The Vampire Dimitri

17 The Lion Is Bearded In His Den

Maia sat up, suddenly wide-awake.

She’d been dreaming. Or perhaps she hadn’t.

The world was dark, for there was a new moon tonight and the stars were cloaked in clouds and fog. She could barely discern the shapes of her dressing table and the chair in the corner.

Lingering in her mind was a memory…a dream or reality, she wasn’t certain… She was in a chamber furnished with great luxury. There were men there, and a woman who was tall and broad and sported a bit of a mustache. Although the place was richly appointed, Maia felt wrong. It was wrong.

Horrible and evil.

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind, trying to focus. Hands grabbing at her, lascivious smiles, the clink of glasses as drinks were poured…Mr. Virgil was there. Smiling. Laughing heartily.

Her heart stopped. Mr. Virgil.

Maia got out of bed as if to escape the images, her heart pounding. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like this at all, the feelings crawling over her. The ugliness, dark memories that began to pour into her mind.

And then something changed in the memory…there was a burst of energy, something dark and fast. Glowing red eyes. Lashing out, violence, and suddenly she was caught up in it…

And then she was safe. Away from it. In a carriage.

With Corvindale.

Maia stood there in her dark chamber, breathing hard. Her stomach hurt, her hair plastered to her neck and throat. Her face was stark, and as white as her night rail, reflecting back from the mirror in the dim light.

She needed answers.

“My lord, there is an individual without who wishes to speak with you.”

Dimitri looked up from the bloody damned book Wayren had foisted upon him. Anything for an excuse to leave off reading about the beauty and her beastly host in a conveniently Gothic castle.

The fact that it was past midnight and someone had come calling bothered him not one bit, nor would it be a surprise to his butler Crewston. There was just as much activity at Blackmont Hall once the sun set as there was during the daylight hours.

Such was the lifestyle of a Dracule.

“Who is it?” he asked, rising from his desk.

“It is a female individual,” Crewston explained. “She waits in a carriage. She asked that I give you this.” He offered a handkerchief.

But Dimitri didn’t need to take the scrap of fabric; he could scent her the moment his butler waved it. Lerina.

His flash of rage was instantly banked. She wouldn’t trick him again, and he had no desire to waste any thought or energy on her. Yet, he was curious as to why she would chance encountering him again.

Instead of responding to Crewston, he pulled on his coat and slipped a slender wooden stake into the pocket. He suspected she was here on a peacemaking visit, but naturally there was no trusting the woman.

Outside in the late-summer heat, Dimitri sniffed the air as he walked down the three steps. Her carriage had been drawn up in the half-circle drive, only a few paces from the stairs. The air was humid and heavy with the perfume of mature roses and lilies, underscored by London’s constant tinge of waste and garbage. The vehicle’s door opened as he stepped down to the ground, but he went no farther.

“It’s safe, my dear Dimitri,” she said, peering out from the opening. “Not a ruby in sight.”

“Pardon me if I don’t trust your word on that,” Dimitri replied. “I cannot imagine what you think you might have to talk to me about, but you must come out if you wish to do so.”

“It was a misunderstanding, Dimitri darling,” Lerina said as she emerged gracefully from the carriage, her hair and skirts tumbling prettily about her.

He paused, waiting to see if he sensed the proximity of a ruby or two. Or a dozen. He didn’t, and he hadn’t expected to. Nor did he scent anyone else in the area, other than her driver.

Lerina might not be the brightest of people, but she apparently had a great sense of self-preservation. And she knew him well—that, unless provoked, he wouldn’t harm her.

“If that episode was a misunderstanding, I cannot imagine what you think the incident in Vienna was. A picnic? Let’s not play games, Lerina. You tried to abduct me, you failed and now you are here…for what reason, precisely? You must know you won’t have the advantage of tricking me again.”

She pouted. “But I’m still in love with you, Dimitri.”

“You have a unique way of showing it.”

“I was a fool. I always have been.”

“How gratifying to know that nothing has changed.”

Her face tightened, losing that flirtatious expression for the first time since she’d arrived. “I had to take the chance to see you alone. The others who were with me are Cezar’s makes. If they realized I was here…”

Dimitri was shaking his head. “No. Try again.”

“Damn you, Dimitri.”

He shrugged. “I’m afraid you’re a bit late on that, too.

Now what do you wa—”

A noise behind him had him turning. Bloody damned Lucifer’s soul.

“Miss Woodmore,” he said, with what he deemed great control. Great, immense, precise control.

She ducked her head and shoulders back inside the open window, where she quite probably had been eavesdropping, and seconds later the front door opened. There she stood, the proper Miss Woodmore, wearing nothing but a flimsy night rail. Her thick hair poured over her shoulders in dark waves, glinting gold in the weak circle of illumination from the streetlamp.

Dimitri paused for a moment to thank the Fates there was no moonlight tonight to shine through the fabric as he struggled to keep his expression blank. “What are you doing?”

She’d stepped onto the top step and he noticed a slender implement in her hand, half hidden behind her and by the folds of her skirt. A stake? Did she mean to protect him? A wave of annoyance and fury battled with some other emotion that he dared not define. Addled woman.

“Mrs. Throckmullins,” Miss Woodmore said as easily as if she’d just arrived for tea. “I should not have expected a social call from you, after our last meeting.”

“Get back into the house, Miss Woodmore,” Dimitri told her, glancing at Lerina. To his dismay, her face was rapt with attention.

“I was just leaving,” Lerina said to the new arrival. Her eyes narrowed and her smile seemed forced. It was a cunning expression that didn’t bode well, along with a spark of something dark. “I have everything that I came for.”

Dimitri turned back toward Miss Woodmore, turning his furious glare on her. She ignored him and he stepped onto the lower stair in an effort to draw her attention to him, and away from Lerina. If the chit would see how angry he was, she’d listen and go back inside. “Miss Woodmore, you will catch your death of cold out here. Dressed in that,” he added flatly, studiously ignoring the way one side of her bodice had slipped, revealing the curve of a delicious collarbone.

“There’s not the least bit of a chill out here,” she replied. The fact that her nipples were outlined by the light fabric put her statement into question.

“Miss Woodmore,” he said in a low voice, his teeth clenched. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing with that, but your interference is unnecessary. And—”

He heard rustling behind him, then a faint creak. When he turned, it was to see Lerina’s carriage door closing behind her. The vehicle lurched into motion and he watched it drive away, an unpleasant prickle running down his spine mingling with the throb from his Mark.

“In the house,” he said, brushing past Miss Woodmore to open the door, wondering where in the damned bloody hell Crewston was, and what he was thinking, allowing her to come out dressed as she was.

He was only slightly mollified when his ward stepped into the house without further argument. Just then Iliana came rushing around the corner, long braid flying, stake in hand. Her bare feet slapped to a halt and she looked at Dimitri.

At once he realized what had happened and it was all he could do to keep from shouting at Miss Woodmore that he didn’t need to be bloody damn protected. Lucifer’s black soul, what had possessed her to think so?

Iliana took one look at his face and pivoted away, prudently heading back from whence she’d come.

This left Dimitri alone with his ward, for apparently, Crewston had other things to do. Or, more likely, he was lurking somewhere, had seen the fury on his master’s face and decided to remain out of eyesight.

“I need to speak with you, Corvindale,” Miss Woodmore said coolly. She was still holding the stake.

Here, inside the house, he wasn’t quite as fortunate. For the lamps lighting the front hall and the small sconce on the corridor provided a spill of soft, warm illumination around, and through, her night rail.

Before he could respond, she turned and flounced down the corridor to his sanctuary. His study. Dimitri looked away, grinding his teeth as he followed her—he followed her—into his den. He had a few things he should say to her, as well.

But when he came into the chamber and closed the door behind him, Dimitri had a sudden attack of wariness. His palms actually began to dampen. For the bloody Fates, he hadn’t had sweaty palms since he was standing for his first Latin exam at Cambridge.

What was it about this woman who needled him to no end?

“Incidentally, you were wrong, Corvindale,” she was saying. She’d positioned herself at the far end of the room, where two chairs faced the center with a small table between them. The window whose curtains she had the temerity to open every bloody time she came in was next to one of the seats. The chamber was suffused with her scent, that of slumber and spice and fresh cotton and whatever she used to clean her hair.

He forced himself to wander casually to the cabinet where he kept his French brandy and Scotch whiskey. Since the night last week when he’d downed two full bottles of blood whiskey, he hadn’t indulged. But tonight he thought he might be able to justify at least a finger or two of the best vintage, especially since he’d made certain he hadn’t been face-to-face with her since the events at Rubey’s. He hadn’t seen more than the flutter of her hem around a corner since he’d tucked her into the carriage for the ride home.

“I? Wrong?” He sipped the golden liquid and realized his heart was slamming in his chest. His insides were tight. What in the bloody damned hell was wrong with him?

“You said she’d tried to abduct you and failed. That isn’t precisely true, is it? Mrs. Throckmullins—Lerina—did succeed in abducting you. And if I hadn’t shown up, who knows what would have happened?”

His fingers tightened over the glass. What did she want, honors and an audience at court in appreciation? “As I understand it, you didn’t exactly show up. You were abducted, as well.”

“That is quite true,” she replied. “But I managed to free myself. Although I do understand there were extenuating circumstances on your part.”

Dimitri struggled to keep his voice steady. “Indeed. I sup pose I have been remiss in expressing my gratitude for your…assistance.”

Surprisingly, forcing those words out didn’t have the debilitating affect he’d expected for himself. Instead, when he saw the flash of surprise and the hint of rose flushing her cheeks, he felt rather…pleased. He took another generous taste of whiskey.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft and without that edge so often there. “We were…we worked together.”

He looked aside, trying to regain the annoyance and frustration that had begun to slip away. “What did you think you were doing tonight, Miss Woodmore? Did you really believe you and that little stake would have had a chance against Lerina if she had been a threat?”

She’d begun to straighten a pile of books on one of the tables. “In my mind,” she said, pulling out a French translation of The Iliad and placing it atop its counterpart, The Odyssey, “it never hurts to be prepared. One never knows when one might be caught unawares.”

“I’m never—” He stopped abruptly.

She looked up at him and their eyes met. And held. Something hurt, in his chest, something sharp and hot as if he’d been stabbed. Or staked. Yet, while unexpected, it wasn’t wholly unpleasant.

Her lips twitched, that full, luscious upper one curving into a hint of a smile. “Is it possible you’re learning, Corvindale? That you aren’t always right?”

“What do you want, Maia?” He forced steel into his voice, forced his expression into stone. His heart rammed hard inside.

Her face changed, the affection fleeing. “That night with Mr. Virgil,” she said, “the Incident…I had a dream about it tonight. About things I don’t remember happening. The whole night, almost, is blank in my mind.”

Dimitri raised a brow. “That’s not unusual for a traumatic situation, Miss Woodmore. People often forget what happened to them.”

“Yes, and sometimes with a bit of help from a vampire and his thrall. Is that what happened? Did you alter my memory?”

“What makes you think I’m capable of such a thing?” he prevaricated. His glass was empty and he put it on the cabinet. He had a feeling he was going to need all of his faculties. “And if so, why would I do that?”

“Don’t be absurd. You know you are. You’ve attempted it.

You said I’ve become immune to your thrall. Did you manage to do it that night?”

“It was best that way.”

“What happened?”

What didn’t happen? Dimitri drew in a deep breath.

“Your Mr. Virgil wasn’t taking you to Gretna Green for your elopement. He was taking you to an establishment in Haymarket that…well, Miss Woodmore, if you found your self offended by Rubey’s place, you would have been beyond frightened at this place. A marketplace of sorts for young, virginal women. You wouldn’t have been able to leave.”

He watched the disbelief and then horror filter over her delicate features. She’d stopped rearranging his books and now stood as if frozen. “And then what happened?”

“I followed you when I recognized you. Of course, your brother had pointed you and your sister out to me in the past.” And the impression she’d made on Dimitri had been strong and unforgettable, even then. Even from a distance.

Especially when he passed by and breathed in the perfume that was her. “I was able to extricate you from the woman who owned the…establishment…with little fanfare. Then I saw that you were taken safely home in a hack.”

“Did she have a mustache?” she whispered, and he nodded in response. “I dreamed of her.”

The hypnotism was weakening; which was no surprise, as he’d been unable to inflict it upon her recently. Something had happened since that night in Haymarket that made her immune to his thrall. His thrall. He felt a little uncomfortable niggle in the back of his mind when he recalled Voss telling him that he couldn’t enthrall Angelica, either. Was it something about the Woodmore sisters that made them indifferent to a Draculian thrall?

But no, for Lerina had managed to ensnare Maia when they were trapped. He didn’t understand it.

Maia was talking slowly, pulling things out of her memory. “I have a recollection…in the hack. We…you were there. You had a cut on your cheek, and one on your hand—I remember now. You weren’t wearing gloves.”

He held back a snort. “Even in the midst of such a harrowing experience, whilst you were clothed in boy breeches and a cap, you commented on my lack of gloves with your nose in the air. And a little sniff of disdain.”

“I did not.” She gave that same little sniff, lifting her pert nose.

He found himself hardly able to keep a smile in check and raised his brow instead.

“I…we were discussing herbal poultices for your cuts,” she said slowly, as if unraveling the memory like a thread. “You were promoting the benefits of dried woad.”

“You were under the impression that Dioscorides’s recipe for slippery elm and comfrey was the best treatment. I confess, I was amazed to learn that you were not only familiar with his writings, but that you’d read them in their native Greek. And so I commenced with a discussion to see if it was possible.”

“You,” she said, the corners of her mouth tipping up a bit again, “were singing the praises of John Gerard, simply because he was a native Englishman.”

“Aside of the fact that he was a friend of my father’s, the benefit of having a medicinal written only about plants native to the local soil, my dear Miss Woodmore, is much more efficacious than one written by an ancient. There is always the problem of translation.”

“Not if one does the translation oneself,” she reminded him. “As I did.”

“That was precisely what you said that evening.”

Their eyes met and he saw the clarity back in hers. She remembered it all now.

He’d never forgotten it.

He’d almost kissed her that night. Secure in the fact that he could mottle her mind and twist her memory, he’d nearly given in to the sudden, inexplicable urge. And now he was thankful, so very thankful, that he hadn’t done so.

Because he would never be able to explain that.

All at once, a rush of desire flooded him. He stood halfway across the long chamber from her, and all he could think about was what was beneath that loose, flimsy night rail.

Dimitri turned away, his fingers trembling, his gums suddenly tight and swelling. There was an odd ache in his middle.

“Has it occurred to you,” she said suddenly, “that I might be with child?”

Had it occurred to him? Oh, yes, oh, yes, indeed. By the Fates, by God, by Luce’s black heart, it had occurred to him.

“I pray you are not,” he managed to say. He’d been so careful over the years, for any child he sired could also be bound to Lucifer because of the agreement Vlad Tepes had made with the devil. It was inconceivable that he would visit such a burden on his child. It was a good thing he’d never had a great sexual appetite.

He looked away from Maia. Until now.

“I’m not,” she said softly.

Relief rushed over him so strongly he nearly sighed aloud.

Thank God, thank God. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I couldn’t marry Alexander until I knew for certain.”

“I’m certain he’ll appreciate that.” The words came from between stiff lips. “Are you finished, Miss Woodmore? I have things to attend to.” He gestured vaguely to his desk.

She straightened, pulling her shoulders back and outlining her breasts even more readily. Dimitri studied his hand. His fingers weren’t quite steady.

“Yes. Thank you for your time,” she said. There was more than a bit of sarcasm in her tone, but he ignored it.

He must ignore her as she walked past him toward the door, taking with her that thick, sweet-smelling hair, those delicate feet and slender wrists, those full, erotic lips.

“La Belle et la Bête?” she asked, pausing at his desk.

Leave. By all that is holy, by all that is damned, please leave.

“It’s a French fairy tale,” he said, forcing boredom into his voice.

“I’m familiar with it. This version, in fact.” She glanced at him. “How do you find it?”

“I haven’t finished it yet,” he growled. “Which I might perhaps be able to do if you’d leave me be.”

She looked up at him, quite close now as she skirted the desk, and he could hardly meet her eyes. He struggled to keep his breathing steady, to keep the pounding of his heart inaudible as it reverberated his torso. His fangs threatened and he pressed his lips together because all he could think of was how close she was. How much he wanted to touch her.

And of course, how he could not. Ever. Again.

To slide his hands over that ivory skin, to gather her against him and bury his face in her hair, to cover that impudent mouth that alternately argued and smiled and lectured and challenged.

He turned his attention to the ever-present throbbing on his shoulder, focusing on the pain there. It didn’t seem to be as harsh as it used to be…or perhaps he was becoming even more inured to it.

“Is everything all right, Corvindale?” she asked. Her night rail billowed out enough that it nearly brushed the tops of his boots. Her essence filled his nose.

“Other than the fact that you’re disturbing my studies, yes, of course,” he replied and managed to step back without appearing to retreat.

“Very well, then,” she said. “Good night.”

She left.

Maia fled to her chamber.

Her stomach was in an upheaval, swirling and pitching like a ship in a storm.

She’d thought for a moment that he was going to…do something. Reach for her. Touch her. Ask her to stay.

Tell her not to marry Alexander.

But he’d been the same cold, harsh Corvindale.

She sat on her bed. Perhaps not quite the same. There had been those moments of softness. She hadn’t imagined them.

Had she?

Flopping back onto her bed, she looked up into the darkness, misery welling up inside her. Emptiness filled her chest, making it hollow and cold.

She closed her eyes at the sting of tears. Foolish, addled woman.

That was she. Foolish. Addled. In love with a cold, hard man. The wrong man.

Foolish…

Maia must have slept, for she dreamed.

He was there in her dreams again, but this time she recognized him. The wide, strong hands, the dark hair, the smooth sensual brush of lips, the flash of fangs as they slid easily into her shoulder.

For the second time that night, she woke suddenly, heart pounding, breathless.

Her dreams were so real. Her body was damp and alive, throbbing and tight…but she was alone.

Maia sat up. All at once she remembered the dream she’d had when Corvindale was gone, the dark, frightening one. The dream that must have been…could it have been…what he was experiencing? At the hands of Mrs. Throckmullins?

Did that mean that…

She swallowed hard, heat rushing through her. Could that mean that, just now, he was dreaming the same thing that she had been?

Heart thumping madly, hardly realizing what she was doing, Maia slid off the high bed to the floor. She glanced at the window to see a faint glow in the distance, out over the rooftops. Dawn was near. Her feet made no noise on the wood planks as she went to the door and opened it.

If he were dreaming what she was dreaming…

Her fingers closed around the doorknob and she hesitated. Her knees trembled. She knew what she wanted to do. What she was about to do…but would it make any difference? Would it not only cause deeper problems?

But as she stood there in the shadows, half in the corridor, half in her chamber, she realized that she stood on a different threshold.

If she went back to bed, she would remain Maia Woodmore, soon to be Mrs. Bradington, peer of the ton, the epitome of propriety and gentility. She’d marry Alexander and they would be happy together, they would have children, God willing, and she would have a very even, calm, proper life. And she would never forget the Earl of Corvindale.

And if she didn’t go back to bed… Her insides filled with butterflies, and for a moment she almost swooned with fear and apprehension…and hope.

If she didn’t go back to bed…anything could happen.

Good or bad.

Loving or hurtful.

Maia closed her eyes, struggled and made her decision, closing the door softly.