Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (49 page)

She thrashed under me, breathless and calling for me to press things more vigorously. I did so, but had worked up to the point of wanting release myself, but in a most different manner than she could have ever known before. Toward that end I sought out the wildly beating pulse in her taut throat and firmly ran my tongue over her smooth skin.

“Yes,” she whispered, with a sudden shiver.

Teeth and tongue working together, I bit into her neck. Her nails, in turn, bit into my back and her whole body surged up against mine. I knew what Molly was going through, having received this kind of kiss myself. Nora had taught me to appreciate every second and to crave the next. With care, the ecstasy could be drawn out indefinitely.

The red fire of Molly’s blood drifted into my mouth a drop at a time, to be savored like the rarest of nectars. She shuddered and moaned and moved under me in such a way as to invite me to drink more deeply from her. The temptation was there; I’d
never
tasted anything so sweet, so perfect.

I drew in a bit more, a whole mouthful. Swallowed.

It was almost too much to bear. For us both. She cried out and pressed hard on the back of my neck as though she wanted me to empty her to the dregs.

But that would be . . . not right. If I took too much from her, it would somehow be too much for me. For then I would lose myself; I’d be completely overwhelmed and lost.

Ah, but it was so sweet, so good.

Very decidedly different . . . .

It was all that I desired and more wonderful than I could have ever imagined.

. . . better. Much, much better.

Except for Molly’s heartbeat, all was silent within that room, but within myself I heard her blood roaring throughout my body, my soul. For a time I was overwhelmed and lost in the vast pleasure of that hot tide. I floated like a leaf and let it carry me along to . . . . I don’t know where. Perhaps it was a place where my happiest dreams lived, safe from the harshness of normal existence, where body, mind and soul could meld with one another, able to combine their respective joys into one devastating sharing.

I didn’t want to leave, but taking the life from Molly a mouthful, or even a drop, at a time could not last forever, and I would not hurt her for the world . . . or even to maintain this incredible ecstasy. Eventually, I made my way back.

My next clear memory was of kissing away the last traces of blood from her skin. There remained behind two small, angry-looking wounds, but I knew them to be painless and their alarming appearance would pass rapidly. By morning they would be much less noticeable and completely gone in a day or two. Unless I decided to return to her.

Molly lay quiet for some time as her breath returned to normal. The orange light from the candle gilded the sheen of sweat covering her. She seemed to glow like an angel in a painting. Propped on one elbow, I ran a hand over her body, taking enormous satisfaction in simply touching that lovely, lovely flesh.

She turned her face toward me. Her eyes swept me up and down, wide and not a little puzzled.

“What is it?” I asked.

Her mouth opened. She shook her head. “My God . . . is
that
what they
teach you in England?”

“You liked it?”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, Johnny-boy. It sort of caught me up and I couldn’t stop it—not that I wanted to try.”

This wasn’t the empty flattery of Molly the experienced prostitute wanting a steady customer; I sensed that right enough. I’d honestly impressed Molly the woman, which made me feel very good, indeed.

She squinted in the dim light. “Your eyes are funny. They’ve gone red.”

“It’ll pass, nothing to worry about. You needn’t mention it to anyone.” I looked at her closely and ran my hand over the spot on her neck. “You needn’t mention any of this to anyone.”

But there wasn’t enough light for my attempt to influence her to work. Her expression remained unchanged.

“Don’t want people to know how you do it? Is that it?” she asked.

Perhaps another candle . . .or if we moved closer to the light . . . .

She shrugged. “You’ve naught to worry about there, Mr. Barrett. Molly the Mum is what they call me, and with good reason. If I ever started passing tales gentlemen’ll think twice before they come for a visit. I’m like a physician, I am, and I don’t talk about those as comes to see me.”

“Oh,” I said, nonplussed.

“Anyways, there’s stranger things I’ve done with gentlemen and none nowhere as nice as this. God!” She pushed her head back into the pillow and stared at the shadowy ceiling, her eyes shining.

Well, it looked as though my secret was safe enough without special prompting, though I did feel obligated to offer a caution to her on the subject. “It would not be a good idea for you to try this yourself on anyone, y’know. Or to have them do it to you.”

Her voice had grown soft. “I think I figured that out for myself, sir. Besides, without you being the one with me, it wouldn’t be quite the same thing, now, would it?”

“You’re uncommonly kind, Miss Audy. You place me in your debt.”

“There you go again with that nice talk,” she said, grinning.

“May I take that to mean I might be privileged to enjoy your charming company in the future?” I asked, playing along.

She sat up a little to look right at me. “Lord have mercy, but if you promise to do
this
to me again” —she brushed her neck with her fingertips— “as God is my witness, Johnny-boy, I’ll be paying
you!
”

CHAPTER FOUR

DECEMBER 1776

“Then our mother said, ‘Anne, we were so worried about you, thank heaven you’ve come at
last!
’
and she threw her arms around her as though she meant it.” Elizabeth made a demonstration of the scene, suiting word to action, action to word, but with a cynical edge in her tone. Our cousin from Philadelphia, Anne Fonteyn, had arrived while I was held fast by my
little sleep of death, and Elizabeth was catching me up on the event. It had become routine for us to meet in the library each night after my waking so that Elizabeth could tell me of the day’s happenings.

“You think Mother didn’t?” Most of Mother’s conversation of late had been concerned with Cousin Anne’s pending arrival. Now that she was here it seemed something of an anti-climax.

“Knowing what she’s
really
like?” Elizabeth snorted. “Maybe that’s why she hates us so much, because we know the truth about her.”

“I don’t think Mother hates us so much as she has no regard for anyone but herself.”

“No, little brother. She hates. It’s covered up most of the time—that woman seems to have a bottomless supply of pretense—but it is there nonetheless. The fits that overcome her can’t excuse it. There’s a malignancy in her very soul.”

“But not in yours,” I said quietly, meaning to reassure.

Elizabeth gave me a sharp look.

“There is
none
of her temper in you.”

Like a slow fever that refuses to rise high enough to burn itself out, Mother’s dark presence intruded upon every subject, every activity for Elizabeth.

“The only flaw I perceive is that you dwell on her too much.”

She looked down, her face going red. “Am I trying your patience with my complaints?”

“No, but Mother is obviously trying yours, and your distress distresses me.”

What had begun as a light description of this morning’s arrival of Cousin Anne had turned upon itself and soured. My sister, I was grieved to see, was not a happy woman, nor was her mood in danger of departing.

“Is there no way that you can ignore her?” I asked.

“The way you and Father can? Hardly. It’s different for me. Father has his work, and you’re gone all the day. I can’t leave the house because of those damned soldiers or the weather or some other thing comes up and prevents me from getting away from her. Even my room is no longer a sanctuary—you know how she always pushes in without knocking. You’d think she was trying to catch me out in some devilish misdeed when she does that. How disappointing it must be for her to find me reading, and when she does, she then criticizes me for wasting my time!
That’s
how
the Fonteyn madness will come upon me, Jonathan, Mother will drive me to it.”

Elizabeth pounded a fist against the side of her chair several times, then boosted to her feet to pace up and down the length of the library. She wore one of her prettiest dresses, a light blue silk with touches of dark blue in the pattern. The colors were flattering to her, bringing out her eyes especially, but she might as well have been in rags for all the effect it had on her spirits.

“Perhaps you could go stay with Miss Holland for a while,” I suggested.

“I’ve been thinking of it. If no one else, Hester would welcome my company.”

“What do you mean? You’ve lots of friends who would be delighted for you to visit.”

“I know, but the way that woman hammers at me day after day, how I look or walk or questioning the very expression on my face, it makes me feel as though no one would want to be seen with me. I’m not like that and I know it!”

“As do I, as does anyone with sense, which utterly excludes Mother.”

Elizabeth paused by the library doors. They were closed that we might enjoy a private talk before Anne’s welcoming party began, though it was something of a risk with Mother’s uncertain temper. She had still not rid herself of that atrocious delusion about her children, and there was always a chance she might burst in and work herself into another fit if she found us alone together. Elizabeth was listening, perhaps, for her step.

“There’s no one out there,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“One of the maids went by a minute ago, that’s all. Sheba, I think.”

Elizabeth’s next look was brighter, more like herself. Interest in my improved senses never seemed lose its delight for her. “You can tell the difference?”

“It’s not difficult after a little practice.”

The delight faltered as her grievances asserted themselves once more. “What am I to do? Oh, heavens, I
know
what to do, I just hate that
I
have to do it. She should be the one to leave this house, not I.”

“You’ll write Miss Holland, then?”

“After the tea party. I’d start now, but I don’t want to risk spotting my fingers with ink.
She
expects me to perform like a trained lapdog, and woe to me if I don’t look just right for the show.”

“Regardless of Mother’s expectations, you do look perfect. Besides, the honor of serving the tea always goes to the daughter of the house.

“As I said, a trained lapdog could—oh, never mind me, I’ll get through it somehow. It’s not as though I lacked for practice.” She swept up and down the room, her wide skirts threatening to topple a small table as she wasn’t paying mind to where she was going.

“What’s Cousin Anne like?” I asked, hoping to distract her.

“You can tell she’s a Fonteyn with those blue eyes and black hair. She seems nice, but I’ve had no chance to talk with her or her companions. They’ve been resting from their journey most of the day.”

“We’ll get to know them better soon enough.”

Perhaps too well
, I
silently added, having caught some of Elizabeth’s pessimism. I was not looking forward to meeting more relatives from Mother’s side of the family. Though our cousin Oliver was a most decent fellow—certainly my best friend during my time in England—his mother was a Gorgon, not in looks but in temperament. I worried that Cousin Anne might also carry a similar cruel streak. Hopefully not, since she’d be staying with us awhile.

Sheba presently came and announced that we were wanted in the parlor. Elizabeth gave me a grim smile, set her chin high and glided ahead like a ship sailing into battle. I followed in her wake, smoothing my own features as I prepared to meet our newly acquired house guests.

* * *

Despite Elizabeth’s misgivings, she appeared to find enjoyment in her duties as hostess. It was a goodly sized tea party; several of our neighbors had turned up, and even Lieutenant Nash had gotten an invitation. I suspected Father had extended it, hoping to improve relations with the commissaries.

Having taken her place at the tea table, Elizabeth saw to the measuring of tea from its chest and made sure the right amount of hot water was poured into the pot. Soon everyone filed past her accepting the first of many cupfuls for the evening. Myself included, for I wanted to appear to participate.

Father watched with amusement as I pretended to sip at my portion, knowing how difficult it was for me to even bring the cup to my lips. Once a favorite drink, it smelled awful to me now. As soon as he’d emptied his own cup, he took pity and exchanged it for mine at the first opportunity. We’d done this a number of times at other events and had acquired the practiced ease of stage performers. No one noticed. Into the slop bowl went the dregs from his cup, which I then turned upside down on its saucer, placing the spoon across the bottom. Thus was I able to excuse myself from additional offers without causing offense. Elizabeth was bound by courtesy to keep my cup filled, and with Mother watching, she did not dare to “overlook” me.

But tonight even Mother could not find fault, for most of her attention was upon her guests and Cousin Anne.

She was certainly worthy of notice.

She did indeed bear the striking Fonteyn features of blue eyes and black hair—though I had to take Elizabeth’s word that it was black. It was powdered now and swept up high from her milk white forehead and elaborately curled in the back. Her movements were polished and full of grace, no doubt part and parcel of the genteel manners practiced in Philadelphia. She wore a splendid dress of some striped stuff that rustled with her every movement and drew many enthusiastic compliments. She lapped them all up as readily as a cat takes to cream. Anne was young and beautiful and enjoyed being reminded of it.

“Yes, it was very fortunate that I was able to bring away most of my things,” she said to the crowd of people gathered around her. “There were many, many others who had naught but the clothes on their backs, but then they’d not prepared themselves for an exodus, you see.”

“And you’ve been ready since early in the fall?” asked Father, who seemed to be as taken with her as the other gentlemen.

“Since the summer, Cousin Samuel. We had a horrid time of it for all our readiness. Thank God you and Cousin Marie are here and so kind, or I should not have known
what
to do.”

“You are welcome in my house,” said Mother, her face cracking a bit with one of her tight smiles. It did not touch her eyes, but then, none of them ever reached that far. “So, you did get my reply to your letter?”

“Indeed, I did not, but then everything is in
such
a confusion these days.”

Mother gave Cousin Anne her wholehearted agreement on that point, looking to others for their support. They, in turn, murmured full concurrence.

“But with or without an answer from you I
had
to leave or suffer with the rest of the King’s true subjects. I knew if I stayed I’d have no peace in that sad city, for the rebels are horrid in the extreme. Who knows
what
might have happened to me?”

“Well, you’ve arrived safely and can put that behind you,” said Mother.

“If I can. It was
a horrid
time. And so
confusing.
”

Anne garnered much sympathy from her listeners, who begged for more details about her flight. It took her some while to cover them all, but she eventually concluded that her whole experience was “horrid” and “confusing.”

“Had I been on my own, I don’t know what I should have done,” she went on. “Cousin Roger thought that I should stay, but I just couldn’t bear it anymore. Besides,” she dropped her eyes and raised her brows, “I’m not all that certain of where he stands on . . . certain things.
Political
things.”

“You mean his sympathies may lie with the rebels?”

“I just don’t know. He won’t say one way or another. He’s so confusing. Never gives a proper answer, always laughing it off or changing the subject. It’s horrid.”

“Let’s hope he makes up his mind before both sides take it into their heads to hang him,” said the tall man standing next to Anne.

His easy remark shocked Mother, but any reproof she might have served him went unspoken. The man was no less than Lord James Norwood, younger brother of the Duke of Norbury, and Mother would have sooner cut her tongue out than say a word against such a jewel of the peerage. Instead, she joined with the others who had found what he said to be amusing in the extreme. She put effort into it, and the show looked to be quite convincing—at least to those unfamiliar with her true nature.

Norwood added to his comment at Cousin Roger’s expense, causing more merriment. Mother laughed with the rest while I fairly stared, then bent low to whisper into Elizabeth’s ear.

“My God, can you believe it? Mother’s toad-eating.”

“What did you say?”

“Mother’s playing toady to Lord James.”

But Elizabeth paid scant mind to me and none at all to Mother. I might have put it down to her occupation as busy hostess but for the fact that no one was near us.

“Just look at her.”

“Yes, I see, um-hum.” Her head was pointed in the right direction, but her gaze was not on Mother. It was locked, instead, upon Lord James Norwood.

Well-a-day,
I thought, the dawn figuratively breaking for me. Knowing that further conversation would be futile, I backed away to watch my sister watching him. If I read the symptoms right, she was well and truly smitten, and no brotherly intervention would be able to penetrate to her just yet. Heavens, had I looked like that the first time I’d seen Nora? Probably, though no doubt I’d possessed considerably less composure and utterly lacked Elizabeth’s innate winsomeness.

It struck me then how suddenly vulnerable she had become, and so I turned my concerned study upon Norwood.

He seemed a well-mannered, gracious sort, but I’d met many at Cambridge who showed one face to the world and revealed quite another in private. I worried that he might be of that number and vowed to get to know him better, although any shortcomings I might discover would make no difference with Elizabeth. Once one is caught up in that peculiar emotional state, one is deaf and blind to all sense.

“Had Lord James and his dear sister not come to my aid when they did, I don’t know
what
might have happened to me,” Anne said.

The crowd around her turned toward that gentleman, who bowed deeply. “It was my pleasure, Miss Fonteyn, to be of service.”