The Vampire Voss (32 page)

“Blasted chambermaid,” Voss muttered, still standing in the entrance. “Told her to keep the curtains drawn.” He looked at Angelica almost sidewise, his lips pressed flat as if he were trying to be casual…yet perhaps a bit discomfited. “If you don't mind?”

She walked into the chamber, a bit dazed, but realized with a start that he meant for her to close the drapes so that he could enter. Angelica walked over to do so, opening the windows to allow the summer breeze access. One of them was actually a glass door leading to a small balcony, and she walked out onto it to look down over the creamy buildings of Paris. Then she came back in, pulling the light under-drapes closed and leaving the heavy over-curtains pulled back in their original position. Still, the room was much dimmer than when they'd entered.

It occurred to her at that moment what an awful, dark life a
vampir
must lead.

It also occurred to her that, with the sun rising, they would be safe—at least for the day—from any pursuit by Moldavi's
vampirs.

She turned to look at Voss, who'd come into the room now that it was safe and closed the door behind him. The
snick
of a bolt told her he'd secured the door, and her heart stopped.

Was he locking someone out, or locking her in?

He stood in the shadowy alcove of the doorway, his dirty white shirt tight over broad shoulders and a V of golden skin showing from where it had come undone at the throat. The purple and red neckcloth she'd recognized from her dream hung loosely around his throat. He was so handsome, a creature of every shade of gold and honey. So warm and rich. Her mouth became dry and she had a flash of the memory of those full lips closing down on hers. He still held the dark bundle of coat in his hands, and she saw him clasp it closer to his belly in a short, quick jerk.

They stared at each other for a moment, their eyes meeting, holding. Even the flare of light in his golden-green ones didn't send a warning bolt rushing through her.

“Angelica.” His voice was little more than a breath, yet it sounded as if he were in pain.

“Thank you,” she managed to say and broke away from his gaze. What now? What did they do now?

“Are you hurt? At all?” He remained where he was, across the chamber. But his eyes scanned over her as she dropped the cloak, and she felt the weight of them as if they were his hands.

Angelica shivered.
If only…
“I'm not hurt.” She remembered her bloodied nose, and knew she had bruises elsewhere on her from the horrible horseback ride and her vain attempts to escape. But she supposed her fate could have been much worse at the hands of Moldavi.

“Well, then. A bath might perhaps be in order,” Voss said suddenly, briskly. He turned away, but not before she saw a flash of white at his lips. Fangs.

Angelica swallowed again. Had she left the frying pan and fallen into a blazing fire instead?

But, yet…this was Voss. Hadn't he ordered her away from him when he sneaked into her bedchamber? If he meant to
attack her, he could easily have done it then. Nor did he have to send for Corvindale when he took her to Black Maude's, when he stopped his own attack.

No. It was clear that Voss didn't intend to hurt her.

He didn't
intend
to hurt her. But the look in his eyes…

“A bath… Oh, yes, please!” she replied, looking down at the once-beautiful rose-pink gown. She'd been wearing it for nearly a week. Torn, stained, the ruffles and trims flattened… The frock would never be the same. She hadn't had the courage to glance in the mirror, for fear of what she'd see.

“Right,” said Voss, pausing as he dug through a satchel. “I was speaking of a bath for myself…but of course, ladies first.”

She looked over at him, surprised at his lack of chivalry— and then saw that he was smiling in jest. Her mouth softened. “Thank you,” she said again, her voice low. “Truly.”

He looked away, and his face settled with what was surely pain. “I shall call for a bath and leave you to your privacy.”

“No,” Angelica said before she could think. “No, I don't want to be left alone. Please. I'll forgo the bath…if you can stand me unwashed.”

Voss laughed this time, and although he moved stiffly, seemed easier. “Not only do I not wish to ‘stand' you unbathed, but I also wouldn't dream of imposing my own unwashed self upon you. I do believe it can be managed with a modicum of propriety, my dear. If you will trust me.”

Those last words hung in the air between them and, as if realizing what he'd said, Voss suddenly turned away. “There is a screen, you know,” he said, gesturing to the corner.

“Yes,” she replied.

He walked over to a row of four bell pulls, obviously each for different needs, and yanked on the second one.

“What's wrong with your arm?” Angelica asked, noticing
that he'd continued to favor his right side. He'd hardly been able to lift it to reach for the bell pull, in fact.

Voss glanced at her. “Of all the questions you might have asked me, that's the one you choose? Not, ‘Where did you come from, Voss?' Or ‘How did you find me?' ‘Why are we here?' Or even ‘What are we going to do now, Voss?'”

Angelica smiled in spite of herself. She liked this man. “Ah, but I wouldn't call you Voss,” she replied, her voice dropping in a way that made her flush.

Their eyes met again, stopping her heart, making her belly flip and flutter. Making her
want
…something.

His eyes were hot, so hot and so vibrant that she could sense the need from him even across the room. Even from that simple connection of gazes. He took two rapid steps toward her, then halted, spinning half away as if he'd been shot.

“It will be well-nigh impossible for me to remain in the same chamber as you,” he said. “Without wanting to… With out wanting…
you.
” His voice was low, very low, and not nearly as smooth as she was used to. “It's part of the affliction…the need for blood. We have to have it to survive. But it's not just blood,” he continued. “It's you. I'm dying for the need of you, Angelica.”

Her breath clogged and she found herself hypnotized, not merely by his gaze, but his words, as well. Her hand crept to her throat, settling there before she realized it, offering nothing but weak protection.

“And so,” he said, his voice gravelly, his golden eyes burning hot. She even saw his nose lift a bit, as if scenting the air. He closed his eyes briefly, then reopened them. “I had my valet prepare something for you. To help. To help you trust me.”

He gestured to a flat, metal case no larger than the palm of her hand. It sat on the table in the center of the chamber;
perhaps he had taken it out earlier, or just now when digging through his satchel.

“What is it?”

“Open it. Wear it,” was all he said, and then turned away, bumping into one of the chairs. He paused, his fingers closed around the top of it, whitening as they dug into the upholstery.

She did as he bid, opening the thick silver case. It was lined with lead. Inside, she found a chain intertwined with the stem of a plant. It was a necklace made from some herb, fortified by a gold chain so that it wouldn't break.

“I don't understand,” she said, lifting it, smelling the small, oblong leaves that grew in clusters from their stem. They had a faint, minty scent and some of them boasted tiny, fuzzy lavender flowers.

“Wear it and I won't be able to approach you.”

Before she could reply, there was a brisk, businesslike knock at the door.

“That would be the bath,” he said. “Perhaps you'd like to step behind the screen? And take that with you, if you please.”

He spoke in French, rapidly and yet with his customary charm, to the maids. It took some time, but the bath was moved behind the folding screen and filled with steaming water by a small army of chambermaids. A second, smaller tub was brought in for Voss to use, and Angelica couldn't help but appreciate his consideration.

There was lovely, scented French soap and warm towels, along with a clean robe and shift. One of the servants assisted Angelica in peeling off her filthy, worn clothing. She had taken Voss's suggestion and stepped behind the folding screen, and now she slid gratefully into the tub. The choker-
like necklace settled around her neck, plastering to her throat and dipping into its hollow.

“Take these filthy ones,” Voss directed from beyond the screen, still in French but much more fluidly than Angelica could speak, “and bring back some clean clothing for the lady.”

She thought briefly about arguing—Maia certainly would. It wasn't proper for a woman to accept gifts from a man, especially something as intimate as clothing. But how ridiculous it would be not to accept something so practical, and even more so to posture about it. Sometimes, propriety was so illogical.

So she said nothing, humming to herself to cover up the sounds of his own bath as she washed quickly. After, a maid assisted her in dressing in a loose lawn shift and long peignoir.

Her damp hair pinned up loosely, dripping occasionally down her neck or onto her shoulder, Angelica emerged from behind the screen to find that Voss had also finished his ablutions. Her humming stopped.

All at once, the maids were gone, and they were alone— now in a far more intimate environment of warm, damp skin that had recently been bare, the scents of lavender, lemon and orange in the air, and fewer layers of clothing.

“Explain this,” Angelica said, sitting on one of the chairs. She hooked a finger under the necklace and lifted it from her skin. Her fingers trembled but she kept her voice calm. Her belly was in knots.

Voss gave her a crooked smile. “Again with the irrelevant questions, my dear. All you need know is that it is a great deterrent to me.”

“To you? Not to anyone else?”

“I'm afraid not.” He turned away and Angelica gasped. The shirt he'd donned was not only worn so thin that it was nearly
transparent, but the fact that his skin was damp and caused the fabric to cling made it easy for her to see the ugly, dark lines through it.

“My God, Dewhurst…what is that?”

He looked back, frowning. “What?”

But she'd already risen from her chair, moving toward him automatically, reaching for the shoulder where she'd seen something that looked like horrible scarring. Twisting black lines radiating from the back of his shoulder and along his arm, down past where the shirt no longer stuck to his skin. It was no wonder he could hardly move.

“Don't,” he said, but it was too late…she'd already moved close enough to touch him.

Remembering the necklace, she stopped and stepped back a pace. “Does it pain you?” she asked, once again lifting the leaf-entwined chain, smelling its mint, now damp from her bath.

His face drawn, his lips flat, Voss nodded, then gave a shrug. “A bit.”

She stepped back again and saw that his chest moved in an easier breath. Odd, fascinating…and a bit frightening.

Angelica sat in a chair across from him, leaving what she judged was space enough for his comfort. “Is it the proximity? The smell? The sight? I thought it was silver that repelled vampires. That was the way Granny Grapes told us.”

Voss smiled and moved carefully to sit at the edge of the bed, leaving more space between them. “Your grandmother sounds like a fascinating woman. I wonder how she knew so much about the Draculia. That,” he added, “is what we call ourselves.”

“Her grandmother was my great-great-grandmother, the Baroness Beatrice Neddelfield, whose much-older husband died when she was merely twenty. The baroness fell in love
with a blacksmith, who happened to be the son of a Gypsy from Romania. The way Granny tells it, they fell in love at first sight and Beatrice would have no one but Vinio for her husband. Since she was a widow, she no longer cared what Society thought, and they wed—living happily ever after.” Angelica shrugged, thinking, as she had done many times in the past, about the way some people seemed to find a strong, intimate connection to another person so quickly and easily without any explanation or logic. And how, for others, it was something that seeded, rooted and eventually blossomed.

And how some people seemed empty and remote for all of their lives.

“That explains it, then,” Voss said. “The Gypsy blood, the Romanian heritage…the first of the Draculia was Vlad Tepes, Count Dracula of Transylvania. And the rest of us are all descendants of his. For obvious reasons, if they choose to do so, Dracule tend to make very good marriages—albeit temporary ones, due to the immortality factor. Many of our antecedents wed titled members of European aristocracy. But the choice to become Dracule is only offered to some of us.”

“Such were my granny's bedtime stories,” Angelica agreed. “Not of the variety commonly told to English children, however.”

“Thank the Fates for that, or how many more of them would grow up wishing to be like your brother.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

Voss shifted. “Because you aren't asking the ones you ought to, Angelica.” His eyes glittered and she felt warm and flushed again.

But no longer apprehensive.

“I'm certain I'll learn the answers in good time. You obviously can't leave the hotel during the daylight, so we are here
for some time. And for now, I want to understand how this plant…whatever it is…affects you.”

He sighed. “It's not something one discusses, Angelica. It's of a personal nature. Incidentally,” he added with a bit of a rueful smile, “that's precisely the reason Corvindale and Cale, and even your brother, are displeased with me. Because I make a point of learning about their…weaknesses. So to speak.”

“Lord Corvindale is one, too?” Angelica gasped. “And Mr. Cale?”

“Ah. Yes, indeed. I'm sorry to shatter your illusions. They are also Dracule.”