Five years later
Christmas meant a tremendous amount of work. A dozen additional guests would arrive today, Christmas Eve. All the rooms must be cleaned and aired, the beds made with freshly laundered sheets, the grates swept out and readied for blazing fires.
But despite an aching back and sore arms and the feeling she would drop to the floor in exhaustion and never get up, Amelia did not mind the work. If she wasn’t busy, she would think of Christmas five years before. She would remember that one wonderful erotic night with Lord Dante. She would remember the horror of waking, of finding him gone, then of learning he had vanished. He had left his home; he had disappeared; he had abandoned her.
After five years toiling as a servant—for a ruined woman could no longer be a governess—she tried desperately not to think of that night. But it haunted her in her dreams.
She dreamed of the smooth silkiness of Dante’s sweaty skin under her palms. She remembered how he had gripped her bottom and lifted her to his every deep thrust. The wonderful feeling of being filled by him. The glorious feeling of an orgasm . . . heavens, it had felt like flying. At night, she would touch herself in a small cot in the attic room, stroking herself to silent climaxes again and again. But nothing had ever been as wonderful as that night with Dante.
And he was gone. His father, the Earl of Matlock, had insisted Dante had run away—probably to the Continent—rather than be saddled with her as his wife.
Sighing, Amelia set down her bucket of water. She got on her knees, gripping a scrub brush, and got to work on the dirty floor. This was her life now. She had dreamed of marrying the man she loved; she had hoped for children. She had loved being a governess and watching Dante’s brother and sisters learn. But she would never teach children again. Never have babies of her own now, for no decent man wanted a ruined woman. She was Cinderella in the fairy tale, but with an unhappy ending. She hadn’t ended up with her love; she’d ended in the cinders.
“Amelia.” One of the other young maids stood in the doorway, a folded piece of paper clasped in her fingers. “Mr. Jones gave it to me.”
Llewellyn Jones was one of the guests. From the dreamy look on the maid’s face, the girl had noticed his handsome dark looks and vivid blue eyes. Amelia hastily unfolded the note. His strong hand had penned one line. Meet me at the kissing bough.
Her heart leaped at the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jones and at the fear of going near the mistletoe again. She avoided the kissing bough like the plague. It made her think of Dante.
Dante struggled within the block of ice that held him. He had barely enough space in the frigid tomb to wiggle his shoulders. But even though Amelia was aboveground, he could hear her. He could hear her laughter. For five years he had been miles away from her, but in his thoughts, he had always been able to hear everything she said. She hadn’t laughed once, until now. She was happy.
He had to get the hell out of the ice and see her again.
Had she waited for him? Did she understand he’d been dragged away against his will?
Amelia kicked up snow as she walked. She and Mr. Jones trailed behind the rest of the party. They were gathering greenery to decorate the house on Christmas Eve. The gentleman would cut the Yule log; then it would be loaded upon a sleigh. It was a chance for the gentlemen guests to display their strength to the giggling young ladies. As a lowly servant, Amelia should not be here. But Mr. Jones had specifically asked her to come; he had requested permission from the earl. She had no idea why the draconian earl had been so amenable. It made her wonder who Mr. Llewellyn Jones was.
Five years ago, she’d watched Dante cut down the Yule log. It made her heart ache hopelessly to remember how he’d looked with his sleeves rolled up, a grin on his beautiful lips. Mr. Jones smiled at her. She briskly walked down the path away from him. “I should gather some greenery for decorating inside tonight,” she said. It was customary to bring in rosemary, bay, and holly on Christmas Eve.
Mr. Jones offered his arm. Hesitantly, she placed her hand in the crook of it. She was scared to touch him, scared in case she felt something for him. She knew Dante would never come back, but she never wanted to open her heart again.
Mr. Jones took charge, leading them through the snowy woods. Between the bare trees, she glimpsed the moss-covered stone walls and thatch roof of the cottage. She couldn’t bear to go there. She tried to pull him back. “No,” she managed to croak. “Let us go a different way.”
The tall Welshman stopped. His blue eyes gazed softly at her. “Miss Watson, I did not insist you come with me to collect decorations for the house. I had another reason. It is about the disappearance of Lord Dante.”
“What? You know something of that?”
“It is my belief that the young lord did not vanish of his own accord.”
“What do you mean by that? You mean he was . . . hurt and taken away? Or killed?” Her heart stuttered and she felt instantly sick, dizzy. For five years, she had wanted to believe Dante was alive. Even if it meant he had betrayed her, she wanted to think he was safe . . . somewhere.
“I believe he was attacked. His attacker then took him away.”
“Is he alive?” Amelia clasped Mr. Jones’s arm. “Do you know where he is? What happened to him? Who took him?” Dante had been strong. A very good shot—she had seen him practice. How could someone have overpowered him?
Mr. Jones laid his hands on her shoulders. “You are so lovely. You might very well be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
That startled her. She wore a plain gray wool cloak over her dull servant’s gown and an old cast-off bonnet. Yet his gaze held hers with such tenderness. No one had looked at her like this—not since the night she’d shared with Dante in the cottage. She drew back from Mr. Jones’s touch. “Please, tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know how to explain this to you, Miss Watson. Have you heard of vampires?”
“You mean the undead? I’ve heard tales of them, scary stories told to frighten us around Allhallows Eve.” She stared at Mr. Jones’s serious expression. Surely this couldn’t be true. “You cannot think he was attacked by vampires? Such things aren’t real.”
She whirled and ran away—from Llewellyn Jones and from the cottage and all its memories that pierced her heart. Jones followed her. He caught her, making her walk with him, and he told her who he was. A slayer of vampires. He told her story after story to prove such creatures existed. They moved deeper into the woods, away from the jolly party of ladies and gentlemen who were gathering greenery and collecting the Yule log. There, in privacy, Mr. Jones slipped his arm around her waist. “I’m sorry to shock you with all this, but everything I’ve told you is the truth. My father was a vampire slayer who hunted the beasts throughout Transylvania and the Carpathian Mountains. I grew up knowing such creatures existed. One tried to attack me when I was a young boy.”
“Truly?” She shivered as he solemnly nodded his head. Could this really be true? She had believed Lord Dante had loved her, and when he’d vanished, she thought she had been deceived—she thought she had been foolish and gullible. But if she now believed Mr. Jones, it meant Dante had not left her willingly. It meant her trust and love had not been misplaced.
She didn’t know what to do. Tears gathered and threatened to break free. She fought them. “You think he is dead. If this is true—if a vampire caught him—would he not have had his blood drained, his body left there?” It made her sick to even say those words.
“I don’t think he was a vampire’s victim. I suspect the vampire changed him. Made him into one of them.”
Her legs trembled beneath her. Mr. Jones scooped her up and held her to his chest. He was warm and broad. But she was thinking of Dante. He might be alive . . . no, not alive, a vampire. Something predatory and terrifying. She could not believe it.
The afternoon sun dropped completely, sucking the last, lingering purplish orange light from the sky. Snowflakes began to drift down to the hushed world. A world so quiet, Amelia could hear her every labored breath.
Mr. Jones ran his hands up and down her back, stroking her, and he whispered soft, soothing words. She desperately needed something—or someone—to cling to. So she grasped his coat and leaned against his chest and let him hold her.
Dante heard her sobs. Each one struck him like the tip of a needle driven deep into his flesh. He could hear a man’s deep voice murmuring to her, begging her not to cry. I have not known you long, the man said. His voice echoed eerily in Dante’s head. The man’s voice was low and filled with longing. Dante knew that tone of voice—it was the hopeful, vulnerable rasp of a man in love.
Just a week, the man continued. But I know that I love you, Miss Amelia Watson. I intend to take you away from this—your sad memories, the drudgery of your life as a servant. I intend to ask you to marry me. But I know, as much as I want you, admire you, love you, I cannot ask you now.
Love? Amelia? Hell, what was going on? For five years he had hungered to return to her, and she was going to be the wife of someone else? She had forgotten him. She had fallen in love with another man.
What was she going to say? How could she not feel he was near to her? Hades, he was almost under her feet, buried in the frost-hardened ground.
Five years ago he had been taken to an exotic house on a small Mediterranean island—the home of his vampire sire. He’d been changed into a vampire, and he believed he could never come back to Amelia. But finally, a year ago, he knew he couldn’t face an eternity without her.
He’d traveled the ocean by hiding in the stinking hold of a ship, but he had never reached her. His sire had caught him on the road to his home. He had been given a drug that immobilized him. He had been thrown into a hole in the ground, like a grave, and he’d been trapped there, unable to move, as his sire had shoveled dirt on him, on his legs, his torso, then finally his face. He had been buried in the winter last year—a fortnight before Christmas. The ground had been cold and hard, and even when spring had arrived, the ice didn’t melt from the earth around his prison. It had stayed solid and frozen through summer, through fall, and into another winter. Apparently, his sire had used some kind of magic to keep him trapped.
I do not know what to do. Soft, melodic, Amelia’s voice reached him in his subterranean prison. It wrapped around him, making his heart ache. He was no longer supposed to have a soul, but even without that essential part, he still loved Amelia. He was still capable of love—hopeless love and all the agony that went with it.
He heard the catch in her breath.
I have no mistletoe, said the man she was with. But I stole one of the berries—I’ve got it in my pocket.
You are supposed to take that after a kiss, she replied. But she didn’t sound hesitant anymore.
Dante struggled in his shallow, narrow grave. Damn this. Damn the demon who had changed him, who had dragged him away from Amelia, from the future they should have had. Damn her for forgetting him.
Fury came in a wave—hot, scalding, steaming rage. It coursed through his cold body, and he could feel his flesh growing warmer, inch by inch. Heat radiated from him. He kicked against the top of his small hollow in the earth. The ground compressed where his toe hit it. Some crumbled onto his leg.
What was happening? He didn’t know. He’d tried to claw his way out for more than a year and had not been able to dig through the earth. But the small hole in which he lay was getting hotter. The ice was melting. Water droplets gathered on the hard dirt above his eyes. One dripped free and landed on his lips.
He shoved outward with his arms. The dirt moved, let his fists punch into it. He was going to get out of here. If he had to dig his way out with his teeth, he was finally going to be free.
And go to Amelia.
Amelia grabbed a bunch of holly and went up the step stool, mindful of her hems. The fragrant scent of the shiny leaves surrounded her. Below her, two maids giggled. They held baskets of rosemary and bay, holly and twined branches of laurel.
She was supposed to make the drawing room look festive and lovely. But her mind was not on her work. She would be punished if she did not do a satisfactory job. Probably denied any of the hearty Christmas dinner and drink.
But she had almost had a proposal of marriage. Llewellyn Jones had gazed deep into her eyes and had told her he wanted to make her his wife. He intended to ask her, once she’d had time to recover from what she’d learned about Dante.
What would she say? What should she say? What did her heart beg her to say?
She didn’t know.
Llewellyn had made the truth clear. If Dante was still alive, it was because he was a vampire. He was not really living; he was undead. He had no soul. He was not capable of love. He had turned into a monster. There was no future for her with Dante. If she refused Llewellyn because her heart still yearned for Dante, she would end up alone.
The way Llewellyn had touched her cheek had been so wonderfully gentle. The desire in his eyes had left her breathless. But that one night she’d shared in the cottage with Dante had been filled with magic. She did not think she would ever, ever forget it.
“Ah, the lovely Miss Watson,” a masculine voice boomed beside her. She turned, shocked out of her thoughts, and stared down at one of the earl’s friends, just as the leering gentleman put his hand on her bottom. Viscount St. Maur waggled his brows at her. He must be over forty.
Her stomach lurched. Many of the earl’s friends believed she was like a holly berry, there to be plucked after a preliminary kiss.
“Please, my lord,” she begged, as respectfully as she could. “I must have this greenery hung. The clock ticks toward Christmas Day.”
“After your work,” St. Maur murmured, lust blazing in his bleary blue eyes, “come to my bedchamber. I cannot think of a better gift for Christmas than your lovely tits and sweet little cunny.”
She went scarlet. She knew it by the fire in her cheeks. She must be redder than the berries.
“Leave the lady to her work.” The growl was Llewellyn’s, filled with possessive warning. The slayer lowered his voice. “And if you approach her later, you’ll find yourself hanging from the rafters like a bunch of mistletoe.”
St. Maur stared at Llewellyn’s muscular body, then quickly retreated to get another drink.
Her savior smiled up at her. Amelia’s heart wobbled. A proposal of marriage—for her it was a Christmas miracle. Perhaps she had to stop dreaming of Dante and let herself fall in love again.
Amelia couldn’t sleep.
She sat up on her narrow cot. When she had fallen from the position of governess to menial servant, she had been given a bed in the large, drafty attic room shared by all the female servants. One of the kitchen maids snored terribly.
But it wasn’t the noise keeping her awake. It was thoughts of Dante. She wanted to believe it wasn’t true. But Llewellyn had shown her the journals, books, and notes he had kept of his vampire hunting in the Carpathians. It was evidence, he claimed, of the existence of vampires. He had sketches and recordings of eyewitness accounts. It was his job as a vampire slayer, he had told her, to destroy as many vampires as he could. To protect mortals from the soulless creatures who saw them as nothing but prey and food.
Amelia got out of bed. She planned to go down to the gallery. Sometimes she crept there at night. Dante’s picture hung there. She would stand in front of it, look up at it, and cry quietly in the dark. Sometimes she would daringly touch it, knowing it was foolish to caress a two-dimensional man, especially the image of one who had abandoned her.
But tonight, she wanted to go and look at him and try to force her heart to let him go.
She stole quietly down the servants’ stairs, but at the landing to the second floor, her feet turned against her will and she walked out into the corridor. She could not control her legs. They carried her swiftly down the hall . . . to Dante’s bedroom. The only sounds she made were fierce gasps of anger and panic. Why couldn’t she stop?
She went into Dante’s room. The bed was made with fresh sheets, which were turned back and welcoming. His clothes were still in the wardrobe. His mother had insisted the bedroom be kept ready for Dante, in case he returned. Amelia knew she should leave the room—she wanted to—but her feet took her to Dante’s bed. Lifting the heavy counterpane, she slipped beneath the cool, white sheets.
Stop this. But she couldn’t. Her head hit Dante’s pillow. Then she knew nothing at all except darkness.
Well, almost nothing. At some point, she opened her eyes. Even wrapped in a cocoon of inky black, she knew she wasn’t alone. Her heartbeat was a rush of sound in her ears. “Mr. Jones?” she asked tentatively. She didn’t know why she thought it was Llewellyn—unless he was searching for something. If it was another servant, or the earl or countess, she would be in dire trouble for being in Dante’s bed.
A floorboard creaked. Clothes rustled. She didn’t hear breathing, but she did hear a subtle crunch, like knuckles being cracked.
“It is not Mr. Jones.” Even as the masculine voice rumbled out that name, in tones filled with hurt and autocratic distaste, Amelia knew exactly who it was. Her heart did not beat for seconds.
“Dante?” Now her pulse returned in a dizzying, overwrought surge. Her blood pumped so fast it made her lightheaded. What was he? A vampire or a man? In the pitch-black, she couldn’t see him.
Suddenly, a candle flared. It was on the bedside table, yet the footsteps had come from the foot of the bed. She blinked, as even that small circle of light flooded her eyes.
“Yes, it’s me, angel.”
The bed creaked and finally she could distinguish Dante’s broad-shouldered form at the end of the bed. He sat, his hand clasped around the fluted column of the bed canopy. Unblinking, his face set as motionless as a statue, he stared at her.
“God,” he said suddenly. “You look so pale. So much thinner. That nightgown, that cap on your head is threadbare.”
“I am not a governess anymore,” she said simply. “I am one of the maids. I was a ruined woman. I could not be allowed to be near children anymore. Your family intended to turn me out on the spot, with no wages or references. But in the end, they were compassionate and they let me—”
“Compassionate?” he roared. He was looked at her hands. They were red and chapped, her skin dry and white and scaly. “You were to be my wife. They should have taken care of you.”
“They hated me,” she said. “They blamed me for making you go.”
This wasn’t what she’d imagined saying to Dante after five years. She’d had so many fantasies of his return. When she thought she had been abandoned, she’d envisioned facing him with cold pride. Perhaps slapping his handsome face. When she had hoped he’d been dragged away against his will, she had imagined throwing her arms around him, hugging him, kissing him. But now, wondering if he was a vampire, she was having this odd, cool, mad conversation.
Llewellyn had shown her pictures of vampires in his books. They were ghastly creatures. Men who no longer looked like men, with sunken eyes, and curved fangs, and bloodstained mouths. Dante looked exactly as he had when she had snuggled up to him in the cottage bed. Surely that must mean he wasn’t a vampire. But that brought waves of both relief and pain. If he wasn’t a vampire, it meant he had just deserted her.
Bother this. She was going to be blunt. “What happened to you that night?” she asked fiercely. “Why did you go?”
“I didn’t go anywhere willingly. I was abducted and taken away.”
“You vanished into thin air. The earl sent servants to check all the roads, to investigate at all the inns. They went to the Exeter ports and even to Plymouth, in case you had gone by ship. Or had been taken by ship. Your father searched ceaselessly for you for years. It was only this year that he gave up and stopped looking—”
“He never would have found me,” Dante said. He got up off the bed and moved closer, into the circle of candlelight.
He was so beautiful—his hair was shimmering gold, and it fell around his face in long waves. A fallen angel. It had always been the perfect description for him. Beautiful as an angel, with a sensual, naughty side that had everything to do with devilment and nothing with piety. Then she blinked. His eyes weren’t green. They reflected the candlelight back at her.
“How did you light the candle,” she whispered, “from the end of the bed?”
“I walked from the candle to the bed.”
“That’s impossible. You couldn’t have moved so quickly.”
“I didn’t leave you, Amelia. You have to know that. And I love you even more now than I did then.” Suddenly, he was right beside her, looming over her. But she hadn’t seen him move.
His hand closed on her wrist. He pulled her out of his bed and directly into his arms. She cried out in pain at his tight grip. He let her go, cursing.
“Tell me everything that happened to you,” she demanded, clutching her sore wrist.
“I can’t. On this you will have to trust me. I loved you then; I love you now.”
“I need to know. After five years, I deserve to know.”
“I cannot tell you,” he roared.
He was shouting at her, refusing to give her what she so desperately needed. The truth. He had just hauled her out of his bed. He had almost crushed her wrist. What right did he have to treat her like this? “What is going to happen now? Did you come back to marry me? Or is that all gone now, in the past that you won’t speak of?”
“I can’t marry you.” He bit off the words.
She recoiled. But again, he grabbed her by the arm—the elbow this time—and he drew her to him. She saw his mouth soften. She saw his gaze flick to the bed. “No,” she snapped. “I’m not going to let you touch me.”
“Five years,” he said slowly. “Five years I fought to escape and come to you. Let me tell you this, Amelia Watson. You are not going to marry another man.”
His eyes seemed to glow at her. It was as though a blaze of golden light had leaped from them and seared her heart. She wanted him. Her quim began to throb for him. She felt the wet, hot, weak sensation in her belly and legs. Lust washed over her.
He reached out and touched the base of her throat, where her pulse thundered.
His fingertips pressed to her skin, and a bolt of intense heat exploded there. It shot through her, raced down, down to the private place between her legs, and it exploded again. On a wild cry, she felt her body dissolve. The climax took her, shook her, made her legs crumple beneath her.
And while she was still coming, still moaning in pleasure, Dante scooped her up and carried her to the bed.