Blood Red. Sharon Page

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      Shocked, she sat back, and thumped hard against the wall of the window alcove.

      She slid off the sill to her feet. Her rumpled bed beckoned, but she’d never sleep now. No, she would sneak out to the top of the stairs and have another look at the mysterious lord. Shrugging on her wool wrapper over her shoulders, she caught the sides around her and cinched the belt tight. The trailing hem covered her bare feet and jammed in her slippers as she hurriedly shoved her feet in.

      She didn’t dare go out unarmed. By her bed, she dropped to her knees, drew out her case and flipped open the lid. Instead of gowns and slippers and hats, her case contained stakes, a crossbow, a small, lethal sword, and crosses. She tucked a thin, pointed stake between her wrap and her nightgown, secured in place by her snug belt.

      A thrill of excitement shivered down Althea’s spine. Not that she planned to be foolhardy. She knew to be cautious and careful. If he truly were a vampire, he would possess incredible strength and power. But she had a few tricks of her own. And she knew exactly what to expect.

      At the head of the stairs, she saw the lord and the innkeeper in discussion. She stayed in the shadows to watch.

      His lordship stood with his face away from her but she had a perfect view of the florid features of Mr. Crenshaw. Alarm flashed in the innkeeper’s small eyes and he was punctuating his apologies with wild motions of his hands. The gentleman wore a cloak, she noted, which surprised her. Most men favored greatcoats.

      The lord brushed his cloak back from his shoulders, giving a glimpse of the lining, black silk embroidered with gold. From the window, she’d created an impression of him—tall, lean, elegant. Now she saw he was taller than she’d guessed. He towered over Crenshaw by at least a foot. His hat brushed the plaster ceiling. And he possessed a broader, more powerful body than she’d first thought. Shoulders as wide as Mr. O’Leary’s, Althea noted.

      But was he a vampire?

      Her breathing quickened and not from fear. Her breasts tingled and her nipples eagerly stood up against her bodice. Already wet between her thighs from her dream, she flushed as more hot moisture bubbled there.

      He was facing away from Crenshaw’s lamp, his hat worn low, at an angle that shielded his eyes—and that prevented them reflecting the light.

      Perhaps that wasn’t his intent. She knew nothing of male fashion to know if all men wore their hats in that way.

      The lord snapped a question at Crenshaw, his voice deep and low. Fancifully, she imagined his voice sounded like black silk, dark and smooth. But did he sound like the man from her dream?

      He wasn’t the man from her dream, she told herself sternly.

      If only he’d speak louder.

      “…Yates…”

      Althea stilled at the sound of her surname falling from the nobleman’s lips. His lordship knew her father was here? She left the shadows, not caring if the men noticed her. She leaned against the rail, straining to hear.

      Crenshaw appeared bent in a permanent bow. “…I fear not, my lord…”

      Was it only that Crenshaw had mentioned her father as one of the other occupants of the inn? To imply that he served distinguished men? Her father might be a great scholar, a star in his own orbit, but a gentleman antiquarian would hardly register in the mind of a peer.

      “You fear not?” The dark velvet voice held a razor-sharp edge now.

      He did sound similar, but not quite the same. In her dreams, his tone was always seductive and teasing.

      “I am afraid, my lord, Sir Edmund has retired for the evening.”

      “Wake him.”

      “I’ve a fine room available for the night, my lord, and in the morning—”

      “I’ve no need of a room. Your parlor will suffice. I shall wait in there upon Sir Edmund.”

      “But—”

      The gentleman swirled around, sending his cape flapping around him. Like bat’s wings, of course—and Althea forgot to move back into the gloom.

      His dark gaze fixed on her, appraised, then his wide, full lips curved in a smile. She’d once been set aflame by Mick O’Leary’s cheeky smirks. Sizzling as those were, they were nothing compared to the controlled fire in this lord’s arrogant, confident grin. She was left with the image of wildfire ready to burst beyond control and consume everything in its path.

      “I am sorry if I woke you, my dear,” he drawled as he ignored Crenshaw to move to the foot of the stair. This put the lantern behind him and plunged his gorgeous face into shadow again.

      It was his voice! That lazily seductive growl was exactly the voice of the man from her dreams. She heard his whisper again in her head: Then perhaps it is not a dream, Althea. Perhaps it is a premonition.

      It couldn’t be! But she hunted vampires, and she knew that second sight did indeed exist.

      Stunned, she stared into his shadowed eyes. No, she wouldn’t…couldn’t…

      Even in the gloom, she saw his brow lift in interest.

      She must behave normally—though what could be normal?

      A curtsy. He was a lord, after all. Althea dropped, quick and unsteady, aware that she wore her wrapper and nightgown, her ugly spectacles. Her hair was in its nighttime braid and the end curved around the swell of her left breast. Her heart hammered so hard, she imagined the braid was bumping in time with it.

      Did he know about the dreams…had he…oh, goodness…?

      Legs trembling, she straightened. “You had an appointment with my father, my lord?”

      “Not an appointment, no. But I want to speak with him tonight.” His large black-gloved hand wrapped around the banister.

      Want. He said the word as though what he wanted was never denied.

      She couldn’t prevent a blush heating her cheeks. In her dreams, she had never denied him anything. So it was not to be a premonition after all. She was not about to let her father, who was so weak and confused these days, confront this vampire. Definitely not when this vampire might know about her dreams. “You cannot, my lord. But you can speak with me.”

      “And who are you, my dear?”

      She moved down two steps. The jab of the stake at the bottom of her ribs comforted. “Sir Edmund Yates is my father. I am Althea Yates.”

      “Miss Yates.” He bowed with courtly elegance. As he straightened, surprise lifted his blond brows. “You assist your father?”

      “In all of his research, yes. And his investigations.” She was halfway down the steps now.

      “So you know about the excavation of the crypt?”

      Her slipper-clad foot missed the step; her heel glanced along the edge of the tread and landed hard on the next one. Of course, she did, but how did he?

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