The Vampire Who Loved Me Page 7

  Julian knew that if he chose to press his suit, the stake would be a feeble defense indeed. He could only be thankful that she hadn’t yet realized she possessed other weapons that might be even more lethal to his heart.

  It didn’t take long for his overdeveloped sense of smell to betray him. His nostrils flared as he leaned closer, allowing himself the forbidden luxury of drinking in her scent. If not for the press of unwashed bodies and cigar smoke in the gambling hell, he might have smelled her coming and had time to flee out a back entrance. She still smelled exactly as he remembered—clean and sweet like wind-tossed sheets drying on a rope in the sunshine. Yet underlying that innocent fragrance of rosemary and soap was a woman’s irresistible musk, the elusive perfume that had been driving men mad with longing for centuries.

  He swallowed back his own longing, fighting the urge to bury his face against her throat. He was dangerously hungry and her enticing scent made him ache to devour her in more ways than one.

  In some ways, it had been easy to keep his distance from her as long as he could pretend she was still just a lovelorn little girl. He had put oceans and continents and scores of other women between them, content to let his memories of her both tantalize and torment him.

  Was he the reason she had never wed? he wondered. He had certainly wasted enough of the lonely hours between dusk and dawn envisioning her in another man’s arms, another man’s bed. Yet here she was, still bearing the scars of his kiss on her throat like a burning brand. The irony did not escape him. She bore his mark, yet he could never again claim her for his own.

  And why not?

  Julian stiffened. He was no stranger to that sly voice or its dark insinuations. He wasn’t even surprised to find its oily cadences identical to Victor Duvalier’s. After all, it had been Duvalier who had turned him into a vampire. Duvalier who had taunted him, swearing that he would never know a moment’s peace or satisfaction until he stopped trying to be a man and embraced being a monster. Duvalier who had hurled Portia into his arms in that crypt, encouraging him to slake both his hunger and his loneliness by ripping the soul right out of her and making her his eternal bride.

  The temptation had lost none of its allure since that moment. If anything it had grown stronger, honed by endless nights of feeding without ever sating his appetites, touching but never truly feeling.

  No longer able to resist touching her, he brushed his fingertips across the pale scars on her throat. A frown flickered across her face. Her lips parted in a soft moan that could have indicated either pleasure or pain.

  A savage wave of heat flooded his groin and he felt his fangs lengthen and sharpen in reckless anticipation. Portia turned her face toward his, murmuring a sleepy protest as he gently tugged the stake from her hand.

  Surrender.

  The seductive whisper twined like silk through Portia’s dreams, coaxing her to lower all of her defenses. To lay down the last of her weapons and welcome the swirling darkness with open arms.

  She was no longer alone in the darkness. He was there. It was his voice she heard, urging her to confess all of her secret longings. She could feel herself getting lost in the hypnotic power of his whisper, feel her limbs growing heavier with each shallow breath, each languid beat of her heart. He had to have her. Without her, he would die. No longer able to resist his entreaty or his command, she drew back her hair with a trembling hand and offered him her throat.

  Portia jerked awake, the dream still so real she half expected to find Julian looming over her, his fangs already bared. But the only thing looming over her was the bed’s canopy. She touched a hand to the scars on her throat, a shaky sigh escaping her lungs. What sort of perverse creature was she? The dream should have terrified her, not left her breasts taut and her body aching with yearning.

  She pressed her other hand to her pounding heart, realizing it was empty. The stake must have slipped from her grip while she was thrashing about in the bedclothes. She didn’t know if she could ever bring herself to use it against Julian, but its familiar heft still gave her comfort.

  She rolled to her side to search the sheets. That’s when she saw the stake, propped up on the pillow next to her with the burgundy ribbon she had tossed atop Julian’s winnings at the gambling hell tied around its length in a neat bow.

  Wondering if she was still dreaming, she slowly sat up and brushed her trembling fingers across the velvet ribbon. Her gaze flew to the window.

  Snatching up the stake, she tossed back the blankets and ran to the window. It was closed, but not latched, as if someone had pushed it shut from the outside. An impossible feat since there was no balcony, no ledge, and no tree within ten feet of her bedchamber. She shoved open the window, inviting a frigid rush of air into the toasty warmth of the room. Someone had not only closed the window, but stoked her fire with a fresh log.

  She leaned over the sill, searching the shadows below for any hint of movement. But the night with its distant moon and glittering stars was no less lonely than before. Sinking down in the window seat, she turned the stake over in her hands. She could easily imagine Julian’s deft fingers tying that ribbon around its deadly length before gently resting it on her pillow.

  Was it meant to be an invitation or a parting gift? A promise or a warning?

  Surrender, he had whispered in her dream. But what did he want her to surrender? Her heart? Her hopes? Her very soul? Drawing the stake to her chest, she turned her face to the moon and waited for dawn.

  Portia shuffled into the breakfast room the next morning, smothering a yawn behind her hand. She had kept her vigil at the window for most of the night, finally nodding off just as the first rays of the sun had come peeping over the rooftops. She had awakened less than two hours later, her muscles aching and stiff, her cold fingers still wrapped around the stake.

  She had slipped the beribboned weapon into the detachable pocket of her skirt before coming downstairs. She knew she would eventually have to show it to Adrian, but some small selfish corner of her heart wanted to keep it tucked safely out of sight for just a little while longer. It might be the last secret she and Julian would ever share.

  Adrian sat on the far side of the circular table with Caroline by his side. Judging from the dark circles beneath both their eyes, they hadn’t slept any more than she had. Their glum expressions were in direct contrast to the dazzling brightness of the sun winking off the snow that still blanketed the terrace outside the tall French windows. Little Eloisa, who usually entertained herself by hurling gobbets of porridge at Wilbury, was conspicuously absent. Larkin slouched in the chair across from Adrian, his cravat half untied and his light brown hair tousled as if he’d just blown in on a winter gale.

  There wasn’t a single footman in attendance and the plates they’d filled from the elegant walnut sideboard appeared to be untouched. As Portia watched, Caroline absently poked her coddled egg with a two-pronged fork but made no attempt to bring a bite to her mouth.

  Her puzzled gaze swept the table. “What on earth is the matter with all of you? You look as if someone had died.”

  “Someone did,” Larkin replied in a clipped tone, brushing a stray hank of hair out of his eyes. “There was another murder in Charing Cross last night, this one even more brutal than the others.”

  Portia groped blindly for the back of a chair, wishing for a footman. She no longer trusted her knees to support her.

  Caroline reached over and squeezed Adrian’s hand. “It couldn’t have been your brother. You heard Portia. She promised us that he was leaving London.”

  Adrian shook his head, his eyes as bleak as his expression. “I might be able to take comfort in that if we knew for certain that he’d already gone.”

  “He hasn’t.” Portia’s stark words fell into the void left by his, drawing every eye in the room to her ashen face. “He came to my room last night while I was sleeping. He left this for me.” Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, she withdrew the stake and tossed it on the table. The bow unfurled against
the starched white linen of the tablecloth like a ribbon of dried blood.

  Adrian gazed at it in silence, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

  “Darling,” Caroline whispered helplessly, reaching for his arm.

  Evading her grasp, he shoved his chair away from the table and surged to his feet. He started around the table but before he could reach the door, Portia was there, blocking his path.

  “Don’t!” he warned, stabbing a finger at her chest. “I love you as if you were my very own sister and I’d drag the moon down from the sky if I thought it would make you happy. But I can’t allow you to stop me from doing what must be done.”

  “I don’t want to stop you,” she replied. An eerie calm had washed over her, leaving her mercifully numb. “I want to help you.”

  “How?” he asked warily.

  “By offering him something he can’t resist.”

  “And just what would that be?”

  Portia felt her full lips tilt in their most seductive and dangerous smile. “Me.”

  Six

  Tendrils of mist rose from the damp cobblestones. Earlier in the day a chill rain had washed the last of the snow from the streets, leaving them gleaming beneath the moody glow of the streetlamps. Clouds still hung low over the rooftops and chimneys of the city, making it a moonless night, perfect for hunting.

  Three figures came melting out of the mist—a woman flanked by two men. Despite her petite stature and the fact that both of her companions towered over her by nearly a foot, a casual observer might have judged the woman to be the most dangerous of the three. And in that moment, they would have been right.

  Her dark blue eyes glittered with determination beneath the hood of her dove gray cloak. Her shapely hips rolled with each step in a gait perilously near to a swagger. The tilt of her head exuded both confidence and purpose. She might be willing to play the role of victim, but anyone foolish enough to take the bait she offered would clearly be trespassing at their own risk.

  As they reached the outskirts of the rookery that had sprung up just behind the royal stables, Adrian touched a finger to his lips and motioned Portia and Larkin into a deserted alleyway. The three of them huddled in the shadows of an overhanging eave like any other ne’er-do-wells out for a bit of mischief on such a foggy and forbidding night.

  This island of squalor between Charing Cross and the end of the Mall would perfectly suit the purposes of any villain, vampire or mortal. Winding alleys and narrow streets separated the ramshackle hovels from dingy courts bearing deceptively exotic names like Caribee Islands and the Bermudas. Many a poor woman had been dragged into one of those dark and deserted alleys, never to be seen again.

  “Are you sure you can do this?” Adrian asked Portia, his brow furrowed in a worried frown.

  “Just watch me,” she replied, unfastening the top frog of her cloak so that the swansdown-lined garment hung loosely on her shoulders.

  Beneath it she wore an evening dress woven from rich garnet velvet the color of blood, its slashed sleeves and deep, square-cut bodice better suited to a courtesan than the sister-in-law of a reputable viscount. She hooked her thumbs in the stiff whalebone corset sewn into the bodice and tugged it down to better expose the ample curves of her cleavage.

  Adrian immediately reached to tug it back up. She smacked his hands away.

  He sighed. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. Your sister was dead set against it, you know. If I let any harm come to you, she’ll have my head.”

  “And Vivienne will have my—” Larkin began, but stopped when Adrian barked out a cough. Clearing his throat, he finished with, “Well, she’ll have my head as well.”

  Portia adjusted her hairpins and dragged a few curls from the lustrous coils of hair piled on top of her head, knowing that even a mortal man couldn’t resist a woman who looked as if she’d just tumbled out of bed.

  Although her heart was beating so loudly she was afraid they would hear it, she fought to keep her hands steady. “There’s no need for the two of you to fuss over me like a pair of nervous mother hens. I’ve been training to fight with you for years. We always knew this day would come.”

  “But not with Julian as our quarry,” Adrian reminded her softly.

  Portia gnawed on her lips to bring some color to them, hoping the brisk January wind would whip some roses into her bloodless cheeks. “Then we’ll just have to stop thinking of him as Julian, won’t we, and start thinking of him as the ruthless killer that he’s become.”

  The two men exchanged a troubled glance over her head, but when Larkin opened his mouth to speak, Adrian shook his head in warning.

  Adrian pointed to an abandoned warehouse down the street. “We’ll be right across the way, Portia. If it looks like you’re getting into any trouble at all, we’ll come running.”

  He moved closer, opening his arms as if to embrace her, but Portia stepped away from them both. Her bones felt as brittle as Wilbury’s. If one of them so much as patted her on the shoulder, she feared they would snap.

  “Do you have everything you need?” he asked, awkwardly tucking his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat.

  “I can only hope,” she said, drawing the stake Julian had left on her pillow from the secret pocket Vivienne had sewn into her skirt. She slid the burgundy ribbon from the weapon before tucking it back into the pocket, then secured the length of velvet around the graceful column of her throat, making it an even more enticing target. “But I am confident that I have everything he needs.”

  Poking his head out of the alley to peer both ways down the deserted street, Larkin drew a small flintlock pistol from the pocket of his coat and passed it to her. “If anyone else accosts you, just fire this into the air.”

  “Or into them,” Adrian said grimly.

  They politely averted their eyes as she lifted the flounced hem of her skirt and tucked the pistol into her lace garter. She shivered at the bite of the cold steel against her bare skin.

  “Once he recognizes you, he may suspect it’s a trap,” Adrian warned her.

  “Doubtful,” she replied. “Given his colossal arrogance, he’ll probably think I just came to warn him you were coming or to read some of Byron’s poetry by the fire.”

  She straightened, the steely glint in her eye informing them that she was ready. Adrian and Larkin exchanged a nod, then ushered her toward the mouth of the alley. As they reached the street, the three of them parted ways as if they’d just concluded some sordid assignation. Adrian and Larkin went stumbling toward one of the courts, their raucous laughter ringing through the night, while Portia meandered in the opposite direction, teetering slightly on the heels of her kid slippers to make herself appear more defenseless.

  Although she knew it would only take a matter of minutes for the men to double back and slip into the warehouse across the street, she had never felt so utterly alone in her life.

  For over five long years she had comforted herself with the notion that Julian was out there somewhere in the night, pining for her as she pined for him. Stripped of that illusion, the night felt as vast and cold as the moonless sky. She wanted nothing more than to huddle deeper into her cloak, but instead she shrugged the garment off of one shoulder and lifted her chin high, baring the vulnerable curve of her throat.

  She strolled slowly along, not wanting to get too far from the warehouse. They had chosen this spot deliberately because it was only a block away from where two of the murdered women had been found. She jumped when a drunken sailor stumbled out of one of the alleys just ahead of her. But he spared her little more than a bleary glance, obviously more intent on finding his next tumbler of gin than his next woman.

  The mist distorted every sound, making it impossible to tell if a ghostly echo of laughter or a furtive footfall was coming from a block away or from just behind her. An icy trickle of sweat eased down the back of her neck. Without warning she whirled around. The street behind her was empty. Now she was being haunted by the echo of her own footst
eps.

  Shaking her head at her own jumpiness, she resumed her leisurely stroll. But she’d only taken a few steps when she suddenly stopped in her tracks. Less than twenty feet away, a tall hooded figure in a black cloak stood haloed beneath the flickering glow of a streetlamp.

  Portia knew there was still time to shout for help. Still time for Adrian and Larkin to come rushing to her rescue. But if she sounded the alarm too soon, Julian might flee. She cringed inwardly to realize that in some small pathetic corner of her heart, she almost wished he would.

  She slipped her icy fingers into the pocket of her skirt, closing them around the stake. She knew now that he hadn’t left it on her pillow as a parting gift, but as a challenge—a taunt.

  She forced her feet into motion. The figure beneath the streetlamp stood watching…waiting, so still that one would have sworn he had never even felt the need to draw breath. Portia was almost upon him when he reached up and eased back his hood…to reveal a shimmering mane of white-gold curls.

  Portia’s relief was so keen that she gasped aloud. It wasn’t a man, but a woman. And not just any woman, she quickly realized, but one of the most ravishing creatures she had ever laid eyes on. Her dazzling fall of blond hair was complimented by a pair of ripe ruby lips and hypnotic green eyes. Her fair skin was eerily unlined, making it impossible to judge her age. Her pale, slender fingers were adorned with jewels—a winking emerald, a teardrop ruby, an opal the size of a small egg. Portia wondered what on earth she was doing in the rookery. She might very well be a nobleman’s pampered mistress, but such an uncommon beauty could never be mistaken for a common prostitute.

  “You shouldn’t be out here alone, madam,” Portia warned her, stealing a glance over her shoulder. “The streets aren’t safe tonight.”

  “Are they ever?” the woman replied, gazing down her long, patrician nose at Portia.

  Portia detected a ripe ripple of amusement and the lilting hint of a French accent in her throaty voice. “Probably not in this neighborhood. Have you a carriage and driver somewhere nearby?”