Séraphine (Eternelles: A Prequel, Book 0.5) (2 page)

He stared at her intensely, as if taking in the details of her face to etch deeper in his mind, and let the back of his fingers trail down her cheek. “I can’t wait for you to meet my family and for us to be married. I’ll show off your beauty and brains to everyone on my turf,” he said proudly.

“Except when I’m wearing my paint-crusted overalls and stuff my wild hair under a cap,” she quipped. Painting was something she’d recently discovered and didn’t have much time for, but she planned to do it more and learn different techniques after they’d settled in their new home.

“Not even an ink bath could mar your loveliness, my darling,” he said seriously.

Sliding his hand to her nape, he caressed her there. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Love and desire weaved gentle threads around them, blooming with expectation.

She lifted her hand to his cheek to feel the skin of his smooth-shaven, handsome face, and returned his blue gaze. The sun-kissed tips of his hair wavered in the breeze. How she loved the feel of it, the touch of her skin against his. William made her feel like a goddess, with his gaze, with his tender and considerate loving. Thoughts of carefree times in Sweden crossed her mind, including that one time in a warm summer, making love in a meadow….

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Will. It’s going to be great.” Soon, she’d be sharing his bed legally, every night, and wake up to his sunny smile every morning.

She pressed her lips to his and returned his lingering kiss, but when he started to deepen it, she pulled away. “Tomorrow.” She winked, blowing him another kiss as she took a few steps backwards. “I love you!”

“Not as much as I do!”

Both waving their final goodbyes, they parted ways, he on a wink, she on a sigh.

She turned in the direction of home and walked, hurried…anxious to get to the sanctuary of her room and mull things over. If her mother was still awake, she’d invite her to share a late night cup of tea and cake. She cherished those moments, when the house was quiet and all that could be heard was the sounds of their voices—chatting, confiding in the way loving mothers and daughters do.

Oh, Mum. I’m going to miss you.

Once more, the sheer magnitude of what was about to happen slammed her in the gut. Things would never be the same. At one point, Adri would want to return to
England, to live her own life. No longer would Sera be with her parent; no longer would she even
see
her mother, her best friend, her savior, for long spans of time. She’d have a husband, hopefully children, and a home to run. She’d have a position to maintain and an image to uphold. Were the souls of the enterprising scholar, the carefree artist, the free spirit, to leave her forever?

Fear snaked through her, tempered with resignation…and love. For she did care for William and together, surely, they’d make it work. With him and his tender affection and sense of responsibility, she’d never be alone or lost. Still…

How will I cope in a strange place without you, Mum? How can I deal with what I am? To whom shall I talk about it?

The answer to the last was: no one. She’d have to learn to fend for herself. And in truth, Adri loved her too much to leave her for long. She’d visit often.

A looming shadow pulled her from the preoccupation with her thoughts. She looked up to find her path was blocked.

A large man stood before her—tall, imposing, solid. Although his face was beyond the reach of light, Sera felt a faint pang of recognition from that bold, decided stance. Dark hair, broad shoulders. Flashes of memory from the pub came to her—this man wore the same tweed jacket as the stranger.

He moved a little so the streetlight’s glow settled on the square, dark angles of his face. Handsome, wicked, intent—the features of a man set on a mission. Guilt pricked her for appreciating him as a red-blooded woman might.

“You are…” she gasped.

Bloody hell!
This was no stranger but the same man she’d danced with last Christmas at the Sharwoods’ big do. Hundreds of London’s elite in a ballroom that must have matched the size of the Serpentine. She’d regretted that dance that pitted her so close to his unnerving perusal, but thankfully, it had been just one. She’d never seen him again, until now.

What was he doing here?

So that was why he’d kept looking at her back at the pub. He’d recognized her.

He didn’t say a word, just stared at her. Fear crept up her spine. Something felt wrong. The cold got brittle, and Sera dug her gloveless hands in her coat pockets and walked around him, hastening home, as if that would make him disappear. He let her pass, but she wouldn’t feel relief until she was safe in the house. Only a short way to go. She turned into the mews by their townhome; what used to be stables were now restored and built into apartments to the right. In some ways it wasn’t much different from the château they’d had in
France before moving to England, or the estate in Hertfordshire where they’d spent a few years—except that this was London, of course, not so much a quaint and bucolic place, and one that many considered to be both the pleasure center and cesspool of Britain.

And there he appeared again, standing in the shadows ahead, waiting. How did he manage to get there? Had he gone all around the block this fast? Impossible.

He stepped toward her. Under the sliver of light, he looked like the Devil in his most tempting form.

“I’m pleased to see you, Séraphine. I’m Rafe. Rafe Harcourt,” he said, using her given name and playing with the syllables in the most decadent way. “Remember me?”

“Mr. Harcourt…” she said in a whisper.  The word tripped off the tip of her tongue.

“Rafe,” he corrected.

Frozen, she simply stared at him, the feeling of dread making itself at home now. In a flash, he stood in front of her, inches away, as if he’d glided to her to stand too close for comfort. A strange compulsion pushed her to return his hazel gaze and she found herself reflected in specks of gold and copper. Magnificent eyes in a face that brought to mind a sandy beach on some island in the Mediterranean sea. Her earlier impressions were confirmed; this man looked nothing like a Brit.

Heat radiated from him as he regarded her with such hunger, she wanted nothing more than to run away.

But she couldn’t. Invisible cords seemed to keep her rooted to the ground.

He reached out a hand to her hair, which she’d twisted in a simple pompadour. Leisurely, he traced the line where brow met hair, all around her face, then down her jaw, to stop at her chin. He tilted it slightly up, making her very aware of the gentle pressure of his finger there.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he told her. “Because I can’t get you out of my mind. I am not sure why...,” he added with a pause, his brows knitted and lips pursed, as though sorting through tangled thoughts. “Although you
are
very beautiful. Intelligent. Everything a woman should be.”

She opened her mouth to ask how he knew anything about her but no words came out.

Just as well, because he kissed her then. No warning, only his mouth taking hers in total possession.

Pull away, Sera. Run!

The voice of reason, which she summarily ignored. How could she move when he held her in thrall like a master of hypnotism with his audience? Clearly, she was the perfect subject, highly responsive to his every silent suggestion.

He deepened the kiss, made her welcome his tongue to dance with hers. And she liked it. Relished it, like a barefaced wanton. An arrow of desire struck her in her core, spreading warmth until the shame could not be ignored. Her conscience took the upper hand and damn near brought her to her knees.

Finally listening to common sense, she peeled herself away and took a step back. He didn’t stop her. His arms fell from her back to his sides.

“I—I have to go,” she said, and started to turn away from him toward the house.

Another flash and he was in front of her again, his presence suffocating, formidable, playing with her free will. She tried to sidestep him but he left her no room to move.

“No,” he said, adamant. Firm.

Before she knew it, he’d threaded his fingers through her hair and brought her to him. Settling his other hand at the small of her back, he caressed her there in lazy circular motions. Even through the layers of clothing, her flesh burned. At her nape, he tugged gently at the long tresses and pulled her head back. Then his lips were on hers again—a brief kiss before exploring her cheek, temple, ear, neck, licking and tasting, drowning her in passion. Could he set her ablaze this way?

When she’d become a pile of nerves, he suddenly stopped, drawing a whimper from her.

Shame on you, Sera.

Lifting his head, he looked again into her eyes. He appeared…different. More frightening, more desirable.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t see any other way.”

“What—”

She had no time to finish that sentence for his mouth was on her neck, and pain like no other shot through her when he sank his teeth into her flesh, tearing, drawing blood.

A scream stuck in her throat, paralyzed by terror. The entire world was reduced to that one spot, on her neck, from which he stole her life’s sustenance. Her knees buckled under her as strength drained from her. He held her tight, keeping her from falling, but never stopped supping until he was satisfied.

Her life flashed before her eyes.
William. Sweden. Walking through a meadow with Mum. Drinking champagne after the theatre. Laughing, reading, dreaming, shopping for a wedding dress.
Then further back—
a little girl playing hide and seek with Colette, the maid who’d taken care of her like an older sister at the château; a toddler barely negotiating the steps up to her nursery; a baby fresh into life, looking up from her cot at the most precious thing—a mother to love, and standing behind the woman with the beautiful, loving face and long dark hair, a tall, handsome man. His bright blue eyes settle on her beneath a head of blond hair, and he smiles, a charming, lopsided smile. A guardian angel, perhaps.
A guardian angel she sorely needed now. Too soon, before she could latch on to it, that image disappeared from her mind’s eye.

When next her attacker raised his head, she hung by a thread.

The last thing she saw was the sharp teeth and mouth covered in blood. Her blood.

The last thing she heard was a woman’s scream. Not her own.

And then, oblivion came….

****

Life. Blood.

Its taste lingered like ambrosia on her lips, slipped between them and trickled down her throat. Pleasure spread through her, slowly reviving her. A sucking sound woke her.

Then she realized it was her—her mouth attached to someone’s flesh, she drank the essence beneath.

“Drink,
mon coeur
. Take it.” Pain and desperation laced that voice, her mother’s.

Gentle hands went through her hair, soothing.

She opened her eyes. Her mother kneeled over her in the dirt, and held her on her lap while feeding her blood from her wrist.

“Shhh…
mon trésor.
Don’t fret, keep drinking.”

So she closed her eyes again, took what she needed, and let the darkness claim her once more.

Blessed darkness.

****

The sound of a creaking chair brought Sera out of a muddled dream. She opened her eyes to the soft glow of a single candle sitting on the bedside table by her mother’s form. No light came through the slatted windows in her room as the curtains had been drawn. Although groggy, she forced herself to sit up. The motion dizzied her.

“Easy, darling. You can’t move fast,” her mother said, leaning forward from her position by the bedside.

“Mum, what time is it?”

“Late.”

“Night?”

“No, morning.”

Sera fairly jumped off the bed. “Mama! I need to get ready! The ship leaves at noon. Why is it so dark in here?” Then her head started to clear from the fuzz of sleep, and she remembered.…

“Steady,” Adri said gently. “There’s time.” The last words came out in a whisper.

“What happened?”

“First, why don’t you tell me who hurt you? I’ll have him dealt with.”

“Please, Mum, I just want to move on with my life.”

“Sera, tell me.” Adri took her hand and held it between her own. “I promise not to do anything rash.”

Collecting her thoughts, Sera related what had transpired, leaving out nothing except the embarrassment at how the rogue had made her feel.

“He said his name was Rafe Harcourt.”

Adri leapt from her chair and paced the room. “Damn Harcourt! How could I not see? May he rot in Hell!” she said vehemently.

“It’s not your fault.”

“But I saw the way he looked at you at that ball, and I know the kind of man he is. Of course, when he gets something in his head, he won’t give up.”

“I don’t see how any of us could have avoided this.” She paused and sighed. “But now we can leave, right? Put it behind us. Surely, he won’t chase me to
America!”