Authors: Erica Ridley
Before Ellie could consider the topic further, Miss Breckenridge spied her approaching and motioned her over to the small crowd. The marble antechamber smelled strongly of soaps and colognes. Lord Lovenip was nowhere in sight.
“I hope you’re hungry.” Miss Breckenridge fairly skipped across the entranceway to the front doors. “Cook has outdone herself!”
The butler flung open the doors. A passel of footmen bearing large baskets lined the pathway curving down the hillside. Beaming, Miss Breckenridge stepped across the threshold to lead the way, her guests filing out behind her.
Bringing up the rear, Ellie overheard one gentleman murmur to another, “Got yours?”
“It’s the only method of survival,” his companion replied with an irreverent grin. “Cheers!”
Laughing and jostling, they removed metal flasks from their waistcoats, clinked them together, then took turns downing healthy swigs.
Spirits of some kind, no doubt, but whatever it was had to be better than warm ratafia. After the events of this morning, Ellie couldn’t help but wish they’d offer some to her, too.
In unison, the two men swiveled to face her, flasks in hand. “Fancy a nip?”
Surprised at their apparent ability to read her mind, Ellie was startled into accepting one of the flasks. Although the gentlemen were watching her more vacantly than expectantly, they were now the only three left dawdling in the house. She might as well take a courtesy sip and have done, so they could catch up with the others.
Having successfully rationalized astoundingly unladylike behavior, Ellie gingerly tipped the flask just enough to taste its contents. Liquid fire scalded her throat and scorched her nostrils. Flask outstretched, she doubled over, coughing. Whatever it was, it was even worse than ratafia.
She hastened from the two gentlemen lest they offer her more spirits, only to freeze on the front steps when the sun’s rays hit her full on. The conversation with her mother had discomfited her so much that she’d forgotten her parasol after all. She’d been a child the last time she’d strolled in the sun unprotected, and all she could remember of that outing was ending up in bed for a week. But she was older now. Stronger. Besides, if she went back for a parasol, she’d lose the group completely and, like as not, end up arguing with her mother again.
Sighing, she curved a hand over her eyes to shield them from the blinding glare and hurried across the lawn.
Whether as a result of the sun’s heat or the effects of the devil’s own whiskey, she was dizzy and thickheaded by the time she rejoined the group. Not only were the guests’ individual scents overpowering to Ellie’s nose, she fancied she could hear their breaths, even their heartbeats, and was oddly distracted by every glimpse of a bare throat or ungloved wrist. It seemed all the ladies had been hoping for Mr. Macane’s accompaniment.
A steadying arm circled about Ellie’s waist. Who . . . ? Ah. Miss Breckenridge.
“Are you quite all right?” Her client’s brow knit, her voice low with concern. “You don’t look at all the thing.”
“All your fault,” Ellie managed uncharitably. “Can’t stop thinking about vamp—”
“Shhh.”
Miss Breckenridge spun her away from the others. “Your breath smells like spirits.” She clapped a hand to her forehead as if she, too, had a devil of a headache. “Never say my brothers offered you drinks from their flasks.”
Ellie blinked slowly. “Those were your brothers?”
“Of course those audacious pups are my brothers—hence their humiliating stories today at breakfast. Oh! Of course. You didn’t come down.” Miss Breckenridge tsked. “You should know better than to imbibe spirits on an empty stomach, Miss Ramsay, and you oughtn’t sample anything my brothers offer, no matter how full your stomach. Why don’t you return to your chamber and lie down? Ring Cook for some soup. It’s miraculous, I promise.”
“All right,” Ellie mumbled, disappointed to be returning indoors a mere fifteen minutes into the day’s adventure but seeing no other recourse. With her head spinning so, she would never manage a long hike in the sun.
“You do look deathly pale.” Miss Breckenridge placed her hand on Ellie’s arm. “I shall have to accompany you.”
“No, no, it’s your birthday.” Embarrassment flooded Ellie’s cheeks. “I’ll be fine in time for dinner; don’t you worry.”
Miss Breckenridge’s pursed lips exposed her skepticism, but already her name was being called by various members of the party. “I’ll have my brothers take you. They did this; the least they can do is escort you inside.”
“I’m fine,” Ellie lied, willing her spine to steady. The last thing she wanted was more witnesses to this humiliation. “Go ahead. Truly.”
Without waiting for a response, she headed toward the house. She concentrated so hard on not tumbling insensate into the grass that at first she failed to notice she’d walked slightly off-target and was rapidly approaching the side of the manor, rather than the front door. Just as she turned to correct her mistake, the sound of rapid panting caught her attention. She lurched forward. With one hand splayed against the bricks for balance, Ellie leaned her head around the corner.
A large greenhouse protruded from the rear of the manor. And there, frolicking in the conservatory’s long shadow, was Cain’s puppy.
Chapter Seven
Cain wandered restlessly amongst the dense greenery in the darkest nook of the conservatory, hoping to avoid both servants and revelers whilst his puppy cavorted out-of-doors.
His fractured shoulder was healing, although not as quickly as he would have liked. If he had been thinking about his injury, he would’ve spirited away one of the party’s insipid coquettes for a drop or two during last night’s card-playing. Instead, he had been thinking about the bonny Miss Ramsay. That is, when he was capable of rational thought at all.
After centuries of fruitless searching and prolonged homesickness, he had crossed paths with renegade vampire Aggie Munro. At long last, he could see an end to decade upon decade of solitary hunting, peppered by the occasional wild pup that invariably grew old and died, leaving Cain to walk his path alone. No more. If he could not talk the deserter into accompanying him peaceably, he would return her forcibly. He had not gotten close to his quarry just to fail now.
Then there was the question of returning Miss Ramsay—Ellie—to her real family. Whomever they might be. Depending on how much detail Aggie had Compelled her human companion to forget, Ellie might never recall her true life . . . or even her true name. “Elspeth Ramsay” was much too Scottish for a modern English rose. Aggie might have stolen her as a child, might have used enough Compulsion on the parents so that they even forgot they
were
parents, violating virtually every sacred tenet of the rigid Code at once. Unforgivable, as far as Cain was concerned, but the Elders valued his brawn, not his opinions. He was simply required to deliver Aggie to their mercy.
Victory was finally at hand . . . if unexpectedly bittersweet. Cain had no desire to turn Ellie’s world upside down and then abandon her in the wilds of England to fend for herself, but what choice did he have? He certainly couldn’t drag a human girl into the heart of vampire territory. Not without her becoming just another servant.
Without freedom, she would not be allowed to leave the keep, much less to return to England. Cain could never consign another person to the same desolate homesickness he himself had suffered. And he would never forgive himself if Ellie were Compelled to spend the rest of her life serving the Elders.
So why did he feel like he was losing something important?
Cain leaned his good shoulder against the conservatory wall. He bloody well knew why he regretted leaving Ellie. Because he
liked
her, dammit.
She was bonny, clever, delightfully skeptical. . . . He’d actually had to work to charm her and was not at all confident as to the extent of his success. She, for her part, had managed to charm
him
quite effortlessly, with her arch wit and unpredictability. Yet her very mortality ensured he could never have her. His clan only accepted fellow vampires as mates, and he would not turn her. Conversion had been banned for centuries, for good reason: Only one in a hundred survived the process. Even were it legal, it would still not be worth the risk. Besides, what he liked best about Ellie was her humanness. He’d damn near sprained his cheek muscles keeping his smiles at bay so as not to flash his fangs by accident. Being in her company was simply good fun.
Even if she could accept him for who and what he was, he still could not have her. Regardless of his clan’s laws against mating with a human, Cain wouldn’t be able to bear falling in love with someone who would grow old when he would not, who would die when he would not, who would leave this world—and him—forever.
The slight squeak of a hinge set his muscles on edge. If the sound heralded the arrival of servants or a groundskeeper, his gift of thought Compulsion would keep unwanted questions at bay. But if the entire party had decided to take a turn amongst the exotic flowers, his blood-weakened state might not afford him the energy needed to Compel a multitude of people at once. He would be forced to . . . mingle.
With a sigh, he straightened to his full height and prepared for the worst. The thick rows of tangled flora offered plenty of shadowy nooks, but if Cain had never sought to hide from immortal warriors, he certainly would not cower from a gaggle of ladies and lordlings. Let them do their worst.
“Cain?” called a warm, familiar voice. “Are you here?”
From the first sultry syllable, Cain’s entire body stood at attention.
Ellie.
Bloody hell. He might have faced less danger with the picnic-goers after all.
“Here,” he managed, inanely pleased his voice hadn’t cracked like that of some green youth.
“Where?” she called, her footsteps falling faster.
Cain didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, because even as his addled brain sought to form a reply, she stepped into view. If he’d still had breath, she would certainly have stolen it away. He swallowed hard.
Although she stood at the opposite end of a long row of hothouse flowers, just enough dappled sunlight filtered through the tropical blooms to give her silhouette an angelic glow. Not that he needed the reminder. Stray curls danced alongside elegant cheekbones. A simple gown highlighted a perfectly curved figure that required no ruffles or flounces to distract the eye. The faint, but irresistibly sweet scent of her blood blended with the perfume of the flowers, pricking both his nostrils and his nethers.
“You look . . . dashing.” Blood infused her cheeks at the apparently unintentional compliment, but she boldly took another step in his direction.
Dashing? Cain glanced down at himself abstractedly. His costume was Corinthian out of necessity rather than personal style. After so many decades of ever-changing styles, the vagaries of vogue blended into incomprehensibility. Cain followed fashion in order to avoid looking like a centuries-old relic. He donned the sheep’s clothing du jour to better stalk his prey. Except for those ridiculous cravats. He’d never worn one as a warrior or as a Scotsman, so he’d be damned before he noosed himself every morning for the English.
For reasons of her own, Ellie had likewise not chosen to emulate French fashion to the letter. She didn’t need to. She would be magnificent in any clothing . . . or in none at all.
Rather than approach her, he kept to the shadows. “Where’s your chaperone?”
She idly caressed the petal of a bright orange flower. “With a dozen picnickers, there’s no need for individual chaperones.”
If only she knew. Cain shoved his hands behind his back to prevent himself from reaching for her. “Then where are the other eleven? Will the tour wend this way at any moment?”
“No, I’m . . . alone.” White teeth worried at her lower lip. Just when Cain thought she would choose to flee to the flock of humans, the corner of her mouth lifted in a hesitant smile, and she took an inexorable step forward.
She’d be the death of them both.
In warning, he summoned a rakish leer. “If you come much closer, I’m afraid you’ll find yourself thoroughly kissed.”
“I’m not afraid at all,” she answered shyly. “I confess I’m looking forward to the experience.”
Cain closed his eyes to block the temptation of her blushing cheeks and only succeeded in heightening his awareness of her scent. Her soap, her perfume, her blood . . . If his body had still been human enough to sweat, by now he’d appear the victim of a sudden downpour. He forced his eyes back open.
She was even closer. She had taken another step while he hadn’t been watching and was now a mere arm’s length away. The only thing keeping her innocence intact was his determination not to move a single muscle. If he allowed himself to touch her, if so much as a red-gold ringlet brushed against his skin, he would not be able to keep his desire leashed. An entire battalion of chaperones wouldn’t be able to stop him from kissing her, tasting her, having her.
“Are you all right?” Ellie took another step closer, her eyes filled with concern. “You seem ... out of kilter.”
Out of kilter? Cain was breathing heavily, and he didn’t even need to breathe.
She lifted a hand, bringing the curve of her fingers near his face as if to check his cheek for fever. At the last second, she dropped her hand back to her side without making contact.
Thank God. His equilibrium had vanished with her arrival. His strength of will was preparing for flight as well. If she had touched him, he would have turned his face into her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm, to the pulse point at her wrist, to her—
Compulsion! He was a vampire; she was human. Compulsion would save him. Would save them both.
Run away,
he commanded, letting the ferocity of his desire fill his gaze.
Run now, and run far, or your innocence will be lost right here amongst the flowers. Flee whilst you can!
A slight frown briefly creased Ellie’s brow, but her gaze did not waver. If anything, her expression softened. Rather than run away, she suddenly seemed even closer, as if the hand’s width of air between them had been sucked from the conservatory, pulling them together. She tucked a stray tendril behind her ear, but this time her hand did not return to her side. Her fingertips slid from the curl and pushed through the thickened air to graze the side of his face, the rough edge of his jaw.