Damn it, he didn’t know what to do with the feelings roiling through him. He kept coming back to those seconds racing across the island, cursing every thick patch of undergrowth or upward rise that slowed him down. Seeing her lying there. It didn’t matter that he’d known she was alive, that she’d survive. It hadn’t blunted the edge of her pain or terror, or lessened his reaction to it, seeing it all play out in his head and knowing he wasn’t there to protect her.
He should have paid closer attention to Danny’s warnings about Elisa. She’ll look like a baby to you, but she’s strong, Mal. Terrifyingly so, because I think her fragile soul and body weren’t made to survive a will that strong.
Elisa had ignored him, hadn’t waited, because she hadn’t trusted him. She’d known his heart wasn’t in this from the beginning, so she couldn’t believe anyone would really try to save those girls other than herself. And that was his fault, damn it.
Totally unexpected . . . Again Danny’s description. She was this crazy little maid I’d just met, and she cracked a teapot over the head of a five-hundred-year-old vampire. He could have torn her to pieces, and she knew it, but she did it to distract him. To help me.
He wondered if Willis had been overwhelmed by her, like a diamond dropped unexpectedly in his dusty lap. Mal wasn’t sure he didn’t feel the same way. Elisa had set something off in him almost from the first day, and that wasn’t his usual behavior.
Short and curvy as a ripe peach, she made him want to take a bite, taste those juices, the flavor of her. Hell, he even got aroused when she wore her apron now. He imagined her in only that, her breasts swelling out the open sides, taunting him like freshly risen bread. From there, his active mind would see her turning to cut tomatoes at the counter, revealing that soft round bottom, her white thighs. He’d press up behind her, bury himself in the wetness of her cunt, slide his fingers beneath the apron and tease her nipples into aching hardness. Her dark brown hair, nearly the same color as the silken curls between her legs, would brush against his jaw as he drove into her, hard enough to make her drop the knife. Locking both her wrists over her head, he’d push her up against the counter, making it vibrate with the force of his thrusts into her.
He was avoiding why he was really out here. She’d been right. She was right. Nerida letting them out of their cells to come to Elisa’s defense had been a planned, intentional act. Then there was Jeremiah’s marking of her. Cleverly concealing that he could be in her mind, but sending her those soothing lullabies when she’d been afraid and alone in her bed at night, back in Australia. Though Mal hadn’t known her then, tonight suggested he really hadn’t let himself know her at all.
He’d lost much of his humanity, as most made vampires did, but the irony was that the painful memory of his own humanity, not vampire indifference to human frailty, had goaded his cruel words to Elisa, his near-fatal mistake with the fledglings.
They were fighting bloodlust, yes, and any of them might succumb to what had befallen Victor and Leonidas, but they’d proven themselves. They weren’t rabid animals, sick and senseless, beyond help. They deserved more than he’d been giving them, and it was time to set aside his own past and its influence on his actions, and focus on what kind of future was truly possible for them.
It had been easier to give that chance to his feline brethren, because he didn’t see his own human face, the betrayal and pain reflected on it. But now that he acknowledged it, he knew he had to make it right. And he’d begin by making it right with the woman who’d given them so much of herself. Who’d given far too much, because she thought she was all alone in doing so.
When he’d founded the preserve, he’d done the same, thinking he had to do it all, that only he cared enough, mired in the pain of the creatures he was trying to help. It nearly drove him mad before he started letting others in, recognizing their passion could be as great as his own. It couldn’t be one person’s mission. Not only because it took more than one set of hands, but because defeats and setbacks had to be weathered, and only the support of others could help with the pain and grieving over that.
He needed to help Elisa understand that, and a good place to start was proving she wasn’t alone. A shadow crossed his mind, recalling the words he’d spat at her. He’d make that up to her, too, and not with more words. She’d be in bed at least a week. That would give him time to bring her an apology she could believe. He wouldn’t require anything of her until then, letting Kohana and Chumani take care of her while he observed a self-imposed exile, no matter how much his body and other more complicated parts of him protested.
As the sky turned to rose, his skin was practically steaming and his breath was tight in his chest, warning him it was well past time to be underground. Heading for the Jeep, he sent a message to Kohana, telling him the variety of things he wanted.
There was no time to waste.
24
DESPITE his resolve, it took an extreme act of will to leave her care to Kohana and Chumani for the next week, as well as to stay out of her head. It wasn’t until Chumani reported she’d healed enough to get back into a restricted routine, punctuated by a lot of bed rest, that he was ready to meet with her. Though it was hard not to go to her immediately, he okayed Elisa taking on a very limited routine and told Chumani to have the Irish maid come to his office at midnight. They had matters to discuss, now that she was back on her feet.
That would give him time for two more phone calls. He’d anticipated one of them not going well, a call to a meat supplier who was sending substandard fare, but it still left him in a foul temper when Kohana appeared at the study door at nine o’clock. Of course, as if they were mirroring each other, the Indian had a look on his face as if he’d swallowed sour milk. He stood there, saying nothing, just glaring at Mal.
“For fuck’s sake, what is it?” Mal said at last. He kept his attention on the legal pad in front of him, the details he was scribbling out. Travel arrangements, logistics . . . gods, logistics. Clothes to order . . .
Kohana grunted, unaffected by the threatening tone. “Isn’t it obvious to everyone she’s like those young vampires’ mama?”
Mal looked up, eyed him. “What are you going on about?”
“A spirit sometimes is what it is, from the time it’s born. That girl was born to be a mother. She takes care of everyone. You ever watch her when the staff eats dinner? Do I need a napkin? Would Chumani like to eat her pudding with a fork instead of a spoon? Jumping up to get everyone a second helping. Clearing the dishes before any of us can lift a finger.”
“She’s been a servant since she could walk.”
Kohana gave him a disparaging look. “I’ve met plenty of folk born into serving class who are lazy and resentful of it. She likes taking care of people. And I’ve learned enough about your kind that I suspect there’s a deeper element to it, one that’s snagged you pretty good, too.”
It was rare—perhaps never—that Kohana had ever referred to him as belonging more to the vampire species than his native race. It meant he was truly pissed. Mal’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, she’s got a submissive personality. She was chosen and groomed for that by Danny’s mother. What is your point?”
Kohana took a determined hop forward. He’d left his crutch in the hall, his powerful thigh muscles fully capable of balancing him. “You’ve been threatening to kill what she considers her children since she came. You think any mother wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to stay with them? Protect them as best she’s able? You put her on that plane, take her away from her children, you’ll destroy her. You know any mother who’d survive losing all six of her children in one go?”
If possible, Mal was even more confused by the direction of the conversation. “Why are you telling me what I already know, and why the hell do you think I’m putting her on a plane?”
“Because she said so. That you hadn’t come to see her since you yelled after her, right after it happened—”
“I had you take flowers to her room from me, damn it.”
“—but that you were going to have some big discussion with her later tonight. She was sure it was because you’re sending her home.”
“I’m so glad you all believe her version of things before you even talk to me.”
Kohana scowled. “I’m here now. The way she talked, it was as if you’d already talked to her. You’re in her mind; I assumed you’d told her as much.”
“No. I haven’t been in her mind at all this week. I’ve found out how she’s doing through you two.” Which had been damnably hard, but from Kohana’s expression, Mal doubted he’d be getting a pat on his back for his forbearance.
He sighed. “Where is she?”
“With the fledglings. She’s manacled herself to Jeremiah’s cell with a padlock. Swallowed the key. Right in front of me, too, before I could stop her.”
Mal blinked, rose from his chair. Something in his face may have even given Kohana pause, because the Indian looked like he might hop backward in reflex, though in the end he held his ground. Mal spoke slowly, enunciating each word with deliberate and deceptive calm. “You’re telling me you’ve been standing here yakking, when she’s barely recovered and yet she’s gone off property? Chained herself to the cell of a fledgling given to erratic spurts of bloodlust, where he could reach right through the bars and rip her head off?”
Kohana gave him a disgusted look. “I left three men there, all with crossbows trained on him in case that happens.”
“Oh, well, good, then. It will work out fine if they kill him, the one she loves the most.” Mal came around the desk swiftly, headed for the French doors. “Remind me to have you buried up to your neck in the leopards’ favorite hunting ground. They can use your head for their personal ball of string.”
“I’ll mark it down for your evening schedule. Sir.”