Love At First Bite Part 22

The stars lit the night along with the sliver of a smirking moon. Ahead, her lithe form was a darker smear of black against the night. Though her back was turned, she knew he was there. Her hair, heavy and dark, cascaded down her back over the diaphanous fabric that barely concealed her form. Her garment might look gray in the darkness, but he would wager it was red.

He touched her shoulder. Her flesh was hot with energy. She turned. Her beauty struck him like a blow, as always. Her dark eyes, lined with kohl, glowed red. All thought of escape vanished. He knelt, knees wide, as she required. He was erect and ready. She bent over him and cupped his jaw.

"I have a task for you, my pretty," she whispered. "Well, two tasks."

He lifted his lips to her nipple and suckled through the sheer fabric.

Davie blinked against the spatter of raindrops as a last shower flapped against the paving stones of the Admiralty court. The shame of that time stayed with him even as the memories drained away. From the distance of London, and three months' time, he knew why he'd been left alive to serve and suffer. He alone had known where Rufford was. Rufford was the only one with a drop of the ancient blood, the only one who had a chance to best her. Davie had betrayed Rufford to her. He swallowed and Whitehall blurred before his eyes. It must be the rain. She could compel... anything-information, s.e.xual service, anything.

Davie's jaw worked. She had sent him with a letter all the way to England, threatening all Rufford loved, knowing that would bring the man back to the North African desert, and into her clutches once again. Davie's ability to act as messenger was all that saved him from Asharti.

What did he not owe Rufford for that betrayal?

And he had sworn service to his country. What greater need could there ever be? No matter that he would be plunging into the middle of a war between what the world called monsters. His need for normalcy after his time with Asharti did not signify.

His shoulders sagged as he knew what he would do. Fear trembled down his spine. He'd thought he'd left behind the cursed sand of the North African desert forever. He was wrong.

And now he must disappoint the woman he loved and blight all chance for happiness.

Emma Fairfield sat in the breakfast room that looked out over the tiny back garden at Fairfield House in Grosvenor Square. The room was cheerful, its pale yellow walls and light Chippendale furniture a contrast with the bleak March rain that beat against the arched windows. Emma was arranging roses in a crystal vase. She managed to grow roses most of the year in the fourth-floor solarium, oranges, too, and peonies brought back from China by her great-uncle. He had been a true adventurer, the black sheep of the family. He was a rebel. Was that why she always liked him best? This bouquet was multicolored, some blossoms well opened, some mere buds. Creamy peach and white mixed with bloodred and pale pink in chaotic abundance.

"I thought we were going to receive a visit from that young man of yours," her brother said as he snapped the London Mail into new folds. They liked to sit here of an afternoon, rather than in the larger, formal rooms at the front of the house. Her brother was some ten years older than she was. He had never married. He never would.

"You might call him by name, Richard," she said calmly, clipping a stem with a small garden shears. "We've known Davie Ware

since we were children. And he isn't mine. One doesn't own young men. He isn't even that young."

"Neither are you, Emma." Richard drew his handsome brows together and peered at her over the paper. "You'll be on the shelf if you ain't careful, girl."

"Three seasons isn't the end of the world, Brother."

"Not the point," he muttered. "You're too picky."

"Am I looking old-cattish, my dear?" she asked with a smile.

He put his paper down on his lap. He wore a red and black Oriental dressing gown and pasha slippers just now disposed

comfortably on an upholstered ottoman. "You know you are well looking, Emma," he said severely. "That gold hair shines down anything in London. Your eyes are listed as cornflower blue at White's every time they're betting whether you'll accept the latest lovelorn sot. Which you have not. I've made a pony on you these last five times."

"You bet a hundred pounds I would refuse offers?" That took her aback.

"Well, normally I ain't a betting man, but... well, dash it, Emma, you refused a d.a.m.ned duke, didn't you? I can't see how you'd take that last puppy who spouted poetry all the time. Might as well wager if it's a sure thing." "Richard," she reproved. But she had to suppress the smile that threatened the corners of her mouth. She hoped he wouldn't notice. Then she cleared her throat. "And how are the bets running just now?"

"Fifty-fifty," he grunted. "They were three to one against until you danced four times with Ware at Almack's."

"And where is your money?"

"I haven't laid down yet," he said speculatively, "though I may. You toy with them. You're always so still and quiet, you fool

people. But I know. You like to play."

"The whole thing is so boring!" She sighed. "I admit it was mischievous of me to act interested in them. But they enjoyed the dance."

"These are men's hearts you're playing with, Emma." Richard brought his blond brows together. He had the family's straight

nose. His eyes were a grayer version of hers and he had the same full lips, though just now they were pressed together in a disapproving line.

"Their hearts were not engaged, Brother, except with the prospect of my income."

He grunted again. "Thank G.o.d for your fortune or you might have no offers at all. You've a blunt way about you, Emma; there are no two ways about it. Some say an acid tongue." He snapped his paper shut. "I like Ware. Maybe I should warn him off.

Besides, I'm tired of watching them struggle to find the words when they ask my permission. And it all comes to nothing in any case."

"I wonder they ask you before they are sure of me."

"They are sure of you. And whose fault is that?" He shrugged, opened a fresh page of his paper, and hunched behind it. "I'll put down a pony this week."

"I wouldn't bet against this one, Brother." She placed a rose in the cut-gla.s.s vase.

His brows appeared over the top of his paper, then his eyes. He tossed it to the side and rose from his chair. "You mean... ?"

This time, she could not suppress the smile. Indeed, it was almost a grin. "He's going to offer, Richard. Lord knows I can feel it

coming at this point. And I'm going to accept. So please be nicer to him than you were to the poet."

"Emma, Emma!" He descended on her and took her by her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. A crease appeared between his brows. "Don't let my badgering make you take him if you don't love him, Emma."

She raised her brows, her eyes unaccountably filling. She widened her smile to compensate. "But I do, Richard. That's the surprise. I didn't mean for it to happen. He picked me up from a fall off my pony and chased me out of his lily pond when I was a child. But when he returned from North Africa... Well, somewhere over the years he'd become a man and an interesting one at that. He's been everywhere. He has ideas." She shrugged. "He's only a soldier, but he has prospects in the diplomatic corps- "

"Tosh, you've enough money for him and a dozen others. Don't bother about that."

"Only if you won't. Don't make him feel paltry," she warned.

"Wares have been in Warwickshire since the Conquest. I have no complaints about his birth. I could wish he was not a second

son. But Rockhampton says he'll try to get Ware onto his staff. He's got a bright future." He frowned. "Sounds like a dashed lot of work to me, but Ware seems to like all this rushing about in the diplomatic line."

"You've been doing research?" How dear of him.

"Well," he harrumphed. "You are m'sister." He tried to look severe. "He's like to haul his wife off to barbaric places. I won't dress it up for you. I know you fancy yourself a rebel, Emma, but are you ready for barbarians who don't even eat at a civilized hour?"

"I'll think of it as an adventure, Richard; truly I will." She kept her mouth prim.

"So you've decided." He nodded. "I thought so-saw how you looked at him."

"And that's the real reason you haven't bet against the match at White's," she laughed.

"Well, I can't say I like throwing money away."

"Provoking man! You teased me to get inside information out of me."

He drew her to him and hugged her. "You're more important to me than any bet at White's, no matter what I put about. I'll

welcome your Davie, Emma."

She hugged him back. He was a most excellent brother. "I only hope we care for each other as much as you and Damien."

He put her from him and smiled affectionately. "That would be a lot to ask." Her brother's "friend" of many years was far more

than that. "It will fall to you to get the heir. I'm sorry for that burden, Emma."

She sat again and picked up a rose. It was perfect, its petals bloodred velvet, half-opened, a promise of full-blown glory. It

should go at the center of the arrangement. "You two are a marvelous example of constancy. The least I can do is provide the heir."

"More tea, miss?" She jerked around to see their old butler, Jenkins, peering through the door. The rose escaped her grasp. She

grabbed at it. Its thorns p.r.i.c.ked deep.

"Ouch!" she exclaimed. The rose fell to the floor. She grabbed her fingers and squeezed until blood welled. She sucked at the drops. It tasted of copper.

Her brother drew his handkerchief from his pocket. "Take this. You'll spoil your dress."

"I'll spoil your handkerchief." But she took it and wound it around her fingers. Blood stained it in a bright flower. Jenkins looked apologetic. "Jenkins, tea would be nice. And Major Ware said he would be late. Show him back immediately when he arrives."

"Ware," Richard said, pumping Major Ware's hand. "Good to see you." Emma rose. The smile that burbled up from her heart at the sight of him faltered. He was pale, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He was a handsome specimen, a fact she had not recognized until she saw him again two months ago. How had she never noticed how clear and intelligent his blue eyes were? Sandy blond hair waved back from a broad forehead. His nose was straight and a little long, but that just spoke of character, which was a good thing, because his chin did not exactly shout it. What a dear cleft chin he had! She had never noticed how strong the column of his neck was or the set of his broad shoulders until he returned. Certainly she had never noticed how his thighs bunched with muscle under his trousers. His clothes were conservative but well cut. The military men all went to Weston for their coats. No padded shoulders or intricate neck cloths so high they pushed at Davie's ears. She'd wager he was beforehand with the world. Not a wastrel, her Davie. But now he was clearly in distress. He nodded to her brother. "Fairfield." And he bowed over her hand. His was clammy as he held her fingers to his lips. Still, the shock of his touch did what it always did to her. She felt more alive, throbbing with awareness of him. "Miss Fairfield." She smiled inside to think that he was that nervous about offering for her.

"Well, well, I must go to... my steward. Not expecting you. Apologies and all..." Richard snapped the door shut behind him.

Her brother's blatant behavior seemed to make Major Ware even more nervous. And... was that regret in his eyes? How...

odd. "Won't you sit down?" She gestured to a chair upholstered in cheerful green stripes that defied the gray day.

Far from sitting, he paced the room like a caged beast, saying nothing, only occasionally clearing his throat. Was he so unsure of her answer? She sat calmly and waited for her stillness to reel in his nervous energy.

He turned and came to stand over her. "Miss Fairfield..." he began after a moment.

She looked up and smiled. "Surely we have known each other long enough that you can call me Emma."

"Yes, well..." He ran a finger around the inside of his cravat. Then he seemed to sag. "Emma." Her name sounded like defeat when he said it like that. Was that right for one about to propose marriage? He eschewed the comfortable seat and sat on a Chippendale chair that looked too fragile for his bulk. "I know there are certain... expectations surrounding our relationship..."

He cleared his throat, apparently uncertain how to go on.

"You mean the betting at White's?"

"They're not betting at White's!" He looked stricken.

She nodded in mock sincerity. "Richard says they are."

He pressed his lips together grimly. "I should like to be free to satisfy their expectations," he murmured, almost too low for her to