Blood Rose.

By Sharon Page.

Chapter One.

The Hunters.

London, October 18th, 1818.

s.e.x. She wanted s.e.x. But she wanted this antic.i.p.ation, too. Serena Lark stirred sensually on the bed, enjoying the feel of silky sheets beneath her bare skin.

A candle lit the room-it could only be one, for the light was weak and the candle must be close to guttering. Golden light wavered on the wall and danced with the reflections of silvery-blue moonlight.

Serena's hands skimmed her tummy and touched-boldly stroked-her cunny, which ached in delightful agony.

Shadows swept over her. She saw the sudden darkness cross her belly and she looked up. Her heart hammered but she smiled a greeting at the two masked men who strolled arrogantly into her bedchamber. Lord Sommersby and Drake Swift-the Royal Society's two most famous and daring vampire hunters. Both men were dressed for the hunt, though masked, and they swept off their greatcoats as they crossed her threshold.

A gold mask framed Swift's glittering green eyes, and a deep royal purple mask clung to Lord Sommersby's face. Swift threw his hat aside, revealing his unfashionably long white-blond hair. He dropped a crossbow on the floor, followed by a sharpened wooden stake. He lifted a heavy silver cross from around his neck, let the chain pool on the floor and the cross fall with a clunk.

As dark as Swift was fair, his lordship gave a courtly bow and doffed his hat. Thick, glossy, and dark brown, his hair tumbled over his brow. Her breath caught at the heat in his eyes-the deep, delicious color of chocolate.

Serena crooked her finger and both men came to her, tugging their cravats loose as they prowled to her bed. They tore at their waistcoats, their shirts, and stripped to the waist. She could barely breathe as she drank in the sight of two wide chests. Swift's skin was bronzed to a scandalous shade, which brought the gold curls on his sculpted muscles into stark relief. The earl was ma.s.sive, possessing a barrel chest and biceps as big as her thighs. He looked like a giant, one with a body honed by battle with the strongest creatures on earth.

She was dreaming. Even lost in it, she knew somehow. And in this dream, Serena had no idea what to say-what did one say when two men came to one's bed for the first time? Words seemed inane. She was most terribly shy. And as a governess, she'd been well trained to be a silent servant. But she gave a welcoming moan-the prettiest, most feminine one she could muster.

Tension ratcheted in her. Desire flared as the men approached. They would touch her. Her heart tightened with each long, slow step they took. Yes. Yes!

Laudanum. Even here, in her dream, she remembered the laudanum. A few swallows in her cup of tea because she couldn't sleep.

Mr. Swift paused to yank off his trousers, and he flung them aside as he stalked toward her, his ridged abdomen rippling. He wore no small clothes. His magnificent legs were formed of powerful muscle, lean and hard.

And his c.o.c.k. Serena couldn't look away. It curved toward his navel, thick and erect and surrounded by white-blond curls. She knew it would fill her completely, stretch her impossibly, and she knew it would be perfect inside.

Mr. Swift reached the bed first. He smiled, his teeth a white gleam in the darkened room. His hand reached-she followed the arc of his fingers with breath held-and he touched her bare leg. Oh!

"Miss Lark." He dropped to one knee. "Let us dispense with the pleasantries and begin with the delights." And with that he parted her thighs and dove to her wet cunny.

Candlelight played over his broad, tanned shoulders and the large muscles of his arms. His tongue snaked out, slicked over her, and Serena arched her head back to scream to the ceiling.

So good!

Boot soles sharply rapped on the floor. Leather-clad knuckles gently brushed her cheek. Lord Sommersby. She flicked her eyelids open as Mr. Swift splayed his hands over her bottom, lifted her to his face, and slid his tongue as he tasted her intimate honey.

Lord Sommersby looked so serious, but he never smiled. He required encouragement so she held out her hand to him, but her smile vanished in a cry of shock and delight as Mr. Swift nudged her thighs wider, until her muscles tugged, and feasted on her. His lips touched her c.l.i.t, the lightest brush, and pleasure arced through her. She tore the sheets with her fisted hands, heard silken seams rip.

Then squealed in frustration as Lord Sommersby lay his strong hand on his partner's shoulder and wrenched Drake Swift from his work.

"She is a woman beyond your ken, Swift. A woman to be both pleasured and treasured."

Pleasured and treasured. Serena could not believe she'd heard those words from the cool, autocratic Earl of Sommersby's lips. He thoroughly disapproved of everything about her, didn't he?

And then the earl was gloriously nude. The hair on his chest was lush and dark, and the curls arrowed down his stomach into a thick, black nest between his thighs. His c.o.c.k was straight and hard and remarkably fat, and it pointed downward, as though too heavy to stand upright.

A sweep of his lordship's arm and his rich purple mask flew aside, revealing dark brown eyes, narrowed with l.u.s.t, and a predatory determination in his expression that made his fine features harsh. "Out of my way, Swift."

"I think the lady wants me to finish, Sommersby." With an insolent grin, Swift rolled back onto his lean stomach and lowered to her s.e.x once more. She lost all her breath in a whoosh.

To have two such beautiful, naked men argue over which would lick her to ecstasy...

It was almost too much to bear.

Lord Sommersby bent and licked her nipples. Of course this was a dream, for she lifted her b.r.e.a.s.t.s saucily to the earl and spread her legs wider for Mr. Swift. His lordship sucked her nipple at the exact instant devilish Mr. Swift slid fingers in her cunny and-dear heaven-her rump.

Her heart pounded; her nerves were as taut as a harp's strings. "I will let you bed me," she gasped, "if you let me hunt with you."

Drake Swift laughed, and thrust two fingers in her quim and a.s.s. "You were made for this, la.s.s. For naughty f.u.c.king. Not for hunting vampires."

How illicit and wonderful it was to be filled, to feel invaded with each thrust of his fingers. Serena looked to Lord Sommersby.

"I would never risk your life," he said.

"But you know it is what I want most of all," she whispered.

"Is it?" Drake gave a roguish wink that set her heart spiraling in her chest.

In the blink of her dreaming imagination, both men were kneeling on the bed at her sides, looking down on her, their smiles hot and wild.

Mr. Swift's c.o.c.k approached her mouth from the right, his lordship's from the left. The two huge, engorged heads met in the middle, touching right over her mouth.

Serena had never seen anything so erotic-so wildly arousing that she forgot about decorum, about bargaining, about hunting vampires.

What would if feel like to run her tongue around and between the two heads?

Their fluid was leaking together, making them deliciously wet and shiny- What on earth was she doing? This was scandalous!

Her mouth opened to protest.

They moved to push their c.o.c.ks in, parrying for position. Serena lost herself to the moment, shut her eyes, and stuck out her tongue- Something sharp p.r.i.c.ked her tongue. She pulled back, shocked by the pain, as thick liquid spilled into her mouth. Hot, with a strange yet impossibly familiar metallic taste.

Blood.

Icy horror snaked through her veins, and she forced her eyes open.

The men were gone. They'd vanished and a young girl sat on the bed in front of her. A child dressed in a fragile white nightdress with loose, tangled, golden hair.

Anne Bridgewater. Little Anne, who had died young-she remembered holding Anne's cold hand, laying her face to the girl's quiet chest...

As though floating over the scene, she saw herself twine the blond hair around her wrist to expose Anne's slim neck. Anne c.o.c.ked her head, and her sweet scent of youthful skin flooded Serena's senses. Pain lanced her jaw and fangs shot out.

She was a vampire! Serena tried to resist, tried to fight, but she saw herself press her pointed canines to the girl's fresh, clean skin. The pulse thrummed beneath, fervent and strong, and the rushing blood sang in her ears.

Against her will, she bent to the young girl's neck...but everything tilted and a sudden light poured into her room. Havershire Manor. She was in her old bedchamber, and Mrs. Thornton was tossing her half-packed case out the window while Mr. Thornton paced in front of the fire. Neither seemed to care that she wasn't wearing a st.i.tch of clothing, and she desperately tried to cover her body with her long black hair.

"You are in love with her!" Mrs. Thornton screamed at her husband.

Serena fought to protest, but she could not force the words out. She had done nothing wrong...nothing but read poetry with Mr. Thornton, and walk with him, and fall in love with him...and let him kiss her once-but nothing more.

Mr. Thornton raked his hands through his hair. "The wretched girl bewitched me."

His wife wheeled around and pointed at Serena. Her triumphant laugh rang out around her. "You'll starve in a week, you little fool."

She woke on a scream. Serena found herself bolt upright, sheets tangled around her legs, sweat pouring between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She pressed the flannel to her skin to soak up the rivulets as she gulped down air.

Not again! So much for dosing herself with laudanum-it hadn't helped at all. Foolishly, she ran her tongue over her teeth. No sharp points, of course. No fangs. And she had never, ever hurt Anne Bridgewater.

Serena kicked back the covers and jumped down from her bed. She rubbed at her eyes, scratchy with sleep. She hadn't slept properly for two months. Not since coming to London, meeting Althea-Lady Brookshire-and joining the Royal Society.

She flung open the velvet drapes. Her bedroom in Brookshire House overlooked Hyde Park. Beyond the line of trees, pink touched the sky, promising dawn. How could she look upon the rising sun if she were a vampire? How could she stand in the sunlight?

But the erotic dreams of the magnificent Lord Sommersby and that enticing rogue Drake Swift-didn't they prove she was not a normal, proper Englishwoman?

She leaned against the window, staring out at the shadowy green park. She had promised she would not give in to her baser nature this time. Twice she had fallen in love and she'd ended up in disaster. She thought she'd loved William Bridgewater, Anne's older brother. He'd come to her bedroom, kissed her senseless, and she wanted him. Wanted him with the same urgent fiery need she felt in these dreams. And that need had got her banished from the house. Then there had been Mr. Thornton, and his poetry, his brooding pain as they walked together, his stories of his wife's madness and rejection. She, the simple governess, had fallen deeply, impossibly in love- She was never going to do that again. She could never do that again.

With the daylight spilling over her, Serena folded her arms beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and paced to her bedside table. She slid open the drawer and drew out the small stack of folded pages. The edges were torn and curled and smudged by tearstains.

My dearest A, I am writing to express my fears in regard to the behavior of S.L. She shows an unhealthy interest in men; she is brazen and wanton and disobedient. Often she slips out of her room at night, and returns only at dawn. One afternoon, a fortnight prior to my writing here, S.L. p.r.i.c.ked her finger on a rose's thorn. She put the wound to her mouth and suckled-not of great concern perhaps-but I saw her return to the same place in the garden the next afternoon, deliberately wound her finger, and delight in suckling the blood from her flesh- I greatly fear that your concerns are quite accurate estimations of the truth. You do see, do you not, why I beseech you to bring her to London, to keep her under your watchful eye? Dear Anne is devoted to her and the child is fragile and impressionable. I am not at all certain how to proceed- I have raised S.L. as a daughter, but she is not normal. Subhuman, in my opinion, and I fear, a danger to us all- I most fervently await your reply, Yours in devotion and admiration unsurpa.s.sed, Mrs. Ariadne Bridgewater.

Every instinct inside her yearned to rip the words to shreds. But she couldn't do that-she needed these copies she'd made. There'd been so many of these letters, written to dearest A. She'd found them last week, neatly filed away in chronological order, in one of the bookcases in the Society's vast library. Letters written by Mrs. Bridgewater, the woman who gave her food, shelter, the woman who had raised her-the only "mother" she had ever known. A "mother" who thought her subhuman.

Who thought her a vampire.

Serena tipped her face to the weak strands of daylight, closed her eyes. Still hazy from the opiate, she struggled with the questions that plagued her day after day. "Dearest A" was the elderly Earl of Ashcroft-the most powerful man of the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena.

To think she'd believed every word of Lord Ashcroft's story when he'd brought her to London two months ago. To think she'd believed he would teach her to slay vampires. A tragic secret has been hidden from you, Miss Lark...the truth is that vampires killed your parents...but I will help you learn the truth, if you serve the Society.

Lies. All lies. She'd been so thrilled to come to London, to stay with Lord and Lady Brookshire, to join the Royal Society. Ashcroft must have known she had been tossed out of the Thorntons' home without a reference and had no place to go.

Worse, her parents hadn't been killed by vampires. The letters had made it clear. Serena's throat closed. She shuffled through the copies she had made but didn't look down at the words. She didn't need to; she'd cried over them so often the words were burned in her head. I suppose this is exactly the kind of behavior we should expect, Mrs. Bridgewater had written, from the daughter born of a vampire and a mortal.

Serena shoved the letters back into the drawer and shut it tight.

What did Lord Ashcroft want with her? Why had he kept her alive?

Was he waiting-waiting to see if she changed?

Would she? For all the books in the library she'd pored over, she didn't know. She didn't know if she could start out as a mortal and become a vampire without being bitten.

Serena stalked back to the window and pulled the curtains shut, filled with a sense of purpose. She was not going to wait; she would not be meek and docile and simmer in fear. If she wanted the truth she would have to bargain for it. And the journal of Vlad Dracul would be a temptation Lord Ashcroft wouldn't be able to resist. Once she had it, she would trade it for the truth about her parents, the truth about herself. And her life, G.o.d willing.

All she had to do was break into the brothel to find the journal. It was a deadly risk, but worth it. She had to find out the truth.

Was she the child of a vampire or not?

Chapter Two.

Bound "I do love a woman in stockings and garters."

Serena smiled dreamily as the seductive male voice, strangely accented, murmured teasingly close to her ear. Large hands skimmed up her calves, brushing over silky stockings, reaching her ruched garters...

Hands? Her garters?

Serena's eyes snapped open. This was no naughty dream, and this was certainly not her bedchamber. Where was she?

The hands moved away. Dark, fathomless dark, surrounded her, and though she could not see, she knew the man-a real man, not a fantasy-still stood somewhere beside her. She felt the stirring of air across her skin, across everywhere-arms, thighs, belly, even b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She was naked! Except for her lower legs. The silkiness of her stockings touched her calves, and her garters bit into her legs. Her slippers were still on her feet.

Her head felt groggy, as though sheep's wool stuffed it full, and a faint, sickly sweet scent teased her nose.

"Indeed," agreed a different male voice. "A woman in stockings and garters and not a st.i.tch else."

A second man! Serena bit back a cry. He was somewhere in the dark, and he spoke with the sensual tones of the Italian tongue.

Gooseb.u.mps raced over her skin. She became aware of the tug in her muscles, the awkward position of her limbs, the sensation of being stretched apart.

Panic knifed through her. She was spread-eagled on a hard surface, her wrists and ankles firmly secured by-she shifted, slightly, felt the cool bite of metal against her skin-shackles.

She was captured.

The brothel. With a jolt of fear, Serena remembered the ornate doors facing Jermyn Street and the face that had leered out at her through the iron grill. A beefy footman with a thick neck and a scowl. He had taken a long look down her low bodice before ushering her inside. Laughter, smoke, heavy perfume-and a rich, ripe aroma she knew was the smell of s.e.x. Lovely, seductive women had boldly flirted with many handsome, dangerous vampires. Gentlemen, to all outward appearances, but with one look she'd known they were Nosferatu.

Serena pulled again at her bonds as her blood ran ice cold. She was bound. Naked. In the dark. With vampires.

They had to know she was no courtesan, even though she'd been disguised as one. They had her clothes. In the sleeves of her scarlet gown, she'd tucked stakes. Down her bodice, she'd slipped a slim dagger and a vial of holy water. In the cavernous pocket of her skirt, she'd hidden a clever folding crossbow.

She had no weapons now. No mask. Nothing but her wits.

Why had they not killed her already?