It worked—Guillaime kicked out at her. His foot slammed into her ribs before she could roll. The wind flew from her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Whimpering against her will, Serena tensed for the next blow.
“Stay down, Miss Lark,” Sommersby commanded. He trained a crossbow on Guilliame. Her heart pounded furiously, in panic for Swift, while his lordship adjusted his aim, his movements calm and controlled. With a flick of his hand, he fired, and the bolt raced toward them. Instinctively she shut her eyes. She heard Guillaime’s shriek as the bolt drove through his heart. He fell away from Mr. Swift’s neck, crumpled to the table. She had enough breath to push herself away as his body dropped. For a brief moment she was in free fall. Then the floor greeted her with a smack. Her teeth rattled. Her head seemed to separate from her neck and then snap back with a shattering pain.
She craned her neck, though it hurt like the devil to do it. Aristide and Brittan sprawled, slain, on the floor. Liam and Guilliame were destroyed. Roman was gone. Where was Leonardo?
“Bastard!” Mr. Swift shouted. “Two escaped. Damn them to hell! I’ve never lost a bloody vampire before.”
She didn’t care that they weren’t destroyed. She was safe.
Or was she? Why were the hunters here? What did they know about her?
“Miss Lark?”
Elegant black-clad fingers brushed her tangled hair back. A face came into view—one surrounded by tousled hair the color of coffee. Lord Sommersby bent over her, and she gazed up into compelling and worried dark brown eyes, fringed by the longest lashes she’d ever seen.
“My—my lord.” She must have clutched the robe as she fell off the table. It had landed with her, and now she was wrapped in it, so she was covered at least.
“God—” Sommersby abruptly drew back. His mouth became a grim line—he had a beautiful mouth, wide, firm. Quite unlike Mr. Swift’s, which was pouting, boyish, and heartwrenchingly sensual. “You almost got yourself killed, you little fool.”
“I am not a little fool.” Defying the throbbing pain in her skull, Serena sat up. She held the silk robe to her chest, and though she fumed at his arrogant tone, she prayed Lord Sommersby’s only thought was—how could this silly little governess imagine herself to be a vampire slayer? She prayed he didn’t know the truth.
She cast a horrified look to Mr. Swift. He stood on the table, his hand at the wound on his neck.
He grinned down at her. “A flea bite, love. I’ve had worse. I’ll live.”
Sommersby’s hand shot out, and his fingers wrapped around her wrist. His touch was gentle as he traced the red marks there. “What did they do to you?”
The soft stroke of his lordship’s thumb sent a warm tingle through her. She intended to tell him, but she knew she had to lie, and her lips trembled as she met his astute, penetrating gaze.
Fool! She could not cry—and she knew how to fight tears. All her years as an unwanted ward and then a dutiful servant had taught her that. How odd that curbing emotion to be a gray and invisible governess had been the perfect education for a vampire huntress.
She pulled her hand away.
“There’s a passageway on the other side of the wall and stairs leading underground to a tunnel.” The table creaked and groaned, and then Mr. Swift jumped down. “I can’t believe demons escaped me.”
Mr. Swift dropped into a crouch at her side as Sommersby stood. His thighs bunched, solid and powerful. Serena looked up into green eyes—darkly lashed green eyes. The lashes dipped. She saw pained concern. She had never seen Mr. Swift look worried—she had never seen him without his cocky confidence.
“Why did you come to this place?” The growl was Lord Sommersby, now pacing, as he raked his fingers through his hair.
She couldn’t tell his lordship she feared she was the first child of a vampire. That Lord Ashcroft—his commander—had lied to her. That she needed the Vlad Dracul journal to black- mail the arrogant lord who controlled the Royal Society and force him to give her the truth about her past.
Lord Sommersby turned on his heel. “You haven’t answered my question, Miss Lark.”
“Leave her alone, milord.” Mr. Swift snarled the title. “The little lark has had a bad fright. She doesn’t need your questions.”
Little lark? Yet the name sent warmth to her heart. Mr. Swift moved his arms around her and leaned gently against her from behind. The satin of his waistcoat brushed her back. Smooth leather—the gloves covering his palms—skimmed down her arms. He was cradling her! “There’s nothing to fear now.”
“Thank you, Mr. Swift, but I am able to withstand his lordship’s examination.” She hoped. She knew she should draw away from Swift’s touch, but she couldn’t. Straining, she kept her voice even and cool. “I came to find vampires, my lord. I am training to be a vampire slayer, after all.”
“You did not have permission to come here. You are not yet a vampire slayer.” Sommersby crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. The earl stood six and a half feet tall—with enormous shoulders, massive arms, a huge chest.
Serena tipped up her chin in answer to his glare, aware she was cradled close to Drake Swift. “I did not require your permission.”
“Yes, you do, Miss Lark. You are an apprentice member of the Royal Society.”
“You can give me any punishment you wish, my lord, but I’d do it again. I am not a servant any longer.”
Swift’s low, dangerous laugh rumbled from behind her. “You are always a servant, love,” he said. “In the Royal Society, everyone is a servant to some master.”
Sommersby shot him a dark look before returning his disapproval to her. “You risk all hunters by such a foolish mission, Miss Lark,” he said.
“I do know what to do. I came very well armed.”
“And a lot of good it did you. You have read books. It is an entirely different matter to hunt a vampire.”
“What I would like to know is where I am now,” she said. “And I would like to know where my clothes are.”
But Sommersby ignored her question. He dropped to one knee before her and caught hold of her wrist again. In a throaty growl, he urged, “Tell me what they did to you. Why did they not bite you?”
Sommersby began to stroke her sensitive wrist. Mr. Swift was caressing the bare skin of her shoulders with the familiarity of a lover. Serena gulped, her throat tight. She was reliving every dream she’d ever had about these two hunters. She was so dangerously aware. Aware of the weight of their hands on her skin, aware of the tang of male sweat, the sharpness of their breathing.
How could she explain why the vampires hadn’t bitten her, the way they would any victim?
“You do not have to answer his questions,” Swift urged.
“I can.” She tightened her grip on the robe, knowing her cheeks were pink. “They chained me to the table. They said they were saving me for their master, whom they called Lukos. That is why they didn’t bite me, or…or attack me. He is supposed
