Let the Night Begin (2 page)

The messenger shook his head. “I don't know, ma'am. I was given your name and direction by my employer. I don't know who sent it.”

She grabbed him by the front of the coat, lifting him up until he hovered above her like an overgrown child, his feet dangling around her shins. He looked around, understandably amazed that anyone, let alone a woman, could hold him off the ground with one hand.

“What of your employer?” she demanded. “Would he know? Or is he as useless as you?”

“T…the letter was dropped off at the office with payment and instructions attached. The boy who brought it said he had been hired by a gentleman.”

Damn. Whoever they were, they knew enough to be careful. They knew enough about her to be even more cautious. She gave her captive a little shake. “If you're lying—”

“Don't hurt me,” he squeaked, covering his head with his arms.

The sight of him cowering from her permeated Olivia's furor. He wasn't lying, the poor child. God help her, she was on the cusp of doing something stupid. It had been a long time since her instincts lorded over her logic, driving her to act like a predator rather than a human. She would not allow those instincts to win now.

Slowly, and with great control, she lowered the boy to the ground. He wasn't so afraid that he had lost control of his bladder, but he was trembling all the same. She made certain his legs would support him before she released him.

“Forgive me,” she murmured as she turned to walk away. She didn't look back, but after a few moments—a few strides—she heard him mount his horse and gallop away as though the hounds of hell were after him.

Once she was certain he was gone, Olivia leaped into the sky once more. Her guilt for terrorizing a poor boy overshadowed her own fear. She didn't have much time. There were but a few hours left before dawn and there was still so much she had to do.

She had to pack. She had to prepare. She would leave for London as soon as possible. The kidnapper's time constraints would not give her time to get to the city and search for the boy who originally delivered the note to the agency. For all she knew, James was on his way to Scotland—if not already there—as she soared toward her home.

No, there was no time to waste. No matter how much she despised having to ask for his help, she was going to London to strike a deal with the devil himself. Her husband. That gorgeous black-haired, blue-eyed bastard who had made her a vampire. The man she had no qualms about handing over as ransom.

Reign.

 

“Are you in need of diversion, sir?”

Reign blinked. What? Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman standing beside him and he turned to face her. Where the devil had he been that he hadn't sensed her approach? Even in a house full of people he should have smelled her, heard her when she got so close. He simply hadn't sensed a threat—and a social maven such as his hostess was always a threat to a man seen as fair game on the Marriage Mart. Never mind that he had made his opinions on marriage clear. All these years of civilized behavior had dulled his edge.

“Diversion?” he repeated, flattering his hostess with a flirtatious smile. “My dear Mrs. Willet, whatever do you have in mind?”

Mrs. Willet smiled, her youthful face lighting up. She was a lovely woman in her forties with graying blond hair and pale blue eyes. Her full figure was draped in a gold evening gown encrusted with beads and crystals that sparkled under the chandeliers. Even still the gown could not match the brightness of her eyes, or the glowing goodness in her countenance. “Saucy. That's what you are, Mr. Gavin.”

“I prefer incorrigible, my dear.”

She tilted her head. There were crystals in her hair as well. “One of the things I like about you, sir is your ability to make me feel younger than you,
even though I know full well I must be at least ten years your senior.”

More like fifteen if one went by physical age, as Reign had been almost thirty years when he became immortal. However, that had been more than six hundred years ago, so he was more Mrs. Willet's senior than she could possibly imagine.

He pulled his brow in a mock frown. “But that would make me a mere lad of seventeen, would it not?”

She tapped him on the arm with her closed fan as she chuckled. “Incorrigible indeed. Will you dance this evening, good sir?”

“Trying to toss me to the virgins are you?”

She laughed—a bold and raucous sound that brought a smile to Reign's lips. “It is not the Season, Mr. Gavin. You are in safe company tonight.”

No, the Season was over, thank God. Company was thin, but a number of families kept permanent residence in London, especially those who were not of the peerage. Reign could have had a title, centuries ago, but people paid far too much attention to heirs and titles. That kind of scrutiny was something he didn't desire any more than he desired the numerous virginal misses tossed in his direction every time he resided in London for those few months. He may not have a title, but he had a fortune that was just as envied. Occasionally an elderly matron would tell him she had fancied—or been afraid of—a man who looked rather like
him decades earlier. His grandfather perhaps? And Reign always had to be careful not to say anything that might give himself away. It was deuced difficult, and sometimes downright painful, especially when it was someone he had known and thought well of in that “other” lifetime.

It had only been thirty years since the last time he was “out” in society. His would be a dangerous game if anyone recognized him, but he had moved in different circles then, in a different part of the country. It was unlikely that he would meet anyone from Hertford in London during this time of year.

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Gavin? You look very strange.”

Jerking back to the present, Reign smiled apologetically at his hostess. “My apologies, Mrs. Willet. A memory struck me. Nothing more.” The memory of Hertford and how he had been the happiest of his long life there.

“I hope it's nothing too dreadful?” Of course she wouldn't expect him to admit if it was something dreadful, but her concern was genuine all the same.

“Nothing at all.”

And nothing was the sum of his life. Nothing in the years that followed had come close to touching that happiness. Or the emptiness. Yes, he needed a diversion. This time of year he needed to be diverted in the worst way.

He offered the lady his arm. “Shall we dance, madam?”

She smiled prettily, placing her hand on his sleeve. “I thought you would never ask.”

As they danced, whirling and prancing in a figure that hadn't changed in a hundred years, Reign let his mind wander, speaking only when spoken to. He shouldn't be in society tonight. He was too distracted. Too out of sorts. He should have gone to Maison Rouge and visited with Madeline and the girls. He could have drunk, maybe fed and gotten a little slap and tickle. There was that strong, buxom brunette he'd had his eye on the other night.

But then Madeline had told him that Chapel had been by and Reign forgot about the girl. Chapel had been to the brothel? The same Chapel who had spent the last five centuries playing whipping boy to the Church? What the hell? And why hadn't the bastard come to see him? They might no longer be the friends they once were, but they were still brothers, united by the cursed blood that took them from simple soldiers to immortal beings.

But if Madeline's account of that night was true—and he had no reason to think otherwise, even though he could tell she left out many of the sordid details—Chapel had glutted himself at Maison Rouge. No one had been hurt, but every girl in the house, with the exception of Maddie's daughter, Ivy, had given her blood to Chapel. Not sex. Just blood.

That meant that his old friend had a woman. It was about damn time.

As the music ended, Reign escorted Mrs. Willet off the floor. “Thank you for gracing me with your favor, ma'am.”

Snapping open her delicate silk fan, the woman cooled herself with lazy strokes. “You are so courtly, Mr. Gavin. I find it so refreshing. Most young men these days don't give a thought to manners.”

Reign smiled in response. Young men hadn't been so keen on manners in his youth either, but it seemed to him that ever since Walter Scott published
Ivanhoe,
society in large had taken to romanticizing knights, bloody fights, and big swords. The human race was too enthralled by the past. Even he couldn't seem to focus on the present, much less look to the future.

The butler approached. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Gavin? I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but there is a lady asking for you at the door.”

“For me?” His first thought was that something had happened to Madeline or Maison Rouge. “Did she give her name?”

The man's stoic countenance never wavered. “Mrs. Gavin, sir. She says she is your wife.”

Reign's heart—damn it—flipped in his chest. “My wife?” Could it really be Olivia?

Mrs. Willet looked positively indignant. “What nerve! Send her away, Postman.”

“No.” Both the butler and hostess looked alarmed by the force of his tone. “I would very much like to speak to her.” He turned to Mrs. Willet. “That is, if you do not mind granting me use of a parlor, ma'am?”

“Of course not,” she replied with a frown. “If you are certain you wish to address this person?”

“I am.” He couldn't be any more certain.

“Then show her to the peach parlor, Postman.”

The butler bowed and took his leave. Reign prepared to do the same.

“This is not quite the diversion I had in mind,” Mrs. Willet informed him with a wry smile.

“Is it not?” Reign grinned crookedly. “It is exactly how I hoped to end the evening.”

His hostess bade him farewell and left to attend to her other guests. Reign straightened to his full height of six feet and forced himself to leave the ballroom at a leisurely pace. If Mrs. Willet was as discreet as he believed then no one would be watching him, but if she had a tongue for gossip…well, he wasn't about to add any more fuel to that fire than necessary.

His heart pounding, his muscles coiled tight like an overwound clock, Reign walked down the corridor, mindless of the paintings and the pretty wallpaper. His gaze was fixed on the door at the end, the one Postman just exited.

He didn't pause to check his appearance or draw a deep breath. If it was Olivia, she would know
what he had done and she would congratulate herself for it. As it was she who would no doubt hear the clamorous beating of his heart.

The last time he saw her she had looked at him with a wounded gaze—a gaze that accused him of things he didn't want to entertain even three decades after the fact. He had made himself a monster in her eyes. Was he still? When he thought of that night—their wedding night—it was with a mixture of regret, guilt, and anger. Mostly regret.

He pushed the door, letting it swing fully open before stepping inside. A woman of good height and strong build stood beside the sofa. She looked up. She looked at him.

All the breath left his lungs. It was she. It was Olivia, the woman he had loved like no other before her. There had been no one since that could make him feel so vulnerable—so oddly human.

He liked that feeling.

Even if he hadn't recognized her richly hued hair—strands of faun and gold and sable, even if he hadn't remembered those big almond-shaped brandy-colored eyes, sharp nose or wide lips, he would have known the scent of her. The taste of her on the air. He would have known her because he could hear her heart pounding as loudly as his own.

Olivia. Beautiful and strong and bold as he remembered. His Olivia. His wife. And she was
staring at him with a resentment he found relieving. It was so much kinder than the hatred he had last seen on her face when she discovered what he had done. Thirty years had passed and he still didn't know if he wanted to kiss her or kick her arse to the street. She obviously hadn't forgiven him. He could live with that. He hadn't forgiven her either.

But she had balls, to show up on this, of all nights, knowing what it was.

“Hello, Liv,” he said, taking as much control of the situation as he could. “Happy anniversary.”

O
livia couldn't speak. Damn him for looking marvelous. Damn herself for wanting to throw herself on him and kiss him until dawn. She shouldn't be so happy to see him and want to kill him at the same time.

And damn him for remembering that it was their wedding anniversary—that was the little something that had been niggling at the back of her mind before leaving for London. She had almost made herself forget the significance of this date. And then it came rushing back when she woke just after sunset, along with a host of other memories she wished she could just throw away. She remembered how his fingers had trembled when he slid the wedding ring onto hers. She remembered believing that he loved her. Worse, she remembered loving him.

She had dressed and primped and hired a hack to take her to Reign's house in Belgrave Square only to find out he was out for the evening. He'd always been a bit of a social animal, telling her once that
spending time with humans helped him remember his own humanity.

It also made feeding easy, Olivia told herself snidely.

Fortunately for her, Reign's valet had stumbled upon her as the butler attempted to shut the door in her face, and recognized her. Clarke had been but a boy of James's age the last time Olivia saw him, now he was a man of fifty. He didn't trust her, but he knew it had to be important for her to come looking for Reign and told her where he was. She could have waited at the house for Reign to return, but she hadn't the patience or the inclination. And she hadn't been welcome. She wanted this over with, before she lost her resolve.

It wasn't right, exchanging Reign for James, but she would do it. Obviously she wouldn't be able to confide in Reign. He had proven himself untrustworthy in the worst way in the past, and there was no guarantee he would go along with the kidnappers for the sake of a boy he didn't know.

No, it was better to let him think she was in his debt. Better for him to think he was the one in control. She refused to wonder what the villains had planned for him other than to tell herself he was neigh on indestructible. Probably he had betrayed them in some way in the past as well. These thoughts stoked her anger. James would be safe if not for Reign. All she had to do was remember that. James would be safe again once Reign was delivered as ransom.

She hated coming to him. Hated putting on a fine gown and rouge. Hated putting her hair up so elaborately. The only thing she liked about the ensemble was her earrings, and she had made those herself. Those hadn't been chosen with this evening in mind. With Reign in mind. She had even worn plum, a color he always liked her in. The fine fabric felt sticky in the summer heat.

They stood watching each other, as all opponents did, taking the other's full measure. He looked older. That was impossible, of course, but true all the same. His eyes, once so bright and crystalline looked faded and gray. His mouth, thin but well shaped seemed less generous, more unforgiving. He had changed his hair according to fashion. It was longer than she remembered, the thick inky locks curling ever so slightly over his forehead. It was a good style for him, softening the lines of his blunt cheekbones, strong jaw, and a nose that had to have been broken more than once, and hundreds of years earlier.

Emotion changed his face so easily. She remembered how devastatingly handsome he could be when he smiled, how heartbreaking he looked when grieved. Oh, and frightening. He could look so frightening when he wanted.

Obviously he wanted to tonight, because he stared at her with a mixture of desire and antagonism that both scared and thrilled her, but mostly it fueled her own anger. How dare he look at her as
though she was the one who ruined their marriage. He had betrayed her. All she had done was leave.

It was that conviction in the rightness of her actions that allowed her to finally find her voice. How long had they been standing there in terse silence? “Hello, Reign.”

He didn't move, didn't even blink. “What are you doing here?” The low rumble of his voice still sent a shiver down her spine. She remembered it, lying on the sofa with her head on his thigh as he read to her from a book, or the newspaper.

He never sounded so cold back then. That he did now only eased what little guilt she felt at deceiving him. She felt many things at that moment—anger, a little fear. But not remorse. Not after what he had done to her.

“I need your help.”

A bark of derisive laughter burst from his throat. The look he shot her was incredulous at best. “After thirty years of nothing, you come
expecting
me to help you?”

She didn't expect anything, not when it came to him. “It's not as though you made any effort to see me during those years either.” Why did saying that out loud make her feel queasy? It wasn't as though she wanted him to come looking for her.

“You tried to kill me,” he reminded her bluntly. “I had no desire to repeat the experience.”

Like a wound, the old hurt opened—raw and festering. “How convenient that your memory has
made it all my fault.” She wouldn't be here now—James wouldn't be in trouble—if not for Reign.

If she hadn't left him.

“You ran.”

“You betrayed me.” Her voice shook in that maddening way that sounded more like tears than rage.

“You promised me forever.” The low pitch of his voice never changed. They were having a conversation, nothing more. Yet there was a hardness to his gaze. “I thought you knew what that meant.”

She might have gasped at that barb, so deep it stung, were it not for the indignation that flooded her veins. “You never asked.” It had happened so long ago and the bitterness still choked her. “You never asked, and I wasn't prepared.”

Some of the harshness drained from his features. “Liv…”

“You took all my choices away.” Why did she have to cry when she was angry? That was his fault too, somehow. “You son of a bitch.”

If Reign saw the blow coming he didn't try to block it. The impact would break the jaw of a mortal man, perhaps even shatter his skull. Reign didn't even stagger backward. His head snapped back as the sound of their flesh connecting echoed throughout the room. Olivia's knuckles tingled from the impact, as did the length of her arm.

There was blood in the corner of his mouth as he faced her once more. His eyes glittered like per
fectly cut diamonds as he licked the crimson away. “One,” he warned her, low and cold. “You get one of those. Next time, I hit back.”

Why did the promise of violence excite her? How much satisfaction could she possibly glean from pounding on him with her fists? She had learned to fight over the years, obviously—and much she had learned on her own—but there was no doubt that she was no match for a six-century-old vampire. Still, drawing blood gave her some pleasure.

Maybe violence would finally end whatever lingered between them. Maybe, if he didn't kill her, she would be able to go on with her life and never think of him again.

It was stupid of her, but she went for him again, even though she knew the punch would never meet its mark. This time he was ready and he grabbed her, pulling her against him, holding her arms tight at her sides.

Good God he was aroused. She could feel the hard ridge of him through her skirts, though not as bluntly as if there were fewer layers. She was ready as well, damn it. She could climb him right now, take him inside her even as she fought to rip him apart. Physical attraction had never been a weakness of their relationship, though it might certainly prove to be one now. She had bedded him long before discovering what he was. Bedded him the night she met him.

She'd been a widow just out of her weeds at her first party since her husband's demise. Her first husband, Allan, had died of a fever. Theirs had been a marriage of economics rather than emotion and Olivia wasn't ashamed of not missing her husband as a more devoted wife might. She had never thought of herself as the type to be swept away by passion, but then someone introduced her to Reign Gavin, the most magnificent man she had ever laid eyes on. They flirted and talked and drank. They laughed and danced. Reign had murmured low against her ear, likening her to a plum, dark and sweet with juices, begging to be plucked. God, how he had plucked her.

The thought almost made her smile, brought a slow heat churning between her thighs. Reign's nostrils flared as his eyelashes shuddered, but didn't close. Olivia could smell her own desire and knew he could as well. As easy as it would be to kill him right now, it would be just as easy to forget the last thirty years and try again.

Lifting up on her toes, she brought her face closer to his. Her mouth closer to his.

And licked a drop of blood from the edge of his lips.

His blood. Blood that ruined everything, but was so sweet and salty on her tongue. Blood that ran in her veins and called to her even now, even though she'd rather slit her own throat than admit it out loud.

After all this time, he could still make her want it. Make her want him.

Reign shivered against her. It was a slight movement, but enough to let her know the effect she had on him. “Witch,” he murmured. And then his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her, tasting her, driving her back, her slippers grasping for purchase on the carpet until she hit a piece of furniture—a table or a desk. The poor thing groaned under the force of their passion, its legs inching across the floor as Reign's tongue rubbed against hers.

The sound of splintering wood froze them both. Reign lifted his head. His lips were flushed, his eyes bright. This was the Reign she remembered—at least a shadow of him. The man who seemed to find her as intoxicating and irresistible as she had found him. “I could bend you over this desk right now and fuck you.”

Bend her over so he didn't have to look at her. Olivia met his gaze and smiled coolly. So much for the man she remembered. “You can fuck me if you want, but you'll have to look me in the eye while you do it. I want you to see what you've made.”

Perhaps it was the bitterness in her tone, hearing his own crudeness echoed back at him, or perhaps he merely came to his own senses, but Reign released her then and stepped back. Her arms felt bruised and her body chilled, but Olivia refused to let it show. As she pushed away from the desk,
it wobbled a little. Hopefully their host wouldn't realize they had broken it.

“I didn't think you'd agree,” she taunted. It shouldn't hurt. She shouldn't be surprised. And damn it, she should
not
be disappointed.

“You didn't come here for my help. You don't want
my
help.” He wasn't the least bit affected by her words as he eyed her with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. Damn him. Any desire he had felt seemed to have evaporated into the night, while her thighs were still trembling. “What's going on, Liv?”

An image of James's boyish face flashed in her mind and she knew she had to be careful. The kidnappers wanted Reign, and she would never convince him to trust her, or offer his help if she didn't keep her nephew at the forefront of her thoughts. And he would never willingly offer himself in exchange if she told him the truth. James was nothing to him. She was nothing to him. No, it was better to appeal to him and let him think he had power over her. And it was better for her if she didn't think about the fact that he truly did have power over her. If he refused James could be seriously hurt. Or worse.

“I think they know what I am.” That much of the truth she could give him. The rest would have to follow.

Her admission startled him and he seemingly made no effort to hide it. He glanced toward the
door, as though he suspected someone might be listening. “This is not the place to discuss this.”

She was almost amused. He would fuck her in a stranger's home, but not talk to her candidly? How delightfully male. How very him. But then, he always had been a master at getting his own way. And she usually gave it to him. Let him think this time was no different. “Where then? When?”

“Belgrave Square,” he replied. He was going to make her return to the house that should have been hers. She had been so excited about picking out new draperies and furniture. So excited about her new life with the man she loved so much. “Go, and I'll make excuses to the lady of the house.”

A mocking smile twisted her lips. “Yes, wouldn't want to have to introduce me, would you?”

He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. In fact, he looked bored, both with her and their situation. “You are more than welcome to accompany me if you wish to waste time with introductions and explanations as to why the wife no one knew I had has suddenly appeared.”

“You are right,” she conceded, hating him all the more for it. “I will wait for you at your home.” She couldn't bring herself to call it theirs, even though by rights it was.

Of course he never spoke of her. Why would he? But if she'd harbored any hopes that he still might
feel some tenderness for her, some emotion other than lust, she now had her answer.

It would make betraying him all the easier.

 

He couldn't trust her. That went without saying. And that was the only thing Reign knew for certain as his carriage pulled up in front of his home in Belgrave Square. He lived on the eastern side of the highly fashionable property, having taken a lease fifty-two years earlier. As with all of his property, the lease had already passed on to his “heir” once and would again in a reasonable amount of time.

That was the one hardship of being immortal, he reflected as he climbed the shallow steps of the freshly whitewashed town house. He could never settle in one place for an indefinite amount of time. He always had to move on. He didn't mind the travel so much, and wouldn't mind relocating at all if he had someone to share it with.

The only person he had ever found that he could entertain spending eternity with had shoved a dagger into his chest thirty years ago. She might be in London to finish the job for all he knew. Maybe he deserved it, but he had no regrets save that he had handled it poorly. Olivia had left and he had let her, foolishly thinking that she would be back once her temper settled.