Be Mine Tonight (4 page)

H
e knew it was a mistake to come to Cornwall.

Chapel sat on the edge of his pristinely made bed and stared out the window at the black night spread before him. He could wait no longer, sitting in this room, listening to the slow and steady heartbeats echoing around him, pounding in his head like tribal drums.

The pint of pig’s blood he had consumed earlier sustained and strengthened him, but it had been like eating turnip when what one really craved was chocolate. Earlier, he’d had to step outside to clear the scent of human from his senses. But just when he thought it safe to go back inside, he’d met Prudence Ryland, who appealed not only to his hunger, but to other base appetites as well.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
Hearts beating in the darkness. Prudence’s was one of them. His own heart struggled to beat in response, but it was no use. It had been too long since the organ in his chest had kept such rhythm.

He rose to his feet, clad in trousers and shirtsleeves. He could hardly sit there all night listening to the sounds of the house. Night was his time to thrive, the time when he felt the most vital and
alive.
He was restless and eager to burn some of the energy bubbling inside him.

Silent as a cat—yet another benefit of his curse—he crept from his room and down the stairs through the house, his keen eyes helping avoid accident. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Mr. Ryland or that daughter of his.

The thought of her gave him pause, right in the middle of the great hall, in a ray of moonlight that slipped through one of the many windows.
Prudence.
Could she have been named any less aptly? That one had the heavy scent of recklessness upon her. Even now, hours later, he could recall the scent of her as she fanned herself before him.

Of course, he had tried to distance himself. Her rich red gown hugged every inch of her from shoulder to thigh in a manner that would have been most shameful in his day. She had a beautiful figure—a little thin, but curvaceous all the same. Her skin was so fair, her eyes so bright. It hadn’t helped that her thick auburn hair had looked ready to tumble out of her topknot and spill about her shoulders. Red hair. Red gown. Red lips. Her entire appearance taunted him.

The sound of her voice saying his name had shaken him so acutely that he feared he had nicked her with a fang. Need flooded him at the taste of her flesh—not just the need to feed, but the need a man feels for a woman.

One more reason why his stay in Cornwall should be a short one. For his kind, feeding and sex were closely linked and often went together as naturally as did eating and drinking for others.

Why this woman aroused him was a mystery. Something in her scent, perhaps? The challenge in her feline eyes? There was something unusual about her, a deep melancholy that matched his own, but she was so very, very full of life and hope. Yes, hope clung to her like a veil, and that was what drew him to her.

And as the thought of her filled him, so did her scent. At first he thought it might have been his imagination, but another breath proved it wasn’t. She was near, and though he knew he should walk away, he found himself following the smell of her rather than avoiding it.

The trail led him to a partially closed door. A thin trickle of light seeped from the edges, as did the perfume of Prudence Ryland’s flesh. Of its own accord, his hand rose and pushed the door open. It didn’t even squeak, giving him several seconds to watch her in appreciation.

Prudence Ryland reclined on a dark blue velvet chaise in the center of the room, clad in a flimsy, virginal nightgown and wrapper, her wine-rich hair falling about her shoulders. Chapel’s mouth
went dry at the sight of her. His heart gave a little thump against his ribs, as though it simply wanted to let him know it was still there.

Everything about her wept life and hope and a sense of desperation that called to him. She looked so fragile he longed to protect her, so delicate he wanted to shelter her and so damned tempting that he wanted to sink his fangs into her just to know the bittersweet tang of life once more.

Leave.
Every ounce of good sense he possessed demanded that he go. He hadn’t fought temptation for more than four centuries just to surrender to it now. He turned.

“Don’t let me chase you away, Mr. Chapel.”

Her low, honeyed voice sent a shiver down his spine; her taunt set his teeth on edge. He faced her. “I have no wish to intrude on your privacy, Miss Ryland.”

She smiled as though she found him amusing. Kittens and children were amusing.
He
was a monster—a monster little girls like this one should not toy with.

Little girl? Compared to him, perhaps, but when she stood, it was all too obvious just how much of a woman she truly was. Ivory silk hugged the curve of one breast, the length of a smooth round thigh.

“You are not intruding,” she informed him. “Please do not let my presence stop you from searching out something to read.”

How could her presence not stop him? How could anyone—even a mere mortal—concentrate
on titles and contents when such sweet-smelling flesh was so near?

Still, she would think it odd if he did not acquiesce, so he went to one of the many shelves and started looking. She did not turn her attention away from him as he had expected. In fact, she perched herself on the arm of the chaise and watched him as though he were some kind of fascinating subject. In return, he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

Her head tilted. “Were you having trouble falling asleep?”

The question was innocent enough, if not a little nosy. “No. I’ve always been a bit of a night owl.” That was an understatement. “You?”

She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I tend to sleep better when it is light outside.” A self-depracating chuckle followed. “That sounds foolish, doesn’t it?”

A strange tightness pinched at Chapel’s chest as he turned to face her and her bashful gaze. Where was his temptress of earlier?

“No,” he replied with a shake of his head. “It does not sound strange. I sleep better during the day as well.”

She smiled then, a tremulous, uncertain curving of her lips. “There is something about the dark that makes me…”

“Restless?”

Wide hazel eyes snapped to his, bright with something that looked uncomfortably like vulnerability. “Yes.”

She didn’t seem eager to converse further on the subject and Chapel wasn’t about to ask, lest she return with her own questions about his predilection for nocturnal wanderings.

He went back to reading book spines. Nothing appealed to him. He’d much rather talk to his delicious companion.

“Was there something in particular you were looking for?” she asked. “I know where to find almost any book in this library.”

No doubt she did. “I thought it might be prudent to reacquaint myself with Arthurian legends. Tintagel is full of them, is it not?”

She grinned, revealing straight white teeth. “It is. He was supposedly born here, you know.”

He nodded, following her to a shelf on the other side of the room. Despite the discreet distance he put between them, her scent teased him. “Yes, I know.”

She took a slim leather-bound volume from a row of similar books and offered it to him. “That’s why there are so many Grail afficinados and hunters here year-round.”

Chapel eyed her curiously as he accepted the book. “But you believe you’ve actually found its hiding place.”

She glanced away, but not before he saw the eagerness in her eyes. “Yes.”

“Earlier I told you why I was here, but you’ve yet to tell me why you are so eager to find the Grail.” He gestured at her with the book. “You do not seem the type to desire either fame or fortune.”

Her gaze lifted to his, her chin defiantly angled. “The satisfaction of finding that which no one else has ever found.”

No, that wasn’t it. The Grail meant more to her than that. He could feel the need engulfing her so strongly it stung. For her sake, he hoped it was not the Blood Grail hidden beneath the rubble of her ruins. “I suppose a woman finding the Cup of Christ would certainly set all those stuffy scholars and priests on their ears.”

Her eyes darkened. “It certainly would.” A blush lit her cheeks. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Was that laughter rumbling in his chest? A smile took hold of his lips, awkwardly curving them upward, as though the muscles of his face had forgotten how to form the expression. She smiled back and Chapel was suddenly very tempted to lean down—there were only a few inches between them—and press his lips, not against her neck to bite, but against her mouth to taste and kiss.

He backed away. “Thank you for the book. I will leave you to your own diversion now.”

Prudence’s eyes widened—the gaze of a child not wanting to be left alone at night. “You do not have to leave.”

Her obvious desire for companionship weakened him, but he was not the one to grant her wish.

“With all due respect, Miss Ryland, it would not do for you and I to be caught together, given your attire.” It wouldn’t do if he was found with his fangs buried deep in her soft flesh either.

That vaguely mocking smile from earlier curved
her lips once more. Was she insulted that he thought to leave her? “I assure you, Mr. Chapel, your virtue is safe with me.”

If that was true, why did her hazel gaze keep sneaking back to the open neck of his shirt?

“It is not my virtue that concerns me.” And she truly didn’t seem to realize the danger to her own.

Slender arms folded across her silk-clad chest. “Why, Mr. Chapel, are you trying to tell me that I am in danger from you?” Her tone was glib, but he heard her heartbeat speed up.

Chapel moved toward her with lazy determination. Her heart picked up its pace, bringing a smug smile to his lips. It had been a long, long time, but he remembered how to play this game. “What do you think?”

The innocently voiced question had her gaze raking over him like flames over dry tinder. Color bloomed in her cheeks as her gaze lifted to his. “You do not frighten me.”

“I think I do, but not in the way I should.”

Her eyes grew round as she stared at him. Hazel wasn’t a fair description. Her eyes seemed a different shade of green every time he looked into them. Her lips parted, but no sound came forth. It was almost as though she were a statue, she was so still, but the blood warming her cheeks reminded him of how full of life she was, how delicate and fragile.

Her throat worked at a swallow, forcing the tendons and cords of the slender column into brief, sharp relief. The muscles in Chapel’s jaws tightened as a tingle raced through his gums. One leap
and he could pin her, sink his fangs into the sweet hollow between her neck and shoulder. She would shudder in his arms, soft gasps of delight slipping from those pliant lips as he fed, her fragile heart pounding against his chest.

“Do you often go roaming at night, Mr. Chapel?”

Her velvety voice kept him from acting on his desire.

“Chapel,” he corrected, taking a step backward. “It’s just Chapel. And yes, I do often roam at night, Miss Ryland.”

“Pru.” She smiled slightly. “Miss Ryland makes me feel like an old spinster.”

Which was exactly what she would have been back in his day, a thought that shocked him because she seemed so young. He shrugged. “Women of your status can afford to wait before marrying.”

Fine brows lifted. “Wait? Perhaps I simply do not wish to marry.”

There was challenge in her words, but no truth in her eyes. “Perhaps, Pru, you have yet to meet a man who could match your expectations of a husband.”

Her wide lips curved on one side. “That is entirely possible, I suppose. What of you?”

Caution rose within him. “What of me?”

She took a step toward him, those slender arms lifting her breasts against the neckline of her gown and wrapper. He stared at the tantalizing tracings of blue just below her fair skin. Pru seemed unaware of his straying gaze. Bold indeed—both of them. Far too bold to be safe. “You are unmarried as well, are you not? Why?”

He said the first thing that came to mind. “No sane woman would have me.”

She blinked at his obviously unexpected honesty. “Oh. Perhaps we are more alike than I thought.”

The smile he gave her was a kind one. Let her believe they were alike if it made her feel better. “Perhaps.”

Her gaze drifted toward the wall of windows. Moonlight touched her cheeks through the glass, brightened her eyes so that they seemed even more feline.

“But I have never roamed the night.” Her voice was so low, so wistful that at first Chapel thought he might have imagined it.

She withdrew from him quickly, with all the grace and agility of a doe. Dumbfounded, he stood there, still as a statue, and watched her flee. What, in the name of God, was she doing?

She threw open one of the windows and, grasping the frame, stepped up onto the sill. Her head turned, her eyes flashing brightly at him from over her shoulder. How wild and free she looked in her loose gown with her unbound hair and flushed cheeks.

“Coming, Chapel?”

The wise course would be to let her go. But what if Temple was in the area? What if he was half starved and Pru stumbled upon him? Even though he couldn’t sense his old friend’s presence, that didn’t mean he wasn’t out there, just out of range.

But it wasn’t Temple who was the real threat tonight. It was his own thoughts and desires.
When had he last walked with a woman? He wanted to share the dark with this fragile, mysterious woman.

Pru did not wait for his reply, but jumped out the window. Cursing, Chapel followed. As he leapt the few feet to the ground, he had the sudden and awful realization that he had been right.

It had been a mistake to come to Cornwall.

P
ru had never done anything so impulsive or reckless as jumping out of that window. An hour later she still did not know what had made her do it.

They walked in silence, the thick grass swishing against their footwear. Her slippers were thin but dry—something that would never have occurred to her before she became obsessed with illness. To catch a cold would cost her days of exploration, and she couldn’t have that.

“How did you find out about my search for the Grail?” The question had been gnawing at her since the Vatican’s first letter.

Chapel shrugged his wide shoulders beneath a halo of silvery moonlight. “The Vatican has spies everywhere.”

Was that actually a joke? There was no hint of amusement on his face, nor flicker of mirth in his gaze. “Are you serious?”

Another shrug, but there was the barest hint of a smile on his lips. Her shoulders sagged in relief. He was joking.

“I assume it was through your research,” he replied. “I believe a priest who attended several of Mr. Grey’s lectures was very interested in his work and heard of your plans. You didn’t honestly believe you could keep it secret, did you?”

“No. I suppose not.” Her gaze followed a rabbit diving into a bush, only its white tail discernible in the murky night. “Although I find it hard to believe the church would give so much credence to my search when they haven’t involved themselves in others’.”

His gaze was dark as it met hers. “Perhaps they believe your search will actually uncover something.”

Oddly enough, his words gave her some comfort.

They continued their walk in silence. The breeze was warm and gentle as it lifted her hair and caused her nightgown to whisper against her legs. Next to her, Chapel’s thin lawn shirt clung to his chest and arms. The white fabric was an eerie blue in the icy light, the muscles beneath defined and heavier than Pru would have first suspected for a man of his scholarly bent. Of course, Marcus was athletically built as well.

But Chapel appealed to her in a way Marcus did not.

Better not to think of that, however. “What do you know of the Holy Grail?”

The question seemed to surprise him. His steps faltered for the span of a heartbeat. “At the Crucifixion, the Roman Longinus used his lance to pierce Christ’s side. Joseph of Arimathea collected the blood in a chalice—the Holy Grail.”

Of course, he knew the origin of the cup—didn’t everyone? “Surely your knowledge runs deeper than that?” She tried to keep her tone light, but annoyance crept in. She had agreed to share her finds with the church; could they not at least extend similar courtesy to her?

He shot her an aggrieved glance and stopped beside her. They were in the middle of the garden, in the open but totally alone. Under the garden lamps his hair was rich gold, his eyes bright and fathomless. Lucifer just before the fall, was the fanciful notion that popped into her head. Believing this man to be a docile servant of the church was a mistake. She knew that now.

“Joseph brought the Grail with him to England when he established the first Christian church in Glastonbury. It is thought that the Grail was lost after his death, only to be found by King Arthur almost five centuries later. That is, of course, the legend you and your partner are pursuing.”

Pru opened her mouth to comment, but he cut her off. “There are those who believe the Grail fell into the possession of the Knights Templar, and that Pope Clement the fifth sought to claim the cup when he ordered the Templars imprisoned in 1307. King Philip of France was
happy to oblige, sending soldiers to relieve the knights of their treasures. Many Templars fled to England, supposedly bringing the cup back to this country. Whichever legend you choose to believe, it seems that most scholars believe England to be the final resting place of the Grail, unless, of course, you believe that Henry Sinclair took the Grail to Nova Scotia in 1398. Shall I go on, Miss Ryland, or have I succeeded in impressing you?”

He certainly seemed to know his Grail lore, which impressed her indeed, but his caustic tone tightened her jaw. “I meant no disrespect,
Mr.
Chapel.”

He had the nerve to chuckle at her pointed use of propriety where his name was concerned. “What do
you
know of the Grail?”

She frowned, hurrying to keep up with his long strides as he began walking once more. “I have done extensive research, if that is what you are asking. Marcus and I have compiled information spanning centuries.” She couldn’t keep the hauteur from her voice. Marcus might have spent more years seriously researching the Grail than she had, but she had made up for that with determination and single-mindedness.

Chapel stopped walking. Pru hadn’t paid attention to their direction and now she found herself deep within the garden—far from the house and any sense of propriety. Every feeling she possessed was sharp and focused on the man beside her. He smelled of warmth and a sweetness she couldn’t place, and in the delicate light of the moon he
appeared like something out of a romantic tale of knights and damsels. Never had she felt so aware of a man, and certainly not so soon into their acquaintance.

She backed away, unable any longer to fight the urge to retreat. He did not follow, but watched her with a keen understanding that disturbed her even more than her attraction to him. Did he know that if he chose to kiss her right now she would let him, just because she had the sudden desire to discover how he would taste?

“People hunt the Grail for two reasons, Miss Ryland.”

Obviously he was not aware of her attraction to him at all. Thank God.

“They think it will bring riches and power, or they believe it will grant eternal youth.” He tilted his head as he regarded her. “Which is it that drives you, greed or vanity?”

There was no trace of censure or derision in his expression or tone. He was simply curious.

“Desperation,” she admitted hoarsely, truthfully, holding his gaze even though it humbled her to do so. Not riches, not eternal youth, just the chance to enjoy a normal lifetime.

“A better reason than most. What about your Mr. Grey?” He slid his hands into his pockets in a deceptively casual—and unthreatening—manner. “What are his reasons for hunting the Grail?”

“First of all, I do not think hunting is the appropriate term. Second, Marcus’s reasons for locating the Grail are purely those of scholarly interest.” At least that’s what he had told her, and what she
assumed. Any other reasons he might have didn’t matter—Pru honestly didn’t care.

“And third, he is not
my
Mr. Grey.” Fourth, why had he looked at her as though he understood her “desperation” without knowing anything about it?

He eyed her strangely. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect.”

The way he said it made her feel a fool, but his tone was not the least bit mocking. In fact, he sounded as though he felt sorry for her.

She would prefer he mocked her instead.

“However well you know Mr. Grey, I would advise you to use caution, Miss Ryland. The search for the Grail has driven men to act out of character on more than one occasion. Your desire to find the Grail and sheltered existence make you a target for those who would take advantage.” He turned his back to her and began walking once more.

Again he sounded as though he spoke from experience, but she’d address that later. He also sounded like her former governess, chastising her for misbehaving. “Are you often out in society, Mr. Chapel?”

He didn’t look back and she didn’t follow. “No.”

“I thought as much.”

He stopped again, turning his head to pin her with those unreadable eyes, but there was no mistaking the rueful expression on his face. “I have offended you.”

“Yes.” Pru’s jaw was still tight. “I believe you have.”

“I’m sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m not very…
good
with people.”

“Really?” Her tone was clipped. “I never would have guessed.”

His smile was sheepish. He wasn’t the least bit offended by her sarcasm or her candor. “I said I was sorry.”

Yes, he had. The proper thing for her to do—the polite thing—would be to accept his apology and perhaps even offer one of her own.

“I appreciate that,” she said instead. She moved past him to lead the way back to the house.

His hands went back into his pockets as he fell into step beside her. He had nice hands—long and elegant but strong. His forearms were tanned, lightly dusted with golden hair that caught the moonlight like newly minted gold. “But I do think you should be cautious in your endeavor.”

Pru’s teeth scraped together. “Of course. You obviously have given this excursion much more thought and consideration than I have.”

Dark brows hardly rose at her caustic reply, but his earlier mirth was gone. “Not this excursion, but one very much like it, yes.”

So she was right—he had been on such an expedition before. One that had failed. Hers would not be so unlucky. It couldn’t.

“I assure you, sir, that I have put a great deal of work and effort into this quest.”

“That I do not doubt.”

At least he was willing to give her that. “Thank you.” Good Lord, she sounded positively smug! How had he managed to get under her skin on
such short acquaintance? He looked at her as though he understood her when there was no way he could. It was both comforting and annoying.

“But you said yourself that you are desperate, and desperation makes a mockery of caution.”

Perdition, but the man did not know when to leave a subject alone! “Are you going to tell me the moral of this tale, Mr. Chapel, or are you going to extend the anticipation for as long as you can?”

Again, he didn’t look the least bit offended—a fact that irked her—but his expression was strained in the moonlight. “I was once as eager as you to learn the Grail’s secrets. A man died as a result of my actions.”

“Oh.” No wonder he had spoken as he had. What she first understood as condescension now took on an entirely different meaning. What an utter
cow
she was.

Hesitantly, she reached out to him, her fingers falling on the solid crook of his elbow, just above the roll of his cuff. “Would you care to talk about it?”

His gaze dropped to her hand, so quickly and so intently that Pru imagined she could feel it burning her flesh. She did not release him, though. Instinct told her that he was like a wild animal and if she moved too quickly he might pounce.

Slowly, his gaze traveled up her arm, tingling her flesh as it moved ever closer to her face. Sensation rocked her as his eyes locked with hers. The glow she thought she had seen earlier had returned,
lighting his eyes from deep within. It had to be a trick of the moonlight, because no one had eyes that bright, that beautiful. It was as though his gaze beckoned to her, pulled her closer. She could feel her body leaning toward him, her lungs struggling for air as he completely overwhelmed her.

His firm, sensuous lips parted, revealing a glimpse of startlingly white teeth. Were those his canines she saw glistening in the dark? No, they couldn’t be—it was just a trick of the night.

“You aren’t going to bite me again, are you?”

He jumped, jerking his arm from her grip. He shook his head as if to clear it. “What?”

Smiling at the knowledge that he had been—even if just for a second—as captivated by her as she by him, Pru held up her hand so that he could see the scratch on the back of it. “Are you not responsible for this?”

Eyes narrowed, Chapel studied her knuckles. “Responsible for what? There is nothing there.”

Now it was Pru’s turn to frown. Flipping her hand around, she lifted it toward her face, stopping when the moonlight stained her flesh. He was right. There was no mark. She tilted her knuckles to the light. Still nothing. The scratch had completed disappeared.

There was no way she could have imagined it, but how was it possible that it had healed so quickly? Unless it hadn’t been a scratch at all, but merely a welt. But she could have sworn…

“It will be dawn soon.” His voice sliced through her thoughts. He was watching the waning moon
with a slight furrow in his brow. “We should return to the house.”

Her hand forgotten, Pru grinned at his tone. “Still worried about my safety, Mr. Chapel?”

Chapel’s gaze met hers. He obviously didn’t share her amusement. “My own.”

It was so difficult to gauge if he was jesting or not. “Too much safety can lead to regret,” she informed him with mock sageness.

He tilted his head to one side. “As can recklessness.”

He took himself far too seriously for one so young. She smiled at him. “Do you have many regrets, sir?”

A dry chuckle escaped him as he glanced down at the path beneath his feet. “It seems I’ve built my life on them at times.”

She understood that. “Well, I refuse to do so any longer,” she informed him, stifling the urge to poke the solid wall of his chest with her finger. “One regret I hope to not have when I die is that of never having truly lived.”

His lips thinned, his expression almost bleak, as though he took her words to heart. “I hope that for you as well, Prudence.”

Slightly stunned, not only by the sound of her name on his lips, but at the gravity of his tone, Pru stared as he presented her with his back and set off in the direction of the house.

He spoke as though he believed he might play some part in her demise, which was, of course, ridiculous. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in danger from him—not physical, but
emotional. The conviction was in the way she felt his loss as he walked away, in the sadness she felt at the emptiness in his gaze.

And it was in the way, that just once, if only to see him smile and to bask in his praise, she wished she could live up to her name.

“Thank you for walking with me.”

Chapel glanced at her as he quietly closed the door behind them, sealing them in the dark stillness of Rosecourt Manor. “It was my pleasure, Miss Ryland.”

“Was it?”

Was she being coy or simply doubtful? “Have I given you reason to believe otherwise? I apologize if I have.”