Blood Red. Sharon Page

she saw, to her amazement, that nothing appeared out of place—not the furniture or the bed. The earl lowered his arms. He stood in a pool of moonlight, his hair and face as silver as the light, and he looked like a glowing warrior angel.

      “What in the name of God was it?” O’Leary’s charge toward the window yanked her attention from the gorgeous, shimmering vampire. For the first time Althea noticed O’Leary was shirtless but wore his breeches and boots. Four strapping male servants stood transfixed near the door, gaping in astonishment. Father’s coachman and groom—who knew Father hunted vampires—and two Inn footmen, who did not.

      Suddenly her father’s weight lifted from her. The earl lifted him and carried him to his bed, bending to lay him gently onto the quilt. O’Leary herded the servants out of the room as Crenshaw’s voice rose from the corridor. “Mr. O’Leary, what has happened?”

      “O’Leary can take care of them. Now, who the bloody hell are you?” came her father’s faint querulous voice.

      Despite Father’s obvious weakness, a warm relief flooded Althea. He couldn’t be too badly hurt if he was as crotchety as ever. The earl spoke in a low, murmuring voice, too low for her to hear.

      “Brookshire, eh? One of the Demon Twins. So you’ve come after your brother, my lord?”

      “As a consequence of hunting Zayan, yes.”

      “You’ve decided to confront Zayan.”

      “I want what you want, Sir Edmund. To see Zayan destroyed.”

      Her father gave a short, curt laugh, then a curse she’d never heard him say. “Won’t slay him without your brother.”

      Althea moved forward as her father struggled to sit up. Her hands shook—she knew father had intended to use Sebastien de Wynter as bait to capture his brother. Imprisoned, de Wynter was the weaker vampire. His brother was strong, cunning, a dangerous foe.

      To her astonishment, the earl flipped out his cape and planted himself on the edge of the bed. He took hold of her father’s shoulders, eased him back. “Lie down, please, Sir Edmund. Let me find where you’ve been injured.”

      “I can tell you that. Ribs below the heart. Right arm. Left leg. Some Hellhound came at me first and mistook me leg for his dinner. Then Zayan crushed me ribs and drove his finger into me chest. Burst into me flesh like a blade. His bloody finger! I got a shot off with the crossbow and caught him through the shoulder—”

      Althea tumbled onto her knees on the bed, beside her father. She wrapped her hands around his. “Please, Father, don’t exhaust yourself.” The sight of his face—drawn, pale, his lips blue and trembling—made her heart plummet.

      “Drink, Sir Edmund.”

      Startled, Althea turned as the earl lifted his wrist to his mouth. His fangs now curved over his lower lip and as she gasped, he sliced into his wrist. Dark blood bubbled along the cut.

      Althea got up off the bed, stake in hand. “You can’t ask him to drink a vampire’s blood!”

      “My blood heals.”

      “It will transform him.”

      “No, love, it won’t.”

      “He’s right, lass. It won’t.” With a shudder her father held up a shaky hand. “Give it to me then, my lord. I’ve no other choice, do I?”

      “I am afraid not, sir. Your heart is slowing now, laboring. It will not survive the strain.”

      “I never expected to owe me bloody life to a vampire,” her father grumbled.

      Althea sank onto her bed and buried her face in her hands. She should have stayed with her father.

      Why had she allowed the earl to command her?

      Because he appeared to be a hero. Because Father owed his life to him. Because she owed Father’s life to him.

      The heated debate still rang in her head. With the help of the earl and Mick O’Leary, she had gotten her father into his bed, with his blankets pulled up tight. His pulse, which had been thready and weak, began to beat strong and fierce. Color soon infused her father’s lined cheeks and he was quickly filled with vigor. Father had fired question after question at the earl, who told Father to wait until he was recovered to have a discussion. Father had demanded his spectacles, then his journal and pen, but Althea had refused that. Raking his hands through his wiry white hair, he’d argued, but had finally capitulated.

      The earl did command that they not open the crypt, then left them to deal with Crenshaw. Father had motioned her close. “I know what he says, missy, but we’re to open that crypt on the morrow.”

      For the first time in her life, she had doubted her father. She had taken a deep breath, knowing she must argue, but she hadn’t dared upset Father while he was so weak. “He said we mustn’t and he appears to want Zayan’s destruction, too. I think—” She had broken off as she sensed the earl’s return. Heat flooded her body; her skin prickled in awareness. She couldn’t meet her father’s eyes, terrified he might guess at her reaction. She placed her hand on her father’s, relieved at the warmth there.

      “You’d best go to bed, Althea.”

      “I will stay with you, tonight, Father.”

      “O’Leary can stay.” The earl’s deep baritone murmured down her spine.

      Althea had twisted to face him, catching her breath once again at the power he exuded. “Mr. O’Leary? He is a fine man, but I would not trust him to change a bandage, much less care for my father. And where was he while that…that monster attacked my father? Father needs me. I intend to stay with him, I will not leave his side.”

      “Miss Yates, please…Zayan will not launch another attack tonight, not with dawn so close.”

      “True,” Father had croaked. “You need your rest, my dear. His…lordship—” He broke off to cough. “His lordship is right, lovey. Go to your bed.”

      The earl had spoken in her head. Tonight, I need you, love. I need to be with you. I need to watch over you.

      And so here she was, gathering the garlic flowers from the side of her bed to toss them away. Images from her dreams raced through her mind as she unclasped the cross from her neck and poured the chain onto her bedside table, beside her spectacles. Her hands skimming down his bare back. His mouth on her lips, her throat, her nipples. His erection sliding slowly between her legs.

      The images left her trembling, hot, wet.

      In three hurried steps, Althea reached the window and plucked the flowers from there. She lifted the sash and dropped the flowers into the dark.

      A soft fluttering sound—the beat of wings—told her he had come. She stepped back and he flew out of the dark as a black bat. In a blink, the earl stood in the shadows of her room, and stepped into the pool of moonlight. The silvery light rippled over his broad shoulders, across the planes of his chest, down the lean length of his legs. His erection, long and straight, gleamed like a sword.

      “You’re nude!”

      A surprising self-effacing smile touched his mouth. “My body can shift shape, but my clothes do not.” He bowed.

      She drank in the flex of his magnificent muscles as the earl bent and straightened. His erection wobbled. She tried to draw her gaze away but couldn’t help but stare. Curved like a drawn bow, it bumped his navel. Even to her inexperienced eye, his staff was magnificent. She tightened inside just looking at it.

      Her cheeks flamed when she finally met his eyes, glittering in the light.

      This was her dream come to life. Did she dare let herself experience it?

      The Earl of Brookshire held out his hand. “Come to me, love.”

      With a soft, shy giggle, Althea did, and he cupped her fingers to raise them to his lips, drawing her up