With her hunger appeased, she wandered through the house again, running her hands over the sofa and chair, marveling at the fine material, at the thick dark green carpet that stretched from wall to wall. She dug her toes into the softness, thinking how much better it felt than the raw plank floor of her cottage back home.
Going upstairs, she went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the bathing tub. She watched the tub fill with hot water, thinking again what a miracle it was.
Smiling with anticipation, she removed her apron, stepped out of her dress, shift, and drawers. Taking the shampoo from the cabinet, she put it within easy reach and then stepped into the tub, sighing as warm water swirled around her ankles. Sitting down, she let the tub fill with water, turned off the faucet, then lay back and closed her eyes.
She woke, shivering, to find that the water had grown cool. She quickly washed her hair and then her body, rinsed the soap away, and stepped carefully out of the tub, which was quite slippery.
Grabbing a towel from the shelf, she wrapped it around her hair. When that was done, she wrapped a second towel around her body; then, kneeling beside the bathtub, she washed her clothes. She drained the water, then filled it again to rinse her clothes. Frowning, she looked around for a place to hang them. In the end, she draped them over the rod above the tub. Removing the towel from her head, she shook out her hair, then ran her fingers through it as best she could.
Going back into the bedroom, she stood in the middle of the floor. Until her clothes were dry, she had nothing to wear unless… Did she dare?
Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she went to the chest across from the bed and rummaged through the drawers until she found a large white garment with a round neck and short sleeves. When she held it up, the hem fell almost to mid-calf. Still, it was better than wearing a towel. She slipped it over her head, her nostrils filling with a fresh, clean smell, and a faint masculine scent she recognized as DeLongpre's. The material was soft and warm against her bare skin.
Going downstairs, she went into the room with all the books, browsing through them until she found a Bible that looked similar to the one she was used to. Carrying it to the chair, she sat down and began to read, grateful once again that Granny O'Connell had known how to read and had insisted that Brenna learn, too.
She read for a while, then went into the kitchen. Taking an apple from the cold cupboard, she poured milk into the cup, and then carried both outside. Sitting on a stone bench, she admired the shrubs, the changing leaves on the trees, the smooth, green grass. She wondered if Roshan cared for the grounds himself, though she could not visualize him cutting the grass in the middle of the night. It seemed out of character for a vampire to have such a well-tended yard. It was easier to imagine him living in a run-down house surrounded by gaunt trees and dying shrubs.
Birds flitted from branch to branch, their songs lifting her spirits. She nibbled at the apple, which was crisp and sweet. Lifting the cup, she took a drink, thinking again that it tasted far different from the milk at home. But then, here in this strange world, everything was different.
She took a leisurely stroll through the gardens, then went back into the book room. After opening the curtains, she sat down in the chair and began to read again, soothed by the lyrical passages of the Psalms. Sometime later, Morgana padded into the room.
"Morgana, where have you been?" Brenna asked as the cat leaped onto her lap.
The cat blinked at her, arched her back, then curled up and went to sleep.
From somewhere outside, a clock chimed the hour. Four o'clock. Putting the Bible aside, Brenna stroked the cat's fur and then, feeling suddenly sleepy herself, she rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes.
And that was how Roshan found them when he rose an hour later.
He gazed down at Brenna, amazed again by her resemblance to Atiyana, at the pale beauty of her skin, the way her hair spread out over his T-shirt, like a splash of bright red blood. She looked incredibly warm and sexy curled up in the chair, and yet she looked innocent and vulnerable at the same time. It was a potent combination, arousing his desire, his hellish thirst, and a strong urge to protect her all at the same time.
She stirred, a sleepy sound emerging from her throat. He groaned softly as his nostrils filled with the scent of soap and the warm musky scent of woman.
Of prey.
He imagined himself bending over her, sweeping her hair away from her slender neck, burying his fangs in the soft, sweet flesh just below her ear.
He was so intent on fighting his hunger that it took him a moment to realize that she was awake and staring up at him, her face suddenly pale, her eyes wide with horror.
He turned away from her, his hands clenched as he fought his hunger and his desire. It took all his considerable self-control to keep from drawing her into his embrace, from slowly seducing her until she was under his spell, her will subjugated to his. Only his fear of incurring her hatred, and the even stronger fear that, once he had satisfied his desire for her flesh he would be unable to resist giving in to his desire for her blood, kept him from making his fantasy a reality.
When he turned to face her, all his hungers were again under control.
She was still staring up at him.
He took a step toward her.
She lifted one hand. "Stay away from me," she warned.
Roshan shook his head. "Let's not go through this again. How many times do I have to tell you that I won't hurt you before you believe me?"
"I know not. Perhaps when I look at you and I do not see your fangs, or see the hunger in your eyes."
He lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. "You're perfectly safe."
She looked skeptical.
"Why don't you go upstairs and get dressed? We need to go shopping."
"Shopping?"
"For clothes. Fashions have changed in the last three hundred years or so."
She glanced around the room. "So have dwellings."
He grinned at her. "Yes. I guess I'd better show you how things work."
She studied him a moment, then nodded.
He watched her walk out of the room, noting the gentle sway of her hips, the way his T-shirt seemed to cling to her body even though it was many sizes too large.
Going into the living room, he paced the floor, her image strong in his mind. She had courage, his little witch. Her fear of him was a palpable thing, yet she had been ready to take him on.
He heard her footsteps on the stairs a few minutes later, and then she was there, walking toward him, her hair falling over her shoulders in glorious disarray. It occurred to him that he had forgotten to buy her a hairbrush and a comb, as well as a toothbrush. He would remedy that tonight.
He frowned when he saw she was wearing her boots, but carrying her dress over one arm.
"I washed my clothes earlier," she said. "They are still damp."
A wave of his hand brought the fire in the hearth to life. Bringing two of the kitchen chairs into the living room, he draped her dress over the back of one, her underwear over the other.
"I'll show you around the house while we wait for your clothes to dry. So," he mused, "where to start?" He glanced around the room. "Here," he said. "This is a television set."
She regarded him warily.
Roshan picked up the remote. "You turn it on like this," he said, showing her which button to push.
Her eyes widened as the screen flickered to life and an old I Love Lucy rerun appeared.
"What sorcery is this?" she asked softly. "How did you capture all those people in that little box?" She took a step closer. "Have you captured their souls? Why is everything in black and white?"
"And you change the channels like this."
Her eyes grew even wider as he flipped through the channels, the black and white images giving way to color. Cowboys and Indians, old sitcoms, country music videos, news, weather, and sports. He tried to explain what she was seeing, the difference between news programs, which informed watchers of the day's events, and movies, which were like stage plays and had little basis in fact.
She looked up at him, speechless.
"I know, it's pretty amazing," he said. "But it isn't magic, at least not the way you know it. It's just technology… " He shrugged, not knowing how to explain it to her in terms she would understand. "Anyway, it's a form of amusement, something to while away the hours if you've got nothing else to do. Practically every household in America has at least one." Most had two or more.
He showed her how to turn the lights on and off, stood there, grinning, while she played with the light switch.
He took her into the kitchen and explained what frozen foods were, then showed her how to work the stove and the built-in microwave, then the dishwasher. He opened the silverware drawer and showed her the plastic utensils.
She picked up one of the forks. "I have never seen anything like this," she remarked. "'Tis made of an odd substance." She bent the handle of the fork and it broke in her hand. "Oh! I am sorry."
"It doesn't matter," he said, taking the broken pieces from her hand and tossing them in the trash. "They're disposable. Only meant to be used once."
"'Tis wasteful. Of what are these made?"
"Plastic," he said. "It's quite common."
He took her through the rest of the house, assuring her that she was to make herself at home.
When they came to his office, she pointed at his computer. "What is that?"
"It's a computer." He booted it up, then turned on the screen.
"It looks much like the television in the other room," she observed, "only smaller."
"Yes, it does."
"I saw it, in my scrying mirror, when I saw you."
He nodded. He had read about the ancient art of scrying when he'd been doing his research on witches. Mirrors were the preferred method, but countless other objects had been used throughout the centuries. The Egyptians used ink, blood, or other dark liquids. The Romans used shiny objects and stones. Water was also used. Scrying was derived from the English word "descry" meaning "to make out dimly" or "to reveal." Witches used it to see into the future, or to find lost objects or people.
