The Vampire Who Loved Me Page 5

  He gazed into the cold hearth, locking his hands at the small of his back. “Are you absolutely certain they were killed by a vampire?”

  “Beyond any shadow of a doubt,” Portia informed him, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “And I can assure you that these women were not willing victims eager to surrender themselves to the vampire’s kiss. Their hands were bloody, their fingernails torn. They all fought quite passionately and courageously for their lives.” Although she knew it was madness, she could not seem to stop herself from creeping closer to him. “Did you do it, Julian? Did you slaughter those poor, helpless creatures?”

  He turned and lifted his dark-lashed eyes to her. “You believe me capable of such a crime and yet you sought me out tonight? Why would you be so foolhardy?”

  How could she explain her unshaken faith in him? Her unswerving belief that he would not harm her? Not even when she knew exactly what he was capable of. “I didn’t believe you would hurt me.”

  “I’ve already hurt you.” His heavy-lidded gaze flicked to her throat, avoiding her eyes. “You’ve still got the scars to prove it.”

  Portia touched her fingers to the faded marks to still their tingling, wishing she had never surrendered her choker on the gambling table. Without it, she felt exposed. Naked.

  She forced herself to lower her hand and lift her chin, boldly meeting his gaze. “I came here tonight because I had to make sure that you didn’t kill those women. I’m the one who kept you alive in that crypt all those years ago. If you take an innocent life now, then I’m just as responsible as you are.”

  He drew nearer, his shadow falling over her. His voice was a husky lullaby, perfectly pitched to lure a woman to either delight or doom. “But what if I did kill them? What if I stalked them through the night, haunted their every step, just waiting for them to hesitate or stumble so I could make them mine?” Bracing his hands against the window frame behind her, he lowered his head, brushing his cheek against hers. His flesh should have been cold, but it was warm, burning with an unnatural fever that threatened to incinerate her every defense. As his parted lips grazed the downy flesh behind her ear, a primal shiver that had little to do with fear raked through her. “What’s to stop me from doing the same to you?”

  “This,” she whispered, pressing the sharp point of the stake she had just drawn out of her reticule against his heart.

  He went as still as a statue. She expected him to jerk away from her so she could begin to think about breathing again. But he simply spread his arms in surrender, his smile as lethal a weapon as the stake in her hand. “If you’ve come here to finish me, then let’s have done with it, shall we? My heart, as you well know, Bright Eyes, has always been yours for the asking. Or the staking.”

  As badly as she wanted to believe him, Portia suspected he’d offered that same heart to a multitude of women, only to yank it out of their hands as soon as they dared to reach for it—or the next morning after they’d awakened in his bed, dazed from blood loss but satisfied beyond their wildest dreams.

  “If you were as eager for oblivion as you’d like me to believe,” she replied, “you’d simply take a morning stroll in the sunshine.”

  Despite his crooked smile, Julian’s eyes were oddly somber. “Would you mourn me after I was gone? Would you scorn every man who tried to win your heart and squander your youth weeping over my grave?”

  “No,” she retorted sweetly, “but if one of my more ardent suitors should ever give me a cat, I might consider naming it after you.”

  “Perhaps I should leave you with something else to remember me by.” Ignoring the press of the stake against his vulnerable breastbone, he leaned even closer.

  As the seductive scents of port and spice soap and tobacco enveloped her, Portia felt her lips part and her eyes began to flutter shut against her will. That was all the distraction Julian needed. One dizzying blur of movement and he was holding both the stake and her reticule, leaving her empty-handed.

  As he backed away from her, taking his seductive fragrance with him, Portia settled back against the windowsill, blowing a stray curl out of her eyes. “That was a bit unsporting of you, don’t you think?”

  Eyeing her disbelievingly, he held up the stake. “More unsporting than you threatening to impale me with a pointy stick?”

  She shrugged, her delicate sniff less than penitent. “A lady has every right to defend herself against unsought advances. And creatures of the night.”

  Apparently, he had no argument for that because he simply rested the stake and reticule on the table and began to root around in the bulging purse. His hand emerged with one of the delicate scent bottles that had become so popular with the young ladies.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t bother with that,” Portia quickly said as he withdrew the stopper and brought the bottle to his nose. “That’s just my lavender—”

  She winced as he recoiled from its contents, baring his teeth in an involuntary grimace.

  He rammed the stopper back into the bottle, shooting her an accusing glare. “Nothing like a dab of holy water behind the ears to stir a young man’s fancy.”

  He gingerly set the bottle aside before reaching back into the reticule. He was rewarded for his successive forays into its silken interior with a miniature stake no larger than a quill pen, a sheathed dagger, three leather garrotes of varying lengths, and an elegant pearl-handled flintlock pistol just large enough to hold a single pistol ball.

  Studying the mini-arsenal displayed on the table, Julian shook his head. “Prepared for all eventualities, aren’t you, my dear?”

  Portia didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “You should see what I can do with a hatpin.”

  “You are full of surprises, aren’t you, pet?” His bemused gaze took a languorous journey from the snug bodice of her gown to her dainty little kid boots. “Just what other weapons do you have stashed under there?”

  “Keep your distance and you won’t have to find out.”

  “Am I to assume that my brother has recruited you for his vampire hunting enterprise?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Not exactly. Well, at least not yet,” she amended. “But I believe it’s only a matter of time before he realizes what an asset I could be.”

  He surveyed her with grudging admiration. “And to think I was worried about what those rogues at the gambling hell might do to you. I should have been worried about what you might do to them.” He trailed his hand down the length of the stake. “Or what you might do to me.”

  Portia jerked her gaze away from the long, elegant fingers wrapped around the smooth shaft of wood, flushing to the roots of her hair. “If I’d have come here tonight to stake you, you’d already be dust.”

  “Or I’d have had some dinner to go along with my wine.” The mocking glitter in his eyes made it impossible to tell if he was teasing her or threatening her.

  She gave him a cheery smile. “If you’re hungry, I’d be more than glad to run down to the nearest butcher shop and fetch you some rare roast beef or a nice kidney pie.”

  “I had something a little fresher in mind.” His gaze flirted with her throat again. “Something sweeter.”

  Her smile faded. “Is that what you were looking for when you murdered those women?”

  “Is that what you believe?”

  “I don’t know,” she confessed, turning back to the window and edging aside the crepe to escape his penetrating gaze.

  A lone man was melting out of the shadows that draped the alley below.

  “Oh, no,” she breathed. “It can’t be him. He swore he wasn’t coming until morning.”

  “What is it?” Instantly alert, Julian glided up behind her, making the tiny hairs on the back of her neck shiver to life.

  He peered over her head, both of them hanging back from the window just enough to remain invisible from the alley below. The imposing shoulders beneath the layered cape of the intruder’s greatcoat were as distinctive as the walking stick gripped in his powerful hand. A wal
king stick that could be transformed into a deadly stake with nothing more than a deft flick of the wrist.

  “My brother is nothing if not predictable,” Julian murmured, his smoky voice very close to her ear. “I suspected it would only be a matter of time before he came calling.”

  “This might not be a social call,” Portia ventured as Adrian was joined by the long, lanky, and damningly familiar shadow of a second man.

  Alastair Larkin was a former constable who had been Adrian’s best friend at Oxford. The two men had been estranged for years when Caroline came into their lives and brought them together to wreak revenge on Victor Duvalier, the vampire who had not only stolen Julian’s soul but murdered Adrian’s first love, Eloisa Markham. Larkin also just happened to be Adrian’s partner in his vampire-hunting endeavor—and Portia’s other brother-in-law, the doting father of her twin nephews.

  As the two men briefly conferred, then proceeded toward the building, their shadows still hugging the wall, Portia spun around to face Julian, flattening a hand against his chest. There’s no time to waste. We have to get you out of here right now!”

  He covered her hand with his own, plainly bemused by her urgency. “I’m touched by your concern, darling, but there’s really no need for such high drama. What’s Adrian going to do? Give me a stern lecture for failing to write? He knows I’ve always been a wretched correspondent.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not coming here to lecture you,” she informed him grimly.

  “Then what’s he going to do—disown me? Cut me out from my inheritance? Can’t you just see him marching in here in high dudgeon and announcing, ‘You’re no longer my brother! You’re dead to me!’?”

  When Portia failed to so much as crack a smile at his quip, he grew very still. Although his wry smile lingered, it no longer reached the glittering darkness of his eyes. “So my brother’s common sense has finally overcome his sentimental devotion to brotherly duty.” He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “I can hardly blame him, you know. He should have driven a stake through my black heart all those years ago when Duvalier first stole my soul. It would have saved us both a great deal of bother.”

  Portia grabbed his arm and tried to tug him away from the window. “Don’t you see? We have to go! Before it’s too late!”

  He appeared to be on the verge of tweaking her nose. “It’s already too late for me, sweeting. So why don’t you run along before you earn a lecture from Adrian, too? There’s no need to fret about me. This is hardly the first torch-bearing mob I’ve faced.”

  Hearing a fresh ruckus, Portia turned back to the window and lifted the crepe again. “I suspect that would be the torch-bearing mob,” she said, pointing toward the opposite end of the alley.

  A tall man with a narrow nose and an upper lip perpetually curled into a sneer had just come striding into the alley, followed by at least a half dozen scraggly-looking henchmen, some of them actually bearing torches.

  “Wallingford!” Julian exclaimed, adding an oath as his brother and Larkin moved to intercept the new arrivals. “I had hoped the bastard would at least allow me one more night of freedom before he had me cast into debtor’s prison.”

  She gave his arm another sharp tug. “Perhaps if he hadn’t caught you making love to his fiancée at their betrothal supper, he would have been in a more charitable frame of mind.”

  Julian shifted his accusing glare to her. “You were in the park this morning, weren’t you? I knew I smelled you.” He tugged a coil of hair from the mass of curls piled on top of her head and brought it to his nose. His nostrils flared as if he was once again drinking in some elusive scent.

  The scent of his prey.

  Muffled shouting rose from the alley as the men below gave up all pretense of stealth. To her disbelief, Julian strolled over and sank down in the wing-chair, crossing his long legs at the ankles as if he had no intention of budging for the next century or so.

  “What do you mean to do?” she demanded. “Just sit there and wait for Adrian to march up here and stake you?”

  He buffed his fingernails on the cuff of his shirt. “If that’s his pleasure.”

  “And if Wallingford gets to you first?”

  “Debtor’s prison won’t be so bad,” he said cheerfully. “It’s always dark and there should be plenty of food.”

  Portia’s frustration finally spilled over into anger. “Is this why you returned to London? Because you’re weary of provoking men who can’t kill you into challenging you to duels? Because you knew Adrian would eventually find you and do what you haven’t the nerve to do?”

  In reply he simply gazed at her, as unblinking as an owl or some other far more dangerous nocturnal predator.

  “Have you thought about what will happen to me if you stay?” she asked. “You may be destroyed but I’ll be ruined as well.”

  A hint of unease flickered through his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “If I’m found here in this rented flat with you,” she replied, daring to give the rumpled bed a provocative glance, “my reputation will never survive.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t seem to give a flying fig about your reputation when you came strolling into that gambling hell just a short while ago.”

  “No one knew me there. But the marquess of Wallingford is a very powerful and influential man. Once he starts spreading the word that Viscount Trevelyan’s sister-in-law has been consorting with the viscount’s own brother, a shameless ne’er do well and a notorious libertine—”

  “You forget bloodsucking fiend,” he interjected.

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “—there won’t be any wealthy viscounts or earls lining up to ask for my hand. Or any half dozen babes to keep me in the nursery.” She sighed, affecting the same air of tragic resignation she had once used to coax Caroline into buying her a pretty length of ribbon they couldn’t truly afford. “I suppose I’ll have no choice but to offer myself as a mistress to some man just like Wallingford. I’m sure he’ll be a cruel and exacting master, but perhaps in time, I can learn to please him.”

  Julian crossed the room with stunning speed, seizing her by the hand. As he jerked her toward the door, he shot her a smoldering look over his shoulder. “I’m perfectly willing to answer to God for my sins, but I’ll be damned if I’ll allow you to be punished for a crime I haven’t had the pleasure of committing tonight.”

  As Julian plunged down the darkened stairwell, his grip on her hand unrelenting, Portia struggled to keep pace with him. Before they could reach the first landing, a loud thump sounded from below. He jerked to a halt, reaching back to steady her before she could slam into him. Over the panicked rasp of her breathing she heard the unmistakable clatter of booted feet on the stairs. They’d dallied too long. Their only escape route had been cut off.

  Julian whirled around, all but dragging her back up the narrow winding staircase and past the door of his rented room. Up, up, up they went until they finally burst through a sagging wooden door and onto the roof.

  A blast of icy air whipped the heavy coils of Portia’s hair from its pins, reminding her that she’d left her bonnet, pelisse, and all of her weapons in Julian’s room, leaving her at the mercy of both the elements and him. Yet instead of fear, a strange rush of exhilaration coursed through her veins.

  A thin blanket of snow clung to the chimney pots and gables. Glittering flakes danced in the fitful moonlight, tossed about by the whims of the wind. Although she had sworn to him that she’d forsaken all of her childhood fancies, Portia could not help but feel as if she’d stumbled onto some enchanted fairy kingdom, both beautiful and dangerous.

  When she was a child, she had believed such a kingdom would be ruled by a golden-haired prince who would rescue her from every threat. Yet here she was racing hand in hand through the night with a dark prince who was just as likely to bring destruction as deliverance.

  They stumbled to a halt at the very edge of the roof. With the snow cloaking the grime and soo
t, the city stretched out before them like the frosted parapets of a vast castle, the next rooftop an impossible leap away.

  The furious shouts and thunder of footsteps swelled. In a matter of seconds, Julian’s pursuers would be upon them.

  Teetering in his arms on the edge of that yawning precipice, a nervous chuckle bubbled up in Portia’s throat. “For years Adrian has been hearing rumors about vampires who possess the concentration to turn themselves into bats. It’s a pity you’re not one of them.”

  As a helpless shiver wracked her, Julian drew her into his arms, using his body to shelter her from the wind. He smoothed her hair out of her eyes, his gaze fierce. “Tell them you came looking for me, but I was already gone. That I fled London to avoid Wallingford’s wrath and I’ll not trouble any of them again. Tell them you came here to convince me to come home. Because you knew how my estrangement from Adrian was affecting your sister and the rest of the family. You won’t be able to fool Adrian but Wallingford will believe you. You can be a very convincing little actress when you want to be.”

  Portia opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, realizing there was no point. “But where will you go? How…” She trailed off, gesturing toward the starry expanse of the night sky.

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward in a rueful smile. “Before Adrian destroyed him, Duvalier gave me one sound piece of advice. He told me I’d be a fool not to embrace my dark gifts.”

  As if to share the darkest and most priceless of those gifts, he bent his head to hers. There, with the snow and starlight swirling around them, with disaster bearing down upon them on booted feet, he kissed her.

  This was no seductive foray artfully designed to maximize her pleasure. This time he took what he wanted, what he craved. His tongue swept through her mouth, claiming it, claiming her, with a passion and power that threatened to rip the soul right out of her. Even if she’d had a stake in one hand and a pistol in the other, she couldn’t have defended herself against such an onslaught of passion. Nor would she have wanted to.