She turned to look up at him and read the bleakness in his eyes. “I’m sorry it’s so difficult for you,” she said, her voice emotionless.
He shrugged, a rueful smile curving his lips. “I am, too. Narcise, I am sorry.” He drew in a deep breath and said, “I’ll keep you safe. I have a secret place, a small estate in Wales where you can hide…where no one will find you.”
She looked at him, her heart leaping. Wales was far from London; she knew that. “Yes,” she said, knowing that her heart was in her eyes. “Thank you, Chas.”
He gave that little shrug again and said, “And maybe you’ll allow me to stay with you for a while.” His grin was crooked.
“Of course,” she said, and smiled back.
His gaze darkened and his lips parted slightly. “You are the most beautiful woman,” he breathed. “God help me.”
He reached for her hand and she rose from her chair, suffused for the first time with comfort and security. She trusted him, and somehow, he’d come to trust her.
As long as they made their safe escape from Paris, she would have the chance to be free of Cezar forever.
16
Two weeks later
Reither’s Close, a village outside of London
Narcise paced the small chamber, trying not to imagine what was happening in the pub below. Trying not to picture the meeting between Chas and Giordan Cale.
More than a week ago, she and Chas had arrived on the British shore in the dead of night. Safe.
Between his careful planning, the livres and guineas he’d used to grease palms and her ability to enthrall, their exit from Paris and subsequent passage through the English blockade of the Channel had gone expediently and smoothly.
Without even a detour to London, they were on their way to Chas’s secret estate in Wales, but had stopped for three nights at an inn in Reither’s Closewell, a small village west of London, so that he could send word to Corvindale and wait for a response.
Everything had gone well during their stay until Chas extricated himself from Narcise’s arms—and bed—and informed her that he was to meet a gentleman in the public room below.
When he said, “Perhaps you don’t remember Giordan Cale, but he’s a confidant of Dimitri,” Narcise’s entire world had halted.
“Not titled, but rich as Croesus and,” Chas continued with a bit of a laugh, “more than a match for me. I met him when I sneaked in to stake him. Obviously we both lived.”
Narcise found her voice. “Obviously.”
“I can meet him below, but it wouldn’t be as private if I asked him up here. Less chance of us being seen.”
“No,” was all she said. But inside, her body was shriveling into panic. She had to close her fingers together to hide their sudden trembling.
Was Chas watching her closely, or was it her imagination?
“Very well, Narcise.”
And she wondered what, if anything, he knew about their history.
For, despite their continued intimacy, she hadn’t told Chas about what had happened with Giordan and Cezar. Those events of a decade ago were no longer relevant, and there wasn’t any sense in reigniting the memories, reliving that horrible time.
As she imagined their conversation, she tried not to think about the fact that Giordan would scent her the moment he approached. Her presence was everywhere on Chas, and Giordan would know not only that she was near, but he’d immediately understand the nature of their relationship.
Would he even care?
As Narcise continued to trace the boundaries of the room, avoiding the narrow strips of fading sunlight from between awkwardly fitting shutters, she found herself wondering just what was, precisely, the nature of her relationship with Chas.
Not that Dracule had relationships like mortals did. After all, eternity was a very long time. Marriage was futile—at least with a mortal, who’d die long before the Dracule would, not to mention grow old and shriveled while the vampir remained ever young. And female Dracule, at least, didn’t seem able to procreate—at least not in the way their mortal female counterparts did.
And as for love… Narcise had come to realize that love was a mortal concept. A mortal curse. Dracule didn’t truly love, because to love meant to place someone before oneself. And a vampir simply did not do that. Ever. If one even thought about doing such a thing, Lucifer burned and blazed through the pulsing coils on one’s back and influenced those actions back to where they should be: to self. Of course, a Dracule was all about passion and lust and pleasure, and if one happened to give it during the time one was also receiving, then so be it.
Therefore, what had been between her and Giordan couldn’t have been love. Not at all.
For more than three weeks, she and Chas had been together as partners in their escape from Cezar and lovers since that morning he’d kissed her. And since the day Chas had told her he had feelings for her, and how much he loathed the fact that he did, the bond between them had been strengthening.
Not simply a bond of passion and lust, but a layer of respect and blossoming affection. She trusted him, she wanted to be with him, she enjoyed his body. Yet, Narcise was under no impression that she loved Chas.
She sensed that she could just as easily awaken one night and realize she wouldn’t truly miss him in her life. That if he left, she would be sad, but not…destroyed.
Perhaps that was because she’d come to realize one disturbing thing about Chas: he hated—perhaps even feared—her Draculean tendencies, and he loathed himself for being attracted to a vampir.
It was as if he were at war within himself: he wanted her to bite him, to feed on him…but he hated himself when he responded to such titillation.
Yet, he cared for her. Deeply. He brought her little gifts—flowers, lace, hair combs. Even an ivory busk, which fit into the vertical pocket of her corset, down between her breasts. No more than two fingers wide, as thin as a knife blade and about as long as her hand, it was beautifully carved with more flowers, and leafy vines, and a sun radiating bold rays.
“Because I know how much you miss the sun,” he’d said when she looked at it, smoothing her fingers over the delicate design. “You can keep it near your heart.”
She had. She’d slipped it into the little pocket of her corset and even now, she pressed her hand there, between her breasts, and felt the sturdy little placket there.
Then she heard the pounding of hurried, ascending footsteps and then the hasty scuff as feet reached the top, and Narcise froze, waiting. If Giordan had somehow come back with him, or—
The door to the chamber opened sharply and her heart surged into her throat as she looked at the blur of a figure rushing in. When she scented and recognized Chas, his hair dark and wild, his face tense and angry, she went even colder. What had Giordan said? What had they done?
“I’m leaving,” he said, throwing clothing into his pack, hardly giving her more than a brief look. “For London. It’s Voss. He’s abducted Angelica.”
If Chas was unsettled about being with a vampir himself, he was even more rigid and terrified about his sisters being abducted or otherwise seduced by a Dracule. He well knew the violence and terror that could be inflicted by one of them.
If one were to be honest, Narcise must admit that she had had more than a few pangs of envy that these three mortal women had a brother who loved them so much and was so concerned for their safety that he would risk his own life to keep them safe. And, apparently, Chas would leave the side of his lover when one of them was in danger—even if said lover was in grave danger herself.