Never Been Bitten (3 page)

He was sincere. Or if not, he gave a bloody good impression of it.

His eyes were rapt on her face, as if he had been searching for her all his life. His gaze had softened, making his features less harsh and more open. His arms cradled her gently, his hands splayed at the curve between waist and hips. He was being far more familiar than anyone of her acquaintance—far more familiar than any right-minded young lady should allow—but Ellie was so enamored by the idea of having entranced
him
that she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.

His lips parted. Hers did too, mostly because she was having trouble remembering to breathe. Her lips suddenly felt too dry. She edged out the tip of her tongue to lick them and gasped when his hold tightened painfully. She felt strangely powerful, as if she truly were beautiful.

He lowered his face to hers. His eyes were no longer the crystal green of the sea, but rather a shimmering black. Rather than try to process the transformation, Ellie cleared her mind and let her own eyes flutter closed. She was going to be kissed for the first time. And she was going to enjoy it.

Her brow creased when the delicious pressure of his parted lips brushed the base of her throat rather than her waiting mouth. The sharp edge of bared teeth grazed the tender skin at the curve of her neck. He wasn’t going to kiss her—he was going to bite her!

Instinct forced her to react at lightning speed. But instead of shoving him away as she could’ve sworn she had instructed her limbs to do, Ellie returned the favor and sank her own teeth into his cravat-free neck.

Mutual shock held them immobile for an interminable moment. Realizing the ignominy of what she’d just done, Ellie pulled away in horror before he could thrust her from him bodily. To label him thunderstruck would be the understatement of the century.

He touched his neck with the tip of a finger. The pad of his white glove came away pink with blood.

“Good Lord,” he growled, his expression fierce. “Did you just
bite
me?”

Chapter Two

For the first time in centuries, seasoned warrior Mártainn Macane was nothing short of gobsmacked.

From across the ballroom, he’d been certain the ethereal creature with the wispy red-blond curls was the runaway bride he’d blood-sworn two centuries before to capture and return to his laird, uniting the most powerful clans.

After a closer look, he’d been even more certain that this lass was not his laird’s betrothed. First, she was too young. Granted, vampire bodies ceased aging at the hour of their deaths, but the Deserter had been in her late twenties when she’d succumbed, and this waif wasn’t a day over twenty-two. Even in the dark, she was the picture of youthful innocence. But the most inarguable evidence was the girl’s panicked breathing and rapid heartbeat. If vampires’ hearts continued to beat, they wouldn’t need to consume blood.

Yet—the lass had
bitten
him. What the devil was he supposed to make of that? He would force an answer from her, if necessary.

Possessed of preternatural vision, Cain could clearly make out the uncommon beauty disguised in commoners’ clothing before him. For maximum intimidation, however, he needed to be certain she could see him just as clearly.

He swung her back through the open doorway and into the ballroom. The Chinese folding screen still hid them from the masses, but the candles flickering on the chandeliers overhead mottled them both in shifting patches of light. Either the Deserter had donned a human guise capable of fooling the most celebrated hunter of Clan Mac Eoin (which was impossible on all counts) or the redoubtable Miss Elspeth Ramsay had a wee bit of explaining to do.

“Speak,” he commanded.

Miss Ramsay’s crystal blue eyes stared up at him, her expression nothing short of horrified. Slender, petal-pink lips parted, but nary a word escaped. Just visible was a row of clean, white teeth. A single drop of crimson stained the blunt point of her left incisor. The sight of his own blood held him spellbound.

In spite of himself, Cain was almost painfully aroused. Even though her inexplicable assault was more mystifying than maddening, he could not tamp down the sharp yearning in his soul. No human had ever dreamt of biting him. That mating ritual was for vampire clans alone. And he hadn’t set foot in his homeland for over two hundred years. Oh, how he longed for Scotland, even now.

Were Miss Ramsay a vampire, her incisors would have been much longer, much sharper. Were she a vampire, he could have her. Och, were she a vampire, she would not be staring up at him with her face full of fear and a drop of her victim’s blood still glistening on her teeth.

He, a victim! The incongruity nearly incited him to throttle her. He was a warrior first, a vampire second, a victim never. And to have been surprised by a living girl, of all creatures. The humanity fairly steamed from her.

“Speak,” he repeated hoarsely.

She remained frozen in silence.

Even more confounding was the undeniable fact that she’d twice ignored his command. As far as Cain knew, resistance was impossible. Human minds were unable to withstand the will of a powerful vampire. Even more potent was a vampire’s spoken word. In centuries of history, he’d never heard of a human failing to obey vampiric Compulsion. Was it possible the girl was in too much shock to process her environment?

“Speak,” he said again, but this time gently, so as not to startle her overmuch.

The tip of her tongue nudged between the parted edges of her (very normal, very human) teeth.

Rapt, his entire body tensed in fascination.

The tip curled over her incisor, trapping the sole drop of blood between her tooth and tongue. Her pupils contracted, giving her iris the unsettling appearance of a solid disc of icy blue. Her chest stopped moving and no breath escaped her pink mouth. Her heart slowed—or perhaps time itself stopped as Miss Ramsay’s tongue disappeared once again, taking that single drop of his blood with it.

Music crashed down around them, and the moment was gone.

Leather boots and satin slippers slapped methodically across the floor as the brainless hive trampled about the parquet on the other side of the folding screen. Perhaps it was simply acute homesickness that was making him uncharacteristically torpid, imagining significance where there was none.

With a strangled gasp, Miss Ramsay clasped a white-gloved hand to her face as if holding back bile. Her eyes were normal, if a bit glassy and over-wide. Her breathing was shallow. She looked as if she might bolt at any second.

Cain bit back a frustrated sigh. She was clearly not the vampire he’d been seeking for centuries . . . but she was troublesome nonetheless.

Before Miss Ramsay’s arrival into his life, he had been on his single longest run of successful love nips (as the ton was wont to call them) in ballrooms across England. A slight sting where the curve of his neck met the muscle of his shoulder proved a reminder that the skin there had been broken. He could scarcely credit that the chit had succeeded where he had not.

He gentled his hold on Miss Ramsay and whirled her around the folding screen and back into the tide of dancers. Part of his carefully crafted mystique was never to abscond with fair maidens for a second longer than it took to take a sip of ambrosia and turn the memory into a half-remembered dream. He would not allow Miss Ramsay’s unprecedented counterattack to ruin his acceptance in Society. The more invitations extended to “Lord Lovenip,” the better chance he had of locating the Deserter.

Meanwhile, he would solve the puzzle of Miss Ramsay.

She released her lower lip from between her teeth and finally met his eyes. “I—I didn’t mean to bite you.”

Unquestionably. He gave her a half smile. “Then why did you?”

Miss Ramsay blushed. The blood rising to kiss the pale softness of her cheeks was nearly Cain’s undoing.

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

He believed her. Miss Ramsay was hardly one of his kind. She was far stranger. “I believe it’s safe to say that you’re not like the other ladies.”

“Certainly not.” Her chin rose defiantly. “I’m smarter.”

His amusement was overshadowed only by his interest in her choice of adjectives. She hadn’t said she was prettier, or wealthier, or better connected. She’d chosen an attribute for which no one in the room cared one whit. Well, except for him. A warrior prized intelligence above all other traits.

“You’re certainly less predictable,” he agreed, pleased to see the blood rise to her cheeks anew at the reminder. He leaned closer. She smelled so fresh, so fragile, so
alive
. He should have kissed her when they were hidden in the gardens. “Are you from this part of the country? Or are you a city miss, barely surviving until the Season is upon us again?”

If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he might have missed the tiny frown that flickered between her brows.

“Neither.” She broke eye contact, shifting her gaze over his shoulder. “And you?”

A pretty evasion . . . Cain wondered why she felt it necessary. “I was born on the Isle of Mull, but I’ve now been in England more years than I lived in Scotland.”

Her focus returned to his face. “Is it beautiful? Your homeland, I mean?”

He smiled despite the pain in his heart. “Very. Have you never had the opportunity to visit?”

She shook her head.

“You ought, if you get the chance.” It occurred to him she might not have the means for extensive travel; then he discarded the thought as nonsense. Country ball or not, one was not invited to rub noses with this set of people if they did not believe their guest to be of means. “Have you traveled much?”

“More than I prefer to have done.” An expression flashed across her face too quickly to decipher. Anger? Distaste? Regret? “Are you afflicted with wanderlust, my lord?”

“To lust,” he said with a wicked smile, “and not the slightest inclination to wander.”

As hoped, the blush once again rose to her porcelain cheeks. Miss Ramsay was by far the most fetching female in the entire region. No doubt their dancing together after having stepped behind the Oriental folding screen would add a new page to the betting books on the morrow. After having treated himself to a pretty neck, he refrained from further dalliance—meaning Lord Lovenip had never continued to dance attendance upon anyone he’d sequestered for a quick bite. And here he was—swirling a young lady about the room long after, with not a hope of disguising his enjoyment of the flirtation.

“You’re shameless,” she admonished.

He grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

“And highly inappropriate,” she added.

He pulled her closer and dipped his head to whisper in her ear. “You wound my sensibilities, madam.”

She shook her head in consternation and amusement. Not the reaction he usually effected, but then, Miss Ramsay was not the usual sort of female. He was having far more fun than he’d had on his previous dances added together.

“I doubt you
have
any sensibilities,” she said tartly.

Rather than reply, he allowed his gaze to settle on her lips. Ninety-nine times he’d whisked an English rose into a garden for a quick nip at her neck, and for the first time, he’d rather kiss one senseless. Miss Ramsay gazed at him with sharp intelligence, rather than mindless flirtation. She kept her secrets to herself and turned his questions back upon him rather than prattle endlessly about nonsense. And after centuries of witnessing human interaction, this was the first time he honestly couldn’t guess what a mortal would say or do next.

He only hoped it involved kissing.

The melody closed on a crescendo. The musicians set down their instruments for a brief intermission. Propriety demanded he release Miss Ramsay from his embrace. Cain did so, blaming his distraction for not having Compelled the orchestra to keep playing. He bowed. She dipped in the briefest of curtseys and slipped away amongst the milling nobility.

The moment the musicians returned, he would secure her hand for another dance. He would purloin her at the first opportunity, abduct her back out to the gardens, and tempt a hunger that had nothing to do with blood. He yearned to taste
her,
to feel her breath on his skin, the warmth of her flesh, the flutter of her heart beating against his chest.

But when the music resumed, she was gone.

Cain searched the ballroom, then the peripheral rooms, then the entire grounds. Nothing. She had disappeared without a word. Without even letting him know how to reach her, should he wish to do so.

He wished for much more than that.

Luckily, a woman like that could hardly escape notice. Her being the recipient of an invitation meant
someone
had to know her well enough to invite her. Besides, the upper circles were woven so close that he was undoubtedly the only person present who hadn’t had the pleasure of receiving her card. He would have her direction in a trice.

“My apologies.” He paused before a clump of florid peacocks. “Could any of you tell me Miss Ramsay’s direction?”

The gentlemen screwed up their faces at him as if he’d spoken Gaelic. “Who?”

“Miss Elspeth Ramsay. Red-blond hair, dimple in her left cheek, impertinent but undeniably bonny . . .” Cain trailed off as he realized both his words and the accompanying hand gestures were most likely ill-advised in polite society. “That is to say, the lovely young woman I was just dancing with.”

A passing viscountess came to a sharp halt upon overhearing this last. There! He knew finding a simple direction wouldn’t be that difficult.

“Did you dance the last waltz?” she asked, blinking as if just having awoken from a deep sleep. She rapped his shoulder with a painted fan. “Horrid, horrid beast. You well know I would love to be your . . . partner.”

Cain made the expected flirtatious replies and circled about the room, growing more and more incredulous after each frustrating encounter. Not a soul could help him. For the first time since he’d entered Society, the lords and ladies had taken their eyes from him—just long enough to have missed his waltz partner (and the detour into the gardens) entirely.