Blood Rose. Sharon Page

she had fallen in love and she’d ended up in disaster. She thought she’d loved William Bridgewater, Anne’s older brother. He’d come to her bedroom, kissed her senseless, and she wanted him. Wanted him with the same urgent fiery need she felt in these dreams. And that need had got her banished from the house. Then there had been Mr. Thornton, and his poetry, his brooding pain as they walked together, his stories of his wife’s madness and rejection. She, the simple governess, had fallen deeply, impossibly in love—

      She was never going to do that again. She could never do that again.

      With the daylight spilling over her, Serena folded her arms beneath her breasts and paced to her bedside table. She slid open the drawer and drew out the small stack of folded pages. The edges were torn and curled and smudged by tearstains.

      My dearest A,

      I am writing to express my fears in regard to the behavior of S.L. She shows an unhealthy interest in men; she is brazen and wanton and disobedient. Often she slips out of her room at night, and returns only at dawn. One afternoon, a fortnight prior to my writing here, S.L. pricked her finger on a rose’s thorn. She put the wound to her mouth and suckled—not of great concern perhaps—but I saw her return to the same place in the garden the next afternoon, deliberately wound her finger, and delight in suckling the blood from her flesh—

      I greatly fear that your concerns are quite accurate estimations of the truth. You do see, do you not, why I beseech you to bring her to London, to keep her under your watchful eye? Dear Anne is devoted to her and the child is fragile and impressionable. I am not at all certain how to proceed—I have raised S.L. as a daughter, but she is not normal. Subhuman, in my opinion, and I fear, a danger to us all—

      I must fervently await your reply,

      Yours in devotion and admiration unsurpassed,

      Mrs. Ariadne Bridgewater.

      Every instinct inside her yearned to rip the words to shreds. But she couldn’t do that—she needed these copies she’d made. There’d been so many of these letters, written to dearest A. She’d found them last week, neatly filed away in chronological order, in one of the bookcases in the Society’s vast library. Letters written by Mrs. Bridgewater, the woman who gave her food, shelter, the woman who had raised her—the only “mother” she had ever known. A “mother” who thought her subhuman.

      Who thought her a vampire.

      Serena tipped her face to the weak strands of daylight, closed her eyes. Still hazy from the opiate, she struggled with the questions that plagued her day after day. “Dearest A” was the elderly Earl of Ashcroft—the most powerful man of the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena.

      To think she’d believed every word of Lord Ashcroft’s story when he’d brought her to London two months ago. To think she’d believed he would teach her to slay vampires. A tragic secret has been hidden from you, Miss Lark…the truth is that vampires killed your parents…but I will help you learn the truth, if you serve the Society.

      Lies. All lies. She’d been so thrilled to come to London, to stay with Lord and Lady Brookshire, to join the Royal Society. Ashcroft must have known she had been tossed out of the Thorntons’ home without a reference and had no place to go.

      Worse, her parents hadn’t been killed by vampires. The letters had made it clear. Serena’s throat closed. She shuffled through the copies she had made but didn’t look down at the words. She didn’t need to; she’d cried over them so often the words were burned in her head. I suppose this is exactly the kind of behavior we should expect, Mrs. Bridgewater had written, from the daughter born of a vampire and a mortal.

      Serena shoved the letters back into the drawer and shut it tight.

      What did Lord Ashcroft want with her? Why had he kept her alive?

      Was he waiting—waiting to see if she changed?

      Would she? For all the books in the library she’d pored over, she didn’t know. She didn’t know if she could start out as a mortal and become a vampire without being bitten.

      Serena stalked back to the window and pulled the curtains shut, filled with a sense of purpose. She was not going to wait; she would not be meek and docile and simmer in fear. If she wanted the truth she would have to bargain for it. And the journal of Vlad Dracul would be a temptation Lord Ashcroft wouldn’t be able to resist. Once she had it, she would trade it for the truth about her parents, the truth about herself. And her life, God willing.

      All she had to do was break into the brothel to find the journal. It was a deadly risk, but worth it. She had to find out the truth.

      Was she the child of a vampire or not?

      2

      Bound

      “I do love a woman in stockings and garters.”

      Serena smiled dreamily as the seductive male voice, strangely accented, murmured teasingly close to her ear. Large hands skimmed up her calves, brushing over silky stockings, reaching her ruched garters…

      Hands? Her garters?

      Serena’s eyes snapped open. This was no naughty dream, and this was certainly not her bedchamber. Where was she?

      The hands moved away. Dark—fathomless dark—surrounded her, and though she could not see, she knew the man—a real man, not a fantasy—still stood somewhere beside her. She felt the stirring of air across her skin, across everywhere—arms, thighs, belly, even breasts. She was naked! Except for her lower legs. The silkiness of her stockings touched her calves, and her garters bit into her legs. Her slippers were still on her feet.

      Her head felt groggy, as though sheep’s wool stuffed it full, and a faint, sickly sweet scent teased her nose.

      “Indeed,” agreed a different male voice. “A woman in stockings and garters and not a stitch else.”

      A second man! Serena bit back a cry. He was somewhere in the dark, and he spoke with the sensual tones of the Italian tongue.

      Goosebumps raced over her skin. She became aware of the tug in her muscles, the awkward position of her limbs, the sensation of being stretched apart.

      Panic knifed through her. She was spread-eagled on a hard surface, her wrists and ankles firmly secured by—she shifted, slightly, felt the cool bite of metal against her skin—shackles.

      She was captured.

      The brothel. With a jolt of fear, Serena remembered the ornate doors facing Jermyn Street and the face that had leered out at her through the iron grill. A beefy footman with a thick neck and a scowl. He had taken a long look down her low bodice before ushering her inside. Laughter, smoke, heavy perfume—and a rich, ripe aroma she knew was the smell of sex. Lovely, seductive women had boldly flirted with many handsome, dangerous vampires. Gentlemen, to all outward appearances, but with one look she’d known they were Nosferatu.

      Serena pulled again at her bonds as her blood ran ice cold. She was bound. Naked. In the dark. With vampires.

      They had to know she was no courtesan, even though she’d been disguised as one. They had her clothes. In the sleeves of her scarlet gown, she’d tucked stakes. Down her bodice, she’d slipped a slim dagger and a vial of holy water. In the cavernous pocket of her skirt, she’d hidden a clever folding crossbow.

      She had no weapons now. No mask. Nothing but her wits.

      Why had they not killed her already?

      “She is exquisite, is she not? And now, she is awake.” Deep, silky, the first vampire’s baritone voice compelled her to listen. Heat coursed through her blood at the sound of his voice. She knew, if he chose to, the vampire could incite carnal desire with just the whisper of his voice.

      “Good evening, beautiful one,” the Italian male’s voice called cheerfully.

      “What the…the hell do you think you are doing?” Serena cried out. She winced at the warble in her words.