Never Been Bit

by Lydia Dare

  If he was less of a gentleman, he’d have already had her in his bed.

  This gentleman facade would be his undoing.

  “Ye need no’ be so cross with me,” the little witch said beneath her breath.

  “I’m not cross with you,” he clarified. He was in lust for her. But certainly not cross. He picked up his wine goblet and lifted it to his lips. But it was all for show. He didn’t swallow or take a sip.

  “Ye’re very good at that,” she remarked.

  “Very good at pretending to be a gentleman? I do try,” he replied dryly.

  She frowned at his words. “Very good at feignin’ yer ability ta eat and drink,” she said, instead. Then she sighed heavily. “When was the last time ye fed?”

  “Tonight,” he clipped out.

  She choked. “Tonight? Was that where ye ran off ta?”

  “I didn’t run off,” he explained. “I was hungry, and I needed to feed.”

  “Who was she?” Sorcha’s biting tone took Alec off guard, and he finally looked down at her.

  “She?” he asked.

  “The one ye took from. I assume ye choose a lady. Blaire said ye always choose ladies. So who was she?”

  Blaire again? Who knew the warrior witch had the loosest lips? “The source of my meal would be none of your concern, Sorcha.” She wouldn’t let this one alone, he was certain.

  And he was right. She leaned closer to him, so close that her shoulder brushed his. “I wish ye would just take from me,” she whispered.

  Alec tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The very idea of taking her had consumed all of his thoughts since he’d arrived at Castle Hythe. Taking from Sorcha as he gave her pleasure would be the quintessential moment. He knew it would be for him. And he’d make it so for her.

  “Don’t make offers you can’t fulfill,” he warned.

  “I’m a Ferguson, and I would never make an offer I couldna make good on.” She looked mildly affronted.

  Good God! As proud a Scot as her father. Alec scrubbed a hand across his brow. “That wasn’t what I meant, lass. Just let it be, will you?”

  But she continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “I’m tryin’ ta help ye, Alec. It’s just a bit of blood. Besides, Kettering did it with Blaire. And Blodswell did it with Rhiannon. It canna be all bad.” She shrugged her delicate little shoulders.

  Oh, but it was bad. A bad idea for Sorcha. Taking blood served a need for Alec. It fed him, and he traded passion in return. But he would never expect a lady he truly respected and admired to be his next meal. “Let it be, Sorcha,” he warned. Already, his fangs were pricking at his upper lip, ready to make themselves known. That was the last thing he needed.

  “I’m jealous,” she said quickly.

  Alec stared down at her. Sorcha’s face was flushed, her freckles standing out in stark comparison across the bridge of her nose. “Jealous of?” he asked. He must sound like a half-wit. But he wasn’t following her thought process at all.

  “I doona want ye ta take from anyone else.” She shrugged her shoulders again. “I doona like the very idea. I doona want ye ta have someone else in yer arms.” She took a bite of her food and pretended they were having the same type of quiet conversation that all the other occupants of the table were having.

  “Why not?” Alec prodded. What did she mean by that? If he had a heart, it would be stamping a beat within his chest.

  She speared a carrot and ignored his gaze all together.

  “Sorcha?” he tried again.

  She laid her fork down. “I refuse ta spell it out for ye, Alec.” Then she pointed toward his plate. “What do ye plan ta do with that? Claim a stomach ailment?”

  He was much more interested in what she’d almost said, but she didn’t seem likely to say any more. So Alec grinned slowly. “No. Watch this,” he said. Faster than she could blink, he traded her plate for his. She looked up and down the table, but no one even noticed the switch. Alec couldn’t help but smile. Sorcha wouldn’t have noticed it either, if he hadn’t bade her to watch.

  “I had no idea ye could move so fast.” She grimaced down into her plate. “But I’m no’ certain I can eat this. I just finished mine.”

  She was tiny as a bird. No one would be surprised if she didn’t eat as much as a morsel. “Shove it around on your plate, then,” he groused. “Make a good show of it. Besides, with the gown you’re wearing, I doubt anyone is watching your plate.”

  “My dress is just fine,” she complained, but she did finally look at him as she said it.

  “Just fine if you want to get yourself tumbled.” He really should watch his tone, but it was blasted hard. Everything was hard. From the entire situation to his manhood. Thank God for draping table linens.

  “If I dinna ken better, I’d say ye are also jealous.”

  Perhaps he was. That was definitely possible. After all, he didn’t want other men gazing at her, certainly not the way Eynsford’s blasted brothers did.

  “Ye canna go and drink from a lass and then expect me ta be a paragon of virtue,” she warned.

  That did it. He tossed his napkin onto his plate. Alec wouldn’t have her think him a scoundrel, not for one more second. For some ungodly reason, her opinion mattered to him. He leaned close enough to murmur in her ear. “I didn’t take from anyone. I visited that little butcher shop you mentioned to me. And I had some blasted goat’s blood. Maybe even mixed with something else just as bad.” Vile stuff it was. But it quenched the thirst. Well enough, anyway.

  “That’s all I’ve had since I arrived at Castle Hythe.”

  “No maids? No widows? No whores?”

  What the devil? “Just what do you know about whores?”

  Following his lead, Sorcha tossed her napkin to her plate as well. “I ken a great many things, Alec MacQuarrie.” Then she pushed her chair back, nodded to the old codger who had somehow ended up on her left, and stalked from the dining hall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sorcha knew Alec had followed her. She could sense him a few paces behind her, but she refused to turn around. She couldn’t look at him. Not right now.

  Oh, she knew all about the gentleman’s club he frequented in London. Though “club” was a euphemism, according to Rhiannon and Lord Blodswell. The club was populated with whores waiting to give themselves up to vampyres, waiting to give themselves up to Alec in exchange for the pleasure he’d give them. That hadn’t bothered her until now.

  When she’d first learned of Brysi, she had been relieved that such a place existed. Relieved Alec had a sanctuary to escape to when he needed to do so. Relieved that he wasn’t forced to scour the darkness in search of a meal. Of course, Rhiannon loathed the club and all its offerings and had shocked her husband with a slight jolt of lightning for having mentioned the club to Sorcha in the first place.

  But now… Well, she had been honest at dinner. She was jealous. Jealous of each whore at Brysi who had found pleasure in Alec’s arms. She knew she was being irrational. She had no right to be angry about the time he spent at his club. No right to be jealous of women who had shared their life’s blood with him. But she was anyway.

  Irrationally jealous. Foot-stompingly jealous. Rip-a-lass’- hair-out jealous.

  All things considered, it would be best if she escaped to the safety of her chambers and stayed there the rest of the night. Perhaps under the morning light, her good sense would be returned to her and she could have a rational conversation with Alec, instead of appearing to be a spoiled child who didn’t like sharing her playthings.

  “Sorcha!” Alec called after her.

  But she shook her head, not trusting herself to utter a word to him. She made it as far as her chamber before his hand on her shoulder halted her.

  “Why are you running from me?” He muttered so quietly in her ear that gooseflesh rippled across her skin.

  “I doona wish for company, Alec,” she bit out.

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders and he stepped closer to her, dr
awing her back against his front. Sorcha closed her eyes, wishing she didn’t revel in the feel of him as much as she did. When had life become so complicated? She’d come to Kent to capture a Lycan husband, and she now found herself standing in darkened corridors with a vampyre. The same vampyre she was unreasonably jealous over. The same vampyre who loved Cait, despite his protestations otherwise. The same vampyre who had throngs of whores waiting to be taken by him.

  “You’ve been tempting me all evening, Sorch.”

  Only because the women in his club were too far away.

  “You were supposed to save me a dance at least. Remember?”

  Sorcha stepped out of his hold and grasped the cold door handle. “Next time, perhaps.” Then she slipped through the door and shut it before she could do something foolish like toss her arms around him and beg to be kissed.

  She flopped onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Congratulations, Sorcha,” she muttered. “Ye’ve made a fine mess out of everythin’.”

  *

  Lying in his bed, Alec stared up at the ceiling, exhausted and more than a little irritable. He’d stayed up nearly half the night, wondering what he had done wrong the previous evening. One moment Sorcha might as well have offered herself to him on a platter, and the next she was fleeing to the safety of her bedchamber. He’d misstepped somewhere. That much was obvious.

  Until recently, he’d thought he understood women. Then there had been the debacle with Cait. The insanity of Blaire and Rhiannon both giving themselves to vampyres. And now this, whatever this was, with Sorcha. Apparently, he didn’t understand a damned thing. He doubted he ever had.

  He’d just been fooling himself for years.

  That was certainly a lowering thought, especially since all he had to look forward to were more years than any mortal could dream of. Was the rest of his existence going to be one unpleasant surprise after another? Would nothing ever make sense?

  A scratch sounded at his door, but before he could respond, the door opened and his valet, Forbes, strode over the threshold, looking as cheerful as the sunniest country morning. Alec scowled at the man. How dare Forbes get a restful night of sleep, while Alec had tossed and turned until after sunrise?

  “Out,” Alec ordered.

  “About that, sir,” the valet began, his voice nearly singsongy happy. Alec hated him at that moment. “Her Grace called for her lady’s maid and gave her strict orders to find me and to make sure I had you ready for a private breakfast. I’m supposed to send you to her immediately.”

  The duchess might scare a great many people, but Alec wasn’t one of them. “I said, ‘out,’” he reminded his man.

  But Forbes ignored him and opened the nearest wardrobe to remove Alec’s dark grey jacket. “A bit morbid for the country, don’t you think, sir?” He smoothed a hand across the front.

  “No.” After all, grey was quite fitting for his mood.

  “Well, in any event.” Forbes laid the jacket over the closest chair back. “Her Grace is annoyed that you never have breakfast in the breakfast room.” He opened a drawer and retrieved a snowy cravat. “She must just be there at a different time than you, sir. For some reason, she thinks you take breakfast in your chambers.” Forbes laughed as though that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

  “Don’t know where she’d get that idea. I would know if you ate breakfast in your room, now wouldn’t I?”

  “I’m not hungry this morning. Do send my regards.”

  Forbes shook his head. “Can’t do that, sir. Hilda, the duchess’ lady’s maid, that is. Anyway, Hilda said if I didn’t have you in the duchess’ private sitting room looking your most handsome, I’d have to answer to her.” The valet shivered dramatically. “Hilda fits her name, sir. There are some people I wouldn’t mind answering to, but that woman isn’t one of them. She’s terrifying.”

  “You’re terrified of a lady’s maid called Hilda?” Alec leaned up on his elbows. Annoyed and tired as Alec was, Forbes had somehow managed to make him smile.

  “I don’t think Gentleman Jackson could take her, sir. In fact, I’d put my money on Hilda.”

  Alec sat up completely and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Please don’t let anyone else hear that you’d wager good funds on a lady’s maid called Hilda pummeling the life out of Gentleman Jackson. They’ll think you’ve gone daft.”

  Forbes folded his arms across his chest. “Not if they saw her, Mr. MacQuarrie. Not if they saw her. Now come closer to the window so I can shave you properly. Hilda said you should look your most handsome.”

  Alec snorted. “You’re to be the judge of whether or not I’m my most handsome?”

  His valet scowled at him. “Well, sir, you’re not the sort I usually fancy, but as I have taken good care of you for the last decade or so—I think I’m reasonably qualified to know if you’re turned out looking your best or not.”

  Begrudgingly, Alec slid from the bed and moved to a chair close to the window. The sun glinted off his ancient signet ring, and Alec ran a finger over the engraved griffin on the side. Then he prepared himself to suffer Forbes’ ministrations. Breakfast in the duchess’ private sitting room. He’d endured worse in his life, but he still wasn’t looking forward to placating Her Grace so early in the morning, especially as he had gone most of the night without sleep, and especially as Sorcha’s image kept flashing in his mind.

  Yet, thirty minutes later, he rubbed his cleanly shaven jaw as he traversed the corridors toward the duchess’ suite of rooms and pondered why on earth the duchess would summon him to her sitting room so early in the morning. Or summon him to her sitting room at all. He’d already given her the blasted surprise, which he’d thought had pleased her a great deal. Certainly she’d not found disfavor with him over his dining habits? She didn’t even know the worst of them.

  The duchess’ personal footman opened the door with a most ominous look on his face as Alec approached the sitting room. The man knew something was happening.

  Alec could nearly feel the reproach rolling off him in waves.

  Alec stopped short before he reached the sitting room.

  He could hear loud sniffling and the snort of a person who was softly crying. “Pray tell me that noise is not what I think it is,” he mumbled to the footman.

  “I would if I could, sir,” the man said, his expression still stoic despite the absurdity of the situation.

  Whatever this was about, Alec wanted nothing to do with it. He turned from the door, but the footman stepped between him and the exit. Between him and safety. “I suggest you remove yourself from my path,” Alec warned.

  “I would happily take your suggestion, sir,” the footman said as sweat broke out across his forehead. “But I fear for my safety much more with the duchess than I do against you.”

  Alec had to give the man credit for being astute. The duchess was a formidable woman, after all. But still, what the devil did crying chits have to do with him? He supposed there was no other way to find out, so Alec straightened his jacket and stepped closer to the door. The sniffling was definitely coming from inside the room. As well as the highpitched whine of a distressed female. “How many are there?” he clipped out, his question aimed at the footman.

  “Several,” the man warned. “God be with you.” Then he bowed and stepped from the threshold. Alec could just imagine him on the other side of the door, standing sentinel should Alec try to escape. A vampyre could take a footman down. But would that be in his best interests? Probably not.

  Alec stepped into the sitting room. The duchess paced from side to side across the length of the room. If she didn’t slow down, she’d wear a hole in the Aubusson rug beneath her feet. She did stop and glare at him when he coughed quietly into his hand to make his presence known.

  “I have gone to great lengths to keep this meeting private,” the duchess said, her face a cold mask that barely concealed her fury. Or Alec assumed it was fury. It could have been hatred. Or just as likely
disgust.

  “If you’re in need of privacy, I’d be happy to leave,” Alec remarked dryly.

  The duchess was not amused. Not a bit. She pointed to the pair on the settee, who Alec vaguely recognized as some Welsh baron’s wife and her daughter. “You’re obviously familiar with Lady Overton and Miss Overton.”

  Obviously familiar? What an odd statement. He’d seen them both at the house party. And had even danced once with the daughter at Rhiannon’s wedding ball. But, if he remembered correctly, he’d returned the chit quite directly to her mother after she’d whispered some most inappropriate things to him during a waltz. He bowed lightly to the two ladies. “Good morning,” he tried.

  “What’s good about it?” the baroness shot back at him.

  Then her eyes filled with tears again, and she began to snuffle into her handkerchief.

  “There, there,” the duchess soothed as she patted the woman’s shoulder. “Mr. MacQuarrie, do take a seat.” She motioned toward a high-backed chair not far from where he stood.

  “I’d prefer to stand, thank you,” Alec said. Running away quickly would be much easier if he was already standing.

  “Sit,” the duchess barked.

  He was a vampyre, for God’s sake. Not a Lycan who could be trained to sit, stay, and roll over. But he dropped into a chair anyway.

  Her Grace took a deep breath. “We all know why we’re here.”

  “We do?” Alec broke in. He had no idea why he was there.

  “You do not play ignorant well, young man,” the duchess warned.

  Well, he should be thankful for that, shouldn’t he? “Your Grace, if you might tell me why I’m here, I’m certain I’ll fully understand in time. I must have forgotten.” Forgotten that he’d hidden a body. Forgotten that he’d caused grievous harm to these women. Had he done something? Certainly not that he could remember.

  “You’ve forgotten me already?” Miss Overton cried, which started a fresh round of tears.

  Alec inhaled deeply. Though he no longer needed the breath, it did help to calm him. He lifted his hands, palms up, at the duchess. “Please take pity on me and tell me what the devil is going on,” he pleaded.