Her stomach rebelled. She turned and suddenly a chamber pot was in front of her and she lost every morsel of food she’d just eaten into its depths. Facing it, she whispered, “C-cut open?”
“It is what men of science do to try to understand people like you.”
Oh God. Her insides heaved again. Ophelia lurched over the pot he held. It hurt terribly for there was nothing left in her to come up.
She hated to be sick in front of him. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to be . . . home.
At least back at Mrs. Darkwell’s, which was as close to a home as she possessed. Never would she have dreamed that Darkwell’s prison would feel like a safe home.
Ravenhunt’s gloved hand moved toward her head. He stopped before he touched her and withdrew his hand. “Do you want a glass of water?” he asked.
She ignored the question. “Am I really supposed to believe the man who kidnapped me is actually my rescuer?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t. I don’t trust you. And remember, I do have the power to kill you.” She tried to look menacing. She lifted her hand toward him in a blatant threat.
Instead of retreating, he reached out. His hand gripped hers.
“What are you doing?” she cried. She tried to pull free. She could spare him if she broke the touch in time.
He would not release her. He moved his hand so he was holding hers. He threaded his fingers between hers.
Heat burned between their hands. This had never happened before. Her hand screamed with pain, but smoke rose from his fingers. His hand appeared to be
Lifting their joined hands, Ravenhunt watched the smoke with detached fascination. How could he bear the pain? It was as if it were happening to another man, not him.
Finally he drew her hand toward his chest.
“No.” She fought to pull back. “That
“I’m interested to discover if it will. There’s only one way to find out.” Prying her fingers open, he pressed her hand to the skin of his throat, above his collar points.
“It will kill you,” she said desperately. “Perhaps not right now, but it will. Why would you be so foolish if you know about my power?”
Smoke—or steam—poured out from under her palm on his neck. Fine powder, like dust motes, floated into the air.
“It appears your hand burns me,” he observed.
She could not do it . . . she could not knowingly kill him. “Yes, it is burning you. How can you stand such pain? Please, let us stop this.”
Thank heavens, the madman listened. Slowly he removed her hand. He tipped his head to expose his throat to candlelight.
Her hand went to her mouth, but it did not smother her cry of horror.
A large, red burn in the shape of her hand curled around his neck. Smoke still rose from it, and blood and fluid oozed out.
“Why did you do that? Why did you force me to hurt you?”
“It will heal. In minutes it will be gone. But at least we have answered an important question.” Ravenhunt sighed. “I hoped I would have a great degree of immunity to your powers. It’s unfortunate—I was looking forward to kissing you.”
Pushing back his thick black hair, he got up from the bed.
She blinked. Already the burn on his neck was healing. The skin had grown over the wound, new and pale. It was astonishing.
“It will have to wait until later. I have to go out now, my dear.”
But she refused to be abandoned again, not when she had so many questions. “What did it mean that you healed so quickly?” Ophelia demanded. “And just because that happened, it does not mean you are not going to die.”
An amused smile lifted Ravenhunt’s lips. Fathomless and black, his eyes glinted at her. Candlelight shone along his irises as if they were mirrors. “I can assure you I won’t die. But kissing you will have to wait until later. I have to go out.”
“I am never going to kiss you—”
But in the blink of an eye, he had left. He veritably disappeared from the room, he’d gone so quickly.
She was no longer tied to the bed. She could escape.
He would never forget what it was like to kiss Lord Simon Black’s hot, hard mouth.
Valde, son of the woman who called herself Mrs. Darkwell, pulled open the door of the crypt that bore the name Black, the family name of the Earls of Darlington.
“Simon,” he whispered as he walked down the steps into the cool, dark depths of the tomb. His voice came out hoarse. His heart ached with great pain.
Stone coffins lay in neat rows within. The air was not dank or musty, for he came here many nights—at least once each week. Valde ducked his head to miss the low threshold, for he stood seven feet tall. Slowly he walked to the coffin he wanted. Unlike those for the earls, this one was simple. There was no effigy of his beloved Simon on the lid.
He touched the lid, running his hand over the marble.
Closing his eyes, he remembered the first time he had stripped off his clothes with the handsome, blond young man he’d loved . . .
It had been after a ritualistic ceremony. He was a demigod, or at least was one quarter god, and he had been determined to learn the secrets of black magic. Simon, an earl’s son, had been drawn to the warlock world, and was also trying to learn the dark arts.
After the ceremony, they had been alone in the field where the chanting and spell-casting had taken place. It was mid-summer, the air sultry and moist. He wore a robe of black silk with nothing beneath. The soft summer breeze was like a naughty caress when it slipped up his robe.
Simon had worn a gentleman’s attire. White shirt, waistcoat, tailcoat, breeches, and boots.
The air had felt charged—as if it might burst into storm. But there was no storm threatening. It had been mutual awareness, mutual desire.
He had known the invitation to touch was there when he’d gazed into Simon’s blue eyes. He cupped the lad’s cheek. Ran his thumb over those full, tempting lips. Velvety and more fascinating than any woman’s, for they were as plump as a female’s but firm and slightly rough because they belonged to a man.
He’d slid his hand around Simon’s strong neck. Drew the lad close to him.
Breathless moment. God, so arousing and breathless.
His mouth had touched Simon’s lips.
It had been like coming to life. Hot desire ran through his body. His staff had gone stiff as a brick, pushing hungrily at his trousers.
Kissing Simon like an eager swain, Valde had recognized the young man of twenty-two was a virgin when it came to the matter of two men making love.
Slowly, he had undone the cravat that held Simon’s shirt points against the golden stubble of his throat and jaw. He’d kissed the exposed neck, loving the scratch of stubble, the scent of cologne on the young man’s dewy skin.
He caressed Lord Simon’s broad chest. One mere pass of his hand had the lad’s nipples pointy and erect. Then he’d undone Simon’s trousers. There had been one murmur of protest from the innocent young man, but he’d silenced that with a passionate kiss.
Then his hand had slid into Simon’s small clothes and had wrapped around a thick, straining, vein-covered cock . . .
