left.”
“I … I should sleep in th’ barn…” He pushed back from the table and stood, wavering on his feet and looking around.
“Nonsense! When we have four perfectly fine bedrooms unoccupied?” How did he think he’d get up to the barn in this shape? She got up from the table and steeled herself. “This way,” she said firmly and took his arm. The effect of feeling his biceps beneath the fine linen as they clenched against her touch produced an effect that hadn’t diminished with repetition tonight. He looked down at her, a question in his eyes. He felt it too, she was sure of it. And then his eyes swam. She braced herself.
As he passed out, she let him fall gently to the floor and then got round and put her hands under his armpits to drag him up the stairs and into his room. She heaved him onto the bed and pulled off his boots for the second time tonight. She didn’t feel up to undressing him. Not with the current that was running between her brain and her woman’s parts. She lifted his stocking feet onto the bed, pulled a quilt from the chest and laid it over him. She grabbed his boots. They smelled of blood and the leather would soon stiffen. There was time to clean them yet tonight, along with the kitchen.
At the door, she paused. The light from a candle on the small hall table leaked through the half-open door, bathing his face in faint, golden light. His dark, thick lashes brushed his cheeks. His lips had relaxed into fulsome sensuality. She breathed in. Cinnamon, and something else, overlaid on a smell that she could only describe as intensely male. Sweat? Yes. But also a faint smell of … something primal.
It was all she could do to break the spell and close the door.
Having him in the house was going to be torture. But it would be worth it if she could get him to tell her about being a vampire. If her father failed and there was no cure, then she’d need all the information she could pry out of the laconic Mr. Kilkenny over the next days. She took the candle along to her own room. She just hoped she could survive the experience.
* * *
His eyes opened on darkness. He tried to get his breath. His body was bathed in sweat and tears ran down his temples. He had been dreaming of her again. He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry mouth. Could he not have resisted her? Was there not some way to go back in time and find a way to save even a small portion of his soul?
* * *
Marrakech, August 1819
Callan came to himself slowly, trying to remember what had happened. He blinked. He’d been captured trying to fight his way to the gates of the city. The invading army had red eyes. Had that been his imagination? Now he seemed to be lying on the floor of the Dey’s audience room. Once it had been crowded with supplicants when he’d been here before as part of the Irish legation looking for support from Morocco in their quest for independence from England.
He pushed himself up on one elbow. His head spun until he shook it and his vision cleared. Now the vast room was empty. The hangings on the walls could not make it comfortable. It was lit dimly, with smoking wall sconces around the perimeter and candles in tall holders standing around a carpeted dais at one end. He lay in front of the dais, naked. The marble was cool on his bare flanks. On the dais, draped on a kind of low, pillowed sofa lounged a woman, her head thrown back over the pillows to bare her graceful throat. She had a classic profile and perfect skin. Her kohl-lined eyes were closed, one arm flung up over her forehead. She was hardly dressed. A diaphanous red gown was slit to her waist and held there by an intricate golden girdle. He could clearly see her nipples and the dark triangle of hair below the girdle. It was rumored that the leader of the army that had captured Marrakech was a woman. Was this her? He could hardly credit it. But who else would occupy the Dey’s palace?
She turned her head slowly. Her eyes
“I … I should sleep in th’ barn…” He pushed back from the table and stood, wavering on his feet and looking around.
“Nonsense! When we have four perfectly fine bedrooms unoccupied?” How did he think he’d get up to the barn in this shape? She got up from the table and steeled herself. “This way,” she said firmly and took his arm. The effect of feeling his biceps beneath the fine linen as they clenched against her touch produced an effect that hadn’t diminished with repetition tonight. He looked down at her, a question in his eyes. He felt it too, she was sure of it. And then his eyes swam. She braced herself.
As he passed out, she let him fall gently to the floor and then got round and put her hands under his armpits to drag him up the stairs and into his room. She heaved him onto the bed and pulled off his boots for the second time tonight. She didn’t feel up to undressing him. Not with the current that was running between her brain and her woman’s parts. She lifted his stocking feet onto the bed, pulled a quilt from the chest and laid it over him. She grabbed his boots. They smelled of blood and the leather would soon stiffen. There was time to clean them yet tonight, along with the kitchen.
At the door, she paused. The light from a candle on the small hall table leaked through the half-open door, bathing his face in faint, golden light. His dark, thick lashes brushed his cheeks. His lips had relaxed into fulsome sensuality. She breathed in. Cinnamon, and something else, overlaid on a smell that she could only describe as intensely male. Sweat? Yes. But also a faint smell of … something primal.
It was all she could do to break the spell and close the door.
Having him in the house was going to be torture. But it would be worth it if she could get him to tell her about being a vampire. If her father failed and there was no cure, then she’d need all the information she could pry out of the laconic Mr. Kilkenny over the next days. She took the candle along to her own room. She just hoped she could survive the experience.
* * *
His eyes opened on darkness. He tried to get his breath. His body was bathed in sweat and tears ran down his temples. He had been dreaming of her again. He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry mouth. Could he not have resisted her? Was there not some way to go back in time and find a way to save even a small portion of his soul?
* * *
Marrakech, August 1819
Callan came to himself slowly, trying to remember what had happened. He blinked. He’d been captured trying to fight his way to the gates of the city. The invading army had red eyes. Had that been his imagination? Now he seemed to be lying on the floor of the Dey’s audience room. Once it had been crowded with supplicants when he’d been here before as part of the Irish legation looking for support from Morocco in their quest for independence from England.
He pushed himself up on one elbow. His head spun until he shook it and his vision cleared. Now the vast room was empty. The hangings on the walls could not make it comfortable. It was lit dimly, with smoking wall sconces around the perimeter and candles in tall holders standing around a carpeted dais at one end. He lay in front of the dais, naked. The marble was cool on his bare flanks. On the dais, draped on a kind of low, pillowed sofa lounged a woman, her head thrown back over the pillows to bare her graceful throat. She had a classic profile and perfect skin. Her kohl-lined eyes were closed, one arm flung up over her forehead. She was hardly dressed. A diaphanous red gown was slit to her waist and held there by an intricate golden girdle. He could clearly see her nipples and the dark triangle of hair below the girdle. It was rumored that the leader of the army that had captured Marrakech was a woman. Was this her? He could hardly credit it. But who else would occupy the Dey’s palace?
She turned her head slowly. Her eyes
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