Serena kicked again to divert the vampire’s attention as Mr. Swift gripped the stake. 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 the 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 heart-wrenchingly 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.
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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
blackmail
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.”
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“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 to be sailing to England.”
“You are very brave,” Mr. Swift murmured. “Now you should put that robe on properly. I fear it might fall down at any moment. No more blasted questions, Sommersby.”
His lordship glowered, but he inclined his head, let go of her wrist, and stood up. “For the moment,” he agreed. “Put the robe on, Miss Lark.”
She cast a nervous glance at the door. “We are in a vampires’ brothel. Others must have heard the attack—”
“We aren’t in the brothel. You have enough time to dress.” Mr. Swift assured. “We’ll give you privacy, my dear.” He bent closer. His warm breath danced over her neck. She was chilled—
trembling. The heat in his breath felt so good.
“Then where are we—?” she broke off. For one mad moment, she felt Mr. Swift was leaning in to kiss. She’d been kissed on her neck before—it was a touch that made her wanton. That sweet, intoxicating drug still filled her senses, made her feel sensual. Her nipples were erect, and the brush of silk against them made her dizzy.
Her wantoness frightened her.
Vampires
had uncontrollable sexual cravings.
“How did you escape the chains, love?” Mr. Swift’s voice was gentle and reassuring.
Serena twisted around to meet his brilliant green eyes. “I convinced them to release me.”
“Convinced them? Bravo.” With that, Mr. Swift moved back. The heat of his chest left her, and goosebumps rushed over her shoulders, down her arms.
He straightened in a smooth, graceful movement, turned his back, and prowled toward the one burning candle. Serena tried to stand, but her legs felt like mist. Lord Sommersby reached down and caught her hand—his gloved hands were larger than any man’s hands she’d ever seen. His lordship helped her up without a word, then turned his back.
Serena held the robe against her, vainly searching for the sleeves to slide her arms in. Finally, with a sigh, she grasped it by the neckline, let it drop, and then swept it around her body. But both men behaved as gentleman, not even taking a peek—Sommersby was closing the door, Drake Swift searching the room.
The silk enveloped her—the robe was enormous. It smelled clean—freshly laundered. She was so relieved at that.
But she’d failed. She’d be hauled out of here—wherever here was—naked beneath a borrowed robe.
Swift strolled over toward her. “No sign of your clothes, love.” His gaze swept over her—over the swell of her breasts, the belt at her waist, her hips swathed in sapphire silk—and flame touched her skin in its wake.
“Miss Lark?” Lord Sommersby gently jostled her arm. He’d returned to her side.
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“I want to know exactly where I am!” She turned from Swift to Sommersby. “Not in the brothel, you said.”
“No—in an empty house beside.” His dark eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember, do you?”
Her cheeks burned. “Fine! I’ll admit it. I barely remember anything after being let into the brothel. I have no idea what went wrong.” She tried to jerk her arm from the Earl of Sommersby’s grasp, but he held firm. “But you, of course, were able to infiltrate the brothel, then find me, without any trouble at all, I suppose. And how did you do that?”
“Skill and experience.” Sommersby replied, and condescension hung in the room like smoke.
She gritted her teeth. “And how did you even know to come here?”
“Mortimer. He mentioned you had been researching this brothel.”
She had pleaded with the Society’s librarian for his discretion—he’d obviously ignored her. It was infuriating that her wishes had been discounted, though it had saved her life.
“You were engaged to assist in research, Miss Lark,” Sommersby said. “Not to steal stakes and crossbows and plant yourself in a brothel surrounded by aroused vampires.”
“Let her alone,” Mr. Swift growled.
But she was too angry to cower. “I was engaged to do nothing more than return books to shelves!”
The earl shook her arm. “What is it you want here? What did you come for?”
She glanced from his lordship’s intense dark eyes to Swift’s emerald ones. She must convince them to help her—without revealing exactly what she wanted. “I discovered there are journals kept here—kept in a hidden library beneath the brothel. The writings of vampires—writings that detail everything about their existence. And I am not leaving without searching for it.”
Sommersby frowned. “You should have told the Society about this discovery.”
“And have them take all those books and lock them away from me? The precious Society will not allow a mere woman to read their most important works.”
“You want to know who killed your parents.”
“Of course! Wouldn’t you, if you were in my shoes?” Serena’s heart thundered. She had to ensure his lordship and Mr. Swift continued to believe Lord Ashcroft’s lie about her parents’ death.
“The gossip is that you still search for the vampire who killed your fiancée, my lord. That you are driven by vengeance.”
“Don’t listen to gossip,” he snapped.
“Guilt, my dear.” Drake Swift laughed. “Guilt keeps him in his laboratory all day and hunting all night.”
“Vengeance is a waste of a life.” Lord Sommersby grasped her elbow. His fingers wrapped firmly around her arm, promising power.
“I am
not
leaving without finding the library,” she repeated.
Drake Swift gave a wild grin. “You want moldy old books, I want to destroy vampires.” He winked. “You do want to return to the brothel, don’t you, my dear?”
His hand cupping Miss Lark’s delicate elbow, Jonathon Lyon, Earl of Sommersby, shot a glare at his partner. “We cannot just walk through a brothel to chase vampires. And we cannot bring her.”
“I hate to let a demon get away clean. Spoils the record,” Swift complained as he sauntered toward the fallen vampires by the billiard table.
Swift’s perfect kill record. Tonight would be the first night in years that a vampire escaped him. Of course they’d had the distraction of a very naked, very lovely damsel in distress—
“The library,” Miss Lark insisted as she tried once again to tear free of his grip. “I am not leaving without trying to find it.”
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Jonathon’s patience was at its end, but he let her elbow go. He was squeezing too hard; he’d left faint bruises. Goddamn his unwieldy hands. “We aren’t searching every room of a bawdyhouse to find a library that may not exist.”
“It does exist. After all, I am skilled at
research
. I pieced together a plan of this brothel—”
The word
brothel
on Serena Lark’s full lips shot a bolt of forbidden desire through Jonathon.
The memory of her curvaceous naked body on the billiard table made him hard. He wasn’t a gentleman who sought perverted diversions, but that sudden forbidden image had him aching.