At least, let her run a certain distance, far enough to get into trouble. Then he would fly to the rescue.
And his seduction could begin.
Raven’s lips and his skin burned with heat and pain—it was the pain from her power. If he wasn’t a vampire, with superhuman strength, the burning of his lips would be agony.
Lady Ophelia’s hands went lower. Down his back to below his waist. His cock pulsed with a shot of arousal and bucked against his belly. His prick had shifted shape from limp to rock-hard faster than he could grow his wings.
She groped his back. He would have to help her as the key was not trapped within the linen folds of his shirt. It was somewhere quite different.
Raven pulled off his cravat, opened the throat of his shirt, and yanked it off as quickly as he could.
Strange. Normally his naked chest was a bluish-white, as though he’d been frozen in ice. Even when he fed, he didn’t gain a more normal color. He looked more like a marble statue than other vampires did. Many of them easily passed for mortal.
But right now his skin was lightly flushed. It looked almost human.
He gazed down at her beneath his lashes. Ophelia was the most fetching human he’d ever seen. Pink glowed on her cheeks. She possessed the dewy skin of a lady who protected her face with bonnets and parasols. Amber lashes swept over eyes that glittered and sparkled.
She was so human, so alive; it was like taking a blow to the chest.
Stupidly, he broke their kiss and put his lips to her throat. It lured him like iron to a magnet. Pulled him there as if he were a dumb chunk of metal.
Her skin tasted of warmth, lightly of salt, possessed a lovely, unique flavor.
Her heartbeat pulsed under his lips.
Drinking from her would be the most pleasurable experience he’d ever known. So Jade had said. His instincts were screaming that it would be.
All he had to do was plunge in his fangs—
No. If he did, he would sacrifice his sister.
But, hell, he was going to kill pretty Ophelia, wasn’t he, when he took her power?
Remember, idiot, she has to escape.
He had to move this along. Before he bit her. Or fucked her.
Raven gripped her wrists. He moved her hands so they were on his trousers. On his arse.
Ack.
Ophelia jerked her hands back up. She’d wanted to search for pockets, but she was not ready to cup his . . . his derriere.
Her palms touched smooth skin. The skin of his bare back.
He shifted his position, lowering his leg, pulling her hard against him.
Against her tummy, there was a bulge in his trousers. Ravenhunt believed she desired him. Just as she’d wanted him to.
But now she felt awful. It stung her pride, churned up fear, made her want to be sick. She didn’t want to think she was embracing, kissing, exploring a man who was half-unclothed and whom she hated.
At least the fact he was naked above the waist meant she had fewer places to search for the key.
What if the key was in one of his boots? How would she explain sticking her hand down in one of those skintight leather things?
Worse, what if it was down
inside
his trousers?
He must have a pocket of some sort. And if she couldn’t find it there, she would make up some reason for him to take off his boots. She could say she was afraid he would step on her toes while kissing her.
She had gotten good at lying since she’d had to keep her power secret.
Wait? What was he
doing?
His hand was sliding between their stomachs. Ophelia took a quick look down.
He opened the placket of his trousers. He was pushing them
down
.
She could not let this continue.
Even
for the key.
Ophelia tried to pull her hands away but he grasped her wrists and drew her arms around him. Behind his back, he planted her hands on the edge of some soft material. His linen
drawers
.
He had put her hands on his underclothing.
This wasn’t what she wanted. Panicked, she started to move her hands away—
Her fingers brushed a rigid lump.
Shutting her eyes, tense as a drawn bow, she explored. The shape in his drawers was long, slender, and hard. A shape very like a key.
In his arousal, he must have forgotten he had put her hands right beside the key.
She gathered her courage. Then she thrust her tongue into his mouth to play with his, kissing him with desperate abandon.
To distract him while she eased her hand down the back of his drawers.
Firm, hard contours met her fingertips. It was the warm skin of—
gah!
—the globes of his bottom. Then she brushed cool metal.
She was breathing hard into his mouth, half-paralyzed with fear. She was terrified he would feel what she was doing.
Sliding her other hand down, Ophelia cupped the curve of his derriere on the outside of his underclothes. Her fingers felt stiff. But she managed to squeeze his rump. He jumped, apparently startled by her boldness. In that moment, with him distracted, she slid out the key. It was cold and hard against her palm, and she curled her fingers around it.
With her object hidden in her hand, she didn’t need to endure the kiss any longer. What she needed was to get away from him.
She tore her lips away from his. “Stop! I don’t want this.”
His lips curved up. “This is sudden. You seemed to be enjoying it up to now.”
“I was not!”
“You liked it and that bothered you. I understand, Ophelia. I’ll leave you alone.” He took a step back.
She couldn’t believe he would surrender so easily. But her heart soared with relief. She had the key squeezed so tight against her palm it was cutting her skin.
Shrugging, he picked up his shirt, then buttoned his trousers. “Until next time.” With that and a quick bow, he strolled away from her, still half-naked. Humming, for heaven’s sake.
There would not be a next time.
That made her smile. Smugly.
* * *
Ophelia pushed open one of the front doors. It creaked as it opened. She winced, then remembered she didn’t have to. There was no one to hear it.
After she had taken the key, she had hurried up to her bedchamber to hide it. She knew she could never escape with him in the house.
He had come up to her room at dark, had shouted through the closed door that he was going out and he had laid out a supper for her in the dining room.
She hadn’t planned to waste time eating, but once she was racing down the stairs, she’d smelled the delicious aromas and she’d run to the table to grab some food before making her escape.
Where the food came from, she had no idea. There were no cooks or maids after all. She’d stuffed a slice of roast beef in her mouth in the most unladylike way, swallowed it fast, and thrown down a glass of wine for courage.
Now she stepped out onto the front step, her heart thundering.
She was
outside
. She’d done it.
She quickly drew the door closed behind her and locked it from the outside. There was a slim chance Ravenhunt had no other key and would find
he
was locked out of his prison of a house. At the very least, a closed and locked door might give her time to get away before he discovered she was gone. It would be what he would expect to find.
She was out, but she had no idea where she was. On the outskirts of Mayfair, she would guess. Ravenhunt’s house was old—but across the street there marched a line of new townhomes. The street appeared to have some affluence, but was not of the best address. Perhaps it was a street where city merchants lived. It was quiet—only two carriages rumbled down it. But having at least some people around her gave her confidence. She must be safe now. If Ravenhunt pursued, she would scream. On a street such as this, which was not the stews, surely a cry for help would actually bring assistance.
But she was not about to wait about and be caught again. Ophelia lifted her hems and ran down the street. At the corner, she saw the name. Hope soared—she knew where she was. Only a few blocks from Mrs. Darkwell’s house.
One of the carriages slowed in the street at her side. A young man leaned out and called, “Can I help you, miss?”
She was about to shout, “Yes!” Then she stopped. Beneath his beaver hat and mop of brown curls, the young gentleman stared at her. What if this man was helping Ravenhunt? What if he meant to take her back to that prison?
She kept running. It took only two more blocks and she was panting. Her chest heaved. Pressing close to the edge of a fence that surrounded a house, she sucked in deep breaths. A narrow and shadowy lane led off from the street—she stood at the corner of it.
What on earth was she doing? She didn’t want to return to Mrs. Darkwell’s, but where else could she go?
She had escaped Ravenhunt’s prison. Why should she rush back to Mrs. Darkwell’s house, which was also a prison to her?
She was free. She could finally, for once in her life, make a choice. Eight years ago, she had been taken away from her family to protect them. Willingly, obediently, she had gone, because she had been so afraid of hurting people.
She did not have to live in a prison anymore.
She could go anywhere in the world—well, she could if she had some money, and if she stayed away from people so she did not hurt them—
“Lady Ophelia. How clever of you to have escaped that fiend.”
The clipped baritone voice startled her. It certainly didn’t belong to Ravenhunt—it wasn’t as drawling, jaded, or gravelly.
Ophelia spun around and found a gentleman standing behind her. Beneath his tall beaver hat, gray hair fell across his lined brow. A gray beard adorned his long, thin chin. Spectacles reflected street flares. Two younger, thin men in dark tailcoats accompanied him, flanking him. They carried . . . pistols.
“Who are you?” She had never seen this man before. How could he know she’d been a prisoner?
“I am Cartwell of the Royal Society.”
She frowned. “Why in heaven’s name is the Royal Geographical Society interested in me?”
Cartwell smiled, his manner paternal and condescending. “Not that Royal Society, my dear. Now you must come with me.”
“No. I have no idea who you are, so I have no intention of going with you.” She was tired of being forced to do things. She wanted her choice.
The men advanced and she backed away.
“I am here to protect you,” Cartwell said.
“I’ve escaped. I am going to protect myself.”
“I cannot allow that, Lady Ophelia.” He spoke calmly, but with an implied authority.
“I do not give a fig what you want,” she retorted.
“Do not force the issue, Lady Ophelia,” Cartwell snapped. “It is the best for you if you quietly come with us. Given you were taken captive by a dangerous man, I should think you would be appreciative—”
“Appreciative?” she snorted. “I am tired of people telling me I should be thankful that they’ve locked me in a room and won’t let me out.”
“This is madness.” It was one of the young men who spoke. He had tangled red hair beneath his hat, as if he never combed it. He pointed the pistol at her, bringing it level with her bosom. “You are to come with us.”
“Or you will shoot me?”
Ravenhunt’s words came back to her. He had warned her that people wanted to hurt her and that she should depend on him for protection.
She should be afraid.
But Ophelia was tired of people wanting to hurt her. She didn’t want to hurt anyone. She wanted to be normal.
Suddenly, she realized they had backed her into the shadows in an alley between houses. Where people from the street would not see her.
She held out her hands and lunged toward the redheaded man with the gun. He jerked back, obviously terrified of her touch. “Boo!” she cried. “If you shoot me, I’ll still touch you first.”
The other young man was moving toward her, and he trained his weapon at her head. “I’ll grab her—”
“Stop,” barked Cartwell. “Do not lay a hand on her. It will kill you.”
“I should shoot her now,” snarled the redhead, his voice filled with arrogance and bravado. “She is a monster. This idea of studying her is madness. She should be destroyed.” His finger was on the trigger.
The shot fired, smoke rushing from the pistol. The explosion roared in her ears. Darkness rippled in front of her eyes, as if a curtain had been drawn. Her hands went to her chest.
She expected to feel pain, to feel her body be ripped apart.
But there was nothing.
Dazed, she looked up. Ravenhunt stood there, between her and the pistol.
Ravenhunt. Naked.
How had he—? How could he have moved there so quickly? He half-turned to her. Blood poured from a wound in his chest. “Are you all right?” he shouted at her.
“You’ve been shot.”
Her eyes widened as she drank in the muscles of his chest—which she had seen before, but which looked all the more impressive under the glow of the streetlight. Her gaze went lower. Yes, utterly naked. Not a stitch on him.
“Ravenhunt, for heaven’s sake, you don’t have clothing,” she cried.
“This you notice, when one of these idiots shot at you?”
“You are wounded.” He had been shot in the chest, and blood was rushing out of the wound like a river.
Her legs wobbled, but she stumbled toward him. She had to use something to stop the flow of blood.
She shouldn’t touch him—
He would die if she didn’t.
“It’s all right, Lady Ophelia.”
“Stand down, Ravenhunt.” The gray-haired man held a strange weapon pointing at him. She recognized it from pictures in books. A medieval crossbow.
In front of her, Ravenhunt seemed to disappear. But he didn’t. There was a blur of movement, like ripples in the air on a hot day. Next thing she knew, the arrogant young man who had fired the pistol was lying unconscious on the ground, Cartwell was disarmed, and nude Ravenhunt held the crossbow pointed at both men.