Impatiently pacing the floor, she waited until she had seen the housekeeper hurrying by with hot water and bandages before she slowly made her way upstairs. Once in the upper corridor she patiently secreted herself behind a large urn until the housekeeper once again appeared, leaving the chamber at the end of the hall, followed closely by the coachman and groom.
Although she was shockingly indifferent to her reputation at the moment, she did not want to wrangle with worried servants over whether or not Gideon was fit to receive her. She was all too aware of how a devoted staff could cluck and stew over their employers.
With silent steps she moved down the corridor to push open the door and slip into the large bedchamber.
For a moment she was halted by the magnificent splendor of the room. With a wide Venetian window that overlooked the garden and walls hung with red and gold embossed leather, it seemed to glow like a jewel in the late afternoon sunlight. Across the room was a black marble chimneypiece and in the very center a gilded, four-poster bed with a red and gold canopy stood in barbaric beauty.
It was exotic, passionate and not at all what she had expected from Gideon.
Gideon.
With a shake of her head at her absurd distraction, Simone hurried toward the bed to discover that he was neatly tucked in the center of the mattress with several pillows stacked behind his head.
“How are you?” she demanded, perching as bold as a tart at the edge of the bed. “Has a doctor been sent for?”
His lips curved with a smile at her anxious tone, and, startling her, he reached out to lightly stroke her cheek with his long, pale fingers.
“I assure you that will not be necessary, my dearest. I will soon be completely recovered.”
Her heart warmed at the feel of his tender caress, but she was not about to let arrogant male pride send him to his grave.
“Men,” she muttered in annoyance, reaching up to twitch aside the cover so that she could make her own decision upon whether a doctor was in need. “You realize even the slightest wound can become infected. I will decide ... oh.”
Her words stuttered to an abrupt halt as her gaze moved over the smooth, firmly muscled chest that bore no more than angry red welts where he had been stabbed. In shock she lifted her head to study the cut upon his temple more closely, realizing that it too had faded to a thin scar, while the swelling was nearly gone. He might have been attacked weeks, perhaps months ago.
“I did warn you,” he at last broke the stunned silence.
“But ... this is impossible.”
His fingers moved to trace her unsteady lips. “You should really stop using that word, Simone. There are very few things that are impossible.”
“Someday you are going to tell me the truth,” she whispered in broken tones.
“Someday.” The dark eyes probed deep into her own, glittering with an emotion that threatened to steal her very soul. “For now, I need to hold you in my arms and know you are safe.”
Simone trembled. To be held in his arms. It was what she wanted more than anything in the world. No, not just wanted. What she desperately needed deep within her.
Somehow, without her even being aware of what was occurring, he had managed to become a necessary part of her world. Every day seemed dull until he appeared. Every night was filled with dreams of being close to him. And despite all the fears and shadows that surrounded him she could not bear the thought that he might someday walk away from her.
But while she might have been foolish enough to allow him into her heart, she still possessed enough common sense to realize that giving in to the passions he had stirred was beyond self-indulgent.
She was supposed to be an experienced widow well versed in the arts of love.
It would take only moments to discover she was a fraud.
Ignoring the regret that viciously stabbed through her, Simone gave a slow shake of her head.
“Gideon, I ...”
His fingers pressed to her lips as he sensed her reluctant refusal.
“I just wish to hold you, Simone,” he said softly. “I need to feel you close.”
She hesitated, well aware it was a bad notion in more than one way, but in the end she could as soon have halted the sun from rising as to deny his urgent plea.
“Yes,” she whispered, readily settling upon the cover.
With a low groan he reached out to wrap his arms about her and tugged her close. Simone gloried in the feel of his long, hard body as it pressed against her own. Even with the cover between them she could feel the comforting heat reach out to surround her. She breathed deeply of the faint scent of spice that clung to his skin.
All the horror and wretched sense of helplessness slowly faded away as she laid her head upon his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart.
“Ah, my Simone, this is where you belong,” he said in satisfied tones.
Simone closed her eyes as she battled sudden tears.
She had never truly belonged anywhere.
Not with her father, nor her sister and certainly not in that extravagant London town house.
But for the moment she did feel as if she belonged in Gideon’s arms.
“Yes.”
Death arrived in Devonshire without warning.
In the sleepy village near the coast the neighbors abruptly began locking their doors at night and eying one another with suspicion. Those forced to leave their homes at night began carrying their firearms and closely watching the shadows for sign of the killer.
There was no explanation for the young women who were being found in their beds with their blood drained from their bodies. Not unless one was willing to believe the unbelievable.
It was all enough to make the most daring of souls begin to peer over their shoulders.
In the small inn next to the town green the local blacksmith and ferryman huddled in a far corner as they enjoyed a pint of ale. There was no one else in the public room excepting the inn keep who morosely watched the empty door. No one wished to leave their homes without dire necessity.
“I be telling you it’s the work of a vampire,” the ferryman announced in knowing tones as he took a deep sip of the dark ale.
“Get on with you. Are you daft?” the blacksmith growled, his wide, well worn features tight with worry. “T’ain’t no such thing as vampires.”
“Then how do you explain four young maidens all found in their beds with nary a drop of blood left between them?”
The blacksmith shivered in spite of himself. He was considered a brawny man who had never backed away from a fight, and more often than not was called in when the magistrate was in need of a bit of muscle. These peculiar murders, however, had unnerved even him.
How did one fight a shadow that moved through locked doors and could kill without a sound?
“A madman,” he retorted in forceful tones that were meant to convince himself as well as the man seated across the scarred table. “And my bet is upon old Fedmor. I always said as how he wasn’t right in the head.”
“Fedmor?” The ferryman gave a scoffing laugh. “The poor sod is so in his cups most nights he couldn’t find his way to the door. How could he creep about murdering poor innocents without so much as a squeak?”
The blacksmith shifted uneasily. “Then Dalmer. Everyone knows that he’s queer in the head.”
“And how did he take their blood with only two holes in their necks?”
“Blimey, how am I to know what a madman can do?”
The ferryman suddenly leaned forward, his pale eyes glittering with fearful intensity.
“I’m telling you that we have a vampire on the loose in the neighborhood and I for one intend to take my gels to Salisbury for a nice long visit with their aunt.” He gave a shake of his head. “Won’t have them becoming fodder for some demon from hell.”
The blacksmith took a deep drink of his ale, refusing to give in to the panic that was swiftly turning the villagers into babbling idiots. So far he had halted several young boys who were intent on stoning a feeble old woman, and the father of one of the murdered girls from attacking the vicar.
“Dicked in the nob, you are. Vampires.” He gave a loud humph. “Next you’ll be telling me we have witches dancing about the maypole.”
The ferryman abruptly rose to his feet, his expression one of contempt.
“Stay and die if you like. For me, better a month of Aunt Celia’s sharp tongue than dying in me own bed.”
Not far from the inn Tristan stroked the hair of the aging servant who knelt at his feet.
It had taken several days to discover the tart, ill-tempered woman who had once been the housekeeper for Lady Gilbert. Not surprisingly, the various relatives who had been landed with the tartar after the Gilbert household had been closed down had done their best to send her as far away as possible.
At last he had managed to track her down to a crumbling cottage near the coast, where she bullied the local children and terrified the vicar.
Putting aside his delight in feasting upon the local maidens, he at last slipped into the cottage and confronted the elderly servant.
Within moments his Inscrollment spell had put an end to her bitter tongue, and she was crawling upon her knees in an effort to please him.
It had still been an effort to at last discover the information that he had sought. Lady Gilbert had been even more clever and treacherous than he thought possible. Indeed, if it had not been for the small miniature that the housekeeper had stolen from the estate to remind her of her mistress, he might never have realized the scandalous ruse.
Now he allowed a pleased smile to touch his lips as the older woman gazed at him with mindless adoration.
“I have pleased you?” she demanded in anxious tones.
He fingered the tiny portrait with his pale fingers. “Oh yes, you have pleased me very much.”
“I only desire to serve you.”
“Yes, now I believe my work here is done.”
“You are leaving?”
“Yes.”
She abruptly clutched at the hem of his coat, threatening to wrinkle the superfine fabric.
“Take me with you.”
Tristan batted her hands away in annoyance. Really, humans were so tediously weak.
“That is not possible.”
Tears openly ran down the wrinkled cheeks as she clutched her hands together.
“No, you cannot leave me. Please.”
He slipped the miniature carefully into his pocket before allowing the heat to begin coursing through his blood. He could not leave witnesses to his questioning, despite the fact he had little taste for bitter old women.
He could feel his fangs grow as he thrust his fingers into her hair and jerked her upward.
“Do not fear,” he mocked as her eyes widened. “I have a gift for you before I leave.”
“What ...”
Her words came to an abrupt end as Tristan lowered his head and sank his teeth into her neck. Just for a moment her feet kicked in agony, her moans filling the dark, dank cottage. Then just as abruptly she went utterly limp and Tristan tossed her onto the dirt floor.
Removing a dainty lace handkerchief he dabbed at his wet lips. He had what he had been searching for, he acknowledged as the power surged through his body.
Soon Lady Gilbert would be anxious to hand over her Medallion.
And he would be feasting upon her blood.
A pity he had been forced to destroy Gideon before he could appreciate the sight of his lover being drained of her life.
Sending away his valet who had been hovering over him like a mother hen since he had been carried home from the brewery, Gideon set about tying his cravat.
Although it had only been a few hours since the attack, there was no trace of the wounds that had been inflicted by Tristan’s servants. His countenance was once again smooth and his chest unmarred by scars.
Still, the horror of discovering Simone at the mercy of those villains remained firmly seared upon his heart.
A fine shiver raced through his body.
If anything had happened to her ...
“Very nice, Gideon,” a rich female voice applauded from the center of the room. “But then, you always were a handsome gentleman.”
With a sinuous motion Gideon had pulled the dagger from beneath his coat and whirled to confront the intruder. He froze at the sight of the shabby, gray-haired gypsy who stood regarding him with a mysterious smile.
“Nefri,” he breathed, instinctively bowing low in respect. Even from a distance he could feel the power that radiated from her small, bent form and the relentless intelligence that burned in the dark eyes.
“Stop that nonsense,” she commanded with a hint of amusement in her tone. Waiting until he had straightened she waved a gnarled hand in the direction of a nearby chair. “Sit down so I do not need to strain my neck to look you in the eye.”
Obediently lowering himself into the chair, Gideon regarded her with a faint frown. Even though she was using her powers to alter her appearance, he realized that she would not have revealed herself if the need were not dire.
“What has occurred?” he demanded. “Is it Tristan?”
The old gypsy’s lips thinned at the mention of the renegade. “That is one vampire who could use a good strapping,” she said in short tones. “He could never be satisfied with what he possessed. Like a child, he always desired what he could not have.”
Gideon recalled the deadly mind snare that had been set to trap him.
“He is rather more dangerous than a child.”
Nefri gave a slow nod, her expression becoming somber. “Yes, I suppose he is, at that.”
“Has he left London?” Gideon demanded, knowing that Nefri would be keeping careful guard on all the traitors.
“For a time. However, he returned before dusk far more dangerous than when he left.”
Gideon stilled at the undoubted warning. More dangerous? He had already murdered helpless innocents, had Simone kidnapped and had set a trap for him that had been forbidden for centuries.
How could he possibly be more dangerous?
His features unconsciously tightened with determination. Whatever surprises Tristan had devised, he would not be allowed to harm Simone. Nor to get his greedy hands upon the Medallion. No matter what Gideon had to do to halt him.
“Then I will seek him out and destroy him,” he said in even tones.
Nefri regarded him steadily. “He will not allow you to find him until he is prepared. And you must recall that at the moment his powers are greater than your own.”
Gideon grimaced with impatience. “I cannot simply wait until he attempts to harm Si ... Lady Gilbert once again.”
A sudden smile touched the lips of the older woman at Gideon’s revealing slip of the tongue. A smile that was more than a bit worrisome.
“She is a dear child, is she not?” she demanded in sweetly innocent tones. “But so fragile with the burdens she carries. She needs a strong gentleman she can depend upon when she is forced to confront Tristan.”
Although he sensed he was being ruthlessly maneuvered, Gideon did not hesitate in his response.
“I will be at her side.”
Surprisingly, Nefri gave a slow shake of her head. “No, I fear you will not.”
Gideon stiffened in annoyance. Did the powerful vampire believe that he would fail Simone when she needed him the most? Or that he perhaps feared to face Tristan?
It was unconscionable.
“What do you mean?” he rasped sharply.
“She will not turn to you for assistance if she does not trust you.”
With a jerk Gideon was on his feet. Damnation. Nefri had managed to strike at him where he was most vulnerable. Simone did not yet trust him. Even when she had lain in his arms through the long night he had felt the barriers that she kept between them. There were still too many secrets, too many reasons to remain wary of one another.
“I have done all in my power to win her trust,” he said defensively.
Nefri gave a slow shake of her head. “You have not yet told her the truth of yourself.”
He shoved his fingers through the long hair that he had not yet tied back.
“If I tell her the truth she will be more terrified of me than ever. You know as well as I do how mortals react to the mere mention of vampires. Most do not believe we exist, and those who do consider us monsters.”
“Until there is truth between you there can be no trust,” she retorted with unshakable logic.
Gideon turned about as his stomach twisted in dread. As much as he disliked the wariness he could sense within Simone, it was far preferable to watching her flee from him in disgust.
She would never understand,
he told himself as pain lanced through his heart. The myth of vampires being savage beasts who preyed upon hapless humans was too deeply ingrained. And the very fact that Tristan was ravaging his way through St. Giles would only add to her fear.
If he confessed, he would lose her forever.
He sucked in a sharp breath. He could not bear the loss.
“It is impossible,” he said in tortured tones.
“I thought you once said that very little is impossible, Gideon,” Nefri lightly teased.
Caught off guard by the realization that the woman had somehow heard the words he had spoken to Simone only last evening, Gideon spun about to confront her, only to discover the room was once again empty.
He released his breath with a loud hiss.
Since coming to London he had hoped that Nefri would seek him out. Not only because she was a legend among vampires, but because he had presumed she could help him to discover some means of luring Tristan back to the Veil without forcing him into a battle.
Now he wished that she had never appeared.
It was obvious she was warning him that he must confess the truth to Simone. And that without her trust he would somehow fail.