Her words stuttered to an abrupt halt as her gaze moved over the smooth, firmly muscled chest that bore no more than angry red welts where he had been stabbed. In shock she lifted her head to study the cut upon his temple more closely, realizing that it too had faded to a thin scar, while the swelling was nearly gone. He might have been attacked weeks, perhaps months ago.
“I did warn you,” he at last broke the stunned silence.
“But ... this is impossible.”
His fingers moved to trace her unsteady lips. “You should really stop using that word, Simone. There are very few things that are impossible.”
“Someday you are going to tell me the truth,” she whispered in broken tones.
“Someday.” The dark eyes probed deep into her own, glittering with an emotion that threatened to steal her very soul. “For now, I need to hold you in my arms and know you are safe.”
Simone trembled. To be held in his arms. It was what she wanted more than anything in the world. No, not just wanted. What she desperately needed deep within her.
Somehow, without her even being aware of what was occurring, he had managed to become a necessary part of her world. Every day seemed dull until he appeared. Every night was filled with dreams of being close to him. And despite all the fears and shadows that surrounded him she could not bear the thought that he might someday walk away from her.
But while she might have been foolish enough to allow him into her heart, she still possessed enough common sense to realize that giving in to the passions he had stirred was beyond self-indulgent.
She was supposed to be an experienced widow well versed in the arts of love.
It would take only moments to discover she was a fraud.
Ignoring the regret that viciously stabbed through her, Simone gave a slow shake of her head.
“Gideon, I ...”
His fingers pressed to her lips as he sensed her reluctant refusal.
“I just wish to hold you, Simone,” he said softly. “I need to feel you close.”
She hesitated, well aware it was a bad notion in more than one way, but in the end she could as soon have halted the sun from rising as to deny his urgent plea.
“Yes,” she whispered, readily settling upon the cover.
With a low groan he reached out to wrap his arms about her and tugged her close. Simone gloried in the feel of his long, hard body as it pressed against her own. Even with the cover between them she could feel the comforting heat reach out to surround her. She breathed deeply of the faint scent of spice that clung to his skin.
All the horror and wretched sense of helplessness slowly faded away as she laid her head upon his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart.
“Ah, my Simone, this is where you belong,” he said in satisfied tones.
Simone closed her eyes as she battled sudden tears.
She had never truly belonged anywhere.
Not with her father, nor her sister and certainly not in that extravagant London town house.
But for the moment she did feel as if she belonged in Gideon’s arms.
“Yes.”
Chapter 10
Death arrived in Devonshire without warning.
In the sleepy village near the coast the neighbors abruptly began locking their doors at night and eying one another with suspicion. Those forced to leave their homes at night began carrying their firearms and closely watching the shadows for sign of the killer.
There was no explanation for the young women who were being found in their beds with their blood drained from their bodies. Not unless one was willing to believe the unbelievable.
It was all enough to make the most daring of souls begin to peer over their shoulders.
In the small inn next to the town green the local blacksmith and ferryman huddled in a far corner as they enjoyed a pint of ale. There was no one else in the public room excepting the inn keep who morosely watched the empty door. No one wished to leave their homes without dire necessity.
“I be telling you it’s the work of a vampire,” the ferryman announced in knowing tones as he took a deep sip of the dark ale.
“Get on with you. Are you daft?” the blacksmith growled, his wide, well worn features tight with worry. “T’ain’t no such thing as vampires.”
“Then how do you explain four young maidens all found in their beds with nary a drop of blood left between them?”
The blacksmith shivered in spite of himself. He was considered a brawny man who had never backed away from a fight, and more often than not was called in when the magistrate was in need of a bit of muscle. These peculiar murders, however, had unnerved even him.
How did one fight a shadow that moved through locked doors and could kill without a sound?
“A madman,” he retorted in forceful tones that were meant to convince himself as well as the man seated across the scarred table. “And my bet is upon old Fedmor. I always said as how he wasn’t right in the head.”
“Fedmor?” The ferryman gave a scoffing laugh. “The poor sod is so in his cups most nights he couldn’t find his way to the door. How could he creep about murdering poor innocents without so much as a squeak?”
The blacksmith shifted uneasily. “Then Dalmer. Everyone knows that he’s queer in the head.”
“And how did he take their blood with only two holes in their necks?”
“Blimey, how am I to know what a madman can do?”
The ferryman suddenly leaned forward, his pale eyes glittering with fearful intensity.
“I’m telling you that we have a vampire on the loose in the neighborhood and I for one intend to take my gels to Salisbury for a nice long visit with their aunt.” He gave a shake of his head. “Won’t have them becoming fodder for some demon from hell.”
The blacksmith took a deep drink of his ale, refusing to give in to the panic that was swiftly turning the villagers into babbling idiots. So far he had halted several young boys who were intent on stoning a feeble old woman, and the father of one of the murdered girls from attacking the vicar.
“Dicked in the nob, you are. Vampires.” He gave a loud humph. “Next you’ll be telling me we have witches dancing about the maypole.”
The ferryman abruptly rose to his feet, his expression one of contempt.
“Stay and die if you like. For me, better a month of Aunt Celia’s sharp tongue than dying in me own bed.”
Not far from the inn Tristan stroked the hair of the aging servant who knelt at his feet.
It had taken several days to discover the tart, ill-tempered woman who had once been the housekeeper for Lady Gilbert. Not surprisingly, the various relatives who had been landed with the tartar after the Gilbert household had been closed down had done their best to send her as far away as possible.
At last he had managed to track her down to a crumbling cottage near the coast, where she bullied the local children and terrified the vicar.
Putting aside his delight in feasting upon the local maidens, he at last slipped into the cottage and confronted the elderly servant.
Within moments his Inscrollment spell had put an end to her bitter tongue, and she was crawling upon her knees in an effort to please him.
It had still been an effort to at last discover the information that he had sought. Lady Gilbert had been even more clever and treacherous than he thought possible. Indeed, if it had not been for the small miniature that the housekeeper had stolen from the estate to remind her of her mistress, he might never have realized the scandalous ruse.
Now he allowed a pleased smile to touch his lips as the older woman gazed at him with mindless adoration.
“I have pleased you?” she demanded in anxious tones.
He fingered the tiny portrait with his pale fingers. “Oh yes, you have pleased me very much.”
“I only desire to serve you.”
“Yes, now I believe my work here is done.”
“You are leaving?”
“Yes.”
She abruptly clutched at the hem of his coat, threatening to wrinkle the superfine fabric.
“Take me with you.”
Tristan batted her hands away in annoyance. Really, humans were so tediously weak.
“That is not possible.”
Tears openly ran down the wrinkled cheeks as she clutched her hands together.
“No, you cannot leave me. Please.”
He slipped the miniature carefully into his pocket before allowing the heat to begin coursing through his blood. He could not leave witnesses to his questioning, despite the fact he had little taste for bitter old women.
He could feel his fangs grow as he thrust his fingers into her hair and jerked her upward.
“Do not fear,” he mocked as her eyes widened. “I have a gift for you before I leave.”
“What ...”
Her words came to an abrupt end as Tristan lowered his head and sank his teeth into her neck. Just for a moment her feet kicked in agony, her moans filling the dark, dank cottage. Then just as abruptly she went utterly limp and Tristan tossed her onto the dirt floor.
Removing a dainty lace handkerchief he dabbed at his wet lips. He had what he had been searching for, he acknowledged as the power surged through his body.
Soon Lady Gilbert would be anxious to hand over her Medallion.
