"Love At First Bite" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenyon Sherrilyn, Banks L. A., Squires Susan, Thompson Ronda)

Chapter One

London, March 1820

"Rufford's done it! The bitch goddess is dead." Admiral Groton, in charge of the government's intelligence effort, waved a sheet of foolscap written in a masculine hand. He stood in front of huge windows that gave onto a rainy Whitehall Lane lined with the offices of the most powerful government in the world.

Relief washed over Major Vernon Davis Ware, Davie to his intimates. It was worth putting off his appointment with Miss Fairfield just to hear those welcome words. An image of Asharti rose to his mind, impossibly beautiful, her eyes gone red and deadly, her breasts brushing his bare chest… He would not think of her. He had banished those dreadful weeks in El Golea when he was in her power from his memory. Now she was dead and all he wanted was a normal life. He was going to offer for Miss Emma Fairfield today and become a government servant in some boring diplomatic post with an intelligent and beautiful wife, if she would have him. And, God willing, he'd sire a family.

"I didn't think Rufford would prevail," Davie breamed. "He's well?"

"Who do you think penned the letter?" The only other occupant of the room was the Lord High Chancellor of England. The skin over the Chancellor's jowls was paper-thin and spotted with age. "Rufford has averted a world cataclysm."

The Admiral cleared his throat and frowned. His face, tanned from years at sea, had deep creases around his mouth. He was no stranger to worry. "The disaster is not yet averted."

"But the vampire woman is dead." It was unbecoming in a Lord High Chancellor to pout, but so it was.

The Admiral sighed. "Remember, Your Lordship, that these vampires have something in their blood… what did you say it was, Ware?"

Davie cleared his throat "I'm not sure, sir. I only know its effect, and the fact that it can be passed through exchanging blood."

"Monsters," the Chancellor muttered under his breath. "They're monsters."

"Are plague victims all monsters?" Davie asked, in spite of the fact that he was questioning the Lord High Chancellor of England. "If the world is saved, Rufford will have saved it."

"The point is they can infect humans and make them vampire, too," the Admiral reminded his superior. "Asharti made an army of them. We're not out of the woods yet."

"But see here, Groton," the Chancellor protested. "You said Rufford and others… like him… they're on a campaign to wipe out her army. If he can kill Asharti, surely they can track down the ones who are newly made. You said they weren't as strong at first, didn't you, Ware?"

"Yes, I did, but they are still stronger than humans. And like a plague, they can spread." Davie managed a lopsided grin. "I wouldn't want to be in North Africa for a while."

The Admiral cleared his throat. "Yes, well. Rufford has requested the assistance of the British government. And he specifically asked for you."

It was Davie's turn to frown. His stomach churned. "What do you mean?" He glanced from one to the other. The Chancellor wouldn't meet his eyes but paced to the window. Rain battered the panes in curtains. All his years sat upon the Chancellor's shoulders.

The Admiral had rather more courage. He fixed Davie with a steely stare. "We're to provide provisions and equipment. But their campaign requires someone who can move about in daylight to provide logistics. He wants someone who already knows what they are."

"No." Every fiber rebelled against returning to North Africa. "I'm going to make an offer of marriage today."

"Our future depends upon the outcome of this struggle, Ware." The Chancellor sounded almost remote. He clasped his hands behind his back as he stared at the street below. "He didn't ask for armies or navies. He didn't ask for Wellington. He asked only for you."

Damn Rufford! "What happens in North Africa does not concern us." He couldn't go back there for so many reasons, Miss Fairfield for one and memories of Asharti for another.

"Really?" The Admiral's acid tone cut through Davie's excuses. "And is that why you demanded our fastest cutter to take Rufford to Casablanca in the first place? Surely you thought the consequence was important to England, since we mustered every resource to send him on what we thought was a suicide mission. He went. He prevailed. And now he asks for our help, and yours."

Davie closed his eyes.

"You've got a box full of medals somewhere even if you don't choose to wear them in the drawing rooms of London." The Chancellor turned back to Davie. "After Waterloo you joined the diplomatic corps, so you've served your country several times. This is our most critical hour, not only as Englishmen, but as humans. Don't fail us now."

"We need to know what's going on down there, Ware!" The Admiral punched his fist into his other palm. "Of course we want battlefield dispatches, but we must keep an eye on Rufford and his kind as well. Do you think I sleep well at night knowing there are monsters living among us? Whatever you may say about them being victims, they're immortal, for Christ's sake, or nearly! They're unnaturally strong. They can disappear into thin air and they drink human blood. Perhaps worst of all, they can control minds. And for all his courage and his service to date, Ian Rufford is one of them. We need intelligence, Ware! What are their vulnerabilities? Who directs them?" He strode forward, his pale gray eyes boring into Davie. "So far, the only way to subdue one of them is with another one. Not something that gives me comfort, Ware."

So, they wanted to help Rufford but spy on him into the bargain. Well, Davie wanted none of it. "I won't go back there." He made his voice as flat as possible. "Rufford doesn't need my help. Good day, gentlemen." He turned on his heel as they exchanged glances.

"We'll be in touch," the Chancellor called after him.

Damn Rufford! Davie thought again as he pushed out into Whitehall Lane. He paused in the pillared portico of the Admiralty, only half-aware that the rain had stopped. He stared at the gaudy squadron of Horse Guards that trooped down the street.

It was that important that Asharti's minions be stopped. Only Rufford and his kind could do it. Did he know for certain Rufford didn't need his help to do the job? The man was true at the center, though Asharti had made him into a monster who drank human blood. If he trusted Davie enough to ask him for help… Davie sucked in the wet March air and slowly let it out. He remembered Rufford's own moment of decision, when he had known he would return to North Africa to face Asharti… Davie had seen the despair in Rufford's eyes, the fear, and the certainty. Davie's dream of stability dissolved into memories of his time in El Golea…

El Golea, 1819

He shouldn't go to her. He knew that, somewhere deep inside himself. The jasmine that dripped from the pergola drenched the night in a flowery musk, but it could not obscure the scent of cinnamon and something else, exotic and sweet, that she exuded. He could barely see her in the darkness of the British compound courtyard. The thick-walled rooms that surrounded it were empty now. She had killed the legation, drained them of blood. They, at least, were at peace.

Only he was left. Why had she spared him? So he could serve her, night after night? He staggered out into the courtyard. No light shone from the surrounding windows, though her creatures were there, drinking and eating in the darkness. He heard their murmuring voices. He had nothing to fear from them. They dared not molest him. That was left to her. His genitals grew heavy with need. Revulsion washed over him. She commanded and his body obeyed.

The stars lit the night along with the sliver of a smirking moon. Ahead, her lithe form was a darker smear of black against the night. Though her back was turned, she knew he was there. Her hair, heavy and dark, cascaded down her back over the diaphanous fabric that barely concealed her form. Her garment might look gray in the darkness, but he would wager it was red.

He touched her shoulder. Her flesh was hot with energy. She turned. Her beauty struck him like a blow, as always. Her dark eyes, lined with kohl, glowed red. All thought of escape vanished. He knelt, knees wide, as she required. He was erect and ready. She bent over him and cupped his jaw.

"I have a task for you, my pretty," she whispered. "Well, two tasks."

He lifted his lips to her nipple and suckled through the sheer fabric.

Davie blinked against the spatter of raindrops as a last shower flapped against the paving stones of the Admiralty court. The shame of that time stayed with him even as the memories drained away. From the distance of London, and three months' time, he knew why he'd been left alive to serve and suffer. He alone had known where Rufford was. Rufford was the only one with a drop of the ancient blood, the only one who had a chance to best her. Davie had betrayed Rufford to her. He swallowed and Whitehall blurred before his eyes. It must be the rain. She could compel… anything—information, sexual service, anything.

Davie's jaw worked. She had sent him with a letter all the way to England, threatening all Rufford loved, knowing that would bring the man back to the North African desert, and into her clutches once again. Davie's ability to act as messenger was all that saved him from Asharti.

What did he not owe Rufford for that betrayal?

And he had sworn service to his country. What greater need could there ever be? No matter that he would be plunging into the middle of a war between what the world called monsters. His need for normalcy after his time with Asharti did not signify.

His shoulders sagged as he knew what he would do. Fear trembled down his spine. He'd thought he'd left behind the cursed sand of the North African desert forever. He was wrong.

And now he must disappoint the woman he loved and blight all chance for happiness.

Emma Fairfield sat in the breakfast room that looked out over the tiny back garden at Fairfield House in Grosvenor Square. The room was cheerful, its pale yellow walls and light Chippendale furniture a contrast with the bleak March rain that beat against the arched windows. Emma was arranging roses in a crystal vase. She managed to grow roses most of the year in the fourth-floor solarium, oranges, too, and peonies brought back from China by her great-uncle. He had been a true adventurer, the black sheep of the family. He was a rebel. Was that why she always liked him best? This bouquet was multicolored, some blossoms well opened, some mere buds. Creamy peach and white mixed with bloodred and pale pink in chaotic abundance.

"I thought we were going to receive a visit from that young man of yours," her brother said as he snapped the London Mail into new folds. They liked to sit here of an afternoon, rather than in the larger, formal rooms at the front of the house. Her brother was some ten years older than she was. He had never married. He never would.

"You might call him by name, Richard," she said calmly, clipping a stem with a small garden shears. "We've known Davie Ware since we were children. And he isn't mine. One doesn't own young men. He isn't even that young."

"Neither are you, Emma." Richard drew his handsome brows together and peered at her over the paper. "You'll be on the shelf if you ain't careful, girl."

"Three seasons isn't the end of the world, Brother."

"Not the point," he muttered. "You're too picky."

"Am I looking old-cattish, my dear?" she asked with a smile.

He put his paper down on his lap. He wore a red and black Oriental dressing gown and pasha slippers just now disposed comfortably on an upholstered ottoman. "You know you are well looking, Emma," he said severely. "That gold hair shines down anything in London. Your eyes are listed as cornflower blue at White's every time they're betting whether you'll accept the latest lovelorn sot. Which you have not. I've made a pony on you these last five times."

"You bet a hundred pounds I would refuse offers?" That took her aback.

"Well, normally I ain't a betting man, but… well, dash it, Emma, you refused a damned duke, didn't you? I can't see how you'd take that last puppy who spouted poetry all the time. Might as well wager if it's a sure thing."

"Richard," she reproved. But she had to suppress the smile that threatened the corners of her mouth. She hoped he wouldn't notice. Then she cleared her throat. "And how are the bets running just now?"

"Fifty-fifty," he grunted. "They were three to one against until you danced four times with Ware at Almack's."

"And where is your money?"

"I haven't laid down yet," he said speculatively, "though I may. You toy with them. You're always so still and quiet, you fool people. But I know. You like to play."

"The whole thing is so boring!" She sighed. "I admit it was mischievous of me to act interested in them. But they enjoyed the dance."

"These are men's hearts you're playing with, Emma." Richard brought his blond brows together. He had the family's straight nose. His eyes were a grayer version of hers and he had the same full lips, though just now they were pressed together in a disapproving line.

"Their hearts were not engaged, Brother, except with the prospect of my income."

He grunted again. "Thank God for your fortune or you might have no offers at all. You've a blunt way about you, Emma; there are no two ways about it. Some say an acid tongue." He snapped his paper shut. "I like Ware. Maybe I should warn him off. Besides, I'm tired of watching them struggle to find the words when they ask my permission. And it all comes to nothing in any case."

"I wonder they ask you before they are sure of me."

"They are sure of you. And whose fault is that?" He shrugged, opened a fresh page of his paper, and hunched behind it. "I'll put down a pony this week."

"I wouldn't bet against this one, Brother." She placed a rose in the cut-glass vase.

His brows appeared over the top of his paper, then his eyes. He tossed it to the side and rose from his chair. "You mean… ?"

This time, she could not suppress the smile. Indeed, it was almost a grin. "He's going to offer, Richard. Lord knows I can feel it coming at this point. And I'm going to accept. So please be nicer to him than you were to the poet."

"Emma, Emma!" He descended on her and took her by her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. A crease appeared between his brows. "Don't let my badgering make you take him if you don't love him, Emma."

She raised her brows, her eyes unaccountably filling. She widened her smile to compensate. "But I do, Richard. That's the surprise. I didn't mean for it to happen. He picked me up from a fall off my pony and chased me out of his lily pond when I was a child. But when he returned from North Africa… Well, somewhere over the years he'd become a man and an interesting one at that. He's been everywhere. He has ideas." She shrugged. "He's only a soldier, but he has prospects in the diplomatic corps—"

"Tosh, you've enough money for him and a dozen others. Don't bother about that."

"Only if you won't. Don't make him feel paltry," she warned.

"Wares have been in Warwickshire since the Conquest. I have no complaints about his birth. I could wish he was not a second son. But Rockhampton says he'll try to get Ware onto his staff. He's got a bright future." He frowned. "Sounds like a dashed lot of work to me, but Ware seems to like all this rushing about in the diplomatic line."

"You've been doing research?" How dear of him.

"Well," he harrumphed. "You are m'sister." He tried to look severe. "He's like to haul his wife off to barbaric places. I won't dress it up for you. I know you fancy yourself a rebel, Emma, but are you ready for barbarians who don't even eat at a civilized hour?"

"I'll think of it as an adventure, Richard; truly I will." She kept her mouth prim.

"So you've decided." He nodded. "I thought so—saw how you looked at him."

"And that's the real reason you haven't bet against the match at White's," she laughed.

"Well, I can't say I like throwing money away."

"Provoking man! You teased me to get inside information out of me."

He drew her to him and hugged her. "You're more important to me than any bet at White's, no matter what I put about. I'll welcome your Davie, Emma."

She hugged him back. He was a most excellent brother. "I only hope we care for each other as much as you and Damien."

He put her from him and smiled affectionately. "That would be a lot to ask." Her brother's "friend" of many years was far more than that. "It will fall to you to get the heir. I'm sorry for that burden, Emma."

She sat again and picked up a rose. It was perfect, its petals bloodred velvet, half-opened, a promise of full-blown glory. It should go at the center of the arrangement. "You two are a marvelous example of constancy. The least I can do is provide the heir."

"More tea, miss?" She jerked around to see their old butler, Jenkins, peering through the door. The rose escaped her grasp. She grabbed at it. Its thorns pricked deep.

"Ouch!" she exclaimed. The rose fell to the floor. She grabbed her fingers and squeezed until blood welled. She sucked at the drops. It tasted of copper.

Her brother drew his handkerchief from his pocket. "Take this. You'll spoil your dress."

"I'll spoil your handkerchief." But she took it and wound it around her fingers. Blood stained it in a bright flower. Jenkins looked apologetic. "Jenkins, tea would be nice. And Major Ware said he would be late. Show him back immediately when he arrives."

"Ware," Richard said, pumping Major Ware's hand. "Good to see you."

Emma rose. The smile that burbled up from her heart at the sight of him faltered. He was pale, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He was a handsome specimen, a fact she had not recognized until she saw him again two months ago. How had she never noticed how clear and intelligent his blue eyes were? Sandy blond hair waved back from a broad forehead. His nose was straight and a little long, but that just spoke of character, which was a good thing, because his chin did not exactly shout it. What a dear cleft chin he had! She had never noticed how strong the column of his neck was or the set of his broad shoulders until he returned. Certainly she had never noticed how his thighs bunched with muscle under his trousers. His clothes were conservative but well cut. The military men all went to Weston for their coats. No padded shoulders or intricate neck cloths so high they pushed at Davie's ears. She'd wager he was beforehand with the world. Not a wastrel, her Davie.

But now he was clearly in distress. He nodded to her brother. "Fairfield." And he bowed over her hand. His was clammy as he held her fingers to his lips. Still, the shock of his touch did what it always did to her. She felt more alive, throbbing with awareness of him. "Miss Fairfield." She smiled inside to think that he was that nervous about offering for her.

"Well, well, I must go to… my steward. Not expecting you. Apologies and all…" Richard snapped the door shut behind him.

Her brother's blatant behavior seemed to make Major Ware even more nervous. And… was that regret in his eyes? How… odd. "Won't you sit down?" She gestured to a chair upholstered in cheerful green stripes that defied the gray day.

Far from sitting, he paced the room like a caged beast, saying nothing, only occasionally clearing his throat. Was he so unsure of her answer? She sat calmly and waited for her stillness to reel in his nervous energy.

He turned and came to stand over her. "Miss Fairfield…" he began after a moment.

She looked up and smiled. "Surely we have known each other long enough that you can call me Emma."

"Yes, well…" He ran a finger around the inside of his cravat. Then he seemed to sag. "Emma." Her name sounded like defeat when he said it like that. Was that right for one about to propose marriage? He eschewed the comfortable seat and sat on a Chippendale chair that looked too fragile for his bulk. "I know there are certain… expectations surrounding our relationship…" He cleared his throat, apparently uncertain how to go on.

"You mean the betting at White's?"

"They're not betting at White's!" He looked stricken.

She nodded in mock sincerity. "Richard says they are."

He pressed his lips together grimly. "I should like to be free to satisfy their expectations," he murmured, almost too low for her to hear. "But… I will be going away tomorrow."

Emma felt as though she had been slapped. "Where?" she blurted.

His eyes were pained. "I expect I'll start in Casablanca. After that, I don't know."

"How… long will you be gone?" she managed after a moment.

"I don't know that, either." He looked at his hands. He took a breath as though he had to fight for it. "It isn't my choice…" He trailed off.

"Well, I'll be anxious for your return," she said carefully, trying to sense the truth of his feelings about this turn of events. Was he relieved that he was escaping the "expectations"? He didn't look relieved.

He shook his head convulsively. "Everything will be changed by then. A woman like you gets offers of marriage every week."

"I've managed to resist temptation so far." She couldn't believe she was telling him so clearly how she felt about him, not knowing if he returned the sentiment.

"It could be years…" he choked, turning.

Years? He was trying to put her off! Did he long to get away from her? Had she mistaken echoes of warmth for a childhood friend for something more? She had to know. "Surely a wife could accompany you, help you in your mission."

He turned a gaze on her filled with such longing and such… loss it almost staggered her. He swallowed. Then his countenance closed. "Too dangerous in Africa. And if… the worst… happened… a widow without being properly a bride… worse, alone in a strange land…"

He thought he would die there? My God!

"An unfair proposition all the way around," he croaked. "No, there are no obligations between us. You must look to your own happiness." He took a tentative step in her direction and another, until he loomed over her with all of his six-plus feet. Slowly he bent to her hand and lifted it gently with his own. The feel of his flesh against hers sent a thrill coursing through her. His hand was strong, the nails clean half-moons. He smelled like soap and lavender water. She was most aware of the muscle in his shoulders. She could hardly concentrate with the sensation of skin to skin assaulting her. "I shall always treasure our moments together."

That sounded so final! "I await your return, then…" She tried to make her voice sound both stubborn and cheerful.

"No." He pressed his lips to her fingers. The touch made her feel faint with impending loss. "Move on with your life, Emma. I can promise you nothing."

That was it then…

He snapped upright and let go her hand. All color drained from his face. His eyes shone. "Your servant, Miss Fairfield." He nodded curtly, then spun on his heel and shut the breakfast room door behind him.

Emma was left staring at the closed door. Emotions careened and collided in her breast. Surely… surely his expression, if not his words, said he cared for her, that it was only duty that called him away… Was she wrong about that?

The door creaked open and her brother let himself into the room. "Emma? I ran smack into Ware. He looked like he'd seen a relative executed. You didn't refuse him, did you, girl?"

"I didn't get a chance," she said, trying to make her voice light.

"He didn't offer?" Her brother was incredulous.

"It seems he's off to Africa tomorrow." She took up a piece of needlework at random. Her hands were shaking. "The expectations at White's will go unsatisfied." Her voice cracked on the last sentence. She despised herself for her lack of control.

"Oh, Emma!" Richard put a hand on her shoulder. "What a time to be mistaken in a suitor, just when you finally found one you liked." He sighed. "There will be others."

"Putting up with who I am because of my fortune, no doubt," she said bitterly. "I thought Davie… well, that he liked me as I was. If I can't have that, I'd rather be a spinster. Not a fate worse than death." But spinsterhood rankled. Marriage, too, with anyone but Davie, would gall her. What kind of diplomatic mission brought a certainty of death? Or had he just made that up to put her off? She watched her fingers pull small, even stitches through her needlework as though they belonged to someone else. Everything had changed.

Somewhere inside she felt a storm building, one that might sweep away her sanity.