The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing (15 page)

“Amazing,” Asher mumbled. Awe-inspiring, he thought.

She was so lost to passion that she sighed wistfully into his mouth, and she felt her toes curl up in her slippers.

Hearing her sigh, Asher moved from licking her breasts to her neck, taking tiny nibbles as his muscles began to clench. Blood rushed to his groin, his cock growing heavy and hot. Jane’s neck was glorious, was heaven on earth. This little virginal friend of Clair’s had fired his blood to a feverish pitch. He didn’t understand it, but at the moment he didn’t really care.

The earl’s cold breath on her neck drew Jane back to her senses. Regretfully she fingered the stake in her pocket. Still she hesitated, hating herself and her heritage. Her mind was screaming no, her heart was screaming no, but she could see her father in her mind’s eye shouting, “Yes!” and berating her for un-Van Helsing-like hesitation.

Gathering resolve and duty around her like a cold, wet blanket, Jane removed the stake and lifted it high behind Asher’s back. She would plunge it down and end his undead life on the count of three.

In her head, she counted: “One… two… four.” No, three, she thought. I should say “three.” Yet again she hesitated, for Asher continued to explore her neck with tiny, heavenly kisses.

She wouldn’t do this—couldn’t do this—to Asher, Clair or herself, she decided, starting to lower the stake. She didn’t know what she would do about her father and his threats, but this just wasn’t going to work. Maybe she could smuggle her stuff to Clair’s. But on the next full moon, would Ian eat her birds? She could smuggle them to Dr. Frankenstein, but would he add unseemly appendages to them?

Her heart bruised, she lowered her stake a bit more. Deep in her heart she knew that the man savoring her neck couldn’t be the depraved, drooling Count Dracul of legend.

At that precise moment, Jane felt a prick of fangs on her neck: the true kiss of a vampire on a Van Helsing! Curses, what sacrilege!

Frightened and guilt-ridden, her father’s words flowing through her mind like a flash flood, Jane steeled herself. “One small stab for man, one giant stab for mankind,” she gasped.

His fangs pierced her skin, gently breaking it, and apprehension gave way to panic. Instinctively she struck—and just in the nick of time to save herself from a wicked love bite.

Her stake caught Asher square in his left buttock, since she had lowered it from the center of his back. She could felt the sharpened point sinking through the taut flesh. Her stomach turned over, leaving her both queasy and breathless.

Carried away by his passion, Lord Asher was momentarily stunned by the burning in his backside. The pain became sharper as he threw back his head and roared in pain and rage.

Outraged as Jane’s betrayal hit him full force, Asher roughly shoved her away. She crashed upon the carpet by the green brocade settee, legs sprawled wide. “I’ll kill you for this!” he hissed.

In shock, on the floor, Jane said, “You can’t kill me. What would Baron Huntsley say?” She wailed in abject misery.

“Do you think I give a bloody damn about Huntsley or you?” he growled.

“Clair would be upset if you sucked me dry,” Jane suggested, her voice thick with misery. “I’m sorry. Really sorry. Really, really sorry,” she blurted, staring in morbid fascination at the red glowing eyes of the enraged vampire before her. She remembered the words from the childhood song she’d sung with her brother: “Dracul, the red-eyed vampire (vampire!), had some very wicked teeth. And if ever you got near him (near him), you would find yourself deceased…”

Damn. She was going to go down in history as the Van Helsing who’d staked Dracul in his fanny. Her father would have it written on her headstone. For if looks could kill, her demise would come at any moment.

Jane knew she should be more frightened, but all she felt was numb. So numb that she forgot the state of her gown, her exposed pale breasts. If she raised a white flag, she wondered, would Asher call a truce? Staring at his glowering expression and deadly fangs, she guessed not.

“You bloodthirsty bitch!” Asher spat furiously. Ignoring the sight of Jane’s marvelous breasts, he reached behind himself and touched the embedded stake. He winced in pain as he shook his head in disbelief. He was not going to go gently into this good night. He could feel his fangs extending, his eyes were blue flames. And he watched in further seething disbelief as Jane leaned over and threw up all over the carpet, splattering his boots.

“That really rips it,” he snarled. His dignity was in tatters, his ass was aching and Renfield would gripe that he had another hole in his clothing. At this rate he’d be naked before April. What a scold the valet was going to give him.

Embarrassed and still nauseous, Jane sneaked a peak at Asher, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. She could feel his anger like the blast of a coal furnace. Yet the vampire’s eyes were so glacial, she felt ice shards piercing her to the very center of her soul. He reached around again, gritted his teeth, and yanked out the stake. His eyes shut against the agony.

Jane turned her head, not wanting to see more of his blood spilling. She managed to shakily make it to her knees, sad that she was about to die and hadn’t had her nightly chocolate. She hoped Brandon would avenge her. And what would Spot and Orville do? Orville would probably be served for dinner by her heartless father.

“I’m sorry you’re hurt, but—,” Jane began, swallowing against the tightness in her chest. She was cut off abruptly by her foe’s next remark.

“You viperous witch!” Asher had never been angrier. This crackpot female was at the bottom of all his problems. He was outraged that she had tried to stake him. He was incensed that such a small, plain woman hadn’t been more interested in his seduction. Her interest was not in winning his heart, but in removing it.

“Just who the bloody hell do you think you are?” he asked, clenching and unclenching his fists. If it weren’t for Clair, he would have ripped out her throat. “No one stakes the Earl of Wolverton! Most certainly not some short, mousy chit!” Yet as incredible as it seemed, it appeared that the calumnious Jane had done just that. And to add insult to injury, he had ignominiously been staked in the arse!

Leaning down over her, the earl shook a finger in her face, which made Jane mad. The major was always doing that. And while she might owe her father familial duty, she didn’t owe Asher anything. Surprisingly, she slapped his finger away, which only enraged the earl more. He leapt upon her, knocking her breath out as they fell to the floor, Asher on top and Jane on bottom.

Gasping for air, she fought his great weight, her fists striking his broad chest without result. Asher apparently felt nothing. Terrified and still in shock, Jane understood all too clearly that she was going to be dead before dawn, dead to the world. Yes, this path she’d taken definitely came to a dead end.

However, remarkable as it seemed, in some small part Jane felt a great relief, as though a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She had struck and failed. But in her failure, Asher retained his life. Which was the only truly good thing from this whole debacle, as it had been from her previous failures.

“Why did you stake me?” Asher growled, his fangs glistening in the candlelight. He glared down at her beneath him, his pulse beating in his temple as he waged a terrible battle to control his rage.

“Why?” She could hear the anger, pain and confusion all in that one word. “Why, Jane? Tell me before I spill your treacherous blood.”

Trying to wither her with his gaze, Asher watched a tear trace a path down the woman’s freckled cheek. Something deep within him stirred. If it were sympathy, he would rip it out by the root and force-feed it to the lunatic beneath him.

Glaring at her, Asher realized that she was one female he would never forget. But just what in the bloody hell did she want?

He felt like a jackass. Betrayed by a kiss? How utterly degrading. It was beneath him. He was an earl, for heaven’s sake! A master vampire! And yet, plain Miss Paine in the Ass had stabbed him. And if other immortals found out the exact location of his humiliating wound, he’d never put it behind him. He’d stake all he owned that he’d go through eternity as the butt of their jests.

As Jane tried to answer, the door to the room burst open and people spilled inside. First in line were Ian and Clair, shock etched upon their faces. Asher leapt up, putting his back to the wall, resolutely hiding his blood-soaked arse and the hole in his breeches. But he was not quick enough to prevent Ian and Clair from seeing. Jane gasped and tried ineptly to right her gown.

His quick movement had caused him pain. Asher tried to stifle a groan, his behind feeling like a large stick had been stuck there. Scowling, he thought caustically: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but a stake in the ass is worse.

Behind Ian and Clair, Mr. Warner stumbled into the’ room. He was wearing only one slipper, his dressing gown half on and half off. Behind him stood Lady Daffney, the squire and his wife, and Lord Graystroke. All were stunned. Some had their mouths hanging open, but all were speechless—a first for any tonnish crowd this size.

The room gave a collective gasp of shock and titillation: One of the most elusive catches of any season had just been caught, compromising a female of enough pedigree and social standing to force him to do the correct thing and propose. There were three or four “ah-hah!”s and one or two, “The rakish Wolverton is caught at last.”

Someone else crowed, “What entertainment! This is bloody swell.”

His expression grim, Baron Huntsley studied the unbelievable scene before him, thinking Jane Paine had definitely pulled an asinine stunt. “Bloody hell. Wedding bells,” he muttered to himself.

Asher glowered, his dignity in tatters, his lips twisted with ironic rage. His fists clenched tightly, he hid his backside. “Bloody witch, please don’t snitch,” he whispered.

Jane stood frozen like an ice statue. Shifting her gaze from the people in the doorway to Asher, she found herself hoping the scar on his backside wouldn’t be too disfiguring. Then, spotting the blood running down his pant leg, she turned pale. “Oh, ick! I may be sick.”

Surveying the scene, Clair was the only one who smiled calmly. Her Plan Z was a striking success.

The
Huntsley manor house quieted down, the guests going back to bed after the startling sight of a very mussed Jane Paine and Asher alone in the library, but many were asking how a plain Jane had finally caught the elusive and debonair Earl of Wolverton. Pacing back and forth across his bedchamber, Ian Huntsley was wondering why Asher had been staked in the behind by an on-the-shelf old maid.

The answer to his question stared back at him with beautiful, guileless gray eyes. He knew that expression well. Clair was a delightful bundle of matchmaking female, mismanaging all of those around her with a cheerful passion and usually chaotic results. Crooking his finger, he motioned his wife to him.

“Clair, what do you know about this?” he asked.

Standing before her husband, Clair Frankenstein Huntsley averted her gaze, staring at the bed curtains, studying them as if her life depended upon it. “I do believe we need to air these out,” she remarked evasively.

“Clair, why did Asher have a jagged hole in his posterior?” Ian pressed. He loved his redoubtable wife with a passion unmatched. She was everything wonderful and wondrous in life. He thought she was truly remarkable. But sometimes she was a bit eccentric, due no doubt to her heritage. And trouble seemed to follow her like a pig to its trough.

“Yes, that was unusual. I wasn’t expecting that,” she hedged, fingering the sleeves of his rust-colored dressing gown. She hid a grin. Leave it to Jane to turn everything on its end. Asher probably wouldn’t be able to sit down for a night or two.

“I knew you were playing matchmaker. I didn’t agree with it, but I know how you love your little projects. Trying to make Asher fall in love with that plain old maid… Well, to be honest I thought it was rather humorous. And that it would certainly get you in no trouble.” Ian broke away from his wife, not wanting to be distracted. And she distracted him terribly just by breathing. Contact was impossible. He started pacing the room again.

“This matchmaking scheme has at least kept you out of climbing around crypts for glimpses of vampires, or haunting old castles in search of ghosts.” He stopped pacing and looked at his wife. She was going to drive him insane—if he didn’t love her to death first. In spite of all the mad things she had done, the foiled plots, her comedy-of-errors investigations and her truly bizarre family of Frederick the monster—a rather riveting fellow—and madman uncle, Ian wouldn’t have traded one minute of his life with her. “But Asher is really going to have get hitched.”

“So it would appear,” Clair remarked cheerfully.

Ian frowned. “You know, I thought this matchmaking business would keep you safe.”

“But it has, darling. Asher’s the one who got staked.”

Clair remarked, a frown creasing her brow. “Although, I must admit I never intended for that to happen. But then the course of true love never runs smooth.”

Ian shook his head. “Clair, I don’t mind that your uncle Victor runs around robbing graves for spare body parts. I don’t even mind that you are choosing the undead as potential husbands for spinsterish friends. But I do mind when our guest, particularly a guest who has saved both of our lives, is attacked. It reflects badly on both my hospitality, and on the debt of honor I owe to that confounded vampire.”

“Asher will be fine,” Clair replied. “You know his healing abilities are almost as remarkable as your own. He’ll be sitting down in a night or two with his usual savoir faire.”

Ian almost chuckled. The image of Asher’s chagrined expression when he’d seen where the master vampire was staked was a sight Ian would never forget. But, glancing out the corner of his eye at Clair, he remained solemn. He didn’t want to encourage his wife in any more shenanigans.

He held up his wrist, tugging back his robe and exposing two fresh fang marks.