Текст книги "Sinner's Heart"
Автор книги: Zoë Archer
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Chapter 12
Though the streets were nearly empty, Livia felt herself ablaze with awareness and power. She perceived everything—the wash of light over the cobbles, the feel of clammy air rippling over her skin, the stink of refuse rotting in the gutter. Voices and sounds were louder, sharper, and she drew everything into herself, feeding upon sensation.
Bram rode through the city, with her sitting behind him, her arms clasped about his waist. She held onto him as a means to restrain herself. Now that she possessed form and flesh, she wanted to devastate, to devour everything. The greed she had felt once was miniscule by comparison. She had been denied for a millennium. No longer. Magic and power hummed through her veins. She felt herself capable of anything.
Valeria Livia Corva had returned.
Pushing down her avarice taxed her. It felt as though she struggled to chain a starved lioness. And everywhere was meat, fresh and bloody.
Bram drew up beside a shop and dismounted. After helping her down, they went inside, his hand a continual assuring presence as it clasped hers.
A bell rang when they entered. Merchandise of every description filled the small shop—chairs and desks, baskets brimming with clothing, porcelain, framed paintings, even stringed musical instruments. Light barely penetrated the crowded window.
A dark-haired woman emerged from the dusty shadows. Livia whirled to face her, then saw herself. She stared at her reflection in a mirror. Tentative, she approached, studying herself. She had not truly seen herself in over a thousand years. The mirrors of this era were far better than the ones of her time, revealing every nuance and detail in their polished surfaces.
“How may I be of assistance, my lord?” A shopkeeper appeared, her gray hair pinned beneath a cap. She paused when she saw the bloodstains on Bram’s clothing.
“I’ve need of several items,” answered Bram.
The shopkeeper recovered. “There is nothing you cannot find in my establishment.”
“Swords.”
“I keep them in the back,” she replied.
“Bring them out. Quickly, for we’ve not much time.”
“Yes, my lord.” There came a soft clatter as the woman picked her way to the back of her shop.
Livia barely heard their conversation. Her attention held on the image of herself in the mirror. There—she could see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and she could just make out the faintest crease in the corner of each eye. And a few silver strands interwove with her dark hair. At the time of her death, she had not been a girl, but a woman grown. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.
Bram’s image appeared behind hers in the mirror. Dark, lean, his jaw and cheeks covered with stubble but his eyes sharp as cut sapphires, he was as feral as she.
“Are you as you remembered yourself?” he asked.
“That woman was greedy and vain.” She traced her finger around the outline of her face in the glass. “A wicked creature.”
“Transformation is better than reformation.”
She exhaled a small laugh. “If I’m to keep myself in check, you’ll need to offer me more restraint than that.”
“The last thing I can offer you is restraint.” Raw hunger gleamed in his eyes.
A throb of need resounded low in her belly. What they had started back in the abandoned house truly was the beginning of something ravenous, something that could consume them both in its heat and immensity.
They both seemed to understand that they hadn’t the luxury of time to explore their desire. Their gazes broke apart, an act of mutual self-preservation.
“Here you are, sir,” the shopkeeper said, returning. She cleared off a section of the cluttered counter and set several long wooden cases atop it. “All legitimately acquired, I can assure you. From gentlemen who have found themselves in impecunious circumstances.”
Both Livia and Bram turned to examine the cases as the shopkeeper opened the lids. Rust-colored velvet cradled half a dozen swords of different sizes and shapes, some thin-bladed, others heavier and curved. Knowing little of weaponry, Livia watched Bram as his trained and critical gaze moved over the various swords.
He picked up one weapon and frowned at it, turning it this way and that, running his finger along its edge. Whatever he saw there did not meet his standards, and he returned it to the case. He took another sword and did the same inspection. Moving into the center of the shop, he took several practice swings, his movements precise and fluid.
As many times as Livia had seen Bram in combat or even practicing his swordplay, she continued to be enthralled by the sight of him in motion. The shopkeeper thought so, as well.
“This will do,” Bram said, setting the sword on the counter. “A pistol, too, if you have one.”
“I do,” the woman answered. “I also have some fine garments that might interest you, my lord. And you, my . . . er . . . lady,” she added, glancing at Livia. Her gaze moved over Livia’s tunic and sandals.
“Bring those, as well,” said Bram.
“My tunic is made of silk from Seres,” Livia insisted when the shopkeeper bustled off again. “Carried thousands of miles upon the backs of camels, over treacherous mountains and scorching deserts.”
“Lovely, to be sure. But a beautiful woman dressed in the style of Ancient Rome invites attention. And we don’t want attention.”
He was right. Too many dangers lurked close. When the shopkeeper returned, her arms full of rustling dresses, Livia selected one that seemed closest to her size and preference—a gown of apricot-hued silk, trimmed with blue ribbon. The ribbon was frayed, and some of the stitches along the sleeves gaped. Livia eyed this evidence of wear with distaste. She had never worn second hand garments.
“I’ll take you back to Madame De Jardin’s,” Bram said. “A whole new wardrobe, made for you alone.”
Neither voiced the question as to when they would have the gowns made. It spoke of a future that she nor Bram could vouch for.
“I also brought some, ahem, undergarments.” The shopkeeper surreptitiously uncovered a snug-looking white article that appeared as though it encircled the torso.
Livia poked the garment. It was rigid. Like a cage. “I’m to wearthis?”
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but have you not worn stays before?”
“She’s from Italy,” said Bram.
The shopkeeper nodded sagely. “I see you have no maid with you today, my lady. If you’ll follow me, I can help dress you.”
Livia was no stranger to being clothed by a servant. From the time she had been a small child and all through adulthood, she’d had slaves and later temple acolytes who had served her. With a regal nod, she let herself be led to the back of the shop, to a cramped, curtained nook.
Dressing was an exercise in constraint as she was squeezed into the stays and draped in layer after layer of garments. Several minutes of this and then she emerged from the nook, the older woman trailing behind her.
Bram had been peering out the window, scowling as he surveyed the street, yet when he caught sight of her, his scowl lifted. He prowled toward her, gaze hot and lingering on her exposed chest.
“These modern clothes suit you very well,” he murmured, eyeing the low neck of her gown.
“The stays are an appalling contrivance,” she answered.
“Even worse that women of this time submit to them. And no Roman woman of virtue reveals herself so boldly.”
“The sacrifices we must make for the sake of modernity.”
“I note youaren’t the one with a cage of metal around your ribs.” She glanced down critically at the garment. “My own clothing was better.”
“You flatter whatever you wear.” Bram swore in frustration. “Damn John and the Devil. If they weren’t threatening to tear London apart, I’d show you my appreciation.”
Her cheeks heated, and the shopkeeper coughed. Livia reveled in the warmth flooding her face—it meant she was alive, and earthly. Yet she could do nothing to explore her carnality. Not with such meager time and safety. Like Bram, she cursed circumstance.
She made a sweep of the shop, gathering up a few items. “I’ll want these,” she told the shopkeeper.
“Yes, madam.” The older woman could not fully hide her curiosity at Livia’s selections, but Livia had neither the time nor interest in explaining the intricacies of spellcasting.
They concluded the rest of their business quickly. Bram purchased a pistol, a lantern, and a shirt that was threadbare but clean. He declined to barter his coat and waistcoat. When the shopkeeper offered him actual money for Livia’s silk tunic and gold ornaments, he looked to Livia for the answer.
Livia considered the muslin-wrapped bundle she now carried. In this world, she had no wealth, only the things wrapped in a bolt of coarse fabric. Doubtless she could fetch a considerable amount for her jewelry, at the least. And she had been trapped in the same garments for over a thousand years. Easy to grow tired of them after so long.
“I purchased the bracelets from a Greek artisan,” she murmured. “He had a shop in Trajan’s Market.” The artisan long ago had turned to dust, and the market itself likely was a ruin. Her jewelry and clothing were relics—like her.
“I’ll keep them,” she said.
The shopkeeper looked disappointed, yet, seeing Livia’s resolve, acquiesced. A large handful of coins on the counter helped silence the older woman’s objections.
Glancing toward the window, Livia saw that the sky darkened. “Darkness is falling.” Which meant that the danger increased. The Devil preferred to carry out his work under cover of night. Though soon, if he went unopposed, day or night would no longer matter. All of it would be darkness, and every moment would be misery.
She felt it even stronger now that she had been given flesh—the Dark One’s growing strength. It choked the streets and wove its way between the smallest crevices in the buildings. Unseen but palpable.
The shopkeeper now seemed eager to have Livia and Bram leave. She scooped up the coins into a pocket in her apron, and all but shoved her and Bram out the door.
Dusk cloaked the street, and figures scuttled in the shadows. Livia pressed the bundle of her clothing to her chest and shivered from the cold. In a swirl of velvet, Bram draped his coat over her shoulders. His warmth and scent enveloping her gave some comfort, yet for all his strength and determination, he was still mortal. As was she. They could both be hurt. Or worse.
Silently, he paid the boy holding the reins of his horse. The boy scurried off the moment the coin touched his palm.
Bram mounted his horse, secured her bundle of old clothes, then held out a hand for her. She seated herself behind him, struggling a little with the mass of her cumbersome gown, then clasped her arms around his waist. Warily vigilance tightened his body. The night held a venomous chill, as though it had been honed to a cutting edge.
“And now?” she asked, her words barely a whisper.
“We seek shelter where we can.” He pressed his heels into the horse’s side, setting it in motion. “But whatever safety we find won’t last.”
Bram seethed with frustration. None of the circumstances were as he wanted them. Here was Livia, no longer a spirit but a woman of flesh, and he wished to take her back to his home, settle her upon a fireside couch strewn with silk pillows, feed her scalloped oysters, sweetmeats, the tender leaves of artichokes glazed in butter. There would be glasses of full-bodied Chambertin gleaming like rubies. He wanted a soaking tub filled with warm water perfumed by jasmine blossoms. He desired gowns of crimson damask, emerald faille—bright, rich hues to flatter her olive skin. He would surround her in luxury, in comfort, in sensuous pleasure.
Instead, they crouched on a coarse woolen blanket on the dusty floor of an empty dockside warehouse, gnawing on stale bread and tough lumps of mutton, trading sips from a bottle of dubious wine—the only food he’d been able to procure.
Riverside chill seeped between the cracks in the walls. Noisome vapor, smelling of rot and sludge, curled amongst the few crates left behind from the last shipment. It was so quiet Bram heard the water slapping against the pilings. Yet the other sounds of river traffic and life, the ferrymen and mudlarks and stevedores loading and unloading ships, those were absent.
The whole of London seemed suspended, waiting, an animal crouched in anticipation of a coming attack.
But he was no toothless, shivering dog rolling onto its back. Watching Livia consume her first meal in over a thousand years, her expression carefully neutral though he knew the stale food was a disappointment, he vowed to fight whoever and whatever threatened. As soon as her strength was restored, she would cast a spell to release the other Hellraisers. And then the fight would truly begin.
Despite the middling quality of the food, Livia devoured everything. Bram gave her the remainder of his meal over her objections.
“It’ll do me good to get back to army rations,” he said. “A man with an overfull belly makes for a poor soldier. Besides,” he added, “my last meal was only hours ago. A whole millennium has passed since you ate.”
“Spiced wine,” she mused. “Oysters, partridge with figs and walnuts, boar in garum. Pears from my own villa’s orchard and honey from my apiary.”
“Not half as fine,” he said, glancing down at the remainder of the food, “but it’s all we have, and you need it far more than I.”
Before she could object further, he stood and moved through the warehouse. He had already made an initial reconnaissance, but there was no such thing as being too aware of one’s surroundings. The structure had a high ceiling, and was large enough to hold cargo from several ships. Aside from a few crates and a dusty bolt of cotton, the warehouse stood empty. A battered desk and three-legged stool huddled in the corner. Searching the desk drawers yielded only scraps of paper, the ink faded to nigh illegibility. Tucked into the very back of the top drawer, however, he found a slim-bladed knife, which he tucked into his boot.
Two large doors could be used for bringing goods in and out of the warehouse, but a stout padlock kept out all would-be thieves and squatters. He and Livia had gained entrance through a smaller door, also locked, but easily breached through her use of a quick spell.
The slight effort had cost her. She had moved listlessly into the warehouse, and sank down onto the blanket he had spread on the ground. It seemed the simple act of being within her body again took a toll. Thus, he gladly went without a full supper, no matter his own demanding appetite.
He gazed back through the gloom shading the warehouse. They had taken a small chance and brought the lantern purchased at the shop to dispel some of the darkness. In contrast to her surprisingly delicate shape, outlined against the lantern’s glow as she continued to eat, she radiated power. Despite everything that had taxed her, she remained an unstoppable storm.
I’m awed by her.
He expected an answer to his thoughts. She had been within his mind for, what, days? Weeks? Whatever the span of time, it now felt perfectly natural to have her thoughts interwoven with his own, her voice nestled into the recesses of his mind. Gone, now. They were separate entities once again.
He turned away to continue his patrol, primed pistol at the ready, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
She might no longer haunt him, yet he was aware of her at all times. The quiet rustle of her skirts as she shifted. Her very presence like an ember in the darkness.
His body tightened in response. It knew she had flesh now, that she could be touched, and both his heart and his body demanded the same thing—her.
Yet she was hungry, tired, overwhelmed by the world and the immensity of the enemy they faced. The curse barring the Hellraisers from coming to their aid needed to be broken. She had to cast the spell to break that curse. He had to keep a harsh rein on his needs, painful though it was.
She rose up from the blanket, took the lantern, and moved toward him. Her footsteps echoed softly through the warehouse, and this simple sound made his blood race as she approached.
The lamplight gilded her skin, the underside of her jaw, and nestled in the shadows of her hair. She had a rolling, sensuous walk, full-hipped.
Her gaze was troubled as she came to stand before him. “This place is ill-omened.”
“Not an amiable part of the city, Wapping. Sailors live here.”
“It’s not a mortal evil I sense.”
His sword was drawn before she finished speaking. He glared into the darkness. “Damn—thought we’d be safe here.”
“For now, we are,” she amended. “But our safety won’t last. The realm below is a kettle on the verge of boiling over, their world erupting into ours.”
“And John’s the bastard throwing fuel on the fire.” Bram sheathed his sword. “The time to move against him is now.”
“The time is soon,” she corrected. “When this”—she set the lantern upon the floor and twin spheres of light appeared in her palms, gleaming with power—“grows stronger.”
“I’ve weapons of my own.” He glanced at his sword and pistol.
“And more.” One of the spheres of light blinked away, and she touched the tips of her fingers to the center of his chest. Yet when she touched him, another gleam appeared—and he was its origin. Its warmth spread through him.
“How?” he wondered.
“Because I helped you unlock your magic.” She took her fingers away, and the light continued to shine. “Years of study and training were needed before I could truly access my power. For you, it’s merely the work of a few moments.”
“Never thought I was gifted with magic.”
“On your own—no. You had a benefit I did not.” She smiled at him. “Me.”
They both watched as the light slowly faded, a lambent warmth lingering within him.
She said, “Now you wield your power the way a priestess might.”
“A priest, not a priestess. And I refuse to take a vow of chastity.”
“I may as well ask the fire not to burn.” Her smile dimmed. “You and I aren’t enough to win this war.”
He saw what she meant to do. “You aren’t strong enough yet.”
“There isn’t time to wait. It must be done now. Tonight.”
“At what risk to you?”
“Impossible to know.”
“Damn it,” he growled, “I didn’t stick a blade into my own chest just to lose you again.”
Her dark gaze held his. “No one is more aware of what you sacrificed. This is the reason you made that choice. The peril is greater now. My magic is, too.”
She spoke the truth. He did not like it. “I’ll lend my power to yours.”
“All I ask of you is vigilance whilst I work the spell.”
He gave a clipped nod.
“Come back with me to the blanket,” she said, nodding toward their makeshift accommodations. “The spell requires I should kneel, and I’ve no desire to test the fortitude of my new flesh upon this . . .” She eyed the grimy floor. “. . . This surface.”
They returned to where the woolen blanket was spread upon the ground. She set the lantern down, then arranged several objects upon the blanket—things she’d gathered from the chandler’s. The feather, the stub of a candle, a pearl.
When she’d positioned them to her liking, she kicked off her slippers, revealing glimpses of slim feet and curved ankles. Need built as she knelt upon the blanket, her movements economical yet elegant, her skirts billowing around her like faded petals upon water.
“Have you a blade?”
Frowning, he handed her the knife he had found in the desk. His jaw clenched when she dragged the blade across her thumb, a bright line of crimson appearing in its wake.
She dripped blood upon the objects, staining the feather, candle and pearl with red. Then she trickled her blood on the ground, murmuring softly as she did so. It looked obscene, the red purity of her blood mixing with the filth coating the floor. A desecration of her body. Yet her expression remained composed, removed, as blood fell in ruby droplets.
His hand upon his sword, senses attuned to the slightest movement or sound, he watched her eyes close. Her dark lashes were lacy against the upper curve of her cheek. The arcane words she murmured grew in strength and volume. They seemed to fill the cavernous space of the warehouse with their intricacy, complex as labyrinths.
Light gathered around her, gold and lambent. It covered her, its radiance like a cascade sweeping across her in waves. An unseen wind pulled her hair from its pins so it blew about her shoulders. Though Bram remained alert to any signs of intrusion, he could not look away from her, shining like a goddess. Her magic turned the air electric. He could feel it in the reticulation of his veins and sponge of his lungs. When he breathed, he breathed her power.
The glow surrounding her grew, spreading outward until it formed a sphere that encompassed them both. Energy skittered across his skin.
The light abruptly flickered, dimming. Livia swayed and her voice weakened. She looked suddenly haggard. Alarmed, he darted forward. Something was awry. Yet before he could touch her, her eyes opened. They glowed. Her irises and pupils were no longer visible, replaced by more golden light.
He halted, his hand hovering over her shoulder. She stared directly at him, but did not see him at all. She chanted louder. With a flare, the glow surrounding her returned, stronger now, so that it stretched out in a radius that engulfed half the warehouse.
A gust of wind pushed Bram back. He struggled to keep standing as Livia’s voice increased in volume and the tempest battered at him.
The unknown language she spoke shifted, and she cried in English, “Return—there are no barriers! Hellraisers, the time to undo your wickedness is at hand. Revertimini!”
The light around her flared, blinding him, and the warehouse shook. Small pieces of wood shook down from the ceiling and struck the floor. Abruptly, the wind died, the light was quenched, and stillness enfolded the building.
Bram blinked, clearing his vision from its dull red glow. He rushed forward when he saw Livia supine upon the blanket.
Falling to his knees, he gathered her up. She lay listless and unmoving in his arms. But for the slight rise and fall of her chest, she was utterly still. He stroked her hair, her cheeks, his heart pounding fierce enough to rip from the cage of his ribs. She felt altogether too slight, too fragile. Her cheeks were pale, the beat of her pulse barely fluttering against the fine skin of her throat.
He brushed his lips against hers. Light as thistledown, her breath, and shallow. He drew upon it, as though he could pull it from her and drag her back to consciousness.
“Livia, love,” he urged, his voice a rasp, “you aren’t to go anywhere. Is that understood?”
There was no response from her. Not a word spoken, nor even a flutter of an eyelash.
“I’m a wastrel,” he continued, “but I’m a soldier, and a bloody officer. I won’t be gainsaid. Disobeying me is a whipping offense. You obey me now, damn you.”
The softest movement of her lips. She struggled to form words.
His throat burned as it constricted. “What is it, love?”
“I obey . . .” She drew in a thready breath. “. . . No one.”
“Just this one time, do what you’re told.” His heart was a leaping animal when her eyes opened, dark and rich, and focused on him. He could not stop touching her face.
“Only this once,” she whispered. “I caution you, however . . . do not get . . . accustomed to such behavior.”
“I am duly warned.” He glanced down at the rough woolen blanket spread upon the ground. “Damn. You need to rest, but I don’t want you touching this coarse thing.”
She lifted her head enough to glance around the warehouse. “Take me to the desk.”
He gathered her up in his arms and carried her the distance. The feel of her nestled against him, her soft, sleek weight, coursed like fire.
She instructed, “Say the following.” She spoke series of words in a tongue he’d never heard before.
He repeated the words as best he could. Nothing happened.
“The second syllable of the fourth word needs to be drawn out,” she said, and repeated the spell.
He fought for patience. A damned linguistics lesson when she needed rest. But he mimicked her pronunciation of the words. To his surprise, a glow spread out from his chest. It flowed from him to surround the desk.
When light dissipated, the desk had transformed into a low, Roman-style couch. It had curved wooden legs, elaborately carved and gilded, and was covered by a long silk-wrapped cushion. More bright silk pillows were strewn about the couch, tasseled with gold. A small brazier at the foot of the couch sent spice-fragrant smoke curling up toward the beams of the ceiling.
“A useful spell,” he murmured. “We could’ve used this when first we arrived here.”
“The outcome of my spellcasting was unknown. I was uncertain if we would need your magic for something else. Healing, or retrieval. But now . . .”
Carefully, he arranged her on the couch. Her skirts rustled as she settled back, combining with her sigh in an intimate caress of sound.
After retrieving the bottle, he discovered a few swallows of wine left in the bottom. He put the bottle to her lips, and she took a sip. A droplet of wine clung to her bottom lip. Rather than lick it off, he drank from the bottle. It did nothing to quench his thirst, especially after the tip of her tongue darted out and caught the droplet.
“The spell is broken?” He needed to occupy his thoughts with the looming danger, or else he would stretch himself out beside her, or cover her body with his own, seeking out her hot and yielding places.
“The other Hellraisers may cross water now. I have summoned them to us. The matter of getting here, and how quickly, that is theirs to determine.” She let out a long exhale. “Bram?”
“What is it, love?”
“I feel strange.”
“How?”
“Heavy and lethargic, and my eyes keep trying to close.”
He leaned over her, running the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “You’re simply falling asleep. Nothing to give you concern.”
“I haven’t slept in so long. I don’t remember what it’s like.”
“It can be very pleasant. Peaceful. You may even have dreams.”
“What if . . .” She swallowed hard. “What if I do not wake up?”
“You will. I vow to you that you shall awaken.” She still looked uncertain, rare vulnerability in her gaze. “I’ll watch over you.”
Already, her lashes fluttered as sleepiness overtook her, and her words faintly slurred as she said, “Thank you.”
“Rest now, love. I’m here. And I will be here when you wake.”
As he watched, she dozed off, her breath becoming even and slow. This was the first time he had ever seen her asleep, or anything other than vigilant and aware. Her beauty at all times pierced him, and in repose she had an unguarded softness, a pliancy.
An illusion. She was steel and fire, her will as indomitable as his own. Precisely as he desired. Yet in her weakened, sleeping state, she needed protecting. He would watch over her—for as long as she needed.
* * *
He kept his vigil, leaving her side in brief intervals to patrol the building. Restlessness gnawed at him, the need to move, to take action, yet there was little to do except wait.
Some hours later, as he made another sweep of the warehouse, he was alerted by the sound of her gown rustling. By the time she blinked open her eyes, he sat beside her, brushing loose strands of hair from her forehead.
“There, you see,” he murmured. “Still amongst the living.”
“And you are still at my side.”
“No sign of trouble while you rested,” he said. “We’re safe.”
“For now.”
He was well aware of the impermanent nature of their safety. “And how do you feel?”
“Restored.” She stretched, pulling her arms overhead and arching her back. The action had the effect of pressing her breasts tighter against her bodice. The gown’s previous owner must have been a woman with a smaller bosom, for Livia all but spilled from the neckline, a vision of dusky golden flesh. He inwardly groaned when he caught sight of the barest edge of her nipple, a lush tawny brown.
He gave a hoarse laugh.
She glanced at him questioningly.
“God, Livia.” He held up a hand. “This is what wanting you has done to me.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Like a damned boy with his first woman.”
Her puzzled expression shifted into a smile of pure feminine allurement. “It’s been over a millennium since I’ve had a lover. But we’ll not speak of anyone else.”
“There’s only us.” He’d never known this kind of need before, not in all his years of sensual experience. Here she was, stretched out upon this bed, answering desire in her gaze.
Her pupils were fathomless and wide, her cheeks flushed. She reached up and curved her fingers over the back of his neck. Her gaze was flame.
Bram slowly exhaled. The moment he’d wanted for so long had finally arrived, and he would not rush. He did not care what it cost him to go slow. Every second with her needed to be savored.
He braced his hands on either side of her and brought his mouth down onto hers. Lust and need and fire blazed through him, yet he took her lips in deep, searching strokes. Her fingers tightened against the back of his neck as she pulled him closer. He tasted the wine, and her, and the sensations expanded within him in hot, heavy pulses.
He felt her other hand tugging open his coat, her fingers slipping beneath his waistcoat to grip his shoulder through the thin fabric of his shirt. She, too, shook, and it unnerved him a little to know how much they wanted each other. No veneer of sophistication, no cultivated distance. They revealed themselves with every touch and exhalation.
It took forcible effort to break the kiss long enough to lean back and pull off his coat. As he did, Livia helped by undoing his waistcoat buttons.
For all the heat in her gaze, she took her time, slowly tugging open his waistcoat, allowing her nails to scrape against his torso. Each scratch shivered through him.
“Witch,” he murmured.
“More powerful than a witch,” she answered. With his coat and waistcoat tossed aside, she bent forward and bit him through his shirt, just beneath his collarbone. “ Thisis the feast I want.”
He moved away long enough to tug off his boots and disarm himself. Yet he kept both his pistol and sword close, both of them just beside the couch.
