The need to feed rose within him but still he stood there, unwilling to leave her side. He had adored many women. Made love to high-born ladies and concubines alike. But he had never beeninlove. After a century or two, he had come to the conclusion that vampires were incapable of such a human emotion. Until the night Bryony stumbled into his lair in the valley. He had been drawn to her from the moment he discovered her asleep on his couch. Each passing day had only made him want her more.
Leaning down, he brushed a kiss across her cheek. It would be dawn in an hour or two. As much as he hated to leave her, his insatiable hunger would not be ignored.
One last kiss and he left the house, all his senses attuned to the night. Somewhere out there in the shifting shadows, his prey awaited.
Chapter Thirteen
The next few days were like something out of a dream. Bryony had only to mention she wanted something—new paints, a large canvas, a copy ofThe Three Musketeers, a new day dress—and it appeared as if by magic. Anything she wanted—except her freedom. Each morning, she told herself to tell Stefan his time was up, she wanted to go home. And every night, she found another reason to stay one more day. As time passed, she thought of home less often and found herself loving Stefan more.
As they spent more time together, he seemed to relax. They went for long walks in the garden in the evening, or riding in the hills. Some nights they sat in front of the fire and he read to her, his voice deep and easy to listen to. Sometimes they played whist, some nights he watched her paint. At first, it made her self-conscious but he had only praise for her work.
Tonight, he was reading to her. He had amazing eyesight, she mused, since the only light in the room came from the fire in the hearth. Listening to his voice, she lost track of the time as he unfolded the story of D’Artagnan’s romantic escapades and adventures as he sought to become a Musketeer.
Closing her eyes, Bryony pictured Stefan in the role, becoming friends with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, uncovering Milady de Winter’s secrets, looking ever so dashing as he fought to defend king and country.
She sighed as he closed the book and set it aside. “Such a wonderful story,” she murmured.
He smiled, aware that she had imagined him in the role of D’Artagnan. “Who do you see yourself as?” he asked. “Milady de Winter? Constance? Or Queen Anne?”
“None of them. Milady is wicked. Constance dies. And I would never want to be a queen.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “So many of them were killed or locked away. I don’t think any of them ever married for love.”
He laughed softly. She had a wide romantic streak, his Bryony.
She stilled when their gazes met. Moving slowly, Stefan slipped his arm around her waist and drew her into the circle of his arms. She gazed into his eyes, suddenly breathless as he leaned closer, closer. Her eyelids fluttered down as his mouth found hers in a long, slow, sensual kiss that curled her toes. Where had he learned to kiss like that? She sank willingly into his embrace, her hands clutching his shirtfront, wanting to be closer, closer.
He fell back on the couch, drawing her down on top of him, her breasts crushed against his chest, their legs entwined, until she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. She writhed against him, wanting something she didn’t understand.
With a muttered oath, Stefan lifted her up and set her on her feet. She was a quick study, his Bryony, driving him to distraction. Another few minutes and he would have had her in his bed.
She stared at him in confusion as he stood, his eyes hot, his breathing erratic.
He stared back at her as he fought to control his lust. Had she no notion of what went on between a man and a woman?Never been in a barnyard? Never seen the act of mating? “How old are you?”
“Almost eight-and-ten.”
Eight-and-ten. She was little more than a child, yet she was all woman. He swore under his breath. He had been almost twice her age when he had been turned four hundred and fifty years ago.
Bryony frowned. Was he angry with her? Had she done something wrong?
Sensing her confusion, he drew her into his arms again. “I am not angry,” he said. “I just did not realize you were so young.”
“My mother was married at six-and-ten.”
He nodded. It was not uncommon. He didn’t know why he’d been so shocked to learn her age. Even if she had been eight-and-twenty, she would still be young compared to him. Taking her hand, he led her back to the couch and drew her down beside him. Had he any conscience at all, he would send her home, but he had no intention of doing so.
Not yet.
Perhaps never.
“Since you can’t go out during the day, what do you do?” she asked, her head tilted to one side. “Do you sleep from sunup to sundown?”
Her question caught him by surprise, even though he had been expecting it sooner or later. “I stay up very late at night,” he said, his fingers stroking up and down her arm. “So I tend to sleep most of the day away.”
“And what do you do very late at night?”
