The Vampire Voss

6 In Which The Earl Of Corvindale Runs The Blockade

Angelica did what Voss told her to do: she stayed hidden in the shadowy corner.

Later, she would ask herself why she’d done so. If she’d come forward when the red-haired leader called for her, could she have helped? Could she have saved the life of Felicity Chapman, the butterfly? Could she have prevented the death of Mr. Dudley Hoosman, the Roman emperor?

She’d almost done it. Almost left the confines of the vine-shrouded corner, nearly shouted her presence and brushed past Voss out into the open. Anything to stop the screams and the violence. Anything to put an end to the awful, evil tension.

But when she saw Mr. Hoosman, dragged out into the space by the glowing-eyed, ferocious men, everything slowed. The world stopped, centering into a pinhole of a vision: that of Mr. Hoosman, on the floor, his neck and chest shredded to ribbons, the brooch that had held his toga in place over the shoulder glistening with his blood, the red stain saturating the white cloth and the floor beneath it.

She’d seen that image before, once, after she’d picked up the man’s handkerchief he’d dropped.

And only moments later, her mouth open in a silent gasp, she saw the image in reality.

Angelica might have fainted if the wall hadn’t been behind her and if Voss hadn’t been standing so nearby. She tried to tell him, tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come…and he rounded on her, fierce and dark, grasping her arms so tightly. Don’t move. There is nothing you can do. Stay here until I come for you.

She listened. Angelica was no fool.

Whatever was happening out there on the dance floor, whatever Voss was doing or saying to the attackers, she didn’t know. But the man with the glowing red eyes, the one whom she’d stabbed with her shears, was there, standing next to the leader. Who also had burning eyes.

And then she understood. He was what they called a vampir. Creatures who drank blood. Legends, tall tales. The stuff of Granny Grapes’s ghost stories.

Or so she’d thought.

But now she knew…they were real. And they were all vampirs, all of those animalistic men, dragging people out into the middle of the room and feasting on them, tearing into them with claws and long, pointed teeth. Mauling their flesh and draining them of life. The smell of blood floated heavy in the air, and she remembered what Voss had said earlier, about smelling blood on her.

Was this what he meant?

It could have been her, out in the garden. It could have been her.

Chills and nausea took over Angelica in the same way they had when she had learned her parents were dead. The same empty, awful feeling she’d had the first time she realized what her visions meant. As if life would never be good again. As if she’d never smile again.

The fountain was there, a handy receptacle for the contents of her stomach. She managed to hold it back until the vampirs left the room.

They left. They left. A miracle?

Somehow, somehow Voss had managed to talk them into leaving. How? How did he know them? What had he said?

Frozen, weak, her throat burning from the vomit and her head weightless, Angelica sagged against the wall, trying to sort through the thoughts and memories, visions and fear that pummeled her.

If she’d seen Mr. Hoosman earlier tonight in his Roman emperor costume, and had recognized he was dressed the way he was when he died in her vision…could she have prevented it? How?

Her head was pounding, her belly felt raw and tight. She tried to pull what she remembered of the vision back into her mind, but it was no use. She couldn’t think about that any longer.

Because there was a much more important factor to consider. More terrifying than anything she’d seen, and try as she might to banish it, she couldn’t.

What had those men wanted from her and Maia?

And… Oh, God, where was Maia?

That thought had Angelica stumbling from her sanctuary at last, tearing through the vines and bumping into the fountain on her way. She had to find her sister.

Blood was slick on the floor, and she vaguely registered reddish-brown footprints on the scuffed wood. Someone had moved the bodies, and most of the party attendees had fled the room. Masks, canes, reticules and other accessories were scattered about, testament to the confusion of fear and terror.

Angelica didn’t even know where to look for Maia, but she didn’t get far before a hand reached out from nowhere and clamped on her arm.

She stifled a startled shriek and spun to see Voss. Relief battled with urgency and she tried to pull away. “I have to find Maia,” she said. “I have to—”

“She’s safe,” he told her. “She’s all right. Corvindale hid her.”

“She’s safe?” Angelica said. “I want to—”

“She’s safe,” he said again, turning her around firmly. “Come. We have to leave, now, before they come back.”

Angelica didn’t argue. She didn’t have the strength, and aside of that, she wanted nothing more than to leave this horrible place, the scene of a terrifying evening. She wanted to be home, safe, and to see for herself that Maia was safe. And being in Voss’s company on the way there was even better.

“This way,” he said when she would have started toward the main entrance. “The carriage is here.” His arm was strong and solid, sliding around her waist in gentle support as he hurried her away from the ballroom and out through the deserted kitchens to a servants’ entrance.

It wasn’t until they were outside and had walked beyond the drive leading to Sterlinghouse that she realized that the carriage to which he’d led her was not the one she’d arrived in with Maia and the others. Angelica stopped and looked at Voss. “What’s this?”

He nodded at her question, stepping back slightly at the vehicle. “It’s mine. They won’t recognize it and won’t know that you’re inside.” He didn’t need to say who “they” were. She knew.

He stood next to the open door, gesturing for his footman to climb into the driver’s seat. The interior of the carriage was empty.

She hesitated a moment. Did she trust him?

“Miss Woodmore,” he said, urgency in his voice. “Please. The pretense will only be effective if you aren’t seen climbing in. Or standing here with me.”

It was one thing to waltz with the man, and another to speak privately in the dark corner of an occupied room…but this was beyond the pale. Maia would be furious. Angelica could be ruined if anyone found out.

Although, after the terrifying, chaotic events of tonight… would anyone even know or care? Surely more than one young woman had left the party in horror, seeking safety, without a thought to her reputation.

Angelica was too numb to care. Too exhausted, and still fighting back those images of blood and screams and terror. It could have been her.

They’d wanted her.

Voss had protected her.

He had saved others, too.

Angelica gathered up her skirts and climbed in, her heart pounding and her palms damp, her knees still weak. She settled on the cushioned seat, unsure whether she ought to tuck herself in the corner so as to put as much distance between herself and Voss as possible in case he sat next to her…or to take up a lot of space on the seat so that he would be compelled to sit across the way.

Yet, if he sat next to her, he’d be large and warm, solid and comforting. He might even put his arm around her.

Or kiss her again.

Angelica swallowed hard, so confused, so unable to control or even organize the storm of thoughts and memories from tonight. Her teeth threatened to chatter and she couldn’t get warm, despite the fact that it was a mild summer’s eve.

Voss spoke to the driver, then climbed in with the flourish of his cloak and settled on the seat across from her.

And then the door closed and they were alone in the shadow-swathed vehicle.

Even in the faulty light, Voss could see how pale she was. Her lips were bloodless and her eyes deep in shadow, wide and very nearly empty of emotion. She huddled in the corner, a quiet and colorless version of the intriguing woman he’d danced with, bantered with, kissed.

Nevertheless, he wanted her. So much that he could barely draw a breath without being fully immersed in her presence. His veins leaped and pounded as he watched the play of passing illumination on her face, the light slipping over her cheeks, her lips, the hollow of her throat.

It was the close confines of the carriage. The silence, the privacy, the realization that they were alone and he could have her. Just as he’d had any number of women, willing, unwilling, coaxed or convinced, over the decades.

He could slide across and sit next to her, murmur in her ear and tempt her to him. It would be over before she knew it, his incisors buried in her neck, her blood flowing onto his tongue, hands on her skin, their bodies straining and twining. Voss swallowed, considering.

And if his hot-eyed thrall didn’t loosen her restraints and bring her willingly into his arms, so be it…she’d find pleasure. Eventually.

It would be effortless. He could pull her to him, yank her across the space between them, gather her into his arms, find what he wanted.

Yet, he didn’t move. His Mark twinged as if to ask why he held himself back, but Voss ignored it. Instead he pulled off his cloak and leaned forward quickly, draping it over Angelica, covering her half-bared shoulders. Then he settled back in his seat to plan his next move.

Angelica murmured her thanks and drew the cloak, which must be warm from his body, closer beneath her chin. Her eyes were so dark in her pale, oval face.

And as he looked over at her, captured by the curve of her cheek and the dark, exotic eyes fastened on him, something shifted inside him. Deep within, like a little mechanism falling into place.

He didn’t want to hurt this woman.

“Who were they?” she asked. She trained her gaze on him, still wide and shocked, but with some emotion therein. “What do they want from me and Maia?”

The second question was infinitely easier to answer than her first, and he saw no reason to lie. “They want to use you to get to your brother. As collateral or a ransom.”

“Chas? Why? For what?”

“He’s taken something that belongs to a man named Cezar Moldavi—there’s long been bad blood between his family and that of Corvindale and his associates.”

That was the simplest way to explain the two factions, or cartels, which split the Draculia: those who supported Cezar Moldavi and his thirst for power over the mortal world, and those who did not. Voss tended not to ally himself openly with either, but that was because he preferred to remain neutral in the ongoing struggle. It was much less messy—and infinitely less dangerous—to remain above the fray. He wasn’t about to get caught in the crossfire, so to speak.

“Moldavi wants the…item your brother took returned to him. Those were Moldavi’s men tonight.”

“Men? Those weren’t men,” she said, her voice choked, her eyes flashing suddenly with rage. “They were…” She couldn’t seem to find the words, and her voice trailed off. “Vampirs. They were vampirs, weren’t they?”

He could barely hear the low syllables over the rumble of wheels along the cobbled street, but he saw the way her lips moved. He was surprised she was familiar enough with the Hungarian word to apply it to a man, rather than a rotting corpse. But, of course, being Chas Woodmore’s sister, she would probably know more than most other young women.

“What do you know about vampires?” he asked, pronouncing it in English. He asked partly from curiosity and partly to take control of the conversation’s direction.

Voss would be surprised if Chas had actually divulged to his sisters any details of his relationship with Corvindale and the Draculia. Woodmore was discreet, and well aware of the consequences of betraying those with whom he associated. He’d become a valuable asset to Corvindale in particular, but even Chas Woodmore was expendable if he overstepped his bounds.

And now that he’d been foolish enough to elope with Cezar Moldavi’s sister…Voss shook his head. Woodmore had been prudent to arrange for his sisters’ safety and guardianship. Too damn bad for Corvindale that the earl didn’t realize it would likely be a permanent arrangement. And that Voss had relieved him of the burden of one of his charges—at least temporarily.

He couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Corvindale’s reaction when he learned that Voss had Angelica Woodmore. The smile was more than a bit complacent. Perhaps then the man’s cold facade might crack.

Voss hadn’t known Dimitri before entering into his agreement with Lucifer. In fact, none of them knew each other before being turned immortal, for each Dracule came from a different geographic place, and in many cases, even different generations.

They became acquainted by accident, or perhaps by Lucifer’s influence—or likely a little of both—but since they tended to congregate and find pleasure, sustenance and entertainment in the darkest, most dangerous and expensive pleasure houses or clubs, it wasn’t surprising that they should encounter others of the Draculia in the same places in the largest, most exciting cities of Europe: Paris, Rome, Prague, Barcelona and, of course, London. Their world, after all, was a relatively small one.

Angelica had wrapped the cloak even closer around her throat, and he could see the shapes of her knuckles where they curled into the silk-lined wool. “What did you say to them? How did you get them to leave? Do you know them?”

So much for diverting the conversation.

“I’ve had…dealings with them,” Voss replied. Strictly speaking, that was true. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated telling her more. This conversation was pointless. He should be showing her his fangs and his glowing eyes, and getting beneath that cloak he’d so foolishly given her to hide under.

But, again, he didn’t. The fear lingered in her eyes, and he knew it would come back in full force if she realized he was of the very same cartel of people who’d just mauled two of her peers.

He didn’t want to see terror in her eyes. He wanted the desire, the softness he’d seen earlier…when their gazes had met across the ballroom.

“And my brother? He associates with vampirs?”

Voss nodded. Luce’s soul, why was he even talking to her? Waste of time. “Cezar Moldavi is a very dangerous…man,” he told her. “Not only does he want to use you to destroy your brother, but it’s possible he’s also found out about your… ability. It’s not as if you’ve kept it a secret. You could be a very valuable asset to him. You could give him information that he’d find useful in dealing with his adversaries.”

Her eyes widened into circles, and now he could see the whites, gleaming in a flash of streetlamp.

“That’s why,” Voss said, leaning toward her, breathing in her essence, curling his fingers into his thigh so that he didn’t reach for her, “I’m taking you somewhere safe.”

She sat upright in her corner, surprising him with a flash of spirit. Anger. “What do you mean? I presumed you were escorting me home—back to Corvindale’s residence.”

“It’s not safe there,” he told her. “And it’s not safe for both you and Maia to be together. Corvindale and I agreed that you should be separated to make it more difficult for them to find you.”

“Maia?”

“The earl will make certain she and your other sister are well protected. And I,” he said, settling back against the squabs in direct opposition to where he really wanted to be, “will take care of you. Now,” he added, the words coming out before he could comprehend them, “perhaps you should rest a bit. Close your eyes. Nothing will happen to you when you’re with me, Angelica.”

Either she made a very unladylike sound in response, or he was hearing things. Voss’s attention flashed to her eyes and he decided it was more than possible that she had, just then, made a frustrated or disbelieving sort of noise. And what on earth did she mean by it anyway?

How could she know what he was thinking?

But by now, she’d hooded her expression and the glimmer of naughtiness had gone. She closed her eyes, even.

His lips twitched. Not quite the proper young miss after all, was Angelica Woodmore. But of course, he’d already had an indication of that. After all, proper young misses didn’t barrel up to men they don’t know and announce that they’d been in her dream. And were going to die.

That roundabout thought brought him back to the realization that Brickbank was, despite the impossibility, dead. And the very thought had been squirreling around in the back of his mind for two days, digging and clawing and refusing to let go.

In the last hundred twenty years, Voss hadn’t given a lot of thought to what happened after death. In fact, he hadn’t thought about it at all. Why should he? That was the deal with Lucifer. Power, strength and immortality—ergo, complete freedom with no consequences for his days on earth and the actions thereof. What more could a man want?

But if an unexpected demise could happen to Brickbank, it could conceivably happen to Voss. Not nearly as easily, of course, so perhaps he oughtn’t expend any more energy over it, but…

The image of Dimitri, splayed on the floor, held immobile by a necklet of rubies, settled firmly in Voss’s mind. A chill gripped him around the back of the neck.

Had Belial and his cohorts wanted, Dimitri would be dead even now.

The fact that they obviously hadn’t wanted it wasn’t the reason the image bothered Voss. It was the realization that if it could have happened to a man whom Voss, much as he was loathe to admit it, deemed invincible—it could also happen to Voss.

Voss could die.

He forced himself from those dark, unpleasant thoughts. There were much other more fascinating things to contemplate.

Like the lovely, luscious bit of flesh sitting so innocently across from him.

Her head had tipped to the side and her eyes appeared to be closed, but he wouldn’t wager his damaged soul on whether she was actually sleeping or not.

No, Voss wasn’t that foolish.

Ahh. Heat, thick and liquid. A world of red pleasure, blazing sensuality, a whirlwind of sweet, floral scent. Lush comfort, smooth silk. And an insistent need.

It pulled, urged.

Voss had no reason to resist. He needed this like a drowning man needed air. He eased into the familiar lull, slid away from the reality that edged, dark and evil, at his consciousness. The prickling subsided as he allowed himself into the pleasure. Slipped in.

She had dark hair, long and thick, and dark eyes…but her skin wasn’t right. It wasn’t as smooth, as sweet and rosy and spicy. Her scent cloyed and smothered and although she knew just what to do with her hands…oh, indeed…and her mouth….

Voss licked her neck, tasted old perfumed oil, and then his incisors slid long, sweetly, into her flesh. She gasped and tautened against him as the rush of tangy, thick ambrosia filled his mouth. He closed his eyes, drank, touched, battled, slid smooth against her…battled.

The back of his shoulder throbbed angrily, fighting with the passion and release that he must have. He closed his mind to it, fought it away, gulped and shifted and thought of Angelica.

Of his hands on her, his mouth and their skin…to skin. The long, sleek slide and the warmth. The rise, the miraculous light, then…her face, wide-eyed and horrified, burst into the image.

No!

Was it her voice or his own?

A streak of pain arced down his shoulder and red blazed behind his eyes, matching the agony.

Rigid with surprise as much as discomfort, Voss opened his eyes. He saw the woman, the crimson and golden room, the tall, pale candles flickering and casting delicate shadows. Blood trailed sleek against her white skin, still pooled hot in his mouth, the essence on his tongue.

Voss caught his breath, working through the sudden onslaught of pain to steady his breathing. To bring himself back here, where he could find release from what pounded through his veins.

She looked up at him, lust and laziness in her eyes as she reached for his shoulders, wanting to draw him back down. Her eyes weren’t right. They weren’t catlike, exotic enough. Her mouth…her face…no.

He couldn’t keep from a quick glance above, knowing that Angelica was there. Two floors higher, safely ensconced here at Rubey’s, where no one would think to look for them. She was so very near, but the ceiling hung low and heavy and impenetrable.

He could send for her. Simple. Get it over with.

The pain had lessened slightly. He could breathe. Think. Why did she haunt him so?

“Voss,” the girl murmured. Her hand slid lower between them, between their hot, slick bodies. Her eyes were glazed, desperate. She licked her lips, shifted against him, closed her fingers more insistently.

He could do that to Angelica. He could make her cry and moan and want him like he wanted her. Like they all wanted him.

She could help him, and he…he could help her. And have her.

Show her the world of desire and passion.

She was two floors above. Unprotected. Virginal and waiting.

A rush of desire flooded him and Voss’s breathing deepened. He could still smell her on his fingers from when they’d buried into her hair during their kiss. He thought of how she would smell, close, naked and writhing against him. Her breast heavy in his hand, her hair clinging to the damp of her skin.

Her eyes, heavy with desire after their kiss, rose in his mind. They beckoned, and then suddenly widened with horror and shock.

Fear.

He’d pulled back by now, enough that the sticky heat of body against body had lessened. Voss heard his own breathing in a room that had become nearly silent. It rasped unsteadily and he hated the weakness it portended.

The throb at the back of his shoulder pounded harder. Insistent. Go…go…go.

Take.

Dull pain turned burning and sharp and reminded him that he had no reason for such deprivation. No reason to resist, to deny himself.

Nothing to fear.

Voss turned back to the woman. Easy, familiar relief.

Not Angelica.

The blaze shocked him and Voss gasped. Luce’s dark soul. The devil wanted him to do it. To take her.

Angelica.

Not now, he told himself. And his Mark. Not yet. After I get what I need. After she does what I need.

Then he would take.

Ignoring the pain, driving it away, he lunged for the softness of the woman, buried himself, his senses, his mind, in the moment as he had done so many times before.

Later, sometime much later, he woke, naked, amid twisted sheets stained with blood. He remembered, vaguely, the dark-haired woman. And the blonde after her and the other brunette. The desperate need, the thirst he’d tried to quench. Over and over.

Then…dark dreams he’d tried to avoid, the face of Brickbank. His impaled body. Even the wisp of his soul, spiraling away in the darkness. Horrifying.

Of Angelica, white and sleek. Dark-eyed, tempting, begging.

And Lucifer.

In his dreams?

Voss sat up, his head pounding as if he’d drank a full bottle of blood whiskey.

Bloody damned hell.

Lucifer had only visited him in his dreams once before. The night he’d come to offer his unholy bargain, the temptation of a lifetime.

Slender and dark of hair, bright blue of eyes, pointed of chin and jaw and angular of body, Lucifer wasn’t unpleasant to look at. But nor was looking upon him easy or comfortable. There was too much darkness behind those shocking blue eyes.

Sunlight seeped from behind the heavy shutters and curtains in his room and Voss stared at the shape it cast. The last time he’d touched sunlight had been the morning after Lucifer’s nocturnal visit.

He hadn’t realized what it would do to him. He hadn’t realized the dream, the covenant, had been real.

He hadn’t been touched by a sunbeam since.

A cold chill settled over him. Why had Luce appeared in his dream? To remind him of the unholy bargain they’d made?

He could remember nothing but his presence, his spectral face. Smiling that easy, smug smile that said he knew a man’s every desire. And that he could fulfill it in every way.

Voss’s legs felt weak and when he moved to haul himself out of bed, the skin and muscle beneath his right shoulder protested with pain. As he turned, he saw the Mark in a mirror and paused…trapped by the sight.

Not like Dimitri’s, whose Mark was black and so thick and raised it seemed to visibly throb. But Voss’s was certainly more prominent than he’d ever seen it.

The ache was bearable, but insistent and penetrating. He moved his arm gingerly, then reached behind to touch the marks. Normally he felt no difference between the black rootlike insignia and his flesh, but now there was a slight swelling and a bit of warmth there.

Voss turned away from the reflection and rang for a bath. He wouldn’t go to Angelica sweaty and dirty from his night of blind pleasure.

But nor did he feel remorse for taking what he needed and craved. It was his right, his compulsion. His compensation from Lucifer: never-ending, unrepentant self-indulgence.

He wouldn’t hurt her; he wasn’t like Cezar Moldavi who caused pain simply for the sake of it, as a revenge for all of the pain inflicted on him during his mortal years.

No, he wouldn’t hurt Angelica. But he would have her.

And he wouldn’t wait much longer.

Dimitri was tired and annoyed. Not particularly in that order. Definitely not in that order.

In fact, annoyed wasn’t a strong enough word for how he was feeling. Livid. That was it.

He glared down at the figure standing between him and his only chance at a modicum of relief. No.

He felt murderous.

“What is it, Miss Woodmore?” he asked. It was clear that the eldest of his new charges wasn’t going to allow him to pass to his study unless she spoke to him. And, from the looks of her stubborn expression, at great length.

She had obviously found the time to change from last night’s appalling Hatshepsut costume, and, presumably, to rest a bit. At least, that was what her maid had reported, via Dimitri’s valet. Once assured that Angelica was not only safe, but would be returning to Blackmont Hall later that morning, Miss Woodmore had felt able to take a bit of repose. Perhaps even a bath, if the spicy floral scent emanating from her hair was any indication.

But Dimitri had spent the last hours of the night and well into the day (for it was now several hours past noon) attending to everything from Belial and his footpads—and their vain attempt to breach Blackmont Hall—to ensuring that the real story of what happened at the masquerade ball was obscured and stifled. A few hints dropped about a bit of playacting at the masquerade gone awry, a few twists of facts into something believable along with the altering of a number of stubborn memories, and several visits to men’s clubs to blank out more memories—and all was taken care of.

And now here stood Miss Woodmore, fresh-faced and accusing.

“It’s nearly four o’clock, Corvindale. I would like you to tell me precisely where Angelica is,” she told him. “And when she is going to arrive here. But most of all, I require assurance that she is safe.”

How could this slip of a woman who smelled like spicy flowers manage to fill the entire corridor? He hadn’t a prayer of brushing past and ignoring her insulting insinuations.

No, Miss Woodmore would not be ignored.

“Your sister will arrive here at Blackmont Hall when I am convinced it is safe for her to do so,” he told Miss Woodmore. And when he located the chit and her abductor.

He steeled himself against the rush of anger. He had a variety of reasons for disliking and mistrusting Voss. But now he had reason to kill the man.

Lucifer be damned.

The irony of that thought was not lost on him, but Dimitri had no inclination toward amusement at the moment. He had too many distractions to which he must attend, not to mention that he expected Giordan Cale to arrive at any moment.

“Is that all?” he asked, managing to keep the hope from his voice.

She lifted her pointed little chin and gave him a definite glare. “No, it is not. In fact, I wished to speak with you in regard to your conduct last evening.” He realized with a start that she was taller than he’d realized, her head nearly reaching to his chin.

“My conduct?” Dimitri was fully aware that the tone of his voice was such that a less insistent individual would turn tail and run. His head had begun to pound and, on top of that, he noticed a shaft of sunlight pouring into the corridor beyond. Someone had uncovered the windows, blast it.

“Not only was it abhorrent and crude, but you didn’t even take the moment to explain or apologize before shoving Mirabella and myself into a carriage and sending us off.”

“Indeed.”

“There was simply no reason for you to put your hands on me—” her voice dipped a bit as if she were infuriated or overcome “—and toss me out onto the balcony like some sort of—”

Dimitri matched her glare with his own. “In fact, I had sufficient reason for doing so. The least of which was the fact that you would not have obeyed me.”

“If you had simply explained—”

“There was no time for explanations, even if I had believed you might have heeded them, Miss Woodmore. You would have ignored them just as you have everything else since arriving here, including keeping the windows in this house shrouded, my library in order, and my preference not to be bothered.”

She didn’t step back, despite the fact that his voice had risen to a near-bellow. “If you had simply explained that we were in danger and there was no time for discussion, I would have heeded your warning.”

Dimitri didn’t bother to hide his irritation and considered simply walking away, pushing past her and finding sanctuary. But before he could respond, she drew in a deep breath and continued, unfortunately along a vein in which he would have preferred to avoid.

“In addition to an apology, I believe it isn’t asking overly much to request an explanation for what happened last evening. I understand that Angelica and I were in danger, but I would like to know why and from whom or what. And how it happened that you arrived in time to prevent whatever the outcome might have been…regardless of the clumsy manner in which you executed it.”

Dimitri relaxed slightly. Then she hadn’t realized he’d been there all along. He’d taken pains not to be noticed, of course, except for that one foolish indulgence on the dance floor…and after. “Clumsy manner?” he repeated, aggravation superseding his relief.

She made an exasperated sound and an elegant feminine gesture with her gloved hand. She had a very delicate wrist. “You pushed me out onto the balcony, wrapped up in curtains. Can you not give me the courtesy of telling me why?”

“Because there were some very bad men who want to take you away,” Dimitri told her without moving his jaw. “That is why your blasted brother snared me into being your guardian. Because he knew there was no one else who could keep you safe.”

“Please, my lord, you sound like a character in one of those Gothic novels by Mrs. Radcliffe, making all sorts of Byzantine comments and cryptic warnings. If you would cease these ambiguous statements and simply tell me what is happening—”

“What then? You would accept my explanations and my orders without question?”

For a moment he thought her lips quivered—either from humor or, Fate forbid it, from some other emotion. “Certainly not. But at least you wouldn’t feel the necessity to wrap me up and throw me onto the balcony.”

Would the chit never stop screeching about it?

Dimitri crossed his arms over his sagging, stained waistcoat and glared down at her. “The truth is, Miss Woodmore, your brother has gotten himself into serious danger with a society of ruthless men. By disappearing with the sister of one of them, he has not only put himself in a most injurious position, but also you and your sisters—for they would like nothing better than to use one or any of you to get to Chas.”

“Then they are after us as hostages? Ransom?” Her dark blue eyes narrowed as if in thought. “But then that must mean Chas is still alive and hidden somewhere if they are trying to abduct us.” Relief washed over her face and for a moment, Dimitri was struck by the beauty and intelligence in that stubborn countenance. “He must still be alive. And safe.”

He bowed his head. “Your brother is very cunning and able, and you are likely correct. I’m confident he can take care of himself. But you and your sister must not leave this house or see anyone without my permission. You are completely safe whilst in my custody, but Cezar Moldavi is not only ruthless but also very intelligent. And your brother has betrayed him in a most egregious manner. He will not give up easily.”

“Cezar Moldavi?” Her eyes widened.

Now it was Dimitri’s turn to be surprised. “You recognize that name, then?” Woodmore must have been much more forthcoming with his sisters than he’d thought—and more than was prudent.

“Rather like yourself, Corvindale, I’m familiar with the name but I have never met the man.” She fluttered her hands, this time in more agitation. “I mean to say, now that I’ve met you—”

Dimitri shifted impatiently. “Yes, yes, Miss Woodmore. Please refrain from stating the obvious. Now, I am expecting Mr. Cale any moment now. What other items must you drag forth and force me to ponder?”

“You still have not tendered an apology,” she replied primly, and, he thought, with great bravery. “I have never been handled so—”

“Miss Woodmore,” he interrupted. “Do you mean to say that should a man push you from the path of an oncoming carriage he should bow and scrape at your feet in apology for mussing your skirts? Or should he ask permission first, before doing so?”

“Well, I do believe—” She stopped herself this time and pressed her full lips together. Then she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I did not realize we were in some sort of danger. You made no effort to impress that fact upon me—a fact which you obviously well knew. Perhaps in the future, Lord Corvindale, you might be a bit more forthcoming. Particularly about things that apply to me and my sisters.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. Simply to shut her up.

She had the temerity to step closer, followed by a stronger waft of spiced flowers. “There is one more thing, my lord. I require your assurances that my sister’s reputation will be intact when she is returned here to your custody—or that you will take the appropriate steps to correct any problems thereof.”

Dimitri pressed his lips together. If he ever saw Chas Woodmore alive again, he would kill him for visiting this mess upon him. He and Chas were associates—one could almost consider them friends, as odd as it might be for a Dracule to be friends with a vampire hunter. But this situation with the sisters went beyond the boundaries of friendship and strained the slender bit of honor that Dimitri had.

“You have my assurances that I will do my utmost to protect your sister’s reputation, Miss Woodmore,” he replied stiffly. “No one—other than perhaps yourself and Chas— is more concerned about it than I am. But you haven’t any reason to worry. She is safe from Moldavi and in unblemished company.”

Miss Woodmore held his gaze for a bit too long, but Dimitri managed to hide the fact that he was lying from behind his incisors.

Voss was going to be dead the moment Dimitri found him and slammed a stake through his heart. Lucifer could bugger himself. And then maybe he’d be fortunate enough that the devil would be furious enough to kill Dimitri in retaliation.

That was a compelling possibility.

And then Angelica would have to be married off to someone who would keep his mouth shut, quickly and quietly—

At that moment, he was saved from any further interaction with this woman who seemed to be fearless in his presence and who seemed to have no qualms about making demands that any prudent man would be.

“My lord.” Vigniers, his butler, appeared in the corridor. “Mr. Giordan Cale has arrived.”

Cale, of course, was right on Vigniers’s heels, his hat in hand, his strides confident and unrushed. But his face was haggard and weary and for a moment, Dimitri feared the worst news about Narcise Moldavi.

“Dimitri,” Cale said by way of greeting. And then, “Miss Woodmore.” He gave a quick bow as she, ever the proper miss, curtsied. Her chestnut hair gleamed with shots of gold and copper as she did so.

It occurred to Dimitri at that moment that she’d not curtsied to him at their first official meeting. He frowned. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said to the infuriating woman. Then he looked at Cale and gestured down the corridor. “My study.”

Cale bowed again to the woman then brushed past her, seemingly without hesitation or even without stirring her skirts.

Dimitri could do nothing but follow him, and was absurdly pleased when Miss Woodmore took the hint and shifted out of the way, spicy essence and elegant wrists and all, as he strode past her into the sanctuary of his study.

At last.