Blood Red. Sharon Page

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СКАЧАТЬ while gentlemen of the ton might do such things, unmarried ladies certainly could not. How could she endure bland kisses when she dreamed of wild sex with two vampires?

      Out of the carriage window, she spied the tall stone posts of the church gates.

      “London soon would, lass. And surely you must want to marry.” The twinkle deepened.

      They passed the first of the headstones. The old ones, one hundred, two hundred years old, were worn and faded, many split and broken. The carriage rattled on gravel as they passed stone crosses and a large crypt. Large oak branches stretched over the old graves, and a breeze sent shadows dancing. Flitting ghosts, she thought fancifully.

      Althea’s heart danced as wildly as the shadows. Mystery and adventure surrounded her. She was about to take part in a ceremony that should be impossible. She was about to raise the undead.

      How could a stuffy ball ever compare?

      She stroked the small case she held. “The truth is that I don’t want to marry. I want to pursue vampires.”

      “And I want to sleep easy, Althea. You’re to marry.”

      Suspicious, Althea stared at her father. “You haven’t already chosen someone, have you? You wouldn’t do—”

      The carriage lurched to a halt.

      “Of course not, pet.” The door swung open. Sunlight spilled in, tinted with the heady scent of spring pollen, filled with the ruckus of birds. “But I’ve engaged a lady to help in your search.”

      As he struggled to stand, Althea launched up and grabbed his elbow to assist. “What lady?”

      “The wife of my old friend, Sir Randolph Peters, a fellow of the Royal Society.”

      Horror and embarrassment wrapped icy fingers around her heart. “A matchmaker?”

      Father glanced at the ground, a clear look of guilt shrouding his blue eyes, but before he could say a word, Mick O’Leary leaned in the door. “Are ye ready, sir?”

      Loud protest would have to wait. She wouldn’t humiliate herself in front of Mr. O’Leary. She bit her tongue and helped her father to the folding stair. But in a low and determined whisper, she set down her position. “No, Father. I don’t want a match. And I’m not going to London.”

      With a grunt, Father stepped down, favoring his uninjured leg. “Oh yes, you are, lass. Indeed you are.”

      As Mick O’Leary led the way down the rough path, Althea brushed at a bee that buzzed around her bonnet. Her case bumped against her thigh as she followed Father, Mr. O’Leary, and two of the workmen carrying the large trunk.

      Once she would have breathlessly watched the movement of Mr. O’Leary’s muscles beneath his linen shirt. This morning all she could think about was Yannick…and touching both him and his brother in her dreams…

      Loose stones rolled down the path as her half boots skidded along and mud splattered her hem. She heard her father muttering, reviewing the incantation he was to use to break the curse. Would it work?

      They reached the bottom of the hill, the sod torn up where the men had dug up the old stone tomb. Mortared bricks had filled the doorway the day before. The men had labored since dawn and now enough brick was knocked out to allow entrance. Light glowed from within.

      “The case, Althea.”

      He meant to make her wait outside. “I am going in.”

      Mick O’Leary grinned. “It’s dirty in there, love, and smells none too fresh—”

      Her gaze shot sparks at the dark-eyed Irishman. “It’s not as though I’ve not done this before.”

      He held out his bare, callused hand. “Then let me help you, Miss Yates.”

      “O’Leary…” Father warned.

      She stomped toward the opening, fed up with them all, gripped the bricks to her side and hoisted herself in.

      Lantern light lit the large space and played along the smooth stone walls, tooled into the rock that formed the hillside. The air in the crypt was still, dank, but no longer stale. Fresh air flowed in from the breach made in the bricked entrance. There was no stench of decay—the bodies in the sarcophagi were not dead and decomposing.

      Several hundred years ago, the tomb had been built, buried with earth and sod and apparently forgotten to all but legendary vampire hunter, Lord Devars. The peer had used it in the last century as a place to bring and destroy vampires.

      And Zayan had known of its existence.

      The search for this hidden crypt had been exciting, even though it consisted mostly of reviewing yellowing records and worn maps. She remembered the thrill in her heart when Mr. O’Leary’s shovel had hit the walled-up entrance.

      The light played along the smooth tops of the stone sarcophagi. A dozen filled the gloomy, musty crypt, arranged in neat rows.

      “Cavern of the Vampires.” Father’s voice held breathless excitement—like a boy with a new pony.

      The workmen climbed into the opening, carrying several wooden stakes sharpened to killing points. Nausea roiled in her, sudden and weakening. Her legs almost gave way and she rested her hand on the nearest stone slab for support.

      Of course they would kill all the vampires but the one they wanted. But were they all ghouls, or were they men of charm and beauty, like Yannick? Were there other vampires like him? Was his brother also like him? Not just a creature driven by bloodlust?

      She felt a stare and whipped around to see Father studying her intently. His gray brows drew together.

      Could he guess she was weakening towards a vampire?

      Oh no.

      And she wasn’t. Not really. She still knew that vampires were evil and must be destroyed. Of course, she still knew that.

      To cover up, she walked along the row, touching the fronts of the stone coffins to hide her unsteady gait. Her fingers traced chiseled dates and names. Anthony Austen 1612 (d) 1705. Francis Smythe 1512 (d) 1705.

      The third from the last was the oldest but the letters were still crisp. Stephen of Myrlyn 1100 (d) 1706.

      The date of creation as a vampire. The date of destruction. These vampires had already been destroyed.

      Zayan was estimated to be two thousand years old, but to see the evidence of Stephen of Mrylyn’s long existence sent a shot of pain through her heart. To walk the night for over six hundred years!

      In six hundred years Yannick would still walk the earth, while she would be long buried. Long turned to dust. Long forgotten.

      Guilt slid through her like poison through blood. She’d lied to Yannick. She’d looked away from his penetrating, glowing eyes to hide her lie, but still she feared he knew. But that didn’t matter because he would know for certain tonight. What would he do?

      Would he come to her in a rage or would he not come to her СКАЧАТЬ