Midnight Pleasures Page 13

  He lifted one black brow. "Another boon?"

  "I want to help the people in the village. Many of them have had a bad year."

  "And you intend to help? How?"

  "There's a deserted storehouse near the end of town. I'd like to turn it into a shelter to house the poor."

  "Indeed?"

  Rhianna nodded, warming to the subject. "It wouldn't have to be anything elaborate. Just some beds, really."

  "You don't want me to feed them, too?"

  "Of course. I thought we could ask John Duns-more if he'd send food over at night. And milk for the wee ones."

  "And you want me to fund this endeavor?"

  "Yes."

  He smiled faintly, amused by the idea of feeding those who had, on occasion, nourished his own hunger.

  "Let Bevins take care of it," he said. "I don't want you directly involved."

  "Why not?"

  "I want you here."

  "But there's nothing for me to do all day."

  "I thought you were going to replant the gar�dens."

  She had forgotten that for the moment, but she couldn't spend all her time among the flowers, and said so.

  "I want you here," he repeated firmly. "You take care of the gardens, Rhianna, and I'll have Bevins procure the warehouse and stock it with beds and whatever else you think necessary."

  "You're most kind, my lord."

  "You're to tell no one about this," Rayven said. "I'll have your promise."

  "You have it."

  "Are you going to finish your supper?"

  Rhianna shook her head. "No."

  "Come then," he said, rising. "I wish to go for a walk."

  Bevins was waiting for them at the door. He handed Rayven his cloak, then draped a light cot�ton shawl around Rhianna's shoulders.

  She frowned as she stepped outside. How had Bevins known they were going outside?

  The night was cool, but not cold. A bright yellow moon hung low in the sky. Millions of stars twinkled above, sparkling like tiny diamonds against a bed of indigo velvet.

  Side by side, they walked down one of the narrow paths. She knew somehow that they would end up at the maze, and she wondered what there was about that one place that drew Rayven to it.

  "How is your mother?" Rayven asked after a lengthy silence.

  "She's fine. She wants me to come home. I'm afraid she doesn't understand why I've decided to stay here."

  He said nothing.

  "My sister's getting married soon. Will you come to the wedding?"

  "I've not been invited."

  "I'm inviting you."

  "When is the happy occasion to take place?"

  "This Sunday evening, after Mass."

  "I doubt I should be welcome."

  "I should very much like you to be my escort." She smiled up at him. "I'm sure Bevins would like a night off."

  "I'll think about it."

  "All right."

  They were in the maze now. As always, the place filled her with apprehension, though she could not say why. There was nothing to fear.

  When they reached the heart of the labyrinth, Rayven sat down on one of the wrought-iron benches and indicated she should sit beside him.

  Suddenly nervous, Rhianna sat down beside him, smoothing her skirts in place.

  Rayven sat back, his arms crossed over his chest. "You saw Montroy today."

  Rhianna licked lips suddenly dry. "Yes, my lord."

  "Tell me what happened."

  "Why don't you tell me? You seem to know everything I say and do." She regarded him through narrowed eyes. "I'd like to know how you manage that."

  "I can read your mind, my sweet."

  "That's impossible."

  "Is it?"

  "Isn't it?" She stared at him, wondering if he was telling the truth.

  "You promised not to meet him while you lived here, with me."

  "We didn't 'meet.' I saw him on the street and he said hello."

  "And invited you to tea."

  "Bevins told you, didn't he?"

  Rayven shook his head. "I can smell Montroy on you," he said quietly. "Montroy smells of expensive tobacco and horse and a rather strong cologne."

  Rhianna felt her heart skip a beat as Rayven studied her, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath.

  "You carry the scent of the tea and toast you had for breakfast, the lavender soap you bathed with," he said, his voice moving over her like a caress. "You had mutton and potatoes for lunch. Your hands smell of primroses and peppermint. There's a faint scent of powder and perfume. And overall," he went on, his voice low and intimate, "the unique fragrance that is yours, and yours alone."

  Rhianna could only stare at him, stunned by his words. How could he know such things?

  He didn't tell her that he could hear the sound of the blood flowing in her veins, or that, if he opened his mind, he could hear the voices of the people in the village—their laughter, their tears, the harsh breathing of those who were ill, the prayers of the hopeful, the desperate, the dying.

  He could hear their thoughts, sense their presence. He knew their fears.

  And yet he was ever on the outside of life, looking in.

  He closed his eyes, and his senses filled with the woman at his side. She reminded him of sunshine and roses on a warm summer day. Her hair, her skin, carried myriad scents that called to him, arousing the beast in him as well as the man.

  Rhianna. With a low groan, he reached for her, wishing he could bridge the vast gulf between them, wishing that, for one day, he could be a part of her life. He whispered her name as he dragged her into his arms and crushed her close. His kiss was tinged with desperation. Rhianna, Rhianna.

  She struggled against him, frightened by the rush of need that leaped from his lips to hers. A sense of hopelessness, of desolation, washed over her.

  Abruptly, he let her go. Rising, he turned his back to her and drew his cloak more closely around him. The heavy velvet molded itself to him. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

  "I begged you to make love to me not long ago," she reminded him. "I offered myself to you freely. You needn't take me by force."

  "Forgive me, Rhianna. Sometimes I forget who I am. What I am."

  "What are you?"

  "Your worst dream come true."

  "You're talking in riddles again."

  "Shall I tell you the answers?" he wondered aloud. "Shall I tell you truths you will not believe and watch your eyes fill with revulsion? Shall I lower the mask I wear and watch you run screaming from my presence?"

  He turned around to face her. His eyes gleamed, even in the darkness. His cloak shifted and rippled, as though trying to pull him away.

  "I need you, Rhianna."

  In a single, fluid movement, he knelt in front of her and took her hand in his. His skin was firm, cool, belying the fire that blazed in his eyes.

  "I need you," he said again, more fervently this time. "Be patient with me, Rhianna." His dark gaze held hers, silent, imploring. "I swear by all that I hold dear that I will not hurt you."

  "You worry me, my lord," she murmured. "Can you not explain what it is that troubles you so?"

  "I wish I could." The burden of the secret he had carried for over four hundred years weighed heavily upon him. What a relief it would be to tell her everything. As a man, he had once shed his sins by confessing them to a priest; he wondered now if he could ease the sadness, the loneliness, of centuries by confiding in Rhianna. Would she be able to understand? Would she be able to forgive him for the lives he had taken when first he'd been made, when the hunger had been excruciating, when he'd been afraid and confused?

  "Look at me," he said. "What do you see?"

  She gazed into his eyes, felt an ache in her heart, an ache that spread to her soul and brought tears to her eyes. "Darkness. Sadness. Loneliness."

  His gaze burned into hers. "What else do you see?"

  "Don't ask me," she begged. "I cannot bear it."

  "Rhianna…"


  "I see death wrapped in darkness. And blood. So much blood. On your hands…"

  She lowered her head to stare at their joined hands, then slowly met his gaze again. "Who are you? What are you?"

  "Swear to me on the life of your mother that you will not leave me if I tell you."

  "I have already promised to stay a year."

  He shook his head, his fingers tightening around hers. "Swear it."

  "I swear on the life of my mother that I will not leave you."

  "Then look deep into my eyes, Rhianna, and see the truth for yourself."

  His eyes were deep and black and filled with the mysteries of the universe. They drew her in, until she saw nothing else, and then, rising up out of a black mist, she saw Rayven. He looked as he did now, save there was no scar on his cheek. His eyes, though black, seemed more alive; his face and arms were browned by the sun.

  And then she saw a woman. She felt Rayven's hand squeeze hers and knew, in a distant part of her mind, that she was seeing his past. But how was that possible?

  "Her name is Lysandra." She heard Rayven's voice, speaking softly in her mind.

  He had seen her first at court. He had been a knight in those days, a warrior renowned for his pride, his bravery in battle. He was the boldest, the bravest, and proud of it. He had never been defeated in battle, nor unseated in tournament.

  Lysandra had been married to an earl—Rayven could no longer recall the man's name. He had seen Lysandra and been smitten at first glance. Clad in a gown of unrelieved white silk, her black hair arranged in curls atop her head, she had been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  He had been unprepared for the heat that passed between them when her gaze met his. Her eyes were deep and black, like pools of liquid ebony. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, ever cool to the touch.

  Like a besotted fool, he had attended every gathering in hopes of seeing her again. He remembered the night he had first spoken with her, danced with her. Kissed her. Her lips had been as smooth and cool as iced satin.

  He had been charmed by her beauty, fascinated by the mystery that lurked in the depths of her eyes. He had never thought himself in love with her, but his lust had run hot, fueled by her come-hither smiles. Her kisses, stolen in dark corners and moonlit gardens, had left him feeling drugged and desperate for more.

  She had teased and tempted him for months, playing a game he'd never had a chance of winning. Too late, he had learned it wasn't an affair she wanted, but his life.

  "And so I was made Vampyre…"

  His voice was still low. She heard it in her mind, but refused to accept what he was telling her. There was no such thing. It was not possible.

  "She left me the night she made me," Rayven went on, his voice devoid of emotion. "When I woke the next night, I was ravenous."

  "Stop!" Rhianna clapped her hands over her ears. "I don't want to hear any more."

  He went on as though she hadn't spoken. His words rang clearly in her mind. Unable to shut them out, she clasped her hands in her lap.

  "I had no one to tell me what was happening to me, no one to teach me how to be a vampyre. I shall never forgive her for that," he said, his voice laced with anger. "I did not realize the awesome powers I possessed. I was driven by a hunger that was excruciating.

  "In the beginning, I thought it would drive me mad. All I knew was that blood eased the pain, and that the sunlight that I had once loved now meant death. Even then, I didn't want to believe. And then, one night, I looked in a mirror…"

  He had never forgotten the slow horror that had spread through him when he stared into that glass, expecting to see his image reflected back at him, and saw only the room behind him.

  "I ran away from my home, from all who knew me. I had hoped that I would be able to live some semblance of a normal life in another place, that I would be able to marry and have children. I know now how foolish those hopes were, but in the beginning I didn't realize that I had lost all hope of living as a man. In time, I learned that I was not a man at all."

  Restless now, he stood up, his gaze fixed on something only he could see.

  "I was in Italy when I met another vampyre. Salvatore was one of the ancient ones. He taught me what it meant to be a Vampyre, told me that I could be a monster, striking terror in the hearts of mortals, or I could hide myself away and live off the blood of beasts, or I could dwell somewhere in the middle, neither man nor monster.

  "And that is what I have done. I never stay longer than fifteen or twenty years in any one place. I have already stayed here too long. Soon I shall go to one of my other dwellings and stay there until people began to talk about my strange way of living, until they begin to notice that I do not age, and then I shall move again."

  "You're telling me the truth, aren't you? You're not making this up just to scare me?"

  Rayven nodded.

  "What about Bevins? Does he know what you are?"

  "Of course. We are more than master and servant. My blood runs in his veins." There had been times when taking blood from Bevins had meant the difference between life and death. Yet he had never taken enough to bequeath the Dark Gift to his servant. In over four hundred years, he had never made another Vampyre.

  "You fed on him?" He didn't miss the quick look of revulsion in her eyes.

  He nodded curtly, wondering if she would ask the question he dreaded.

  "When you bought me from my father, were you going to feed on me, too?"

  So, he thought, there it was. He took a deep breath and then, very slowly, he nodded.

  "But you didn't?" She lifted her hands to her neck, her fingers exploring. There were no marks. Relief whooshed from her lungs in a deep sigh.

  And then she frowned. There had been marks once, soon after she came to the castle the first time. She had asked Bevins to look at them for her, and he had assured her there was nothing to worry about.

  "I rarely drank from your neck," Rayven said quietly, "and when I did, I had only to run my tongue over the wounds to heal them." But he had forgotten that one night.

  "You drank my blood?" She stared at him, wondering why the idea didn't repulse her. She should be fainting or screaming hysterically. She should be horrified. Instead, she felt remarkably calm, as if she were listening to a story that had nothing to do with her.

  "No more than a thimbleful at a time." He took a step back. His cloak wrapped around him, enfolding him. "Had I given you my blood in return, we would be bonded."

  "What does that mean, bonded?"

  "It means you would be able to read my thoughts as I can read yours."

  "That's what you've done to Bevins, isn't it? He's your slave?"

  "No. We share only a bond." A bond born of blood and a vow.

  That didn't seem so bad, Rhianna mused. She wished she could read his thoughts now. Perhaps then she would be better able to understand him.

  "There's another bond," Rayven said. "A deeper bond, one more binding."

  "Oh?"

  She wasn't sure she wanted to hear it.

  "It's a bond that cannot be broken except by death. Mine, or yours. You don't know how I've longed to make you mine, Rhianna, to bind you to me. And yet I could not, for to do so would be to take away your freedom, and I found I could not do that to you."

  "Why have you told me all this?"

  Rayven took a deep breath. "I needed to tell someone. After four hundred years, I wanted someone to understand." Slowly, he shook his head. "I know now that is impossible."

  "You've been alive for over four hundred years?"

  He shook his head, a rueful grin on his lips. "I was alive for twenty-seven years. I have been Vampyre for four hundred and three."

  "But that would mean you were born in…"

  "Fourteen hundred and twelve, my sweet."

  "It's not possible."

  He said nothing, simply watched her through fathomless black eyes.

  "And you drink human blood to survive?"

  "
Rarely, and only a little at a time."

  "How can you?" she asked, repelled.

  How to explain it to her, to make her understand that it wasn't awful? He shook his head and then sighed, knowing she deserved an answer, abhorrent as it might be.

  "I don't know how to describe it to you, Rhianna. There's nothing in your experience I can compare it to. When I drink, it's like becoming a part of that person. I can feel the beat of their heart; I know their thoughts, their fears. You cannot imagine what it's like—the power, the hunger. Before I learned to control it, when I thought I had to take a life to survive…"He shook his head again. "I can't explain it."

  "If you no longer drink human blood, what do you drink? What is it that Bevins brings you in the evening?"

  "It's wine mixed with blood. From sheep, usually, although any kind of blood will do." But he needed human blood, as well, though he didn't tell her that. It was why he had bought Rhianna in the first place. There was a freshness, a strength, in the pure, sweet blood of a virgin that could be found nowhere else.

  "You drink the blood of sheep?"

  "I keep a small flock on the north side of the castle beyond the gate."

  "Oh?" She was staring at him, her expression dazed.

  "I've sickened you, haven't I?"

  "A little," she admitted. But, mostly, she felt sorry for him. Four hundred years of living alone, never able to trust another living soul. Four hundred years since he had seen the sun, felt its warmth on his face. Four hundred years since he had tasted food, drunk a glass of cool, clear water. Four hundred years without a friend to confide in, a woman to love.

  She envisioned him bending over her, his teeth piercing her flesh, drinking her blood. Tried to imagine herself living as he lived, forever cursed to dwell in darkness, to forego the simple pleasures of life.

  Wanting to comfort him somehow, she gazed deep into his eyes and there, in the inky black depths, she caught an image of Rayven as he had been four hundred years ago. The pain and fear and rage he had experienced when he first became Vampyre, the centuries of loneliness that had followed, and overall the never-ending scent of blood and death. He was a vampyre. Child of Darkness. Undead…

  Darkness engulfed her, deeper than hell, darker than black. With a strangled sob, she felt herself slipping into a swirling vortex that had no beginning and no end.