Blood Red. Sharon Page

if the men noticed her. She leaned against the rail, straining to hear.

      Crenshaw appeared bent in a permanent bow. “…I fear not, my lord…”

      Was it only that Crenshaw had mentioned her father as one of the other occupants of the inn? To imply that he served distinguished men? Her father might be a great scholar, a star in his own orbit, but a gentleman antiquarian would hardly register in the mind of a peer.

      “You fear not?” The dark velvet voice held a razor-sharp edge now.

      He did sound similar, but not quite the same. In her dreams, his tone was always seductive and teasing.

      “I am afraid, my lord, Sir Edmund has retired for the evening.”

      “Wake him.”

      “I’ve a fine room available for the night, my lord, and in the morning—”

      “I’ve no need of a room. Your parlor will suffice. I shall wait in there upon Sir Edmund.”

      “But—”

      The gentleman swirled around, sending his cape flapping around him. Like bat’s wings, of course—and Althea forgot to move back into the gloom.

      His dark gaze fixed on her, appraised, then his wide, full lips curved in a smile. She’d once been set aflame by Mick O’Leary’s cheeky smirks. Sizzling as those were, they were nothing compared to the controlled fire in this lord’s arrogant, confident grin. She was left with the image of wildfire ready to burst beyond control and consume everything in its path.

      “I am sorry if I woke you, my dear,” he drawled as he ignored Crenshaw to move to the foot of the stair. This put the lantern behind him and plunged his gorgeous face into shadow again.

      It was his voice! That lazily seductive growl was exactly the voice of the man from her dreams. She heard his whisper again in her head: Then perhaps it is not a dream, Althea. Perhaps it is a premonition.

      It couldn’t be! But she hunted vampires, and she knew that second sight did indeed exist.

      Stunned, she stared into his shadowed eyes. No, she wouldn’t…couldn’t…

      Even in the gloom, she saw his brow lift in interest.

      She must behave normally—though what could be normal?

      A curtsy. He was a lord, after all. Althea dropped, quick and unsteady, aware that she wore her wrapper and nightgown, her ugly spectacles. Her hair was in its nighttime braid and the end curved around the swell of her left breast. Her heart hammered so hard, she imagined the braid was bumping in time with it.

      Did he know about the dreams…had he…oh, goodness…?

      Legs trembling, she straightened. “You had an appointment with my father, my lord?”

      “Not an appointment, no. But I want to speak with him tonight.” His large black-gloved hand wrapped around the banister.

      Want. He said the word as though what he wanted was never denied.

      She couldn’t prevent a blush heating her cheeks. In her dreams, she had never denied him anything. So it was not to be a premonition after all. She was not about to let her father, who was so weak and confused these days, confront this vampire. Definitely not when this vampire might know about her dreams. “You cannot, my lord. But you can speak with me.”

      “And who are you, my dear?”

      She moved down two steps. The jab of the stake at the bottom of her ribs comforted. “Sir Edmund Yates is my father. I am Althea Yates.”

      “Miss Yates.” He bowed with courtly elegance. As he straightened, surprise lifted his blond brows. “You assist your father?”

      “In all of his research, yes. And his investigations.” She was halfway down the steps now.

      “So you know about the excavation of the crypt?”

      Her slipper-clad foot missed the step; her heel glanced along the edge of the tread and landed hard on the next one. Of course, she did, but how did he?

      Father had spoken of a vampire—an ancient one—one who could only be defeated by the power of the vampire entombed in that crypt. She hadn’t understood. They’d never spared a vampire before. Father’s answers were vague and told her nothing. He kept so much to himself now, but she’d understood from disconnected snippets that he was hunting the creature he believed was the oldest of the undead. The first. The ghoul from which all others had spawned.

      A whisper of fear shivered down Althea’s spine.

      Could this man be that vampire? This man who had seduced her in her dreams?

      No, impossible. Not if he was truly a peer of the realm.

      Father would suffer a fit of apoplexy if he knew what she was about to do.

      Crenshaw, Althea saw, was following their conversation. If anything, the portly innkeeper looked more confounded. “My lord, do you wish a room then, or do you wish to retire to the parlor with Miss Yates…” Crenshaw’s reedy voice died away and the man flushed.

      Althea rolled her eyes. The innkeeper was mortified because he’d just suggested that the lord and an unmarried woman make use of a parlor alone in the middle of the night. How ridiculous after what they’d done together in her dreams.

      But that hadn’t been real.

      Trembling, she gazed into his lordship’s eyes. Seeking recognition? A clue? A hint of desire for her?

      Black and bottomless, his eyes told her nothing.

      “The parlor will be fine,” she snapped to Crenshaw, suddenly tense and irritable. Suddenly fearful she was far out of her depth. Should she turn and run?

      Hell and the devil, she planned to hunt vampires! She couldn’t cower over a few dreams…even forbidden ones.

      Softening her voice slightly, Althea turned to the vampire. Her…oh, goodness…her dream lover. “But first, my lord, might I have your name? You have not yet made yourself known to me.”

      “You do not know who I am?”

      She started. Damn shadows. She couldn’t read his expression. He must mean that many young English ladies knew who he was. Heaven knew, once seen he would never be forgotten. In her dreams, he had never bothered to introduce himself. She would not let him get away with that now.

      “Until one month ago, my lord, I was living in the Carpathian Mountains and have done so since I was a young girl. So, no, I do not know who you are.”

      “The Carpathians? But you are obviously English.”

      How adeptly he kept avoiding the issue of his identity. “And you are—?”

      He laughed. “I do love a blunt woman, sweet.” The murmured endearment washed over her. Spoken softly so Crenshaw wouldn’t hear.

      “Then you won’t mind answering my question, my lord.” Althea moved down more steps. Only two separated them and this way she stood at his height. Now she could see his large black pupils, the smallest circle of colored iris surrounding them. A silvery blue, or was it green? So hard to tell under only the faintest fingers of light. And despite his fair coloring, he had thick, remarkably dark lashes. What her nanny had termed “eyes put in with a sooty finger.” Heavy-lidded eyes. His lashes swept down frequently, giving him a lazily cynical expression.

      His gaze slid from her eyes to her throat. Her cross was hidden beneath the overlapped lapels of her wool wrapper, but he saw the chain. He smiled. Lifted his brows in a gesture that seemed to say he was awarding her a point.

      “No, my dear. I won’t mind at all.”

      He leaned closer, enveloping her in his tantalizing scent. The magical male scent from her dreams. An enthralling mix of sandalwood and smoke, shaving soap and masculine skin. She hungered to move closer, to feast on his smell.