Let the Night Begin (3 page)

If the facer she'd given him earlier was any indication, her temper had yet to settle at all.

Which begged the question, just what the hell was she doing in London? And claiming to need his help? He had never met a woman more capable than Olivia. She didn't need his help.

But she wanted him, he thought with a smile as he gave his butler his outerwear. Just as much as he wanted her. He hadn't ruined that, and it was something he could use to his advantage. Because unlike his absent wife, he had meant his promises. As far as he was concerned, Olivia was his until one of them ceased to exist, and even then he wasn't certain he'd be prepared to give her up.

Clarke came toward him as Reign walked down the hall. Olivia was there. He could smell the amber scent of her perfume on the air. It would linger for days, damn it. Just like the memory of the fire in her eyes when she told him he could fuck her if he wanted to, but only face-to-face.

He had been so tempted to do just that. And not with anger or with violence, but with regret and thirty years of bitterness and longing. For the first decade he'd been so certain that he had been the victim of their wedding night, but then uncertainty set in, and with it came guilt. He would not feel guilty now.

“Where is she?” he asked before the other man could speak.

“Drawing room,” Clarke replied, running a hand over his graying brown hair. “Reign, what's going on?”

Since Olivia could hear them if she so chose—and Reign had no doubts that she would eavesdrop if she thought she might learn something to her advantage—he merely smiled and said, “I have no idea.” But he handed his friend a note he had scribbled in the carriage on the drive home.

Frowning, Clarke opened the missive. Thankfully he'd been Reign's employee long enough to know not to read aloud.
Find out what you can about her
.

Clarke looked up, his dark gaze locking with Reign's. He looked grim, almost sympathetic, and Reign shook his head in response. He didn't want sympathy. He had no illusions where Olivia was concerned. He had wanted her back for thirty years and he wanted her still, in his bed and by his side, but he wasn't going to let that cloud his judgment.

Women did not forgive without a gesture of atonement. Since he hadn't made one—hadn't the chance to—then it stood to reason that Olivia had yet to forgive him. And he'd be damned if he'd make any offer to her now when she might take the opportunity to slit his throat.

So, if she felt so strongly still, why come asking for the aid of a man she despised? Either she was in deep trouble, or she was looking to exact a little revenge. Perhaps both.

If he wished to get any closer to the truth before the sun rose in a few hours and burnt him to a
crisp as he stood, a baffled idiot, in his front hall, he should attend to his wife.

He straightened his cuffs and cravat before entering the drawing room. Olivia was at one of the windows, the dark green curtains drawn wide to allow the golden rays of streetlights outside to kiss her raised face. Her eyes were closed, the dark curve of her lashes resting against the soft, honey-hued flesh of her cheek. He loved that every inch of her was shades of gold and bronze with subtle hints of pink. Loved her thick hair, even though she wore it up in a tight bun. Loved her nearly aquiline nose and the faint lines that fanned outward from her eyes. Loved how the tight bodice of her rich plum gown accentuated her waist and round breasts.

He loved her. Or at least, he had once upon a time.

“Praying?” he inquired with more hauteur than intended.

Her shoulders stiffened. Slowly, her eyes opened and she turned to face him. Gone was the mature, irresistible woman he had fallen in love with and married, replaced by the hardened creature she had become. That he might have contributed to the change shamed him.

“You never did approve of me praying,” she remarked in her low, rich voice. At least that remained as he remembered.

“He's not listening, so why waste your time?”

“He listens,” she replied with the blind certainty of one with more faith than sense. “He listens and he answers—if you let yourself hear it.”

Reign snorted. Horseshit. If that were true, Olivia would have returned to him years ago. She never would have left.

But she was here now. He wasn't naive enough to think his prayers had been answered. If anything, she'd been sent to him as punishment for his sins.

It was awkward, both of them standing so stiffly, so he went to the glossy mahogany cabinet to his left and withdrew a snifter. “Drink?”

“Please.”

He liked that about her. Olivia liked to imbibe now and again even before she turned vampire and discovered she could drink more than the average human before feeling the effects. They met at a party. She had a glass of whiskey in her hand—her third if he remembered correctly. God, they'd had fun that night. They talked and laughed until three, and then she invited him to go home with her. He could have been a gentleman and refused, but he knew it must have taken courage for her to ask, and he knew how long she had been alone. He had been flattered that out of all the men attending the party she had picked him, and so he went to her house and to her bed, and he ended up spending most of his time in Hertford glued to her side. During the day they played by the rules—she
had a reputation to consider—but at night…At night she made him feel more alive than if he was truly mortal.

He poured two snifters and carried them to the small japanned table between two comfortable dark green wingbacks. She watched him, hesitating for but a moment before joining him as he sat.

“You need to tell me why you are here, Liv. You said ‘they' know who you are. Who are ‘they'?”

“I don't know.” She sighed, but didn't make him wait any longer. As he remembered, she'd always get straight to the point. “Two nights ago a messenger came to my door with an unsigned letter telling me that my nephew James had been kidnapped.”

There was no denying the anger and fear in her voice and manner. “James?” He didn't remember any child by that name.

“Rosemary's boy.” She spoke absently, expecting him to know of whom she spoke—that is, assuming her own family was important enough for him to remember.

Reign nodded. He did indeed remember Olivia's younger sister, Rosemary. She had stood with Olivia at their wedding. It had been to her Olivia had run when she left. Rosemary had been killed eighteen years ago in a carriage accident. He had sent flowers to the funeral. He hadn't known she had a son or he would have set up a trust for the
boy. How come he never heard of Olivia raising him? He had people check on her periodically over the years and none had ever mentioned the boy.

“You and he are close?”

“I raised him.” She smiled a little as she met his gaze, almost as though she expected him to express disbelief. But then her smile faded, replaced by naked anguish. “She died because of me, you know. If I had been able to travel during the day…”

“You cannot blame yourself.”

“Who else is there to shoulder the responsibility?” She gestured toward him with her drink, bleak honesty in her eyes. “I blamed you for the longest time.”

That hardly came as a surprise, nor was it a burden he couldn't bear if it meant giving her peace of mind over something she could not have controlled. “Then blame me again, but you cannot hold yourself responsible for the circumstances surrounding your sister's death.”

Olivia shrugged, obviously unimpressed with words or the generosity they attempted to express. “It hardly matters now. Rosemary is gone, and so may James be if I do not adhere to his abductor's demands.”

Ah yes, this was what he had been waiting for. “Which are?”

“I'm to go to Edinburgh within the week to await further instructions.”

“Edinburgh? They took him to Edinburgh?”

She glanced away, seemingly embarrassed, for what reason he couldn't fathom. “I didn't know it, but James had apparently gone to Scotland with friends.”

Ah. James was as headstrong as his aunt it seemed. Still, the youngster should have enough respect to let her know when he left the country. “Have you talked to the families of the friends?”

“Yes. Apparently it had been planned by the boys and the father of one of them for some time.” The flush in her cheeks darkened. “Obviously James forgot that he hadn't told me.”

Obviously James was a spoiled, inconsiderate brat, but since Olivia was obviously hurt by her nephew's neglect he wouldn't comment any further. Instead he moved to more important matters. “Why do you believe they know what you are?”

“They made reference to my ‘proclivities.'”

Reign almost laughed. “Proclivities? That could be anything from unnatural sexual urges to an unusual liking for ice cream.”

Olivia gave him “the look.” The one all wives give their husbands when said husband makes a joke that no one but him could possibly find amusing—at least in the wife's estimation. “They said they understood how difficult it must have been for me to be a mother to James, given my proclivities.
Really, Reign, what else could they have meant? I lead a perfectly normal life—or as normal as I can given the circumstances.”

She was right, of course, but it disturbed him to no end that someone might have determined her vampire nature so easily. He could berate her for not being more careful, or he could suspect James of having offered up the information—either freely or under duress. He chose the latter. “Did the note state what they want?”

She looked away. And that's when he knew there was more to the story than she was telling. “No. Only that I'm to go to Scotland to await further instructions, but I don't think they're going to just hand James over. I think they're going to want something from me.”

Of course they would. That was what kidnapping was all about—having the upper hand and forcing someone to give you what you wanted. “What part do I play in this?”

“I can't find James and free him by myself. They'll expect me to try something.”

“But they won't expect me?” How gullible did she think he was?

“I haven't been with you since before James was born. How could they? I need your help. Whoever took James must have seemed like a friend, someone of good society. You have social ties in Edinburgh, do you not?”

“I do, yes.” He had just been there earlier in the
spring, and the fact that she'd thought of that eased some of his suspicion, but not by much.

“We can ask questions of the right people, find out who James was spending all his time with before he was taken. You can get me into parties and soirees where his friends will be—events I couldn't get into on my own.”

In other words, he would be useful. He knew she merely wanted to exploit him, so why this pricked feeling in his chest? “Do you think James told them you were a vampire?”

The look on her face gave away her surprise. Obviously the thought hadn't occurred to her as it had to him. “He would never do that.”

Under the right circumstances people would do just about anything, but he wasn't going to tell her that. She was already worried enough about the boy without him announcing that James was either being tortured or had willingly betrayed her to his captors. Neither would be a huge surprise, given what he knew humans to be capable of.

“Somehow,” she continued, “someone has discovered what I am, and that someone has taken James and is using him to get to me. I am not going to allow them to get away with that.”

What she said made sense, but there was something not quite right with all of this.

“What aren't you telling me?” He almost laughed. What did he expect, that suddenly she'd confess all?

“Nothing.” She was lying. She met his gaze too determinedly to be doing anything but. He had no idea why, but he did know one thing—her desperation was not false. Whatever her motives, it was very important to her that he accompany her to Scotland. As much as he didn't trust her, he could not let her down. And he couldn't let her go alone and risk her own safety. Not when she was the only woman he had ever truly loved in all his long, long life.

“I will help you,” he told her, watching the relief soften her strong features. “But on one condition.”

Her brandied gaze met his, hope replaced by suspicion. “And that is?”

“If we are to appear as husband and wife in public, then we will act as husband and wife in private.”

She arched a brow, but her expression remained composed, with just a hint of mockery—just enough to emasculate a lesser man. “You want me to fetch your slippers?”

She was playing coy and he knew it. “No. I want you in my bed.”

There was a slight pause, but not enough for him to gloat over. “And where will you be?”

He loved how she always made him spell it out. She would have made a damn fine barrister were women allowed such an occupation. She would ask those questions while making love, and he
enthusiastically responded, telling her everything he wanted to do to her in exquisite detail. “In you.”

Her throat constricted as she swallowed, but he smelled the change in her body. She was not loath to the prospect of bedding him again, not in the least. Christ, they were a fine pair. Perverse, both of them.

“You will help me find James in exchange for the use of my body?”

Put like that, it sounded so cold, but it was far from that. He burned for her, and if she planned to leave him again—or dispose of him in some other way—when he had served his purpose, then he would take of her what he could. “Whenever I want, yes.”

She thought about it for a moment, no doubt searching out some way to use his base desires to her own advantage. “If I say no, will you force me?”

That her opinion of him was so low shouldn't surprise him—didn't surprise him—but it angered him all the same. “I'm not a rapist, madam.”