Heavens, what was she thinking? She didn’t want a spanking. But then she imagined him standing in front of her, almost naked, sporting a huge erection and carrying a paddle.

She squirmed on the bed. Actually, she did rather want a spanking. She wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

Ravenhunt’s strong, slanted handwriting flowed over beautiful notepaper, which was the color of thick cream and just as smooth. Why did he want her to go to the kitchens? They were in the basement.

Basements in ancient houses held dungeons. And those had iron shackles—

Ridiculous. Ravenhunt had specifically written kitchens, not dungeons.

She knew it was already afternoon. The mantel clock and sunlight peeking around the drapes told her. She had slept for hours.

It had been years since she’d spent a whole night in wonderful, undisturbed slumber. It never happened at Mrs. Darkwell’s. She’d always woken in the grip of a nightmare.

Ravenhunt had acquired slippers for her, too. Delicate satin ones and they sat on the floor by the bed. She slipped her feet into them, then padded downstairs.

Curtains had been drawn back throughout his house to let in light. Last night, when they had come back in from the brothel, everything had been closed up, dark and forlorn.

That was how he lived—cut off from the world in a darkened fortress.

He behaved like a prisoner. Just like she had been.

The house was brighter with daylight coming in, but it was still quiet, so eerily so that it made her shiver. A house of this size was never silent. There was always noise, even just the patter of footsteps or the hushed chatter of family or servants. The sense of being almost completely alone gave her a creepy feeling, as if she were the only person alive in London.

She wasn’t, of course. Ravenhunt was sleeping upstairs.

Ophelia made her way down stone steps to the basement. The ceiling was low, the walls formed of large, thick stones. Large wood beams crossed over her head, and she made her way to an open door through which light spilled. Wonderful smells poured out from there—a sweet aroma that must be the fresh fruit, along with the rich scent of roasted meat, and a yeasty tickle to her nose that promised bread.

She hurried into the preparation area of the kitchen.

An enormous feast waited for her, spread out on a wood worktable.

She found baskets of fresh breads, pastry on plates, a cold roast beef sliced for her, and bowls filled with grapes, oranges, and one incongruous-looking pineapple, complete with its spiky skin and leaves. A piece of paper was held in place with an uncut, exotic yellow lemon.

My apologies. The meals today will have to be cold. I hope it is adequate.

Adequate? It smelled spectacular, and with all the color, it was like a lush painting. There were no servants; Ravenhunt had prepared all of this himself. For her.

Sex made a woman hungry, too. She was thoroughly ravenous. Planting her bottom on a stool with a worn seat, Ophelia drew a plate toward her. She took one of the buns, tore it, and ate it in great chunks. Gooey, delicious fresh bread was her absolute favorite.

For days, she had been too nervous, apprehensive, and afraid to do more than nibble when he brought her food. With a feast in front of her now, she ate like a madwoman.

Then she frowned. When had she ever seen him eat?

Not once, actually. She’d just assumed he ate food before bringing it to her.

What if he didn’t? There were beings—creatures or demons—who did not eat. She knew that from Mrs. Darkwell’s house. Some demons survived on blood. Some survived on souls.

He had told her he had special powers to heal. He was not normal, just as she wasn’t.

Squirt. She’d pushed through the peel of an exotic, delicious orange, and shot herself in the eye with juice.

She’d been incredibly dense. Not about the orange—about Ravenhunt.

He was going to take her power by making love to her. He had to know witchcraft, or he was a wizard, or a demon with magical powers. From her time at Mrs. Darkwell’s she knew such creatures existed.

Could she make love to him without knowing who he really was?

Men could make love to a lady without any questions. They could do it without love, affection, or thought. But she wasn’t like that.

Or was she?

Last night, when Ravenhunt had stroked her with the velvet surface of the rope until she . . . um . . . came, she hadn’t cared about questions or who he was. She had lived for each sizzling moment.

Sex with him made her feel alive.

And she wanted more.

Except right now she had to wait for Ravenhunt.

Ophelia finished her meal, then she went back up to the ground floor and wandered through the house. It was so still and quiet and shadowed it was like walking through a tomb.

She discovered a piano beneath white Holland covers, but didn’t dare uncover it. Every room was shut up, never used. Ravenhunt stayed in his room all afternoon—she didn’t hear any sound from it, though she didn’t open the door or even knock. As he’d told her, he wasn’t going to come out until it was night.

Finally, she went back to the kitchen, where she ate more and drank the rest of the wine.

She twirled her empty glass in her fingers. Wine made her feel more lighthearted. She decided she wanted more of it, too.

Ophelia found a supply of dusty wine bottles in the basement. Daringly she uncorked one and poured a glass. It was a rich, hearty, heady red wine.

She was just biding her time until she would have sex. That made her feel naughty. And wild.

Ophelia took the bottle to his dining room. It was not swathed in covers, and it had been dusted and tidied, but it was obvious it had not been used for ages, except for when she had eaten in it. Why didn’t he eat here? Why did he live so alone?

“I no longer feel like a prisoner,” she whispered.

As if to celebrate, she filled the glass, and sipped. Sipped and sipped until it was gone, then refilled her goblet and had more.

Two-thirds of the bottle had disappeared when an amused, deep baritone asked, “Having fun?”

A bit poddled, she met Ravenhunt’s dark eyes. “Yes.” Already, the anticipation made her feel hot and tight inside. “What are we going to do tonight? Are you going to spank me?” She felt wanton and giddy to even ask such a thing, and she twirled in a circle.

“You are foxed,” he observed.

“No, I am free.” The old Ophelia, prisoner of Mrs. Darkwell, would have never asked such a thing as casually as she had done. She was no longer quiet, retiring Ophelia. “So what are you going to do to me?”

“I have a few ideas,” Ravenhunt said.


She was more than just a little foxed. Lady Ophelia was drunk. A strange feeling welled up in Raven. Disapproval and the need to give her a lecture on being more careful.

His reaction was what it would have been for Frederica, his sister. He shook off the feeling. Ophelia drunk was good for him. It would make her seduction easier.

But he couldn’t completely lose the sense of feeling protective of her.

Ophelia was naïve but she had strength, too. He admired it. Her strength and courage made her more than just a pretty young woman—it made her beautiful.

He wasn’t in love with her. He had been in love with his fiancée. He knew what the emotion felt like—an obsession to have and possess a woman.

Even as a marquis’ heir with the courtesy title of earl, he’d lived in fear he wasn’t good enough for the beautiful Lady Margaret, daughter of a powerful duke. He’d been afraid she would flit away to someone else—a duke, for example. To prove himself to her, he had fought a duel for her, pummeled her other suitors in Gentleman Jackson’s ring, and pursued her like a madman. His love for her had turned him from a confident, carefree young buck into a man haunted by doubt, aware of every misspoken word or unfulfilled opportunity to win her heart.

Love had leveled him. It had eroded his strength.

But once he had won beautiful Margaret’s heart, he’d felt like a king.

Then he had lost her. She’d died.

What he felt for Ophelia was just a man’s need to protect a woman. It wasn’t tempestuous or all-consuming. It wasn’t love.

But according to that blasted book of Guidon’s, it had to be if he wanted to save her. He had to fall in love with her, and he had to make her love him.

How in hell was he going to fall in love? Losing his fiancée, and then becoming a vampire, had sucked all the capacity for love out of him.

Now Ophelia stared at him boldly with bright, drunk eyes. Swaying a bit, she undid her robe, and she let it fall to the ground. A gruff laugh rose from his chest.

Ophelia was a sweet thing, and it was going to be fun to pleasure her tonight.

And somehow he had to find a way to fall in love with her, seduce her into loving him. Then he had to die while loving her.

Damn, how did a vampire who had no soul, who had a heart like ice, do that? He had to hope the answer was in Guidon’s book. He’d read it until dawn and hadn’t found any answers.

There had to be something in that damned book. Somewhere there had to be a guideline for vampire assassins on falling in love.

“You’re frowning.” Ophelia sashayed unsteadily toward him. She ran her finger around her lips. Wine had stained her lips the dark red of blood.

He fought not to think about that. He’d fed before coming to her. A quick bite, as it were.

In her pale ivory nightdress she looked almost angelic.