down at him?
“I am a son of the Marquess of Hiltshire.” The truth, though he was a bastard son. He pulled out a wad of notes and pushed those into her hand, forcing her to drop the sovereigns on the gleaming parquet floor.
The coins clinked. Her hand squeezed around the money.
She stared down, her hand-drawn eyebrows arched in surprise.
He made a move to pick up his hat and start for the door.
“Wait!”
He turned to see her stuffing the money between her large, plumped-up tits, wadding the notes down below the scooped neck of her bodice, between the sweaty lumps of her flesh.
“I have a girl available. A vicar’s daughter, left homeless. She is most definitely a virgin. A true innocent, quite frightened and apprehensive, even though she goes willing to her fate for the welfare of her younger siblings. She was promised to the Earl of Huntingdon. She could, however, be yours, for one thousand pounds.”
Christ, it was a bloody fortune. But to steal the virgin who 48 / Sharon Page
would have spread her thighs for the Earl of Huntingdon? It would be worth it. He wrote a vowel for the rest, and to his surprise, the madam accepted it.
No doubt, she thought he would return after he’d sampled the vicar’s daughter. He’d crave another virgin, just as her noble clients did. With a snap of her fingers, she sent a brawny footman to lead him to the bedroom. He found it empty. He sat on the edge of the bed but would not begin to undress until the girl was brought to him.
He’d trusted once—bought a virgin and stripped down in preparation, only to find the brothel was more interested in stealing his money, beating him blind, then throwing him out.
But the stupid madam and her brutes had not understood what a vampire slayer was capable of doing with a weapon.
Ryder drew out a cheroot. He moved to the fireplace and lit the smoke from the licking flames. The room was opulent, a sign that it did cater to refined tastes.
God, he was hard with anticipation. His John Thomas strained against his linens. His arousal made him restless, angry. He should be in pursuit of Miss Miranda Bond tonight.
But he knew where she was headed. He would be on the road after he’d had his little treat, and he would travel faster than her.
With a click, the door opened. He swiveled on the bed as the footman brought in a tall, slender girl who wore a ghastly gray dress. A dress she’d worn from her home, or a costume? Her face was plain—freckled nose, pink cheeks, ivory skin. Her lashes were as mousy brown as her hair, but her skin and hair promised to be peach soft.
No seasoned whore could clean up like that. This girl was genuine. Her spine was stiff, her fists clenched. “Do you want me to take off my dress, sir?”
She was doing this to save her family. That sent a rush of BLOOD DEEP / 49
blood to his rod. She thought she was going to nobly sacrifice herself.
“Let me undress you, love,” he said. “I’m very good and I’ll be gentle. This will be enjoyable for you.”
Her back twitched.
She looked nothing like Miranda Bond—who was blonde, with large blue eyes. Miss Bond was stunningly beautiful. But she was flawed. She was a creature of evil. Something he had to destroy.
This poor sweet angel was someone he would nurture for an hour. He could barely afford the money, but he would be giving her a wonderful experience—a night with him would be far better than being thrust into by a drunken earl.
He undid his cravat and tossed it aside. She was standing at the doorway, kneading her skirts in her fists. “Let’s undress you, love. That changes everything.”
She frowned at that. “I don’t want to be . . . undressed.”
“It seems strange to you now, but you’ll enjoy it. This is what you were meant to do—give yourself to a deserving man.”
The vicar’s daughter gave a half-laugh, half-sob at that.
She had no idea what he was saving her from.
The wench smelled of a heavily flower scented soap, the
“I am a son of the Marquess of Hiltshire.” The truth, though he was a bastard son. He pulled out a wad of notes and pushed those into her hand, forcing her to drop the sovereigns on the gleaming parquet floor.
The coins clinked. Her hand squeezed around the money.
She stared down, her hand-drawn eyebrows arched in surprise.
He made a move to pick up his hat and start for the door.
“Wait!”
He turned to see her stuffing the money between her large, plumped-up tits, wadding the notes down below the scooped neck of her bodice, between the sweaty lumps of her flesh.
“I have a girl available. A vicar’s daughter, left homeless. She is most definitely a virgin. A true innocent, quite frightened and apprehensive, even though she goes willing to her fate for the welfare of her younger siblings. She was promised to the Earl of Huntingdon. She could, however, be yours, for one thousand pounds.”
Christ, it was a bloody fortune. But to steal the virgin who 48 / Sharon Page
would have spread her thighs for the Earl of Huntingdon? It would be worth it. He wrote a vowel for the rest, and to his surprise, the madam accepted it.
No doubt, she thought he would return after he’d sampled the vicar’s daughter. He’d crave another virgin, just as her noble clients did. With a snap of her fingers, she sent a brawny footman to lead him to the bedroom. He found it empty. He sat on the edge of the bed but would not begin to undress until the girl was brought to him.
He’d trusted once—bought a virgin and stripped down in preparation, only to find the brothel was more interested in stealing his money, beating him blind, then throwing him out.
But the stupid madam and her brutes had not understood what a vampire slayer was capable of doing with a weapon.
Ryder drew out a cheroot. He moved to the fireplace and lit the smoke from the licking flames. The room was opulent, a sign that it did cater to refined tastes.
God, he was hard with anticipation. His John Thomas strained against his linens. His arousal made him restless, angry. He should be in pursuit of Miss Miranda Bond tonight.
But he knew where she was headed. He would be on the road after he’d had his little treat, and he would travel faster than her.
With a click, the door opened. He swiveled on the bed as the footman brought in a tall, slender girl who wore a ghastly gray dress. A dress she’d worn from her home, or a costume? Her face was plain—freckled nose, pink cheeks, ivory skin. Her lashes were as mousy brown as her hair, but her skin and hair promised to be peach soft.
No seasoned whore could clean up like that. This girl was genuine. Her spine was stiff, her fists clenched. “Do you want me to take off my dress, sir?”
She was doing this to save her family. That sent a rush of BLOOD DEEP / 49
blood to his rod. She thought she was going to nobly sacrifice herself.
“Let me undress you, love,” he said. “I’m very good and I’ll be gentle. This will be enjoyable for you.”
Her back twitched.
She looked nothing like Miranda Bond—who was blonde, with large blue eyes. Miss Bond was stunningly beautiful. But she was flawed. She was a creature of evil. Something he had to destroy.
This poor sweet angel was someone he would nurture for an hour. He could barely afford the money, but he would be giving her a wonderful experience—a night with him would be far better than being thrust into by a drunken earl.
He undid his cravat and tossed it aside. She was standing at the doorway, kneading her skirts in her fists. “Let’s undress you, love. That changes everything.”
She frowned at that. “I don’t want to be . . . undressed.”
“It seems strange to you now, but you’ll enjoy it. This is what you were meant to do—give yourself to a deserving man.”
The vicar’s daughter gave a half-laugh, half-sob at that.
She had no idea what he was saving her from.
The wench smelled of a heavily flower scented soap, the
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