Let the Night Begin (10 page)

The admiration was mutual. “Stop it. You'll make me blush.”

She laughed, and his heart thrilled at the sound. “You? Impossible!”

“But it is.” Reign placed his palm over his heart in a dramatic gesture of sincerity. “I'm so dreadfully unaccustomed to compliments and you've given me several tonight.”

She poked him lightly on that same hand. “I also gave you several set downs, so that should keep everything even.”

They shared a grin—just for a moment—before the ease and humor faded.

“We'll find him.” He wasn't sure why, but he needed her to know that he had every intention of finding James.

She nodded. “I know.”

Her certainty should have strengthened his resolve, but it didn't. In fact, it made the back of his neck feel cold. For a second he suspected that she already knew how these events were going to play out. But how could she, when he was without a doubt convinced that she wasn't involved in her nephew's disappearance?

“There's blood in the cellar,” he told her, jolting them into new territory before the air could thicken with tension once more. “Help yourself. I know you haven't fed tonight.”

Olivia looked down at the floor, then back to him. “Perhaps tomorrow night you could show me a good place to…hunt?”

Did he want to do that? Could he watch her drink from some mortal man when she had never bitten him? When she wouldn't allow him to bite her?

“Of course.” He could do it and he would, because she had asked, and that meant something. “I think I might retire.”

She glanced toward the window at the far end of the hall. It was black as pitch outside. “But it's early yet.”

Yes, yes it was. He didn't say anything. For once, words eluded him.

A long, warm hand closed around one of his. “Come to bed with me.”

She wanted him. God, he couldn't begin to describe how he felt. Excitement. Fear. Uncertainty. Bliss.

Reign allowed her to lead him into her bedroom—the bedroom he had specially decorated for her just before the wedding. Thirty years later, did it meet her approval? He shouldn't care, but he did.

She didn't turn on the lamp. They didn't need the light to see each other perfectly. The faint gloom shining through the window was more than ample.

Reign helped her undress and then she played
valet for him. Soft warm hands caressed every inch of him, high over his chest, and low to the eager length of his cock. Olivia kissed him, touched him, sank to her knees before him and took him into her mouth. He gasped at the exquisite heat of her mouth, the skill of her tongue. He came with his hands in her hair, rasping out her name.

Then he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He kissed every tanned inch of her, explored every curve and contour. She was so strong. So smooth and perfect. Her breasts were firm, her nipples like tiny pebbles against his palm and tongue. He licked them, sucked them until she squirmed beneath him, trying to maneuver his body so that it was between her thighs.

But he wasn't done with her yet. Tonight was about Olivia. She was afraid for the boy she thought of as a son, and she was uncertain of Reign, untrusting and rightfully so. Neither of them was right. Neither wrong, but the only way Reign knew to show her that she was not alone, no matter what else might lay between them, was to give her as much pleasure as he possibly could.

So he went down between her splayed legs, to the damp heat of her cunny and he used his fingers to open her for his mouth. He licked her slick, salt-sweet flesh, flicked the tip of his tongue against the tight crest that made her moan and arch against his
face. He made her come, in great noisy shudders, and then he leaned back on his heels, his face wet with her juices.

Olivia was gasping for breath, her expression soft and sated as she came upon onto her knees after him.

“Turn around,” he ordered softly. “On your hands and knees.”

He saw her shiver, smelled her heat and musk. She knew what he had planned and she wanted it as much as he did. She used to love it when he took her this way. It always gave her so much pleasure, and whatever gave Olivia pleasure pleased Reign as well.

He ran his hands over the soft indent of her spine, down to the full curve of her buttocks as he positioned his cock at the soaked entrance to her body. Olivia moaned as he slid inside, and Reign couldn't help but groan himself.

“Christ, you feel good.”

She chuckled, and pushed back with her hips, taking all of him inside with a gasp. “So do you.”

If those words were meant as encouragement, they worked. Reign thrust inside her with smooth, measured strokes. He reached beneath her and took a breast in one hand and her cunny in the other. He squeezed her puckered nipple as his fingers found her sweet spot once more. Her body clenched at his as she moaned, her knees spreading so she could take him even deeper inside.

Nothing in the world felt like Olivia. No other woman, no fantasy, no pleasure was as delicious and perfect and right as she was right now. Reign didn't even want to think about what that meant. Not now. Probably not ever.

He quickened his thrusts as familiar pressure—a growing tightness—unfurled between his legs. One hand left her breast to grip her waist and his other rubbed ruthlessly between her plump lips. Her back arched, her thighs locked and trembled against his, and then she was crying out in release as damp heat flooded his cock. Her internal muscles clenched at him like a humid vice, pulling his second orgasm from him with an intensity that made his balls ache.

They collapsed together on the bed, falling naturally into a spoon position on their sides. Reign pulled the quilt over them before tucking Olivia against his chest.

“That was one thing we always seemed to get right,” she remarked with a trace of laughter in her husky voice.

“Mmm,” he agreed, closing his eyes. It wasn't dawn for hours, and yet he could fall asleep like a baby right then. “There were other things too.”

Olivia sighed and wrapped her hand around his forearm. “Well, at least we still have something.”

Something inside him splintered at the bleakness of her tone. “Yes,” he murmured roughly.

It was worse than nothing.

 

When Olivia awoke late the next day, Reign was gone.

Her room was shrouded in darkness. He must have gotten up before dawn and drawn the curtains—fortunately for her. She should be pleased by his attention. There should be some satisfaction in knowing that he retained some feelings for her—whatever they were. The side of her that needed retribution for what he had done to her should be positively thrilled that she had some power over him.

But she wasn't pleased. She wasn't thrilled. In fact, she felt rather dirty. Once she exchanged Reign for James there would never be any hope for a reunion between them. And not because she thought Reign might be killed. No, he would escape any situation, but he would know what she had done and he would despise her for it.

Olivia didn't want him to hate her, but she didn't truly hope for reconciliation, did she? That was…disconcerting. Certainly not something she wanted to entertain.

Throwing back the quilt, she climbed off the bed and padded across the pretty carpet to the attached bathroom. Cool stickiness between her thighs reminded her of the pleasure she'd taken in Reign's arms. Her body hummed faintly with the memory.

Her mind would be much clearer if he would
just be an arse and stay that way. When he did things like hire a maid for her, or make her remember how much she loved dancing, it was damned difficult to also remember that he was her enemy.

She shouldn't be remembering all the things she loved about her enemy, she acknowledged as she turned the taps to fill the porcelain tub. And there had been a lot to love about him once upon a time. They had been so similar in manner and pursuits. He indulged her every whim, but there was real value in every gift—value beyond mere expense. He had taken her places, taught her new things. Oh, and his acerbic wit made her laugh. His strength made her swoon. And his gentleness…well, there might be scarcely one woman out of a hundred who didn't appreciate sensitivity from a man built like a gladiator.

A man who, even though he shouldn't trust her, asked if she was all right after a difficult night of searching for her nephew.

Her nephew. James. She was to go to the Wolf, Ram and Hart this evening for further instructions. Would the kidnappers tell her where to meet them? Or would they keep her dangling a little while longer?

As she poured a little amber-scented oil into her bath, Olivia had a thought that gave her a slight glimmer of hope. If James's abductors sought to make her wait, she could use that time to try hunting James down. If she and Reign found him, she
wouldn't have to lead Reign to the villains. He might still despise her for her original plan, but at least she would have a clear conscience.

As if her conscience mattered when James's safety was at stake.

She tried not to think about it anymore as she climbed into the tub. It only made her anxious and short-tempered.

Olivia bathed quickly, washing away the residue of lovemaking from between her thighs. She didn't even know if vampires could procreate. She hadn't had regular monthlies since he turned her, but every once in a while she did. Was there a chance she could become pregnant?

One more thing she was not going to think about at present. Not because it frightened her, but because she didn't want to hope for such a gift. A vampire child—one she could be a real mother to, and not some pale imitation.

A child who would forever be a reminder of how she had betrayed the man she once loved. God only knew what kind of monster it might be. What if she had a baby that never aged?

“Oh, this is foolish!” She yanked the stopper out of the drain and jumped to her feet, spilling water over the side of the tub. “Would that my mind could just stop!”

“Talking to yourself?” came Reign's amused voice from the doorway. “They say that's the first sign of madness, you know.”

Olivia started. She hadn't heard him come in. She had been so deep in her idiotic thoughts that he had snuck up on her. That had been happening a lot lately. One look at him told her that he wasn't as amused as he sounded. He had heard her outburst—the suspicion in his smoky gaze was proof of that.

“Then I have been mad these past sixty years,” she replied, forcing herself to calmly reach for her towel. “I've talked to myself since I was old enough to talk.”

“Brilliant conversation, I assume?”

Her lips tilted self-deprecatingly. “Usually exactly what I want to hear.” She could admit that to him, but never to anyone else.

He nodded, his gaze never leaving her face despite her scantily clad form. “Once you're dressed we'll leave for the inn.”

There was something strange about him, something removed in his manner and person. He was not his usual self, overwhelming her with his passion and presence. Something had happened. What?

He looked…almost sorrowful. Was that sorrow for her? Or for himself? And damn him, she wanted to take it away from him, even when part of her insisted she should enjoy the sight of it.

“Are you all right?” she asked, stepping out of the tub. “You seem odd.” In the outer portion of the room, she heard a knock and then her door
opened.
Janet
. Reign must have sent the maid up to help her get ready.

“I'm fine.” Of course, that was a blatant lie. He didn't even bother trying to disguise it. “I'll wait for you downstairs.”

“All right.” She watched him go with a haughty lift of her chin. She wasn't going to whine, or insist that he confide in her. His counsel was his own, and distancing himself from her would only make things easier for her. It was good that he was treating her like someone he barely knew.

Unfortunately he knew her better than anyone ever had. And better than anyone else ever would.

T
he Wolf, Ram and Hart Inn was located in the part of Edinburgh known as Old Town. On the ride there, from Reign's town house in the surprisingly named New Town, Reign told Olivia of how amazing the tall buildings of Old Town had once seemed, so fantastic to him and his cronies. Now buildings of thirteen stories didn't seem that amazing at all, but Reign smiled as he recounted how he had marveled at the sheer engineering feat of it.

Olivia had seen many changes during the course of her life as well. Thirty years ago who ever would have dreamed that people could whiz about in motorized carriages and speak to each other over great distance via a telephone? She could only imagine the amount the world had changed during Reign's life.

“It must seem so incredible to you at times.”

He glanced at the windows of the shops closing for the day and the pubs readying themselves for the evening's business. “Sometimes, it's just sad.”

“You think progress is sad? People today survive things that would have killed them in your time.”

“Maybe some of them shouldn't,” he replied drily. “Not all progress is bad, no. Though I think the ruins of a Roman temple destroyed to make way for some monarch's new monstrosity should be criminal.”

Olivia watched him for a moment, unsure of what to think. She had never seen this side of him before. What else did she not know about him? Enough to fill at least a century or two.

“Anything destroyed for the sake of something else is generally unpleasant,” she agreed.

Reign's eyes narrowed in the coach light. “Another thinly veiled barb aimed at me?”

“No.” How did he always know exactly how to put her on the defensive? “Why must you assume everything I say is an insult to you?”

His lips formed a thin, grim smile. “Because it usually is.”

She scowled as she settled back against the padded cushions, putting more distance between them. That wasn't true, was it? “Not this time. Besides, it would take worse than you to destroy me.”

His smile grew, curving his well-shaped mouth up on one side as he glanced out the window. “My apologies, then.”

“You don't believe me?”

“Don't get all huffy, Liv. We both know you
don't trust me, so it would be stupid of me to trust you.”

“I'm not huffy.” Her tone alone betrayed her as a liar.

Reign sighed and ran a hand over his jaw. “Darling, you're using me—no, don't deny it. The fact that I'm allowing you should tell you something, doesn't it?”

Was she that transparent? Dear God, he knew her better than she thought. “What should it tell me? That you feel guilty for something?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake!” He fell back against the seat with a loud thump. “Let's stop rubbing salt in each other's wounds, shall we? Just for tonight?”

Guilt. She was right. It was guilt that drove him. That should please her, but like all expectations she'd harbored of him recently, it did not. She would much rather he didn't talk about caring for her—it only made her feel all the more terrible and twisted for planning to betray him.

It had seemed so simple, this diabolical plan of hers, and in less than a week she doubted it, doubted herself. She questioned everything, including the last three decades of her life. She didn't want to question anything. She just wanted her life to be simple again. And it would be, once she knew James was safe.

The carriage stopped, and the tension Olivia felt toward Reign was replaced with another kind.
Would the kidnappers actually be here tonight? She assumed they would be too smart to approach her. Even in a public place she could find subtle ways to hurt them. No, they wouldn't come to her themselves, but they would be there watching. They would have a messenger come to her and they would watch her reaction from a safe distance.

“Ready?” Reign asked, opening the door.

Olivia nodded. “Of course.”

They stepped out onto the street in front of a large, old building made of weathered stone. Mellow light brightened the windows, accentuating smudges on the glass. It might have been a lovely prospect at one time, possibly even cheery, but now it seemed decrepit and lecherous—like an old rogue who didn't realize his days of seducing virgins were long over.

Good thing she had worn a simple gown of fine, dark blue calico. It was light and allowed her to move freely, and she wouldn't be terribly upset if it was ripped or ruined by bloodstains.

Music drifted outside—rambunctious and lively. A couple of fiddles playing a reel, the kind of thing that made Olivia's toes tap despite her edginess.

“Do you know who you are supposed to talk to?” Reign asked as he placed a hand at the small of her back and nudged her toward the entrance.

“They never said. I will ask the innkeeper if there is a letter for me.”

He merely nodded, and with the hand that wasn't warm and comforting against her back, pushed open the heavy oak door.

The noise and smells rushed at her like a wave crashing to shore. Over the years she had trained herself to ignore many of the things that assaulted her sensitive ears and nose; she'd trained those senses to rise when needed and lay partially dormant when not. But at times like this, when there was just so much going on in an enclosed space, her senses were too overwhelming to ignore, just as it was at the hotel in London.

She lurched to a stop just over the threshold, too bombarded to go any farther. The sudden movement forced Reign to bump into her, his chest hard against her shoulders. His hand slid around to her waist, steadying her. Curious gazes passed over them, some with brief disinterest and others with more lingering disdain. Aggression brought out the beast inside her, made her want to retaliate with aggression of her own. Her gums twitched in anticipation.

“It's all right,” Reign murmured for her ears alone, his strong fingers lightly stroking her corseting waist.

Damn him for knowing exactly what had happened. And damn him for knowing just how to calm her. But most of all, damn him for making her want to turn around and cling to him for support and strength.

His breath fanned her ear. “Do you want me to ask the innkeeper?”

Was he reading her mind? She stiffened at the thought. “No. Thank you.”

Lifting her chin, Olivia made her determined way through the drunken, rowdy crowd that filled the tavern area to the bar—the surface of which was almost as rough and scarred as the man standing behind it.

Small, suspicious blue eyes raked over both of them with narrow intensity. “Wot?” was all he said.

She could reach over that bar, grab him by the throat, and shake him like a rag doll. That would teach him a thing or two about manners. Instead, she fixed him with a contemptuous gaze of her own.

“I was told there would be a message left here for me. Under the name of Gavin.” She could feel the overpowering presence of her husband behind her. Was he pleased that she continued to use her married name? Or did he find it a painful reminder of what might have been, just as she did?

The innkeeper's expression never changed. “I'll check.”

He turned his back on them to sift through a selection of tiny boxed shelves on the wall, but his reflection in the mirror betrayed that he didn't take his attention off them for long.

Olivia smiled sweetly at him. He'd piss himself if she flashed her fangs.

When he turned to face them again, he had a thick envelope in his hands. He shoved it at her. “Here.”

Olivia took it and, out of habit, checked to make sure it was indeed her name scrawled elegantly on the front. “Thank you.”

The man said nothing, but he caught the coin that flew over her head with quick fingers. She hadn't thought of paying for such treatment. Obviously, Reign thought the services deserving of a gratuity. She was tempted to snatch the coin back.

“Do you know who left it?” The deep rumble of her husband's voice startled her.

The barkeep pocketed the coin. The money seemed to have loosened his tongue and softened his disposition. “No, sir. Fancy gent who thought himself too good for the likes of us.” The glance he shot Olivia said he considered her of the same ilk. “He dropped off the letter, gave me a few shillin's, and then left.”

“Do you remember his hair color?”

“He was wearin' a hat.”

“Anything stand out?” Reign sounded so calm. Maybe a hard slap to the side of the head would help the barkeep's memory. Olivia wouldn't mind doing the slapping.

“He had a scar on his forehead, like someone had bashed it open once.”

That was something—something that they could use. And they had only discovered it because
Reign had thought to ask. She would have taken the letter and not asked about the messenger at all. God, what was wrong with her? She wanted to find these men and make them pay—didn't she? Or was some part of her content just to hand Reign over and walk away?

Reign tossed the man another coin, ignoring Olivia's disapproving glance. “Much obliged.”

As they turned away, Olivia started to tear the envelope open, but Reign stopped her. “Not here. In the carriage.”

“Why?”

He kept his gaze fixed on the exit. “They may be watching for your reaction.”

Somehow, she resisted the temptation to look around and see for herself if anyone was watching. “So?” She simply wouldn't give them one.

“That,” he nodded at the item in her hands, “might be intended to get a reaction.”

The way he said it, made her guts churn. “Good Lord, Reign. What do you think is in here?”

“I could think of a hundred possibilities that could be as equally right as wrong, and none of them are good. Open it in the carriage, where it's just you and me.”

She would rather the entirety of this inn witness her distress than he alone, but he was right, of course. Wasn't he almost always?

They left the inn and climbed into the carriage that had stood waiting for their return. Once
inside, Olivia gave in to her screaming nerves and ripped the envelope open.

“It's an invitation,” she muttered, pulling the heavy cardstock from inside. Quickly, she raked her gaze over it. “A dinner party hosted by Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Dunlop. It's for two nights hence. It's for both of us. You're mentioned by name.”

Reign didn't look the least bit surprised, although there was no way he could have foreseen this anymore than she could. “They have done their research.”

A wave of panic swept over her. What if he figured it out? What if the kidnappers underestimated him and Reign figured it out? He'd leave her in Scotland, just as he threatened. God, she'd be lucky if he didn't kill her. She certainly wouldn't blame him if he did, and James would be…

She drew a deep breath. “Shall I accept?”

He arched a brow. “I don't think we have much choice.”

“No, I suppose not.” Her gaze drifted toward the window. She didn't have a choice. That's what she had to keep telling herself. Anger took hold in the pit of her stomach. She hadn't had a choice when Reign made her a vampire—and she didn't have one now. The next person who tried to take control of her life was going to get their heart ripped out, no question about it. She was so tired of being someone else's puppet.

Silence stretched between them, not strained but
pervasive all the same. It went on for a long time as Olivia counted the clip-clop of the horses hooves to keep herself from thinking.

Suddenly, Reign knocked on the carriage roof. They eased over and rolled to a stop.

Olivia turned to him. “What are we stopping for?” They weren't home, they hadn't gone far enough.

“We're getting out,” Reign informed her, rising to his feet.

“Why?” Even as she asked, she was following him out into the night once more, the invitation left behind.

He took her hand. “We're going hunting.”

She protested but he didn't listen. He instructed the driver to go on home and then tugged her along behind him as he entered another pub, this one much better kept than the Wolf, Ram and Hart.

“It's called The Bucket of Blood.” She'd read the sign with some astonishment. “Who would give a tavern such a name?”

“I would,” he replied with a quick grin. “I own it.”

Oh hell. Why was she surprised? No wonder he'd seemed amused when she asked if he owned the Wolf, Ram and Hart. “Of course you do.”

Instead of being hit with a wall of sensory offenses upon walking in, as she had been at the Wolf, Ram and Hart, Olivia found the Bucket of Blood to be much more pleasing to her nose and ears. The
music was more subdued, though still lively, and the patrons imbibed a higher quality of spirits. A faint whiff of cigar smoke drifted high on the air, mixing with various colognes and perfumes—all expensive. The bodies were washed and well groomed, and there for amusement rather than trouble.

“Some of these people are vampires,” she whispered to him after surveying the room.

“A few, yes. No doubt just passing through. This is a safe house for our kind. They can come here and find shelter and sustenance, but humans are welcome as well.”

“Like your whorehouse in London.” Both his brows shot up and Olivia allowed herself a small smile. “What? Did you think I wouldn't find out?” At the time it had been one more thing to despise him for, but later it seemed the perfect front for a vampire hideout.

“I didn't think about it at all. Yes, this place is similar, only the only thing for sale here is whiskey and the like.”

“Do they have blood here?”

“Usually, yes.”

“Then why are we hunting? Why not simply get a bottle?”

Shrewd gray eyes locked with hers. “Would blood from a bottle satisfy you right now?”

Subtle heat rose in her cheeks. “No.” She wanted that thrill of choosing prey—the satisfaction of her fangs piercing flesh.