She was masked too—in harem style, with a subtle strip of white cloth hiding her face. Mr.
Swift had torn fabric from his cravat to fashion it for her. He’d chosen the part that wasn’t bloody from his wound, a wound that he cavalierly disregarded.
A woman with wild henna-red curls leapt in front of Drake Swift. A quick tug of her hands and her low-cut bodice popped beneath her breasts. She jumped giddily so those breasts wobbled up and down, like jelly aspic on a platter. The woman’s hand snaked out and clamped onto Mr. Swift’s crotch.
Drake Swift gave a hearty laugh. “Not now, wicked wench. I promised to stuff the arse of this one with my companion. But those luscious tits of yours look like a meal for two.”
Sensual need forked through her at his crude words, and she almost stumbled in shock. The woman gave a playful pout of scarlet-painted lips, then raced off, and leapt into another vampire’s arms. This gentleman was most definitely a vampire—his fangs lapped his lower lip. He possessed white hair; a grizzled face; a strong, lean body. He pulled out his cock and the woman toyed with it.
It was incredibly long, curved like a scythe, and soon many women’s hands teased it while the vampire moaned his pleasure.
Serena looked away. These women must be fools. This vampire would drink from them. He would hurt them. The books described the vampire’s bite as the most intense pleasure, but Serena didn’t believe it.
“Are you all right, little lark?”
It was Drake Swift, murmuring by her ear, setting her skin tingling with the warmth of his breath.
Serena nodded. She was. Her heart beat a wild rhythm as they passed men—the dozens who prowled the hallways or who suckled women’s breasts or who rutted wildly against the wallpapered Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 22
walls. What would happen if she walked into Roman? Or Leonardo? But she did not recognize any of the handsome faces with their glittering, reflective eyes, their long, curving fangs.
Every vampire she saw was attractive and wore clothes that spoke of great wealth. Many smiled at her. With just a glance, a vampire could make a lady lust and need so much she willingly offered her neck, but the heat these demons ignited—which she fought—was nothing compared to the sparks that scorched her each time she brushed against her hunters’ bodies. She walked between the two men, Mr. Swift on her left, Lord Sommersby on her right. She no longer knew which man’s hand rested on her waist, her shoulder, or gently grazed her arm.
“Which way, sweet?” Mr. Swift whispered.
“The ballroom,” Serena said.
Suspicion glittered in the earl’s dark eyes. “The most crowded place here? No other way?”
She swallowed hard, and whispered, “There’s a gallery that overlooks—and stairs on both sides. We could pass through there, go down the stairs, and then down to the tunnels.”
“And all this you learned from books?” Sommersby asked.
“Yes, all this I learned from books.” This brothel had existed for decades—she had traced its ownership back hundreds of years, to the original Tudor building that had been on the site.
A gong sounded—it was subdued, but it must act as a summons, because people began to flow in the opposite direction to the gallery. Some vanished into bedrooms on the way. But Serena could see that no one was looking in their direction as they reached the draped entrance to the gallery.
His lordship went in first, simply vanishing behind the curtain. She was alone with Drake Swift. It was eerie to gaze at his mask, to have no idea of his expression. He moved in front of her, to trap her back against the wall, shielding her from the eyes of a couple of women who passed.
He bent as though biting her neck but did not touch her. His words were soft. “Do you want my touch, Miss Lark?”
His voice was deep, roughly accented—Serena knew he’d grown up around Covent Garden—
but his brazen words only made his low baritone more sensual.
Serena felt his warm breath on her skin and grew indecently wet. She felt dizzy still—from the drug, she assumed. From shock, too, no doubt, but she couldn’t give in to that. “Yes,” she said simply. She touched Mr. Swift’s cheek, below his mask, and didn’t care. She pulled him closer, drew him until his hot mouth ignited against her neck. “I do want your touch.”
“You’re a brave woman, Miss Lark,” Mr. Swift murmured as his lips skimmed around her throat, down to the hollow at the front. Heat flared in her blood.
Was she brave? She was nervous. Were brave people nervous? She knew that Drake Swift was wildly courageous. He’d told her that once in the Society’s library—
I’m addicted to the hunt,
love.
It is almost as fun as making love.
She hadn’t blushed for him then, which she had suspected was his goal—to embarrass the prim former governess.
His teeth brushed her neck, and the pressure sent a bolt of pleasure rocketing through her.
Warmth. Wetness. A delicious tickle. He was running his tongue over her neck! Her quim ached with the contact. Even the brush of the mask’s long nose along her neck made her legs wobble.
She pushed on Mr. Swift’s shoulders to force him away. He conceded, lifting his mouth from her neck. “Did I frighten you?”
Serena tipped her head back to look into his eyes, dazzling green behind the mask. “Of course not! But I’m so close now—I can’t be sidetracked.”
He laughed at that, leaning back against the wall, his eyes bright behind his mask. “Do you really think books are more important than hunting? More important than passion?”
“Tonight, yes,” she answered, trying to banter.
“Do you really believe that words, not stakes, can destroy vampires?”
Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 23
She hadn’t expected such a question from Drake Swift, the man known as the Mad Slayer.
Strangely, having him forsake his devil-may-care persona and show a glimpse of his soul made her heart thump against her ribs. She moved closer to the drapery. “Words have great power. And I have no choice but to bury myself in words—the Society will not let me hunt.”
“But tonight you defied them. Are books worth risking your life?”
He was questioning her motives, and she couldn’t have that. “Are you offering, now, to let me hunt with you?” she asked. “To take me on as an apprentice?”
He looked more startled than if she had lifted her robe and jumped on him. Of course he would never consider hunting with a mere woman by choice.
“Hurry—” It was Lord Sommersby, holding open the drapery.
Mr. Swift gallantly offered his arm, but she ignored it to dart up the stairs, holding up the trailing hem of the oversized robe.
The gallery was empty, shadowed. The dangling chandelier that should illuminate the salon below was unlit, but the crystal caught golden light from wall sconces below and dazzled. Urbane laughter welled up, as did the strains of cultured music and feminine giggles.
She’d expected wildness, rowdy sounds, mayhem—like an uproar in a theatre pit.
“The exit must be there—shielded by those curtains,” Lord Summersby directed. His domino cloak flapped around him as he strode across to where the railing reached the wall, beside crimson curtains. His long legs crossed the space in seconds.
“Wait.” Mr. Swift kept his voice low as he prowled to the gallery’s edge. “We should see if we can spot Miss Lark’s captors in that crowd.”
“Even if we do, we aren’t attacking here,” Sommersby warned.
Her library—and Dracul’s journal—were so close. Serena moved to the gallery’s edge to look down on the ballroom. She wanted a glimpse into the vampire’s world. If she was truly a vampire, she wanted to know…
How could she be a vampire yet not drink blood? Not be undead? She didn’t understand—and she was determined to make Ashcroft tell her.
The brass rail around the gallery was smooth, cool beneath her touch—her hands were still bare. She needed a moment to plan. How was she going to retrieve the Vlad Dracul book without Lord Sommersby discovering what it was? He’d take it from her, likely by force. He might be known for heroism, but it was known that if he wanted something, he took it.
How could she find it and hide it?
She heard the click of boot heels behind her, Sommersby approaching her. Drake Swift was scanning the crowd below. Blinking, Serena looked down on the scene. Everywhere she saw women. Courtesans, high-flyers, jades, lightskirts—but all were voluptuous, lovely, fascinating.
Many were young, with long silky hair that reached their bared bottoms, but they were of all ages, all coloring, all sizes and shapes, and most wore the same costume. They wore corsets of black with scarlet strings, dyed black stockings and heeled shoes.
It was scandalous, but it also seemed so freeing to be unafraid to parade around in such clothes—certainly wearing just a robe made her feel both courageous and nerve-wracked.
There were men below, of course, dozens of men. In the center of the salon was a raised dais, a large one, like a stage. It was empty. Around it, many of the men strolled. Men in evening dress, in capes, in robes. So many men on the move it was almost impossible to search them for her vampire captors. All were surrounded by women—women fawning on them, touching them, whispering to them.
It still startled Serena to see the lusty smiles on the women’s faces—women who should be terrified. It was like watching rabbits leap into foxes’ jaws.
Serena glanced up. On her left, Drake Swift was slowly scanning the crowd. On her other Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 24
side, Lord Sommersby did the same.
Did she see Roman? No. To Serena’s astonishment, one dark-haired man, wearing a cape, tossed a blond woman onto the stage. The woman giggled, and her expression was a blend of lust, excitement, and playfulness. She was delighted to be a vampire’s plaything. The man pushed her back and she flopped back, on the stage, arms outstretched. Her breasts were exposed, her waist cinched impossibly small by the corset, her nether hair exposed. The man shoved her legs apart—
wider, wider, until the woman let her head fall back. He dropped to his knees and pressed his face to the woman’s quim.
Applause and cheers abounded.
Serena knew what that act felt like. William Bridgewater had done it to her—she had been shocked and enthralled. At the time, her heart had been as excited as her body. She had believed it an expression of love. She had been quite wrong.
She could not look away from the moaning woman as the vampire feasted on her cunny. He pulled the jade’s hips to his mouth, the way an uncouth man would lift a soup plate. The woman’s eyes shut tight, her hands fisted. She banged those fists against the polished floor of the dais.
“Oooh!” The vampire’s plaything cried out in pleasure. Her limbs went slack, her head lolled.
The vampire slid his hands up to her waist. He stood, lifting the woman, his face still in her quim as—
“What do you see, little lark?”
Serena blinked at Drake Swift’s voice. Startled, she saw Mr. Swift stood behind her. He had approached her and she hadn’t noticed. His black-gloved hands rested beside hers on the rail.
“I do not see any of them—any of the vampires who captured me.” She tried to be as nonchalant as he, but her face flushed. At least her mask disguised some of the red heat on her cheeks. She wanted to appear unmoved by what she saw. She didn’t want to appear to be just a
“delicate” woman.
“We should go and find the library,” she urged.
“You are a remarkable woman. Tougher than any I’ve met.”
She wondered at that—he had grown up in Covent Garden. Women there were tough.
“Have you ever wondered why we really kill vampires?” he asked.
Serena frowned and shivered—because vampires killed mortals. Why else? But she knew he was teasing. She was aroused. Burning. But also terrified—what would he do if he knew she might be a vampire?
“Because they have all the fun.” Mr. Swift’s voice held naughty wickedness.
He wanted her to step unwisely into sexual banter. The drug was still in her head, still making it hard to think. She was watching sensual acts and beautiful lovers, and each time she moved the silk of the robe skimmed her nipples, brushed her nether curls, and maddened her.
“Do you really believe that?” Serena challenged, because naughty boys required a firm hand.
Drake Swift laughed. “Sometimes, my dear, I am tempted to get bitten.”
She recoiled at that, remembering the horrifying sight of Guilliame biting him. Was that why he discounted the bite?
Anger flared—how easy for him to joke. Mr. Swift did not fear he was truly a demon.
Then she saw him—Roman. Flitting through the crowd, his long dark hair flapping with his hurried steps. He now wore a robe. A tall woman emerged from the throng and grasped his arm. A woman strong enough to stop Roman in his tracks.
Serena pointed. “Look, there is one of the vampires who captured me. The one with the long hair, with that woman in the topaz gown—”
She felt the excitement ignite in Drake Swift. “Wait, little lark. Watch awhile. We will see what he does.” He stepped behind her and braced his arms on either side of her. “Learn about your Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 25
foe before attack.”
“You don’t do that,” she protested. “I’ve heard that you race in madly, and by a miracle, somehow you survive.”
“Didn’t Sommersby warn you not to listen to everything you hear, my dear?” Mr. Swift bent close. “Does it frighten you to watch him?”
“No—yes,” Serena admitted. She could feel the bite of the manacles on her wrist and ankles again, and felt the fear of being vulnerable. And a deeper fear—that she was vampire too.
“Fight it, angel. If you want to hunt, you have to learn to fight your fear.”
Serena found Roman again, in the crowd. The tall woman had left him, and he stood watching the stage, his arms crossed over his chest. She was afraid to look too long. Roman would sense her.