Let the Night Begin (16 page)

“Reign…”

He ignored her. “I made a mistake. Don't you think I've paid for it? My actions cost me the woman I loved and whatever future happiness I thought of having. I've lived with that every day since you left, knowing that I had ruined not only
my life, but yours as well. I am sorry. What more do you want?”

“You loved me?”

He scowled at her. “Of course I loved you. I would never have tried turning you if I didn't. It was because I loved you that I made such a mess out of it.”

“You tore into me because you loved me?” She made a small scoffing noise.

Her dismissal struck him hard. He lunged forward and grabbed her by the jaw, holding her face so she was forced to look at him as he spoke, and see the truth in his eyes. “I lost control because I was afraid of losing you. You were so human and fragile. You remember how you tripped over your wedding gown and almost fell down the stairs?”

She nodded slightly, her chin pressing into his palm, but she said nothing.

“That terrified me.” He had never admitted this before, not to her, not to anyone. “I realized at that moment how easily you could be taken from me and I knew I couldn't let that happen. I would
not
let that happen. All I could think about was making you like me so illness and physical harm couldn't touch you. Death, I determined, would not easily part us.

“I was afraid, Liv. That's why I did what I did. I thought you wanted it. I thought you understood.” And then he let his pride go and admitted what he swore he never would, “I thought you loved me as much as I loved you.”

The light in her eyes mellowed. Was that understanding or pity he saw there? Disgusted with himself, Reign let her go and turned away. He'd rather stare out the window at nothing than face his wife. Still, once the flood gates had opened, he found himself loath to close them again. It felt good to tell her this, to bare his soul. Maybe it would make it easier when she was gone once more.

“To you, being a vampire is a curse.” A harsh laugh tore at his chest. “I suppose it's been that to me as well on occasion, but when I met you it became a gift. A chance to spend forever with the woman I loved. Yes, I ruined your life. But, woman, losing you destroyed mine.”

A soft gasp filled the carriage and Reign briefly closed his eyes as his heart leapt at the sound. Soft fingers touched his arm, but the carriage rolling to a stop in front of his house saved him from having to face her. He had fought to the death many times during the course of his life and none of those battles had ever scared him as much as the woman beside him.

“We're home,” he said, and opened the carriage door. He stepped out into the cool night and strode toward the house without a backward glance, like the coward that he was.

 

Olivia knew what she had to do, and by the time she reached Reign's room later that night, she knew how she was going to do it.

She was still dazed from his earlier confession, and still so deliriously happy and terrified that she couldn't find words to articulate her feelings. But she knew how she could express herself to him, now that she understood that all that bitterness she'd carried for so long stemmed from mistaken belief. She hadn't thought he loved her. In fact, she'd thought that her feelings didn't matter much to him at all. She had no idea he had felt so strongly for her.

Her mind tried to grasp it all. Her heart recognized it as true, but she'd held on to the bitterness for so long it was hard to accept anything else. But she let her instincts drive her. She'd made a choice and now she had to follow through with it.

She knocked on his door and turned the knob before he could respond.

Reign turned toward her as she crossed the threshold. Clad only in his trousers and shirtsleeves, he was tousled and golden in the glow of a single lamp. He was barefoot, and the crisp white of his sleeves was rolled back to reveal strong forearms. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Have any more of that?” she asked, nodding at the glass.

Reign stared at her, his gaze bright as it lazily drifted from her head to her feet and back again. She was wearing nothing more than a seductively flimsy nightgown and a wrapper that was little more than gauze. Judging from the heat in his expression, she assumed he liked what he saw.

He gestured toward a bottle and extra glass on the top of the desk near the wall. “Help yourself.”

Olivia moved across the room with deliberate slowness, giving him plenty of time to watch her, and giving herself the opportunity to visually explore his bedroom.

The room was large, but not opulently so, with plush gold and ivory carpet, and cream walls. The furniture was dark and simple, very masculine. The only art on the wall was a melancholy painting of a knight and his lady on a bed of grass so dark it was almost black. He loomed over her, his intent clear in the sharp lines of his face. Her surrender was just as obvious. They were fully clothed, but the image of his big hand on her bodice, just below her breast, gave Olivia a little shiver.

Below that sensual scene, lurked a heavy, four-poster bed. It was fairly plain, the wood darkened with age, but it was sturdy and dressed in sumptuous fabrics in shades of cobalt and gold.

“Does the room meet your standards?” he asked wryly as she poured herself a splash of whiskey.

She glanced at him over her shoulder as she replaced the stopper in the bottle. “It suits you.”

He seemed amused, but genuinely interested. “How so?”

She turned to face him, leaning her hip against the desk, dragging her gaze around the room before letting it meet his. “It's strong, sensual, and utterly masculine.”

Reign cocked a brow, a small smile curving his lovely lips. “Are you trying to butter me up?”

“Mmm, butter.” She smiled against the rim of her glass. “That's one we've never tried.”

The smile melted from his face. “What do you want, Liv?”

Olivia downed the contents of her glass in one swallow, delighting at the way it burned all the way down to her stomach. She set the empty glass on the desk and moved toward him with slow, purposeful strides. “You.”

He tensed as she approached, but he didn't move. Silently, he watched her, as though he couldn't quite trust his own eyes.

When she reached him, Olivia reached out and took his shirt in both hands, pulling the tails free from his trousers. Then, she seized the hem in her fists and tore the fine linen right up the center, baring his torso to her gaze.

“Christ!” he swore, looking down at his ruined shirt. His laughter told her he wasn't angry.

Placing her palms on his chest, she pushed him backward so that she had him pinned against the wall. His skin was warm beneath her hands, the hair there coarse and springy against her fingers. He was so muscular, so wonderfully solid.

Stepping forward, she pressed herself against him, burying her face in the hollow of his neck. She breathed his scent deep into her lungs, let it fill her until her head swam.

Olivia had never felt more powerful and alive in her life and she had barely touched him.

Grabbing the torn edges of his shirt, she yanked the soft fabric down over his shoulders so she could run her hands over the knobby bones of his shoulders, the sleek muscles between those and his neck, and down to the firm, gentle curve of his pectorals.

“Liv.” She could feel the rumble of his voice under her palms. “What are you doing?”

Olivia lifted her head, trailing her lips up the side of his throat. She nipped at his jaw, delighting in the rasp of stubble against her lips. “I thought it was obvious. I'm trying to seduce my husband.”

The word “husband” made him shiver—just a little, enough that she'd notice. God, knowing that she had such an effect on this man, this incredible, amazing specimen of a man…it was as exciting as it was humbling.

And it pushed her onward. “I want you, Reign.” She ran her hands upward again, so that she could tangle her fingers in the thick silk of his hair. “I want you inside me. I want your hands on me, and I want your blood on my tongue. And I want mine on yours.”

He stiffened and for one terrifying second she feared he might push her aside. But then his hands closed around her waist and he lifted her, swinging her around so that now she was the one against the wall. Her legs went around his waist, bunch
ing her gown and wrapper around her hips. Her hands clutched at the sleek muscles of his back as he pressed deeper between her thighs, the wool of his trousers scratching her delicate flesh, tickling her most intimate recesses.

His eyes were like silver, bright and dangerous in the tan of his face. Olivia cupped his jaw with her hands and pressed her lips to the fine lines fanning out toward his temple, high on his cheekbone. She loved those beautiful lines that creased when he laughed and smiled.

Reign's hands were between them, yanking at the sash on her robe, pushing the flimsy fabric aside. Hot fingers slid up her ribs to cup her breasts, teasing her nipples into tight, aching peaks that he squeezed until she gasped at the intensity of it.

He yanked the neckline of her nightgown down, so that her chest was exposed to the cool night air and applied his mouth where his fingers had just been. Olivia squirmed at the moist, heated strokes of his tongue, the sweet pressure of his lips. Arching her hips, she pressed against him, increasing the damp ache between her thighs. It felt so good to have him touch her like this, to give herself to him.

He shifted and she felt his hands on the underside of her buttocks, fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. Tightening her thighs around him, she lifted herself upward so that he could better maneuver. When the hard length of him brushed
her skin, she shuddered, pressing her shoulder blades into the wall so that she was angled to receive him.

Reign lifted his head from her breasts as he guided the head of his erection to the entrance of her body. Olivia held his gaze as her body thrummed with want, opened her mouth in silent invitation so he could see her fangs, distended and wet and ready to sink into his flesh.

He was inside her with one slick upward thrust that lifted her up the wall and had her trembling with satisfaction. She was stretched and full and so eager for him she shook with it, could barely contain it.

And when she looked at him, all heavy lidded with points of sharp white visible between his parted lips, she knew she would never feel as alive and vibrant as she did with this man.

“I want to taste you,” she whispered hoarsely. Did he realize what her words meant? Did he know she forgave him?

He thrust deep, drawing a gasp from each of them. “Do it.” His palms hit the wall on either side of her and he leaned forward, head slightly bowed and to the side so that his throat and shoulder were open to her.

Yes, he knew.

Olivia didn't hesitate. She lowered her head to that heated hollow and ran her tongue along the sensitive vein there. Reign shivered and she smiled
against his skin. Then, she placed her fangs against the salty sweetness of his throat and bit.

He stiffened, groaning in pleasure as she pierced his flesh. Olivia moaned in response as he filled her mouth, shuddering as the intoxicating taste of him flooded over her tongue.

Nothing could have prepared her for this. More intimate than sex, this was the epitome of trust. He gave himself freely to her, without pause, and when she felt his mouth on her own throat, his tongue stroking her in tandem with his cock filling her, Olivia wasn't afraid. She dropped her shoulder to give him better access. He wasn't going to hurt her. Not this time.

The sensation of his fangs entering her was unlike anything she had ever felt before—an exquisite blend of pleasure and pain that made her gasp and shudder and arch into his embrace. The pull of his lips brought tears of pleasure to her eyes, deepened the pulsations between the lips of her sex. Olivia ground down and Reign quickened his thrusts, bringing her closer and closer to climax.

Olivia didn't lift her head, didn't stop drinking until the pleasure became too much and she had to let it out. She threw her head back, mouth wet, and cried out as orgasm tore through her.

Reign's hips pumped once, twice, and then he growled against her neck as he emptied inside her. Limp, held up only by his strength, Olivia felt him run his tongue along her neck to close the wound,
and lowered her head to do the same to the small holes in his neck. He shivered at the touch of her tongue.

She ran her fingers through his hair as she straightened, kissed his forehead and temple. “You know, if you had done it like that thirty years ago I never would have left.”

He stilled and for a moment she feared she had ruined the moment, but when he raised his head there was a smile on his lips that softened his features and damn near broke her heart.

“You're not going to try to kill me again, are you?” he asked in a low, velvety tone. “I don't want to die with my trousers around my ankles.”

It was such an absurd image, that Olivia couldn't help but chuckle, and soon they were laughing together. She was still laughing when Reign kicked the offending trousers to the side and carried her to the bed.

It didn't take long for her laughter to subside when he began to kiss her again. And for the rest of the night, Olivia didn't think about what could happen or what the future might hold. She thought only about how sweet it was to be in Reign's arms and be his wife. She was determined to enjoy it for as long as she could.

Because she knew there was no way it could last.

G
eorge Haversham's head snapped back as pain exploded through his face. His lip was split and he tasted blood. It was coppery and warm on his tongue, and through the relief of ebbing hurt, he hoped that blood would taste better once he became a vampire.

“You almost ruined everything, George,” Reggie's father said to him, wiping George's blood from the back of his hand with a snowy white handkerchief. “Now the vampires know that we are aware of their true nature.”

“I'm sorry, sir.” George accepted a similar square of linen from Reggie—who looked deuced uncomfortable—and dabbed at his cut lip. “But I'm afraid I don't understand. How are they ever going to turn us into vampires if they believe we are unaware of what they are?”

The older Dashbrooke gave him a withering glare. “Because, you simpleton, if they think their secret may be compromised, they will kill to protect it!”

George shook his head. Until now he had believed everything Reggie's father told him, but not this time. “I don't think so, sir.”

“You don't think so?” Dashbrooke's face was purple as he advanced on George once more. This time George was braced for the blow. He was more than willing to take the abuse if it brought him closer to his goal. He, James, Fitz and even Reggie had shared this dream ever since James first revealed that his aunt Olivia was a vampire. When Reggie came to them and told them that his father had a plan to make their hopes a reality, the four of them leapt at it. All they had to do was exactly what Mr. Dashbrooke said.

George had broken one of those rules with his enthusiasm over Reign and Olivia the night before. The fact that Reign had bared fang at him seemed to anger Mr. Dashbrooke, but it gave George hope. Surely Reign wouldn't do something so revealing if he didn't think George worthy of seeing his true nature.

The older man stopped but a foot away from him, his hand poised in midair, but he didn't strike. “It's not a good idea for you to be in Edinburgh anymore, George. I think you should retire to the country with James and wait for us there. You and Reggie both should go and be with your friend.”

George knew he should feel ashamed. He should at least feel badly for acting as he had and risk
ing their plans, but he didn't. If anyone should feel foolish it was Mr. Dashbrooke, who had told George to lie about being part of the Friends of the Glorious Unseen. Now Reign and Olivia knew the truth, and they would be looking for George for answers. That's why Dashbrooke wanted him in the country.

George had sat in the same room as
two
vampires. Olivia wasn't that old—enough to be George's grandmother, but Reign…Reign was ancient. God, the power he must have! The things he must have seen and experienced. And he seemed so…regular. The two of them were living proof that vampires were not the monsters fiction and folklore made them out to be.

And soon, George would be just like them. As long as the plan went as it should. Once Reign and Olivia came to the country and blessed them all by sharing their dark gift as thanks for their “rescue” of James, everything would be as he had dreamed. He would be powerful, immortal. And maybe then these blasted headaches and nosebleeds would finally stop.

“Of course, sir.” He rose to his feet, grimacing as his nose began to bleed, as though on cue. He pressed the handkerchief to his nostrils to staunch the flow. “I will gather my things and leave for the country immediately.”

As he strode from the room, he heard Reggie's low voice, “If you want me to do what you say,
Father, you had better start being kinder to my friends.”

Atta boy, Reggie
.

Forty minutes later the two of them were in a carriage headed east. Less than an hour after that they were at the country house with James, playing croquet on the back lawn and carrying on like boys. George's nose had stopped bleeding and Reggie was the chipper chum he always was when his father wasn't around.

And, as they always did when they were together, they talked about what they were going to do once they became vampires and never had to worry about anything ever again.

 

It hadn't been a dream.

When Reign awoke that evening, to the velvet darkness that enveloped his room, Olivia's naked body was curled into his, warm and silky and smelling of amber and sex.

He smiled, trailing his fingers down the soft curve of her spine, feeling her shiver under his touch. They had spent the remainder of the night and into the dawn talking and making love.

Talk consisted of sharing stories—some humorous and some sad—about their lives, which they had never shared before. They avoided subjects that might renew any sense of discomfort between them or ruin the bliss the night had wrought.

Their lovemaking included becoming reacquainted with each other's bodies in the slow and leisurely manner they hadn't bothered to attempt until now. Sharing blood had made them both as content as lazy house cats, and Reign took full advantage of the opportunity to explore every inch of his wife's delectable body, reveling in every sigh and moan.

A voice in his head warned him not to become too comfortable or too content with this development, but he was tired of being suspicious and doubtful. For now, he'd allow himself this little happiness, because he knew just how short-lived it might be.

Carefully, he eased himself away from his wife's slumbering form. She stirred and sighed before drifting back into a gentle snore.

God, how he had missed her.

She had given him the gift of her blood. She had taken his, and he was humbled by it—humbled by her sweetly offered forgiveness. It made the truth of what he had done to her all the more raw, but they could heal that in time. Now that he had her back, there was no way he was ever going to let her go again.

He tucked the blankets around her before shrugging into the brocade robe he kept draped across the foot of the bed. He was on his way to the adjoining bath to fill the tub for the two of them when a soft knock came upon the door.

He cast a quick glance at the woman on the bed before answering. She continued to sleep. Once more he smiled.

It was Watson on the other side of the threshold. “Beg your pardon, sir, but Mr. Clarke has just arrived.”

“Clarke?” Reign kept his voice low, but couldn't hide his surprise. Clarke would have only gotten his latest telegram that morning, so if his man of affairs was there, it had to be important. Very important. Had something happened in London—another murder? This was not the time for speculation. He knew better than to allow those thoughts. Seemed he'd been having a lot of them lately.

Hearing Olivia's reassuring snores, Reign stepped out into the corridor and closed the bedroom door behind him with a faint click. “Where is he?”

“Your study, sir.”

“Thank you. If Mrs. Gavin should wake and inquire after me, send her to my study as well.”

“Of course, sir.”

In his robe and bare feet, Reign hurried down the winding staircase. One of the house maids gaped at him as he walked by, undoubtedly shocked to see her employer in such a state of undress. Reign hadn't thought to dress first. He didn't care, and Clarke wouldn't either. Any other opinions hadn't occurred to him.

When he entered his office, he found Clarke standing at the window, waiting for him. His friend's face was strained—an expression Reign had come to recognize as a harbinger of doom.

He shut the door. “What? Is it Maison Rouge? Has there been another murder?” His blood ran cold as he gave in to the very thoughts he'd fought just minutes berfore. “Madeline?”

Clarke shook his graying head. “Madeline is as well as can be expected. Saint is there.”

“Saint? At Maison Rouge?” It seemed almost too perfect to be true—another fantastic coincidence? It hardly mattered if it were. Relief, swift and cool washed over him. “He'll take care of Maddie and the girls.” His old friend was many things, including a thief and sometimes a liar, but he would never turn his back on people who needed him, especially the ladies of Maison Rouge.

“Yes,” Clarke agreed brusquely. “That is not why I'm here.”

“You got my telegram?”

“This morning as I was on my way to the train station. I decided to come in person rather than forward my discovery. To be honest, I was afraid of it falling into the wrong hands.”

Reign raised his brows. “That's being overly suspicious isn't it? Even for you.” He forced some lightness into his tone, but everything in his friend's countenance set the hair on the back of his neck on end.

“Perhaps, but I wasn't willing to take the risk.” Clarke cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit that did nothing to ease Reign's mind. “William Dashbrooke belongs to the Order of the Silver Palm.”

Where had he heard of that before? “Weren't they part of the Templars once?”

“Yes. It was they who used the Blood Grail found by the Templars for their dark rituals.”

The Blood Grail.
The mere mention of it caused an odd tug in Reign's soul. The cup that held the essence of Lilith, mother of all vampires. The cup that had made him and his friends immortal with one drink.

The Templars had expelled the Order and hid the cup from them. It had remained hidden until Reign and the others had found it while ransacking the Templar base for treasure at the behest of King Philip.

“The grail is hidden,” Reign reminded his friend. “The Order will never find it.” He didn't mention where the cup was, because not even he knew that. The only one who knew was Temple, wherever in the name of God he was.

Clarke nodded. “I know. The Order has been looking for it in earnest for the past twenty years. Over the last ten their efforts have doubled.”

“What has this to do with Dashbrooke, or James Burnley, or me?” Obviously it had to involve one or all three if Clarke thought it important enough to travel all the way to Scotland.

“It's unclear why the Order wants the cup, although I think it's safe to assume they want the power it contains. What disturbs me is that they have gone from being a society comprised mainly of drunken, bored aristos to a legion of men of means and power. A society does not grow like that unless its members are being promised something—something great.”

Reign nodded. “But you don't know what that is?”

“I know that the Order has been popping up in cities all over Europe, particularly in England and France. And I know that as of late, there have been quite a few ‘scholars' inquiring into the history surrounding five mercenaries who stole the Unholy Grail during a Templar raid over six hundred years ago.”

A chill ran down Reign's spine. “How the hell could anyone research us? Everyone believed us to be dead.” That wasn't quite true. Dreux—poor Dreux who had killed himself rather than face eternity—had tried to return to his wife. Chapel's fiancée had killed herself rather than become a vampire. Even Reign himself had returned home, only to find his father regarding him with a strange, bright gaze. He had been afraid of his son, and Reign had enjoyed that. And now his father and Dashbrooke were linked by similar rings, worn centuries apart. What had his father's ring represented? It was so long ago, and his father never talked to him except to berate him.

There might have been enough stories, enough rumors to base a history on Reign and his companions. They had been careless in those early years, prancing about, flaunting their abilities. Of course people took notice.

“Reign.” Clarke gave his head a shake, as if to clear it. “Your father was a member of the Silver Palm. He wrote about you in his journal after you turned, and before he died. Apparently he left his journals to the Order.”

Reign closed his eyes. The ring. The signet of the Silver Palm.
Christ
. No wonder his father had looked at him that way.

Rubbing a hand over his jaw, he turned his gaze to Clarke. “You think these people took James to get to me?”

Clarke shrugged. “I'm not sure what their end goal is, but there are close to a dozen known members in Edinburgh right now.”

“Fuck.” Clarke might not know, but Reign did. He felt it in his gut with a certainty that grew with each passing second. Dashbrooke and his cronies were using James to get to him, for whatever reason. He'd go to Dashbrooke's now and yank his teeth out one by one if he thought it would get the bastard to talk, but men like Dashbrooke would rather die than betray their brothers. If they didn't, they would meet a far worse fate than death.

Olivia was going to hate him for this. Just when he thought they had a chance, something threat
ened to tear them apart. Again, that something was his fault.

“Reign, there's something else I need to talk to you about.”

Of course there was. There always fucking was. “What?”

Clarke's gaze was full of pity and cold anger. “Your wife.”