Blood Red. Sharon Page

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СКАЧАТЬ wasn’t that she’d never felt desire before. When Mick O’Leary worked without his shirt, she secretly watched him. Half-naked and slick with perspiration, Mick looked elemental. Primal. Sensual. His back flexed in the most hypnotic way as he worked. Hidden by the wide brims of her prim bonnets and her spectacles, she would ogle him, and flutter inside, as though a thousand butterflies frolicked low in her tummy. She would yearn and want and fantasize until she became bad-tempered and cross and made everyone’s life a misery.

      That was bad enough.

      But two men!

      Only the most depraved woman should want such things.

      What was happening to her?

      Crack!

      A strong gust rattled her window and Althea’s heart leapt to her throat. The curtains billowed softly, even though the sash was closed. Before her startled eyes, a black shape flew at the glass, retreated, swooped again.

      She launched up on her knees, ready for battle. The dark shadow slapped the glass again with an angry thwack. Leaves splayed over the small panes. Nervous laughter bubbled up in Althea’s throat. Only a tree branch. She sank back down onto her bottom.

      Silly goose. Jumping at shadows.

      With a sigh, she relaxed and let the sated, languorous feeling steal over her again. She yawned and stretched, reaching toward the low, timbered ceiling with her hands. Her neck gave a little crick and she moved her head from side to side. Physically she was exhausted, but she knew her mind would just not let her rest now.

      She was almost afraid to sleep. Each dream became more indecent, more…more lewd. And now she was dreaming of being bitten. If she dreamed again and she didn’t wake up in time, what might happen to her?

      She could hardly wake up a vampire, could she? But she was not certain. She didn’t truly know. Perhaps she could.

      Better to think about tomorrow. They would open the crypt tomorrow.

      Instinct led her right hand to the cross dangling around her neck. Althea stroked it, cupped it in her palm. For more reassurance, she glanced to the narrow window of her room. The curtains were open, as she had left them. They lay still now, hanging against the rough-hewn trim. Garlic flowers lay along the sash. Another bundle of the pungent flowers sat by the base of the door and some were clustered on the rickety table beside her bed.

      Accustomed to them, she barely noticed their smell, but she’d seen the maid’s nose crinkle in disgust. The first night she’d gone to bed and found all the flowers stripped away. Small bouquets of field flowers replaced them—yellow daffodils, mainly. Firmly, she had instructed the maid not to touch any of her belongings again.

      The flowers, the cross, all were to keep her safe from Zayan, but there was something half-hearted in Father’s admonishments about protection this time. And she feared that none of these measures would do any good.

      In truth, she was afraid to open that crypt. That was probably why she had the dream.

      Althea swung her legs around the side of the bed—really more of a cot—until her bare feet brushed the small carpet thrown over the splintery floor.

      Her journal sat by her bed, beside a gutted candle in a beaten brass holder. She didn’t dare record her dreams. There was almost enough moonlight to read by, but she felt far too restless to do that.

      She wanted to…to do something. Plucking up her spectacles, Althea slid off the bed and winced as her feet sank into the cool carpet. She padded across the worn, faded wool to her window. A glance told her the catch was still fastened, though she touched it with her fingers to make sure.

      She knew to be wary of unexplained urges to walk about in the dark. Knew to resist the call, the lure. But no, whatever it was she wanted, it wasn’t to go out of doors.

      Wrapping her arms around herself, she refused to accept that what she wanted was to make her dream come true.

      A flicker of flame outside caught her attention. Leaning forward until her forehead brushed the cool panes of glass, she could just make out the flurry of activity in front of the inn.

      What she had spotted was an elegant carriage drawn by four coal-black horses, almost invisible in the dark but for its burning lamps and the reflections on the gleaming traces. The carriage rattled slowly over cobblestones and came to a halt before the door. Male voices rose in hale greetings and terse orders. A dog set up a howl, answered by others, which sparked a whinnying frenzy as the horses shied. Skittish animals. It took the coachman minutes to settle them. Surprising for animals reaching the end of their travel.

      Intrigued, Althea pushed the garlic flowers to the side. She sat on the deep windowsill and curled her legs beneath her to warm her chilled feet. Cold whistled around her and she rubbed her arms through the long, tight sleeves of her nightdress. Cold was supposed to subdue improper arousal, wasn’t it?

      The gleaming black door of the coach sported a crest, which meant the newest guest was a member of the nobility.

      How would a peer feel about sharing quarters with vampire hunters? The lord in question would never know, of course. Sir Edmund Yates was known only as a famous antiquarian. And no one ever suspected Miss Yates, his plain slip of a daughter, was anything more than a glorified secretary. Even Mick O’Leary had scoffed when she told him she was adept with a crossbow and knew exactly how and where to plunge in a stake.

      Movement in the yard. His lordship’s footmen in livery—silver and pale blue, startling against the dark.

      The coach door swung open. In a blur of motion, a male figure jumped down and straightened—a man dressed in head-to-toe black. Althea could barely see him, but the way he moved suggested he was young, strong, athletic.

      Heat unfurled deep inside. Goodness, she was incurable. But she wanted a glimpse. To see if his face proved as promising as his form. A tall beaver hat covered his head, but she saw pale blond hair curling into his collar.

      Led by servants with lanterns, he strode away from his carriage.

      Tudor in vintage, the inn sat right beside the road, with barely a step up to the threshold. To her surprise, the lord paused at the door, then stepped back.

      A servant lifted a lantern by his master’s side and golden light slanted over austere features, hinting at a strong jaw line, sharp cheekbones, a broad forehead, a straight nose.

      Rendered in shadow and light, he made her think of the man from her dream. The mysterious one who stood behind her. He was the one who came to her in all her dreams. Althea knew the sound of his voice, the scent of his skin, the way he kissed, even the way he braced himself on his powerful arms as he made love, but she had never really seen his face…

      She gave herself a shake. Of course this gentleman was not in her dreams!

      The nobleman abruptly pushed the lantern aside and, as though he sensed her stare, he looked up to her window. His eyes reflected a sliver of moonlight, pure silver disks in the velvety dark. Gleaming, mirror-like eyes. Like those of a wolf or a fox.

      The eyes of a vampire.

      Althea blinked. She looked again, but he had disappeared from her view. She got up on her knees to try to see him, strained to see him. She couldn’t.

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