calves, brushing over silky stockings, reaching her ruched garters…
Hands? Her garters?
Serena’s eyes snapped open. This was no naughty dream, and this was certainly not her bedchamber. Where was she?
The hands moved away. Dark—fathomless dark—surrounded her, and though she could not see, she knew the man—a real man, not a fantasy—still stood somewhere beside her. She felt the stirring of air across her skin, across everywhere—arms, thighs, belly, even breasts. She was naked! Except for her lower legs. The silkiness of her stockings touched her calves, and her garters bit into her legs. Her slippers were still on her feet.
Her head felt groggy, as though sheep’s wool stuffed it full, and a faint, sickly sweet scent teased her nose.
“Indeed,” agreed a different male voice. “A woman in stockings and garters and not a stitch else.”
A second man! Serena bit back a cry. He was somewhere in the dark, and he spoke with the sensual tones of the Italian tongue.
Goosebumps raced over her skin. She became aware of the tug in her muscles, the awkward position of her limbs, the sensation of being stretched apart.
Panic knifed through her. She was spread-eagled on a hard surface, her wrists and ankles firmly secured by—she shifted, slightly, felt the cool bite of metal against her skin—shackles.
She was captured.
The brothel. With a jolt of fear, Serena remembered the ornate doors facing Jermyn Street and the face that had leered out at her through the iron grill. A beefy footman with a thick neck and a scowl. He had taken a long look down her low bodice before ushering her inside. Laughter, smoke, heavy perfume—and a rich, ripe aroma she knew was the smell of sex. Lovely, seductive women had boldly flirted with many handsome, dangerous vampires. Gentlemen, to all outward appearances, but with one look she’d known they were Nosferatu.
Serena pulled again at her bonds as her blood ran ice cold. She was bound. Naked. In the dark. With vampires.
They had to know she was no courtesan, even though she’d been disguised as one. They had her clothes. In the sleeves of her scarlet gown, she’d tucked stakes. Down her bodice, she’d slipped a slim dagger and a vial of holy water. In the cavernous pocket of her skirt, she’d hidden a clever folding crossbow.
She had no weapons now. No mask. Nothing but her wits.
Why had they not killed her already?
“She is exquisite, is she not? And now, she is awake.” Deep, silky, the first vampire’s baritone voice compelled her to listen. Heat coursed through her blood at the sound of his voice. She knew, if he chose to, the vampire could incite carnal desire with just the whisper of his voice.
“Good evening, beautiful one,” the Italian male’s voice called cheerfully.
“What the…the hell do you think you are doing?” Serena cried out. She winced at the warble in her words. She had to sound fearless—like the most arrogant of the male slayers of the Royal Society—the commanding, autocratic Earl of Sommersby. Or like Drake Swift, all piss and vinegar and deadly confidence. “Let me go, damn you!”
Boot soles scraped across wood. Even in the dark, the vampires could see her every movement. Her expressions. Her nakedness.
If only she could conjure Mr. Swift or Lord Sommersby to her side now as easily as she did in her dreams.
“Don’t come near me!” She tried to wrench back. It was impossible. Clanks and rattles answered her frantic motions as the chains slapped the surface.
A third male spoke. “Light a candle. Mon dieu, the lady is at a disadvantage.”
And in response, yet more men laughed.
Her heart stopped for dizzying moments. How many could there be?
Fury and frustration and fear rushed through her. All she’d wanted was to find Dracul’s journal—she’d believed it had been worth risking her life for.
What a fool she’d been.
She fought rising panic—otherwise she had no hope of escape. Vampires behaved like a wolf pack. They would obey their leader. She’d been a governess, she’d dealt with undisciplined boys. She must pretend these dangerous demons were merely naughty schoolboys.
One of the vampires was still at her side, she realized. Even though he stood motionless, silent, she knew he was there. She knew his hands were above her face. There was no light, not even a hint of it at a draped window, and her eyes had not become accustomed. The room was hot, completely black, and that cloying, pungent scent filled her head…
She would have guessed the smell was solange…
When the oil of the solange flower was burned, the fumes would capture a vampire in a trancelike state. The undead would not burn solange. It was too dangerous for them. This must be a drug, an Eastern drug.
Or had they burned it because they sensed she was a vampire?
Even as the horrifying thought gripped her, Serena pushed it away. Why would they risk destroying themselves to subdue her?
The floor creaked, cloth whispered, and she turned toward the sound, staring into blackness. Air brushed her face. He was going to touch her!
“My name is Roman.” It was the owner of the first voice, the darkly sensual baritone. A sharp fingernail rasped along her lower lip, and she froze. Her lip tingled at the touch, the sensation horrifyingly erotic. Desperate to escape it, she turned her head, but his hand followed. The nail gently punctured, and she gasped at the shock of pain. Warm wetness touched her lip. A droplet of blood. She flicked it away with her tongue. Quickly. Hopelessly.
The taste exploded upon her tongue, coppery and tart.
Delight flooded her at the taste. No! It was disgusting. …deliberately wound her finger, and delight in suckling the blood from her flesh… Mrs. Bridgewater’s damning words floated into her head. Surely she hadn’t done that. She didn’t remember doing that.
The nail brushed again, and Serena held herself rigid, afraid he would deeply slice her lip this time. Yet she wanted to lift her face to him. She wanted the prick of pain. Wanted more of the taste of her blood—
Roman’s clawlike nails traced her skin again, and a jolt of pleasure and pain arced through her. Was he compelling her to want this or did hot need race through her blood because she was a vampire?
“Stop, Roman.” It was the Italian. “She belongs to the master.”
All her breath left her chest as Roman did lift his hands away. She heard his hiss of anger. She had a reprieve, but for how long? Minutes? Hours? Roman served a master—only a powerful demon could control a pack of vampires. A master’s disciples would not dare disobey him.
Deep and mocking, Roman’s voice vibrated through the dark. “Just a caress, Leonardo. A taste of perfection. Lukos would not condemn me for a touch.”
Lukos? She now knew the name of his master. Lukos, the Greek word for wolf.
Fear sliced through her.
