Falling for Anthony

Chapter Nine

Emily looked in on Colin when she woke; he was as still as ever, but it did not make her ache as it once had. "It will not be much longer," she promised him. She straightened his bedding and smoothed the hair that had become tangled on his forehead. Although she knew Hugh was in the room, watching, she could not see him. His silence and invisibility unnerved her, and she left the bedchamber as quickly as she could.

Anthony waited in the hallway, his eyes hooded and dark. "Where will you be?"

She paused at the top of the stairs. He could not be with her always. Only a fool would reject the protection he offered her, and yet they could not risk the servants seeing him. "Because I have minimal staff, we have not kept many rooms cleaned and heated. In the library," she decided. "Should Mrs. Kemble need to speak with me, you could wait in the adjoining parlor until she has left." A door connected the two rooms; he would be able to exit the library without going into the hallway, and he would still be close enough to help her should anything occur.

He nodded. By the time she took the first step, he had disappeared in a blur of movement.

She smiled to herself as she descended the stairs. He took such pleasure in his new abilities. She imagined him, a thousand years in the future, grinning as he healed those he protected.

It was an image that made her as happy as it made her want to cry.

She found him waiting for her in the library, turning the pages of a slim volume of poetry. He glanced up at her, a charming, slightly petulant look in his eyes. "I thought I might be able to read more quickly, but I can't."

Byron would likely have been gratified. "Not everything should be done quickly," she said dryly. "He titled it Hours of Idleness, after all."

A lazy, carnal smile spread across his face. "There are many things to spend hours on; poetry is not one of them."

She blushed, her nipples tightening as his gaze slid down her form. Wanton need slipped through her; she had the sudden urge to lock the door, push him onto the sofa, and replay the scene that had gone so wrong before, in London. Only this time, make it right.

But his gaze shifted from her, and he tilted his head, listening. "Someone comes," he said. "By the jingling of keys, I'd wager it is Mrs. Kemble."

Emily straightened, a flush coursing through her as if she were a child about to be discovered in some naughty act. Anthony grinned and strode to the parlor door. The flex and roll of his buttock muscles made her mouth water.

She looked up and found him watching her. He winked salaciously and closed the door on her gasp of embarrassment.

Composing herself took effort, but she managed to smooth her countenance before the housekeeper's brisk knock sounded at the door.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kemble," Emily said as the older woman swept into the room. "I think I shall take my luncheon in here today. I have some correspondence to complete in my brother's stead, and we are behind in tallying the accounts." Color rose in her cheeks as her effort to appear as if everything was normal brought forth a garrulous spill of words; she did not need to explain herself to the housekeeper.

Mrs. Kemble sniffed. "Very well, milady." She looked Emily up and down. "Have you come out of mourning, milady? We will need to air your wardrobe."

Emily nodded. Anthony had ripped her best mourning dress; though she had others, when she had faced the selection of blacks and grays, she had not been able to make herself wear them. She had chosen a fine woolen dress in pale blue instead and then topped it with a sunny yellow shawl as a ward against the chill in the house.

As Emily had only just entered her period of half-mourning, the disapproval on Mrs. Kemble's face deepened. But she only said, "I will send Mr. Davison to Hartington to collect one of the upstairs maids."

Though she wondered at the housekeeper's boldness at showing her displeasure, she didn't comment. Mrs. Kemble was not the softest of women, but she had served the family faithfully for years. It was likely the peculiar arrangements had strained the other woman's temper. "Aggie White is staying with her family only half a mile away," Emly reminded her.

The housekeeper's eyes lit with an almost gleeful malice. "No, milady—have you not heard? Aggie got herself with child and took her own life." With a harrumph, she added pointedly, "A fitting end for a woman who guards her virtue lightly."

Emily's face paled with anger. "Mrs. Kemble—" she began coldly, but was interrupted by the crash of the library door as Hugh forced it open.

He filled the entrance, shaking his head. "Lilith." His voice was tinged with amusement, but the sword in his hand glinted with serious intent. "That was unsubtle, even for you."

Emily stumbled backward, shocked. Mrs. Kemble said, "Fuck."

Then Anthony was in front of Emily, his sword raised protectively. The housekeeper glanced at him and rolled her eyes.

Emily stood on her toes to look over Anthony's shoulder and then blinked in disbelief as Mrs. Kemble rippled, changed, and became the demon who had saved Colin's and Emily's lives. Black hair fell sharply back from a widow's peak, and pointed teeth gleamed against crimson lips—all of her skin was crimson, Emily realized as all of it came into view. A moment later, the demon dressed herself in an indecent combination of tight, black leather breeches and corset. Membranous, batlike wings sprouted from her back. She grinned at Emily, and a forked tongue snaked out to swipe over her red, red lips. "Like what you see?" Her eyes glowed with scarlet light.

Emily drew back in horror, and Lilith laughed and turned toward Hugh. "I had despaired you'd never figure it out, and I was ready to expire from ennui. Keeping humans entrenched in nightmares and trying to convince them to kill themselves becomes trying after a day—a month of it is torturous. It's so much more entertaining to play with you."

Hugh's youthful face took on an expression of deep resignation. "Oh, joy," he said.

Lilith hopped onto the back of a sofa, perched there as if weightless. Despite her easy, grinning demeanor, Anthony sensed that her mood would shift quickly and did not lower his guard. He clasped Emily's hand in his and pulled her behind the desk to put its solid mass between them and the demon.

Hugh flicked a glance at them and nodded in approval. Lilith's strange, glowing gaze fixed on Anthony. "I see you've found a pigeon to teach." Her eyes narrowed, and she stilled. "A very young pigeon—now what in the world would induce Michael to send a fledgling?"

"Tell us about the nosferatu, Lilith." Hugh's voice took on a commanding tone that Anthony had never heard from him. A wave of power surged through the room, and Anthony had the desperate urge to spill every secret he'd ever had.

Emily's grip on his hand tightened, and he squeezed back in gentle reassurance.

Lilith hissed, and her claws ripped holes in the silk upholstery. "Free will, Hugh," she spat the words. "You think to force answers from me with your Gift?"

"Your free will does not matter. You were never human." Another wave emanated from him, and Lilith growled in anger. "Tell us about the nosferatu."

Emily suddenly took a step forward, drawing all attention; her hand shook in Anthony's, but her voice was steady as she said with gentle entreaty, "Please. You saved our lives once when you drove that creature away—now my brother's life hangs in the balance. Please."

Lilith's eyes widened and then she broke into gales of laughter, just as quickly, her laughter stopped, and she said with quiet menice, "I like to kill—and because rules forbid me from slitting your throat, I have to satisfy myself with the likes of the nosferatu."

"You could have killed him after he had finished with both Colin and me," Emily persevered. "And yet you stopped him."

"Did you kill him, Lilith?" Hugh asked calmly. This time, his question was not accompanied by the thrust of his Gift.

Palpable relief filled the room as Lilith admitted, "No." A slow, mischievous smile crept across her lips. "But if you want to know more, there'll be a price."

They remained silent, waiting.

She turned to Hugh and licked her lips. "Just one little kiss."

He could not help it; as a desperate, trapped expression settled over his mentor's sober features, Anthony laughed out loud.

Emily jabbed Anthony in the ribs with her elbow when Hugh finally emerged from the library. He obediently wiped the grin from his face, and she was relieved when he chose not to comment on the slight flush lingering over his mentor's cheeks.

"You heard?"

Anthony nodded. "You'll be leaving tomorrow?"

"At first light." Hugh glanced at Emily. "The nosferatu escaped to the south; Lilith tracked him as far as London, where she lost him. Nosferatu do not usually remain in populated areas for long, and she wondered what had interested him in this house, so she returned out of curiosity."

Remembering the nightmares, the sense of desolation that had claimed her over the last month, Emily said, "Where she decided to stay and torment us."

Hugh smiled ironically. "Her presence likely kept the nosferatu from trying again. As much as Lilith likes to wreak havoc, she likes hunting nosferatu more, and it would not have attempted an attack with her nearby."

Strange that she had so much to thank the demon for, Emily thought. That she and Colin had been saved as a result of Lilith's malevolent games.

"As long as we are here, he won't risk betraying his presence," Anthony added. "We're going to force his hand."

"How?"

Hugh regarded her steadily. "I'm going to go get the sword. In the morning, I'll come to you for the location, retrieve it, and return before sunset."

Anthony frowned. "And Lilith?"

"I'll take her with me," Hugh said.

It would be a risk, Emily thought, but Hugh did not seem concerned about his ability to handle her. And Anthony could not protect both Colin and Emily against Lilith, if she decided to stay and cause trouble. "Keep your enemies close," she whispered. Hugh nodded grimly.

Anthony stood at the window as the sun rose over the horizon. He and Emily had spent the night watching over Colin; Hugh had waited until Colin fell into his daysleep, then Emily had written a name and address on a slip of paper. Hugh had read and promptly eaten it.

Then she'd pushed a folded letter into Hugh's hand, asked him to leave it where he found the sword.

Two figures slipped through the garden and then took to the air—two pairs of wings, one of white feathers, the other black and leathery. Anthony envied them for just a moment, before he turned toward the bed.

Emily had already fallen asleep; the lines of exhaustion on her face had faded, replaced by serenity. All night, she'd kept him company as they'd watched Colin. They had talked to him, reminiscing their childhood. Each reminder of the past only seemed to make the present slip away more quickly, and Anthony felt the oncoming rush of the future bearing down on him with the inevitability of death.

In Spain, his death had seemed unreal; the transformation into a Guardian had made loss an illusion. Now he knew what waited for him when he left: a future without Emily. There was only the present, and each mile Hugh flew toward the sword brought the end of his time with her closer.

Eater, he could not recall if pain or hope prompted him to make the decision, only that the kiss he pressed against the back of her knee sent a thrill through him that a plummet from the greatest height could not equal. And that when she turned to him with heavy eyes and a question on her lips, he fell willingly, completely.

The early morning sunlight played over her features, flushed with sleep. He shook his head, placed his forefinger against his mouth: a warning to be quiet, a notice of his intention. "I do not know if they've gone out of hearing range yet," he said softly.

Her eyes widened briefly and then she gave a small nod.

That permission to proceed overwhelmed him for a single moment; he wanted to dive in, devour her in one fell swoop. He forced himself to move slowly as he slipped his hands under the bend of her knees and pulled her toward him, her back sliding over the mattress. Her nightgown rode high on her thighs as he set her feet on the edge of the bed; she pressed her knees together, as if in an instinctive attempt to prevent exposure.

A rueful smile curved her lips, and he felt the weight of their self-imposed silence. What message was she trying to convey with that smile? Did she think it funny that modesty should assert itself at such a time? Did uncertainty linger despite her bold acceptance?

His fingers skimmed over her calves and the firm length of her thighs. He watched her, looking for sudden reluctance, a change of mind.

Her eyes darkened; she lifted an elegant brow, her expression one of gentle exasperation. "Even now, you hold yourself back, waiting—and for what?" she whispered. A shift of her weight, a twist of her legs, and she was kneeling before him, the height of the bed bringing her to eye level. "Do I have to say how much I desire you?" She cupped her breasts and then slid a palm down her torso to dip in the linen between her thighs. His gaze followed her hand's journey, envied it. "When my body aches for you, weeps for you—you pause and wonder if my passion is in earnest?"

It was his turn to smile ruefully. A lifetime spent certain of her disinterest had left its mark on him; a mark that he barely recognized in himself, yet she had deciphered perfectly. He had let the past overwrite the evidence of her desire; he had been a convenience then, but he was no longer.

He wanted to laugh, he wanted to shout; he grinned instead, and said, "I thought you promised to be quiet?" — and decided that after ten long years of yearning for her, devouring would be exactly the right thing.

He tasted her mouth first, slanting his lips over hers and delving deep. She met his ardor with a joy that was almost tangible in its fervor. The flavor of her laugh melted on his tongue, but it could not satisfy his hunger.

And then her laughter faded, replaced by a passion that burned. She gripped his shoulders tightly and arched into his kiss. Fisting his hand in her long, sun-tipped hair, he pulled her firm against his torso and felt the soft press of her breasts against his chest, her hardened nipples. He suckled lightly on her tongue, wringing a moan horn her throat. He softly bit her lower lip as a reminder and then licked its sweet fullness when she stifled the sound.

A rock of her hips, and the delicious pressure of her sex against his rigid length made him inhale sharply against a groan of pleasure. She smiled in wicked delight beneath his lips.

In answer, he cupped her bottom and lifted her, her weight nothing to his preternatural strength. As he climbed into the bed, the use with which he held her against him reminded him to be careful, but could not dispel the urgency of his body as he lay her in the v. enter of the mattress, could not stop the need coursing through him nor the pounding of his heart.

And he could hear hers, he realized in awe: the quick beat of blood and muscle and arousal. His eyes closed in sudden, grateful prayer. Then when she shimmied and pulled the nightgown over her head, he could not look away.

He took in her beauty with a single, ravenous glance, to hold and savor later. Her small breasts, peaked with desire, her nipples dusky rose. The soft swell of her belly, the curve of her waist. The golden curls at the apex of her thighs, the hint of clinging moisture, the glimpse of the pink cleft hidden beneath. She lay before him, a banquet of silken skin and moist desire, and he knew he would never have his fill.

Emily. He breathed her name silently against her abdomen and glanced up. She leaned back on her elbows as she watched him, her eyes bright with anticipation and fierce heat.

He slowly dragged his fingertips up the insides of her thighs and felt her tremble. Her words ran through his mind: if a woman takes a man's organ into her mouth, she can make him do anything she wishes.

When he placed his mouth on her, could he make her love him?

Part of him rejected the thought, calling such a wish unfair, selfish. He would be forced to leave once his mission was completed. Her life would continue without him—far better that she thought him a pleasurable interlude in a time of grief and fear than love him.

But the other part of him, the part that had kissed her knee and awakened her, could not regret it.

And the whole of him rejoiced at her blissful sigh as his fingers slid into the heat and wet of her.

He parted her slick folds, ran his thumb softly over her clitoris, and then circled with gentle pressure. Her head fell back as a shudder of ecstasy raced through her. Unable to content himself with touch, he eased back, lifting her leg over his shoulder; pressing forward, he revealed her to his starving gaze.

Moisture glistened, her femininity swollen with her arousal. He licked, sampled; her hips rose in a wordless appeal.

He bent his head and feasted.

Emily clutched at Anthony's shoulders, dimly aware that at some point he had made his clothing vanish—one moment she had been scratching at his shirt, the next his skin had been beneath her fingers, warm and firm—but she wasn't certain of anything else. She had been pleasured this way before and thought she'd known what to expect.

But she hadn't realized she would be consumed by fire, that every point of her body would burn from inside out—only to be reborn with each devastating lick, every exquisite bite.

His tongue flicked roughly against her clit and then he covered her with his lips and soothed with a gentle, suckling lick. His mouth never stopped, his fingers never ceased their thick thrusts; he only slowed when she shuddered, the frantic coil of orgasm unwinding brightly within her. And then, though she pulled at his hair and tried to draw him over her, he began again—easily at first, sipping to relieve painfully sensitive flesh, then with skill and fervor as pleasure mounted, as she sought his mouth and lifted herself to him.

But such intensity could not last, and when she came yet again her hands fell from his shoulders, her body replete, exhausted.

He moved up to lie beside her, and the rigid arch of his sex drew her gaze. It swayed with his movement, thick and heavy, the head shining and wet with his arousal. But when she reached for it he caught her wrist and pulled her over him so she lay against his broad chest, her thighs on either side of his hips. She felt his erection against her mons, probing at her slick heat, and she rubbed lightly against it.

He caught her mouth in a leisurely kiss that warmed her through, circled her waist with his hands, and held her still. Then, with a flex of his buttocks, he began his slow entry.

She broke away from his mouth and buried her face against his neck as he pushed in and in. She was tender, sensitive, and the delicous stretch of her muscles around him bordered on painful, his hard length intrusive. It was possession as she'd never experienced, an unyielding in its gentleness, inflexible as it claimed.

Tears burned in her eyes—not from pain, but from something deeper, more elusive.

And still he pushed endlessly inside her, until she thought she might scream of it. He was no larger than before and yet he filled her as she'd never been and left her gasping and biting his shoulder.

Her fingers clenched on his biceps, and still he held her hips motionless against his penetration until he'd seated himself fully.

He remained locked against her, as if he couldn't bear to withdraw. She raised her head to urge him into motion. His face was stark, his skin taut across his cheekbones, and she saw the sheen in his eyes that he tried to blink away.

And understood that she had possessed him as unexpectedly—and as certainly—as he had her.

Oh, God. It wasn't supposed to have been like this. He was Anthony, her friend, and she loved him dearly for it—but it wasn't supposed to be this. She would not mourn for him when he left again—this would shatter her.

She'd been a silly girl who'd dreamed of love, and a stupid girl who'd declared love a fraud; but she'd never imagined that when she found it, it would be richer, more powerful than dreams, and the impossibility of keeping it more painful than the worst betrayal.

"No, Emily." The words seemed ripped from him, hoarse and broken. He sat up, shifting deep within her, and rolled her onto her back. He pulled and thrust, the strength of it chasing the wind from her lungs. "Just feel. Don't think of what can't be." Her back bowed as he drove into her again. "Just this."

And she allowed herself that fantasy; she rose to meet his heavy thrusts and let him withdraw each time as if she could hold him to her forever. He pressed into her, over and over, and each deep plunge seemed to push that inevitable parting a little farther away.

He braced his hands beside her head and never took his eyes from her face. She felt him watch as she gave herself over and writhed beneath him. She felt him memorize her as she clenched and arched, as he wrung the last bit of pleasure from her exhausted body.

A moment later, when he drove into her a final time and pulsed deep within her, she watched him.