But no, for Lerina had managed to ensnare Maia when they were trapped. He didn’t understand it.
Maia was talking slowly, pulling things out of her memory. “I have a recollection…in the hack. We…you were there. You had a cut on your cheek, and one on your hand—I remember now. You weren’t wearing gloves.”
He held back a snort. “Even in the midst of such a harrowing experience, whilst you were clothed in boy breeches and a cap, you commented on my lack of gloves with your nose in the air. And a little sniff of disdain.”
“I did not.” She gave that same little sniff, lifting her pert nose.
He found himself hardly able to keep a smile in check and raised his brow instead.
“I…we were discussing herbal poultices for your cuts,” she said slowly, as if unraveling the memory like a thread. “You were promoting the benefits of dried woad.”
“You were under the impression that Dioscorides’s recipe for slippery elm and comfrey was the best treatment. I confess, I was amazed to learn that you were not only familiar with his writings, but that you’d read them in their native Greek. And so I commenced with a discussion to see if it was possible.”
“You,” she said, the corners of her mouth tipping up a bit again, “were singing the praises of John Gerard, simply because he was a native Englishman.”
“Aside of the fact that he was a friend of my father’s, the benefit of having a medicinal written only about plants native to the local soil, my dear Miss Woodmore, is much more efficacious than one written by an ancient. There is always the problem of translation.”
“Not if one does the translation oneself,” she reminded him. “As I did.”
“That was precisely what you said that evening.”
Their eyes met and he saw the clarity back in hers. She remembered it all now.
He’d never forgotten it.
He’d almost kissed her that night. Secure in the fact that he could mottle her mind and twist her memory, he’d nearly given in to the sudden, inexplicable urge. And now he was thankful, so very thankful, that he hadn’t done so.
Because he would never be able to explain that.
All at once, a rush of desire flooded him. He stood halfway across the long chamber from her, and all he could think about was what was beneath that loose, flimsy night rail.
Dimitri turned away, his fingers trembling, his gums suddenly tight and swelling. There was an odd ache in his middle.
“Has it occurred to you,” she said suddenly, “that I might be with child?”
Had it occurred to him? Oh, yes, oh, yes, indeed. By the Fates, by God, by Luce’s black heart, it had occurred to him.
“I pray you are not,” he managed to say. He’d been so careful over the years, for any child he sired could also be bound to Lucifer because of the agreement Vlad Tepes had made with the devil. It was inconceivable that he would visit such a burden on his child. It was a good thing he’d never had a great sexual appetite.
He looked away from Maia. Until now.
“I’m not,” she said softly.
Relief rushed over him so strongly he nearly sighed aloud.
“I couldn’t marry Alexander until I knew for certain.”
“I’m certain he’ll appreciate that.” The words came from between stiff lips. “Are you finished, Miss Woodmore? I have things to attend to.” He gestured vaguely to his desk.
She straightened, pulling her shoulders back and outlining her breasts even more readily. Dimitri studied his hand. His fingers weren’t quite steady.
“Yes. Thank you for your time,” she said. There was more than a bit of sarcasm in her tone, but he ignored it.
He must ignore her as she walked past him toward the door, taking with her that thick, sweet-smelling hair, those delicate feet and slender wrists, those full, erotic lips.
“It’s a French fairy tale,” he said, forcing boredom into his voice.
“I’m familiar with it. This version, in fact.” She glanced at him. “How do you find it?”
“I haven’t finished it yet,” he growled. “Which I might perhaps be able to do if you’d leave me be.”
She looked up at him, quite close now as she skirted the desk, and he could hardly meet her eyes. He struggled to keep his breathing steady, to keep the pounding of his heart inaudible as it reverberated his torso. His fangs threatened and he pressed his lips together because all he could think of was how close she was. How much he wanted to touch her.
And of course, how he could not. Ever. Again.
To slide his hands over that ivory skin, to gather her against him and bury his face in her hair, to cover that impudent mouth that alternately argued and smiled and lectured and challenged.
He turned his attention to the ever-present throbbing on his shoulder, focusing on the pain there. It didn’t seem to be as harsh as it used to be…or perhaps he was becoming even more inured to it.
“Is everything all right, Corvindale?” she asked. Her night rail billowed out enough that it nearly brushed the tops of his boots. Her essence filled his nose.
“Other than the fact that you’re disturbing my studies, yes, of course,” he replied and managed to step back without appearing to retreat.
“Very well, then,” she said. “Good night.”
She left.
Maia fled to her chamber.
Her stomach was in an upheaval, swirling and pitching like a ship in a storm.
She’d thought for a moment that he was going to…do something. Reach for her. Touch her. Ask her to stay.
Tell her not to marry Alexander.
But he’d been the same cold, harsh Corvindale.
She sat on her bed. Perhaps not quite the same. There had been those moments of softness. She hadn’t imagined them.
Had she?
Flopping back onto her bed, she looked up into the darkness, misery welling up inside her. Emptiness filled her chest, making it hollow and cold.
She closed her eyes at the sting of tears. Foolish, addled woman.
That was she. Foolish. Addled. In love with a cold, hard man. The wrong man.
Maia must have slept, for she dreamed.
He was there in her dreams again, but this time she recognized him. The wide, strong hands, the dark hair, the smooth sensual brush of lips, the flash of fangs as they slid easily into her shoulder.
For the second time that night, she woke suddenly, heart pounding, breathless.
Her dreams were so
Maia sat up. All at once she remembered the dream she’d had when Corvindale was gone, the dark, frightening one. The dream that must have been…could it have been…what he was experiencing? At the hands of Mrs. Throckmullins?
Did that mean that…
She swallowed hard, heat rushing through her. Could that mean that, just now, he was dreaming the same thing that she had been?
Heart thumping madly, hardly realizing what she was doing, Maia slid off the high bed to the floor. She glanced at the window to see a faint glow in the distance, out over the rooftops. Dawn was near. Her feet made no noise on the wood planks as she went to the door and opened it.
