made a move to pick up his hat and start for the door.
“Wait!”
He turned to see her stuffing the money between her large, plumped-up tits, wadding the notes down below the scooped neck of her bodice, between the sweaty lumps of her flesh.
“I have a girl available. A vicar’s daughter, left homeless. She is most definitely a virgin. A true innocent, quite frightened and apprehensive, even though she goes willing to her fate for the welfare of her younger siblings. She was promised to the Earl of Huntingdon. She could, however, be yours, for one thousand pounds.”
Christ, it was a bloody fortune. But to steal the virgin who would have spread her thighs for the Earl of Huntingdon? It would be worth it. He wrote a vowel for the rest, and to his surprise, the madam accepted it.
No doubt, she thought he would return after he’d sampled the vicar’s daughter. He’d crave another virgin, just as her noble clients did. With a snap of her fingers, she sent a brawny footman to lead him to the bedroom. He found it empty. He sat on the edge of the bed but would not begin to undress until the girl was brought to him.
He’d trusted once—bought a virgin and stripped down in preparation, only to find the brothel was more interested in stealing his money, beating him blind, then throwing him out. But the stupid madam and her brutes had not understood what a vampire slayer was capable of doing with a weapon.
Ryder drew out a cheroot. He moved to the fireplace and lit the smoke from the licking flames. The room was opulent, a sign that it did cater to refined tastes.
God, he was hard with anticipation. His John Thomas strained against his linens. His arousal made him restless, angry. He should be in pursuit of Miss Miranda Bond tonight.
But he knew where she was headed. He would be on the road after he’d had his little treat, and he would travel faster than her.
With a click, the door opened. He swiveled on the bed as the footman brought in a tall, slender girl who wore a ghastly gray dress. A dress she’d worn from her home, or a costume? Her face was plain—freckled nose, pink cheeks, ivory skin. Her lashes were as mousy brown as her hair, but her skin and hair promised to be peach soft.
No seasoned whore could clean up like that. This girl was genuine. Her spine was stiff, her fists clenched. “Do you want me to take off my dress, sir?”
She was doing this to save her family. That sent a rush of blood to his rod. She thought she was going to nobly sacrifice herself.
“Let me undress you, love,” he said. “I’m very good and I’ll be gentle. This will be enjoyable for you.”
Her back twitched.
She looked nothing like Miranda Bond—who was blonde, with large blue eyes. Miss Bond was stunningly beautiful. But she was flawed. She was a creature of evil. Something he had to destroy.
This poor sweet angel was someone he would nurture for an hour. He could barely afford the money, but he would be giving her a wonderful experience—a night with him would be far better than being thrust into by a drunken earl.
He undid his cravat and tossed it aside. She was standing at the doorway, kneading her skirts in her fists. “Let’s undress you, love. That changes everything.”
She frowned at that. “I don’t want to be…undressed.”
“It seems strange to you now, but you’ll enjoy it. This is what you were meant to do—give yourself to a deserving man.”
The vicar’s daughter gave a half-laugh, half-sob at that.
She had no idea what he was saving her from.
The wench smelled of a heavily flower scented soap, the soap the whores of this place must use. On one of them it would be sickening—on her it was poignant.
He would rescue her in this small way. He had the money. Why shouldn’t vampire slayers be as inventive as Bow Street Runners? He took private commissions, and for some vampires, he took payment to leave them alive. And to protect them, up to a point. Many vampires had amassed fortunes, using their power, strength, and the advantage of time, endless time, to become wealthy men.
What else would they do with their money than use it to keep cheating death?
Ryder stripped to his shirt. She was watching him, with her plain bodice rising and falling. “Take down your hair for me.” He wanted to watch the tresses fall as he kicked off his boots and took off his trousers.
She bent her head slowly, obediently. She pulled at the pins. In a waft of sweet fragrance, her long brown hair fell down her back.
He sprawled back on the bed, but she didn’t join him. “Don’t make me impatient,” he warned. “I’ve paid good money for you. I know you won’t see it—no matter what that bitch of a madam told you. Please me well and I’ll give you something special. Something for you to keep to yourself.”
She looked horror-struck, but she began to unfasten her dress. This was how he wanted Miss Miranda Bond to be for him. Taking her clothes off with shaking fingers. If he narrowed his eyes, he could imagine this pasty-faced wench was Miss Bond.
The Royal Society would not disbar him, or destroy him, if he went about killing Miss Bond in his own way. They needed him too much, needed him to do the dirty work. To carry out the secret assassinations, like this one. They needed him to do things like hunt down the seemingly innocent sisters of gentlemen and make their deaths look like accidents.
But he had seen what Miss Bond could do.
Two weeks ago, she had laid her hand on the chest of a child who had been run down by a carriage. The body had been mangled. The thing was dead.
But beneath her touch, the body healed. The lifeless eyes took in light once more. The child had been resurrected by just the touch of Miss Bond’s hand.
He hadn’t believed it.
But the gentlemen of the Society had assured him it was true. The damned woman could raise the dead.
His mission was to kill her. Ryder understood what the old men of the Society wanted to do—destroy that which they couldn’t understand.
And in return for murdering a lovely, twenty-three-year-old woman, he would have a mansion in the country. He would live better than his father, Hiltshire, whose estates were impoverished.
Hell, he would enjoy that.
All that stood between him and everything he’d always planned for was one little gently bred lady. One simple death and he would have it all.
His cock lurched against his belly at the thought. He reached out and clasped the hand of his vicar’s daughter, who now stood trembling in her shift. “Now, love,” he leered, “I’ll teach you how to suck me.” But first he pulled her to him, stuck his hand beneath her chemise, and gently worked his index finger up her tight, hot ass.
3
Touched
Chamber of the Scholomance
875 A.D.
Lukos
