by Lydia Dare
His teeth ached almost as much as his manhood. The essence of her called to him. He wanted to partake of every part of her, from her drugging kisses to her sweet little derriere, and he wanted to kiss all the places in between.
But then he heard the beat of hooves on the road behind them. “Sorch,” he groaned.
“What?” she breathed back.
“We can’t do this,” he said as he pulled her arms from his waist where they still roamed, driving him crazy.
“All right,” she acquiesced breathlessly as she let him set her from him. She swayed only slightly before she reached up to touch her lips with her fingertips. Then her eyes met his. And he wanted to drag her back into his arms.
Radbourne and his motley twin brothers pulled up short beside the coach and took in the scene before them. The twins instantly put their heads together and began to talk.
Radbourne walked his mount toward Sorcha. If he put one finger on her, Alec would rip his head from his wolfish shoulders. “Did you have trouble with the coach?” the viscount asked.
“No.” Sorcha dragged her eyes from Alec to focus on the three wolves. “I had trouble with Mr. MacQuarrie,” she sighed. “I was just about ta walk home. He’s a beastly man when he’s in a temper.”
“Then allow me to be your knight in shining armor,” Radbourne said.
Knight in shining armor? Alec somehow managed not to snort. His maker had been a benevolent knight in the service of Richard the Lionheart and had followed his King into battle. Viscount Radbourne was a poor imitation of the Earl of Blodswell or any other man of his stature.
The viscount kicked his foot out of the stirrup, where Sorcha replaced it with her own, and pulled her up in front of himself with very little distress. Alec was plenty distressed, though, by the fact that her skirts only hung to her midcalf as she straddled Radbourne’s mare. Damn lucky horse. Alec shook the highly inappropriate thought away.
“Sorcha,” he began. He’d yank both of them from the saddle if Radbourne didn’t unhand her.
“You look like you could use a moment to collect yourself, MacQuarrie.” The viscount flashed his pearly white teeth at him. Alec realized that not only did he have a raging manhood that was most obviously drawing attention, but he also had descended incisors. “You’ll want to take care of that before you return to Castle Hythe. Bring the groom with you?” Radbourne tossed over his shoulder as he kicked his horse into movement.
Bloody hell, he’d made a mess of things. Alec seethed as he watched the blasted pack ride off with Sorcha. How could she kiss him, run her hands across him, drive him to the brink of madness, and then ride off so willingly with those mutts? But he already knew the answer. She was right where she wanted to be. In the company of drooling, flea-ridden wolves.
*
Sorcha was finally right where she’d always wanted to be.
For nearly a year, she’d plotted and planned, looking for opportunities to locate the Lycan she was destined to spend her life with. She sagged against Lord Radbourne’s very hard, very warm chest and closed her eyes, blocking out the dark countryside they passed. Now that she was right where she’d wanted to be for so long—specifically, in the arms of a Lycan—all she could think was that it wasn’t where she belonged at all.
Havers! She’d kissed Alec! Caitrin’s Alec, not that he belonged to her friend, but still she’d always thought of him in those terms. Mo chreach! She’d actually pulled his head down to hers and she’d kissed him. She’d kissed him! What was worse was that she didn’t feel bad about it at all.
At least she didn’t think she did.
On the contrary, it had been heavenly. Her first kiss, and it had been perfect.
Even through the fine lawn of his shirt, she’d felt the muscles of his chest and back with her fingertips, and she’d held on for dear life, clutching him to her, wishing she never had to let him go. But then she had. His voice had seeped into her consciousness, telling her they shouldn’t. And her heart had nearly broken. What a foolish thing to have done! What madness had driven her to kiss Alec MacQuarrie? Of all the men of her acquaintance, she had kissed the one man—no, vampyre—whose heart was irrevocably lost to her or anyone else. It was utter insanity.
“You do seem prone to finding trouble, lass.”
Radbourne’s husky voice broke her from her reverie. His breath warmed her cheek, and Sorcha’s eyes flew open to find the viscount staring down at her with a most concerned expression.
She forced a smile to her lips, hoping he wouldn’t see through her feigned cheerfulness. After all, this was the man she was supposed to be trying to charm, not a brooding vampyre who was incapable of loving her. “I doona ken what ye mean, my lord.”
He refocused on the road before them, fanning his hand across her middle and securing her against him. “Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean, sweetheart. First, you beguiled a groom who is quite possibly half in love with you and willing to face the wrath of the dragon who is the Duchess of Hythe to win your favor. And then there’s MacQuarrie. Between you, Cait, and Rhiannon, I can’t help but wonder if all you Scottish lasses have the ability to enchant poor men with only the bat of those absurdly long eyelashes.”
Sorcha’s heart leapt to her throat. Alec? Could she enchant him? Had Radbourne possibly seen some sign of affection, some sign that Alec had felt a bit of what she’d experienced in his arms? Was that too much to hope for?
“MacQuarrie?” she echoed, hoping her voice hadn’t cracked on Alec’s name.
A grin quirked on Radbourne’s face and he glanced down, only briefly, to catch her gaze. He was a striking man with those dark amber eyes and that strong chin. Why wasn’t she swooning just from being in his company? From being held so closely to him and inhaling his woodsy scent?
From feeling his warmth penetrate through her pelisse and the gown that was hiked up to her knees to sit astride his horse? Lord Radbourne was the embodiment of what she’d dreamt about since she met her first Lycan. With only the bat of her eyes, she could try to enchant him as he’d suggested, yet she didn’t feel the urge to do so. Not now, at any rate.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what you just did to him.”
Pretend? She didn’t have a clue. What had she done?
What had Radbourne seen? “I assure ye, sir, I doona ken what ye’re talkin’ about. Perhaps ye’ve imbibed too much this evenin’. My brother has a habit of doin’ that himself.”
Radbourne chuckled. “I assure you, Sorcha, I never get foxed. High tolerance for spirits,” he explained. “My, you are a little minx, aren’t you?”
“I doona think I am.” And she didn’t. No one had ever said so before. Weren’t minxes akin to sirens or such things? She was just… Sorcha.
“Well, I am certain of it.” The viscount frowned as they passed through the gates of Castle Hythe and the pebbled path crunched beneath the horse’s hooves. “I know you think you know that creature back there, but I assure you he isn’t the man you once knew. It would be best if you kept your distance from MacQuarrie—and all other vampyres, for that matter. A little thing like you would merely be a between-meal snack for his kind.”
A snack for Alec? A giggle escaped her throat. “He would never hurt me.” At least she didn’t think he would. Of course, an hour ago she wouldn’t have thought he would have kissed her, either. However, she had started those dealings hadn’t she? Yet, he had kissed her in return.
“I’m serious, sweetheart. I’d rather not have to explain the evening’s events to Eynsford. You know how hearing MacQuarrie’s name can set him off like nothing else. So, please promise me you’ll stay away from the bloodsucker. I’d rather keep my head on my shoulders where it belongs.”
Havers! Eynsford. Sorcha somehow managed not to groan. Caitrin, the seer, would already know everything.
There was never a way to hide anything from her. But would she have confided all to her husband? If Cait thought getting her wolfish husband involved was in Sorcha’s best
interest, she would have. “It’s probably too late for that.”
“For keeping my head on my shoulders?” Radbourne’s voice raised an octave. “I do hope not. I rather like it where it is.”
She certainly couldn’t explain what she’d meant by that.
None of Eynsford’s half brothers knew about Cait’s powers of second sight or about the coven. “Of course ye do. It’s a very handsome head. I’d hate for ye ta lose it as well.”
The viscount dipped his very handsome head closer to hers and whispered, “Did you notice my brother’s face? Weston, I mean. The scar across his cheek?”
How could she miss it? The line stretched from his ear to his mouth. It was a most notable disfigurement, though it made him appear dangerous and dashing at the same time. She nodded.
“One of MacQuarrie’s kind did that to him. With only her fingernail. And we can heal from anything. Imagine what could happen to a sweet thing like yourself, Sorcha. Vampyres are not to be trifled with.”
“But Lord Blodswell and Lord Kettering,” she began as they reached the stables. “They became human once more.”
“Anomalies, sweetheart. Blodswell was just as surprised by his transformation as anyone else. No one, not even a vampyre, has ever heard of such things before. It wouldn’t do for you to pin your hopes on such a probability.”
No, it wouldn’t. But if it was possible, if Alec could be transformed back… she knew what to look for, didn’t she?
Both Kettering and Blodswell had suffered chest pains before becoming human again. Elspeth believed their hearts had been flexing, preparing to beat once more after each had met his true love. And Blodswell had suffered from headaches and the inability to drink from anyone other than Rhiannon. If Alec began to show such signs, Sorcha would certainly recognize them.
Radbourne swung from his saddle and offered his hand to her. “You look a million miles away.”
Sorcha accepted his assistance and landed safely on her feet. “Just woolgatherin’.”
One dark brow rose in mild amusement. “Somehow that statement terrifies me.”
“Well, then ye frighten too easily, Archer.” She grinned up at him, so handsome and wolfish, and wished she felt something for him. A fluttering in her belly. A dryness in her mouth. Something other than a simple appreciation of his sense of humor and wolfish nature.
Sticking to her original course would be so much simpler.
Find a Lycan and help make him fall in love with her. This Lycan would probably make a fine husband, in fact. But all she could think about was the brooding vampyre somewhere behind them in the darkness of Kent and the soul-searing way his kiss had stolen her breath.
Radbourne tipped his hat in farewell as he remounted.
“Do remember what I said.”
“Of course,” she agreed with a nod. “I’m certain I will find it very difficult ta think of anythin’ else.”
At that moment, both Hadley twins rode up behind them.
“Pray say you’ll save me a dance tomorrow evening, Miss Ferguson?” unscarred Grayson Hadley asked.
Weston Hadley’s face dropped. “I was going to ask her, Gray.”
His twin shrugged. “I usually beat you out, Wes.”
How strange life was turning out to be. She had not one Lycan’s attention, but three. Sorcha shook her head with a laugh. “Thank ye both for the flattery. I would be honored ta dance with each of ye tomorrow.” A few hours ago she would have been floating up to the clouds with this, heady from her spectacular success. But something else now weighed her down. She turned her attention once again to the viscount. “Will ye tell Cait that I would like very much ta speak with her?”
“It’ll be my honor, sweetheart.”
“And tell her I willna appreciate it if she puts me off again.”
She could tell Radbourne bit back a grin because his amber eyes twinkled with mirth. “I shall toss her over my shoulder and personally deliver her to you in the morning, Sorcha. Will that do?”
She couldn’t help but giggle at that particular image.
Blast, why didn’t Lord Radbourne make her heart leap?
“That will do very nicely, sir.”
Chapter Seven
Alec managed to unfold the Hythe’s groom from the ducal carriage and left him to sleep off the remnants of whatever Sorcha had used to drug the poor lad. For a moment he watched the young man’s chest rise and fall with each breath he took in his deep slumber.
Finally, filled with the most bizarre sense of jealousy, Alec stalked back toward the castle. He snorted at his own foolishness. Jealous of a poor, uneducated English groom.
But the man would sleep peacefully, and Alec was certain that particular luxury was not in his immediate future. Not after he’d kissed Sorcha. Not when all he could think about was tasting her on his tongue. Not when he needed every bit of strength he had to keep from marching up to her room and finishing what they started that evening.
But that would be the most foolish thing he could do. She was Sorcha, for God’s sake. He’d known her since her birth. And, despite her wholly intoxicating and innocent kisses, she wanted someone else, something else. And he’d gone down that road before. He knew how that particular story ended, and it wasn’t in his favor.
He stalked toward the garden path and glared up at the night sky. The damned moon was nearly full. A few more nights and those drooling beasts she seemed so enamored with would transform into actual snarling wolves.
After this evening’s debacle, he could well imagine her finding a way to place herself directly in their path. And then… well, then she’d be forever lost. No longer the sweet, innocent he adored, the lass he cared so much for.
Alec couldn’t allow that to happen. But he also couldn’t allow himself to care for her anymore than he already did.
Ruin lay down that road. He needed to think. He needed to feed. Butcher shop in the village. Sorcha’s melodic voice echoed in his ears. Damn it all to hell. He’d already determined that there was no one in the tavern he could take from. So he didn’t really have a choice, did he?
Besides, he really should retrieve the horse he’d ridden into Folkestone and keep Bexley from wondering what had happened to him.
Alec looked over his shoulder to make certain no one was about in the garden. Certain no one would see his rapid disappearance, he bolted off in the direction of the village and that damned butcher shop.
He grumbled to himself as he picked the lock of the darkened building, searching for his evening meal. He could have been at home where he could partake of all the wenches he wanted at Brysi, the club for those of his kind. It was a veritable fountain, with Cyprians lining up to share the pleasure that came with coupling with a vampyre. There was no desperation in those women’s eyes. There was no fear. No enchantment was needed to get one of them to accept him. In fact, he’d become something of a legend at Brysi, known for his stamina and the amount of pleasure he could give a wench in exchange for her life force. But here he was, stuck in Godforsaken nowhere and forced to scour a butcher shop to find sustenance.
He shivered lightly. Lamb had been one of his favorite meals when he was alive. But not anymore. Thankfully, everything he needed was right there before him. Except for a warm body to drink from. Perhaps that was better, because the very thought of a warm body made him think of Sorcha.
Sorcha… What would she think if she could see him now? Standing in a butcher shop, partaking of his evening meal. Hell, the chit had come up with the idea. And it was bloody brilliant. He wouldn’t have to face the conscience of a single whore. Nor that of a single widow. He wouldn’t deflower a single innocent.
But the very thought of Sorcha made his body react. He’d known as soon as he’d volunteered to give her first kiss that he was dicked in the nob. She should have shrunk shyly away from him. But no. Not Sorcha. She had to throw her whole self into it. Every delectable inch of herself.
He glanced down at the glass of lifegiving fluid he si
pped from a cup there in the dark. It would be so easy to blame the whole encounter on the wood sprite. But, truth be told, he’d wanted to kiss her as badly as she’d wanted to be kissed. How the devil had that happened? If someone had asked him only hours earlier how he felt about Sorcha Ferguson, he’d have said she was a very nice lass. Now all he could think was that she was a sorceress in the disguise of a young maiden, one who was bent on his destruction.
He could still taste her on his tongue, even after his second glass of animal blood. She had tasted as good as she smelled. Why hadn’t he ever noticed her smell before?
Three things he’d discovered about Sorcha—she smelled like apple blossoms, had freckles that he’d bet covered more than that pert little nose, and she was bent on selfdestruction.
Alec muttered as he let himself out of the butcher shop and stepped into the darkened street. He startled when a voice spoke from the darkness. “What on earth were you doing in there?” Bexley asked. Of course, someone would catch him. And, with his good fortune, it would be the Duchess of Hythe’s grandson, a known reprobate and defiler of women.
Alex could already imagine the conversation they might have. Well, Bexley, you remember that chit you saw with your sister, Miss Ferguson? Well, I want to drink her blood. But I settled for the stores the butcher had set aside. Aren’t you glad you asked?
He snorted out loud instead. Not very gentlemanly of him.
Not at all.
“Are you foxed?” Bexley asked when he got nothing from Alec.
God, he wished he was foxed. It would be so easy if he could wash his troubles away with a bottle of whisky. But he was doomed to live this life where he couldn’t imbibe spirits, couldn’t eat real food, and couldn’t partake of Sorcha Ferguson. “No, I’m not foxed,” he finally said.
“What were you doing in the butcher shop?”
Bexley wasn’t going to let this die, was he?
“I just got a little turned around,” Alec mumbled.
“You mistook the butcher shop for the tavern?” Bexley asked and then laughed so hard he bent at the middle, clutching his stomach.