Читать книгу Blood Rose - Sharon Page - Страница 6

“I do love a woman in stockings and garters.”

Serena smiled dreamily as the seductive male voice, strangely accented, murmured teasingly close to her ear. Large hands skimmed up her calves, brushing over silky stockings, reaching her ruched garters…

Hands? Her garters?

Serena’s eyes snapped open. This was no naughty dream, and this was certainly not her bedchamber. Where was she?

The hands moved away. Dark—fathomless dark—surrounded her, and though she could not see, she knew the man—a real man, not a fantasy—still stood somewhere beside her. She felt the stirring of air across her skin, across everywhere—arms, thighs, belly, even breasts. She was naked! Except for her lower legs. The silkiness of her stockings touched her calves, and her garters bit into her legs. Her slippers were still on her feet.

Her head felt groggy, as though sheep’s wool stuffed it full, and a faint, sickly sweet scent teased her nose.

“Indeed,” agreed a different male voice. “A woman in stockings and garters and not a stitch else.”

A second man! Serena bit back a cry. He was somewhere in the dark, and he spoke with the sensual tones of the Italian tongue.

Goosebumps raced over her skin. She became aware of the tug in her muscles, the awkward position of her limbs, the sensation of being stretched apart.

Panic knifed through her. She was spread-eagled on a hard surface, her wrists and ankles firmly secured by—she shifted, slightly, felt the cool bite of metal against her skin—shackles.

She was captured.

The brothel. With a jolt of fear, Serena remembered the ornate doors facing Jermyn Street and the face that had leered out at her through the iron grill. A beefy footman with a thick neck and a scowl. He had taken a long look down her low bodice before ushering her inside. Laughter, smoke, heavy perfume—and a rich, ripe aroma she knew was the smell of sex. Lovely, seductive women had boldly flirted with many handsome, dangerous vampires. Gentlemen, to all outward appearances, but with one look she’d known they were Nosferatu.

Serena pulled again at her bonds as her blood ran ice cold. She was bound. Naked. In the dark. With vampires.

They had to know she was no courtesan, even though she’d been disguised as one. They had her clothes. In the sleeves of her scarlet gown, she’d tucked stakes. Down her bodice, she’d slipped a slim dagger and a vial of holy water. In the cavernous pocket of her skirt, she’d hidden a clever folding crossbow.

She had no weapons now. No mask. Nothing but her wits.

Why had they not killed her already?

“She is exquisite, is she not? And now, she is awake.” Deep, silky, the first vampire’s baritone voice compelled her to listen. Heat coursed through her blood at the sound of his voice. She knew, if he chose to, the vampire could incite carnal desire with just the whisper of his voice.

“Good evening, beautiful one,” the Italian male’s voice called cheerfully.

“What the…the hell do you think you are doing?” Serena cried out. She winced at the warble in her words. She had to sound fearless—like the most arrogant of the male slayers of the Royal Society—the commanding, autocratic Earl of Sommersby. Or like Drake Swift, all piss and vinegar and deadly confidence. “Let me go, damn you!”

Boot soles scraped across wood. Even in the dark, the vampires could see her every movement. Her expressions. Her nakedness.

If only she could conjure Mr. Swift or Lord Sommersby to her side now as easily as she did in her dreams.

“Don’t come near me!” She tried to wrench back. It was impossible. Clanks and rattles answered her frantic motions as the chains slapped the surface.

A third male spoke. “Light a candle. Mon dieu, the lady is at a disadvantage.”

And in response, yet more men laughed.

Her heart stopped for dizzying moments. How many could there be?

Fury and frustration and fear rushed through her. All she’d wanted was to find Dracul’s journal—she’d believed it had been worth risking her life for.

What a fool she’d been.

She fought rising panic—otherwise she had no hope of escape. Vampires behaved like a wolf pack. They would obey their leader. She’d been a governess, she’d dealt with undisciplined boys. She must pretend these dangerous demons were merely naughty schoolboys.

One of the vampires was still at her side, she realized. Even though he stood motionless, silent, she knew he was there. She knew his hands were above her face. There was no light, not even a hint of it at a draped window, and her eyes had not become accustomed. The room was hot, completely black, and that cloying, pungent scent filled her head…

She would have guessed the smell was solange…

When the oil of the solange flower was burned, the fumes would capture a vampire in a trancelike state. The undead would not burn solange. It was too dangerous for them. This must be a drug, an Eastern drug.

Or had they burned it because they sensed she was a vampire?

Even as the horrifying thought gripped her, Serena pushed it away. Why would they risk destroying themselves to subdue her?

The floor creaked, cloth whispered, and she turned toward the sound, staring into blackness. Air brushed her face. He was going to touch her!

“My name is Roman.” It was the owner of the first voice, the darkly sensual baritone. A sharp fingernail rasped along her lower lip, and she froze. Her lip tingled at the touch, the sensation horrifyingly erotic. Desperate to escape it, she turned her head, but his hand followed. The nail gently punctured, and she gasped at the shock of pain. Warm wetness touched her lip. A droplet of blood. She flicked it away with her tongue. Quickly. Hopelessly.

The taste exploded upon her tongue, coppery and tart.

Delight flooded her at the taste. No! It was disgusting. …deliberately wound her finger, and delight in suckling the blood from her flesh… Mrs. Bridgewater’s damning words floated into her head. Surely she hadn’t done that. She didn’t remember doing that.

The nail brushed again, and Serena held herself rigid, afraid he would deeply slice her lip this time. Yet she wanted to lift her face to him. She wanted the prick of pain. Wanted more of the taste of her blood—

Roman’s clawlike nails traced her skin again, and a jolt of pleasure and pain arced through her. Was he compelling her to want this or did hot need race through her blood because she was a vampire?

“Stop, Roman.” It was the Italian. “She belongs to the master.”

All her breath left her chest as Roman did lift his hands away. She heard his hiss of anger. She had a reprieve, but for how long? Minutes? Hours? Roman served a master—only a powerful demon could control a pack of vampires. A master’s disciples would not dare disobey him.

Deep and mocking, Roman’s voice vibrated through the dark. “Just a caress, Leonardo. A taste of perfection. Lukos would not condemn me for a touch.”

Lukos? She now knew the name of his master. Lukos, the Greek word for wolf.

Fear sliced through her.

A spot of light flared, then flamed high. The scent of burning wax overwhelmed the drifting odor of the drug. Tallow. Strong. The candle sputtered, the glow radiated.

She blinked until her eyes stopped watering. Her lashes were wet, glued together by tears. The first things she saw were Roman’s hands, resting on a band of polished wood. She lay on green fabric. Something clicked over in her mind.

She was chained to a billiard table.

A soft male voice seemed to whisper in her mind, a charming Irish voice. “Such a lovely lass—her skin is the color of pale champagne.”

Serena jerked toward the voice. She saw the others in the light now. Candle glow touched the pale, austere faces of two men sprawled on a sofa and two who lounged in club chairs. White shirts and cravats gleamed, and the light sparkled at the tips of long, sharp fangs. Their eyes—their dark, soulless, eyes—were shadowed and hidden to her.

She was the captive of six vampires.

“You are wondering why we haven’t drunk from you, aren’t you?” Roman asked, his voice so compelling she couldn’t help but turn to him.

He was shirtless, his chest as pale as marble even in the golden light. Dark hair dusted smooth, powerful muscle. His hair fell in long, thick, black waves. She looked up higher, caught her breath. He was smirking down at her, impudent, confident, but the innocence in his face shocked her. He looked barely twenty years of age and beautiful, with a full-lipped, lush mouth, high cheekbones, straight white teeth, large mirror-like eyes of silvery blue. But he was not innocent.

“Unlock me!” she demanded. “You have fallen into a trap.”

“A trap, my dear?” Roman crossed his arms across his chest. His biceps bulged, solid and enormous.

Never once had she successfully bluffed her charges as a governess, but she couldn’t give in now. She watched Roman stalk along the length of the table toward her bound feet. She knew her eyes were wide, dilated, like those of mesmerized prey, but she replied, “Of course,” with the lazy disdain the male vampire hunters used.

Low, throaty, damning, Roman’s laugh washed over her.

He touched the chain securing her right foot, running his fingertips along the taut links. The cuff vibrated against her ankle. I know you are here alone, my dear. His voice resonated inside her mind.

She should try to block out his voice in her head—but she had to listen, had to know what he planned to do. So she could outthink him.

She saw the swift movement of Roman’s hand, the blur of it in the corner of her eye. He cupped her right ankle just above the cuff. His caress was gentle against the frail silk of her stocking. Serena swallowed a cry of surprise so abruptly she almost choked.

Wrenching her leg, she tried to pull away from his hand, but the chains restrained her. Her skin tingled beneath the web of silk as he traced his finger over her ankle and up along her calf.

“Roman, release her.”

The command came from the second vampire—the one named Leonardo. He prowled toward her. She stared helplessly at his tousled dark curls, almond shaped eyes of deep black, and cupid’s bow lips. He possessed the beautiful, symmetrical features of an Old Master’s portrait, but she knew he was a ruthless predator. A cape shrouded him; the black collar points grazed the deep hollows beneath high cheekbones.

A hazy memory returned. She remembered looking into that face in the brothel—he had stepped out of a doorway and grabbed her as she’d reached the hallway that took her to the basement staircase. His triumphant laugh echoed in her memories. There’d been a sharp pain in her neck, then blackness—had one of them bitten her to make her faint?

Such beautiful legs, Roman murmured. I would love to have your ankles wrapped around my neck.

“Don’t touch me!”

But Roman ignored both her and Leonardo with a mocking laugh. Her heart pounded so loud it was like a drumbeat by her ear, but at the sound of his enthralling voice, her quim throbbed like a pulse.

I know what you are, Serena Lark, Roman said in her thoughts.

How could he know her name?

Because we have watched you for a long time now, Serena. Waited for you to be alone, away from the slayers.

Somehow she had pushed her thoughts into his mind. It froze her as much as his words in response. But she must continue to speak with him this way, despite the danger—if she allowed him into her thoughts, he could gain control of her mind. W-why? What do you want?

“Come on, gentlemen,” Roman urged aloud, and he squeezed her calf possessively before moving his hand away. “Introduce yourselves.”

Leonardo flashed a glare at Roman, his narrow eyes glittering in the candlelight. But he sketched a bow over her shackled hand and murmured his name.

The other men stood and took bows in turn.

“Liam,” announced the lilting Irish voice.

“Brittan.”

“Aristide.”

“Guillaime.” The French voice she had heard before.

Roman flashed a cocky grin at Leonardo, even as he spoke in her head. They are dutiful servants, here to fetch you for Lukos. They are slaves—slaves when they were mortal, slaves now. Disdain dripped from Roman’s voice in her thoughts. His eyes grew brighter, as though a flame burned behind them. They have no idea what you are. How valuable you are.

Roman intended to betray his master. She could not believe it—a disciple always obeyed his master. Could she use this to escape?

Roman flicked out his tongue, his long, pointy tongue. Bending, he licked the inside of her leg. She pulled away hard. The chains rattled, but she could only move an inch. And with a low chuckle, he followed and licked again. Slowly, sensuously, he laved his way up to her garter. I know how very special you are, Miss Lark. The child of a vampire. And if you wish to survive, you will do as I say. Can you still smell the solange, Serena? Obey me or I will drain your sweet blood and rip out your throat.

Her head roared as Roman’s lips neared her bare skin—

He was jerked away, and he sailed backward. He slammed into the wall, cracking the plaster. Serena held her breath as he lurched forward. Snarling, he flashed his fangs at Leonardo, who shrugged and adjusted his cuffs with the grace of a London dandy. “If you disobey Lukos, you will be destroyed.”

With infinite grace, Leonardo paced to her side. His look of reverent obedience turned her stomach. “You will delight in your submission to the master, Miss Lark. He only wishes you to know pleasure, to know the joy of serving at his side.”

“Unlock me.” she cried. “I cannot know pleasure like this. How could you fear me? All of you against a m-mortal woman?”

“It is the master’s command that you be bound,” the French vampire, Guilliame, called from his chair.

“You have no minds of your own?” she goaded.

Roman swaggered back to the end of the table. “My dear, I could make you beg me to do anything I wish to you. And I will prove it.” His gaze swept over her—it felt as though ants crawled over her.

“Do not touch her,” Leonardo warned.

It was working. She had managed to pit them against each other. Vampires were…beasts. All she had to do was prod them enough to make them fight. Serena took a deep breath and called out, “Are you too cowardly to take a risk?”

Roman shoved Leonardo back. He reached to the cuff at her wrist. Victory! It was not locked, only had a closed hasp, and this he flicked open with his thumb. He freed both hands, then her feet.

Desperately she rubbed her wrists and squeezed her hands tight to bring feeling back. She rotated her feet but had no idea if they moved. She was free but still trapped, still shockingly nude.

It was a struggle, but she managed to sit up, and she covered her naked breasts with her tingling hands.

Roman reached for her leg—she lashed out with her foot, and he caught it and kissed the lacy trim on the top of her stocking. She clawed at his back, as his tongue slid from silk stocking to bare flesh. That touch—that warm, wet tongue against her skin—

Sensation screamed through her.

Her anguished cry electrified the room. The heightened sexual arousal of the vampires hit her like a wave of water.

You have incited them too much, my dear, Roman warned.

Her fingernails gouged into his shoulders, but she couldn’t push him away. The four vampires stood from the sofa and advanced. Serena saw their chests rise and fall with their deep, heavy breaths. A generous splash of holy water might drive them back, but her vial was gone.

They surrounded her—Roman and Leonardo at each side, two at the top of the billiard table, and two stopped at her feet.

Roman lifted his head from her thigh. “Go to the brothel!” he shouted. “Amuse yourselves there. I will attend to Miss Lark.”

But the two vampires at her feet stripped off coats, waistcoats. Both were blond—one had dirty wheat-blond hair captured in many long braids; the other’s mane of gold was waist length and loose. The golden blond opened his shirt, threw it aside. The sudden violence of the motion stopped Serena’s heart for dizzying moments.

She had to think—think of a way out! Knowledge was her only hope. “W-when is your master to come for me?” she stuttered. “Tonight?”

“He sails.” The curt words had come from Roman.

From the continent. On a ship of innocents. No doubt they would all arrive dead, the poor helpless souls.

Roman crossed his arms over his chest. Of all of them, he had the most powerful chest, the broadest shoulders, the biggest biceps. Power and menace. Veins snaked up his huge forearms. Had he been a soldier, turned in battle? The most brutal warriors of the past made the wildest, most uncivilized vampires. “You are aroused and you need to feed,” he shouted at the others. “Go to the whorehouse and find your pleasures there. No one is allowed to touch her.”

Cursing, the other vampires nodded in obedience, and Serena felt a surge of relief. Left alone with Roman, surely she could escape—

But he turned to her and leered. You have never been bitten, have you? He opened his trousers.

Held in thrall by his gleaming eyes, she crawled back along the table—

The door exploded into the room. The thick slab of wood hit the wall with the crack of a gunshot. Deafening. Paralyzing. Light flooded in, silhouetting two men in the doorway.

The sharp, crisp twang of crossbow fire sliced the sudden silence. Horrified shrieks rang in her head as Brittan and Aristide fell. Roman spun toward the door, his mouth open in fury, his jaw wrenched wide. His fangs flashed. Before her eyes, he arched back, his head snapping with a crack. Blood launched from his chest. A silver arrow, tipped in blood and gore, tore out of his chest. Below his heart.

Roman screamed in rage, and she flinched as he jumped up on the table. His powerful legs straddled her. Tangled and wild, his hair hung around him. Blood poured down his bare chest, dripped onto his hard, clublike cock, which swayed above her. A demonic red fire burned in his eyes. Come with me, Serena. Come to me.

He reached down.

Like hell. Serena kicked upward, aiming for his ballocks. She missed. Her heel harmlessly smacked against his thigh and skidded away. Roman launched forward, in a kind of sailing flip, and he hit the wall feet first. Impossibly, the wall gave way, a panel opening for him like a door, and, in midair, Roman vanished. His trousers and boots dropped empty to the floor. A huge black bat soared into the black opening and disappeared. Roman had shifted shape.

The Irish vampire, Liam, leapt on the table, his auburn hair flapping.

She kicked at him, but Liam lashed out at her with his foot. His boot struck her hand, enough to jar her shoulder and send agony screaming through her arm. Damn him. Instinct made her grab. Her damp, aching fingers held fast to smooth leather as she clung to his boot. He could shift shape and fly away, but she held on.

Another man jumped up on the table—he grabbed Liam by the hair and hauled him back. One hard thrust of the slayer’s arm and he drove a stake through the vampire’s heart from the back. A toss and Liam tumbled to the ground. Slain.

Her savior caught her gaze and grinned. His blond hair—startling white-blond hair—swung free and wild around his face. His green eyes flashed with excitement. And then he glanced lower and winked.

Drake Swift. Drake Swift and Lord Sommersby had come to her rescue.

A silk robe flew at her.

Swift caught it.

“Cover her!” The command could only have come from his lordship. Humiliation, frustration, and fear burned through her. Mr. Swift and Lord Sommersby had laughed at her determination to become a vampire hunter. She’d planned so carefully, yet she’d made a mistake and proved them right.

And if they knew that she was a vampire, they would stake her. Kill her.

It was too late to even pretend she was in control. She was shaking. Mr. Swift was sweating from the fight, his platinum hair damp with it, his handsome features gleaming. Towering above her, he looked like an avenging angel. He dropped the robe over her. But he was distracted for the moment, and out of the shadows, Guillaime lunged, fangs bared.

The scream died in Serena’s throat as Guillaime plunged his teeth into Drake Swift’s neck.