Midnight Pleasures Page 18

  He stalked Park Lane, hating the wealthy inhabitants who ate and slept in their fancy houses, those members of the ton who spent their days fox hunting and shopping on Bond Street. Despising himself for it, he envied the rich young men who rose early in the morning to go riding in Hyde Park, who went on to spend the afternoon at their clubs, who spent their nights at the opera in the company of other equally rich and spoiled young men and women.

  And always the blood called to him, thick and rich and hot with life. But he refused to hunt, refused to give in to the need roaring through him. He welcomed the pain, using it to remind him of what he was, to remind him that he had long ago lost any right to love a mortal woman.

  And then he smelled the dawn.

  He swore under his breath, cursing his foolishness, the anger that had kept him away from home too long.

  The sun chased him through the streets, its heat taunting him, filling with him terror as he contemplated what would happen if he didn't reach shelter before the light found him.

  For a moment, he considered surrendering to the dawn. If he couldn't have Rhianna, what point was there in living? But then a bright ray of warm golden light scorched his left cheek, singed the skin of his left hand. The pain, the acrid stench of his own burning flesh, spurred him on.

  He felt the searing heat of the sun on his back as he burst through the castle door and slammed it behind him, then raced up the stairs to the east tower.

  He was breathing heavily by the time he reached his sanctuary. The left side of his face and the back of his left hand felt as though they were on fire.

  Grimacing with pain, he closed the door behind him. And then he saw it—the sun rising over a mountain lake. Bright ribbons of color were splashed against a dawn sky—brilliant shades of orange and ocher and scarlet. The lake, its surface as smooth as a mirror, reflected the colors back to the sky. Flowers blossomed near the edge of the water. Red and yellow, pink and lavender, and pure clean white. A blue bird perched on the limb of a willow tree, its dark eyes so bright they seemed alive.

  He stared at the painting, the agony of his seared flesh forgotten. She had given him a sunrise, one he could enjoy without fear.

  Rhianna… He lifted his hand to his cheek, surprised when his fingertips encountered wetness. He stared at the single red tear on his finger. Rhianna…

  "My lord?"

  Had he conjured her presence with his tears? He covered the left side of his face with his right hand, hid his left hand in the deep folds of his cloak. "Did I not tell you to go?"

  "I cannot leave you, my lord," she replied quietly. "I promised to stay with you a year, and you…" She moved toward him. "You have promised to marry me."

  He whirled around, his hand still covering his face. "Are you mad? Why did you not leave?"

  "What has happened to your face?"

  "Nothing." He turned his back to her. "Go away, Rhianna."

  "I will not leave you."

  "Go. Now." His left hand clenched beneath the folds of his cloak. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The pain of his wounds increased his hunger. He needed blood to heal, and the blood of sheep would not suffice. Rhianna. "Go!"

  He flinched at the touch of her hand on his back. He could feel the darkness gathering around him. Soon, he would succumb to the dreamless sleep of the undead.

  "You're in pain!" she exclaimed. She pressed her hand against his back. "I can feel it." She took hold of his shoulder, trying to turn him toward her. It was like trying to move a mountain. "What has happened to you?"

  "Nothing. Go away, Rhianna. The dawn… I must rest."

  Determined to find out what was wrong, she moved around to stand in front of him. His eyes burned into hers, but he didn't resist as she drew his hand away from his face.

  "Rayven!" One side of his face had been horribly burned. The skin was red and raw and oozing. "What happened?"

  He loosed a long sigh that seemed to carry all the sorrow of the world. "I was careless."

  "Careless?" She curled her fingers into her palm to keep from touching him.

  "I was late getting home. The sun…" His words trailed off and he shrugged.

  "The sun did this to you?"

  He nodded once, wearily.

  "What can I do?"

  "Leave it alone, Rhianna. It will heal by itself."

  "It will?" She looked at him dubiously.

  He nodded again. Reaching up, he unfastened his cloak and tossed it on the mattress. "Go away, Rhianna." He lurched toward the bed, his strength ebbing as the sun rose higher in the sky. He fell back on the mattress and closed his eyes. "Tell Bevins I need him."

  "If you tell me what you need, I'll get it for you."

  He groaned as if he was in pain, then shook his head. "Get Bevins."

  "You need blood, don't you, to help you heal?" She didn't know what made her ask that, but she knew it was true.

  "Rhianna… please. Get Tom."

  It was the first time she had heard him use the other man's first name. Somehow, it made his need seem all the more urgent. He needed blood, and suddenly she needed to give it to him, to be the one who eased his suffering.

  Going to the bed, she sat down on the edge of the mattress. Gently, she smoothed a lock of hair away from his brow, then stroked his uninjured cheek.

  Rayven's eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, she thought he would send her away and then, with a sigh, he turned on his side and reached for her hand. His movements were sluggish, his eyes heavy-lidded, as he kissed her palm. His lips were cool and dry, sending shivers up her spine as his tongue teased the tender skin of her wrist. He looked up at her, his dark eyes alight with an inner fire, and then he drew her into his arms, arms that held her immobile, arms that were as hard and inescapable as steel bars.

  She felt a sudden apprehension as his lips skimmed the length of her neck, shivered uncontrollably as his mouth closed over the tender flesh. There was a sudden, sharp pain, but before she could protest, the hurt was swallowed up in a wave of pleasure that was oddly sensual.

  He was drinking her blood. She should have been sickened, shocked, disgusted. Instead, she felt a rush of satisfaction. He was in need, and she was answering that need in the most intimate way possible.

  A strange languor settled over her. His mouth was warm, strangely erotic, and she pressed herself against him, wanting to be closer. His tongue stroked her skin, once, twice. She moaned softly as he drew he away.

  "Rhianna? Rhianna!" He shook her slightly. "Answer me!"

  "Don't stop," she murmured.

  Fear for her life dispelled the lethargy that dragged him down toward darkness. With an effort, he sat up, one arm holding Rhianna against him. He stared in horror at the twin marks that marred the perfection of her throat. What had he done?

  Bevins! His mind screamed the name.

  Moments later, Bevins appeared in the doorway.

  "Bring her something to drink. Hurry!"

  Bevins left as quickly as he had arrived. Minutes later, he returned carrying a cup of hot tea heavily laced with brandy.

  "Rhianna, drink this." Rayven held the delicate china cup to her lips, his brow furrowed as he watched her swallow the contents.

  Rhianna gasped as she took a sip of the tea. She had never tasted spirits before, and the brandy burned a bright path down her throat to her stomach.

  "All of it," Rayven urged.

  Heat suffused her as she obediently drank the rest of it.

  Rayven smiled as the color returned to Rhianna's cheeks. "Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.

  She hiccupped, then grinned up at him. "What happened?"

  "I fear I may have taken more than I should have."

  Bevins glared at Rayven, his mild brown eyes glinting with anger as he realized why Rhianna had looked so pale when he first entered the room, why she appeared disoriented and weak.

  "You didn't!" Bevins exclaimed. "Tell me you did not use this child to quench your fiendish thirst!"

 
Rayven looked away, unable to face the censure in his servant's face. For the first time in over four hundred years, he was embarrassed by what he had done.

  "Why didn't you call me?" Bevins asked, his voice thick with accusation. He glanced at Rhianna's flushed cheeks. "It's one thing to take a little from time to time. That, I can understand. But this, to use her like one of your blasted sheep…"

  Rayven's head snapped up, his dark eyes filled with warning. "You will be silent," he said curtly, "or I will silence you forever."

  Bevins quickly swallowed the retort that rose to his lips.

  "It was my idea," Rhianna said, unnerved by the tension that vibrated like a living entity between the two men. "He told me to call you, but I didn't."

  "Look how pale she is." Bevins took a step forward, worry evident in his furrowed brow. "You've taken too much."

  Rayven shook his head. He hadn't taken enough to put her in danger. It was just that it was the first time he had taken more than a thimbleful.

  Muttering an oath, he fell back on the bed, unable to fight the darkness any longer. "Take care of her…" he murmured, and then the blackness claimed him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She was asleep at his side when dusk released him from his prison of darkness. Her hair was spread across his pillow, a splash of gold against the black silken case. Her arm rested on his chest, her head was pillowed on his shoulder. One slender leg was nestled between his.

  The heat of her smooth sweet flesh against his own, the flowery fragrance of her hair, the scent of her blood, had him awake and aching between one breath and the next.

  What was he to do with her? She refused to be intimidated by him, refused to leave when he gave her the chance. Last night, when she should have run screaming from his presence, she had offered him the very essence of her life. No other woman had ever come to him willingly, nor looked on him with love. No other woman had ever looked past the monster to the lonely man who yearned to be free of the darkness that housed him.

  Rhianna… She had looked into his heart and soul and given him a gift that he could not buy at any price—she had given him the sun he had not dared look upon for four centuries.

  Turning his head, Rayven studied the painting. Even in the darkness, he could see it clearly; the warm hues of the sunrise, the azure blue of the lake, the bright bold colors of the flowers, the bird sitting slightly askew on the branch of a tree. So long since he had seen flowers in the clear light of day, a bird, a lake sparkling in the sun. He had seen paintings created by masterful artists, but none more beautiful than this.

  Rhianna…

  He brushed a featherlike kiss across her cheek. She had given him a glimpse of the sun again. If he had any honor at all, he would give her her freedom in return. He would leave her now, while she slept. Leave and never see her again.

  But he wouldn't. Couldn't. In four hundred years, she was his one chance for happiness. Tonight she would be his bride. He would coddle her and love her for what was left of their year, and then he would send her back to her own world, where she belonged. His heart, which he had thought as hard as the stone walls of his castle, seemed to crumble at the thought.

  With a sleepy sigh, she stirred in his arms, opened her eyes, and smiled up at him. Such beautiful eyes she had, he mused, as blue as a summer sky at midday.

  "Good evening, my lord," she murmured. Her sleep-roughened voice caressed him like velvet.

  "Good evening, Rhianna."

  "Might we have some light?"

  With a soft grunt of acquiescence, he fixed his gaze on the bedside candle, which instantly blazed to life. "Is that better?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  "I never thanked you for the painting."

  "Do you like it?"

  "Very much." His fingertips stroked the soft curve of her cheek. "Why did you not leave when I told you to go?"

  "Because you need me, my lord, no matter how you may wish to deny it."

  "And why are you here, beside me?"

  "You once said you liked having me here beside you when you woke," she replied candidly. "Should I go?"

  "No." His arm tightened around her. "My deathlike sleep does not frighten you?"

  "A little."

  "You are a most amazing child."

  "I'm not a child, my lord." Though she supposed, to one of his vast age, she seemed very young indeed. "Your face." She lifted a hand to his cheek, her eyes wide with wonder. His skin, though still red, didn't look nearly as bad as it had the night before. " 'Tis much better."

  Rayven glanced at his hand. The awful rawness was gone, though the skin had not completely regenerated. Other injuries healed overnight while he slept, but burns always took longer to heal.

  "No doubt I'll frighten your mother even more when she sees my face."

  "The wedding!" Rhianna bolted upright. "What time is it?"

  "Near six."

  "Six. And we're to be wed at seven! Why didn't you wake me sooner!" she exclaimed, and then blushed furiously.

  Rayven laughed softly as color flooded her cheeks. "You have not changed your mind, then?"

  "No, but I've got to go." She stood up and ran a hand through her hair. "I'll never be ready in time. I've got to bathe, dress, arrange my hair…" She bent to brush a kiss over his lips. "I've got to go."

  "Take your time, sweet Rhianna. There's never yet been a wedding that wouldn't wait for the bride."

  The chapel was located on the far side of the castle. Built of white stone, it shimmered beneath the light of a full moon. An intricately carved wooden cross stood to one side of the arched double doors. Lacy willows whispered secrets to the night, while shadows played hide and seek with the moon.

  He stood in the darkness, his gaze fixed on the chapel. He had been inside only once in all the years that the castle had been his.

  He whirled around as a familiar scent reached his nostrils. "Madam." He bowed at the waist.

  "Is there nothing I can say to persuade you to call off this wedding?"

  Rayven shook his head. "Nothing. She will be mine."

  "What are you?"

  He glanced away, then met her gaze once more. "I love your daughter, Mistress McLeod. I swear I will do her no harm."

  "I don't believe you."

  He shrugged. "I find your concern well-placed but rather late."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Have you forgotten her own father sold her to me?"

  Hot color surged into Ada McLeod's cheeks. "Of course I've not forgotten!"

  "I could keep her with me for the rest of her life," Rayven said quietly. "Do not begrudge me a single year." He lifted his head, his senses testing the breeze. "She's here," he said, and whirling away from Rhianna's mother, he disappeared into the darkness.

  He entered the chapel through a side door and took his place at the altar. The light from a dozen tall wax candles filled the edifice with a soft golden glow.

  Dallon Montroy stood beside him, his expression solemn. Montroy, who preferred coats in brilliant hues of green and gold, looked almost subdued in a dark blue coat, striped cravat, and buff-colored breeches.

  Tom Bevins, looking solemn and quite handsome in a dark brown suit and cravat, sat alone in the front pew on the left. Rhianna's mother sat on the right. Brenna and Bridgitte, clad in gowns of lavender and blue, sat on either side of their mother.

  Rayven did not miss the furtive glances that Bevins sent in Ada's direction, or the faint flush that rose in Ada McLeod's cheeks when she caught Bevins looking her way.

  The priest took his place at the altar. Moments later, Aileen walked down the aisle, followed by Lanna. They wore matching pink gowns trimmed with dark velvet ribbons.

  And then he saw Rhianna. Aileen's husband, Creighton, walked her down the aisle, but Rayven had eyes only for Rhianna.

  She wore a gown of white silk and brocade. The bodice was square cut, the sleeves long and fitted. A gossamer veil covered her face. She looked like an angel, he thought, the very
essence of purity and light.

  He was aware of Ada McLeod's tears, of the jealousy that radiated from Montroy like waves of heat off hot desert sand. He sensed Bevins's good wishes, the misgivings of the priest.

  The small chapel seemed to resonate with the sound of their combined heartbeats, their thoughts clamored inside his head, a chorus of unwanted voices.

  Why are you doing this, daughter? Where did I fail?

  I love you, Rhianna. I pray you will be happy.

  Does she know what she's doing? Is it too late to warn her?

  I'll miss you, Rhianna. Please come and see us often.

  He felt Ada McLeod's motherly concern, Montroy's broken heart, the priest's anxiety, Bridgitte's sense of loss, Brenna's curiosity as she wondered what had happened to the left side of his face, Aileen's hope that her oldest sister would be happy, Lanna's certainty that all the wealth in the world would not be enough to make her live in Castle Rayven with its dark lord.

  He took a deep breath, and his nostrils filled with the scent of the blood flowing in their veins.

  But he had fed well this night, and the hunger slept within him.

  And then Rhianna was there, at his side, and he blocked everything from his mind but the beauty of the young woman who was about to become his bride. He could hear the excited drumming of her heart as she looked up at him. Her skin was soft and warm, her eyes shining with love as she placed her hand in his.

  Together, they turned to face the priest.

  The ceremony was brief. He listened to the words that bound them together and thought he had never heard more beautiful words spoken in all his life.

  And then it was over, and she was his. He could not stay the trembling of his hands as he lifted the veil from her face. Never, in four hundred years, had he imagined a moment like this. Time lost all meaning as he gazed down at her, imprinting her image deep in his mind and heart so he could recall the quiet beauty of her face and form when she was gone.

  "You may kiss the bride," the priest repeated in a loud whisper.