Blood - Blood Rose Part 11

"Open your gown." His voice was a hoa.r.s.e croak.

She saw him lick his lips and knew he could taste her there. Shakily, she attended to the sensible front b.u.t.tons. When her bodice sagged, he urged, "Play with your nipples while I eat you, sweet lark." "I couldn't possibly," she protested. But she wanted to. How delicious it would be to touch herself while he made love to her... And he was waiting for her to do it. The rogue probably wouldn't lick her again unless she did. She tipped her nose in the air. "I might...but only if you...you..." How embarra.s.sing to lose her nerve. But Swift laughed. "Only if I please you well enough. I d.a.m.n well love a challenge, sweet." He buried his face into her quim. Open wide, his mouth pressed to her, lips drawn taut and he rasped his tongue over her. Rough. Demanding.

Blast proprietary. Blast secrets. Serena didn't care if he did discover she was a vampire. She ground herself against his face, pumping on him, racing toward release, and she pinched her nipples mercilessly through her s.h.i.+ft.

The most erotic image came into her head-his c.o.c.k sliding into her mouth so she could suckle him.

G.o.d, yes, he groaned, as though he could see the image too. Yes, I'd love you to suck me.

Roughly, he squeezed her b.u.t.tocks. He pried her b.u.m cheeks apart, and the tug on her a.n.u.s was pure pleasure. He licked and tongue laved everywhere-over her c.l.i.toris, down to her pa.s.sage to thrust deep, then back to her tingling, aching c.l.i.t.

Despite his command, she let go of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She gripped his head, held him between her thighs, at just the right spot, so he was giving just the most perfect- Serena! Her name. Her Christian name. She'd heard his voice although he hadn't spoken, but he gave one hard suck and her body shattered.

Oh G.o.d! Beyond her control, her hips slammed into his face. Her cunny pulsed hard, over and over. She'd never known...this. Her mouth stretched wide. A scream flew out into the dark. Tears wet her lashes. They raced down her cheeks as the last spasms of exquisite pleasure died away.

Drake Swift sat back, holding tight on her hips. She'd clutched the table-she now felt the pain of wooden splinters driven beneath her fingernails. She hadn't even felt that!

But the realization of what she'd done chilled her. She'd read his thoughts. Only vampires were capable of that.

And he had seen her naughty thoughts. Vampires had the power to place their thoughts in a human's mind-they used the magical skill to compel and control a victim. Thought projection. She had read a dozen modern texts on the subject, all written by educated men trying to rationalize a power they couldn't understand. But there was no way for an ordinary, mortal woman to put her thoughts into a man's head- Swift straightened, and she had to tip her head back to look up at him. His blond hair grazed his shoulders-the shoulders she'd clung to for support. "I don't have to hunt for a while yet, tonight, sweet. Sommersby has gone to meet Ashcroft. Stay with me, sweetheart. Come to my bed."

Serena fought to find her voice. Her wrinkled skirts fell to the floor with a soft swish. Her thighs were sticky with the flood of her creamy juices. She couldn't go to his bed. At the base of her throat, her pulse fluttered wildly.

Sommersby had gone to meet with Ashcroft. The urge to flee overwhelmed and she quickly tried to take a step around Drake Swift. "No-no! I have to go! Now."

Somehow she had to escape.

But Swift's hand grasped her wrist. "Serena-Miss Lark. No. You must stay." Light fell across his eyes, and she could see them clearly. The green irises were enormous, and his pupils were tiny black dots. His words came slowly, a little slurred-he must have been drinking. That must be why he hadn't noticed she'd put her thoughts into his head-like a vampire. She had to escape before he remembered- The journal was still out on the table. Serena's stomach churned as she looked at it.

She now knew exactly why Lord Ashcroft had kept her alive. She was an experiment-he had been keeping her so Lord Sommersby's father could cut her to pieces and study her. Sommersby knew of his father's plans, but Drake Swift obviously didn't know the truth. Why hadn't Sommersby shared it with his partner? Was he afraid Drake Swift would help her-or was he afraid Drake Swift would kill her?

"I have to go!" The panic in her voice rang out through the laboratory.

Swift jerked his head, as though snapping himself to his senses. He released her hand. "Sweeting, it's all right. I'm sorry, I've scared you. You're an innocent and I am a reprehensible fiend. I will take you home."

Serena's fingers were shaking as she reached for the journal on the desk. She had to put it back-she couldn't take it. Darting away from Swift, she returned it to the shelf and gave a longing look at the hundreds of books. The other journals might be there...but she couldn't search now.

She heard the padding of Swift's feet across the floor, and she spun around. She backed away from him. Against her rib cage, her heart hammered. "I don't need you to take me home. I can get a hackney-I came in one."

Gathering her skirts, she turned and ran for the door. Even though she ran terribly fast for a woman, she wasn't certain she could outrun Drake Swift. At least she'd taken him by surprise.

"Miss Lark-wait."

She stumbled down the hall and saw a faint square of moonlight on the carpet ahead. Panting, she sprinted into that room, the one with the open drapes. Light spilled through terrace doors. Perfect.

Was Drake following her? Serena heard her name called softly again as she fumbled with the catch on the doors. They swung open without a sound. She ran out onto the small balcony, out to the corner. The stone post was rough under her hand as she clambered on top of it. She took one look down-at scratchy-looking bushes. The fall wouldn't hurt her.

Ruefully, she realized that if she became a vampire, she could just transform into a bat and fly away.

Closing her eyes, Serena jumped.

If she ran, where was she going to go?

Serena stared in frustration at the small pile of coins on her bedspread. This would hardly support her-it might buy her coach fare out of London, but not much more. It was all she'd saved out of the allowance paid to her by the Society for her work.

A soft rap came at the door. "Serena?"

Althea.

"A moment," Serena called. She slid all the coins into her right hand, then flung them in her dresser drawer. As she hurried past the cheval mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself. Scratches on her face-almost healed, but they made strange, red lines. Leaves in her hair. As for her gown, it looked as though she'd been dragged behind horses.

She was tempted to jump out of her window but knew that would be foolish. And hopeless. She turned the lock.

Althea surged into the room, belly tipped forward. "Where have you been, Serena-?" Althea stopped and clapped her hand to her mouth. "Ashcroft and Sommersby are here. Don't tell me you were breaking into Sommersby's house while he was here waiting for you."

"All right, I won't tell you." Serena brushed at the leaves in her hair.

Althea giggled. "Did you-did you find anything?"

"Only Drake Swift," Serena said. And regretted it. Color rushed to her face. What had she been thinking to speak of that?

"I see." Althea stroked her belly, and a wicked smile curved her lips. "Well, this just arrived for you-from Sommersby House. My, you are a sought-after lady tonight." Althea held out a folded paper.

Guiltily, Serena went to Althea so her friend would not have to walk across the entire room. "But shouldn't I go downstairs?"

Althea gave a mischievous smile. "They've waited an hour-there's no reason why they can't enjoy themselves with the brandy a little longer."

Serena tore the paper around the wax seal to open it. Inside, the writing was careful-a cramped hand with badly formed letters.

Miss Lark Mr. Swift arsked me to write this to ye. He wants ye to hunt at his side tomorrow night. This 'ere Lokkus is to be on a s.h.i.+p. Mr. Swift will come for ye at eight.

Hetty Wilson "He cannot read," Serena explained. "He must have asked the housekeeper to do it."

But why had he sent this? Was it because he wanted to help her...or hurt her? Or was it because they'd been intimate...and he wanted to see her alone?

Hot and sudden, the guilty flush hit her cheeks. Serena dipped her head away from Althea's curious gaze. "I suppose I'd best go down and face the Royal Society."

Fighting to appear calm, Serena dropped a curtsy to the n.o.blemen she feared wanted to destroy her.

Sommersby bowed to her, large and dominant even in Lord Brooks.h.i.+re's lavish gold and scarlet drawing room. She sat on the edge of the sofa, and Sommersby settled back into the largest wing chair in the room. The solid piece of furniture looked in peril beneath his powerful body.

In contrast, Lord Ashcroft looked like a walking cadaver. He did not rise for her, but his gaze never left her face. "Miss Lark, I will come directly to the point. You wished to hunt vampires with Lord Sommersby and Mr. Swift-you wished to become their partner. They are, without question, the most successful hunters in the history of the Society."

Perplexed, Serena glanced at Sommersby. He sipped his brandy, watching her.

A response seemed required, so she said, "Yes, and they refused me the opportunity." How long ago that had seemed! Only two months. She'd been desperate to hunt-determined to learn from legendary Sommersby and rebellious yet heroic Drake Swift. And the blasted arrogant men of the Society had laughed at her.

Sitting on the sofa, trying to look like a docile female, Serena seethed inside. Ashcroft had fed her venomous lies-he'd made her believe a vampire had killed her parents; he had made her yearn for the chance to hunt that vampire and get revenge.

But it was all a fabrication. He'd played upon her desperate need to know about her parents.

"I know you will be determined to hunt Lukos, Miss Lark," Ashcroft continued, and Serena bit her tongue. "But it is too dangerous for you to do this alone. While I respect your intelligence and your remarkable skill with research, you have no idea of the power you will confront."

"So you have come to forbid it? Lord Sommersby wished to have me locked in my bedchamber for my own good." She had to continue to let Ashcroft think she believed his lies. If she played along with their game, she could learn the truth. But if she lost this gamble, she ended up cut open. "I'm capable of hunting Lukos. I've been well trained by the Society." Serena played her part. "I certainly proved my abilities at the brothel."

At the word brothel, Lord Sommersby's gla.s.s burst with a delicate pop, and brandy spilled on his hand and sleeve. He waved his hand, sending a shower of droplets to the scarlet carpet.

Jonathon met Miss Lark's startled gaze. He almost lost himself in her magnificent eyes-so large, so lovely, and now looking at him as though he were a dangerous giant from a fairy tale. "Things are not made for hands like mine."

He could not find the next words that he'd planned. What was it about Serena Lark that made his tongue thicken, made him want to retreat back to his laboratory? Was it that "governess glare" she was giving him? He didn't trust governesses-his first had strapped him with abandon. He'd been too big and too b.l.o.o.d.y clumsy his whole life. Getting strapped hadn't made his legs any shorter, his hands any smaller, his body any less beyond his control.

Miss Lark possessed two frustrating abilities-to make him feel clumsy and to make him hot, hard, and d.a.m.nably aroused.

"You are to hunt with me, Miss Lark," he growled.

"Exactly," Ashcroft decreed. "I have decided it is the best way to keep you safe. And the most expedient way to draw out Lukos."

"It is not necessary, if his lords.h.i.+p's heart is not in it," Miss Lark declared. "Mr. Swift has already invited me to hunt with him."

Swift? d.a.m.nation, what in h.e.l.l was going on? Jonathon was not about to let Swift hunt alone with Serena Lark. Either Swift would discover she was a vampire or Swift would seduce her. And he wasn't about to let either happen. "Miss Lark, if you wish to hunt with us, you will take your orders from me."

Sparks shot from Miss Lark's silvery-gray eyes. He groaned softly. Every time he opened his mouth around women, he tended to lodge his boot firmly in place. It was why he belonged in the lab-his father was correct there. And why he hunted vampires. Vampires didn't expect witty conversation before a slaying.

"I am going to be your partner, my lord," Miss Lark said, and her honeyed voice sent a bolt of arousal through Jonathon that made him want to howl. "Partners do not take orders."

"In this case, Miss Lark, they do."

"The s.h.i.+p was found floating along the chalk bluffs of Dover. The captain was lashed to the wheel, but he was a mere corpse."

Jonathon nodded at Lord Denby's words-it was what he'd expected. Of all the Society's hunters, Denby was the one he trusted most.

Jonathon hunched his shoulders against the patter of the rain-it soaked into his beaver hat and the thick tiers of his greatcoat. Denby's cane hit the rain-slick cobbles at they strode down the narrow dockside lane. Fog billowed up toward them, wreathing the other dark shapes hurrying up and down the dank-smelling street.

Denby remarked cheerfully, "Well, Sommersby, had the Bonny La.s.s not been found and boarded, she would have floundered or smashed on the rocks. But they were searching for her after receiving your message, lad. And they found her."

"But no sign of Lukos, a coffin, or any trunks or belongings of his," Jonathon bit out. d.a.m.nation, he'd been too late, of course. There'd been no way to catch Lukos-it had been a desperate bid to fire off a missive to the magistrate in Dover. Jonathon knew he was playing a dangerous game-Ashcroft believed he wasn't going to hunt Lukos, but Lukos was his best chance of saving Miss Lark, and Jonathon couldn't trust that mission to anyone else. Denby was a good man whom he could trust.

"We suspect he sent everything else ahead, by a different s.h.i.+p. He had no pa.s.sage on this one-alas, the crew had no idea they had a demon on board with them."

"All dead."

"Aye. Each and all. Drained of their blood. Not all accounted for-a.s.sume that the first were buried at sea. Then, as it became evident they would all perish, they didn't bother with the dead." Fifty, grizzled, and silver-haired, the viscount appeared to make freetraders-smugglers-his quarry. Jonathon knew that wasn't entirely true. Vampires were spreading out from their apparent origins in the Carpathians; they had begun to cross to England's sh.o.r.es centuries ago, and Denby attempted to capture them before they landed.

"The captain's log?" Jonathon asked. His boots took heavy steps on the rough cobbles. Between them, he and Denby almost filled the lane, forcing others to skirt them. Dirty, rain-soaked buildings loomed around them. Laughter spilled out, and feminine screams-either mad laughter or pain, it was impossible to tell.

"Records the panic and the fear they felt," Denby said. "They thought it was a murderer amongst them-the captain slit the throat of one he suspected as his paranoia grew. And he shot the last one remaining but him in cold blood. Wrote it all down-a form of confession, I suppose."

"Catholic?"

"No, lad."

A man's religion was not relevant-the cross around the neck never stopped a vampire, at least not in his experience. He had slain dozens of vampires, but he still did not understand what a vampire really was.

The answer is in science, his father had insisted. The answers can only be found in study, in faith in the work.

How many brains had he sliced for his father's work? Hundreds. How many rancid corpses had he prodded, measured, dissected? An army's worth. And how many answers had he found?

None. Each clue he grasped at with a combination of hopeful faith and rational logic brought him nowhere.

"Lukos left the s.h.i.+p before it reached land," Jonathon mused. "He could have taken that final step in many ways-he could have swam for it, his disciples might have met him with a small boat. Or he transformed shape and flew-which I suspect is the most likely. So we're a step behind him-finding his victims."

Denby clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Relax, lad. There's information to be found here-the "ghost s.h.i.+p" is the talk of the docks."

Jonathon groaned. Another night spent gathering wild tales, most of which would be outright lies. A dozen drunks would claim to have seen the demon with their own eyes. He brushed his damp brow.

At the last place on the lane, outside a narrow curved window of thick gla.s.s in black frames, Denby tapped on the gla.s.s. "This is it."

On the inside, men's backs pressed up against the grimy windows. Over their heads, Jonathon could see the glint of lamplight in gla.s.ses hanging over the bar. A narrow little public house-the wall behind the bar couldn't be more than a dozen feet from the window.

Denby yanked the door open, and Jonathon stepped into the heat, the loud belligerent conversation. The smells of fried potatoes, spiced meat, and male sweat hit his nose. All around him, tankards sloshed their contents over the floor, as men conducted merry arguments.

Was there really a trail to Lukos to be found here? h.e.l.l, he wished he could be with Miss Serena Lark tonight.

She was with Swift-and his heart was hammering, his teeth on edge, the hairs on his neck p.r.i.c.kling. He wanted to see her, to rea.s.sure himself she was safe.

The drizzle, the fog, turned all around them into a blur. Serena held tight on the lapels of her pelisse and clutched her simple black umbrella. The cold seemed to run in her very blood. Whipping down the narrow lane, the wind blew the droplets right into her face. They dripped from her lips and lashes and ran down her nose, icy and irritating.

Drake Swift linked his arm in hers and laid his other hand over her trembling fingers. She avoided his eyes. His conduct had left her adrift, unsure how to behave. He'd been a complete and utter gentleman, acting with such cool deference she might have thought she'd imagined their entire scandalous encounter.

In complete bewilderment, Serena had tried to open conversation about everything but their intimacy. About Lukos. About where they were going. About what he and Lord Sommersby had learned. Mr. Swift had charmingly avoided her every question. Finally he had leaned forward in the carriage-he'd sat across from her, his back to the direction of motion. His great, black-clad hands had clamped on the seat on either side of her knees. She'd caught her breath, parted her lips, expecting a kiss.

Instead, he'd turned his intense green eyes on to her. Serena had felt her chest tighten. "Do you trust me, Miss Lark?" he'd asked.

No, in truth she did not. But she knew that was not the answer she needed to give.

"Why does it concern you that I might not?" she'd parried.

"Your answer is 'no,' then," he'd said. Then he slumped back against the carriage seat and propped his boot on the velvet cus.h.i.+ons. Stretching his arms along the back, he had flashed his devilish smile. He certainly looked every inch the gentleman in three-tiered greatcoat, trousers that clung to lean legs, and the obligatory s.h.i.+ning black boots.

And he looked so disappointed, she rea.s.sured, "I do trust you, Drake Swift."

Now, as they walked through the fog, Serena glanced at Mr. Swift-at the side of his face, the curl of his long lashes, the firm set of his lips, the high ridge of his cheekbone. She wished he would turn to her, yet, at the same time, she hoped he would not.

He pointed ahead, his face shadowed by the mist, the dark, and his tall beaver hat. "Here."

She eyed the blackened door warily. No light spilled out of the windows-black material shrouded them and hid all inside from prying eyes. The eyes of the law, no doubt.

"What is it? A tavern?"