She did halt as she noted the book that had been left on a small table beside one of the chairs. Picking up the heavy tome, she turned to regard Sebastian with a lift of her brows.
“What are you studying?”
“At the moment I am pursuing the writings of Epicurus.”
“Ah.” She wracked her memory for a moment. “âIf you wish to make Pythocles wealthy, don't give him more money; rather, reduce his desires. . . .'”
Sebastian did not bother to hide his surprise. “You read the philosophers?”
She grimaced at his question. “Only under duress,” she admitted. “My governess possessed the belief that a young lady should be well read and capable of entering any conversation without embarrassment.”
“A worthy goal, I should think.”
Amelia gave a faint shrug. She had no doubt that poor Miss Lyman had tried her best to instill her own fervent love for learning into her ungrateful student, but Amelia had never possessed the patience. Her restless energy was not suited to hours spent in the classroom.
“I far preferred to be fishing with William or sneaking into our neighbor's orchard. To be obliged to remain indoors like a proper maiden was sorely testing. I received any number of lectures for slipping from my window when I should have been practicing the pianoforte or perfecting my needlework.”
“Lectures you no doubt ignored,” he retorted in dry tones.
Her dimples flashed. “Upon occasion.”
He gave a reluctant laugh as he moved to lean against one of the endless bookshelves. She watched his fluid movements, fascinated by the easy grace of such a large man. He would no doubt dance the waltz with the same exquisite skill.
“So you have no interest in musty books?” he demanded with a watchful gaze.
“To be honest, I have given little thought to studies since my schoolroom days.” She wrinkled her nose in faint embarrassment. “I suppose you must think me a frippery maiden?”
His lips tilted at one corner. “No more than you must think me a dull and tedious fellow.” He paused for a moment, his gaze briefly skimming over her mouth. “Still, there can be magic in books, just as in the moon.”
Recalling the particular magic they had discovered beneath the moon, Amelia lifted her brows in teasing surprise.
“Why, Mr. St. Ives. What manner of books do you possess?”
A wicked glint entered his eyes. “Would you like to see?”
“Very well.”
She paused only a moment before moving to join him beside the heavy shelves. Her ready agreement had nothing to do with a sudden scholarly interest, but simply the need to learn more of this man who so captivated her.
“My collection is quite varied.” He reached out a slender hand to pluck a thin, rather battered volume from the shelf. “Here is one that you might find of interest.”
“What is it?”
“A personal journal of an ancient warrior.”
She readily accepted the book, opening it to discover the yellowed, crumbling pages covered with a strange spider web of script she had never seen before.
“What is this language?”
“It is a very old, mostly forgotten language of a forgotten people.” His expression was difficult to read as he gently touched the delicate book. “To most, his culture and beliefs would have seemed quite unnatural. But these pages speak of a man much like ourselves. He complains of the cold, the weevils in his bread, and his fear of the upcoming battle. Most of all, however, he speaks of his deep love for his wife and children, who he has been forced to leave behind. He prays every night that he be allowed to see the precious beauty of his daughter's face one last time before he dies.”
Amelia found her heart squeezing in compassion. The unknown man was long dead, but listening to Sebastian's soft voice, it was almost as if she could see him within the narrow pages. Alone, scared, and desperately missing his family. He was far more real than any of the characters from history she had been forced to study.
“How very sad,” she murmured, lifting her gaze to meet the watching silver gaze. “And yet . . .”
“What?”
“His story is far more interesting than the books of glorious conquests and great leaders that I have committed to memory. He seems more alive.”
“Yes.” His expression was one of satisfaction. As if she managed to please him with her response. “The simple story of a simple man who speaks to all.”
Her eyes widened in a deliberately provoking manner. “Why, Sebastian, that was very nearly poetic.”
“Do you think so?” he murmured, his fingers moving to softly stroke her cheek. “It must be the dimples.”
She shivered, desperately wishing they were back in the dark garden rather than in a proper library where the housekeeper might walk in any moment. Perhaps then he would kiss her as she longed for him to do.
“I do not think you are nearly so dull and tedious as you desire others to believe,” she murmured in tones less steady than she would have desired.
His fingers paused and Amelia could physically feel the frustrated desire that raced through his blood. It seared through him with the same intensity that burned within her. And yet, while the need was almost tangible, beneath the ache was a fierce tenderness that tugged at her heart. How could any woman resist such a combination?
Unfortunately, she was also aware that through it all was the thread of finely honed steel that was his determination. For whatever reason, he was battling to keep his emotions in check.
She swallowed her disappointment as he reluctantly turned his attention back toward the shelves.
“Let me see, what else can I tempt you with?” He touched a thick, ornately bound book. “Ah, the
Kitah al-Fawa' id.”
It took a considerable effort to clear her clouded thoughts. Dear heavens, she must be bewitched, she thought inanely. That could be the only explanation for the utter certainty that she was connected to this man to her very soul.
“What is that?” she managed to question in doggedly light tones.
“A book on nautical technology written in 1490 by Ibn Majid, an Arab sailor.”
“Ugh.” She did not have to pretend her distaste. Her interest shifted toward a more intriguing book bound in handsome red leather. “What of that one?”
He lifted his brows, taking the book from the shelf and carefully opening it for her inspection. “Very fine taste, my dear. That is the
Institutio Or-atoria.
It speaks of the fundamentals essential to educate the citizens of the Roman Empire.”
The subject held little more appeal than nautical technology. Perhaps even less. It was the realization that the script was not in English that captured her attention.
Her own father had considered himself somewhat of a scholar. He kept a decent library, and possessed a handful of rare documents. He was even well respected for his speeches in the House of Lords. But for all his admired cleverness he could not hope to achieve the skilled intelligence of this master. She wondered if any gentleman in all of England could do so.
A hint of uncertainty shadowed her heart. Who was this Sebastian St. Ives?
“Precisely how many languages do you speak?” she demanded with a faint frown.
His smile remained but Amelia was certain there was a guarded quality to his beautiful eyes.
“No more than any well-studied gentleman.”
“That is no answer.”
He closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. In the process he managed to hide his expression.
“Does it truly matter?”
“It is yet another mystery that surrounds you.” She regarded his profile with a searching gaze. “I know nothing of you. You do not speak of your family, or your past. I do not even know where you come from or why you settled in London.”
“Perhaps we should return downstairs and ensure that William is still occupied with his kittens.”
Her disquiet only increased at his obvious attempt to deflect her interest.
“What is it you hide from me, Sebastian?” she demanded in low tones.
“Only what is necessary,” he retorted, slowly turning to face her. The silver eyes held a hint of regret, but the alabaster features were set in lines that prevented any argument. “Shall we return to William?”
Amelia wanted to protest. This man fascinated her like no other. He touched her heart and stirred her passions. He invaded her soul like a conqueror of old. And yet, she knew nothing of him.
He asked for her trust, yet did not offer his own.
With a frustrated sigh she placed her fingers on his arm and allowed him to lead her from the room. She knew enough of men to realize she could not force his confidences. Until he was prepared to lower his guard and share his secrets she could do no more than stew in silence.
Walking through the shadowed hall, Amelia stewed.
Chapter 8
The sound from the garden was faint, but distinct enough to wrench Amelia from her light sleep. With a groan she pulled the covers over her head and willed herself to return to the decidedly pleasant dream that included Sebastian St. Ives. For once there was not a nagging, strange Gypsy in sight and she intended to enjoy the fantasy.
It was, of course, a hopeless task.
She had no more than closed her eyes when the muffled squeak once again floated through the air. Aggravated beyond bearing, Amelia tossed aside the covers and stumbled from the bed.
Just one night, she grumbled beneath her breath. Just one night she desired to sleep through until morning.
Pulling on her robe, she left the darkened bedchamber and made her way downstairs. More out of habit than concern, she dodged the squeaking steps and the perilous tables as she made her way to the kitchen. Once there, she readily pulled open the door and stepped into the thick night air.
Almost absently, she sensed that it was closer to dawn than dusk, although the inky darkness still clung tenaciously. Dark enough to make her pause as she listened carefully for the noise that had awakened her.
Could it be Sebastian? Although she did not have the familiar feeling of awareness that usually warned of his presence, he had made it obvious he intended to keep a close watch upon the house. A startling, comforting knowledge for a maiden who had been determined to forge a life of independence.
A faint smile touched her lips. She hoped it was he. She would not protest another romantic interlude in the garden, with or without the moon. The magic that had flowed through her blood like honey had nothing to do with gods of the moon. It had been a bewitchment created by Sebastian alone.
Unfortunately, it was more than likely William's cat prowling through the lane. Her smile faded. Well, on this occasion she vowed not to leave the safety of the garden. The wretched stray would not lead her a merry chase on this night.
Reaching the edge of the garden, Amelia was careful to keep herself hidden behind a large elm tree as she peered into the lane.
At first the gloom seemed impossibly deep. With no moonlight, the darkness was near complete. But then, strangely, her eyes seemed to adjust to the shadows, almost as if the blackness were being filtered to gray. Astonishing.
Within a few moments, however, her astonishment shifted to an icy apprehensiveness. Just across the narrow lane she could vaguely make out the shape of a large man bent over an object on the ground.
Her hands frantically pressed against her lips, stifling the instinctive scream. Against her will, she was brutally thrust back to that horrid night when she had witnessed the shadow as it hovered over the body of that poor woman.
Was this the man who had committed the ghastly murder? Had he struck once again?
The mere thought was enough to freeze her very blood.
She had to flee, a cowardly voice whispered in the back of her mind. She had to make it back to the house before she was missed. But even as the thoughts were running through her mind, a low moan echoed through the silent air.
Dear heavens, whoever was upon the ground was still alive! And clearly in pain.
How could she possibly leave? Someone was in danger. Perhaps even now dying. If she left she would have their death upon her conscience.
Paralyzed between stark fear and the need to try to save the wounded soul, Amelia was unprepared when the crouching shape fluidly straightened, and then began to walk straight toward the tree where she was hidden.
He could not see her; she vaguely attempted to stem the raw burst of terror. She was safely concealed by the shadows. But against all logic, the looming figure paced toward her relentlessly until she felt a cold prickle crawl over her skin.
“Good evening, Miss Hadwell,” a familiar, mocking voice cut through the thick silence. “You might as well come out and make your curtsy. I have been waiting for you.”
Her heart wrenched to a halt as she stepped out warily, her knees so weak she knew it was useless to attempt to flee.
“Mr. Ramone,” she breathed in dread.
The handsome features were cold in the oddly gray mist. Even worse, there was a dark wetness clinging to his lips. Amelia's horrified mind shied from even considering what the damp stain might be.
“Who did you expect?” Mr. Ramone demanded. “That tedious Nefri?”
Amelia blinked in fearful confusion. “Nefri?”
“No?” A sardonic expression settled upon the pale countenance. “No, of course not. It is that pathetically devoted Sebastian that you seek. I fear that he has been distracted for the moment.”
Sebastian. Dear heavens, she had not even considered the thought that he might be in danger. Her heart felt as if it were being crushed by a ruthless hand.
“What have you done with him?”
“He is unharmed. For the moment, at least.” An awful smile curved those wet lips. “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for his housekeeper. I fear that she might not survive.”
Raw horror raced through her. “You killed that poor old woman?”
“It brought me no pleasure, I assure you.” He shrugged, as casual as if they were discussing the weather, stepping closer to her trembling body. “I far prefer my sufferers to be young, ripe, and beautiful. Much like yourself.”
She shuddered, stumbling backward in instinctive revulsion. At the same moment, however, Mr. Ramone's distinctive scent filled the air and she froze. That smell. A smell of cold steel. Just like . . . what?
Just like the night she had witnessed the first murder, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind.
Of course. She should have suspected the truth the moment the man had first approached her. She had sensed there was something wrong about him. Something wrong and dangerous.
“You . . . you were the shadow,” she stammered before considering how dangerous confessing her awareness of his monstrous sins might be.
“Yes.”
Her hands pressed to her heaving stomach. “Dear lord, what are you?”
“What am I?” He mockingly pretended to consider the question. “I am your master. The one chosen to rule above all.”
“This is madness. A . . . nightmare.”
“A nightmare?” His eyes narrowed to cold slits. “Truly, Miss Hadwell, there is no need to be insulting. You should consider yourself to be exceedingly fortunate. It is not every mortal who can claim to have been in the company of the most superior of all vampires.”
Amelia uttered a strangled noise. She desperately desired to close her eyes and pretend this was all some horrible nightmare. Instead, she attempted to clear the fear fogging her mind.
“You must be insane. There are no such things as vampires.”
“No? Would you desire me to prove the truth?” The thin lips widened to reveal the white teeth. Then, even as Amelia watched in morbid fascination, a set of fangs lengthened to glint evilly in the darkness. “I assure you I have devoted a number of nights to considering how pleasurable it would be to feast upon you.”
Instinctively, Amelia lifted protective hands to her throat. It could not be possible. Vampires were myths. Mere children's stories.
But possible or not, there was no denying the awful truth.
This gentleman was a vampire. And she was standing directly in his path.
“I . . . what do you want from me?” she managed at last to choke out.
“It is rather a simple thing. I desire your amulet.”
Amelia was quite certain she had misunderstood. “My amulet? Why?”
“You are hardly in a position to ask questions, my dear,” he rasped.
That was certainly true enough. Only a fool would dare to cross this dangerous monster. And, a very large part of her had no desire to cross him. Not when she had only to shift her head to see the last poor victim of this vampire lying still as death upon the ground.
And yet, Amelia found herself hesitating. There had to be a reason for his desire for the amulet. No doubt a dangerous and nefarious reason. And had the Gypsy not warned her never to give the necklace to another?
Besides which, she had a horrible fear that the moment he had the necklace in hand she would be yet another maiden found savaged upon the streets of London.
“It belongs to me,” she retorted between stiff lips.
She heard his rasp as he stepped even closer. “Do not be a fool. It could never belong to a mere animal. The amulet is but a piece of an ancient Medallion that belongs in the hands of a vampire. In my hands.”
“No, you are mistaken,” she babbled. “This was given to me by an old Gypsy woman.”
“It was given to you by Nefri. An interfering, loathsome vampire who has mistakenly presumed that she is capable of forcing other vampires into becoming her willing prisoners. It is a fate I have no intention of enduring.”
That sweet old woman had been a vampire? Her head whirled and her heart was beating so rapidly that she thought it might burst. Had the entire world gone mad?
“Is it enchanted?”
The thin lips twisted. “In a manner of speaking. Now, I will have it.”
Her hand clutched the amulet. “No.”
“Fool.” A savage anger twisted the elegant features and the vampire lifted his hands, as if to take the necklace by force. Then, to Amelia's vast relief, the sudden glow of approaching lanterns brought the stalker to a halt.
Covertly glancing out of the corner of her eye, she noted the small group of men determinedly headed down the alley. Their obvious lack of stealth and steady pace clearly indicated their identity at once.
“The Watch,” she breathed in unsteady tones.
She heard the vampire growl, but his expression remained one of evil intent. “You think I fear any mortal? They are mere fodder.” He paused for a long moment. “Still, they do have their uses.”
Amelia eyed him in wary terror. Could he possibly kill so many? Or was he simply attempting to keep her from calling out for help?
“What uses?”
Without warning, the monster reached beneath his coat to remove a long, blue scarf.
“A little memento I intend to leave upon my latest morsel.”
“A scarf?”
His soft laughter was more horrifying than his earlier threats.
“A scarf quite exquisitely embroidered with your brother's name.”
Amelia grasped the tree to keep herself from falling to the ground in fear. She, of course, now recognized the scarf. She had given it to William for his birthday only months ago. Gads, she had even been the one to embroider his name upon it.
“You beast,” she hissed in fury.
“If you desire to save your brother from the hangman, you will bring me the amulet. You know where to find me.”
Before Amelia could even form an answer there was a cold chill in the air and the man before her was suddenly cloaked in a heavy shadow.
“No . . .”
She stepped forward, but she already knew it was too late. Although she could make out no more than a fluid blackness as it moved toward the unmoving form on the ground, she knew beyond a doubt it was Mr. Ramone as he placed the scarf upon his victim. Even worse, the lanterns were far too close for her to have even a small chance of darting from behind the tree and retrieving the incriminating evidence without being seen.
Surely it would only make William appear even more guilty if she were seen taking the scarf away?
Dazed with shock, fear, and a blossoming dread, Amelia simply watched as the approaching men neared.
Dear lord, what was she to do?
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Sebastian returned to his home in a dark fury.
He longed to indulge the passions that pulsed through his blood. To stalk the streets fiercely until he had his hands on Drake. Preferably about his neck.
Instead, he walked into the kitchen and restlessly paced the confines of the narrow kitchen.
He had been a fool, he acknowledged grimly. For all his concern for Amelia, and even for himself, he had never once thought that Drake would strike at him through his innocent housekeeper.
But then again, why should he? There was no obvious gain to be made by such a ruthless act. The servant had been unaware of his true nature, as well as Drake's. And certainly she had no interest in the Medallion.
Bloody hell. Why would Drake have lured the elderly woman to the very midst of the stews? And more to the point, why would he have left her hovering near death to suffer for hours as the last of the blood slowly drained from her body?
Was it a warning? If so, it had been utterly unnecessary.