Falling for Anthony

Chapter Six

Emily tried to remain asleep, snuggling deeper into the warmth surrounding her. It had been so long since she'd felt secure, and the arms holding her were strong, the voice crooning in her ear familiar.

But the insistent ache in her shoulder would not let her rest, nor would the lingering sense of horror that crept around the edges of her sleep. Something had gone dreadfully wrong.

She slowly surfaced; the crooning that had lulled her stopped, the arms holding her tensed as if in expectation of her waking and then slipped from around her.

Anthony's arms. Anthony Ramsdell had saved her.

Perhaps she had stopped believing in miracles too soon.

When she opened her eyes, she was lying on her bed, a blanket draped over her. Pillows propped her shoulders and head, and she had to turn only slightly to see him.

Anthony leaned back against the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She felt the pressure of his thigh against her hip, as if he'd withdrawn his embrace out of propriety but couldn't completely give up all physical contact.

His wings were gone, and the hesitancy on his face made her want to cry.

She smiled instead. "I suppose it was too much to hope that I'd actually make it to Heaven."

He pressed his lips together as if holding back a laugh. He'd always done that, she remembered—particularly when he was around her. He'd always taken his time answering, always paused before laughing, as if he didn't trust himself to speak or react spontaneously.

She had taken advantage of that once, and the memory made her flush with shame. She forced herself to add, "After all, women who compromise innocent men are hardly candidates for sainthood."

As an apology for a wrong, it wasn't a very good one—but judging by the way the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement, one he appreciated.

"And I am sorry I died and couldn't return to make a reformed hoyden of you as I'd promised," he replied solemnly.

She gasped in mock outrage and then burst into laughter. It felt good to let her worries go, even for a moment—but that moment passed all too soon, and her laughter expired on a sigh.

She sat up, holding the blanket to her chest with her uninjured arm. He must have already seen her in dishabille, but it seemed important to maintain at least some semblance of modesty in front of him, particularly if he had become what she suspected.

Thinking of the wings she'd seen, she pulled the covering higher.

The pain in her other shoulder flared, and she winced. Noting his concerned look, she asked, "Is it broken?"

"No. It was dislocated; it will be sore for some time. Unless I can heal it," he added.

Something about his tone made her narrow her eyes. That summer, Robert had used that same tone when he'd promised to show her a trick he'd taught his pony; he'd been bursting with pride at his own cleverness. She had ended up with mud in her hair and down the back of her favorite riding habit. "Unless you can heal it?" she echoed suspiciously.

He nodded, and his hair fell into his eyes. She had to resist the j urge to smooth it back. She clenched her fingers more tightly on the | blanket to give her uninjured arm something to do besides touching him, besides assuring herself that he was real.

He watched her carefully. "Do you need to he down again? I know this is a lot to absorb, but—"

She pinned him with a disbelieving stare and didn't wait for him to finish. "Half of my family died six months ago. Since then, my brother and I were attacked by a monster, and that monster was chased away by a red-skinned flying woman with a sword. I've had to send my staff away tor their own safety, because my brother has become another monster. That is a lot to absorb. Discovering that my dead friend has become an angel is nothing."

His lips pressed together again, but he managed, "I'm not an angel."

She paused and examined him closely for the first time. His hair was as untidy and overlong as always, and it was still a deep chestnut brown. He'd rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing strong, tanned forearms with a light dusting of hair. Though his shirt was of a fine cloth and blindingly white, he didn't wear a coat to cover it, or a cravat. She should have realized that his exposed, masculine throat was too immodest for Heaven—and the cling of his breeches against his lean, muscular thighs would be positively indecent.

Why had she never before noted how lovely his eyes were? They seemed to glow with blue fire, and his grin made her heart skip.

"You are beautiful enough to be one," she said boldly, and enjoyed the blush that crept over his cheeks, "but your clothing probably left too much to be desired."

"Colin always professed that sartorial excellence was next to godliness," he said.

At the mention of her brother, Emily could not keep the sadness from her smile; she didn't try. "Can you heal him?" she said, and was sorry that her question made his good humor fade.

"No."

She sighed. "What are we to do with him?"

He raised his hand and cupped her cheek. She turned her face into his palm, afraid to see the answer in his eyes. "Hugh is watching over him right now. I'm not certain we can help him, but we will do everything we can." He tipped her chin so she had to look at him. "If we do find the creature that did this, Colin will live—but lie will never be human again."

"What will he be? Like you?" She couldn't stop the hopeful note from entering her voice. Whatever Anthony was, it had to be better than the thing Colin had become.

"No. He'll be a vampire," he replied, and when her lip trembled it his answer he smoothed his thumb over it. He held her ga7e with his and addressed her darkest fear. "He'll be himself, for the most part. He won't be evil, Emily—he won't be like the nosferatu who attacked you."

She released a deep, shuddering breath; she had been so afraid Colin would die, would have to die, that she'd never allowed herself to consider an alternative.

And yet an alternative was possible—perhaps not a perfect one, hut one she could accept.

She had thought happiness had deserted her, but it suddenly bubbled through her like water and washed away the grief and shame that had held her soul numb. On impulse, she kissed his thumb, then dipped her chin and pressed another to his palm.

When he looked at her in surprise, she bounced up onto her knees and kissed him heartily on the mouth. Her shoulder protested the movement, but her face was all smiles when she pulled back and' said, "I could kiss you forever for what you've just given me."

He lifted an eyebrow rakishly, but ruined the effect of it with his crooked grin. "Please do."

His answer widened her smile, even as it left her nonplussed. Aside from his hesitation upon her first seeing him, his bearing was more self-assured than she remembered. It wasn't arrogance, but a quiet confidence that left her uncertain, shaken.

Amidst her confusion, she tried to think of some witty reply; her gaze lowered to his mouth, and heat unfurled in her belly so quickly her thoughts deserted her and left her speechless.

Her sudden silence must have alarmed him. "Emily? Is it your shoulder? Do you want me to try to heal it?"

She nodded dumbly, grateful that he had given her an excuse. It wouldn't do to admit that she'd just had the most delicious inclination to trail kisses from his mouth to that gorgeous, shockingly bare throat. She wanted to taste him there, run her tongue down the cords on either side of his neck.

Perhaps there wasn't much difference between vampire and sister after all.

She turned to hide her disconcertment, presenting him with her back. She let go of the blanket and it dropped to her lap, allowing him better access to her shoulder.

Her chemise was a plain, sturdy one; beneath its wide shoulders she could see the dull bruise that had already formed below her skin. There were several more down the length of her arms, and she suddenly felt embarrassed, exposed—not by her underclothing, but by the fear that he would see her failure in those marks. Anthony had apparently been strong enough to defy death, and she…

"For a moment, I stopped fighting him," she admitted quietly. "I almost gave up."

The dip of the mattress signaled his movement as he kneeled behind her. His body seemed to radiate warmth; remembering the comfort she had felt when she'd awakened, she wanted to lean back against him, let him support her with his steady strength.

"You did, though." His voice was low, his fingers gentle as he probed lightly at her shoulder.

Her breath hissed out between clenched teeth, and he murmured in apology and removed his hand.

Despite the pain, she had to smile at his long, disappointed sigh. "It didn't work?"

"No. I will try again in a moment—I've only just discovered this gift."

Shifting around, she looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

His gaze fell to her chest. "When I healed the claw marks Colin ü It on you, that was the first time."

With a sense of wonder, she touched her clavicle. She had forgotten about the scratches. She glanced down, looking for any sign i them—but aside from a small tear and a stain of blood on the neckline of her chemise, there was none. "Thank you," she said belatedly.

She felt his gaze linger on the rise of her breasts, and the heat in his expression made her nipples peak beneath the soft linen. He glanced up, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and she was once again reminded of the difference in his mien.

He would never have looked at her with such blatant interest, nor been so openly pleased by her reaction.

Whatever he had become, it was definitely not an angel.

She clung to that thought and tried to shift her focus from his usually sculpted mouth to something less… unnerving. Something secure. Something that had nothing to do with heat and craving and the bewildering sense that everything she'd thought she'd I known about desire had recently tumbled into pieces around her.

"Tell me about angels," she blurted.

His eyes narrowed, as if he sensed she was running from him.

But his tone was even when he said, "I don't know any. Hugh and I are Guardians."

She waited a beat and then blinked. "Oh," she said. "Of course. Guardians."

He stared at her in surprise and then grinned. "I was going to make it difficult for you, make you drag each bit of information out of me. I can tell you've caught on."

"I have a nephew," she said dryly.

At her comparison of him to a twelve-year-old, his lips pursed as if he'd eaten something sour.

She wanted to lick that expression from his very adult mouth. With a deep sigh, she prompted, "Guardians?"

He regarded her intensely for a moment, and she nervously wetted her lips. Following the movement with his eyes, he said, "Guardians are men and women who have been chosen to protect humans from demons and creatures such as the nosferatu. We aren't angels, though I'm told we have similar abilities and powers as them."

"Such as?"

"I'm strong, fast." He met her gaze; the outline of his thick, dark lashes emphasized the startling blue of his irises. "I can materialize wings and fly." This, with a wistful tone.

She tried to imagine him soaring through the air and felt a dig of envy and disbelief. But she had seen his wings; she could not doubt him.

"And you can heal," she said.

He reached out, his hand hovering over her shoulder. A focused expression came over his face—then frustration as he pulled his hand away. "Not always." His lashes swept down as he looked at his fists, and he continued softly, "Not every Guardian can heal—we each have particular gifts. My mentor's, for example, is Truth. It is very difficult, if not impossible, to lie to him. Unfortunately." He added the last with a rueful grin.

She remembered the youth who had been with him and his strange attire. "Your mentor—is he a priest? He's so young!"

Anthony's shoulders shook with laughter. "I've heard from other Guardians that Hugh was either a novice or a scribe during King John's reign. I do not know for certain, however—he has never related his history to me."

As she could easily imagine Hugh bent over a parchment or an illuminated manuscript, she nodded. "You do not age, then?"

"No. Our powers develop and increase over time, though. Most Guardians can not only create wings and clothes, as I can, but also shift their shape completely."

She eyed his breeches, leather riding boots, and loose shirt, "Your clothes are an illusion?" A blush heated her cheeks at the thought of him sitting next to her, naked but for a trick. Her fingers itched to reach out and test.

"They're real," he said, grinning as if he'd read her thoughts. "Things that are familiar to me are easy to create; also, things that I want very badly, like the wings. But shifting is much more difficult—Hugh claims I am holding on to my human life too strongly to let my form change."

Remembering all the people in her life she had recently had to let go, and the grief it had brought, she said quietly, "That is not such a bad thing, is it?"

He touched the corner of her lips, smoothing away her frown.

"No."

His eyes became troubled. "Emily, there is something I need if tell you."

Her gut tightened in immediate refusal—she didn't want to know what had brought that tortured expression to his face.

He took a deep breath. "The nosferatu attacked you and Colin and set fire to the house in London because of memories he found in me."

"The nosferatu set fire to—" Her voice broke. She closed her eyes, blinking back tears. "Why?"

"He wants your father's sword. We believe the fire was intended to divert attention from its loss afterward; but, he must not have found it—and that is why you and Colin were targeted next."

"The sword?" She shook her head in wordless denial. Pain ripped at her heart, grief all the worse for her certainty that she deserved it, that her childish desire to hurt her father had caused it.

Numbly, she whispered, "I killed them." She raised dull eyes to his face. "I destroyed my family."