Lynn Viehl - Darkyn 1 - If Angels Burn (v1.1) by If Angels Burn Page B

respectfully, but without hesitation. He wished he could only have seen her face, looked into her eyes. Then he would know if what he sensed of her was false or true.
    “What does Dr. Keller look like?” he asked without thinking. His seneschal uttered a grunt that indicated his general approval. “No, I mean describe her to me.”
    “She is small and sturdy,” Phillipe said. “Strong legs, full breasts. Good hips.”
    His seneschal had come from generations of anonymous peasant stock, and thus evaluated every woman for her potential as a worker and breeder. Just as Michael had once looked at women only through the eyes of an artist.
    There was some irony in that, but little satisfaction for Michael’s curiosity. “Give me her colors, Phillipe. Make me see her.”
    Never comfortable with being verbose, Phillipe smothered what might have been an annoyed sound. “Her skin is dark; I think she may be
métisse
. Her eyes are the color of polished burled oak. Her teeth are very white, her lips red. Her hair is a nest of corkscrews.”
    Michael thought for a moment. “Is it long?”
    “
Oui
. When she unbinds it, her hair reaches to the middle of her back. The color is…” Phillipe trailed off, searching for words.
    Michael remembered how it felt, the ends of her soft, springy curls brushing his skin as she bent over him. He had wanted to push his fingers into that lively mass and use it to bring her to him. So he could put his mouth to her skin and learn if her flesh tasted as enticing as her scent. The urge had frankly shocked him; he had not felt that way about the Swiss surgeon who had vomited after seeing him.
    “Well? Is it black? Brown? Red?”
    “Do you remember that Andalusian of Seran’s you coveted?” his seneschal asked. “The one with the quick temper?”
    The comparison made Michael laugh. “Only you could compare a woman to a horse, my friend.” The image helped, however. That mare had been a bitch, but she had had the silkiest, darkest chestnut hide he had ever seen. A surprisingly apt analogy for the doctor. “Do you think she has the same fire when the sunlight touches her?”
    “More. Like copper when it melts in the furnace.” Phillipe’s tone underwent a subtle change. “When it is done, Master, you will let her go?”
    “Perhaps.” As much as Michael despised his current state, he could not jeopardize the Darkyn to allow one human female her freedom.
    “She worries about the patients she left behind.” Phillipe sounded aggrieved.
    Was his seneschal becoming attached to the bad-tempered wench? “There are others who can help them.”
    “She feels responsible. They are like her family, I think.”
    Tremayne would not care about Alexandra Keller’s feelings. If Michael was to be the first designated seigneur in America, neither should he. “The doctor has skills that we need.”
    “She is kind, and courageous.” Shuffling footsteps drew near. “Ah, the delivery has arrived.” Phillipe moved away from him and toward the sound.
    Michael already tasted the new scent on the air. It was not of spices. It made his head pound and his hands clench. It reminded him of who he was, and what he was about to become.
    “This doctor, she is not like Éliane, Master. She has a normal life and a calling to heal.” Metal clinked against good crystal, and as the shuffling footsteps retreated, Phillipe placed a goblet in his hands. “I think she will not willingly serve.”
    “There are ways to persuade her.” He lifted the goblet and drank deeply from it. Heat and pleasure radiated inside him, and it took a moment before he could speak again. “You can do much in that direction.”
    “Not for long,” Phillipe reminded him. “Without rapture, she will not help you, and you could never trust her even if she did. Like your
tresora
, she will never be one of us.”
    No, Michael knew that he couldn’t trust her. The old rage welled up inside him.
    “What is the alternative? Shall I petition