“The Carpathians? But you are obviously English.”
How adeptly he kept avoiding the issue of his identity. “And you are—?”
He laughed. “I do love a blunt woman, sweet.” The murmured endearment washed over her. Spoken softly so Crenshaw wouldn’t hear.
“Then you won’t mind answering my question, my lord.” Althea moved down more steps.
Only two separated them and this way she stood at his height. Now she could see his large black pupils, the smallest circle of colored iris surrounding them. A silvery blue, or was it green? So hard to tell under only the faintest fingers of light. And despite his fair coloring, he had thick, remarkably dark lashes. What her nanny had termed “eyes put in with a sooty finger”. Heavy lidded eyes. His lashes swept down frequently, giving him a lazily cynical expression.
His gaze slid from her eyes to her throat. Her cross was hidden beneath the overlapped lapels of her wool wrapper, but he saw the chain. He smiled. Lifted his brows in a gesture that seemed to say he was awarding her a point.
“No, my dear. I won’t mind at all.”
He leaned closer, enveloping her in his tantalizing scent. The magical male scent from her dreams. An enthralling mix of sandalwood and smoke, shaving soap and masculine skin. She Blood Red by Sharon Page ©2006 Advance Reader Copy www.SharonPage.com 11
hungered to move closer, to feast on his smell. She wanted his smell on her, just as in her dreams. She wanted—
He winked as though he knew exactly what she wanted. “I am Yannick de Wynter, Earl of Brookshire.” His voice dropped to a low, thrumming whisper. “The man you plan to resurrect tomorrow is my brother.”
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So this was the siren who had entranced him in his dreams? Intrigued, Yannick drank in Miss Yates’ green eyes, hidden behind utilitarian spectacles, as they widened in charming astonishment. Thankfully she’d never worn those in his dreams. Her dreary flannel wrapper hinted at the curvaceous body which, in his sleep, responded so eagerly. Her skin’s perfume—
lavender and dewy feminine perspiration—mingled with the alluring aroma of her rich blood.
His nose detected a trace of something pungent. Rather like garlic. Garlic?
Yannick choked back a laugh. A vampire slayer’s trick. But garlic or garlic flowers had no effect on him.
“You are the Earl of Brookshire?” Miss Yates whispered as her fingers stroked the silver chain around her neck.
The soft, throaty timber of her voice played its magic. Arousal shot through him and his cock stood up. A flare of heat rushed through his jaw, threatening the explosion of his fangs.
Struggling, he controlled it, but they lengthened a little and jabbed his tongue.
“So you have heard of the Demon Twins.” He gave her a teasing smile.
He saw her cast a quick sidelong glance toward Crenshaw. The man had retreated, but Yannick sensed the innkeeper kept an ear cocked to their conversation.
Originally bestowed upon us when we were mortal. All the more accurate now.
He wasn’t quite ready to brazenly admit to being a vampire in front of the curious innkeeper, so he chose a more intimate form of communication. He spoke in her mind.
Unfortunately, as a result, Miss Yates’ eyes were circles of horror and her pretty mouth dropped open in shock. She yanked the cross out from beneath her clothes and let it dangle before his eyes.
Yannick tormented himself with the irreverent image of her cross nestled in the lush valley between her full breasts, warmed by her pale, satin-smooth skin.
Miss Yates’ hair was as lovely as in his dreams. A magnificent color. A deep, dark red.
Not auburn. Not quite burgundy, but darker than flame. Though the length of it was tamed in a thick braid, tendrils dangled over her forehead and danced around her cheeks. Nor was she as calm as she appeared—she had tucked her curls behind her right ear more than a dozen times.
So now you understand why I must speak to your father, Miss Yates.
She shook her head and whispered, “How do you do this? Speak in my head.”
We have a connection, Miss Yates. A connection through our dreams.
A bright pink flush washed over her lightly freckled cheeks. “Is that why you wish to talk to my father?” Sheer, raw panic flashed in her emerald eyes.
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No, sweet. I’m not mad enough to admit to a man who could destroy me that I’ve made love
to his daughter. Even if only in dreams.
Her response was entirely practical. “Promise?” she hissed.
I am a gentleman. My word can be trusted.
“But you are also a vampire,” she accused sotto voce.
Miss Yates was proving to be as stubborn as she could be in his dreams.
Fetch your father,
love
.
Her amber brows drew together, implying she had no intention of complying. “Are you here to free your brother?”
“I have not yet decided,” he admitted.
“If we have a connection, can I speak in your thoughts?”
I believe it to be possible. With practice
. Yannick lifted his brow and winked.
What would
you wish to tell me that you want no one else to hear?
She didn’t rise to his bait. “Can you read my thoughts?”
Not yet.
She dipped her shoulders slightly in relief. Once again, her fingers stole to the errant curl by her ear and she brushed it back.
Yannick wanted to see her hair loose. Not tamed and bound in that prim, tight plait.
Yes, that was so much more intriguing—the thought of her hair free, and that ribbon put to more playful use. Wrapped around her wrists, securing her arms to his bed while he explored every inch of her with his tongue.
“You mean,” she murmured, “eventually I could read yours?”
Hell and the devil, he hoped not.
“The dreams—”
Not a word about the dreams. You have my solemn vow. But your father is seeking to
destroy a vampire with as much power as God, and, for his sake, he must talk with me.
“But are they just dreams?” she persisted softly. “When a vampire visits a victim, sometimes it is remembered as a dream.”
Before tonight, I did not know who you were or where you could be found. Our dreams
have only been that, love. Just dreams. Now, go fetch your father.
“
Oh
. Then what do you want to do with my father, my lord?” She spoke in a normal tone suddenly, one as brittle as ice. Her large emerald eyes narrowed, shooting sparks. Warily, he knew he’d offended. Because he’d issued a command? Or because he’d implied she meant nothing more to him than a delightful partner in his dreams?
If only she knew.
If he had a soul she would have captured it.
“How did you escape?” she whispered. “We know you were imprisoned too.”
Behind her spectacles, her eyes glinted with intelligent curiosity, and Yannick couldn’t help but smile. Faced with a dangerous vampire, she showed nothing but courage. “I’m not about to divulge all my secrets, love. And there are some things it is better that you do not know.”
She fumed in the most adorable way. “I will fetch my father, then, my lord, as you Blood Red by Sharon Page ©2006 Advance Reader Copy www.SharonPage.com 14
requested.
Miss Yates.
She paused on the steps and turned back. Damnation, he’d forgotten about Crenshaw, who must be wondering why they appeared to be having such an intimate conversation, why she would come back without a word spoken. He was never impulsive. Still, he couldn’t let her go without asking.
Yannick had never asked with any other woman. He claimed. Took. Possessed. Made love to them and drank from them and left them. For the poor women, the jades, he left a few coins. For the ladies, he left only the afterglow of intense pleasure.
For himself, he took enough blood to quench his needs. Nothing more.
Let me come to you tonight, Althea
.
Do you mean in a dream?
She tried to push her thoughts at him. Her forehead wrinkled with the effort, her eyes shut, her amber lashes feathered on her cheeks. And yes, faintly, he heard her.
She was adorable and he found, to his surprise, another warm, genuine smile on his lips.
I want to pleasure you for real, love.
No.
But she faltered. Her plump pink lips parted. He waited, waited for her invitation.
No. Please…no. Don’t. I won’t…I can’t…can’t do the scandalous things you want of me,
my lord.
He flashed her a lusty grin.
Yes, you can, sweet. You are a sensual delight in my dreams.
Trust me, Althea.
I am not that foolish, sir. I have no intention of being seduced, trapped, tricked, or forced
into being a vampire.
She turned on her heel, her spine straight, her head high, and she stalked up the stairs. With a flick of her slender wrist, she tossed her braid over her shoulder and it swished over the small of her back, just above the generous curve of her voluptuous derrière.
Yannick turned abruptly to Crenshaw. “I have changed my mind about a room.”
Althea’s legs shook as she reached the top of the stairs. She did not dare turn and look back.
But in the gloom of the hallway, she sank back against the rough plaster wall. She covered her mouth with her hands, smothering a sudden sob.
What did the dreams mean?
She’d been intimate with that…that beautiful blond man in those dreams. With a vampire.
A vampire with the perfect features of an angel! From her dreams, she could remember the salty, rich taste of his bare skin against her tongue. Her fingertips knew his textures. She had played in the coarse silkiness of the golden curls on his chest. She had stroked his erect nipples.
Even cupped his bottom as he drove…goodness, in her dreams he had been inside her. Deep, deep within her.
And he knew—
he knew
—what she dreamed, what they had done!
How could she bring her father downstairs? Althea did not believe for one minute the vampire Earl of Brookshire would not torment Father and would keep her secret.
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But if he truly was the brother of the vampire in the crypt, Father must speak with him.
Whether it meant her exposure or not.
Her wrap and the skirts of her nightrail swished about her legs as she hurried to her father’s room, but she stopped in her tracks before reaching the door. The earl had come to her in her dreams. He had deliberately seduced her. Until the last dream, she hadn’t even suspected he was a vampire.
Of course he must have known who she was. His denial was a complete lie. How could he expect she would believe he did not? The dreams were a trick—to capture her mind and soul, to use her in some way to release his brother—
“By all that is holy—” Her father’s panicked cry froze her blood.
A crash echoed from his room. A heavy thud. Furniture overturned? Her father falling?
For several thundering heartbeats, Althea couldn’t move—then she wrenched forward and raced up the hallway.
“Father?” She reached his door. Thank heavens, the knob turned under her shaky hand.
She pushed the door, but before it opened more than a few inches, it slammed back in her face.
“Father!”
Another crash. Althea shoved the door again, but this time it refused to give at all. She kicked it, twisting the knob so hard she thought it might break off in her hand.
Beyond the door, there was silence. “Father!” she cried once more.
Faintly she heard a twang, followed by an instant thunk. The bolt of a crossbow? There was no cry of agony, only an eerie, disembodied chuckle that seemed to come from her father’s room and from behind her at the same time. She whipped around, her hand still clasped to the knob.
There was no one there.
Where was Mr. O’Leary? Hadn’t Crenshaw heard the crashes? Hadn’t the servants?
Desperate, she shoved at the door, her shoulder and hip braced against it. Althea threw all her weight—not much—at it. She screamed, hoping to summon someone. Anyone.
The metal knob turned to scorching fire in her palm. In vain she tried to jerk it again, even as her skin screamed in agony. A revolting stench rose—her burning flesh. With a howl, she yanked her hand back. Sickening pain shot up her arm as she pounded on the door. Dizziness washed over her as her wounded hand struck the wood.
The door thrummed beneath her blows. From the gaps in the frame, a blue light spilled out—a light filled with small twinkling stars. Once in the hallway, they flew at her eyes. Her spectacles protected her, but some struck her cheeks, her lips. Each delivered a sharp, horrible pain, like a bite from small, sharp teeth. Slapping at the door helplessly, she had to flinch and shake her head to avoid the stings.
A black shape enveloped her, pulling another scream from her throat. A huge hand wrapped around her wrist and drew her back from the door. Althea fell against a large, black wall—the earl’s massive chest. “You?”
“You are hurt.” Raw fury snapped in his deep voice.
“I don’t matter. My father is in there!”
Still holding her wrist, he raised his booted foot and slammed it into the door. Before her eyes, the door arched inward and snapped back. With a bang, a large crack shot through the Blood Red by Sharon Page ©2006 Advance Reader Copy www.SharonPage.com 16
middle of it and it sagged on its hinges but still stood as a barrier.
“Bloody Zayan,” the earl muttered.
Althea jerked her gaze to Brookshire’s face, swathed in the pale blue glow. A deep red fire burned in the depth of his eyes and she caught her breath at the sight. He was a demon and she was praying for his help?