The Bleeding Dusk

Page 39

Max kissed like he did everything else: with arrogance, grace, and consummate skill.
He wasn’t the least bit tentative. There was no light brushing of mouth to mouth as if to test the waters, to sample her taste, or to allow her to twist away if she should have changed her mind.
Nor was it a plunder, the staking of a claim, a long-withheld passion released.
It was…it was Max. Just Max.
He was strong and sensual and very thorough. If she’d ever thought of his lips as stubborn or harsh, that thought was eliminated as their mouths fit together, drew apart, and parted in a sleek, choreographed motion, again and again, until it was all one smooth, slick spiral, curling down into the pit of her belly and beyond.
Her fingers were digging into the wet, dirty wall, and she let her trembling knees relax enough so she could sag gently back against it to keep her balance. Even so, there was still space between them; she sensed the warmth of his nearness in the chill afternoon, but touched nothing but his mouth matching and meeting hers.
When he at last pulled away with a long, gentle nibble at the corner of her lower lip, his nose brushing her cheek, she let her head tip back and felt the wetness of the leaves seep into her hair. Max shifted, his breath warm against her temple as he bent toward her again.
“Now that your curiosity is assuaged,” he murmured, “can we get on with our task?”
And with that he pushed away from the wall, away from her, and, presenting her with his back, crouched to pick up the forgotten shard. He had it up and quickly in his pocket before Victoria had quite caught her breath or thought to demand the splinter back.
Her fingers trembled and her knees were wobbly, but she propelled herself away from the wall before he stood—or turned to see the dazed look on her face.
But she needn’t have worried; he barely glanced at her before making that sharp Max gesture that told her to follow him. “We’ve wasted enough time. It’s getting close to sunset,” he tossed over his shoulder as he started off again along the stone wall.
The same stone wall of which there were now little bits of mortar wedged beneath her fingernails.
Sixteen
In Which Lady Melly’s Courtship Takes on a New Twist
The Conte Regalado, or Alberto, as he’d insisted she call him, was the most charming man Lady Melisande Grantworth had had the pleasure to meet. Or be courted by.
And she was indeed being courted by the bald but dapper Italian count.The first time she’d met him, when he had found her and Winnie and Nilly in the depths of that spooky old villa, he’d been gallant and gracious—and even though he hadn’t actually taken them to find the treasure and had disappeared most inexplicably, he’d still been intriguing and kind.
And well turned. Indeed, perfectly groomed, with his small, trimmed black mustache and the briefest of beards. His clothing was expensive and fashionable, he wasn’t too tall, and best of all, he had a lovely accent.
Then, of course, there was the day following the treasure hunt at the Villa Palombara, when, instead of calling on her, he’d only sent flowers…that had had her sniffing in disdain. The men in London had done the same; even Jellington had thought to woo her interests by plying her with flowers and jewels and the like.
But Lady Melly desired much more than cold fripperies and greenery that would die after a day or two in a vase. She wanted companionship, and wit, and above all, a man who worshiped her.
“He should be here any moment.” Nilly squealed, her pale face flushed with excitement. She was peering out the window of Melly’s dressing room from between lacy curtains, watching the street below for a sign of the conte’s barouche as her friend was putting the final touches on her toilette.
“I cannot imagine where he is going to take you on such a horrific afternoon. Why, there isn’t a sunbeam to be seen, and the air is positively gray with rain,” Winnie said disdainfully from her chair in the corner. “Your hair will be droopy, and those bonnet feathers! They’ll be plastered to your head before you climb into his carriage.”
“The Conte Regalado offered to drive me to see the Colosseum, and perhaps to Janiculum Hill. I am certain, though we might be a bit chilly, that we shan’t be wet at all.”
“The conte? I thought you were to call him Alberrrrto.” Winnie sniffed, but a smile hovered about her lips.
“Alberto, then.” But Melly smiled at the mirror, admiring her dimples as well as the slight pink to her cheeks.
“He’s here!”
Winnie hauled herself to her feet and lumbered to the window. “Indeed, he is, dressed as though he were going to the theater. Well, I hope you shall return before supper tonight so that we can hear all of the details before bedtime.”
“And I,” said Melly, flouncing toward the door as if she were once again a young debutante, “hope I don’t.” She paused to look back at them. “After all, I am a widow, we aren’t in London, and he is…very handsome. Perhaps we shall take an extended drive.”
Nilly squealed again, but this time with disappointment. “Don’t frighten him away, Melly!”
Winnie laughed. “The poor man hasn’t a chance with our Melly on his trail,” she said fondly, watching her oldest and dearest friend sweep down the stairs with more energy than she herself had ever possessed. “I only hope this turns out better than the last matchmaking she did—with Victoria and Rockley.”
Nilly nodded. “But of course it will.”
The two ladies were beginning to make their way down the stairs to the parlor when Victoria’s maid—the one with the unfortunate bushy orange hair—appeared.
“Excuse me, madam. Your Grace,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.
Startled that she should have spoken to them, the two women swiveled their heads in unison.
“Yes?” asked Winnie in her duchess voice, pausing on the stairs, one hand clutching the handrail.
“I don’ mean to interrupt,” said the maid with a bit less deference than Winnie would have expected. “But…did ye say that Lady Melly was going with a conte?” Regalado’s title came out sounding like “con-tayy,” but Winnie knew what the bold-faced girl meant.
“Yes.” Again the imperious duchess tone.
“Oh, dear…the Conte Reg’lado?”
“Yes!” Winnie was becoming impatient. “If you have something to say, spit it out. I cannot stand here all the day long. It’s nearly time for tea.”
“Oh…Your Grace…Lady Melly is in grave danger.” The maid’s eyes were sparkling blue, and her round cheeks were flushed pink.
“Why, what do you mean?” Nilly spoke at last in a soft little sort of gasp.
“The Contay Reg’lado…why, we must help my lady!” As if suddenly galvanized into action, she whirled, starting down the hall in the opposite direction.
Lady Winnie’s imperative voice stopped her. “Young miss, I daresay you’d best not run off without telling us exactly of what you’re speaking!”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Your Grace, but milady’s in great danger, an’ we have to help her,” she said over her shoulder, then opened the door to Victoria’s bedchamber and dressing room. She disappeared inside, disregarding the other women.
“Danger? From what?” Winnie didn’t want to believe the little maid, but when she came back out of Victoria’s bedchamber holding something that looked like a wooden stake, her heart nearly stopped.
“What are you doing with that?” asked Nilly faintly.
The maid was slipping on a large silver cross. “I’m goin’ vampire huntin’.”
Zavier waited in the heavy afternoon drizzle, a hat he would normally disdain tipped low over his face to keep the rain from getting in his eyes. The chankin and wet didn’t bother him at all; growing up in the Highlands, he’d had enough of it so that he’d become immune. The hat, something with a curling brim a London numpty would wear to protect his sensitive skin, served another purpose altogether: to keep his face from being seen.He wasn’t certain how long he’d have to wait. Despite the miserable weather, his worst discomfort came from the memories that plagued him, since he had nothing to do but think about things as he stood there, tucked into a nook between two narrow plastered buildings.
The carnage was bad enough…the image of Mansur sprawled on the brown grass, drenched in his dark blood, made Zavier’s own blood churn and his stomach swish as though he were drunk from too much whiskey.
A waste. A fagging bloody waste.
And a betrayal.
Victoria wasn’t seeing clearly. She couldn’t be. She wasn’t weak like that, and Zavier wasn’t about to watch her tumble further. Aye, she’d hurt him; he could accept that, though it still burned his gut. But he couldn’t accept that it had been with the arse-dicht Vioget. The boughin’ bastard who couldn’t dirty his hands enough to fight with his kin. Unbelievably, apparently, he was a Gardella too, from somewhere back in the ages of his family. They all were.
How could he have turned his back on them?
The arse-dicht and Victoria had been locked away for too long in the same small chamber where Vioget had been held during the battle outside Santo Quirinus. They’d been in there so long it made Zavier’s fingers tighten into one another, his short, blunt nails creasing his leathery palms.
He didn’t want to think about the boseying that was going on in there. But he couldn’t help it.
It made his head spin as if he were rubbered.
So he took himself outside and waited in the rain, and hoped for it to help make him a bit steadier.
But the anger built inside, simmered, sometimes roaring into his ears as he remembered the deaths last night, the intimacy and the expression he saw on her face when she was with Vioget. The Venator betrayer.
He didn’t believe Wayren when she said he wasn’t the cause of the attack. How else could it have happened?
It was well nigh onto noon when Zavier sighted his quarry. He waited until he walked past, head foolishly bent against the rain so that he didn’t notice when Zavier slipped from the corner of a building to follow.