Blood Deep. Sharon Page

to prove she was as tough, resourceful, and fearless as any man. And she had been, Eugenia Bond thought. The vampire had just been stronger.

      Zayan had not even been the one to wound her. She had been completely foolhardly. When Zayan had retreated from her, she’d triumphantly believed she could destroy him. She’d surged forward with her stake and another vampire, one named Guillaime, had come out of the shadows of Hyde Park, had wrenched her sharpened bit of wood from her hand, and had attacked her with it.

      Just remembering the pain made her weak.

      Eugenia stumbled along the streets of Mayfair, keeping to the shadows, seeking one house alone for refuge. Her brother would understand what had happened to her. He would be angry, but he would accept her into his home. She did not know how she could keep moving forward, given her wounds. But she had to. To stop would be to die.

      Blood had soaked her gown and was dripping down her arms and legs. She was pulling herself along, clinging to wrought-iron gates and lampposts when she needed support.

      Her brother’s house was so close. Only another block.

      But there must be footpads in the shadows waiting for drunken gentlemen to rob. Would they come out for her?

      Coaches clattered by, and several were stopped outside other mansions to unload passengers. Voices milled everywhere. Horses whinnied and shied. Coachlamps and lights at gateposts threw a brilliant flickering glow onto the street. It was a public, crowded place for a vampire to pursue her.

      It was not Zayan who was following her, but some younger, lesser vampire who might be stupid enough to let himself be seen.

      There. She heard them—stealthy footsteps behind her. She didn’t have the strength to turn. All she could do was throw her fear into a headlong plunge forward. The steps sped up behind her into a run.

      Thank heaven for the crowd. Even though the dimwitted members of the ton merely gasped in shock at her and stepped back to give her room, it meant her vampire attacker would not spring in front of so many witnesses.

      Number 16. Just the sight of the front door and its lion’s head knocker made her want to cry in relief. She stumbled up the steps.

      “Madam!” cried a young footman in shock as he opened the door, and she promptly fell against him.

      “Footpads,” she gasped, for his benefit, and that of the servants hurrying forth. Her pompous brother Edward would not want it to be made public that his sister was a vampire hunter. Edward thought her mad. It was only because he knew that vampires were not myth but reality that he had not already locked her into Bedlam.

      Boots thundered across the tile floor. She had sagged on her back against the wall, clutching her side. Icy cold swept over her, and her fingers were numb. Dimly, she saw Edward’s face. Instead of being livid with fury, he was anguished with fear. “Eugenia. Dear God, what have you done?”

      Engineered my own death. She thought the words but couldn’t say them. Her strength evaporated then, and the cold claimed her.

      She slithered to the ground.

      A brilliant light shone upon her, welcoming her, embracing her. In her mind, Eugenia reached out to it. It promised refuge from the cold. It was beautiful to behold, flooding out fear and uncertainty.

      “Aunt Eugenia?”

      She heard a child’s voice from far away.

      “Don’t die, Aunt!” the girl cried.

      Eugenia felt a pressure on her chest. The weight of a young girl’s head. I have no choice, she wanted to say. It is my time to go. This battle, I’ve lost.

      But warmth flooded through her, a heat that took on a greater strength and made the bright, beckoning light fade away. Eugenia was pulled backward, pulled down to the bed on which her body lay, and she slammed back into herself with a jolt.

      She forced her eyelids up and saw a girl standing at her bedside.

      Miranda. The child was twelve, her golden hair still caught up in braids that did not tame the tempestuous curl. Her skirts skimmed below her knee. The child blinked rapidly, her blue eyes glistening, and tears streaked her cheeks. “Are you…all right, Aunt Eugenia? I felt the heat. You aren’t going to die now, are you?”

      Good heavens, the girl had brought her back to life. She was weak still and could not sit up, but Eugenia felt the beat of her heart grow stronger and faster.

      Her niece had pulled her back from the afterlife, and had, well, resurrected her.

      She had encountered such strong magic only once before—in the vampire Zayan.

      Exhausted by the ordeal of saving her aunt’s life, Miranda collapsed at Eugenia’s side. Weakly, Eugenia embraced the slim, shaking girl, and she whispered soothing words until Miranda stopped trembling.

      “I don’t know what I did,” Miranda whispered against Eugenia’s bosom.

      “You saved my life,” Eugenia answered softly. “You were a brave and wonderful girl. You are very special, my dear.”

      She tried to make it sound simple and matter-of-fact for the child, but Eugenia knew it was anything but. Her niece possessed magic that made demons and vampires look like fumbling amateur mesmerists.

      Now she knew what her mission must be. What would happen to Miranda as her dear niece grew up with this astonishing magical power? She might belong to the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena, but Eugenia knew exactly what the men of the Royal Society would want to do—either destroy Miranda or hold her captive to study her. The girl needed to be protected from that. Miranda would need a great deal of help. She must learn to fit into society while keeping this power a secret. And Eugenia knew how great and dangerous a task that was.

      “Dear sweet girl,” Eugenia whispered, stroking her niece’s slender back, “I will take care of you. Always.”

      1

      Captured

      From the diary of Miss Miranda Bond

      1 March, 1819

      There is nothing more exasperating than the sound of a woman in pleasure if that woman is not you and there is very little hope that the woman will ever be you.

      It is said, I think, that momentous journeys begin with the smallest impetus…. Well, perhaps it has been said only by me, but it sounds very well, so I shall use it as my motto, my mantra, my slogan for the campaign I am about to embark upon.

      That cry of pleasure was my impetus.

      To save my debt-ridden family, I will race to the windswept moors—to the estate of the mysterious and notorious Lord Blackthorne. Rumors of his strange, erotic tastes abound, but I believe not one of those salacious tales is true. Blackthorne saved my brother’s life on the bloody battlefield of Waterloo, and I know him to be a true hero.

      It is more than the necessity of saving my family. From the letters we have exchanged for a precious, glorious year now, I know I love him.

      So I must go to him, seduce him, and marry him.

      Assuming I do not get lost, robbed, or murdered on the way….

      15 March, 1819

      “I want to plunge deep inside you, angel. I want to make you scream.”

      Miranda shut her eyes and felt a shiver of anticipation tumble from her bare nape to her low back. He was here, again, hidden in the shadows behind her. His voice was purely erotic—the sound of it low and deep, rich and sexual. Completely male—both lusty and unapologetic.

      It isn’t real. It is a dream, Miranda, her inner thoughts warned.

      How could she know that? She was part of the dream—lost in it—but somehow she knew it was just a fantasy, and that if she forced her eyes to open, this exquisite moment would disappear.

      His