Let the Night Begin (6 page)

“Come here,” she murmured with a gentle tug. Drunk and unbalanced, he fell into her arms. She caught him—held him like a child. “Close your eyes.”

He did so with a smile. “Are you going to ravish me?”

“Yes,” she replied against the rough stubble of his throat. The young man moaned encouragingly when she touched his warm flesh with her tongue. Hunger and instinct rose to the surface. Her fangs lengthened as saliva filled her mouth and her tongue tingled with anticipation.

His arms went around her, tightening when her teeth pierced his neck. He was hard and young and warm against her, and she felt every pulse of his body reverberate in her own. He tasted of youth and whiskey and she drank deep, taking him into her, letting him fill her with all the sweetness flooding his veins.

Olivia closed her eyes as she fed, and glad that he was a stranger, pretended that he was someone else.

Pretended he was Reign.

 

Reign was by nature, a suspicious man. That suspicion was what made him write and leave a note for Saint. Last evening he gave it to a fence with whom the other vampire did business. Ezekiel would know where Saint was long before Reign ever did. They didn't communicate very often—not because they didn't want to, but because after six centuries of friendship, they didn't
need
to.

There was a sum of money tucked in the folded note—payment for a wager he and Saint made a long time ago. Saint had wagered that Olivia
would someday return, a notion Reign had declared utter shite. They had shaken hands, and Reign assumed they'd continue on their path toward eternity with neither of them ever becoming any richer.

Saint would have a laugh at his expense, of that there could be no doubt, but at least he would have an idea of whom to expect an explanation from if Reign failed to return from Scotland.

Did he honestly believe Olivia could kill him? The question voiced itself in his mind as he strode across the polished stone floor of his foyer, the tapping of his boot heels keeping time with the rattle of carriage wheels outside. He had finished the last of his arrangements and now all he had to do was await Olivia's arrival.

The answer was no. He didn't believe Olivia could kill him
herself
. If she hadn't done it thirty years ago, she couldn't do it now. But he had no such certainty when it came to allowing him to be killed by someone else. He didn't want to think her capable, but he had hurt her in the worst way, and it was possible that she truly hated him enough to hand-feed him to the lions.

All the more reason to keep a close eye on her and use whatever weapons at his disposal to uncover her secrets. After what he had done, he owed her his help in finding her nephew, but trust? No, he didn't owe her that at all. He wouldn't give her that until she earned it.

The fact that she had agreed to sleep with him proved that she wasn't to be trusted. No woman would give herself to a man she claimed to despise unless the end result was worth it. How in the name of holy hell would having sex with him help her get her nephew back?

Unless, of course, she was hoping to lull him into submission with her feminine wiles.

Feminine wiles
. Did people use phrases like that anymore? Sometimes it was so hard to keep up with the ever changing English language.

And if that were true, why had she refused to go out with him the night before when he called on her? The thought of feeding seemed to bother her, or perhaps it was the thought of having him with her that made her so pale. He didn't understand it. It wasn't as though he had offered her his blood—that was far more intimate than sex and he knew she'd never agree to that.

Unless of course, it suited her schemes.

Regardless, trying to figure Olivia out was pointless until he knew more about what she had been up to the last thirty years. He'd tried in the beginning to keep tabs on her, but she kept sending his investigators back to him with broken bones. Finally, his pride—and pity for the poor investigators—forced him to give up.

“What have you found out?” he demanded as he swept open the door to his study. Clarke was there, waiting in a chair in front of the desk, just as
Reign knew he would be. There was also a bottle of brandy and two snifters on the blotter. Clarke knew him too well.

“A fair bit,” the man replied, reaching forward to pour the brandy. “I'm not sure if any of it will be helpful to you, however.”

“If it gives me any insight into my wife, it will be helpful.”

Clarke smiled faintly, deepening several of the lines around his mouth and eyes. “So echoes the plaintive prayer of husbands everywhere.”

Reign cocked both brows. “Spoken like a true, confirmed bachelor.”

“I don't expect to be anything but, since they won't allow my kind to marry. Hell, after that mess with Wilde, I'm leery of approaching another man, much less engaging in a relationship.”

“Wilde ended up where he did not because he likes boys, but because he liked the wrong one. Queensberry took the relationship as a personal affront, and that's what got Wilde in trouble.”

“So, as long as I never fall in love with the son of a marquess, I should be safe?”

“Exactly.”

They shared a small smile and that was the end of the conversation. Reign appreciated the unfairness of Clarke's plight. He just wasn't sure he could understand it. He could understand that it wasn't fair that vampires couldn't go out in sunlight, but having sex with another man? That was beyond
him. Who'd want to lay with a man when there were such soft, supple, delicious women to choose from?

Reign seated himself on the other side of the desk, in the thickly padded chair that molded to his body, engulfing him in hedonistic comfort. He lit a cigar without bothering to offer one to Clarke—his valet didn't smoke—and took a drink from the crystal snifter as he braced the ankle of one leg on the thigh of the other.

“Are you settled?” Clarke asked with a smile. It was a joke to him how Reign liked to have everything a certain way before they began a meeting. For Reign it was practice in maintaining a façade of humanity. Clarke wouldn't find it nearly so amusing if that façade were to slip too far.

“I'm good,” Reign replied. “What have you found?”

Clarke slipped a pair of spectacles over his ears and opened a small, leather-bound book. “It is true that she became guardian of her nephew James Andrew Winscott Burnley upon the death of his mother, Rosemary. A carriage accident.”

Reign knew that. “What of the boy's father?”

Clarke shook his graying head. “I could find no mention of him. I can look into the boy's certificate of birth, see if it's listed there.”

“Do that.” If the father was still alive, he might be involved in James's disappearance somehow. Especially if the man was looking for a little re
venge against the woman who had taken his son. He could speculate until the dawn and still not be any closer to the truth. “What else?”

“Young Mr. Burnley was a good student at school, but was sent down on several occasions for usual boyish mischief.”

No doubt Olivia gave the boy a good head-reading for that. “What of his friends and companions?”

“He had a large circle of friends in school, but for the last year he's been spending more and more time with some young bucks from the upper classes.” Clarke consulted the pages before him. “Misters Binchley, Haversham, and Dashbrooke. I believe you know Mr. Dashbrooke.”

Reign nodded. “Portly fellow. Bald. Tried to talk me into investing in some gold scheme in the Americas?”

Clarke smiled, and Reign paused. Had he said something wrong? Damn, was
Americas
the wrong term?

“Yes,” Clarke replied. “That's the man.”

“Did anything come up about the boys or their fathers?”

“No. Only that they are wealthy, fairly powerful, and extremely lucky.”

“Lucky?” Interesting. “How so?”

Clarke shrugged. “Horses. Political favor. Business. Either the men are very savvy or they're extremely fortunate in their choices.”

“Or they have many friends willing to pull
strings in their favors. Perhaps James stepped on the wrong toes? What of Olivia?”

Another glance at the book. “She keeps a quiet existence wherever she goes. As of late she's been living in the south, in Clovelly.”

Reign closed his eyes and drew a breath. Clovelly. Yes, he should have known. He opened his eyes to find Clarke watching him. “Do you know it?” the other man asked.

“Yes.” They had taken a house there for a while. A little secret getaway where they didn't have to worry about gossip and society's rules. Olivia loved the shore, the smell and call of the ocean. At night they'd swim naked and make love on the beach, with the surf crashing around them. Stupid things Clarke didn't need to know. Fucking stupid things Reign didn't want to say aloud. “What else?”

“Well, of course I wasn't able to go there and talk to anyone, but my contacts didn't unearth anything. The only thing of interest is that Clovelly and its neighbors seem to have an awful lot of young men who go missing.”

Damn. Reign raised a brow. “Dead–and-there-is-no-body missing, or ‘Oh dear, we've misplaced Harold' missing?”

Clarke chuckled. “Disappear-at-night-and-wake-up-in-a-strange-place-with-no-memory-of-how-they-got-there missing.”

“You think it's Olivia feeding?”

“I do.”

“But only from young men?” Was that jealousy in his voice?

Clarke looked far too smug for a mortal. “I thought to ask if the young men had anything in common. Turns out that the majority of them were rugged young men with dark brown or black hair and gray or green eyes. Were she to have killed them, I'd say she was acting out her fantasies of you.”

Reign looked away, his heart clenching too tightly in his chest for him to speak. He couldn't explain this feeling even if he wanted. An exchange of blood between lovers was so deeply intimate. He and Olivia had never had the chance to share such an experience. He knew what it was to pierce her flesh, but not the sublime pleasure of having her bite him. He thought of what that would be like often. To have her sink her fangs into his flesh rather than simply taking the flow of blood he offered.

He thought of her licking the blood from his lips in Mrs. Willet's parlor when they shared their first kiss in three decades. He had wanted her more than he could ever remember wanting her before. She had wanted him as well. Of course, sex had never been an issue between them. Sex had led to them falling in love.

Were Olivia's hunting choices revenge fantasies as Clarke suggested, or fantasies of another kind? And if she kept her word and gave her body to him,
was there a chance that he might win her heart once more? Did he want to?

“Oh, and word came from the hospital,” his friend remarked, his expression darkening. “The priest—Father Abberley is dead.”

“Dead?” Christ, how was he going to tell Olivia? “Is that all?”

Clarke was watching him, his expression carefully blank. “For now. Shall I continue my investigation while you are gone?”

“Yes. Dig as deep as you have to. And quickly. I want to know what I'm up against.”

His wording, and his timing, couldn't have been any more perfect, for at that exact moment, there came a knock upon the door and his housekeeper informed him that Mrs. Gavin had arrived.

“We'll be at the Edinburgh house before dawn,” he remarked needlessly as he rose to his feet. Clarke was well aware of his schedule, having been the one to make the arrangements. “You know how to contact me.”

His friend rose to his feet as well. “You will be careful, won't you?”

Reign made a scoffing sound. “Of course.”

“No, I mean it.” Reign hadn't heard such insistence in his old friend's voice in a long time. “Promise me you won't trust her—not before I can prove whether or not she deserves it.”

Clarke's concern was touching, but unnecessary. Reign wasn't about to let his guard down.
“I promise. I'll be in touch if I need anything. Send me whatever information you can as soon as possible.”

They shook hands and Reign walked away, trying to ignore the worry in the other man's eyes. Honestly, sometimes Clarke was worse than a woman when it came to worrying.

He left the office and strolled to the foyer, where his wife was waiting. The wife he could see, could touch, could maybe even taste, but couldn't trust.

Not even if he wanted to.

Haddington, Scotland

R
eginald Dashbrooke turned away from the sun-dappled view of his window with a sigh. “I'm bored. Why does Binchley get to return to London and I don't?”

His father, bald, portly, with a face of a bulldog—
thank God, Reggie looked like his mother
—removed a much chewed cigar from his mouth with thick fingers. “Because our ranks are so thinned lately, we needed someone in London to make sure our friends there are doing what they ought.”

His father was always spoke so cryptically, as though he suspected every conversation might be overheard. By what, Reggie wondered? Ghosts behind the walls? Pixies at the windows? At one time it might have been laughable, but that was before Reggie learned that vampires truly existed. Now, sometimes even he found himself wondering if he was being watched though there was no
one in sight. “Are they? Doing what they ought, I mean?”

“The lady found what we left for her at St. Martin's. I expect that if she did not believe we were serious to begin with, she does now.”

This was one of the moments when Reggie had to remind himself that these were vampires they were discussing, not actual people. Vampires weren't human and he shouldn't feel badly for them. Should he? He couldn't quite understand if the organization his father had brought him into hated vampires or revered them. Maybe both?

“Why do we have to bring them here?” Reggie asked, pouring himself a glass of port. “Why couldn't we have taken them in London?”

“Bringing them here was the only way we could ensure our complete control over the situation. Our numbers in England are greatly diminished at the present, you know that. It took a great number to seize the Cromwell entity and arrange its transportation. And now the London contingent is preparing for the Harvest.”

Reggie didn't know what the “Harvest” detailed, or what was being harvested, but he was quite sure he didn't want to know. He was still new to all of this and had yet to embrace it as his cronies had.

But he knew that the Cromwell entity was a vampire. A very old and very dangerous vampire, whom his father's brothers in the Order of
the Silver Palm somehow had managed to secure. There had been much celebrating that night when the news came that the one called Temple was in the Order's custody. Reggie couldn't help but wonder if the vampire had made it easy for them, if perhaps the very creature the Order thought they controlled was simply waiting for the change to rip them all apart.

“How is our young guest faring?” his father asked, sucking on his cigar once more. “Is he comfortable?”

“He acts like this is a big adventure.” Reggie couldn't keep the distaste from his voice. James was his friend, and this entire situation didn't sit well with him, no matter how many times his father tried to make him believe it was in everyone's best interest. His father, Reggie had long ago decided, was not a trustworthy man, and while his praise and pleasure might be grandiose in nature, his cruelty could be just as overwhelming. Reggie had experienced that cruelty many times during his life.

His father chuckled. “It is! Perhaps you should look at it in the same light, my boy.”

Reggie knew better than to shrug, so he nodded instead. “Yes, sir.” But he couldn't resist adding, with just a hint of censure, “He doesn't realize that he's a prisoner.”

“He's a
guest
, Reginald,” his father corrected. “Our guest. Without him, this would not be pos
sible, and we will reward him amply for all that he has given us.”

Reggie turned to him, suddenly very anxious to hear the truth, no matter what. “And if this fails? If we fail, what then?”

Another chuckle, but there was no humor in his father's expression. “We will not fail.”

He tried another route. Aware that he was risking his father's wrath and, surprisingly, nowhere near as frightened by that prospect as he should be, he asked, “What if he's no longer an asset to us? Would you actually kill him?” Now that he had asked, looking into his father's porcine eyes, he wished he could take the question back.

His father looked at him with a loving, almost teasing smile. “My dear boy, I'd even kill
you
.”

 

“You have your own train car?” Olivia gazed around the opulent space with a mixture of awe and derision. Part of that derision stemmed from her own pettiness, she knew that.

“I'm forced to travel a lot,” Reign replied easily. It was a simple explanation, not a defense. He obviously didn't feel that he needed to explain himself to her, after all, hadn't she been the one to point out that they had been separated far longer than they had been together?

She traveled often as well, but she didn't have her own train car. This was beyond luxury and extravagance as far as Olivia was concerned, with
its separate sleeping area that housed a huge bed and chest of drawers, adjacent to a small bathroom with toilet, sink, and claw-foot tub. There was a dining area as well, plus a sofa and chair in shades of rich blue to complement the cherry paneling. A small bar sat against the opposite wall, and Olivia had no doubt it would be well stocked with the finest spirits.

All of the furniture was bolted to the floor to prevent it from moving with the rolling of the train. Heavy gold-, blue-, and wine-patterned drapes adorned the windows to block out the daytime sun. Polished brass sconces with crystal shades held lamps that burned sweet-scented oil. An Aubusson carpet in the same pattern as the curtains cushioned her every step. Oh, so opulent.

And she wanted one of her own, damn it.

Whenever she left a place she simply let the lease expire and moved on. She never purchased a home, never put down any kind of roots. She never saw the point. Obviously, Reign disagreed. It was easy to resent him for that. It was easy to resent him for almost anything she put her mind to.

Especially the fact that she could still taste him, even though nights had passed since the kiss they'd shared. He clung to her lips and tongue as though he had claimed them with his own just moments before. It had only been a drop. Just a drop. She had fed since then, on young robust men who had given her more of their salty sweetness than Reign
had ever afforded. And now, standing here with him, in this…box, she was all too aware of the spicy, slightly sweet scent of him, the gentle heat of his body, and the overwhelming presence that was his alone.

That same presence that had overwhelmed her years ago, drew her out of her widowhood and overshadowed all memories, even the good ones, of her first husband. She had risked scandal on a regular basis with Reign and hadn't cared one whit.

Reign had closed the door behind them when they entered, and now he locked it as well. She was trapped with him now, and while her body might thrill at the idea of being so close to the one man who could make her quiver with just a look, her mind was as wary of it as a caged animal.

Her luggage had been loaded on by one of Reign's footmen and was neatly stacked in the bedroom area. The trip wouldn't necessitate her having to unpack as they would be in Edinburgh within a matter of hours. It was peculiar, however, seeing her cases set so neatly beside Reign's like they were part of a matched set. And they did match, odd as that was. That irked her as well. A reminder of how at one time she believed
them
to be a perfect match.

“A house in one of the most fashionable areas of London.” She pulled off her gloves and tossed them on the sofa. “A house in Scotland and a private
train car to get there. Do you have other addresses attached to your name? Perhaps an apartment in Paris, or a villa in Spain?”

He smiled slightly at her sarcasm. “I have a handful of permanent properties scattered across Europe and one in New York City. You may have a set of keys for the Paris apartment if you wish.”

That was tempting. “Such extravagance,” her tone was sweetly mocking. “And here I thought you were a simple businessman.”

“I am a businessman,” he replied smoothly as he stripped off his coat. “I've had the advantage of six centuries to learn the right ways to conduct my business and I've used that knowledge to my advantage.”

“I wager you have.” What angered her more—that he seemed so unruffled or that he looked so good in his shirtsleeves? No, it was the fact that she realized just how good he looked the less clothing he wore.

He had the audacity to laugh. “You needn't be so snippety, Liv. Everything I own is yours too.”

That announcement hit her like a shove in the chest. “What was that?”

Oh, he looked so pleased with himself now. His eyes were bright and there was no trying to hide his smile. Big white teeth flashed in the lamplight. “Your name is on all my assets. Should I somehow manage to die one day, everything I own will be transferred to you.”

For a moment, Olivia couldn't find her ability to speak, she was so shocked. “Why would you admit to that? Are you not afraid that I might kill you and stake my claim?”

He shook his head. A curling lock of inky hair fell over his forehead. “Besides assuming that you would want nothing to do with anything of mine? You're not a murderer.”

Little did he know that she might very well be leading him to his grave by taking him to Scotland. The thought brought a peculiar tightness to her chest. “I almost killed you before.”

“Had you truly wanted to, I think you would have succeeded, but perhaps that's just wishful thinking on my part.”

“Why?” She shook her head, unable to comprehend his logic, or his smile. “Why would you want to make me your heir?”

“You're my wife.”

“We've been apart longer than my life as a mortal, Reign. Surely there must be someone you would rather see benefit from all you've amassed? Someone else who could benefit from your generosity.”

His expression changed. Gone was any trace of humor, replaced by an honesty and openness that made her wince inside. “Because you are still my wife, and as far as I'm concerned you always will be. Everything I have is yours—in life as well as death.”

As Olivia's stomach lurched under the weight of his confession, the train lurched as well, beginning its trek north to Scotland. She stumbled into Reign, knocking them both against the wall so that her front was pressed to his. She lifted her chin and met his gaze, dreading but wanting to see the truth in his eyes. And there it was.

She was going to burn in hell for betraying him. They could burn together.

Reign's fingers wrapped around her upper arms—warm and firm. He could snap her like a twig and yet she had no fear for her life. No, there were other things she feared for. Like her honor and her soul. Her heart.

“You always did knock me off center,” he mused softly, his voice a rumble that she felt through the layers of clothing between them.

She opened her mouth, not sure of what to say but determined to say something that would wake her from this dream, but nothing came out.

“Speechless,” he mused with a seductive smile as he released her arms. “Imagine that.”

The train was moving smoothly now, slowly picking up speed. She could have moved away from him and put a stop to the madness spiraling inside her, but she didn't. Instead she reached up and touched the tips of her fingers to the feathery lines fanning out from the corner of his eye toward his temple and cheekbone.

“You always complained that these made you
look old,” she remarked, touching each fine furrow. “But I loved how they deepened whenever you smiled.”
Back up. Back up and move away now, before you do something stupid like fall in love.

His eyes were the color of thunderclouds as she met his gaze, and just as full of turmoil. She had agreed to share his bed once they had reached Scotland, and they were nowhere near Scotland just yet. Geography, she feared, mattered not at this moment. Not when he was lowering his head toward hers, and she was lifting hers in turn.

Reign's mouth could look so hard and unyielding at times, but when their lips touched, she sighed at the pliant warmth of his. Silky smooth and firm, they moved against her own, lazily caressing.

The hands that had held her arms just moments before came up to cup her head. His palms were large against her skull, long fingers massaged her scalp. Her eyelids fluttered at the deliciousness of his touch, and she let her neck relax, leaning into his grasp.

They were pressed together from breast to thigh. Every nerve in between tingled at the contact, despite the layers separating them. Olivia slid her hands down the solid shelf of Reign's chest, to his ribs. Beneath the silk of his waistcoat and the linen of his shirt, she felt the muscled plain of his stomach and stroked it with her thumbs.

When his tongue finally breached her mouth,
Olivia welcomed the hot, wet intrusion with a moan. He tasted her, nipped at her lips with his teeth. Olivia drew back from the sharpness of his fangs. He eased the pressure, but didn't let her go. Slowly, she eased back into his embrace. He wasn't going to bite her. Thank God. Her body, she would give him willingly, but she would not subject herself to the awful violation of those teeth.

His lips left hers to follow the line of her jaw to her ear. She gasped as he sucked at her earlobe and shuddered with delight as he moved lower, down the side of her throat to the sensitive hollow between her neck and shoulder. His breath was humid on her skin, his stubble a seductive rasp. Shivers raced down her spine. Her breasts tightened, her nipples hardening to the point of aching as a sweet throb began to build between her thighs.

God, how she had missed this.

She shoved herself away from him. His fingers pulled from her hair as she did so, yanking some of the pins out. She barely felt the pain. With her gaze locked on his, Olivia unfastened her pelisse and peeled the close-fitting garment off. Then, she turned her back to her husband.