Books by Maggie Shayne (202 page)

I released a long, slow breath.
 
"It was."

"Did you ever know what that meant to me?
 
Did you know how I slept soundly, how I believed it, how I clung to it?
 
My parents were gone, but I had someone, still.
 
Someone watching over me as my dear ma had, protecting me as my da had done.
 
'Twas the second time you saved me, you know."

"No," I said.
 
"I didn't know."

"Now you do.
 
Quite a thing for a self-servin' monster to do, wasn't it, Donovan?"

"You don't understand," I began.
 
But I wasn't certain I could explain.
 
I didn't understand it either.
 
Not fully.

"Make me understand then."

Nodding, I shifted to one side, so she could sit beside me on the edge of the settee I saw her gaze shift quickly to the wound again, as if to assure herself my movement hadn't started the bleeding up again.
 
"Dante told me of our nature, long ago.
 
He told me that only certain mortals can become... what we are."

Her intense expression told him how interested she was in hearing more.

"As a mortal, I had a rare antigen in my blood.
 
It's known as belladonna.
 
That made me one of those few, one of the Chosen, as we call them."

"That's fascinating.
 
I had no idea..."

"I know.
 
Vampires are... aware of mortals with the antigen.
 
We sense them, just as Dante sensed it in me.
 
And there's more.
 
There's a... a connection.
 
For each vampire there's a mortal somewhere, one with the antigen, for whom that connection is stronger.
 
So strong that we're drawn to them."

"And... were you that mortal for Dante?"

I nodded.
 
"Yes.
 
I never knew it, but he watched over me for most of my life.
 
If trouble had come, he'd have | protected me.
 
And if I'd needed help, he'd have sensed it, wherever he might have been, and he'd have come."

She lowered her head, made a noise of disbelief in her | throat.

"You don't believe me," I stated.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to mine.
 
"If the legends are true, Donovan, he attacked you as you walked alone one night.
 
He made you into what he was.
 
If you call that protection, then—"

"I was dying."

She blinked fast.
 
Her eyes widened.

"I didn't know it, of course, but Dante did.
 
I'd been feeling the symptoms for weeks.
 
Weakness, dizziness, blacking out for no reason.
 
I had no idea what was wrong, and I'd thought it was something that would pass.
 
But it wasn't."

"How do you know?"

I didn't answer that.
 
Couldn't.
 
Not yet.
 
It would be too cruel to give her so much to deal with all at once.
 
I couldn't tell her that mortals with the antigen always suffered the': same fate--an early death.
 
I'd been very close to my end.

"I simply do," I told her instead.
 
"There's no doubt."

She stared down at me.
 
"Then... you'd have died if he hadn't... done that to you."

"Without a doubt."

She nodded, deep in thought.
 
"But he could have given you the choice.
 
He never asked you to decide."

I smiled slightly, remembering.
 
"Dante was never one to take time about acting.
 
He was impulsive.
 
Action first, thought later.
 
But there were other reasons too.
 
Had he told me, I likely would have repeated it to my parents, or the village priest.
 
And some secrets simply must be kept, Rachel."

She drew my bloody shirt down over my body, deep in thought.
 
I saw the moment she made the connection, because her eyes widened and met mine.
 
"I have the antigen, don't I?"

I nodded.
 
"You are the mortal I'm driven to watch over, Rachel.
 
It's a part of who—of what I am.
 
Don't go attaching any noble motivations to it.
 
It's simply an irresistible urge.
 
I couldn't ignore you if I tried."

"So saving me from the hounds...?"

"A reflex.
 
Nothing more."

She lowered her eyes.
 
"I'm not sure I believe you."

"Why not?"

She shrugged.
 
"I think there's an element of choice involved, Donovan.
 
You can't tell me that it was impossible for you to choose not to put yourself into the jaws of those hounds."
 
She tilted her head to one side.
 
"Or not to come back here at all.
 
But you did.
 
You came back because of me, didn't you, Donovan?"

I lowered my head.
 
"Perhaps that was part of it.
 
But I also came back because of Dante."

"Dante is dead."

"Yes.
 
But I don't know where..."

Frowning, she studied me.
 
"Where?
 
Where he lies, you mean?"

Sighing, I absently ran one hand over the wound in my side.
 
"When they came for us, put their torches to the castle walls, the sun was just beginning to rise.
 
We had no choice but to run.
 
Flames... devour our kind very quickly, you see.
 
We both knew our only hope was to make for the relative shelter of the woods, where the sun's light wouldn't penetrate quite as quickly.
 
And perhaps that would give us time to find shelter.
 
A few minutes, at best, but perhaps enough."
 
She nodded, urging me with her eyes to go on.
 
"When we emerged, they were waiting.
 
We could have stood and fought, and likely defeated them all."

"But...
 
I thought there were dozens..."

I nodded.
 
"We're very strong, Rachel.
 
We could have | fought, but the sun allowed no time.
 
We had to run.
 
They pursued us, though, and we had no choice but to split up.
 
I ran in one direction, Dante in another.
 
The mob... they | went after him."

"And what happened to you?"

"I made it to the forest, and the hay field beyond.
 
I saved | myself by burrowing deep into a haystack and remaining | there until nightfall.
 
It offered thin protection, but I survived.
 
Weak, burned in many places, but I lived."

"And Dante didn't," she said softly.

"I returned to the castle ruins by night... for weeks.
 
Knowing that's where he would look for me if he were : alive.
 
Even after I left the country, I came back periodically to wait for him here.
 
I had the place rebuilt, just in case.
 
But he never came.
 
Now I only want to know where he died."

"Will you put a marker there?" she asked, her voice quiet.

"A garden," I told her.
 
"Something as alive as he was."

"You loved him very much.
 
Yet you claim you care for no one."

"I loved him," I said.
 
"He was the last person I ever | let myself care for.
 
The lesson his death taught me was too hard won to forget."

I felt heavy.
 
Tired.

"If you can't love," she asked, "then how can you live?"

"It isn't so hard."

She closed her eyes.
 
"I'm like you," she said.
 
"In more ways than I realized."

"How?"

But she only shook her head as I slipped into slumber.

She didn't realize the time until he went still, and his eyes fell closed.
 
It wasn't like death, this slumber of his.
 
More like a very deep sleep.

She'd told him she was like him.
 
Only now did she realize how much.
 
She hadn't loved, either.
 
With one exception.
 
Since her parents had died there had been, only one being she'd truly loved.
 
And as she'd grown older, she'd convinced herself that love had only been a dream.
 
But the love for that dream angel had remained.

And now she knew he was real.
 
Her savior, her dream, was real.

And damp with his own blood, in torn, dirty clothes.
 
He'd watched over her as a child.
 
Taken care of her more than once.
 
She could do no less for him.

But she could never tell him.
 
He must never know how much she'd loved him in her youth.
 
The fantasies she'd had.
 
Because he was afraid of love.
 
She'd never known anyone so afraid.

Slowly, Rachel got up off the settee and headed to her own rooms.
 
She found clean washcloths and soft towels, and fetched a basin of warm water.
 
Then she returned to Donovan.
 
He'd object to her caring for him this way if he were awake.
 
But he wasn't awake.

She took off his shirt, moving him carefully, half afraid doing so would jar him awake, or worse, start him bleeding again.
 
She eyed the bandaged wound.
 
No red trickle emerged.
 
Good.
 
But her gaze slid slowly upward, over his flat belly, and muscled chest.
 
His dark nipples intrigued her.

Her throat went dry.
 
She looked away.
 
Dipping the soft cloth into the water, squeezing it out, she pressed it to his skin.
 
But she could feel him underneath it.
 
Taut and hard.
 
Masculinity was like an aura emanating from his flesh.
 
Almost a scent, it drew her.

She leaned closer, over his chest, her face near enough so she could feel the heat rising from him and touching her.
 
Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply.
 
And something stirred down in the pit of her belly.
 
Something she knew, recognized, because she'd felt it before.
 
Whenever this man was near her she felt it.

But she had no business feeling desire for a man incapable of feeling anything beyond desire in return.

She felt it all the same.

"God, help me," she whispered.
 
"But I do want you, Donovan O'Roark."
 
She closed her eyes, tried to get herself under control.
 
Dipping the cloth in the now pink-tinted water, she squeezed it out again, and carefully took away her makeshift bandages from his wound, to clean it properly.

Then she squinted, dabbed the blood away, and looked again.

It... it was smaller.

It was shrinking.
 
Amazed, she watched as, in slow motion, the wound's edges pulled together like some kind of
 
experiment in time-lapse photography.
 
It took several minutes, but bit by bit the skin seemed to regenerate.
 
Leaving a pucker, and then even that smoothed itself out and faded away.

Blinking in shock, she washed the spot clean, searching for traces of the tear, but it was gone.
 
Gone.
 
In something like awe, she drew her fingers over the new, healthy skin.
 
"It's unbelievable," she whispered, and flattened her palm against his warm flesh.

When his hand fell atop hers, she jumped and quickly looked up at his face.
 
But his eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow, barely discernible.
 
But his hand closed around hers in his sleep.
 
A sleep in which he'd told her he was beyond responding to any stimulus.

He'd been wrong.

And now the hand of this man, who claimed he didn't need or want anyone in his life, clung to her own, and for the life of her, she wouldn't have taken hers away.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

I woke to a feeling of warmth spread upon my chest.
 
And then as my senses sharpened, I knew that warmth was her.

Rachel was on the floor, her legs curled beneath her, while her head rested upon my chest.
 
Her lips... barely touching the bared skin of it.
 
One arm spanned me, hand on my shoulder.
 
Her other hand was tucked beneath her, held tightly in my own.

I flexed and relaxed my fingers, to confirm what seemed unlikely.
 
But it was true.
 
I was the one holding
her
hand like a lover.
 
Not the other way around.

I couldn't lie like this... not for much longer.
 
Her soft breaths whispering over my skin were driving me to the edge of madness.
 
I was hungry.
 
And she was too near.
 
Too...

Her fingers spread on my shoulder, then kneaded like a happy cat's claws.
 
She moved her face, as if burrowing, only my chest didn't give, and her lips brushed over it like fire.
 
The groan that rose up from the depths of me was a rumble.
 
A warning.
 
The same rumble one might hear from a volcano as the pressure within builds.
 
An eruption was dangerously near.

She stirred, satin hair tickling my skin as she sat up, batting huge dark eyes at me, myopic until she blinked the sleep haze away and brought me into focus.
 
Then she smiled.

"It healed," she told me.

"I told you it would."

"I know, but seeing it with my own eyes... 'twas amazing, Donovan."

I nodded, trying to ignore the fresh-wakened glow in her cheeks and the moisture making her sleepy eyes gleam.
 
The tousled hair.
 
She must look just like this when she's been thoroughly satisfied by a skilled lover, I thought.
 
Just like this.

I tried to sit up.
 
She noticed, and got off me so I could, and I instantly regretted the loss of her so near.
 
But when she got to her feet, it was to press her hands to the small of her back and arch.
 
She grimaced, groaned and rubbed, so I realized she'd spent a horribly uncomfortable day on the floor when she'd had a bed fit for a queen only yards away.
 
"Rachel, why on earth didn't you go to your room?"

She kept her hands where they were, fingers massaging herself.
 
But her head came up fast.
 
"An' leave you here by the front door, unconscious and unprotected?
 
Not likely!"

I lowered my head.
 
The smile that wanted to come to my lips was a dangerous one, I knew.
 
No sense encouraging her foolish notions.
 
"You'd already locked the door."

"Marney Neal could make quick work of that lock, and 'twouldn't be the first time."

I went still, sought her eyes, but she kept them averted.
 
"You say that as if you know."

"Aye."

The bastard.
 
"What lock was it he made quick work of, Rachel?"

"The one on my room at the pub.
 
Eight years ago, before I left for the States."

Her voice didn't break at all.
 
Mine would if I spoke again.
 
It would break or emerge as the growl I felt building up.
 
I'd kill the bastard.
 
I'd rip out his heart and—

"You're lookin' rather murd'rous, Donovan," she said softly, studying my face.
 
"An' truly, there's no need.
 
Marney's a thorn in my side, but a harmless one.
 
He'd never have gone so far if he hadn't had a wee bit too much ale.
 
An' I daresay he sobered up some about the time I shoved him out my window."

I blinked, then slowly reached out, hooking one finger under her chin and tipping her head up so I could see her face.
 
She seemed to be telling the truth.
 
"You pushed him out your window?"

"'Twasn't hard.
 
Marney didn't have much balance that night anyway, as I recall.
 
So he kicks in my door and starts groping at me like a ruttin' buck, going' on about marriage and love and other such nonsense.
 
I simply turned so his back was to the window, and gave him a bit of a shove."

I couldn't help it.
 
I smiled.
 
"But your room is on the second floor."

"Aye.
 
He broke his arm in two places when he landed.
 
Good for him our main road isn't paved, wouldn't you say?"

I felt an odd feeling welling up for Rachel Sullivan, in the center of my chest.

"No man alive ever got so much as a kiss from me
  
without my consent, Donovan.
 
Tis not something I'd tolerate."

My gaze faltered.
 
"Are you trying now to take the blame for what I did before?"

"I'm only saying you spoke true when you said that if I hadn't wanted it to happen, it wouldn't have.
 
And not only because I'd have prevented it, but because you would."

I met her eyes, my own narrowing.
 
"Don't start again tonight crediting me with qualities I don't possess."

She shrugged.
 
"I'm starving.
 
Aren't y—"
 
She broke off there, bit her lip, and sent me a quick, hot glance.
 
Her trembling hand shot to her neck, but the wounds there were gone now.
 
Would have healed with the daylight.
 
As if they'd never been there.

"Do you... would you..."

"Don't."
 
I looked away, forcibly, from her tender throat.
 
"Why don't you go to your rooms, Rachel.
 
You must want a shower, a change of clothes."

"But... how do you get...
 
What I mean is, where do you...?"

I looked at her again, unable to help myself.
 
"I don't kill, if that's what you're asking.
 
I have stores.
 
Cold, stale, sealed in plastic bags."
 
I swallowed hard, as one of my hands rose up to stroke her hair, arranging it behind her shoulder.
 
My fingers touched the soft skin there.
 
Felt the pulse thudding endlessly, the river of her blood, flowing there.
 
Warm, living blood.

"You... you drank from me... before."

"I shouldn't have done that."

"It was..."
 
She swallowed hard, but her eyes heated, and the flame singed me.

"It was ecstasy," I finished for her.
 
"I know.
 
That's the danger,
 
Rachel.
 
That's the allure.
 
What makes us so dangerous to you.
 
You want it.
 
You crave what could end in your own destruction."

She lifted her chin.
 
"You'd never hurt me."

"Don't be so sure of that, Rachel."
 
I turned away.

"But I
am
sure of it," she said to my back.
 
I'd been walking toward the kitchens, but I stopped then and stood motionless.
 
"Perhaps you're the one who needs convincin'."
 
She moved forward very slowly.
 
When she slid her palms slowly up the length of my back, curling her fingers on my shoulders, I stiffened, inhaled sharply.
 
"I'm not afraid of you, Donovan.
 
I've no reason to be and you know it, I think.
 
But you're afraid of me, aren't you?"

"Don't be a fool."

"I'd only be a fool if I were asking' you to trust me," she said, and she moved her hands slowly, caressing my neck, fanning her fingers up into my hair.
 
"Or to love me.
 
But I'm not, Donovan.
 
I'm not asking' for anything like that."

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

She was, she knew she was.
 
All her life she'd dreamed of this man.
 
He was meant for her, she knew that.
 
Somewhere deep inside her, she'd always known.
 
She'd never been with a man.
 
Even believing her guardian angel, her immortal Donovan O'Roark to be a fantasy, she'd saved herself for him.
 
Only for him.

He didn't turn, didn't speak.

She lowered her hands to her sides.
 
Defeated.
 
Maybe her dreams were as foolish as she'd once convinced herself they'd been.
 
Maybe she'd been wrong after all.

"I'm sorry.
 
I thought...
 
I thought you wanted me, too."
 
Turning away, she went to the stairs, climbed them slowly, and found the haven of the rooms he'd created for some fantasy woman--a woman he must have dreamed of.
 
A woman he'd never let in.