in that crypt. She hadn’t understood. They’d never spared a vampire before. Father’s answers were vague and told her nothing. He kept so much to himself now, but she’d understood from disconnected snippets that he was hunting the creature he believed was the oldest of the undead. The first. The ghoul from which all others had spawned.
A whisper of fear shivered down Althea’s spine.
Could this man be that vampire? This man who had seduced her in her dreams?
No, impossible. Not if he was truly a peer of the realm.
Father would suffer a fit of apoplexy if he knew what she was about to do.
Crenshaw, Althea saw, was following their conversation. If anything, the portly innkeeper looked more confounded. “My lord, do you wish a room then, or do you wish to retire to the parlor with Miss Yates…” Crenshaw’s reedy voice died away and the man flushed.
Althea rolled her eyes. The innkeeper was mortified because he’d just suggested that the lord and an unmarried woman make use of a parlor alone in the middle of the night. How ridiculous after what they’d done together in her dreams.
But that hadn’t been real.
Trembling, she gazed into his lordship’s eyes. Seeking recognition? A clue? A hint of desire for her?
Black and bottomless, his eyes told her nothing.
“The parlor will be fine,” she snapped to Crenshaw, suddenly tense and irritable. Suddenly fearful she was far out of her depth. Should she turn and run?
Hell and the devil, she planned to hunt vampires! She couldn’t cower over a few dreams…even forbidden ones.
Softening her voice slightly, Althea turned to the vampire. Her…oh, goodness…her dream lover. “But first, my lord, might I have your name? You have not yet made yourself known to me.”
“You do not know who I am?”
She started. Damn shadows. She couldn’t read his expression. He must mean that many young English ladies knew who he was. Heaven knew, once seen he would never be forgotten. In her dreams, he had never bothered to introduce himself. She would not let him get away with that now.
“Until one month ago, my lord, I was living in the Carpathian Mountains and have done so since I was a young girl. So, no, I do not know who you are.”
“The Carpathians? But you are obviously English.”
How adeptly he kept avoiding the issue of his identity. “And you are—?”
He laughed. “I do love a blunt woman, sweet.” The murmured endearment washed over her. Spoken softly so Crenshaw wouldn’t hear.
“Then you won’t mind answering my question, my lord.” Althea moved down more steps. Only two separated them and this way she stood at his height. Now she could see his large black pupils, the smallest circle of colored iris surrounding them. A silvery blue, or was it green? So hard to tell under only the faintest fingers of light. And despite his fair coloring, he had thick, remarkably dark lashes. What her nanny had termed “eyes put in with a sooty finger.” Heavy-lidded eyes. His lashes swept down frequently, giving him a lazily cynical expression.
His gaze slid from her eyes to her throat. Her cross was hidden beneath the overlapped lapels of her wool wrapper, but he saw the chain. He smiled. Lifted his brows in a gesture that seemed to say he was awarding her a point.
“No, my dear. I won’t mind at all.”
He leaned closer, enveloping her in his tantalizing scent. The magical male scent from her dreams. An enthralling mix of sandalwood and smoke, shaving soap and masculine skin. She hungered to move closer, to feast on his smell. She wanted his smell on her, just as in her dreams. She wanted—
He winked as though he knew exactly what she wanted. “I am Yannick de Wynter, Earl of Brookshire.” His voice dropped to a low, thrumming whisper. “The man you plan to resurrect tomorrow is my brother.”
2
Captivated
So this was the siren who had entranced him in his dreams? Intrigued, Yannick drank in Miss Yates’ green eyes, hidden behind utilitarian spectacles, as they widened in charming astonishment. Thankfully she’d never worn those in his dreams. Her dreary flannel wrapper hinted at the curvaceous body which, in his sleep, responded so eagerly. Her skin’s perfume—lavender and dewy feminine perspiration—mingled with the alluring aroma of her rich blood. His nose detected a trace of something pungent. Rather like garlic. Garlic?
Yannick choked back a laugh. A vampire slayer’s trick. But garlic or garlic flowers had no effect on him.
“You are the Earl of Brookshire?” Miss Yates whispered as her fingers stroked the silver chain around her neck.
The soft, throaty timbre of her voice played its magic. Arousal shot through him and his cock stood up. A flare of heat rushed through his jaw, threatening the explosion of his fangs. Struggling, he controlled it, but they lengthened a little and jabbed his tongue.
“So you have heard of the Demon Twins.” He gave her a teasing smile.
He saw her cast a quick, sidelong glance toward Crenshaw. The man had retreated, but Yannick sensed the innkeeper kept an ear cocked to their conversation.
Originally bestowed upon us when we were mortal. All the more accurate now.
He wasn’t quite ready to brazenly admit to being a vampire in front of the curious innkeeper, so he chose a more intimate form of communication. He spoke in her mind.
Unfortunately, as a result, Miss Yates’ eyes were circles of horror and her pretty mouth dropped open in shock. She yanked the cross out from beneath her clothes and let it dangle before his eyes.
Yannick tormented himself with the irreverent image of her cross nestled in the lush valley between her full breasts, warmed by her pale, satin-smooth skin.
Miss Yates’ hair was as lovely as in his dreams. A magnificent color. A deep, dark red. Not auburn. Not quite burgundy, but darker than flame. Though the length of it was tamed in a thick braid, tendrils dangled over her forehead and danced around her cheeks. Nor was she as calm as she appeared—she had tucked her curls behind her right ear more than a dozen times.
So now you understand why I must speak to your father, Miss Yates.
She shook her head and whispered, “How do you do this? Speak in my head.”
We have a connection, Miss Yates. A connection through our dreams.
A bright pink flush washed over her lightly freckled cheeks. “Is that why you wish to talk to my father?” Sheer, raw panic flashed in her emerald eyes.
No, sweet. I’m not mad enough to admit to a man who could destroy me that I’ve made love to his daughter. Even if only in dreams.
Her response was entirely practical. “Promise?” she hissed.
I am a gentleman. My word can be trusted.
“But you are also
