As she felt herself falling steadily into the leaden, replenishing sleep, Rhiannon felt the hard length of his thigh beneath her head.
For once, she had no desire to seduce him. In fact, she felt closer to Roland than she ever had, and he hadn't so much as kissed her.
A strange turn of events, since she knew full well her feelings for him were only physical in nature.
Still, it was nice, this closeness, this sharing. It felt right, in some way.
It also troubled her. She'd been determined to demonstrate to him that she was as worthy as any male on the planet. She'd been ready to show him she could be just as brave, just as fierce, just as strong.
She'd wanted to be certain he could no longer reject her on grounds similar to those her father had used. That she was not good enough.
Now, knowing of his un stinting courage and ferocity in battle, even as a boy, she would have to try harder than ever. A man of such valor would not be easily impressed. A man who, as a mere boy, had thrown himself upon a wolf to save a babe . this was pure heroism, whatever he chose to call it. This would require some thinking.
Before the cloak of blackness settled completely over her mind, she felt the wonderful sensation of his hand cupping her face, his fingers tracing its shape. She smiled."and then she slept.
Roland studied her as she rested, but he couldn't see well enough from his present position. He slid himself from beneath her, and rose. Standing beside the bed, he could gaze down at her face to his heart's content. God, but she was a beauty.
Every delicate bone beneath her satin skin delineated and shaped her face to sheer perfection.
He was suddenly, overwhelmingly, besieged with the urge to paint her portrait. He longed all at once for a brush in his hand, and the smooth 'feel of oils as he spread them over canvas.
Ah, but that was foolish thinking. Painting was a mortal pursuit.
Something best done beneath the sun's golden rays and caressing warmth. It was not the pastime of un-dead, restless souls.
What was it about her that brought out such urges? By the gods, he'd actually stood in a crowded stadium and cheered on a school soccer team last night! He'd dressed in denims and a sweatshirt, and he'd placed himself into a crowd with countless DPI agents milling about.
When was the last time he'd participated in anything so foolish?
He shook his head. She did have a way of reducing a man to the role of willing servant. Even him.
He knew it beyond any doubt, when, a few seconds later, he gripped her shoulders and rolled her from her side onto her back. She was so perfect.
He had to see her, just see her. Though he had no intention of indulging himself in the luxury of reproducing her image on canvas, he could at least appreciate what was here before him.
He reached for the shirtfront, and hesitated. Was it wrong to look at her this way, as she rested, helpless to object?
He closed his eyes. No. Rhiannon wouldn't object in the least. He released the buttons, the few she'd bothered to fasten. Slowly, very slowly, he parted the garment until her body was revealed to him. His sigh was involuntary, and indicative of how much he'd longed to look at her this way.
His gaze traced her arching, graceful neck to the delicately etched collarbones. Lower, to her small, proud breasts, perfectly round and lily-white. Their centers were the subtle color of the meat of a sweet melon. Their nipples pouted. He wouldn't paint her that way, though. If he were intending to capture her image, he'd tease them taut first, so they thrust outward, tempting a man's lips to touch them.
The way he was tempted now. Just to capture one soft bud between his lips, to suckle it until it became hard, until it throbbed against his tongue.
He swallowed hard against the onslaught of desire, and resumed his perusal of her form, letting his gaze move lower, over the gentle swell of her belly, the dark hollow of her navel, the narrow curve of her waist with the painful wound on one side, the soft flare of her hips. The triangle of sable curls.
God, it gleamed like satin. He wanted to touch it, to see if it could truly be as soft as it looked.
Before he could tell himself not to, he was doing just that. His fingers settled themselves into the silken nest. Yes. It was as soft as it appeared. Softer. And though he knew he should not, he moved his fingers lower, parting her secret lips, delving into her. When he felt the answering moistness coat his fingers, he closed his eyes and groaned aloud. He sunk onto the bed, leaning nearer. Her subtle scent reached him and he shuddered.
He moved his fingers deeper, then slowly drew them back. Her body trembled, and he looked up quickly.
She lay exactly as she had, perfectly still. But her nipples stood stiff and aroused now. He brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes closing involuntarily as he sucked the taste of her from their tips. He wanted her.
More than wanted her, he had to have her.
If not physically, then at least. Roland stepped away from the bed, but his gaze remained. He had to capture her on canvas. There was no other way to rid himself of- this all-consuming lust. True, he hadn't painted in a very long time. He'd lost the desire, or perhaps the ability to pour his soul onto a rectangle of canvas. Suddenly, now, that desire returned. He'd never thought to feel it again.
Today, this once, he would put brush to canvas. And when his little bird took wing, he'd have a bit of her here, with him.
In the hours of earliest dawn, behind the tightly drawn draperies and beneath a cobweb-draped ceiling, Roland worked with materials that had long ago been packed away in trunks. The oils were newer. He'd been unable to resist buying the new, modern paints whenever he'd seen them. It had become a ritual of self-torment, knowing they were at hand, and wondering if he'd ever feel moved to use them. Now, the smell of the paints in his nostrils was like a drug, and his brush flew over the canvas as an extension of his soul.
He didn't sketch her first. He didn't need to do so. He needed only to look at her, stretched upon the bed like an offering to the gods, and allow his image of her to transfer itself from his eyes to his mind to his hands.
He worked feverishly, losing himself utterly in the act of creation in a way he had not done in years. His hands moved the brush with a touch as gentle as if he were caressing her skin.
And then, almost before he'd been aware a minute had passed, he sensed movement in the castle. Jamey was awake, and Frederick. Even now they were making their way down to the great hall, and then off to the lower east wing, where the kitchens awaited them.
He sighed, saddened at having to give up so soon. He'd forgotten the delight he could feel in such a simple act. He'd accomplished so little. The shapes and colors on the canvas were not recognizable.
But he knew they'd take form, gradually, over the next several days.
He reluctantly cleaned his brushes and put his paints away. The canvas, he left, to allow it to dry. He'd be sure it was stored safely long before Rhiannon stirred tonight. Not that he thought she would mind him so closely studying her nude form as she rested. He rather thought the idea would please her.
Lastly, he went to the bed, gazing once more at her nakedness. The length and firmness of her legs enticed him, with flickering images of those shapely limbs wrapped around his body, those curving hips pumping against him.
He was aroused. Painfully so. He realized that he had been the entire time he'd been painting. He closed his eyes and tried not to think that he could strip off his clothing and slip into the bed with her.
He could fondle her, touch her, taste her to his heart's content, and she would never know. He could bury himself inside her. He could find release in her succulent moistness, and she'd never be the wiser.
He bent over, blowing a cool breath of air across her breasts, to see the nipples stand hard once more. Her response was immediate. Perhaps he could even bring her to climax without her being aware of it.
The thought was enticing--no, maddening. To elicit the ultimate response from her body without the awareness of her mind. By night, he could remain as resistant to her charms as he wished. By day, she could be his to pleasure. 5i The temptation was great, nearly too great. He took a firm grip on his mind, realizing that once again the beast inside was trying to take over. To use Rhiannon in such a way would be rape. Whether he knew she wouldn't object or not was not the issue. To take her without her consent would be unforgivable. Was this the way he would repay her for the sheer joy she'd given him?
Joy?
Roland blinked, replaying his own thoughts. Yes. Joy was what he'd felt for those brief hours this morning while he'd been painting. And earlier, when he'd watched Jamey fight his way to victory in the soccer match. He'd felt joy then, too. Absolute pleasure. Delight.
He hadn't thought himself capable of feeling any of those things anymore.
He looked at her face, and shook his head. Who'd have thought a reckless, out of control, renegade vampiress like Rhiannon could instigate the return of pleasure in his life?
He pulled the shirt together, and fastened the buttons. He tugged the comforter over her, then bent low, and pressed his lips to hers. They were moist and pliant and sweet, even in sleep. He slipped his tongue inside her mouth, tasting every part of it, only stopping when he felt madness trying to engulf him.
"Thank you, Rhianikki, princess of the Nile."
Roland was nowhere about when she rose. But she wrinkled her nose at the very slight scent in the air. She sniffed again, and frowned. It smelled a little like paint.
Unable to positively identify the lingering odor, she rolled out of the bed before she gave the wound at her waist a thought. She stiffened as she remembered it, half expecting to be pummeled by pain at any second. She wasn't, though, and when she parted the shirt she wore, she saw that the wound was gone without a trace. Only the tiny stitches remained. The area wasn't even sore.
She got to her feet and strolled about the chambers, whipping open wardrobes and peering into closets in search of something to wear.
She didn't find anything, but decided not to let it dampen her spirits. She felt good this evening.
After hearing him talk last night, she'd come to the conclusion that Roland was suffering from a ridiculously prolonged state of depression and a severe guilt complex. But since he'd opened up that painful wound and allowed her to see a little of what caused it, he might be better able to heal. And that thought brought her pleasure.
She hated to see him tormenting himself over things long past. It was a waste of his time and his energies. Besides, he ought to be spending both on her. It would be a far more exciting exercise.
The door opened and he entered then, bringing with him a heavy decanter made of lead crystal and filled with crimson liquid. He placed it on a stand, and a glass beside it.
She frowned.
"What is this?"
"Nourishment. You need it, after last night."
"What I need is warm, and drawn straight from some innocent throat, Roland."
"Rhiannon, that is murder."
"Still perfectly willing to believe the worst of me, I see."She strode toward him, the shirt gaping in a way he could not fail to notice.
"I never murder them. I only taste. A sip here, a sip there.
It isn't missed."She was teasing him, and delighting in it as she always did.
His gaze seemed drawn to the swell of her breasts the shirt revealed, so she stepped closer, and bent low to reach for the decanter.
"But if they remember"-- "I take from men as they sleep, Roland. Most of them recall it as an erotic dream."She filled the glass, straightened again, and brought it to her lips.
"And the marks you leave on their throats?"
"It isn't necessary to mark the throats. Blood can be taken from any number of places, some that are difficult to examine too closely."
She drained the glass and set it down, licking her lips.
"Would you like me to show you?"
He averted his gaze, she hoped, to hide a sudden surge of passion.
"No, Rhiannon, I wouldn't. And I would strongly suggest that you feed as we do, from our own supply here. It will not do to rouse undue suspicion with so many DPI operatives in L'Ombre."
She stepped closer, and ran her fingernails up the column of his throat.
"Or is it that you dislike the thought of my lips touching another man's flesh?"
He met her gaze and held it for a moment.
She licked her lips.
"I had the most interesting dream as I rested."
He quickly looked away.
"Did you?"
"Mmm. It isn't often I dream, you know. The sleep is too deep. But this time ... I felt things."
"What sort of things?"
She shrugged.
"It was very brief. A touch, an incredibly intimate touch. And later, a delicious kiss."
He turned from her, and she knew he was guarding his thoughts.
"Very strange, indeed."
"Perhaps it is only that I so long for such things."She walked up behind him, so when she spoke, her breatl: would fan the back of his neck.
"If only you would oblige me, I might sleep more soundly, Roland."
His back went rigid.
"I'm sorry, Rhiannon. I don't think it would be wise."
She sniffed. He still wasn't impressed enough with her. He still thought her unworthy of his attention. She stepped around in front of him.
"My wound needs attending. Will you at least assist me with that?"
His brows bunched with immediate worry, and when she strode away, toward the bed, he followed on her heels."What is it, Rhiannon?
Hasn't it healed yet? "
She sat on the bed's edge, then leaned back, flipping the shirt open to reveal her waist, her hip, and the lower edge of one breast.
"It's healed, but I wish you would snip away the threads. They itch."
Roland closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he seemed to have become a mannequin. No emotion showed in his eyes.
"Of course."He located the scissors on the nightstand, and pulled up a stool, sitting so his head was more or less level with the mattress.
His hand touched the spot on her waist, and stilled. Slowly, he stroked his fingers over the area.
She closed her eyes.
"It feels so good when you touch me."
He drew his hand away, and brought the tiny scissors to her flesh.
Carefully, he snipped the threads.
"Even when I was asleep, it felt good. You did touch me, Roland, didn't you?
It wasn't a dream."
He finished the job, set the scissors aside, and got to his feet.
"I'm going out to check the grounds."She felt waves of frustration emanating from him. Why was he so determined to resist her?
"I'll come with you."
"I'll go alone. Jamison is with Eric and Tamara in the great hall. You might ask him for something to wear. Eric and I will fetch some of your own things for you, later On."
She was immediately angry.
"I am capable of fetching my own things, Roland. Furthermore, I'm not about to stay where I am so obviously not wanted. Perhaps I'll rest in my own bed tomorrow."
He said nothing, only walked out of the room. Rhian-non picked up the glass from the stand and hurled it against the wall, where it smashed to bits.
She heard a small laugh and then Tamara appeared in the doorway Roland had just exited.
"You find my anger amusing, fledgling? You wouldn't, were it directed at you."
Tamara shook her head and stepped inside.
"I'm not laughing at you, Rhiannon. Don't be so defensive. It's just that Eric has made me feel like throwing things a time or tWO. ' Rhiannon tossed her head.
"He could never have been as purely maddening as Roland is."She strode to the hearth and bent to toss a log onto the barely glowing sparks.
"He wouldn't make love to me when we both wanted it so badly we were going slowly insane,"Tamara confided.
Rhiannon straightened, but didn't turn.
"What was his reason?"
"He thought I would be repulsed when I learned what he was."' "And were you?"
"I loved him. It took a while, but I finally convinced him of it. Be patient with Roland. Don't give up."
Rhiannon whirled to face the little thing.
"You don't think I'm in love with him, do you? My God, Tamara, I am not nearly so foolish as to allow that to happen."
Tamara smiled.
"Of course not. Then, you're only interested in a fling?"
Rhiannon's gaze fell.
"I want him. There is nothing wrong in that."
She frowned.
"Except for his exceeding stubbornness."
"Does he give you some well thought-out reason for abstaining?"
Rhiannon shook her head.
"Only some nonsense about what one wants not always being what is good for one. I know the true reason. He thinks I'm not good enough. He'll soon learn better."Rhiannon searched the room for her skirt, and shed Roland's shirt, only to reach for a fresh one.
"Why on earth do you say that?"
"Because it is true."She found the skirt and stepped into it, fastening a few of the buttons, and then tucking the shirt tails into it.
"That's crazy. You're the most attractive woman I've ever seen."' Rhiahnon turned to face her. Perhaps the little fledgling wasn't as bad as she had first thought.
"And you are indomitably cheerful."
She smiled.
"Why shouldn't I be? I get to spend eternity with the man I love."
Rhiannon rolled her eyes.
"Must you be so human?"She hunted for her shoes, found them and slipped them on.
"Tell Roland I'll return before dawn."
She felt Tamara's rush of alarm at her announcement."Rhiannon, where are you going?"
"To my house, to fetch some clothing."
"You shouldn't. It isn't safe, there are DPI"
"Too bad for them if they get in my way. I'm in no mood for it tonight."
She moved toward the door, but the bold little thing grabbed her arm.
"Rhiannon, please wait. There's something I need to say to you."
Rhiannon tilted her head to one side.
"Say it, then. I'm in a hurry."
"It's about ... the man who held you prisoner, in his lab in Connecticut."
"Daniel St. Claire?"
Tamara nodded.
"Yes. He ... he was my guardian. He adopted me after my parents were killed."Tamara swallowed hard as Rhiannon frowned.
"I learned later that their deaths were planned. He only wanted custody of me to try to lure Eric in for live research. I know what happened to you--I read about it in his files, after he died. And, those other two he held, as well. I'm . I'm sorry."
Compelled by Tamara's honesty, Rhiannon reached out one hand to ruffle the young one's curls.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Tamara. These things happened before you were born. You're lucky you survived."
"I don't know if I would've, if it hadn't been for Eric."She licked her lips.
"I loved Daniel like a parent for a long time, even after Eric tried to tell me the truth about him. I hope"-- "That I do not hate you for it,"Rhiannon finished, reading the young one's thoughts.
"Rest assured, I do not."
Tamara smiled, her eyes slightly damp.
"I'd like to be your friend."
Rhiannon blinked fast, angry at the ridiculous lump that came into her throat.
"I don't believe I've ever had one of those."
"Not even Roland?"
Rhiannon laughed.
"No, most especially not him. He doesn't even like me."
"I think you're wrong about that. When we came in last night, it looked as if his seeing you in pain was killing him."
"Really?"Rhiannon's brows lifted and she felt something silly warm her insides. She caught herself.
"Listen to us, gibbering about males like a pair of giggling teenage mortals.
We are above it, Tamara.
Goddesses among women."
"But women, all the same,"Tamara replied. Rhiannon frowned, considering that. Then she shook her head.
"I must go. I have much to do tonight. Some shopping, even."
"Shopping? But, Rhiannon, the DPI"-- "Posh, let them chase me through the stores if they think they can keep up. I extracted permission from Roland to clean these chambers up a bit, and hang new drapes. I further intend to purchase enough candles to keep that chandelier glowing nightly for a year.
It's like resting in a graveyard this way."
Tamara. chewed her lower lip.
"I don't blame you for wanting to spruce things up. This is like something out of an old horror movie."
"Precisely. Besides that, my efforts will drive Roland to the point of murdering me. And I do love to torment him. Unless I hurry, the stores will close. So, farewell."
Rhiannon hurried out a rear door, leapt the wall without an effort and raced to her rental house outside L'Ombre. She wasn't a complete fool. Though she saw no sign of anyone watching the house, she took the precaution of slipping around the back. She scaled a wall, and entered through a second-story window.
She turned on no lights at all, only lit a few candles.
Her night vision was excellent. She picked through her clothing until she found a short little skirt that flared when she moved, and a blouse to go with it. She packed other items into a suitcase, to take back to the castle when her errands were finished. Then she ran a hot bath until the tub was brimming, and spent a heavenly, albeit all too brief time soaking. She would have loved to linger, to burn some incense 'and relax, but with Roland's warnings still echoing in her mind, she didn't dare.
She'd return later for her suitcase. For now, she went over to the hidden safe and took out some of the credit cards she kept on hand.
She had one more errand, an important one. She would show Roland how worthy she was before this night ended. She lifted the receiver and dialed a number she knew well.
Her agent in France, Jacques Renot, was highly paid, and utterly trustworthy.
He also was an ex-DPI operative who knew how to break into their computers.
He recognized her voice at once, and she could almost hear him smiling through the phone lines. Whenever she woke him at night, it always meant a large bonus in his next check. He was worth every penny she paid him. How many others could keep track of her many aliases, her countless bank accounts? Her need for anonymity was making Jacques a very rich man.
"I need to know the name of the hotel where Curtis Rogers is staying, in L'Ombre,"she said simply.
"Can you get it?"
"Oui. It might take awhile, but"-- "I'll call you back in twenty minutes."
She hung up. It wouldn't take long to do the shopping. After all, she knew exactly what she wanted, and price was no object, so why waste time? She had important things to do.