The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing (25 page)

Blinking rapidly, he realized where his thoughts were leading him: down the garden path to a dirty grave! “You Van Helsings are a menace to every blue-blooded Nosferatu around. Your ancestors have decimated whole families of us. We have learned our lessons well about you and yours. A Van Helsing does his duty through rain, sleet, snow, and the fires of hell.”

“And you don’t think we Van Helsings have learned lessons from you as well? We die too! Each death a hard lesson. You don’t think my ancestors have suffered?” Jane pointed a finger at him. “During the French Revolution, my aunt lost her head over Count Langella and ended up as his top-off of the day. That drained the family bloodline, I can tell you. My great-greatgrandfather went up in smoke when he tried to dispatch one of Lucifer’s fallen angels. He forgot to give the Devil his due!”

Asher remained motionless, as still and pale as marble. He watched her with dark fascination.

But how could he stand there so stone-faced? The condemning cad, Jane mused curtly. She went on: “One great uncle got so wrapped up in his mission that he was left in a tomb in Egypt. Mummy wasn’t pleased. Another uncle learned never cross the Alps with a vampire. Hannibal ate him with fava beans and a nice chianti.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Asher remarked, lifting up a bottle of champagne with sangfroid. “The only good Van Helsing is a—”

Jane gasped. “How rude, how crude, how contemptible.”

Ignoring her but not finishing his joke, Asher poured himself and Jane glasses of wine. “I took the trouble to select something appropriate for the occasion. I trust one glass won’t put you in your cups?”

Jane lifted her chin, her green-silver eyes sparking. “Hemlock?”

Asher narrowed his eyes, hiding his grin. His wife had a sharp wit—almost as sharp as her stakes. She was a complex creature, and he found himself slightly stunned to find that he wanted to know more about her—from an enemy’s standpoint, of course.

“Touché,” he said. “Now come have a drink and before I Socrates one to you. Tell me more about your life. Since we married in haste, I fear I know little about you except what Huntsley and Clair have informed me of.”

“I don’t really like to talk about myself,” she hedged.

Asher took a sip of champagne. “Is your life so dull that you think you’ll put me to sleep? Come now, don’t be shy, little vampire hunter.”

Jane arched a delicate brow. “If you insist?”

“I do,” he agreed.

“If you start snoring don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said.

He took offense. “I don’t snore!”

Jane grinned and took a drink of the bubbling liquid he’d given her. After another sip, she cautiously began. “My childhood was difficult, but it was made easier by my mother. She died when I was twelve, leaving a hole in my life that has never been rilled. She was a remarkable woman, always ready with a smile or a hug. She kept me from as much of my Van Helsing lessons as she could. She was a petite woman, yet she would always stand up to my father for my sake, and he usually relented. He loved her greatly and has never quite been the same since she died. I was always a reluctant hunter. She was my touchstone, always there to tuck me in bed at night and read me stories. My mother loved to read and I inherited her love of the written word along with my love of bird-watching.”

“Yes, Clair did mention something about birds,” Asher said. He had known from the beginning that Van Helsings raised no fools. His wife was learned, which he viewed as one of the few high points of the marriage. It was also interesting to hear the sincerity in her tone about her abhorrence of stalking and staking the undead. Clair had told him. Ian had told him. Neither had convinced Asher. Yet Jane’s words tonight seemed honestly real. What must it have been like for her to grow up with a fanatical bigot like the major? Most females would have been crushed beneath such weight. His small wife was alive and well.

“Clair said you disliked stalking through the dead of night under your father’s dark command,” Asher mentioned. “I know that Major Van Helsing has a dark past, and that he’s known for his obsession with slaughtering the undead. Your grandfather, the colonel, is a fairer man to deal with. He gives a vampire a sporting chance. Or at least he did back in his halcyon days.”

Jane nodded. “My grandfather is a good man. Gruff sometimes, definitely eccentric. But I love him, and he understands that I truly, truly dislike the sight of blood. He doesn’t push me to do anything I don’t want.”

“Ian mentioned that to me at Huntsley Manor—being afraid of blood.” Finishing his brandy, Asher set it on the mantel, crossing in front of the mirror once more. Jane again regarded his reflection with a sense of wonder.

Noticing her distraction, he stopped and stood, letting the mirror reflect his back. “I told you—not all old wives’ tales are true.”

Observing how the candlelight reflected in Asher’s wavy hair, she nodded and addressed his earlier comment: “Yes, it would be a great waste. All that beauty hidden from its owner…”

Asher’s mouth crooked up in a small grin. “Too true. Though I hate to admit to it. What conceit you must attribute to me.”

She nodded. “I am sorry to discompose you, my lord, but I really must point out that you are vainglorious.”

“With just cause,” he answered devilishly, clearly not offended. He extended his arm. “Come. Dinner is waiting.”

Taking his arm, Jane let Asher lead her into the small informal dining room, studying him as he seated her. The buffet table was set up with many covered dishes.

“I thought we would serve ourselves tonight. I do so love helping myself to dinner,” Asher explained. “To have my food at band, so to speak.” He touched her neck.

Jane arched a brow, surprised by his sense of humor. She watched Asher sit down at his place, and his long, elegant fingers picked up a plate and uncovered small pieces of lamb stewed in mushroom-and-wine sauce. She wondered idly what those hands would feel like on her skin. Then Asher picked up a piece of lamb and sensuously licked off the sauce.

The room suddenly felt extremely warm as Jane watched his tongue teasing the morsel. Fanning herself, Jane remarked, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to act saucy?” The smell wafted upward, whetting her appetite.

“Ah, but that’s the best part,” Asher answered, watching her. He noted how the pale blue gown she wore revealed a tantalizing expanse of soft white flesh. His groin got hot and swelled in spite of his wishes. His wife was in her prime—virgin territory waiting to be taken. It was a sobering and seductive thought. He would be the first, if he so chose. But could he bed a Van Helsing? Looking at Jane, he rather thought he could.

After pouring them each a glass of wine so red it looked like rubies in the glow of the chandeliers, Asher seated himself. “I saw that your ostrich arrived today. I have heard it has the house at sixes and sevens.”

Her wine went down the wrong way. Recovering, Jane replied with great warmth, “Thank you for letting Orville and Bert come. Orville has been dear to me ever since my grandfather Ebenezer brought him home. He used to travel abroad quite a bit for work.”

I just bet he did, Asher thought, recalling a hunt on the Dark Continent for the Prince of Darkness that had been the talk of the supernatural world for decades.

Jane continued: “My grandfather always brought me something back from his travels. Knowing I loved bird-watching, he brought me the biggest bird he could find, mostly to support me in my endeavor to catalog and learn as much as I could about our feathered friends. My cousins used to tease me unmercifully about my hobby, but they were quite impressed with Orville, who is an amazing bird and quite a character.”

Asher nodded curtly, not liking the warmth that curled low in his belly as he stared at his wife. He should not care that she was easy to please, since she was nothing but a villain—or a daughter of one. That was a fact he had best not forget while he watched her luminous eyes shining and the pulse beating within her swanlike neck, making his own pulse accelerate. She had been married to him less than a week, and already he knew she was spying on him.

“Your cousins? You are speaking of Jakob Van Helsing’s boys,” he commented.

Jane nodded.

Asher shook his head. “They are a wild, unruly bunch. I can well imagine they would have disdain for anything as sedate as bird-watching.” Was that an understatement, Asher thought. The Van Helsing boys were notorious at wenching and wrenching open casket lids, playing havoc with vampires everywhere. No sane Nosferatu wanted to meet one in a light alley. Still, his small wife had stood up to her ill-mannered, capricious cousins, and had continued with her interests, such as cataloging birds.

“I saw some of your drawings yesterday in the library. You are quite talented,” he admitted.

Jane blushed becomingly. “A compliment from my husband? Is this the ‘for better’ part of our marriage, started at last? I want to be sure and note it, if it is.”

Emptying his wineglass, Asher decided that two could play at such teasing. “I am sorry that I didn’t have the wine you were looking for this morning. But I prefer red, not white. Please remember in the future.” He studied her closely, waiting to see guilt creep across her face.

Jane managed a faint smile. Humbug! Renfield, the bloody tattletale, had told her husband about the cellar visit. “Thank you for that sage advice. I must thank your servant also. Renfield has been so solicitous of me. It seems I can go nowhere without his helpful personage putting in an appearance.”

Asher cut to the chase. “You won’t find my coffin, Jane,” he warned, forgetting his plan to get her to betray her secrets. The thought of his wife searching diligently for his resting place, so that she could stake him when his back was turned and he was dead to the world, was an unforgivable breach of every etiquette there was.

His eyes glinted with fierce blue light as he warily studied his wife. He detested betrayal, especially that of a wife betraying her husband. In his pique, Asher forget the hundreds of wives of other men he had seduced into betraying their own wedding vows. But, then, the horse was a different color when it was in his stable.

With remarkable aplomb, Jane kept her expression neutral, hiding her hurt, having learned long ago that a woman’s pain did no good in the world of men. She hated that Asher thought her capable of hurting him. But he did, as was evidenced by his stiff manner and the silence with which he held himself in check.

“I’m sorry. I was curious. I have never been married to a vampire before. I just wanted to watch you sleeping.”

“So you could kill me?” he asked. His voice held a hint of ennui, meant to hide his true feelings, which were anything but placid.

His words struck deep into Jane’s heart, but she didn’t flinch. She pleaded, hoping to reach his deadened heart, “Asher, think. If I wanted you staked, I could have told the truth to my father.”

Asher fingered the glass of wine in his hand and continued to study his plain wife, to look into her remarkable eyes. He could see the hurt in their green, murky depths. “I must admit, I have been curious why you didn’t.”

His wife looked so innocent. She was a marvelous actress. But of course she would be. The vandalous Van Helsings, who broke into crypts and staked his kind, causing the ends of many innocent vampires, were highly trained in many different arts: why should acting be excluded? No, death never took a holiday when the Van Helsings were in town.

“Would you believe I look beastly in black?” she teased. “Would you believe that I meant to make the most of this marriage? To be the very best wife I could be? I would like to make your life easier in any way that I can, if you will only let me. I know we have had a rocky beginning—”

Asher interrupted her. “A rocky beginning? Ha! More like an avalanche. And I don’t intend ending buried alive.”

Jane pursed her lips, straightening her spine. “Charming. Thank you for your confidence.”

He arched an aristocratic eyebrow, his expression one of patent disbelief. “By a cruel twist of fate, I find myself married to one of the vigilante scourges of vampires everywhere. You are not only a source of danger to me and my friends of the supernatural world, but an embarrassment.” Yet her skin looked so soft in the glow of the candlelight. Her neck begged to be tasted, savored, sipped like the finest wine.

Jane shook her head, responding emphatically. “Why, you big bag of dirt! I owe my loyalty to you after you selflessly saved my honor. Can’t you believe that? If I was taught nothing else, I was taught to hold duty close to my breast. I’m hardly going to go around staking you and your friends, no matter what my last name used to be!”

“Well, I am sure my chums will be vastly relieved. As am I,” Asher responded.

Jane held her temper by the barest thread, a false smile on her lips. Asher didn’t believe her. But then, why should he? What was his incentive?

“I am the Countess of Wolverton now, my duties lie with you. Although, I must admit, staking you in the arse right now does hold a certain appeal. Did it hurt much?”

Asher lifted his lip in a contemptuous sneer. But, studying her from the top of her head to the bottom of her slippers, the word “lie” conjured up images of Jane’s naked form in bed waiting for him. Distracted and angry, he retorted, “Shall I show you? Perhaps I can return the favor too. I don’t have a stake with me, but I can use my hands.”

Jane held her ground. If he touched her, she would scream bloody murder. She hadn’t been spanked since she was nine, and her husband wasn’t going to start now. “I am the Countess of Wolverton,” she repeated. “Countesses are above that sort of thing.”

Asher stood and rapidly paced over to the fireplace, pointing to the large portrait above the hearth. The picture was of a beautiful woman with flowing chestnut hair, in an outdated costume of the seventeenth century. “That was the fifth Countess of Wolverton, who was married to my grandfather. She was not only a beauty, but descended from kings! You are not. Shall I tell you if she was spanked? She deserved it less than you.”

Dignity in place, but her temper reaching the boiling point, Jane threw her napkin beside her plate. Enough was enough. She might not be a raving beauty; so hang her. She might not be a princess of royal blood; so chop off her head. “Bull’s blooming ballocks?” she cursed, using her father’s favorite phrase. Ladylike decorum be damned; Asher had just met his match.