Miss Ramsay’s crystal-blue eyes stared up at him, her expression nothing short of horrified. Slender, petal-pink lips parted, but nary a word escaped. Just visible was a row of clean, white teeth. A single drop of crimson stained the blunt point of her left incisor. The sight of his own blood held him spellbound.
In spite of himself, Cain was almost painfully aroused. Her inexplicable assault was more mystifying than maddening. He could not tamp down the sharp yearning in his soul. No human had ever dreamt of biting him. That mating ritual was for vampire clans alone. And he hadn’t set foot in the land of his birth for over two hundred years.
How he longed for Scotland!
Were Miss Ramsay a vampire, her incisors would have been much longer, much sharper. Were she a vampire, he could have her. Och, were she a vampire, she would not be staring up at him with her face full of fear and a drop of her victim’s blood still glistening on her teeth.
He, a victim! The incongruity nearly incited him to throttle her. He was a warrior first, a vampire second, a victim never. And to have been surprised by a living girl, of all creatures. The humanity fairly steamed from her.
“Speak,” he repeated hoarsely.
She remained frozen in silence.
More confounding was the undeniable fact that she’d twice ignored his command. As far as Cain knew, resistance was impossible. Human minds were unable to withstand the will of a powerful vampire. Even more potent was a vampire’s spoken word. In centuries of history, he’d never heard of a human failing to obey vampiric Compulsion. Was it possible the girl was in too much shock to process her environment?
“Speak,” he said again, but this time gently, so as not to startle her overmuch.
The tip of her tongue nudged between her very normal, very human teeth.
Rapt, his entire body tensed in fascination.
The tip curled over her incisor, trapping the sole drop of blood between her tooth and tongue. Her pupils contracted, giving her iris the unsettling appearance of a solid disc of icy blue. Her chest stopped moving and no breath escaped her pink mouth. Her heart slowed—or perhaps time itself stopped as Miss Ramsay’s tongue disappeared once again, taking that single drop of his blood with it.
Music crashed down around them, and the moment was gone.
Leather boots and satin slippers slapped methodically across the floor as the brainless hive trampled about the parquet on the other side of the folding screen. Perhaps it was simply acute homesickness that was making him uncharacteristically torpid, imagining significance where there was none.
With a strangled gasp, Miss Ramsay clasped a white hand to her face as if holding back bile. Her eyes were normal, if a bit glassy and over-wide. Her breathing was shallow. She looked as if she might bolt at any second.
Cain bit back a frustrated sigh. She was clearly not the vampire he’d been seeking... but she was troublesome nonetheless.
Before Miss Ramsay’s arrival into his life, he had been on his longest run of successful love nips (as the ton was wont to call them) in ballrooms across England. A slight sting where the curve of his neck met the muscle of his shoulder proved a reminder that the skin there had been broken. He could scarcely credit that the chit had succeeded in biting him when he had failed to bite her.
He gentled his hold on Miss Ramsay and whirled her around the folding screen and back into the tide of dancers.
Part of his carefully crafted mystique was never to abscond with fair maidens for a moment longer than it took to take a sip of ambrosia and turn the memory into a half-remembered dream. He would not allow Miss Ramsay’s unprecedented counterattack to ruin his acceptance in Society. The more invitations extended to “Lord Lovenip,” the better chance he had of locating the Deserter.
Meanwhile, he would solve the puzzle of Miss Ramsay.
She released her lower lip from between her teeth and finally met his eyes. “I—I didn’t mean to bite you.”
Unquestionably. He gave her a half smile. “Then why did you?”
Miss Ramsay blushed. The blood rising to kiss the pale softness of her cheeks was nearly Cain’s undoing.
“I don’t know,” she muttered.
He believed her. Miss Ramsay was hardly one of his kind. She was far stranger. “I believe it’s safe to say that you’re not like most of this crowd.”
“Certainly not.” Her chin rose defiantly. “I’m smarter.”
His amusement was overshadowed only by his interest in her choice of adjectives. She hadn’t said she was prettier, or wealthier, or better connected. She’d chosen an attribute for which no one in the room cared one whit. Well, except for him. A warrior prized intelligence above all other traits.
“You’re less predictable,” he agreed, pleased to see the blood rise to her cheeks anew at the reminder. He leaned closer. She smelled so fresh, so fragile, so alive. He should have kissed her when they were hidden in the gardens. “Are you from this part of the country? Or are you a city miss, barely surviving until the Season is upon us again?”
If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he might have missed the tiny frown that flickered between her brows.
“Neither.” She broke eye contact, shifting her gaze over his shoulder. “And you?”
