Chapter Thirteen
The next few days were like something out of a dream.
Bryony had only to mention she wanted something—new paints, a large canvas, a copy of The Three Musketeers, a new day dress—and it appeared as if by magic.
Anything she wanted—except her freedom. Each morning, she told herself to tell Stefan his time was up, she wanted to go home.
And every night, she found another reason to stay one more day.
As time passed, she thought of home less often and found herself loving Stefan more.
As they spent more time together, he seemed to relax.
They went for long walks in the garden in the evening, or riding in the hills.
Some nights they sat in front of the fire and he read to her, his voice deep and easy to listen to.
Sometimes they played whist, some nights he watched her paint.
At first, it made her self-conscious but he had only praise for her work.
Tonight, he was reading to her. He had amazing eyesight, she mused, since the only light in the room came from the fire in the hearth. Listening to his voice, she lost track of the time as he unfolded the story of D’Artagnan’s romantic escapades and adventures as he sought to become a Musketeer.
Closing her eyes, Bryony pictured Stefan in the role, becoming friends with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, uncovering Milady de Winter’s secrets, looking ever so dashing as he fought to defend king and country.
She sighed as he closed the book and set it aside. “Such a wonderful story,” she murmured.
He smiled, aware that she had imagined him in the role of D’Artagnan. “Who do you see yourself as?” he asked. “Milady de Winter? Constance? Or Queen Anne?”
“None of them. Milady is wicked. Constance dies. And I would never want to be a queen.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “So many of them were killed or locked away. I don’t think any of them ever married for love.”
He laughed softly. She had a wide romantic streak, his Bryony.
She stilled when their gazes met. Moving slowly, Stefan slipped his arm around her waist and drew her into the circle of his arms. She gazed into his eyes, suddenly breathless as he leaned closer, closer.
Her eyelids fluttered down as his mouth found hers in a long, slow, sensual kiss that curled her toes.
Where had he learned to kiss like that? She sank willingly into his embrace, her hands clutching his shirtfront, wanting to be closer, closer.
He fell back on the couch, drawing her down on top of him, her breasts crushed against his chest, their legs entwined, until she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. She writhed against him, wanting something she didn’t understand.
With a muttered oath, Stefan lifted her up and set her on her feet. She was a quick study, his Bryony, driving him to distraction. Another few minutes and he would have had her in his bed.
She stared at him in confusion as he stood, his eyes hot, his breathing erratic.
He stared back at her as he fought to control his lust. Had she no notion of what went on between a man and a woman? Never been in a barnyard? Never seen the act of mating? “How old are you?”
“Almost eight-and-ten.”
Eight-and-ten. She was little more than a child, yet she was all woman. He swore under his breath. He had been almost twice her age when he had been turned four hundred and fifty years ago.
Bryony frowned. Was he angry with her? Had she done something wrong?
Sensing her confusion, he drew her into his arms again. “I am not angry,” he said. “I just did not realize you were so young.”
“My mother was married at six-and-ten.”
He nodded. It was not uncommon. He didn’t know why he’d been so shocked to learn her age.
Even if she had been eight-and-twenty, she would still be young compared to him.
Taking her hand, he led her back to the couch and drew her down beside him.
Had he any conscience at all, he would send her home, but he had no intention of doing so.
Not yet.
Perhaps never.
“Since you can’t go out during the day, what do you do?” she asked, her head tilted to one side. “Do you sleep from sunup to sundown?”
Her question caught him by surprise, even though he had been expecting it sooner or later. “I stay up very late at night,” he said, his fingers stroking up and down her arm. “So I tend to sleep most of the day away.”
“And what do you do very late at night?”
“Whatever I wish.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because you do not need to know.”
She lifted a thoughtful brow. “Are you involved in something illegal?”
. “No.” He laughed softly. “Nothing like that. But my private life is my own.”
“Very well,” she said, petulantly. “Keep your secrets if you must.”
“Perhaps, one night, I will show you. But for now, I must go.”
“Where?”
With a shake of his head, he brushed a kiss across her lips. “Good night, fair Bryony. Rest well.”
She stamped her foot when he vanished from her sight. “I’ll find your secrets,” she said, pounding her fist on the arm of the couch. “Just see if I don’t.”
Bryony’s threat to discover what he was hiding played and replayed in his mind as he hunted the night for prey.
What would she think if she discovered his secret?
Would she run screaming from his presence?
Cower before him? Look at him with revulsion in her beautiful blue eyes?
Feel unclean because she had yearned for his kisses?
He swore under his breath as he stalked the darkness.
Monster!
Filled with anger and self-loathing, he took his prey unawares, let her see him for what he was. He drank her blood and her fear and reveled in it until he imagined that Bryony was watching him, her eyes filled with revulsion and reproach.
Dammit! He lifted his head and swore again.
He had almost taken too much. Speaking to the woman’s mind, he bit into his wrist and held it to her lips, commanding her to drink, watching the color slowly return to her cheeks as she swallowed.
When she had taken enough to sustain her, he wiped the memory of what had happened from her mind and sent her away.
How many women had sustained him over the centuries, he wondered.
He usually fed every night. It must be a sizeable number by now.
He drifted along the street, vaguely aware of his surroundings—a dog digging through a pile of garbage, a rat scurrying across his path, a baby wailing in the night, the harsh sounds of a couple squabbling. Ordinary sounds that had no real meaning to him anymore.
Nearing the old Stone House he called home, he paused to gaze into the darkness that surrounded him, wishing for things that could never be. Hating himself for his weakness, for wanting a woman he didn’t deserve.