And, ward or not, she was alone with him.
He made a deep sound that at first she didn’t recognize as laughter, but when the light fell on his face, outlining harsh cheekbones and the straight line of his nose, she saw that his lips were curved. His laughter was brief and as sharp as he was, and then it subsided.
“As I highly doubt Attila the Hun or Judas Iscariot or even Oliver Cromwell considered themselves ‘bad’ or ‘evil,’ I suggest that your question is moot.”
But then he fixed her with his eyes again. “Naturally, you could pose the question to your brother if you aren’t certain which side of the battle lines I’m on, Miss Woodmore. But I suspect you already know what his answer would be.”
Maia kept her lips compressed together. Indeed. Chas loved her and Angelica and Sonia, and he would never expose them to any danger if he could help it. And he was a good and moral man himself.
“Indeed,” she replied. “And so I am to assume Cezar Moldavi is on the other side of the good-versus-bad-vampire battle lines.”
“Your logic is astonishing.” His words were bored, but she swore she saw a bit of light in his eyes.
It occurred to her at that moment perhaps he enjoyed the verbal sparring as much as she—well, she didn’t reallylikethe exchanges of insults and banter between them, for Maia found it outside of infuriating. But perhaps he found it difficult being both vampire and an earl. After all, earls were intimidating all on their own, but to add the fact that he was a vampire into the composite…perhaps no one was willing to stand up to him.
Perhaps they were afraid he’d bite them—or worse—if they did.
Perhaps—now here was a fanciful thought—he didn’t mind being treated like a normal person. Occasionally.
“Do you truly drink blood?” she blurted out. “From people?”
He became very still. Even his eyes didn’t shift, nor his fingers. And the carriage all at once seemed to shrink, becoming very close and dark, and her heart began to pound again in that ugly way. She wished fiercely that she could take the question back.
“It’s the common means of survival and obtaining sustenance,” he replied after a moment. “But I do not.”
Maia opened her mouth to ask more, but something stopped her. She sensed their tenuous connection might be strained, or even broken, if she did. Instead she said, “Is it true that vampires cannot go about in the sunlight?”
“Direct rays from the sun cause excruciating pain, so one must take care if one ventures out during the day. Surely you haven’t heard this information from your brother,” he said. “I was under the impression you and your sisters were blissfully ignorant of his…occupation. But you seem to have some reasonable knowledge.”
“We grew up listening to stories from our Granny Grapes, who was part-Gypsy. She had many tales about the vampires in Romania. Of course, at the time, I had no idea that not only were they true, but that I would actually meet some of them.”
“Granny Grapes?”
Maia felt her face soften into a fond smile. “She was our grandmother, and for some reason when I was very young, I got it all mixed up and thought she was our great-grandmother. So I got it into my head that her name was Grape-Grandmother. And so the name remained fixed.”
Silence settled between them then, causing Maia to silently muse that she couldn’t ever recall being alone with the earland not fumbling or grasping for something to say. Or being skewered by his wit.
It wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. In fact, with the rhythmic rumbling of the carriage wheels on the cobblestones and bricks, the moment was rather pleasant.
Without being obvious, she glanced at him sidewise. He was staring out the window, and it occurred to her with a start he might be watching for another attack.
But, she reminded herself, that was unlikely, as the attack had already occurred. And so perhaps he was simply fascinated by a world that was beginning to brighten with dawn. A world he must never experience fully illuminated, and warm.
What a terrible thing, never to bask in the sun or to walk through the rows of flowers when they were in full bloom. Not that she actually pictured the rigid earl walking through flower gardens, brushing his strong fingers lightly over rose blossoms…
He turned and the broad light of a streetlamp played over his mouth and jaw.
Maia looked at him, her gaze suddenly fully fastened on the lower half of his face. On his mouth. Her breath stopped.
A mouth utterly, horribly, impossibly recognizable to her. A mouth she’d remarked on, a mouth she’d scrutinized and thought about the fact she was doing so because the upper half of his face had been masked. A chill washed over her, followed by a rush of heat.No.It was impossible.
She’d almost made the same mistake before.
But the image was eerily familiar: his eyes in shadow, his mouth and jaw exposed.
Maia must have gasped or otherwise indicated her shock, for he turned to look directly at her. Their eyes met, suddenly clashing and holding, and she could no longer deny it.
“Is something amiss, Miss Woodmore?” he asked coolly.
