Eternal Hunger: Scottish Vampires Read online

  The image sent a jolt down Emily’s spine and into her stomach. She could not repress a shudder.

  Lord Oliver noticed her stricken expression. “This doesn’t seem like a suitable topic for ladies.”

  “But it was written in the papers, Papa.” Lettie protested. “Surely it is not improper for a lady to discuss the events of the city in which she resides?”

  “Of course it is!”

  The two Olivers were so wrapped in their disagreement they momentarily forgot their guests. This was her chance to escape. Emily would never find a man to kiss her if she stayed in this grim conversation all night.

  “Mon Dieu, it can’t be . . .” Simone whispered. She had gone ghostly pale, her eyes fixed on the other side of the room. Emily followed her gaze.

  A man stood apart from the crowd, as eye-catching as the gaudiest dress, helped by the fact that he towered over most everyone in the room. An air of menace surrounded him. His expression was grim, as if he were on a battlefield rather than in a ballroom. His hair was a deep brown, nearly black. The mask hid much of his face, but Emily thought he might be in his thirties. His jaw was strong and square, his lips full, and his nose straight. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes.

  “Impossible,” Simone whispered, openly gawking at the man. Emily glanced at her before her eyes returned to him.

  He was looking at her. She felt her stomach plummet to the soles of her feet—a naked, raw feeling so intense it was a wonder she wasn’t turned to stone. Their eyes locked through the crowd and everything else in the room disappeared.

  Gray. His eyes were gray. Like a blade.

  She barely noticed the movement beside her until she saw Madame de Séverin crossing the floor to approach him. She watched as Simone grabbed the stranger’s hand with the intimacy of an old acquaintance.

  Cold disappointment settled over her. Of course he hadn’t been looking at her. Not when she’d been standing next to Simone. She turned away, not wishing to see any more, and suddenly felt that familiar, painful burning in her chest. She was about to have an attack.

  She broke away from the Olivers and plunged into the crowd, pushing her way toward the balcony. She needed to escape the ball now or risk exposing herself to all of London.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Emily leaned against the balcony and coughed violently, gasping in the cool night air. Her lungs churned and convulsed like a steam engine. Finally, the fit eased. She blinked the moisture from her eyes and breathed deeply, thankful no one had seen her.

  A pair of untouched champagne glasses stood on the railing not ten feet away. To hell with it. It was a ball after all. She picked up a glass, downed it, and took a deep breath, feeling the bubbles rush to her head.

  She lifted her mask to rest at her hairline. The night air felt heavenly against her flushed face. It had stopped raining, and the earth seemed washed new. Like spring instead of autumn. The path leading to the garden shimmered in the moonlight, enticing her. There would be only so many nights like this left.

  She checked to make sure no one was watching, then kicked off her shoes and sighed in relief. The blasted things had been pinching since the moment she had stepped into them. She started toward the gardens, skirts bunched in one fist, slippers in the other. The ground was shockingly cool and wet against her stockinged feet. She staggered once but caught her balance. The champagne had gone to her head.

  She stopped at an ancient oak with a bench in front of it, shaded on three sides by an arbor wall thick with ivy. What did it matter if she couldn’t find a man to kiss her? Lots of women went to their graves without ever being kissed. Nuns, spinsters, virginal martyrs . . . She sighed and sat down on the bench.

  Consumption. It was a fitting name. Sometimes it felt as if there were another being who dwelled within her, sapping her strength, stealing her youth. Thriving on the life that belonged to her. At first she’d assumed the coughing fits and pain in her side were a late winter flu. But when summer had arrived and the symptoms remained, she had called upon the doctor. He’d told her it might be a matter of months or, if she was fortunate, a year. But the end would come, of that he’d been most certain.

  That was nearly three months ago, but sometimes it seemed like only this morning. She’d told no one of her illness, not even her cousin Constance. The doctor had assured her the consumption was a result of a weak constitution and not contagious.

  After that first visit, she’d lain in bed for three days, faced with the bitter reality that everything she’d once hoped for—a husband, children, travel, adventure—would never happen.

  But after the fourth day, something had changed. After a night spent tossing and turning, she’d awakened from strange dreams just before sunrise. I have today. The thought had come to her as she’d stood watching the sunrise over London. She didn’t know how many tomorrows she would have. But she had today. And today could be whatever she wanted it to be. Carpe diem.

  That’s what tonight had been about. She wanted her first kiss before it was too late, but she wasn’t so unrealistic to think she could find a man to fall in love with her before her time was up. She didn’t want that. Not really. If she loved a man, she wouldn’t want to leave him to grieve for her.

  No, it was already too late for love. But she did want to experience desire. At social gatherings, the married women would sit together, speaking in hushed tones when they thought the unmarried ones weren’t listening, the air around them charged with odd energy. They would laugh and grow flushed, their eyes bright with feminine pride.

  Emily wanted to know what did that. What made sensible women giggle like girls and blush as if with fever.

  She wanted it for herself.

  Voices came from behind her—a man and woman following the path into the gardens. Wonderful. She was probably about to spoil the mood for a pair of intoxicated lovers. Hadn’t there been enough embarrassing moments tonight?

  The voices grew louder. She ducked behind one of the bushes surrounding the alcove, planning to hide until they’d passed. Her reputation was at stake, as well as theirs; it was improper for her to be out walking alone.

  Their words came quickly now. They were arguing, she realized. Blast. Witnessing a couple’s quarrel was just as bad as observing their lovemaking. She should know after a year of living with the Fitzhuberts, cousins who had taken her in after her father’s death.

  The footsteps stopped directly before her on the other side of the arbor. She crouched low, careful to keep her skirts from rustling. She lowered her mask—as if that would help conceal her— and silently willed them to go away.

  “Mon chère, please!”

  Emily recognized the voice of Madame de Séverin. Only now that sleek, accented voice was frantic. Whom could she be speaking to?

  “Calm yourself, Madame. Please.”

  The man’s voice resonated through the stillness of the garden. Deep and cold. He had an accent as well, Northern, probably Scots, educated but rough-sounding.

  “I am perfectly calm,” Simone answered.

  Emily couldn’t fight her curiosity. Carefully, she peered through the bushes.

  Madame de Séverin stood not ten feet away, her back to Emily. She was with the stranger from the ball, the man with dark hair she’d seen across the room. Both he and Simone had removed their masks.

  He was even more impressive up close. Though it was dark, the moon shone on him clearly, highlighting his sculpted features and the athleticism of his physique. He had a perfect Grecian profile and a more than pleasing countenance, but his face held a weathered quality, as if hardship had left its stain on him.

  She instinctively knew that he was not one of society’s gentlemen whom she’d been groomed to admire. Though his clothes were fine and his outward manners impeccable, there was an air of the wild about him. As if underneath the fine linen and starched collar was a primal being. He was not what she was supposed to find attractive, which somehow made his power all the more potent.

  “I am not the man you believe, Madame. My name is Malcolm MacRoyce.”

  “Liar,” Simone hissed. “I know you recall as well as I. And how have you come to be like this? Your . . . face!” Simone took a step forward, hand extended, but he moved before she could touch him.

  His face? What did Simone mean?

  “You are mistaken, Madame.” His tone was patient but nonetheless cold. It was a powerful voice, one used to giving orders and having them obeyed—the kind Emily imagined could command armies.

  “Please,” Simone whispered, sinking to her knees on the ground.

  Emily heard a muffled sound through the bushes. Madame de Séverin was weeping. MacRoyce was still for a moment. Then he slowly crouched next to Madame de Séverin.

  Emily was mortified for the woman who had been so rude to her not an hour ago. She couldn’t bear to listen anymore. She had to leave this place. She silently started to retreat, but stopped short. Her dress had snagged on a low branch.

  MacRoyce’s shoulders stiffened, and his eyes flashed toward the bushes where she hid.

  She froze, not even daring to breathe. He couldn’t have heard her. She’d been too quiet.

  His eyes returned to Madame de Séverin. Slowly, he guided her until they were both standing. “I apologize if I have upset you, Madame.” His voice was not as cold as it had been. “But I am not—”

  Madame de Séverin slapped him. The sound echoed through the garden. She said something in French that Emily couldn’t understand, though she could guess its meaning. Next she heard the sound of Madame’s pumps clicking away on the pavement.

  The man let out a long sigh but made no move to leave. Emily remained still, waiting. Her legs started to shake.

  Leave. Please leave.

  His back was to her and she couldn’t help but marvel at his height and the breadth of his shoulders. He laughed, a deep sound with no warmth in it, and the vibrations seemed to touch her through the darkness.

  “I hope you enjoyed that.”

  For an instant she thought he was speaking to himself; then with cold horror, the truth dawned on her.

  “I know you’re there. You may as well come out now.”

  Her heart pounded like horses’ hooves, but she stayed still, mortified. Perhaps she could wait him out. Perhaps if she stayed completely still he would go away, convince himself he had imagined her presence.

  Before she could move or formulate a plan, a strong hand grabbed her and yanked her forward.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Emily was pulled through the bushes. The thorns tore at her dress and the tender skin of her forearms. She slammed into the stranger’s chest and quickly pulled away, breathing heavily.

  The clouds had passed over the moon, thickening the oak tree’s shadow. Though he stood close, she could barely make out his face. She was too aware of him in other ways, however. The very air seemed to vibrate with his masculine intensity.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  His tone was so commanding she nearly answered him, but stopped herself. She owed him nothing.

  “Excuse me,” she replied, and turned to leave.

  He blocked her. “I didn’t think young ladies attended balls so they could spy in the host’s bushes.”

  Her jaw dropped. “I was not spying!”

  “Tell me, what was the reason for your espionage? Was the ball not to your liking? Or perhaps you couldn’t lure some young fool into dancing with you.”

  Her cheeks flamed. Who was he to talk to her like this? “Trust me, sir. Whatever you have been doing out here, it’s of no interest to me.”

  “Oh? I suppose you were crouching in your host’s shrubbery to better examine the forsythia?” His eyes traveled over her. “In your stockings, no less.”

  She flushed even harder, remembering her shoes were in her hand and her stockings were nearly soaked to the ankles. “As I said, I was not spying.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Then what were you doing?”

  “I . . . my dress was caught.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. In a shaft of moonlight, she could just make out the movement of his Adam’s apple. “Of course it was.”

  That was it. She’d had enough. She had looked forward to this evening for weeks and hadn’t planned on having it end with her standing in a garden with a pair of ruined stockings, being insulted by a Scotsman with entirely too high an opinion of himself.

  “If I had been spying,” she said, “all I should have seen is a man who presents himself as a gentleman, but who wouldn’t know honor if it slapped him across the face. I think I understand your fear of being spied upon, though. If I conducted myself in the same lowly, bullying manner you do, I’d be ashamed as well.”

  His eyes narrowed. She’d hit a nerve. Good. She smiled and turned to leave, but he moved like lightning and blocked her.

  “Let me pass,” she demanded.

  “Not yet.”

  Some primitive thing rose within her. Before she could think, she lifted her skirts and kicked him in the shin. Unfortunately, without her shoes, the result was much more painful for her than for him. She cursed and staggered. He caught her arm, steadying her and trapping her.

  “Do not touch me!” she shouted. But he didn’t release her. Her free arm held her shoes, and she instinctively turned them into a weapon. She smacked him as hard as she could and felt her heels make a satisfying thud against his chest.

  “Christ!” He released her and stepped backward. At that moment, the moon traveled from behind the clouds once more.

  Everything about him changed. He went stone still, staring at her. No longer angry, he had a look she’d never seen on a man’s face before. Utter fixation.

  His arm shot out, catching her wrist. The shoes clattered to the ground.

  His other hand reached out, and she involuntarily flinched, thinking he meant to hit her. But instead, she felt the mask lift from her face.

  He sucked in a breath.

  “You . . .” he whispered.

  He pulled her nearer, his gaze like fire. His eyes held a strange intensity. As if he were the first person to ever truly look at her, and at the same time he wasn’t seeing her at all.

  He shut his eyes as if the sight of her pained him. “Losing my mind?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  She shook her head. She didn’t understand him. He was frightening her.

  “Who are you?” He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her slightly.

  “Let go of me!”

  He took her jaw in his hand and his fingers moved over her face, feeling the contours, as if he couldn’t believe she was real.

  “You . . .” he whispered. The word sounded wrenched from him.

  She didn’t have time to wonder what he meant before his lips captured hers.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Malcolm didn’t know what was happening. His wife, Nora MacKeith, had been dead for more than five hundred years, and yet she stood before him as alive and warm as the day he’d left her. He’d seen her twice in the ballroom, but had thought his mind played tricks on him. Standing with her now, there could be no doubt.

  Perhaps her ghost had returned to haunt him. Or perhaps he’d finally lost his mind, after all. Drinking the blood of the sick had weakened him so much.

  He’d noticed the uncanny resemblance before. But it wasn’t until the clouds had passed and the moon had shone full on her that he’d known. There were differences, physical changes in this new version of his wife. Her hair was darker, a deep chestnut instead of the gold it had been. She was a bit taller and slimmer, her features more angular. But otherwise it was the same face. Almost the same voice, even. If she were a ghost, wouldn’t she appear exactly as she had in life?

  Her eyes were the same, though. A witch’s eyes. As soon as she had stepped out of the shadows and he’d seen them, he’d known. They were two different colors: one a bright burning gold, the other sky blue.

  There could never be two women with the same eyes. Not even in as many lifetimes as he’d lived.

  Before he could stop himself, he’d grabbed her and covered her lips with his own. She resisted, but he was undeterred. He slanted his mouth firmly against hers, forcing his way in. She tasted sweet, her mouth warm and wet, reminding him of what other parts of her would also be so. He ran his hands over her, seeking her form beneath the layers of fabric. The satin gown was smooth and cool on his skin, and he bunched it in his fists, wishing it were her flesh.

  He pushed her back against the oak tree, kissing her until she became soft and pliant against him. Her hands moved to clutch his shoulders, and he growled in triumph. She smelled like flowers, like the garden, or the night itself. The feel of her breasts pressing into his chest and her warm body trembling against his hardened him to the point of madness.

  He held back nothing, tasting and touching her in a near frenzy, pushing them both to a place they could not easily return from. Wanton that she was, she kissed him back. Even though he was rough with it. He hadn’t felt like this in centuries—this excited, this aroused. There was a pressure, a tightening in his chest. And, for a moment, he wondered if his heart had begun to beat again, though it hadn’t since the day he’d been turned. He was more than ready. A second away from raking up her skirts and taking her against the tree. Fucking her until she couldn’t move. Until she begged for mercy.

  A searing pain against his chest made him break the kiss. He pulled back and gazed down at the ring he wore around his neck, a talisman Nora had given to him as a wedding gift. Despite her betrayal, he’d worn the charm since that day. Dozens of chains had broken over the years, but he’d always replaced them, keeping the ring close to his heart. Somehow he’d never been able to take it off. Now it felt as if a fire had been lit within the metal, as if the charm recognized its original owner.

  This was too much. Like a dream. Or a delusion. “Are ye real?” he asked, breathing heavily.