After all, this was Paris.
And the recently liberated Narcise had no qualms about following the vampir hunter into a small bedchamber lit only by the glow of a lamp.
“Shut the door,” Woodmore ordered, and when she turned back, she saw that he’d sat on the bed.
For the first time, she noticed how much difficulty he seemed to have breathing. His torso and arms were a mass of cuts, bruises and large burns. “You’re hurt, what—”
“You just noticed this?” His voice was harsh. He seemed to struggle for a moment, then added in marginally softer tones, “I need to get cleaned up. They’re going to bring a bath.”
Even his sharp words didn’t offend Narcise. She was free. Nothing would upset or annoy her now. Yet, she felt that she owed him some explanation. “It was the only way to get him to allow us to fight.”
“And how precisely would fighting have helped us if one of us was dead? Or did you simply plan to kill me—but then how would that benefit you?” His voice was rough and unsteady.
“I didn’t expect him to make us fight till the death. I thought I would allow you to win, and then you would take me to…well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? We are here, and I’m free. Thank you. Do you need food? And where did you get the money? Surely you didn’t have it in your breeches all this time.”
“I venture to guess that such a bulge would have been noticeable,” he said, flashing a surprise smile. “At least, in certain places. I lifted the coins from the sot who stole our hack. He’ll never miss them, and I can’t draw on my resources until tomorrow.”
She’d walked over to turn the light up and by then, a knock sounded on the door. She opened it to reveal a maidservant with a jug of ale and a platter of cheese and bread. The girl brought it in, put it on a table, then turned to the cold fireplace.
“I don’t believe they have your particular vintage,” Wood-more said, gesturing to the food.
Narcise nodded, and realized again that it had been more than a few days since she’d fed, and with the hint of his bloodscent—just barely oozing—still lingering, her gums began to contract and her breathing roughened. Her glance went briefly toward the maidservant and she considered the possibility of enthralling the girl so she could feed, but when she felt Woodmore’s eyes on her, she discarded that idea.
If he was like any other man, he’d enjoy the erotic sight of two women in such an intimate arrangement, and then she’d have another problem on her hands if he wanted to participate. The last thing she wanted or needed was another man trying to control her—or to have her bloodlust take over. Woodmore might be a mortal, but he was a legendary one in her world. He wouldn’t be easily denied.
She turned her attention away from him and back to the fact that she would have to find a way to feed. She’d never actually had to arrange it for herself; Cezar had always, as part of her captivity, provided a servant—a male as often as a female—or other mortal for feeding.
But this was a problem she welcomed.
A fire now blazing in the grate, the maid stood and gave a short bow, then left the chamber.
Woodmore had taken a few swigs of ale, and was selecting a piece of cheese when he looked up at Narcise. He didn’t speak, although he seemed to be searching for something to say…and then he returned his attention to the tray. She realized she was trying not to breathe, for the chamber—especially the bed—reeked of coitus and perspiration, and over it all was Chas Woodmore’s scent. His blood.
Narcise suddenly felt awkward and out of place. And, all at once, exhausted. Her knees wobbled and as her head spun, she reached blindly for the chair and eased herself into it.
But she was free. A smile erupted, happiness welled inside her so much that her Mark twinged again…and suddenly, tears flooded her eyes. The tears rolled down her cheeks, catching her by surprise—she hadn’t even realized she still knew how to cry—but all at once, she was sobbing uncontrollably.
A handkerchief was thrust into her face, and she took it blindly, gratefully—and at the same time, ashamedly. She’d been through so much…why, now when she was happy, did she have to show such weakness?
The cloth smelled like Woodmore, of course, but dense and thick—rough with blood and sweat and pain and the pleasant smell of his skin and hair, too. She dried her eyes and lifted her face to find him watching her with a detached expression. “Thank you.”
“I have three sisters,” he replied with a shrug. “Sobbing females don’t unsettle me in the least. And I suspect you have more of a reason to cry than Angelica did when her favorite yellow gown was stained with ink.”
Narcise gave him a wavery smile and wiped her nose again. “I cannot remember the last time I cried,” she told him. Not even ten years ago.
Another knock came at the door, and Woodmore answered it this time. She noticed the way his feet scuffled a bit when he went to open it, as if he could hardly lift them. He held on to the door while a half-full tub was brought in, followed by five huge pails of steaming water, and she suspected that he was doing so in order to keep his own knees from collapsing. There was a drawn tightness in his face and around his eyes.
But now that she’d become fully aware of his scent, Narcise found herself noticing his bare torso, half illuminated by the glow of the lamp. He was tall and the skin of his chest and ridged belly was as dark as that of his hands and face. He had dark hair trailing down his stomach, into the sagging waistline of his breeches, and up to a full expanse of it over his chest. His arms were rounded with muscle, scarred and marked, but powerful nevertheless.
Her eyes started to heat when she thought about the texture of his skin and the essence of his lifeblood, and she had to look away. It was a reaction she couldn’t completely control, but she could hide it, for it didn’t mean anything.
After the water came the maidservant who’d brought the food, and this time she was carrying a pile of cloth and a small pot of unguent. These she left near the bath, and Narcise realized it was for Woodmore’s injuries.
When the door was closed once more, and they were alone, Woodmore turned to her. He seemed even more unsteady, and she thought he actually swayed on his feet. “I don’t expect you have delicate sensibilities, but if you do, you’ll either have to leave or close your eyes.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she said quietly.
He gave her an inscrutable look and turned away. And then all of a sudden, he made a sort of half turn, as if to grab for the chair, and he began to sink.
She heard him groan a low curse just before he hit the floor with a dull thud.
Narcise rushed over to kneel next to him on the ground. “Woodmore?” she said, and went to shake him by the shoulders…but stopped when she realized that would mean closing her fingers over two ugly burns.
She saw the red oozing from his arms and the sides of his torso, recognizing Cezar’s handiwork with the metal spikes, and wondered how he’d managed to do what he’d done—fight her, carry her, run and slay and even pick a pocket—with these sorts of injuries.
At the same time, she felt a wave of remorse that she hadn’t noticed how badly he was hurt during their fencing match. Of course, she had been a bit distracted…but she should have at least gauged his weakness as her rival if nothing else.
“Woodmore!” she said more urgently, still hesitant to touch him. But when he still didn’t move, she had to, and was shocked to find his skin flaming hot. He moaned, rolling his head to the side as her fingers brushed over his shoulders.