Eternal Hunger: Scottish Vampires Page 5

  “But you cannot exclude the notion.”

  “So you believe this lunatic is only feeding from and killing men who resemble each other.”

  “No. I believe he is killing men who resemble you.”

  The air around Malcolm grew heavy, as if Saïd’s words and their meaning were a tangible weight upon him. His world was falling out from beneath him. The ghosts of his past returned to haunt him. First Nora. Now—

  “Henley is dead, Saïd.” Malcolm said. “I killed him. Buried him with my own hands.”

  “I did not say it was he.” Saïd watched him with that damnable look of compassion again.

  “Then who? And if some lunatic did want to hurt me, why not just come after me himself?”

  “I don’t know. But we must find out.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hands moved over her, rough and warm. She couldn’t see, but she could hear and feel. The weight of him above her, the heat of his breath on her neck. His body rocking against hers, waking something dark within. A voice whispering in the darkness . . .

  Nora.

  Emily woke in her bedroom, the dream a fog around her. She lay for long moments noting the sounds of carriages passing. The sheets against her skin. This was reality, not the dream.

  The fall of light against the wall was high and bright. She must have slept incredibly late. And she had things to do today.

  The house was quiet that morning. Morris and Constance were nowhere to be seen, thankfully. Morris had been livid the night before. The tension in the carriage on the way home had been thicker than Devonshire cream. Emily had been so jostled by the night’s events that it wasn’t until she arrived home that she realized she’d left her shoes in the garden.

  She sat at the vanity drinking her usual infusion of bran tea and vinegar, as the apothecary had prescribed. Her lungs felt remarkably well this morning. In fact, everything felt better than in memory. She felt like a tiny seedling previously resting in the earth but now finally standing in the sunlight for the first time. She studied herself in the mirror. Ordinary. Unremarkable. No one would know from the outside that inside everything had changed.

  Last night had been incredible. Emily had only two goals before her time was up, and she’d succeeded in accomplishing one of them last night. In fact, now that she’d felt such pleasure, she wondered how she would be able to live without it again. The way he’d held her to him, as if she were vital to his existence. As if her touch were the most coveted thing in the world.

  It was perfect. Better than she could have imagined or anticipated. Until he’d called her that.

  Who was Nora? He’d spoken the name with such feeling, such intensity. It had to be someone he truly cared for.

  If he cares so much for another woman, what was he doing with me?

  Perhaps MacRoyce had loved this Nora and lost her somehow? Or perhaps he wasn’t capable of fidelity. After all, there’d been the bizarre incident with Madame de Séverin.

  Either way, it didn’t matter. His personal life was nothing to her. She’d used him for her own means, as he had her. She would never see him again.

  Something in the reflection caught her eye, and she leaned in closer to the mirror. There was a small bruise on the side of her neck, close to the shoulder. Odd, she didn’t remember hurting—

  Oh. He had done this, left his mark on her. She shivered, unsure whether she was pleased or frightened to see herself branded. She remembered how his mouth had felt against her skin. The way his teeth had nipped slightly. Underneath the robe, her nipples hardened, warmth rushed to her center. She gently touched the mark. It was ugly as the devil, but she found herself smiling. A deep blush rose on her cheeks. No need to pinch them today.

  She still wore her mother’s pearl necklace, having fallen asleep in it the night before. She unhooked it, considering it too fine to be worn on an ordinary day such as this. Emily had few memories of her mother: a warm pair of arms, a gentle voice that made her feel safe. Until she was eight years old, she’d believed the woman dead. It wasn’t until then that she’d realized a dead person had a grave and that the absence of her mother’s on their family property was not normal.

  In reality, her mother had run off with an Italian when Emily was three. Her father had made the unwise decision to publicly divorce her, causing twice the scandal the affair had. A cuckolded husband society could forgive; a man who publicly defied propriety it could not.

  Her father had been many years older than her mother, and after she’d run off, he’d had little patience for the daughter left behind. Emily had spent most of her childhood at school, and on the rare holidays she was allowed home, it was often to find her father gone to town. She rarely saw the man who by that time had gray hair and walked with a cane. He seldom sent for her, and when he did would never look directly at her. She knew he’d hated her eyes. She’d inherited almost nothing financially. Most of her father’s wealth had been lost to his penchant for gambling, and the manor had gone to the creditors.

  Laurel Wilcox Adams had been quite beautiful, which was how she’d caught the attention of Emily’s father, Rowland, who’d been gifted with wealth and property but not with an attractive countenance. Emily thought her own face reflected their union, beauty and ugliness negating each other on her pleasant but unremarkable face. She wondered if her father had believed he wasn’t her true parent. That would have explained his coldness, but Emily herself thought this unlikely. The old manor had had numerous portraits of deceased ancestors, many of whom possessed the same chestnut hair, small mouth, and straight nose as she.

  She did have another memory of her mother, or at least she thought she did. Once when she was about fourteen she’d gone for a walk along the moors near her home. In the distance, she spotted a woman standing by the road, watching her. The woman had dark hair and wore a worn cape and haggard clothing. Emily had been put off by the intensity with which this stranger watched her. When she began to approach, the woman had vanished. It wasn’t until afterward that she’d begun to wonder.

  A few years ago, Constance had received a letter from the Italian noble, whom her mother had left years earlier, communicating that Emily’s mother had died in Florence and was buried in the Protestant Cemetery there.

  She glanced at the sketch of Il Duomo on her vanity. Carpe diem. Italy had fascinated Emily for years. She loved everything to do with art and ancient history, from the antiquities of Rome to the great masters of the Renaissance. In fact, today she was to see an exhibit of Roman pottery at the Foster Gallery.

  Although she’d never been there, Emily was certain there was no other city on earth that could compare to the beauty of Florence. She’d read accounts by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Lord Byron of the city’s beauty and vitality. That was Emily’s second dream. She wanted to visit Florence and to see her mother’s grave before she died.

  By the time she was out the door it was nearly three in the afternoon. She walked hastily, taking the most direct route through the park. A young man in worker’s clothes passed her, plainly looking her over, a cocky smile on his face. When he was near enough to look her in the eye, his jaw dropped and he stared. Emily walked on. She was used to it.

  She passed an older woman and little girl sitting on a bench. The child was throwing breadcrumbs in the direction of a nearby duck pond, the majority of crumbs falling at the girl’s feet. Both were smiling. The grandmother seemed to enjoy herself as much as the child.

  That will never be you.

  She shook her head. She wouldn’t pity herself. Not today.

  Although she was in a hurry, she couldn’t resist approaching the pond to look at a mother duck and her offspring. She knelt by the water’s edge, watching the ducklings receive their first lesson in flight. They beat their tiny wings and dashed across the water while their mother quacked frantically.

  A reflection in the water caught her eye. A shadow on the pond’s surface. It neared until it was just behind her. Her own features were clear and distinct on the water, but the figure was hazy, like smoke. It drew nearer. She could just make out the features where its face should have been. Ancient and hollow. Like a ghost’s.

  She gasped and turned.

  MacRoyce stood behind her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  She blinked, wondering if her eyes played tricks on her. First the strange reflection in the pond, and now MacRoyce!

  He wore a long brown coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and his trim figure. A wide-brimmed hat covered his head, casting a shadow over his stormy eyes. Strands of dark hair escaped his hat and shone in the sunlight. His face was stern but his eyes were heated.

  Awkwardly, she attempted to stand, but he quickly took her arm to help her. His grip was strong, and she felt the warmth of his gloved hand through her sleeve.

  “Ah . . . thank you,” she mumbled.

  He inclined his head to her, a smile playing on his lips. “My pleasure, Miss Adams.”

  Her heart stopped. How had he found out her name?

  She returned the nod and, without another word, took off as fast as she could.

  What is he doing here? This is a disaster! She raced through the park, her heart pounding like a steam engine. She’d compromised herself last night, believing she would never see MacRoyce again, and here he was! Her cheeks flushed to the point of pain as she remembered the things she’d done with him. Things no decent woman should do except with her husband. She burned at the thought of it.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She turned to see him easily fall into pace with her. Damn him! She was walking almost fast enough to make her lungs explode, and he moved with hardly any effort at all.

  “I didn’t think you were the sort to run away,” he said.

  She gritted her teeth, refusing to take the bait. “I am not running from anything. Least of all you. I happen to be late for an appointment.”

  He inclined his head, all gentlemanly politeness. “Then allow me to escort you.”

  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “I insist.”

  She stopped and faced him. “Is there a particular reason you’re seeking my company?”

  His eyes moved over her brazenly. Her skin flushed beneath her dress.

  “You already know the reason, lass.”

  Her heart raced faster. “Look, I really can’t be seen like this. Excuse me.” She turned away.

  He caught up to her. “Like what?”

  “With you. In public.” She quickened her pace.

  “Would you prefer a private meeting?” His voice was dark and low, as it had been last night in the garden.

  She flushed and lowered her own voice to a whisper. “You may wish to ruin your reputation, but kindly find another woman to drag down with you. How did you learn my name, may I ask?”

  “Oh, that. I have my methods.”

  “You haven’t made any improper inquiries about me, I hope?”

  “None.”

  She stopped again. “You haven’t told anyone about . . . last night?”

  His face lost all signs of humor. “I would do nothing to harm your reputation. I swear it on my brother’s grave.”

  She was taken aback by the intensity of the oath. He was careful not to betray any emotion, but it was obvious he had deeply mourned the loss of his brother. She nodded and began to walk again, this time more slowly.

  After a moment he asked, “How is your . . . friend today?”

  She blinked. “Oh, Cousin Morris? Thankfully, his pride was most hurt. You might have killed him, though.”

  “Hardly. Even the weakest of men could recover from that blow; your cousin is a perfect example.”

  “You speak as though you’re well-schooled in neck-breaking.”

  He shrugged. “May I ask where you are going?”

  “If you must know, I am to see an exhibit of Roman pottery at the Foster Gallery.”

  His dark brows furrowed. “How do you intend to get there?”

  “I should think that was obvious.” She had increased her pace again and was almost panting.

  “The gallery closes at five.”

  “I know that.”

  “You won’t make it.”

  “Not if you keep delaying me.”

  “Ride in my carriage?”

  She paused, dumbstruck. “I most certainly will not!”

  “I see. Afraid I’ll throw myself upon you the moment the door shuts?”

  She tried not to look shocked, even if that was precisely what she had been thinking.

  “What if I vow not to touch you?” he asked.

  “Somehow I doubt the sanctity of your vows.”

  “Pity. Well, I’ll be sure to tell you how the exhibit was.”

  “What? You’re not interested in Roman artifacts!”

  “On the contrary, I enjoy a good coat of dust on a relic as much as the next man.”

  They had reached the end of the park, where an array of hired hackneys and hansom cabs waited, the drivers watching them hungrily.

  Emily didn’t have to check her purse to know she didn’t have enough cash to hire one, and MacRoyce was right; she’d never make it in time if she walked.

  MacRoyce moved to one of the largest coaches and opened the door. The smile he gave her was absolutely predatory.

  “Coming?”

  ***

  Thank God he was out of the sun, Malcolm thought as the coach door shut behind him. Ever since the desert, he’d been unable to stand direct sunlight for long periods of time. It weakened him and intensified his craving for blood until the rational man was drowned out and the beast remained. For this reason, he rarely went out during the day, though an overcast day, such as this, was usually no danger. The stronger the sun, the more intense his reaction.

  Nora—Emily sat across from him. He could tell she was nervous about being alone with him, and she was right to feel so. Seeing her again was like a flame being ignited within him. He couldn’t stop remembering the feel of her body against his. The taste of her. How she’d moaned last night when he’d nipped her neck. He couldn’t stop imagining all the things he wanted to do to her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He straightened, startled from his reverie. “Aye.”

  She raised an impudent eyebrow before casting her gaze out the window.

  He smiled to himself. She was so similar to the Nora he remembered, yet so different. He needed more information about her. Needed to know if she was really Nora or if this was all some bizarre coincidence.

  Or a product of your diseased mind . . .

  Unable to stay away, he’d waited outside her home this afternoon, sitting inside the carriage to avoid the sunlight. He’d considered knocking on her door, but detested the prospect of meeting her wretched relatives again. Fortunately, she’d left her home without his having to announce himself, and even more fortunately, she’d left alone. He’d followed her through the park, trailing after her like a besotted puppy, entranced by the movement of her hips as she glided along the path. Generally, he preferred curvier women. Yet he couldn’t stop imagining his hands running over her, his mouth tasting every precious inch of her, and her returning the favor. He’d wanted to kill the ruffled youth who’d stared at her so openly, and he’d been so distracted that he’d wandered too close to the pond, causing her to nearly see his reflection.

  His body hadn’t changed over the centuries, but his reflection had. Since he’d become a vampire, he appeared as a ghoul-like shadow in every mirror and every shining surface. He had only a fading memory of what he actually looked like.

  He studied her as they rode in silence. Her features were soft and delicate, though not striking. Her eyes were her only remarkable feature. The powerful lust she inspired in him made no sense. He’d had more beautiful women before and could easily have them again. Perhaps whatever unnatural presence had reincarnated her had also caused this fixation.

  He despised the world she came from, the hypocrisy of the English nobility and the mediocrity of its members. She was one of the typical English breeds, pale and slight, whose existence was spent in tearooms and salons, and who’d never done an hour of honest work in their lives. Their sole ambition was trapping a husband and matching their kerchiefs to their shoes—simpering virgins who had no idea what the world was really like.

  But then he’d seen her dismal home in Cheapside; she wasn’t as well off as she might pretend. He’d made inquiries and discovered her family’s situation left much to be desired: a cousin indebted to half of London, and a name tarnished by her own mother’s scandal.

  He wondered how she’d gotten invited to the Autumn Ball. Perhaps she had sneaked in? Perhaps she wasn’t so prim and perfect after all.

  Either way, he would not let her affect him as she had before. He would not be manipulated by a MacKeith again. He’d die first.

  He smiled at his own dreadful humor.

  “Pray tell, what is so amusing, MacRoyce?” She stared at him flatly.

  God, she had the most amazing eyes. Hypnotic. Like witchcraft.

  “I’m simply enjoying the pleasure of your company,” he answered, an insincere grin plastered across his face.

  The carriage came to a halt. She opened the door and was out before he’d even offered assistance.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Malcolm followed her toward the gallery entrance, undeterred by her clear dismissal. She stopped and faced him. “You weren’t serious about seeing the exhibit?”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “With you in attendance, how could I possibly stay away?”

  She sighed deeply. His smile widened; her irritation was such an unexpected source of amusement.

  A white-haired attendant manned the entrance. Malcolm noticed the man’s eyes widen when he saw Emily’s. She didn’t seem to notice, or at least didn’t acknowledge it. Malcolm scowled at the man, who swallowed.

  “My apologies, miss, but only gentlemen are permitted in the exhibit,” the guard said.