufficient quickness to elude the vigilance of the spectators. He is disingenuous without plausibility; and dishonest without dexterity. He has the wriggling lubricity without the cunning of a serpent!”

  Cassandra applauded the impassioned monologue as Wakley caught his breath. “You are as skilled an orator as you are a journalist.”

  Rafe nodded, biting back a grin at the volley of witty insults to Wakley’s rival journalist. “Have you ever considered running for Parliament?”

  The surgeon nodded gravely. “I plan to do so when my children are older.” A measure of his temper seemed to have abated with his outburst, and he gave Cassandra a cordial smile. “I apologize for my raving. Shall we carry on with your lesson?”

  Rafe left them to it, going to seek his meal and fetch his fastest runner to deliver the letters. As he walked out the gates of Burnrath House, he nodded at a vampire who stood in the shadows.

  He’d hired James to watch over Wakley ever since he began giving Cassandra lessons. The last thing he needed was for the surgeon to end up in danger from his kind once more.

  * * *

  Rochester, England

  Lenore’s feet dragged in the mud as she shambled along. It had taken every vestige of her strength to climb out of the crypt where she’d taken refuge in Dartford.

  “Just another step.” She gasped the dull mantra. “Another step.”

  Her head ached and swam with dizziness. The blood of the beggar she’d fed on the night before was a distant memory. For the third time she questioned the wisdom of her decision to leave the city. But what choice did she have? There was no way she would have been able to reach Lord Villar’s mansion at the heart of the city. Clayton’s rogues would have caught her before she traveled three blocks. It was much easier to reach the edge of town, to leave London and press forward.

  At least it was until her meager strength wore thin. God, she was so starved and weak. Lenore needed blood and rest before she collapsed. But she couldn’t fall here on the cold ground, out in the open where the sun could claim her before she woke.

  That is, unless one of the Rochester vampires discovered her first. Who knew what her fate would be then? She was a rogue now, without written permission to leave her city, much less invitation to enter another.

  As if in answer to that inner realization, the ground vibrated with the sound of an approaching horse. Aching hunger and terror shook Lenore’s frail body.

  “Please be a mortal,” she prayed. “Please.” She was far too weakened to open her preternatural senses.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, youngling,” the vampire answered as he brought his black stallion to a stop before her. “What have we here?”

  “M-my name is Lenore, sir. I’ve come from London.”

  “A Town vampire, e
h?” His cold, black eyes swept her bedraggled form. “I daresay you look a little shabby for a London blood drinker. May I see the writ of passage from your lord?”

  “I-I d-don’t have one, sir,” she stammered.

  He raised a brow and gave her a terrifying, cheerless smile. “You are a rogue then?” He climbed off his horse with predatory grace and stalked toward her. His dark shadow engulfed her like death’s cloak.

  “No! Please, sir,” she implored, “take me to the Lord of Rochester. I can explain everything!” And please, she prayed silently, let him be kinder and more merciful than you are.

  His mocking laughter chilled her bones. “Well, that will certainly be an easy task for me. I am the Lord of Rochester.”

  Lenore’s breath left her body in a rush. Of course, how could she not have known? His expensive horse and fine black clothing trumpeted wealth. His rich voice, straight shoulders, and stern countenance bespoke authority. Power rolled through him like silent thunder. Her legs turned to water and she fell to her knees.

  “Get up,” Rochester commanded. “I will decide whether or not you should fall to your knees in supplication, and I shall do so after you explain why you are here.”

  Lenore struggled to rise, but it was no use. Even bone-shattering terror couldn’t give her the strength to move. White spots flared in her vision like fireworks at Vauxhall. She pitched forward, her hands splaying in the icy mud.

  “Christ,” the Lord Vampire muttered before scooping her up in his arms. “Someone’s been starving you.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She gasped. “It was—”

  “Not another word until I get you to my manor. You’re in no position to offer explanations until you are warm and fed.” His grip tightened almost mercilessly. “And I do hope you can explain, Lenore.”

  As if in submission to his command, her weakness overtook her and she sank into blackness.

  Fifteen

  23 October 1823

  Cassandra fought to keep her hands from trembling as she raised the scalpel to make the final incision. This was it, the final operation. The delicate work on Rafe’s hand had been her largest concern. Thankfully, so far her efforts seemed to be successful, at least her surgical endeavors. She tried not to dwell on her failed attempts at seduction. Tried to focus on the fact that he was now able to move all five fingers on his left hand, and not on the fact that though he kissed her senseless every night, he still slept fully clothed in bed next to her every day.

  She gripped the scalpel tighter and chided herself for being so petty. She shouldn’t be obsessing over her lust for him. She needed to concentrate on her mission to heal him. All that was left were the extensor tendons, the largest and most difficult to deal with. If she didn’t work with utmost precision, the tendons could heal wrong and Rafe would be worse off than before.

  Only if she succeeded could she try once more to explore other parts of his anatomy. Looking down at his prone form on the operating table, she stroked the rough scars on his cheek and marveled at his savage beauty.

  Thank God she’d been able to get him unconscious with a blend of ether and laudanum that would doubtless be lethal on a human. As it was, he would be thoroughly muzzy-headed when he came to, which hopefully wouldn’t happen until she was finished. If he moved… She bit her lip and lowered the scalpel. She couldn’t afford to panic.

  Anthony blotted her damp forehead with a handkerchief. “Do not worry, my lady. You will do fine.”

  She looked up at the vampire with concern. Beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip and he was frightfully pale. They had been operating every night for the past week, and it was clearly taking a toll on Anthony. He had a pistol at the ready in case she decided to harm Rafe in his vulnerable state, but Cassandra doubted Anthony would be able to aim the weapon properly. All the same, she had nothing but respect for his loyalty.

  Guilt knotted her belly. Despite the cost for Anthony, she knew she wouldn’t do anything to slow her progress on Rafe, not when his complete recovery was nearly within her grasp. “What about you? We really should have given you more time to recover, or at least found another donor.”

  Anthony shook his head. “We likely could not have found another donor, especially one we can trust. As for waiting, that is entirely out of the question. Rafe must be healed as soon as possible. He has a bad feeling about the current state of events…and so do I.”

  “Do you mean Lenore’s disappearance?”

  “Among other things…of which I am not at liberty to speak.” He held up a large syringe full of his blood. “You had best get to work before our master rouses.”

  “You’re right.” She took a deep breath and made the incision, exposing the extensor tendons.

  The moment the inner workings of Rafe’s arm were revealed, the rest of the world fell away. Time ceased to exist as Cassandra put all of her concentration into her work, cutting, probing, and applying Anthony’s blood.

  When the last cut had knit together, she wiped the blood away and exhaled. As always, primal triumph surged through her body. It was done, and God willing, she had been successful.

  Rafe stirred, dark lashes lifting to reveal his piercing amber gaze. “Querida,” he whispered in a sultry, decadent voice. “Quiero hacerte el amor.”

  Cassandra wobbled on weak knees. “I-I beg your pardon?”

  He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “I apologize, Lady Rosslyn. I was dreaming. Are you finished now?”

  “Yes.” Unable to help herself, she ran a hand through his hair.

  Rafe raised both arms and spread them wide. “Amazing. I can move them equally now.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Although…I can’t yet feel either limb.”

  Cassandra’s heart fluttered at his smile. “I suppose we had best get you upstairs now so that Anthony may seek his meal.” If he has the strength, she added silently.

  As if he sensed her worry, Anthony gave her a stern look before hauling Rafe up and out of his seat. Unwilling to leave the care of her patient solely to another, Cassandra carefully ducked under Rafe’s shoulder and locked her arm around his waist. Together, she and Anthony led him down the hall and into the bedchamber.

  “I’ve never been so coddled,” Rafe murmured as they laid him on the bed.

  Anthony chuckled, but Cassandra saw that he was paler than before and his breath came in pants of exertion.

  She turned to face him. “I think you need to feed right away. You won’t make it past the street in your state.”

  Anthony raised a brow. “Are you offering?”

  “You had better not be,” Rafe growled from the bed and struggled to sit up, wincing in pain as the drugs wore off.

  She shook her head. “Of course not. I was merely suggesting he feed from Mrs. Smythe. I know you consider it to be bad manners, but this is an emergency and she should not be ill-affected.”

  Anthony nodded. “Very well, as I am already tupping her, a little bite shouldn’t be too much more of a breach in propriety.”

  Cassandra’s jaw dropped, but before she could respond, the vampire departed from the room, leaving her alone with Rafe…who was still staring at her intently.

  “You care for the welfare of my people,” he said softly.

  Her mouth went dry at the silken caress of his voice. “Of course I do.” Before she lost herself in his eyes, she changed the subject. “How are you feeling?”

  “The medicine has made me quite dizzy, though I’m afraid my muscles are already tightening up.” His stare intensified. “Are you able to attend to my other treatment now?”

  Was it her imagination, or was there heated interest in his gaze? Perhaps this was the time to venture further.

  Before her courage could abandon her, she answered, “Yes, but first I need assistance with my gown. It was difficult to move and reach the proper angle the last time.”

  At the
mere mention of the last time, her face heated and she turned her back to him. After the previous surgery she’d massaged him on the bed to better reach the muscles on his shoulder blades. His low sounds of pleasure had driven her mad with desire. Desire that remained unfulfilled when she put him to sleep with the laudanum.

  Now she would see if she could tempt him further.

  The bed creaked as Rafe sat up and unlaced her gown. She’d purposefully selected one that would be easy for him to unfasten in his soporific state. Once it was loosened, she allowed the thin muslin to pool at her feet. A wicked thrill ran up her spine as she bent over to remove her boots. Not daring to look back, she then reached back and unlaced her stays before slipping the garment off her shoulders and tossing it to the floor.

  Standing only in her chemise, she turned to face him. The hunger in his gaze turned her legs to custard. It took the utmost effort to speak. “If you would, ah, lie down on your stomach, I will proceed.”

  Rafe gave her a strange smile and complied. Her lips parted at the sight of his bronzed, muscled back. Cassandra sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on his smooth flesh. “Now where does it hurt most?”

  He seized her hand and pressed it below his shoulder blade. “Here.”

  She dug her fingers into the taut flesh, gratified to hear him groan with pleasure. “Yes, right there.”

  Unfortunately, the angle made her arm protest. Cassandra shifted to find a more comfortable position. She needed to be able to put her weight directly on the muscle. But the only way to do so would be to sit on him. She sucked in a breath at the thought.

  Rafe turned his head to look at her through a curtain of black hair. “Is there something wrong?”

  “I can’t seem to find a decent angle. Perhaps if I…” She trailed off, cheeks burning at the prospect of voicing such a brazen suggestion.

  “If you straddle me?” he finished, as if reading her mind. “Yes, that would probably work best.”