Dead After Dark (Companion #6.5)(62)

What the bloody hell had happened here? Drew struggled to his feet, feeling light-headed. That was no doubt because his entire blood supply was currently engaged in the area of his loins. A woman had . . . Had what? Held him immobile while she drank his blood? Given him the most incredibly sensual experience of his life?

And let’s get back to the “woman” part. What woman could do what that one did?

“There are no such things as ghosts,” he murmured to himself. Ghosts weren’t warm to the touch. Thinking about how warm she was, and what she had done with that touch, was definitely not redistributing his blood supply. And what ghost made a dent in the bed when she sat on it?

On the other hand, what human had red eyes and disappeared in a whirl of blackness?

His head ached so he couldn’t think. He ran his hands through his hair. Wait! He strode to a mirror, fingering his neck. It was too damned dark in here to see. He crashed about looking for the candelabra. When he finally found it by nearly knocking it over, he felt for the flint and lit it, then took it over to the mirror on the dressing table, craning to see his neck.

Two tiny wounds drooled blood. “Christ Almighty!” he whispered. What had happened here? He held the candelabra high and looked around the room. A shiver starting down his back was ruthlessly suppressed. He went to the window. It was a sheer thirty feet to the ground. But there were some vines crawling halfway up the wall. Not enough. She hadn’t got out that way. He whirled. Maybe she was hiding in the dressing room. Flinging open the door, he saw it contained only shelves for shoes, a headless mannequin that held coats for brushing, and a tangle of clothes hangers, just as it had when he’d come in to get the hip bath. She wasn’t here now. He opened the door to the room beyond. The dust on the carpet was disturbed near the door. But no trail of footprints led to the hallway. She had not escaped this way either. He went back to the dressing room. Nothing said she had ever been here.

Except the faint perfume of cinnamon and ambergris that lingered in the air.

She had watched him from the dressing room.

Perhaps all evening. He had felt that strange electric energy all night.

As he bathed? She had ducked into the room adjoining as he got the bath, standing near the door. Had she watched as he wrote, naked, at the desk? As he slept?

It was intolerable. And strangely erotic. He had never experienced anything more sensual than that light touch on his naked body and the gentle sucking at his neck. Even now his cock was stubbornly erect.

He took the candelabra back into the bedroom and set it down. His eyes fell on the letter he had written to Emily. He steadied himself. That was why he was here. To find love again that would bring him revenge and heal the wounds he had suffered so long ago, deepened by bitterness until they had eaten away part of his soul.

He wasn’t going to let some ghost, or some trespasser pretending to be a ghost, shake him from his resolve. She could order him to leave this house as much as she wanted. He had survived much worse than a little erotic haunting. He was not about to turn tail and run before he tried to claim what was his. Drew wouldn’t miss the look on Melaphont’s face when he finally recognized him for anything in the world.

He folded the letter and put it in its envelope. Tomorrow he would have this letter taken to Emily, and he’d know where he stood. She was no longer married, and she must remember their love. Now, if her father had not poisoned her against him, he had a chance. If the bastard had, well, then Drew would be sorry. And then he’d skip the part about Emily and take revenge on Sir Elias Melaphont in some more direct and forceful way.

He stalked to the bed, blew out the candles defiantly, and eased himself down in the bed. He did not need light to stave off what lurked in the dark.

That didn’t mean that he would sleep.



Drew strode into the Goose and Gander rather later than he intended. He had fallen asleep after all, whether it was from loss of blood, or just the adrenaline subsiding, he wasn’t sure. And he had dreamed, waking with another erection. The dreams had not been of Emily.

The whole thing seemed outlandish in the light of day, except that he had to tie his cravat rather carefully to cover up the twin wounds on his neck.

Still, he’d decided that it was a trespasser, not a ghost. Didn’t some Portuguese friar practice an oriental version of Dr. Mesmer’s animal magnetism to exert control over men without using magnets? Abbe Facia. That was the fellow’s name. That was how she had controlled him. She must have used some trick of light to make her eyes glow like that. They’d looked just like animal eyes glowing when light shone on them at night, except red. And the wounds? A pair of tacks perhaps—he hadn’t seen a knife. The whirling darkness was no doubt a swoon on his part from loss of blood. Well, he was going to search the place in earnest for her later and send her packing.

“Barton,” Drew called. Old Henley was about the only one in the taproom at this hour. He was nursing an ale in the corner. The tapster stuck his bald pate out from a curtain that separated the kitchen from the taproom. He looked pale and drawn. The sheen of sweat on his brow caught the light.

“Didn’t expect ta see ye here this mornin’. Did ye spend th’ night?” Barton asked.

Drew had forgotten the wager. “Yes,” he said in clipped tones.

“Did ye see th’ ghost?” Henley wanted to know.

“I saw someone.” He didn’t care to go into detail. “I think I’ve got squatters up there.”