They had thrown on some clothing, then had slipped out of the parlor hand-in-hand and had come to her bedroom. In a soft whisper that had wrenched his heart, Octavia had told him how naughty and adventurous it felt to sneak together up the stairs in their disheveled state. In her room, they’d made love again. A long, slow, luscious bout of pleasure. Now that sex was over, she looked worried, and her hands shook.
Still, her skin glowed, and her cheeks were pink. Before she had looked pale, and she’d had dark circles under her eyes. It had showed how much the search for their child had exhausted her.
He had to thank De Wynter again for giving him the gift of the sex toys.
He sat at her side. “How many families you have gone to in your search?”
“Three,” she whispered. “I have two more. I’m terrified that she is with a family who is not on my list. I took the whole ledger, but what if—what if I’m wrong?”
“Sip the sherry, Octavia. It will make you feel better.” He cradled her against him as she sipped. “We will find her.” At least Octavia had managed to search without being attacked by the beasts like the satyrs and werewolves and vampires. He learned the mysterious Mrs. Darkwell had taught her a spell to disguise her scent, which let her elude the assassins who wanted to hurt her.
He was certain they would find the baby. They had to, because he couldn’t accept losing his child forever.
“Will you come with me tomorrow?” she asked. “But when we find our baby, I’m not just going to let you take control of us—”
“I know, Octavia. I am not going to dictate to you. But you are in danger, and you have to be safe.” He tipped up her chin. “The threat against you is serious. De Wynter explained it to me. You are being hunted by male assassin groups from the werewolves, and dragons, by vampires, and male witches. You can’t fight beings like that alone. You need me—and we both need the help of the Royal Society. Will you trust me?”
She nodded. “I will.”
This had to be a good start toward capturing her heart.
But the moment she learned what he was, her love would die.
De Wynter survived without drinking blood from mortals—De Wynter could drink his blood from a glass. But Matthew couldn’t. The curse forced him to drink from human prey. He had refused to behave like a vampire and he would deny his hunger as long as he could, then it would take control of him.
He’d attacked men and had drunk until they almost died. De Wynter had stopped him before he killed them. Admittedly, he’d deliberately picked brutes—one had been a London footpad; another one had been beating a prostitute; yet another had been punching his wife. But even they didn’t deserve to be killed by a vampire.
Octavia finished the last drops of sherry. “I’m tired,” she whispered. “Will you sleep with me?”
He couldn’t sleep at night. But he lied and said, “I would be honored. After all, we’ve only slept for one night together.”
A little sound woke her. Octavia opened her eyes, blinking to get used to the dark. She was hot, engulfed in warmth, and all that comforting heat made it hard to wake up and think. She pushed the covers down—the heavy coverlet was over her head. Her nightgown had slipped up in her sleep and something remarkably warm was pressed against her bare bottom.
It was Sutcliffe. He was naked, and his body lay behind hers, so his crotch pressed into her rear. His steely forearm was around her, just below her breasts.
When she moved, he grumbled, muttered something. Then he rolled over onto his other side, leaving his back facing her.
She was accustomed to the dark now. There was no one in the room, no threat. The fire had banked into glowing coals—perhaps it had been a crackle or a hiss of the fire that had woken her.
Octavia looked at Sutcliffe. She heard steady breathing. He must still be asleep.
He was naked beneath the warm sheets. Tentatively she reached out. Her fingers touched his spine. Daringly, she traced down, down to the top of the hot valley between his cheeks.
He didn’t stir, but her heart raced. With desire, not fear.
She liked sharing a bed with him.
But she couldn’t let lust make her weaken. She was going to stay with him now, because she had to do it to keep their baby safe.
She snuggled against Sutcliffe. He was deliciously warm; his buttocks were almost hot. His long legs stretched out beneath the sheets. She lay beside him, so close there wasn’t an inch of space between them. Amazing to think she could wrap her arms around him. Even stroke him with her toes.
A light tapping filtered into her warm cocoon. She sat up, shivering as the cool night air touched the exposed skin of her upper chest where the bodice of her nightgown scooped. “Who’s there?”
Sutcliffe sat up immediately, the covers falling off him. He mustn’t have been sleeping, after all. There was no way he could have become so instantly alert. She suspected he had been faking sleep, breathing steadily so she would be fooled.
Why? Had he thought she would run away?
He slipped out of bed and dragged on his robe. Prowling to the door, he turned the key and opened it an inch.
With his body in the way, she couldn’t see what was happening. She didn’t trust him to share honestly with her. Anyway, if there was danger, he was facing it alone and without a weapon.
She got out of bed, snatched up the fireplace poker, then tiptoed behind Sutcliffe. It was hard to find a place to watch—his back was so broad, it filled most of the doorway.
When she saw who was out in the corridor, she sagged with relief. Not a satyr, or a snarling werewolf, or a vampire ready to plunge fangs.
A young boy stood there. He clutched a cap with his hands, twisting it. “Lady Octavia? I thought this were ’er room. I’ve a message for ’er. A liddy gave it to me. She says she knows ye’re looking for a babby, and she knows where the babby is.”
Hope soared and crashed all in the space of one moment. It had to be a trap, one set up by Mrs. Darkwell.
Without hesitation, Sutcliffe opened the door, grasped the boy by his shoulder and pulled him into the room. “All right, lad. The whole story. Who is this woman? If you can’t give us her name, tell us what she looked like. Where did she approach you?”
The boy trembled, wringing his poor cap mercilessly. Octavia hurried forward. “You are frightening him, Sutcliffe.” She led the boy to a chair by the fire and urged him to sit. The small, thin child perched on the edge.
She was wearing a sensible nightgown, not a scandalous one, but the boy was staring with large eyes, and he looked shocked to be seeing her intimately dressed. She put on a robe, then approached him. “What is your name?” She couldn’t let Sutcliffe terrify the boy. Likely they’d learn nothing.
“Samuel.”
“Can you tell us who the ‘liddy’ was, Samuel? We will reward you for your help.”
“Didn’t give ’er name to me. She was old and had gray hair. All in ringlets it was, under a fancy hat with a long feather.”
Not Mrs. Darkwell . . . unless the woman was disguised. But it could have been a woman in the employ of Darkwell. She had to be careful. But she wanted so much to hope. . . .
“Where did this woman approach you, Samuel? In the village?”
“Aye, on the green. She asked for the most clever lad of the group of us, and I said it were me. ’Course the others ’ad to go ’ome at dark anyway. She gave me three shillings, then told me to bring the letter at midnight. For that much blunt, I slipped out of me house to do it.”
“Where did this woman say the baby is?”
“The great ’ouse that’s ’alfway between ’ere and Kindelwell. Revel House, it’s called. She said they stole the babby? Is that true?”
“Not exactly.”
“Could you take me there?” Sutcliffe asked the boy.
The lad nodded, and Sutcliffe told the boy to wait for them down at the inn’s entrance. He gave the lad a few more coins and sent him out the door. “I might be following the boy into a trap,” he said, as he dropped his robe, then pulled on trousers. “But I’ve got to follow it through.”
She tugged her nightdress off. “You aren’t going alone.”
His brow rose. Icy arrogance seemed to wash over him. “Octavia, I will not let you go after the child. It is too risky for you.”
“You are dictating to me! I want to see our child.”
“It is late at night, a time when vampires, werewolves, and other assorted monsters are everywhere. It is too dangerous.”
“I can disguise my scent—remember, I told you I could.
You
might lead these monsters right to our child.”
He stopped, with his shirt halfway on. His chest was bare, his arms in the sleeves, his face hidden by the linen. From the way he froze, it was obvious he hadn’t thought of that.
“But if we are both there, armed, we can protect each other,” she continued. “It will be much easier to watch out for danger. Together we can protect the baby. If I’m there, I can use my . . . my powers.” Even though they were alone in the room, she whispered the word. “Please. I need to find our baby. I cannot stand it anymore. I feel . . . I feel guilty for having made love with you, when I should be hunting for our child. Even though she is safe, I need to hold her again. I need to be with her. I’m going to go, even if I have to follow you secretly through the dark.”
He jerked his shirt on. “Damnation, you would get yourself killed. At night, there’s going to be assassins out, searching for you. It’s dangerous—” He groaned and pulled one of his boots on. “So is leaving you here.”
He looked haunted. “I lost my brother by being foolhardy. If I lose you . . . I couldn’t live with that.”
His words speared her to her heart.
The boy turned out to be telling the truth.
Matthew had no idea who the gray-haired woman was, but her information had been accurate and honest. And for a generous payment, the family—who had been the next ones on Darkwell’s ledger list—had returned their baby to them.
Their small, beautiful, helpless, lovely daughter.
But it was now almost three o’clock in the morning, and Matthew was hungry. Dangerously, viciously hungry.
He dragged his hand through his hair. Octavia sat at his side in the simple carriage Matthew had rented from the inn, her hands wrapped tightly around the baby. The baby had slid down in her arms, curling up. Octavia looked stricken as she tried to reposition the little infant. Then she stared at him, confused.
“Sutcliffe, I don’t understand. Why haven’t you wanted to hold your child?”
He did want to touch their baby. He longed to cradle her. But he could smell his own daughter’s blood, and it piqued his hunger. He could control it, but he hated himself for even being aware of his child’s blood. Wasn’t it proof his daughter didn’t belong with him?
He was a vampire, damn it.
And he was afraid. Could he hurt his own child? Could he hurt Octavia?
He could hear the rush of Octavia’s blood through her veins, and it was driving him mad.
His hand gripped the edge of the seat. The velvet cushion tore; the wooden frame began to crush under the grip of his hand. He had to keep his face turned to the window, and he had refused to let her light the carriage lamps. It would turn the windows into mirrors. It could reveal his secret.
But his teeth were out, and his jaw was screaming with pain—once his teeth grew, he felt this hot, intense pain until he sank his fangs into a mortal.
His own wife had made his fangs elongate.
He was supposed to be ingratiating himself into Octavia’s heart. She couldn’t understand his cold, aloof behavior. He could almost see her hardening her heart toward him.
If she needed him to cradle the baby, he would have to do it. He was sure he could do it, without hurting either Octavia or their daughter. He turned to her, thankful that darkness hid him. He held out his hands. “I’ll take her,” he said gruffly.
She turned away from him. He saw how the baby’s swaddled bottom fit in her hand. “I am not going to hand her to you when you make it sound like a chore.”
Obviously, he was not about to win her heart this way. “I don’t know what to do with a baby,” he muttered. “I’d likely hurt her.”
Octavia stopped. “You are afraid of her. Is that why you are keeping your distance? She’s an infant. How can you be afraid of such a small, innocent thing?”
“I’m not afraid of her,” he growled. “I’m afraid of me.”
Damn, that was too close to admitting there was reason to fear him.
“Afraid I might drop her or squeeze too tight,” he added quickly.
Smiling, Octavia carefully set their infant into his arms. To his surprise, Matthew found he
was
afraid of dropping the little baby. His normally adept fingers suddenly felt large and clumsy.
This was his little girl.
As a vampire, he had excellent vision in the dark. He could see his daughter’s fair eyelashes—her eyes were shut, and the spidery lashes lay on her pink cheeks. Her skin was fair, and beneath the lids, he could see the tracing of fine veins. But her cheeks were the pink of fresh roses, her lips were ruby red and pursed as if always ready to start sucking. Soft blond hair curled like silky wisps at the top of her head and on the sides, over her ears.