Blood Curse

that Ravenhunt had given her, she felt utterly exhausted. Truly, she couldn’t even keep her eyes open. But even when her lids dropped and shut tight, she couldn’t fall into sleep. Her wits whirled.

She had spanked Ravenhunt’s bare bottom. She could still hear the soft thwacks in her head and the hoarse, rough rasp of his groans. His aroused groans would stay with her forever. She’d never heard a man sound like that—

Well, she had, at that naughty club or brothel, or whatever it was.

She had never made a man sound like that. Moaning, groaning, with excitement. She had never made a man feel pleasure. When Raven had climaxed, with his face showing such agony and his hand gripping his erection hard as his hips jerked . . .

Oooh. It had been a stunning sight.

She had made this beautiful, strong, sensual man come, as he had called it. She had made him laugh with delight, and when he’d done so, he was breathtakingly handsome. Deep lines had ringed his wide mouth, and crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes, and his laugh had been throaty and masculine.

She’d giggled in earnest, soft helpless giggles, until she was consumed with mirth, with a warm happiness in her heart.

She was laughing with joy. Those moments of sexual play had given her true joy. She’d forgotten that he’d kidnapped her; forgotten she was required to do something against her upbringing and her breeding: give up her innocence to a man she would not marry.

Though, in a way, she already had given up her innocence. She still had her maidenhead—but she was hardly naive and unknowing anymore.

As he’d tucked her into bed—such a sweet thing to do—she’d asked, “How can I make love to you without killing you?”

“You don’t have to worry,” he’d answered. “You will be free.”

But how could she not worry when she hurt him each time she touched him—?

Ophelia’s eyes suddenly opened wide in her shadowy bedchamber. She sat up, her covers tumbling down. Ravenhunt didn’t say he wouldn’t die. Heavens, surely he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his life to save her?

That would be insane. He barely knew her. It wasn’t as if he could actually care about her. How could he? Love was something that built. That took time to grow.

Why would Ravenhunt be willing to give his life for hers, when he barely knew her? What sort of man did that?

A hero. A noble knight of old.

He had saved her life once already. He had been struck with two pistol balls for her. As amazing and strange and improbable as it sounded, the man who had kidnapped her had become a hero to her. More of a champion for her than anyone had ever been.

The glowing coals in her fireplace gave the room a soft glow. Ophelia was groggy with the need to sleep, but her mind would not stop. Why could she not stop questioning him and simply give her body to him and believe him when he said she would be freed?

But could she do it if the price was to kill him?

She had to know—

The door creaked softly. That must have been responsible for the breeze, for her windows were shut tight.

A shadow moved, filling the doorway with darkness. Just as on the first night, it was Ravenhunt. He leaned against the frame with his arms crossed. His broad shoulders stretched across the opening’s expanse, his eyes lost to the shadow. Only the prominent lines of his face were revealed by the fire’s glow—his high cheekbones, his blade of a nose. But this time instead of being filled with fear, she sat up. She pushed off the covers. The instant after she did, she knew what she was doing. She was welcoming him.

She wasn’t afraid of him. Not anymore. But she was afraid for him. “Is taking my power going to kill you?”

“Always blunt and direct, aren’t you?” he countered from the shadows.

“Why do you never answer my questions?”

A deep laugh came out. “We both throw questions at each other and never answer them.”

“Are you risking your life to save me? Why?”

“I’m not. Neither of us will die.” There was the soft creak of the door frame as he straightened. He prowled into the room. “You should be sleeping. I came to make sure you were.”

“Shouldn’t you be asleep? Aren’t you tired, too?”

“Not yet. As I told you, I often stay up all night, and go to sleep at dawn, then I sleep away the day, and wake at twilight.”

He sat on the edge of the bed.

Questions collided in her head, and she was definitely dazed with tiredness. Why did he want to take away her power? What would he do with it?

Oh God, did he want to use it?

Why hadn’t she pushed him for answers? It seemed, since he had captured her, her brain had ceased to function. When she’d been a prisoner at Mrs. Darkwell’s, all she’d had was time to think, but with Ravenhunt it was as if she were finally pulling cobwebs off her brain.

She wanted to put questions into words, but he came to the edge of the bed. “Sleep,” he said softly.

Deep and soft, his voice flowed into her thoughts. She wanted to obey. Ophelia fell back, her head landing on the pillow. Her hair fanned out around her—she’d forgotten to braid it for sleep. It would be tangled, but she was too tired to care.

So tired. But something nagged at her thoughts. Something she couldn’t quite grasp but that wouldn’t let her sleep. “I still don’t think I can sleep.”

“What you need is to be exhausted—to have your body worn out and your mind thoroughly tired, too. Too tired to think but satiated and happy.”

Heavens, she had never felt more exhausted in her life, but that did not help her sleep. “How could I do that? My head is spinning. I’m so tired, yet I cannot sleep.”

“I have the perfect solution.”

Ravenhunt came to the bed, and brought his hand forward. He reached into a pocket, drew something else out. A snap of his wrist made it uncoil. It was a length of black rope.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “Concentrate only on what you feel.”

“A—are you going to tie me up?”

“Not yet. I want to show you how enticing a rope can feel.” His voice flowed like rich, amber honey. “Think of nothing else but what you feel.”

She did as he asked. She fought to think only of the soft touch of one end of the rope over her cheeks. He drew soft circles that tickled. The rope was not scratchy and rough, but soft, as if made from velvet.

The end of the rope slid across her upper lip.

Ophelia gasped. Little bolts of lightning seemed to sizzle on her lip. He traced the shape of her mouth slowly with the dangling rope.

He was just touching her lip with the velvet length, but it made her throb and ache between her thighs. Heat flared there. Moisture pooled. She wriggled her hips.

“Lift your nightdress.”

She couldn’t resist the hoarse, dark command of his voice. Almost as if they were acting on their own, her hands clutched the skirt of her nightgown and she tugged it up. Her eyes were still closed, but cooler air brushed her thighs. The curls at her pubis were exposed.

The rope touched her inner right thigh. Up it went, and she sighed, almost sobbed, as she felt the caress on her skin.

She felt like marble coming to life—as if she’d been cold stone for her whole existence, and finally she was beginning to feel.

He possessed a master’s touch. Smooth and soft, the rope stroked around the intense, tingling place between her legs, first in agonizingly slow caresses that made her shiver, then in faster slaps that made sensation