Be Mine Tonight (5 page)

Her cheeks were flushed from exercise and the night breeze. The sweet scent of her blood hung around her like an expensive and exotic perfume. He wanted to bury his face in the curve of her neck and simply breathe her in.

“I fear I might have given you little choice but to follow me.”

He shrugged. “One always has a choice.”

Now her eyes were bright with mirth. “Even a gentleman?”

He smiled. “I cannot speak for gentlemen.”

Her laughter, soft as it was, warmed him, made him want to laugh himself.

“Then I have not offended you?”

“My dear lady, of course not.”

She regarded him for a moment, her head tilted thoughtfully to one side. “You know, Mr. Chapel, I
believe you would actually tell me if I had offended you.”

Such a short acquaintance and she was already beginning to know him. “I am afraid I have very few of the social graces. A defect due to my being out of society for so long.”

Prudence nodded. “In that we are kindred spirits, I think.”

She did not honestly think they were anything alike, did she? Why, she was everything light and airy and full of life, and he was darkness personified. Yet he did feel a certain connection with her, just as he was aware that she embodied everything out of his reach.

That was not good. Not good at all. It made her all the more tempting.

“Perhaps,” was all he said in reply, but he gave her a smile so as not to offend her. “I should make my way back to my room. Thank you for the walk and the lively discussion, Miss Ryland. It has been too long since I have enjoyed the company of a woman who knows her mind as well as you.”

She blushed under his praise, bringing an ache to his gums as well as other parts of his anatomy—his heart being one of them.

“I often go to bed just as the sun is rising,” she admitted. “Perhaps we could walk again sometime.”

That would be a big mistake, of that Chapel was certain. “No doubt we will.”

He wished her a pleasant slumber as they walked up the stairs together—an action that was
uncomfortably intimate—and then left her to return to his own room.

The sun was climbing into the sky when Chapel slipped between the cool sheets of his bed. Inside his sanctuary, it was dark as pitch, but nothing more than a set of heavy drapes and the bedding curtains stood between him and death.

A better man might walk out into the blistering sun and meet the fate he deserved like Dreux had, but Chapel was not eager to meet the damnation waiting for him. He’d rather take his chances on redemption, even if it took forever to claim it.

The God he trusted in was not so cruel that He would ignore Chapel’s efforts. The vampire race had begun with Lilith, first wife of Adam and concubine of the fallen angel Sammael. Sammael had made his lover a demon queen, and she gave birth to the first of the vampires. Surely there could be no good in such origins, but he refused to believe that his soul could be completely lost. Molyneux constantly told them that while God had cursed the vampires to walk the night, He had also spared them, and that must mean that there was a plan, even for Chapel and his comrades.

The Blood Grail, that was what they called the cup that had turned Chapel and his friends into blood-drinking fiends, had been embued with the essence of Lilith as a punishment for her betrayal of Sammael. It was through Lilith that God discovered that his trusted angels on earth plotted against His human children. For her duplicity, Sammael cursed Lilith into thirty pieces of silver so that she
might be passed from man to man as she deserved. Judas Iscariot was one of the men to whom that silver was passed.

The silver was forged into a chalice shortly after Judas’s betrayal of Christ. No one knew when the Templars took possession of it, only that they had sought to hide it from the world.

Until Chapel drank from it, thinking it would save his life and then, seeing how it cured him and thinking it was the Holy Grail they’d found, his friends followed. They were all infected with Lilith’s curse.

At first the power had been wonderful—addictive, even. That power had made him forget about Marie for a time. But then Dreux had killed himself, unable to stand the immortality—the
immorality
—any longer. That was when everything changed—for all of them.

When the five of them parted ways hundreds of years before, Temple assigned himself the task of protecting the Blood Grail. Tintagel, Cornwall—here where this hunt for the Holy Grail was taking place—was one of Temple’s hiding spots, but not even Chapel knew the exact location.

He and Molyneux were there to investigate the expedition. If the true Grail was found, he was to claim it for the Holy Roman Empire. If it was the Blood Grail, he had to keep it from falling into hands that might abuse it and protect the humans from Temple, who might very well be in a feral-like state brought on from years of seclusion and lack of blood.

It was blood that kept the demon inside in check.
Without it, the demon became as demanding as a spoiled child, progressively getting worse until the vampire host lost all control and went on a murderous rampage. He had seen it happen once—when Dreux had tried to deny the bloodlust. It had taken all of Chapel’s strength to subdue his friend.

Temple would rather die than harm anyone in such a fashion, Chapel knew that for a fact, but he might keep himself hungry in order to keep his senses sharp and his instincts keen—useful advantages if he was threatened by forces trying to take the cup. Not so beneficial to those who stumbled upon him. There was no way to predict how he might react to being discovered by a group of treasure-hunting humans.

Molyneux had convinced Chapel to come by claiming that he was the only one who could stand against Temple, and he was right. But who would protect the innocent from Chapel? Someone would get hurt if his own control failed. Not to mention the fact that someone was bound to notice that he was rarely around in the daytime and that he avoided the sun like the plague.

How long had it been since he had seen the sun, felt the warmth on his face? Long enough that he no longer missed it, but wondered about it like something never before experienced.

And now here was Prudence Ryland, as bright and warm as the sun ever dreamed of being. Just standing next to her was like raising his face to a midday July sky. The waves of hope radiating from her were as soothing as they were painful. A reminder of all that he had lost.

No, that was wrong. He hadn’t lost his hope. His faith, perhaps, but not his hope. He had let the church poke and prod him, study and demean him. He even let them burn their brand into his flesh—a cross on his right shoulder. The hot silver had seared him like nothing before, and the holy symbol still burned and itched, the scar tissue pink and bright. It was the only mark he had kept since becoming a vampire. Had it done anything to save his soul? Doubtful.

His hope wasn’t lost, it was buried, and somehow Prudence Ryland made that old grave seem much more shallow than it once was.

He was struck by the urge to protect her. When she had reached for him and asked if he wanted to talk about Dreux’s death, he had felt a pain he’d never experienced before. It had been as though his heart had cracked in two. Why should she care about a stranger’s pain?

He swore then that he would not allow Lilith’s curse to corrupt her.

Not everyone cursed by the Blood Grail would be like Temple and Chapel—or even Bishop, for that matter. Others would see the curse as a way to further themselves, as Reign had. Or they would fully embrace the darkness inside them, as Saint had done. After all these years, it hurt to remember how his friend had turned his back on them all and left to enjoy what he had become.

Chapel did not want to embrace the darkness, even though it seemed to call to him from deep inside, urging him to give in to his true nature.

He did not want to be responsible for that darkness overtaking Prudence.

He didn’t want to be responsible for anything at all, as he had told Molyneux before leaving France. The consequences were too great if he failed.

“If I kill anyone,” Chapel had warned, crossing to the ancient wardrobe in the corner, “their blood will be on your hands.”

The aged man shook his head with a dark expression. “
Non, mon ami.
Their blood will be on your lips, and not even God can absolve you of that.”

Rage flooded Chapel’s veins. His heart pumped with it—kicked off the dust and began to pound, heating his flesh, fanning his hunger. His fangs slid from the sheath of his gums, his eyes felt hot, his skin tingled. Lightning-fast, he pulled back his fist and slammed it through the wall of the cellar. He plowed through brick, mortar and hardpacked earth until he was buried to the shoulder.

Molyneux jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. He stared at Chapel in horror and fear so genuine and great that Chapel could smell it, sweet as roses. As the rage slowly ebbed from his body, guilt took its place. Molyneux had never looked at him that way before—never.

Chapel extracted his aching arm from the wall with deliberate slowness. He didn’t want to frighten his friend any more than he already had. He brushed dirt from the sleeve of his robe.

“Forgive me,” he said, avoiding the other man’s gaze. “I don’t know what came over me.”

From the corner of his eye he watched as Molyneux righted his chair, pushing it to the table. “I do. My blood doesn’t strengthen you as it once did and you are frustrated because you have fought for so long and you have seen no reward.”

“Is that what you think? That I need a reward?” He hadn’t even wanted to think about the fact that Molyneux’s blood might not be enough anymore.

“Perhaps you will find your salvation in England,” Molyneux had suggested, his tone hopeful.

Chapel’s smile was bitter on his lips as the memory of that conversation dulled with the onset of sleep. Perhaps Molyneux was right, but he suspected that the only thing waiting for him here in England was a temptation too great for him to resist.

“W
ill Mr. Chapel not be joining us?” Prudence asked, slathering a warm roll with butter and jam.

It was late the next morning and Prudence, fresh from bed, had just sat down to enjoy a leisurely breakfast with Caroline, her father and Father Molyneux. Marcus would have been up and at the ruins hours earlier. Prudence would join him as soon as her meal was over.

“I am afraid not, Miss Ryland,” Father Molyneux replied in his wonderful French accent.

Pru wasn’t used to people not elaborating. “Is he hunting with the other gentlemen?”

Molyneux dabbed his mouth with the corner of his napkin. “He is abed, mam’selle. My young friend tends to slumber during the daylight hours.”

“Bit of a city dandy, is he?” It was her father who asked, his tone jovial rather than mocking.

The priest smiled. “
Au contraire.
He has a rare affliction, contracted in the East, that makes him sensitive to the sun.”

“Is it serious, Father?” Pru poured herself a cup of coffee and then topped up the priest’s as well.

Father Molyneux saluted her with his coffee cup as he raised it to his lips.
“Merci.”
He took a sip. “Chapel’s condition is very serious indeed. In fact, the simple light of day could be fatal were the sun’s rays to light upon his flesh.”

Good Lord! Pru stared at the older man with all the horror she felt. And here she felt sorry for herself! She was much more of a night person, but at least she could go outside and feel the sunlight upon her cheek if she so desired.

Of course, she’d give that up if it meant her life, as Mr. Chapel had clearly done.

It was an odd affliction, but Prudence didn’t question the story, even though Chapel looked surprisingly tanned for someone who rarely or never saw the sun. Why would a priest lie about such a thing, though? And to what end? Unless it was part of some plan on the church’s part to steal the Grail away from her?

Now she was just being paranoid. Father Molyneux didn’t act like someone with an agenda of his own. Perhaps Mr. Chapel merely had a naturally dark countenance just as she was naturally pale.

Prudence nibbled daintily on her bread. It and coffee would be her only breakfast this morning,
though she normally had a more robust appetite. Even with her corset looser than usual around the abdomen, it was uncomfortable and confining as the monster inside her made its presence known. It made her sick just thinking about it.

She forced herself to take another bite. “Surely Mr. Chapel would be fine inside the house during the day?”

Crossing his legs, Father Molyneux seemed to contemplate the question. “
Oui,
he could be, but the room would have to be very dark to be comfortable. I am sure he would not expect you to take such measures for him.”

“Nonsense,” she replied before her father could. “He is our guest.”

She decided she would go to the library right after breakfast and take Mr. Chapel some books on Tintagel and King Arthur. Her generosity had nothing to do with wanting to see the man again. Nothing.

Despite that claim, Pru’s heart fluttered nervously behind her ribs as she gathered her stack of books half an hour later. They were heavy and awkward in her arms and the burden did nothing to ease the ache in her belly. She could ring for help, but then someone would know what she was doing—and the servants would gossip. No, she would much rather do this herself, despite any discomfort.

Leaving books behind was an option, but he deserved a good selection. Honestly, she wanted to impress him with the amount of reading material she could supply. He knew so much about the
Grail, enough to rhyme off key facts and rumors with bored ease, it was important to her to prove that her knowledge was vast as well.

Only she had a feeling that her knowledge wasn’t nearly as vast as Chapel’s. He spoke almost like he was reciting dates from experience rather than book-learning. It was impossible, of course, but it was a little daunting speaking to him on the subject.

Fortunately for Pru’s arms and back, Chapel’s room wasn’t that far. She only had to stop once to rest. He was in the west wing in a room with north-facing windows overlooking the courtyard and the cliffs far beyond.

At least she hadn’t put him in a room with direct exposure to the sun. That would be too awful. Of course, it would have been a complete accident, as Chapel had kept his condition secret. Male pride might be to blame, but she didn’t flaunt her own illness either, so she wasn’t about to pass judgment.

Discomfort grew with every step, the bowing of her back pulling painfully on her abdomen. She should have left books behind, that was her mistake of pride.

Finally, a little breathless and sore, she reached Chapel’s door. Balancing her books on one hip, she raised her hand to knock.

Her knuckles rapped once before pain doubled her over with a cry. Books fell to the floor, their pages fluttering like wings trying to keep them from hitting the ground. One struck her toe, but the pain was insignificant compared to the knife
in her belly. Gasping, Pru stumbled to her knees, her hands striking the carpet seconds later. Sweat beaded her brow and upper lip as lights danced before her eyes.

“Not…now,” she gasped, supporting herself on one hand as the other went to her stomach. Oh, God, it hurt!

The door beside her opened. The pain was bad, but her embarrassment threatened to overshadow it. As she lifted her head, her breath came in a sharp gasp when she saw what loomed above her.

It was Chapel—or at least it
looked
like Chapel. The golden hair was mussed but familiar, as were the wrinkled linen shirt and black trousers, but the face…the face wasn’t familiar at all. It was feral-looking and frightening, his eyes blazing gold fire as his lips pulled back in a snarl.

And then their gazes locked and there was nothing in his eyes but concern. Good Lord, the pain was causing her to hallucinate.

“Mon Dieu.”
His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper as he fell to his knees beside her, his hands reaching for her. “Prudence, are you hurt?”

“I fell,” she gasped with a wince as the cancer’s knife twisted again. “The books…they were too heavy and I…fell.”

He was frowning, golden brows knitted. Whoever would have thought that a man could be so lovely when he frowned?

Oh, God, the pain was going to her head!

“Where does it hurt,
enfant
?”

He had a lovely accent too—not quite as heavy
as Father Molyneux’s, and different—as though his speech were influenced by more than one culture.

“I’m not a child,” she rasped, allowing him to draw her into the warm circle of his arms. She hated being fussed over, but it felt so nice to feel so safe.

Prudence didn’t answer his question and Chapel didn’t bother asking again. Sweet Jesus, when he thought of how close he had come to hurting her…

He hadn’t expected anyone to knock on his door. By this time Father Molyneux should have told everyone about his strange “affliction,” and that should have been enough to guarantee him privacy. He should have known that a woman who went strolling with him in her nightgown in the middle of the night would not be opposed to showing up at his door.

No, she hadn’t just shown up. A quick glance at the books spread out around her filled in the rest of the story. They were all about Tintagel and Arthur. He didn’t have to be a genius to know that she had hauled them to his room so he would have something to occupy himself.

So foolish and kind was little Prudence, and the sight of her in pain sliced at his heart.

He had woken up at the sound of her knock, the demon inside him instantly aware that it was day and that he was in danger. His feral, protective nature took over, instinct blocking everything else. He had been prepared to fight for his existence tooth and claw, but when he saw Prudence
on her hands and knees before him, her expression one of such suffering, the demon had fallen as quiet and soft as a frightened child.

He swept her into his arms and stood, her weight insignificant against his own strength. She was so pale, her face dewy with pain. No mere fall was responsible for this.

“Where is your room?” He would take her somewhere comfortable and then he would ring for the servants.

“The east wing,” she replied, her countenance strained. “Third on the left.”

The hallway was blessedly dim as Chapel strode down it; the only windows were at the far end. Thankfully Prudence seemed too distressed to realize that he was walking faster than he should, or that he carried her as though she weighed no more than a kitten.

Luckily, Rosecourt, while a large estate, was nowhere as monstrous as some aristocratic houses, and the trip to the east wing was blessedly short. Chapel kept as close to the wall as possible to avoid the daylight filtering from the hall. It wasn’t a bright day, but still he felt the heat on his face and hands that the clothed parts of him were spared.

The east wing was a copy of the west, and just as blessedly dim. Almost instantly his skin began to cool, stinging ever so slightly.

Why hadn’t he rung for help from his own room? Why was he playing the hero and risking discovery this way? He was asking for trouble.

“Thank you.” Pru’s eyes were thickly lashed
slits as she gazed up at him. “It cannot be comfortable for you to be in the light.”

What?
Chapel’s heart seized as though in a vise. How did she…? Oh, of course. Molyneux had told her their lie.

“It is nothing.” One more lie surely wouldn’t hurt at this point, especially when it spared her guilt.

He stopped at the third door on the left side of the corridor, balancing Pru’s weight with one arm as he reached for the handle.

Her eyes flew open. “Wait!”

Chapel froze. “What?”

Instead of pointing out that he was a freak of nature, she regarded him with a gaze that was equal parts fear and pain. “You cannot go in there.”

He managed a smile. “I assure you, your virtue is safe with me, Miss Ryland.”

Her lips curved slightly as he repeated her words from the night before. “That was not my concern, Mr. Chapel. My curtains are open. I would not have you suffer on my account.”

Him suffer? She was practically gasping with pain and she was worried about him? God save him from this woman whose goodness dug at him like a needle beneath the skin.

“Put me down,” Pru commanded softly. “I can make it to my bed on my own.”

He scowled at her, opening the door as he did so. “Do not be ridiculous.”

She struggled against him, a sparrow against a lion. “Chapel, please!”

It was the desperate way she said his name that stopped him. This wasn’t just about his safety, this was about her needing—for some reason only she knew—to go into that room by herself, to stand on her own feet and defy her pain.

Why? What was wrong with her? This was no mere fall. Something had brought this on, and whatever it was angered her.

Well, he could relate to that. Slowly, carefully, he lowered her to her feet, keeping his hands on her shoulders until he was certain she could support herself. She was hunched but steady when he let her go.

“Do you need me to send for someone?” As much as he wanted to ask what afflicted her, he couldn’t. It was none of his business, and probably not something she wanted to share.

And damn it, he didn’t want to know. He already was beginning to realize that this incident might be related to the search for the Grail. “Desperate”—that was how she had described her quest. He didn’t want to know what made her so desperate, because whatever it was, it was undoubtedly something he could not fix.

And he knew how desperation felt.

“I will be fine from here. Thank you.” Her gaze was vulnerable as it touched his.

He merely nodded, watching as she slowly, painfully turned her back on him and pushed the heavy oak door open. Heat struck him as the full blast of the day raged against his presence in its domain. He recoiled as though shoved, stumbling back into the shadows as Pru, oblivious to him
now that she was in her sanctuary, closed the door.

And then he was alone. Slowly, he straightened and began the journey back to his own room, moving at lightning speed through the open hall to avoid the sun’s vengeance again.

He returned to the dark of his chamber with stinging flesh and a heart heavy with concern for the strange young woman who drew him in like a moth to flame, but was as distant and untouchable to him as the sun.

The laudanum Pru took for pain helped her sleep the rest of the day. Caroline insisted that she take dinner in her room and remain abed, even though it was the last thing Pru wanted. Marcus came up for tea in the evening and to update her on the day’s progress. They met in her sitting room, of course. Caroline might encourage Pru to be improper, but she still abided by all the rules of decorum.

Even though Marcus was enthusiastic about how close they were coming to getting into the ruins, the highlight of Pru’s evening was the single red rose that arrived at her beside in a slender crystal vase.

“It’s from Mr. Chapel,” Georgiana informed her the next morning, her attention seemingly on the perfect crimson bloom. “Why would he send such an offering?”

Warmth blossomed in Pru’s chest. “Because he is a nice man?” It was the best she could offer in her weakened state. How she hated being weak.
At one time she could dance all night at a London ball and be ready for a picnic by noon the next day. Now she slept more than she danced and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a picnic that included more than just family.

“Hmm.” Georgiana’s hazel gaze was shrewd. “I wonder how he knew you were under the weather.”

Only Georgiana could refer to a life-threatening illness as “under the weather.” “He was there yesterday when the pain came upon me. He helped me to my room.”

Georgiana nodded, her expression unreadable save for a slight smile. “Then I suppose he is a nice man after all. Now, how do you feel about getting out of this bed and enjoying the sunshine?”

Georgiana helped her dress and pin her hair. They took tea in the garden and when Pru said she’d like to go to the excavation site, Georgiana sent for a little buggy and drove Prudence there herself.