Eternal Hunger: Scottish Vampires Read online

  “But that can’t be,” she replied. “I’ve been to this gallery dozens of times, and I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “I’m afraid so, miss. Some of the pieces will be available to the ladies next spring.”

  “Next spring?” she repeated.

  Malcolm thought he heard a tremble in her voice.

  “Ah-hem.” A thin-faced youth behind them coughed impatiently. Malcolm shot him a cooling look before turning to Emily. “Spring’s not so far off,” he said.

  She stared at him as if that were the cruelest thing he could have said. It did something to him. Reminded him of that day so long ago when he’d bid Nora goodbye before riding to war.

  He addressed the guard. “I’m sure you can make an exception.”

  The man furrowed his silvery brows. “I beg your pardon, sir. These are the rules of the establishment.”

  “Come now, man. I’m sure there’s nothing in this exhibit the young lady hasn’t seen many times before.”

  The guard pinkened. “It is impossible, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Could this day be any worse? Not only was she stuck with MacRoyce, he was now witnessing her humiliation at being turned away from the gallery. She’d wanted to see this exhibit so badly, knowing it was likely she would never get to Italy herself.

  Next spring. The exhibit might still be here then, but there was no guarantee she would be. She was so frustrated and defeated she nearly felt like crying, but she wasn’t about to let that happen. She turned to leave, but MacRoyce grabbed her arm, stopping her. There was a curious heat in his eyes. “Ye give up too easily, piseag.”

  He turned to the guard and spoke in a language she’d never heard before. The guard blanched. He stepped from the entrance and bowed his head, arm extended. “If you please.”

  Emily was so stunned she didn’t dare move. She heard the gentleman behind her gasp. MacRoyce entered ahead of her.

  “Changed your mind?” he asked over his shoulder, a sparkle in his steel eyes.

  She hurried after him.

  “How did you do that?” she whispered when she’d caught up to him, walking down the hall to the exhibit.

  “It helps to be well-schooled in neck-breaking,” he answered, throwing her words back at her.

  “Was that Scots you were speaking, just now?”

  “Gaelic.”

  “But that guard didn’t sound like a Scot at all.”

  “Lowlander,” he answered with distaste. “He hides it well.”

  She’d noticed the thickness of his own brogue seemed to come and go, perhaps depending on his mood. “Well, what on earth did you say to him?”

  “Nothing of importance, piseag.”

  “What is that word you keep calling me?”

  “What word?” His face was sincere, but his eyes were laughing at her.

  She groaned, frustrated with the man. But despite herself, she was grateful. Without MacRoyce she never would have gotten through the door.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, half hoping he wouldn’t hear.

  He gave her a long look. “You’re welcome, piseag. Next time try not to sound as if it pains you to say it.”

  The gallery fell silent as they entered. It was crowded despite the late hour, filled with well-dressed gentlemen. Dozens of disapproving eyes locked on them.

  Well, if she hadn’t managed to ruin her reputation last night, this had certainly done it. Emily swallowed and plunged forward into the exhibit, and gentleman moved out of her way as if she carried the plague.

  An older gentleman made a loud humph sound and stamped out of the room. A couple of youths in the corner chuckled rudely but quieted when MacRoyce glared at them. Emily repressed a smile. Perhaps having an ill-mannered Scotsman around wouldn’t be so bad after all. She approached the first display and immediately understood why ladies weren’t permitted.

  The exhibit was entirely of pottery from ancient Rome, and every piece depicted amorous scenes. Not the romantic embraces that da Vinci or Botticelli painted, but coarse representations of lovemaking.

  The images appeared before her in a flash. Everywhere she looked were depictions of nude men and women embracing, their bare bodies pressed together, limbs entwined. And those were the more mundane ones. There were also cruder depictions, of women on their knees, men standing above them or behind them.

  The only time she’d seen images like this was in a book Morris kept in his study. She blushed furiously as her eyes desperately searched for a safe place to rest. A group of men next to her began to laugh.

  She felt MacRoyce move behind her, and his hand gently closed over her elbow. “This way.”

  As he led her through the first chamber and into another, she kept her eyes fixed on the floor and tried not to notice the warmth of his hand through her dress, or how his body would occasionally brush against hers.

  “It’s all right, you can look now.”

  She did, relieved to find the pottery in this room was more traditional. She let out a sigh of relief.

  MacRoyce laughed. The sound echoed through the gallery and drew stares from other patrons. “You’ve a nose for trouble, don’t you?” His eyes were laughing, even after the smile faded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did it never occur to you that perhaps there was a good reason for ladies not to be permitted?”

  Emily blinked. “Well, of course it didn’t! Under any other circumstances, the notion is absurd. This just happened to be the exception.”

  His smile widened. He had a beautiful smile. It changed his whole face, making him look younger, more innocent somehow. “Well, I dinna fault your logic, but I’m sure there are others who would not agree with me.”

  They wandered the gallery for some time, Emily stopping to study each piece and MacRoyce patiently following her, never complaining about the time she took. She’d glance at him occasionally, each time catching him observing her more than the art.

  They moved from the pottery exhibit into the portraiture wing. She stopped before a large painting of the Garden of Eden in which the serpent had slithered up Eve’s leg and entwined itself around her waist, hissing in her ear.

  “Do you like this piece?” he asked as he stood next to her.

  She nodded. The painting seemed to have life of its own, the brushstrokes transporting her to another world. “It’s haunting. Do you?”

  He shrugged. “’Tis fine enough. Reminds me of a work by Titian in the Uffizi.”

  She quickly turned to face him. “You’ve been to Florence?” she asked, surprised and curious.

  “Long ago, but aye.”

  “Did you see the Galleria dell’Accademia?”

  “Aye.”

  “And Il Duomo?”

  “Aye.”

  “San Gimanano?”

  “Aye, lass. Aye.”

  “You are very fortunate. I should love to go there, more than anything.”

  “Have ye never been abroad, lass?”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  “You have plans, then?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Perhaps.” She shrugged and moved on to the next painting. Truthfully, she’d not come very far in the planning process. She had only a few funds to her name, and managing them was of utmost importance. She planned to use her money to travel to Italy, but she didn’t dare make the journey alone. She’d hoped to convince Constance to come with her, but even if she could convince her to leave Morris’s side, Emily couldn’t afford to pay for both of them.

  She came to stand in front of a painting entitled Death and the Maiden. A nude woman smiled into a mirror, unaware of a Reaper-like ghoul behind her, leering as he held an hourglass above her head.

  She turned away quickly and collided with MacRoyce. He grabbed her arm to steady her. She was close enough to feel the warmth of him. His eyes smoldered like an electric storm.

  A gentleman cleared his throat. The guard stood by the exit, watching them meaningfully. She noticed for the first time that the gallery had cleared out, and she and MacRoyce were the only patrons left.

  “Well, I suppose this is the end,” she said.

  MacRoyce stared hard at her. He seemed to be thinking deeply about something. Emily had always divided the world into two sorts of people: those who would make eye contact with her, and those who wouldn’t, like the museum guard or her father. MacRoyce did more than meet her eyes; he gazed into them. At last he said, “There’s something I want to show you.”

  He turned and walked in the opposite direction from the exit. Emily glanced at the disapproving guard before following. She caught up with him standing in front of a shut door with a sign that read, “NO ADMITTANCE.”

  “I don’t think we should—”

  “Don’t think, piseag.” He opened the door and stepped into the room, pulling her with him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “MacRoyce! We’re not supposed to be here,” Emily said, though she found herself following him nevertheless, curiosity getting the better of her.

  The chamber was small and dark, with a low ceiling and only one lamp burning. The walls were covered with ancient-looking tartans and tapestries. In the corner stood two suits of armor. A plaque on the wall caught her eye.

  From the Private Collection of Malcolm MacRoyce, Lord of Rosscairn.

  “Why, this is you!” she exclaimed. “So that’s how you got us into the museum. Why, you must have donated half the relics in this room.”

  He wasn’t listening. “Come, look at this.” He moved to a rack in the corner where a medieval sword hung and reached for it.

  Emily rushed forward, horrified. “You mustn’t touch that!”

  He held the sword lengthwise, bouncing it slightly to test its weight. “Why not? You just said it was mine.” He held the sword to her like an offering.

  Tentatively she stepped forward, her eyes on the shining metal. It was a remarkable weapon, so long it took up more than half her body. The blade gleamed in the candlelight though it was centuries old. The base and hilt of the sword were engraved with a winding pattern resembling vines. At the hilt was a large green stone that seemed to steal the light from the room.

  “Touch it,” he said.

  Her fingers grazed the sword’s edge. It was fiercely sharp; she could almost hear the metal singing. When she looked up, MacRoyce was staring at her.

  “Incredible,” she said.

  His lips curled slightly. “Try holding it.”

  Before she could protest, he’d placed the sword lengthwise in her hands. It weighed far more than she’d expected, and she nearly dropped it.

  He laughed. “Sorry, I forgot to mention it was heavy.”

  “Indeed,” she answered pointedly, shifting the sword in her hands. “It must have taken much of the soldier’s strength just to carry it.” She couldn’t imagine being the warrior who had wielded this fierce weapon in battle. “Did it belong to an ancestor of yours?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered, an abstracted look in his eye. “He fought in the Crusades. While he was away in the Holy Land, his wife betrayed him. Her clan attacked his, and he came back to find his home in ruins.”

  Emily pictured the lonely warrior returning home from a long and bitter war only to find the woman he’d loved had betrayed him. “That is a sad tale. Could it possibly be true?”

  His eyes held a predatory gleam. “Aye, it’s true, lass. Never doubt that.”

  He took the sword from her and placed it on the rack.

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “How do you know the story is true?”

  He shrugged. “I believe all the old tales. Tell me about your travel plans.”

  Emily blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change in topic. “There is not much to tell.”

  “When do you plan to go?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” She wandered over to the suit of armor, not wanting to continue with this topic.

  “Whom will you be traveling with?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll go alone.”

  His face turned severe. “You’re not serious.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, aye. A young woman traveling alone throughout the Continent, very sensible.”

  “Do you have a better option?”

  “Aye. Stay at home. Read a travelogue. Embroider an oriental pattern when you’ve the need for exoticism.”

  “You speak as if this were the Dark Ages! In case you haven’t noticed, in the modern era, there are plenty of ladies who travel without chaperones.”

  “And when you are kidnapped by gypsies, you’ll have that conceit to give you comfort.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You are trying to frighten me.”

  “Traveling abroad is probably the most dangerous thing a woman can do.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be going anywhere alone! A woman like you needs protection.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “A woman like me?”

  “Aye. Young. Pretty. And hopelessly naive.”

  Her jaw dropped at the insult. She might not have as much worldly experience as he, but she was far from naive! She knew firsthand how cruel and unforgiving the world could be. On the tail of that thought was another one: had he just called her pretty?

  “Why,” he went on, “only a sheltered woman with no knowledge of the world beyond her drawing room would even consider such a journey.”

  “You speak as though you know me!” she retorted, her hands fisting at her sides. “Well, I assure you, sir, you do not! What would it matter to you if I were abducted by gypsies? Why should you care?”

  He stared at her long and hard, his brows furrowed slightly, as if he didn’t know how to answer her question. Then his expression changed, losing its vulnerability and becoming cruel and sardonic once more. He approached her, each step slow and purposeful. “You know, even being here now is unwise. Alone, with me. No cousin Morris to save you.” He stopped just in front of her, near enough for her to smell his scent. “Why, I could do whatever I want with you . . . and how would you stop me?”

  A tremor ran through her, but it wasn’t from fear. The cruelty of his words contrasted with the excitement of his closeness, leaving her feeling as if she’d been spun around and turned upside down.

  “Are you threatening me?” she asked softly. He was far too close. She had to tilt her head up to speak to him. She kept her eyes on the wall, unable to meet that intense gaze.

  “How will you stop me?” His mouth lowered slightly, his voice almost a whisper now.

  “I—” She wet her lips. “I could scream.”

  She could feel the heat of him. His mouth drew ever nearer to hers, until it hovered only inches away.

  “But you won’t.”

  His mouth seized hers, fierce and immediate. She started at first. Then she grabbed his shoulders, pulling him closer. His muscles felt as strong as rocks beneath her curling fingertips. His mouth slanted over hers. Deep, and hard, and fast. His tongue entered as it had last night, caressing her from the inside. Her head tilted back, and his arms supported her, making her feel weightless. His skin seemed to sear her through her clothes. She felt his hard length press against her—the most shocking of all, but also the most exciting.

  From somewhere inside her, the voice of reason called out. She couldn’t do this. She squirmed in his arms, trying to pull away.

  He broke the kiss, his gray eyes blazing. “Don’t. Think.”

  So she didn’t. He took her lips again, and all that was important was his mouth over hers.

  Ah, yes, it was happening. This was right. This was real, Malcolm thought as he took her mouth and pressed her body to his, holding her so tight he should have hurt her. But she clung to him as well, kissing him back.

  He had struggled to control himself since the carriage ride. And then in the gallery, standing next to her while a thousand erotic images filled his head. A thousand ideas of what he wanted to do to her.

  He plunged his tongue into her mouth and felt her give in to him. He took her surrender but didn’t stop. He had wanted this for so long, had dreamed of this so many times, and now it was real, and so much better than any fantasy.

  He left her lips to trail kisses along her jawline to the delicate spot below her ear. Her skin was warm and soft and almost unbearably sweet. Like touching the inner petals of a rose. He couldn’t stop himself from running his teeth along her neck. She let out a small sound—surprise, not fear—and leaned into him, her fingers digging deeper into his shoulders.

  His hands ran around her backside, his fists clenching in the fabric of her skirt, wishing it were her flesh in his hands. “Ah, that’s right, lass,” he breathed against her neck, triumph singing within him. “I knew ye couldn’t forget.”

  “Forget?” she panted.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Malcolm stared at her, dumbfounded. In the fever of desire, he’d begun thinking of her as Nora again. From the hunger and the passion with which she’d returned his kisses, he’d believed that she’d remembered him as well.

  But he was wrong. To her, they were practically strangers.

  Then why had she let him kiss her?

  An unwanted thought burned in his brain. A woman of her station would never behave this way with a man. Unless she’d done this before.

  “Why did you not stop me?” he demanded.

  “What?” She stared at him, a look of utter shock on her face.

  He released her and stormed to the other side of the chamber. His whole body shook. How many men? How many times? Last night she’d been so willing, he would have taken her against the tree if they hadn’t been interrupted. Had she let another man inside her body? The thought made him want to kill.

  “Last night. Why did you let me kiss you then?”

  She flushed. “Are you implying I had some say in the matter?”

  “Are you implying that you’ve done no less than throw yourself at me?”

  “Throw myself? You are the one who forced himself on me!”

  “I didn’t notice you objecting.”