Blood Curse

sentry, to make those young, stupid men believe they were seeing nothing, then he had walked Lady Ophelia out, right under their noses.

She had a core of strength, but she was vulnerable. He could sense it about her. Normally, as a vampire, he would prey on weaknesses in mortals. But because he admired her courage and strength, her susceptibility provoked his sympathy.

He didn’t want to hurt her. He couldn’t understand why the thought of taking her power and taking her life was hurting him so much. He’d had to kill as a soldier and as a vampire. He had to do this to protect his sister. Why did the thought of taking her life fill him with so much guilt?

It hurt in his gut. That was something he’d never experienced before.

“A bookshop in Charing Cross? This is where your experts reside?” Ophelia held on to the hood of Ravenhunt’s cloak as she surveyed the front of the shop. The cloak trailed behind her, and the hood dipped over her eyes.

The store looked well weathered. Paint on the once-elegant sign was faded. The glass in the front was dusty.

“This is one,” he answered. “The others, whom you will meet soon, reside in far more interesting places.”

She couldn’t understand him. He had come up with this strange tale that she had to make love to him, yet in the hackney he had sat back in the shadow and had acted as if he wanted to avoid her. On the other hand, she had done the same, determined to avoid him.

He had saved her life.

She kept remembering that. He had come to her rescue, and he was offering to give her the one thing she wanted in the world—freedom from her wretched power. The freedom to be among people. To go home. What did she have to lose, really, by believing in him? She couldn’t go on living alone.

But could she be intimate with him? A small voice inside whispered this might be her only chance to ever know what it was like to hold a man. To make love . . .

Ravenhunt held the door open to the shop, waiting for her. Books were stacked up against the bow window, hinting that there were so many inside it would be impossible to move between them.

She stood at the door but didn’t go in. “I really do not see how a bookseller can prove I will be ‘cured’ of my cursed power by—by doing things with you.”

“Come in, Lady Ophelia,” was all he said.

She didn’t. “Who are these experts? I think I have the right to know. Where are these interesting places? I’m not going to take one more step until you tell me.”

“Trust me.”

Gah. It was an impasse, yet he was in control, and she knew he knew it.

She hated to give in, but she would learn more if she went inside. She would learn nothing if she stayed on the threshold. Glaring at Ravenhunt, she let him win this round, and she went in.

The dust on some of the books tickled her nose. Ophelia sneezed. But she didn’t care about the slightly musty smell. She liked it. She had always dreamed of being able to walk into a bookstore again. After she had come into her power, she was never allowed to go out. She’d dreamed of going to places—to stores, Hyde Park, museums and galleries, Gunter’s for treats, to balls and parties. And to bookstores. She had so longed to go to a bookstore again.

Then she realized something strange. “It is late at night. Why is the store open?”

“The owner works late. He is a historian as well as a merchant.”

She was surprised. For once Ravenhunt gave her an answer. She couldn’t resist examining the books on the shelves. Moonlight spilled in through the window and illuminated them. A glow of candlelight came from the back of the shop.

She ran her gloved fingers over the row right in front of her eyes. Gilt lettering on the spines gleamed at her. “I could spend a lifetime in here,” she mused.

“A bluestocking?”

She blushed. That was a term for bookish ladies, but ordinary ladies. “I’ve always wanted to come to a bookshop. And go to a modiste, a milliner’s, a confectionary . . . I’ve never been able to do any of those things.”

“I am sure Guidon would be happy to part with as many books as you desire.”

Ophelia assumed Mr. Guidon owned the shop. “I have no money.”

“They will be a gift from me,” Ravenhunt said. “After all, I’ve kidnapped you. Buying books is one more way to make amends, I hope.”

Ophelia saw one in front of her. The Elgin Marbles, it was titled, and she tugged it out and opened it. Pen-and-ink drawings greeted her eyes, rich with detail. Oh, she was almost willing to say yes to his offer, just to hug this book to her chest and never let it go.

But she didn’t want to take gifts from him.

Though he saw the longing in her eyes as she gazed at the pictures, Raven knew it was going to take much more than books to make amends. A lot more than that to seduce her. “Let’s go to the back of the shop and you can meet Guidon.”

The narrow space forced her to bump against his chest. Blood. Sweet skin. Beautiful feminine smells.

A shock of desire went through him. Pain ran through his jaw, and he felt the bones of it grind and shift.

His fangs erupted.

He had to keep his face turned away, his lips covering them. Ophelia’s scent was even more dominant to him here than it had been in the carriage.

Her scent was a temptation that made his jaws ache with hunger and desire. She was walking in front of him to the back of the shop. She’d pushed back her hood. Her pale hair was twirled and pinned in a chignon that bared her neck. Her skin was dewy, soft, tempting. It would be like biting into an iced cake—delicious, decadent, sheer damned pleasure.

Damn. Jade hadn’t told him his hunger for her would get worse.

He hung back and let her walk ahead. The sight of her neck left his jaw aching with the pressure of his elongated fangs, and had given him the hardest, heaviest erection he’d had in years.

Making love to her was going to be easy. Hurting her was not.

Ophelia had expected a bookish-looking sort of man. A bit plump, with spectacles and little hair, or very thin and hawkish looking. She hadn’t expected Mr. Guidon would be so tiny he looked like a gnome, with wild tufts of yellowish hair. He wasn’t sitting on his stool, he was perched on it, the way a hawk would wait on a branch before flying in pursuit of prey.

Before she or Ravenhunt spoke, the small bookseller leapt off his seat and made a decorous bow in front of her. “My lady, I am at your service.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“His—I mean, Mr. Ravenhunt told me.”

Ravenhunt cleared his throat and said, “I told him days ago, when you first came back with me, Lady Ophelia.”

“Came back with you? I take it he does not know you kidnapped me?” she asked sardonically.

“I do know that, my lady.” Guidon took her hand and led her into a small parlor at the back of the store, one that looked out over a tiny, dark yard. She pulled her hand away, her cheeks flaming. Smoke rose from the bookseller’s palm.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I should not have let you touch me. I might have hurt you. I probably have hurt you.”

His strange little face studied her with a grave expression. “No, my lady, I assure you, you did not. You cannot harm me with just a small touch like that.” He held out his hand. Ink stained his fingers, but there was no sign of a burn. Even though there had been smoke. “Now please take a seat and be comfortable. I shall make tea.”