curtains tight against the dawn light, then closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the padded backrest, ending the conversation.
"Vampires aren't real," Elizabeth insisted.
"Umhum," he agreed, but didn't open his eyes.
He slept the morning away. Elizabeth resisted the urge to pry the book from his hands and have a look. By the time he woke, he seemed to have forgotten the topic altogether. But it lingered in Elizabeth's mind for the rest of the journey.
Chapter Eleven
The feeling was as misty as the fabric he carried in the package at his side. And yet just as real. Nicholas scanned the street of expensive London shops. In another hour this lane would be crowded with carts and hackneys, shoppers and strollers, but at this early hour no more than a handful of people were about. He lifted his head and breathed deep, seeking the source of the alarm crawling over his skin, that faint odor of corruption. But the street was quiet, save for the retreating clip-clop of the hackney that had dropped him off and the rattle of a flower seller's cart as a woman positioned it in a shady spot a few doors down. She lifted a daisy at him, her cat green eyes inviting him to buy.
Nicholas declined with a shake of his head and shifted the package from one arm to the other to reach for the doorknob of the dressmaker's shop. The view through the shop window arrested his hand. He turned away. When Mrs. Huntington had assured him that Madame Nanette was the best seamstress in London, she'd failed to mention Madame's pretty shop attendant kissed the male customers with admirable abandon.
The flush-faced man who exited the shop moments later stopped short. His eyes raked over Nicholas. He frowned and his head swung toward the window. Dawning realization carved angry lines at the corners of his mouth. Nicholas tamped down the nip of rising hunger as the man's blood pounded more fiercely through his veins, the scent as pleasant as oven-fresh bread.
"Going in there, are you?" The fellow's fists clenched. He jerked his head at the window where the shop girl, her back to the men, arranged bolts of cloth on a table. "She's spoken for and soon to be married," the man growled. He stomped his foot and the toe of his worn leather boot scuffed a marring streak on Nicholas's polished Hessian. The man's chin jutted forward, exposing his neck. The pulse beat strong, the jugular bulging beneath ruddy young flesh.
Nicholas's tongue passed over the sharp tip of one incisor as the siren scent of angry blood danced around him. They were on a public street. Nicholas reached deep, stilling the beast within. The man tapped his fist twice against Nicholas's lapel.
"There's some that's not to be trifled with, if a gentleman knows what's good for him." The man jerked his head at the window.
On the other side of the pane the shop girl hummed as she worked, unaware of her gallant's possessive defense of her on the cobblestones outside. The man's fist punched Nicholas's lapel harder, a final time. Nicholas inclined his head once in the man's direction and felt the rake of un-slaked hunger as the fellow stomped off down the street, taking the toothsome scent of overheated blood with him.
Chapter Twelve
The sound of wheels on gravel sent Elizabeth hurrying to the second-story window. Another carriage emerged from the woods and clattered up the drive that wound to the elegant country house. It was the third to arrive that morning.
"Is it him?" Elizabeth's mother, Amelia, tried to sit up, the effort precipitating a coughing fit. Elizabeth went to her mother and propped her up with extra pillows. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed back her mother's silver-streaked hair.
"Probably not," Elizabeth said when her mother's coughing subsided. "The carriage has no crest. It's likely another guest."
"How much longer?" Amelia closed her eyes. The draught Elizabeth had given her a short time ago was taking effect. She would sleep.
"Soon,
"Vampires aren't real," Elizabeth insisted.
"Umhum," he agreed, but didn't open his eyes.
He slept the morning away. Elizabeth resisted the urge to pry the book from his hands and have a look. By the time he woke, he seemed to have forgotten the topic altogether. But it lingered in Elizabeth's mind for the rest of the journey.
Chapter Eleven
The feeling was as misty as the fabric he carried in the package at his side. And yet just as real. Nicholas scanned the street of expensive London shops. In another hour this lane would be crowded with carts and hackneys, shoppers and strollers, but at this early hour no more than a handful of people were about. He lifted his head and breathed deep, seeking the source of the alarm crawling over his skin, that faint odor of corruption. But the street was quiet, save for the retreating clip-clop of the hackney that had dropped him off and the rattle of a flower seller's cart as a woman positioned it in a shady spot a few doors down. She lifted a daisy at him, her cat green eyes inviting him to buy.
Nicholas declined with a shake of his head and shifted the package from one arm to the other to reach for the doorknob of the dressmaker's shop. The view through the shop window arrested his hand. He turned away. When Mrs. Huntington had assured him that Madame Nanette was the best seamstress in London, she'd failed to mention Madame's pretty shop attendant kissed the male customers with admirable abandon.
The flush-faced man who exited the shop moments later stopped short. His eyes raked over Nicholas. He frowned and his head swung toward the window. Dawning realization carved angry lines at the corners of his mouth. Nicholas tamped down the nip of rising hunger as the man's blood pounded more fiercely through his veins, the scent as pleasant as oven-fresh bread.
"Going in there, are you?" The fellow's fists clenched. He jerked his head at the window where the shop girl, her back to the men, arranged bolts of cloth on a table. "She's spoken for and soon to be married," the man growled. He stomped his foot and the toe of his worn leather boot scuffed a marring streak on Nicholas's polished Hessian. The man's chin jutted forward, exposing his neck. The pulse beat strong, the jugular bulging beneath ruddy young flesh.
Nicholas's tongue passed over the sharp tip of one incisor as the siren scent of angry blood danced around him. They were on a public street. Nicholas reached deep, stilling the beast within. The man tapped his fist twice against Nicholas's lapel.
"There's some that's not to be trifled with, if a gentleman knows what's good for him." The man jerked his head at the window.
On the other side of the pane the shop girl hummed as she worked, unaware of her gallant's possessive defense of her on the cobblestones outside. The man's fist punched Nicholas's lapel harder, a final time. Nicholas inclined his head once in the man's direction and felt the rake of un-slaked hunger as the fellow stomped off down the street, taking the toothsome scent of overheated blood with him.
Chapter Twelve
The sound of wheels on gravel sent Elizabeth hurrying to the second-story window. Another carriage emerged from the woods and clattered up the drive that wound to the elegant country house. It was the third to arrive that morning.
"Is it him?" Elizabeth's mother, Amelia, tried to sit up, the effort precipitating a coughing fit. Elizabeth went to her mother and propped her up with extra pillows. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed back her mother's silver-streaked hair.
"Probably not," Elizabeth said when her mother's coughing subsided. "The carriage has no crest. It's likely another guest."
"How much longer?" Amelia closed her eyes. The draught Elizabeth had given her a short time ago was taking effect. She would sleep.
"Soon,
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