Tempted By the Night (8 page)

“Melaphor,” Rockhurst was saying, “I grow tired of your threats and musings.” He pointed Carpio at the glowing opening in the opposite wall. “Go back and amuse your companions in hell with your tales of long-ago valor. You haven’t killed one of my kin in nearly three hundred years.”

“Amusing, Paratus, quite amusing.” Melaphor paused and glanced over the earl’s shoulder. “How about that one?” he asked, pointing directly at Hermione. “Can I kill her?”

Kill her?

Hermione tried to breathe as Melaphor flicked his red-hued gaze toward her. She would have liked to point out to both this horrible man and the earl that she’d said nothing about dying when she’d made her wish.

Nothing whatsoever.

But she suspected neither of them would be sympathetic to her plight, caught as they were in some sort of Montague and Capulet blood feud.

Well, before there was any killing to be done, she was going to excuse herself.

Wavering in her ruined slippers, her knees knocking together worse than they had the first night she’d set foot in Almack’s, she went to flee—well, slink off
unnoticed. But at the bottom of the steps, she stumbled over the earl’s discarded cross-bow.

Rockhurst turned at the noise, and Hermione stilled. “What the devil sort of trick is this, Melaphor?”

His enemy paused. “What? You don’t see her?” A sly smile spread slowly over his lips. “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise. Come, sweetling,” he called to her. “Speak to the Paratus. Show yourself, as it were.”

Hermione shook her head, fear running rampant through her every limb. Never had she seen evil personified, but this Melaphor was everything that was foul, and her gaze was now locked to his, a slow, hypnotic lethargy filling her veins, stealing away her fears.

Come to me,
his voice whispered in her ear.
I won’t harm you, child.

Her foot rose and wavered, taking a step of its own volition. Hermione tried to glance down at her ruined slipper, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from Melaphor’s. This creature was controlling her as if she were nothing more than a puppet, his blood red gaze now a cord that bound her to him. And as he held out his hand to her, she was utterly and inexplicably drawn to him.

“Come with me,” he said, in tones that dripped with smooth charm. “I’ll show you the heights of a realm you could never imagine.”

Hermione’s foot moved forward clumsily, that is until it stubbed once again against the oak of the cross-bow. And in that instant of brief pain, she found the wherewithal to look away.

“End this game, Melaphor,” Rockhurst was saying. “We have a matter to settle, and settle it we will.”

“Ah, not until I’ve discovered your charming companion’s secret,” Melaphor replied.

A ripple of panic ran down Hermione’s spine, but she didn’t dare look up. So she fixed her gaze on the cross-bow at her feet.

The ring thrummed to life on her finger.
Pick it up. Pick up the cross-bow.

Not that she wanted to listen to the very same ring that had gotten her in this mess. Not that she was generally accustomed to listening to jewelry.

But if whatever magic filled this ring held an iota of the same panic she felt rippling down her spine, it was probably well and good to listen to it just this once.

She scrambled down and gathered up the cross-bow up in her arms. While proficient in archery, Hermione had never shot anything like this before. Such weapons were usually found only on the wall of some musty old country house, where the family displayed the relics of their former bloody glory in the same manner one might a treasured Holbein or a Rembrandt.

Meant to be viewed, not used.

At least not in this century, she mused.

Glancing down at it, she realized the basic workings weren’t that hard to understand. Already loaded and locked, she raised it to take aim—unsteadily—but aimed nonetheless.

“Now, now,” Melaphor said. “You could hurt someone with that.”

Hermione shivered, but held the cross-bow fast.

“She looks quite capable of putting up a bit of fight—not that I mind that in a woman.” Melaphor tipped his
pointed chin up a bit, and as his hair fell back, Hermione could see that his ears had an elfin point to them. “Something else we have in common, eh Paratus?”

“What the devil
—”
Rockhurst sputtered as he looked behind him at the empty space where his cross-bow had lain.

Whatever you hold, whatever you wear, will be as invisible as you are,
Quince had said.

And so it was with the earl’s cross-bow.

“You truly can’t see her, can you?” Melaphor said, easing toward her, his narrow gaze flitting from Rockhurst back to Hermione. “How interesting. Come, kitten, reveal yourself. The Paratus seems unable to feast upon your beauty.” He sniffed the air. “He should be able to, for you’re human, but what have you discovered that lets you pass through your own kind unseen?”

And then his gaze fell on her hand. More specifically, on Charlotte’s ring.

To say the man looked astonished was an understatement. “By all that’s holy,” he gasped. Then in a shimmer of soft light, his entire demeanor changed, rippling from deadly to suavely handsome.

He held out a single hand. “Come away with me, dear lady. Forget all I said before—I was but teasing our friend here. I would never harm you. No, I think I would make you the queen of my realm. A queen of all the realms, if you but come with me.”

Rockhurst didn’t turn around, but said, “Don’t believe him. Whatever you have that he wants—he’ll kill you the moment he has you.”

“Don’t believe him, sweetling. At least I can see you
and appreciate your rare beauty. Don’t you want a man who can look into your eyes and see the very depths of your soul?”

Hermione’s resolve wavered as she mistakenly glanced up at Melaphor, into his eyes. Instantly the cross-bow grew heavy, and she found it wandering from its original target.

That is until the power of the ring nudged her, and her gaze was wrenched away. She blinked away her hazy vision until she could finally focus on the one thing that gave her strength.

The earl’s wide, strong back. It rose before her like a beacon to her rattled senses, and her strength returned. She raised the stock back up and aimed anew.

“So the kitten has claws,” Melaphor purred in sleek tones.

“Demmit, I grow tired of this mischief,” Rockhurst said, raising his sword and pointing it at Melaphor, and then at the spot where Hermione stood. “Let us end this one way or the other.”

“Ah, what is it with you, my good lord Paratus? Always killing before pleasure. We could share her,” he offered. “I’m feeling generous tonight.”

“I don’t want anything to do with you and your ilk,” Rockhurst said, turning slightly and pointing his sword in Hermione’s direction.

Whatever did he mean to do? Run her through? Why of all the arrogant…

Melaphor shrugged. “Then kill her first.”

“I believe I will,” Rockhurst said.

Hermione eased back, the cross-bow now wavering
between Melaphor and the earl. Whatever was she to do?

“But what if she isn’t of my ilk, as you so eloquently put it? That would be a terrible mistake, wouldn’t it? Violate that driveling code of yours. No harm shall fall on one of your kind? Isn’t that how it works?”

Now it was the earl who wavered, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the space where Hermione stood.

Melaphor continued on, “I wouldn’t be too concerned, Paratus. I do believe she’ll decide this matter for us. Care to wager on whom she’ll shoot? With each passing moment your cross-bow grows heavier in her arms—and by the way, she’s trembling so, she’s as likely to kill you as she is me.”

And indeed, her aim began to waver dangerously. Egads, this Melaphor was as distracting and annoying as Miss Burke and her coughing!

Yet for some reason, the image of Miss Burke uncoiled a strengthening fire within Hermione. She let out a long, slow breath and stilled her wavering limbs as she’d done at the archery contest.

Shooting a cross-bow couldn’t be that much different from archery, she hoped. Besides, all she really needed to do was to get the deadly-looking bolt into the man. Slow him down enough for…

Hermione gulped. Gracious heavens, what was she thinking? This wasn’t some straw-filled bull’s-eye she was aiming at, but flesh and blood.

“Demmit, shoot!” Rockhurst ordered. “Quit toying with me and either shoot that bastard or finish me off.”

Oh, jiminy! He was asking her to…

Hermione shook her head, unable to speak.

“That’s right, kitten. You don’t want to kill me,” Melaphor said, his voice all too seductive.

“Kill him, you fool,” Rockhurst ground out, extending his sword toward her. “By all that’s holy, kill him, or give me back my cross-bow, so I can do it.”

It was the moment that Melaphor had been waiting for. With Rockhurst distracted, he sprang forward, his teeth elongating like those of a wolf, the glow of his eyes turning as dark as spilled blood.

The alley and everything around her spun into a howling whirlwind.

“No!” she screamed, taking hasty aim even as her finger tugged at the trigger.

The bolt flew through the air, traveling with a deadly
thwang.
But Hermione hadn’t taken the time to brace herself and lost her footing as the kick of the shot knocked her off balance.

She heard a shriek—a scream that pierced the night–then a blinding flash of light as it seemed the entire alleyway ignited into a fireball.

Falling back, she struck her head and was carried into the same darkness that claimed the alleyway, and the silence that followed.

“What the hell just happened?” Rockhurst said as he drew Carpio out of the last glowing remnants of what had been Melaphor’s illicit door.

The bolt from his cross-bow had come shrieking out of thin air and hit the bastard in the shoulder, carrying him back through the portal.

The earl had had enough wit about him to drive Carpio into the last glimmering vestiges of Melaphor’s entrance to close it and lock it, so he could no longer pass through this leak between their realms.

After a few trembling moments of silence, he glanced over at Rowan. “Well, what do you make of all this?”

The dog looked up at him with the eyes of an aggrieved poet.

“Yes, so I thought. I should have listened to you earlier. Someone was following us. A young woman, if Melaphor is to be believed.”

He turned and spied his cross-bow, now lying abandoned near the steps.

“So do I take this to mean you have no intention of shooting me?” he asked. When no one answered, he didn’t know whether to feel vexed or foolish for talking to shadows.

“So you won’t speak to me, but I have to imagine you haven’t gone far,” he said, looking for any sign that might give her away. All the while he kept a wary watch on his surroundings. Rowan, too, remained alert.

But there was nothing but silence in the alley—only the muffled murky sounds of the Dials drifting in around them like weary bits of wind.

Rockhurst stilled for a moment. Wind. That was it. He sniffed the air, and amongst the stench and other foul odors, a tiny whiff of apple blossoms caught his nose.

Her perfume.

Which meant she was still here. And close at hand.

Nodding to Rowan, he said, “Where is she, boy? Show me.”

He swore the dog smiled as it sprang from its place and trotted directly to the stairs. He tipped his head down and nudged at the empty space.

Rockhurst came over and knelt beside him. When he reached out, his hand immediately ran into the soft rounded curves of a woman.

Her breast, to be exact. A perfectly formed, warm, full breast.

He snatched his hand back and shot an accusing glance at Rowan. “Not really sporting, you mutt. You should warn a fellow before he makes a cake of things.”

Carefully, he reached out again, cautiously tracing her outline.

His fingers trailed over her silk gown, over a flurry of ribbons and embroidery, along the lines of her fashionable neckline and short sleeves, down her arm where there was a glove on one hand and when he reached across, he found none on the other.

He’d undressed enough women in the dark to know a well-dressed lady when he felt one. And worse yet, she was young—for her skin was delicate and soft, her body ripe, rather than the lush and full figure of a matron or woman of the world. And her hands hadn’t a callus or a rough patch to show that she’d ever done anything more strenuous than pull on her gloves.

He stared down at the space before him and could all but imagine the woman before him.

A Mayfair debutante. He sat back on his heels and shook his head. But whatever was she doing here? In the Dials?

Not to mention, invisible!

No, he had it all wrong. She couldn’t be some Bath miss. Despite Melaphor’s claims to the contrary, he didn’t believe for a second this chit was human. But when he touched her again and his hand fell over the fullness of her breasts, a jolt of desire rocked through him.

“Steady, Rockhurst,” he whispered. Well, he’d always been a sucker for a fine pair, and this chit definitely had a plentiful and perfect set.

Rowan snorted, with his usual uncanny ability to read his master’s thoughts.

“’Tis necessary,” he told the great hound as he continued his search, “if we are to discover who she is.”

The dog didn’t appear to be as convinced as Rockhurst tried to sound.

At her throat, he checked her pulse, and at her lips, the warmth of her breath, shallow but steady, teased his fingers.

She’s alive.

That thought sent an odd shiver of relief down his limbs.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, though to no avail. She remained still and silent. “Foolish little shadow. I’d wager you didn’t get your footing before you shot, and now you’ve gone and knocked yourself cold.” He rubbed his jaw and glanced over at Rowan. “What the devil are we supposed to do with her now?”

Rowan glanced toward the other end of the alley, where surely Tibbets had his carriage waiting. Rowan’s thoughts were already on the beef bone the cook had
tucked away in the pot over the fire for tomorrow’s soup.

So there it was, one vote to leave her. And Rockhurst was inclined to do just that, if it hadn’t been for the fact that she’d saved his life…in a manner of speaking.

Though if she hadn’t been here in the first place, he might have been able to finish off Melaphor once and for all without all the distraction.

But she had saved him, or at least he hoped she had meant to, and that it wasn’t as that rotter had said, her shot was more mistake than intent.