Page 50 of Bite at First Sight

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Rochester, England

Lenore’s feet dragged in the mud as she shambled along. It had taken every vestige of her strength to climb out of the crypt where she’d taken refuge in Dartford.

“Just another step.” She gasped the dull mantra. “Another step.”

Her head ached and swam with dizziness. The blood of the beggar she’d fed on the night before was a distant memory. For the third time she questioned the wisdom of her decision to leave the city. But what choice did she have? There was no way she would have been able to reach Lord Villar’s mansion at the heart of the city. Clayton’s rogues would have caught her before she traveled three blocks. It was much easier to reach the edge of town, to leave London and press forward.

At least it was until her meager strength wore thin. God, she was so starved and weak. Lenore needed blood and rest before she collapsed. But she couldn’t fall here on the cold ground, out in the open where the sun could claim her before she woke.

That is, unless one of the Rochester vampires discovered her first. Who knew what her fate would be then? She was a rogue now, without written permission to leave her city, much less invitation to enter another.

As if in answer to that inner realization, the ground vibrated with the sound of an approaching horse. Aching hunger and terror shook Lenore’s frail body.

“Please be a mortal,” she prayed. “Please.” She was far too weakened to open her preternatural senses.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, youngling,” the vampire answered as he brought his black stallion to a stop before her. “What have we here?”

“M-my name is Lenore, sir. I’ve come from London.”

“A Town vampire, eh?” His cold, black eyes swept her bedraggled form. “I daresay you look a little shabby for a London blood drinker. May I see the writ of passage from your lord?”

“I-I d-don’t have one, sir,” she stammered.

He raised a brow and gave her a terrifying, cheerless smile. “You are a rogue then?” He climbed off his horse with predatory grace and stalked toward her. His dark shadow engulfed her like death’s cloak.

“No! Please, sir,” she implored, “take me to the Lord of Rochester. I can explain everything!” And please, she prayed silently, let him be kinder and more merciful than you are.

His mocking laughter chilled her bones. “Well, that will certainly be an easy task for me. I am the Lord of Rochester.”

Lenore’s breath left her body in a rush. Of course, how could she not have known? His expensive horse and fine black clothing trumpeted wealth. His rich voice, straight shoulders, and stern countenance bespoke authority. Power rolled through him like silent thunder. Her legs turned to water and she fell to her knees.

“Get up,” Rochester commanded. “I will decide whether or not you should fall to your knees in supplication, and I shall do so after you explain why you are here.”

Lenore struggled to rise, but it was no use. Even bone-shattering terror couldn’t give her the strength to move. White spots flared in her vision like fireworks at Vauxhall. She pitched forward, her hands splaying in the icy mud.

“Christ,” the Lord Vampire muttered before scooping her up in his arms. “Someone’s been starving you.”

“Yes, my lord.” She gasped. “It was—”

“Not another word until I get you to my manor. You’re in no position to offer explanations until you are warm and fed.” His grip tightened almost mercilessly. “And I do hope you can explain, Lenore.”

As if in submission to his command, her weakness overtook her and she sank into blackness.

Fifteen

23 October 1823

Cassandra fought to keep her hands from trembling as she raised the scalpel to make the final incision. This was it, the final operation. The delicate work on Rafe’s hand had been her largest concern. Thankfully, so far her efforts seemed to be successful, at least her surgical endeavors. She tried not to dwell on her failed attempts at seduction. Tried to focus on the fact that he was now able to move all five fingers on his left hand, and not on the fact that though he kissed her senseless every night, he still slept fully clothed in bed next to her every day.

She gripped the scalpel tighter and chided herself for being so petty. She shouldn’t be obsessing over her lust for him. She needed to concentrate on her mission to heal him. All that was left were the extensor tendons, the largest and most difficult to deal with. If she didn’t work with utmost precision, the tendons could heal wrong and Rafe would be worse off than before.

Only if she succeeded could she try once more to explore other parts of his anatomy. Looking down at his prone form on the operating table, she stroked the rough scars on his cheek and marveled at his savage beauty.

Thank God she’d been able to get him unconscious with a blend of ether and laudanum that would doubtless be lethal on a human. As it was, he would be thoroughly muzzy-headed when he came to, which hopefully wouldn’t happen until she was finished. If he moved… She bit her lip and lowered the scalpel. She couldn’t afford to panic.

Anthony blotted her damp forehead with a handkerchief. “Do not worry, my lady. You will do fine.”

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