they thought him precious to her.
“Why does a proper lady travel to an English peer alone?” Even in the shadows, his eyes glinted silver at her. “You do not look like a mistress.”
What did it matter to them? They were only going to kill her. She wriggled her hands; she pulled, but the cloth would not tear. Even though it had been ripped so easily from her skirts, it would not give now. Her chest felt as if it would burst out of her corset.
Lukos bent to her ear. “Relax, sweet lass. We mean you no harm.”
Her heart slowed, as though Lukos could control it. Fear slithered through her, but her body did not behave as if she were as terrified as she was. Her cheeks burned hot. Her body felt tight, but in a pleasurable way. And all she could think of was the pressure of the bonds at her hands.
“You are obviously innocent,” Zayan murmured. “And very sweet.” But he stared so deeply into her eyes, she felt he was searching for more.
“Tempting,” Lukos agreed. And he actually leaned to her neck and sniffed. Like a wolf. “This man you are traveling to see, you are in love with him. You intend to marry him.”
Sheer horror raced through her blood. Lukos had read all of that in her thoughts. Would he see the rest—that it was her intention to marry Blackthorne because she had no other choice? “No, none of that is true,” she lied in a desperate, blurted rush of words.
Zayan shook his head. “So you are traveling to your fiancé, but unprotected.”
“No, I had the servants, of course.” Servants who had been somehow compelled or hypnotized by these vampires to do their bidding and drive the carriage. They were traveling in this direction only because she had foolishly looked this way along the road when Zayan had first asked where she was going. She had revealed the truth even as she refused to speak.
Lukos lifted his hand. A swirl of red light flowed from his palm. It danced through the air toward her. She screamed and pulled at her bonds, but the twinkling light encircled her neck. It touched her like a caress. Pleasure, terrifying pleasure, shot through her every nerve. She moaned with it.
Lukos grinned, his white fangs flashing. He bent to her neck. Dear God, no. But the red lights were delighting her, as he pressed his warm lips to her throat. His touch made her skin ignite with sensation.
He lifted. “Just a kiss. Nothing more.” The magical light disappeared. She was weak with relief, even as her body was heightened and aware. Heaven help her, she wanted another touch.
Stop, Miranda. You must fight.
The mad thought struck her that Lukos was also astonishingly handsome. His silvery eyes, almost violet in the soft light, compelled her to watch him. He looked so young, perhaps younger than she was, but he seemed ancient at the same time. Behind his wicked smile, she could sense his emotion—pain so acute she winced with it.
“I would not hurt you,” he promised softly. “Nor will I drink from you until you ask me to.”
Miranda pushed aside her connection with his emotions. “I would never ask you,” she cried. “No matter what you do. And I won’t kiss either of you willingly. I-I’ll spit on you if you try to kiss me.”
Lukos’s deep, rusty laugh rang in her ears.
“My turn.” Zayan stood, and despite the swaying of the carriage, he wrapped an arm around her waist. She squirmed but to no avail. He scooped her up and carried her across to his side.
God, this was so…humiliating and awful. They were taking turns with her.
Zayan’s touch reminded her of how strong these men were. Lukos had carried her over his shoulder as though she weighed nothing. And Zayan’s hand spanned her waist, nipped in by corset and snug pelisse.
The shades rattled at the window; Miranda could see the light fading beyond. The sun was setting. Soon it would be nightfall, which meant her best chance of escape was now. They could not chase after her in the sunlight.
Though they’d lasted in the sunlight for long enough before.
Zayan’s hand neared her face.
She shook. “Tell me who you are. When did you become a vampire?” She thought of every tale Aunt Eugenia had told her about vampires. Her aunt wanted to know the entire story of a vampire’s background. That, she claimed, was what gave a slayer power over a vampire. Not weaponry, but understanding. Most slayers did not bother to know their prey, which was why many died. “Who made you?” Miranda asked, trying to look at the clasp of Zayan’s cloak and not his magnetic eyes. “When were you turned?”
If she could make him talk, she could keep his mouth off hers, couldn’t she? She could play for time.
“I have been Nosferatu for many centuries, love. I have lived an eternity.” He spoke with a touch of weariness. She had the sense that he really had no interest in her. If this was a game to him, it bored him.
“But what happened to you? Who were you as a mortal? You didn’t choose to be a vampire, did you?” She fired her questions out in a tumble, one atop the other. Anything to keep him talking to her. To postpone the moment he would bite her or ravish her. “I want to know. I know I won’t survive this night. But I need to…to think of things. All I have left is curiosity.”
Zayan’s black straight brows jerked up at that. He laughed. The sound was as smooth as the deep velvety night, like the ripple of a nighttime breeze through the trees. The other vampire, Lukos, had a lusty throaty laugh, one that implied he was thinking very rude thoughts.
Miranda shook her head. Why did she think these things?
“I have lived for almost two thousand years,” Zayan said dispassionately. “I was a Roman general. My name, in my mortal world, was Marius Praetonius. I took most of Europe in the name of Rome. I was celebrated, worshipped. Your fiancé might have read about me in his schoolbooks.” Lines were suddenly carved at the side of his mouth as he smiled more deeply.
I sense a great power about you…. You intrigue me….
Miranda heard his deep voice in her head, felt it in her entire body, the way music would vibrate through her. She heard it and went ice-cold. Could he guess that she had special powers—a power she couldn’t even understand? That she possessed some kind of magic? She shivered. What would that mean? Would it spare her life? Was any of what he had told her true?
“Of course it is true,” he said in answer to her thoughts. “What do you think—I’m some insignificant slave who concocted a fancy tale?”
She recoiled from the sudden anger in his voice. His lower lip thrust out, in the way her brother would do when she had caught him making some foolish mistake, such as gambling.
Vampires were once mortal men. That is the critical thing to remember when hunting them. Aunt Eugenia had told her that over and over again.
She remembered her response to Aunt Eugenia: I am a gentlewoman. I am supposed to even fear the power of mortal men.
But Aunt Eugenia scoffed at that. A woman is as powerful as she believes she can be. The words had almost made Miranda laugh—she painted watercolors, diligently perfected her embroidery, strolled the gardens with a dainty parasol. How could she be powerful? But she had wanted to believe her aunt. And Eugenia’s words had a strange power attached to them. As though, by thinking them, they could give her greater strength.
Zayan stretched his arm along the back of the seat. It was such a masculine gesture—such a normal, human one—that it caught Miranda by surprise. “Does knowing who I once was make you more willing to kiss me?” he asked, amusement heightening the allure of his looks.
She fought the instinctive tug of feminine admiration at his chiseled jaw, full lips, at even the crinkles at the sides of his mirror-like eyes.
“Of course not!”
“Wise girl.” Across from them, Lukos had propped one