Raven stood absolutely still for several minutes.
Then he knew what to do.
From the battlefield, he knew the fear of imminent death made a man turn to anyone for help and rescue. Even an enemy.
There must be a way out.
But with each room she ran into and searched, Ophelia was losing hope.
No wonder Ravenhunt had left her room unlocked and had let her run around his house. No wonder he had not pursued her when she ran from him.
This house was indeed a prison. Except for the two of them, it was utterly devoid of life. No cook resided in the kitchen, no maids tended to the rooms. Ophelia hadn’t encountered another human soul.
The house showed its neglect. Cobwebs were strung from ceiling to bedposts and furniture in every room but hers. She had found no other bedroom that appeared occupied by her captor.
Every door to the outside was locked. He must carry the keys with him.
If she’d had her sculpting tools, she might have been able to spring open a lock. But she had nothing. Even if she broke a window, each one was covered with bars spaced too tightly for her to squeeze through.
If she could get hold of the keys . . .
If she let him kiss her again, could she search him for the keys? She shivered as she imagined running her hands over his body, pretending to be filled with desire but actually trying to find her escape.
She didn’t want to touch him. But she had to.
Now she had to find him. Or let him find her. She must ensure he did not guess her plan.
Where could she let him find her? She was on the upper floor, a few doors down from her bedroom. Ophelia pushed a door open. This bedchamber, too, was festooned with dust and spider-webs. But the bed was made.
This had to be Ravenhunt’s room. But why in heaven’s name was it not cleaned? How could he stand sleeping in there?
“Ophelia.”
Ravenhunt’s voice made her jump.
He had found her, and now she must make this convincing. She had run away from him once—it would be artificial and suspicious if she suddenly threw herself into his arms.
She couldn’t rouse his suspicion.
Weakness. She hated to act like a ninny, but weakness would be believed. Mrs. Darkwell had bought in to it on the times she’d escaped from the woman’s house. If she was docile, meek, and frightened, no one thought she had any courage at all. No one thought she was using her wits.
She made her shoulders shake. “Are you going to force a kiss on me again? Are you going to attack me?”
“You liked the kiss,” he answered softly. He stayed put, studying her. Not moving, as if she were a deer he didn’t want to frighten.
“I—” How to play this? “I didn’t want to like it.” That was honest. But she knew it also was not a denial that she wanted him to kiss her again.
“Maybe I always wanted to know what a real kiss was like,” she continued, hurriedly. She had to sound genuine. “But I can’t.”
“Think of it as just that. A chance to see what a kiss is. Forget who I am. Imagine the man of your fantasies kissing you.”
His words made her want to mentally kick herself in the bottom. He had been the man of her fantasies for two weeks. “You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
Then he was there in front of her, and she supposed she was so nervous she hadn’t focused on him coming to her. He’d seemed to move in a heartbeat.
Anything else—any faked enthusiasm—would look strange.
He tipped up her chin, kept his finger there, as gentle as if she were fine porcelain.
His mouth lowered to hers. So slowly, her heart was pounding when their lips touched. It was like a burst of thunder after waiting and waiting for it.
She gasped into his mouth.
A plot . . . just a ploy . . . that was all it was supposed to be. She kissed him as passionately as she could. Everything he did to her—the play of his mouth on hers, the touch of his tongue to hers, the way his tongue teased hers—she tried to do it back to him.
Deep inside, she throbbed and ached. She was responding.
Stop
Kissing him back, she put her arms around him. Awkwardly. She let her palms skim down his back.
She was searching for pockets.
Ravenhunt wrapped his arm around her back, clamped her close, and gave her such a long, intense kiss she almost fell dazedly to the ground.
She clung to his coat, knowing now he had no pockets in them.
He picked her up, his hands at her waist, and then pulled her forward. He supported her on his right thigh, with his leg thrust between hers. It made the most shocking pressure against her private place.
It made her want to wriggle against him to ease the yearning she felt there.
He was kissing her breathless, making it hard for her to explore him, to get her hands to the waistband of his trousers to search for pockets.
Did he know what she was doing?
And how could she be so . . . aroused for her captor?
Raven knew exactly what she was doing. Kissing him in the most tempting way she could as a distraction. While she ran her hands all over his body.
She was searching for the keys to the doors.
Clever lass.
She had found the perfect solution to his problem of building her trust. He needed her to escape. He needed her to find the keys.
Groaning, Raven slid the lapels of his tailcoat from under her hands. He jerked it back, shook his coat off his shoulders, let it slide down his arms.
He sensed her sudden tension as his coat came off. He also pulled off his waistcoat. Neither made a
His keys were hidden in a place she would easily find.
He should hasten her to her objective, but Hades, he didn’t want to. Her touch hurt, but it aroused him. Blood flowed down to his cock, making it as hard as a cricket bat.
It felt bigger than one.
How long since he had last had sex?
Two years. Since he had left Jade. He got aroused—randy, aggressive, irritated—but he didn’t want to have sex anymore. After Jade, he never wanted to touch another female vampire again. As for mortals—once they caressed him, they got more than they bargained for. His hunger was unleashed along with his lust. He couldn’t help but feed from them.
He couldn’t feed from Lady Ophelia.
Fighting his nature made his every muscle shake. He had to—for Frederica.
