Stupid, stupid legs.

She took two stumbling steps, and something grabbed her from behind. It had to be his hand. She screamed. He jerked back, she almost fell, but he caught her and a white cloth clamped over her face.

His hand pressed it hard over her nose and mouth.

A scent like burned sugar filled her senses—a sickly, nauseating, sweet smell. Her legs wobbled beneath her. Desperate, she grasped Mr. Ravenhunt’s forearm. She would have better luck pushing a carriage. His arm didn’t budge.

She was touching him. She would kill him.

She shouldn’t care!

She tried not to breathe, but of course, she had to draw in some air. Dizziness took command of her head. Ophelia tried to scream, but that only drew in more of the disgusting smell.

Blackness swept her up, thick and enveloping, and she realized with heart-stopping panic she was falling to the floor . . .


“Is it done?”

The voice came to him from behind a small grille placed within a heavy oak door. There was no light in the room, but as a vampire, the former Marquis of Ravenhunt could easily see in the dark.

His mysterious client had arranged that they meet here, in an abandoned church near the docks. The overwhelming scent of old spices and dust clogged his nose, and he could easily scent the fetid odor of river water and the ditches of sewage.

As with their other meetings, Ravenhunt—or Raven as he now called himself—stood in the dark, gloomy, long unused nave. His client would remain in the chancel, hidden by the rood screen that separated the spaces. Raven was forbidden to enter that other space. He had never seen the man who had paid him to kidnap Lady Ophelia Black.

The man claimed to be a vampire also. Raven did not know if that was true. Definitely his client was not human. Raven would have smelled that on him.

Raven had gone through numerous battles. As a mortal, he had fought in the war against Napoleon, then traveled to the exotic East, where he’d fought in uprisings in Ceylon. In Ceylon he had been turned. Returning to England as a vampire, he had allowed his family to believe him dead. His cousin had become the marquis, and Raven lived in isolation, acting as a kind of mercenary.

After all, when a gentleman was cursed to live forever, he had to do something to pass the time.

Approached by his mysterious client, he had become intrigued by the man’s interest—and determination—to have Lady Ophelia. Raven had refused the commission, claiming he would not do it until he understood the man’s motivation. To get him to take the job, his client had been forced to reveal the young woman’s power.

The truth had annoyed Raven. She had the power to kill with a touch, and his “client” had at first refused to divulge it. So now he drawled lazily, “Yes, it’s done. I have her.”

“Good. Bring her—”

“I did not say I was going to give her up.”

Silence from behind the door. Then the man barked, “What?”

“Now that I have her, I intend to keep her.”

Raven turned abruptly and made his way through the dark, dank church. He passed pews coated with dust, and the various trappings of religious devotion, encrusted with dirt and hung with spider webs. His lip curled.

He had turned his back on his god a long time ago. When he had begun to be haunted by the faces of the men he’d killed. Every death had been justified. In the duels, he had defended his honor. In battle he had been fighting for king, country, God. So why was his soul ravaged by what he’d done? Why was he tearing himself apart over it?

He’d begun to understand that God did not reward a man for obedient service. God only increased the level of punishment.

So he’d turned his back on God, lost his soul, become a vampire. Even in this deserted, long-abandoned church he felt pain. His skin sizzled, beginning to burn beneath his clothes.

Scrambling footsteps told him his client was following. Chasing him. Driven out of hiding by the fact his lowly hired assassin was in control now and had changed the rules of the game.

Chuckling, Raven ran through the church so quickly everything became a formless blur. If his client was in truth a vampire, the man could follow. But the footsteps receded quickly. Bursting out into a dingy, dark street, Raven shifted shape. His clothes dropped from him as his body changed, as his skin turned to something sleeker. He was naked when large wings erupted from his back.

Unlike other vampires, he did not turn into a bat. He became a creature like a gargoyle, with a distorted human-like body. Instead of feet and hands, he possessed talons. His skin became a silvery black. Flapping his wings, he soared into the night sky.

To return to his lovely prisoner, Lady Ophelia.


Her mouth was as dry as linen and her throat ached.

Dizzy, Ophelia opened her eyes. But wherever she was, there was very little light and she couldn’t tell what surrounded her. Fear made her heart thunder. Her arms were stiff and sore, and she felt as if she’d rolled down a grassy hill—she ached all over. Softness was beneath her and silkiness touched the skin of her legs . . .

The bare skin of her legs.

Ophelia blinked, fighting to see in the dim light. A fire burned low in the grate—it was just coals—and the reddish glow barely illuminated anything. Hulking shapes loomed around her. It took minutes before she guessed one was a wardrobe, another was a vanity table, and two fluttering things that made her heart skip a beat were curtains.

Was she at home?

There was something wrong, but she couldn’t quite remember what it was . . .

She couldn’t remember coming back across town to Mrs. Darkwell’s supposed school or sneaking back into her room. How could she have forgotten all of that—?

She hadn’t come home! This wasn’t her room at Mrs. Darkwell’s.

The last thing she remembered was that sweet, horrible smell. The cloth pressed to her nose and the naked statues whirling in front of her eyes as she collapsed.

Mr. Ravenhunt must have brought her here. He had taken off her gown. She thought she was wearing only her shift. She couldn’t be certain.

How dare that wretched man do this!

Heavens, why had he done this? What did he want with her?

She wanted to get up, but now she felt dizzy again. She knew why she felt lost and confused. It was the aftermath of whatever he’d given her to make her faint.

She fought the woozy sense in her head. Summoning her strength, Ophelia tried to move her arms.

She pulled with all the force she could muster, but her arms would not obey.

She now realized her hands were numb. There was something around her wrists. Furrowing her brow, she made her fingers explore. She touched rope, silky rope. It looped around her wrists and stretched her arms behind her head.

She was tied up. Tied to a bed.

The prisoner of Mr. Ravenhunt.

“Fool. Idiot. Twit.” Enraged, she threw the words out. “You silly, silly fool. You believed every word he said. You thought—” She knew what she’d thought, but this she could not say aloud.

From the first moment they had met, she’d fancied he admired her. It had been so long since she had been near a man that the moment he had smiled at her, she had concocted a ludicrous fantasy about it.

Love, kindness, embraces, tenderness were not for her. She was a monster.

And she had allowed herself to be fooled by a monster worse than she.

What did he want from her? Was he a white slaver and she was to be shipped away to Arabia and put in a harem? Was he going to ransom her?

Her harsh, bitter laugh echoed in her quiet room.

Who would pay for her? No doubt Mrs. Darkwell would be happy to be rid of her.

Her family thought she was dead. Mrs. Darkwell had told her that. Her last living brother and her younger sister had been told that to protect them.

“Damnation!” Ophelia spat aloud. She pulled on the ropes, but all it did was drive the thick cord into her wrists. It hurt.

She knew there were men who assaulted women and forced sexual relations upon them. Was Ravenhunt a man like that?

If he was, he was an idiot. The minute he laid a hand on her, he was as good as dead.

He’d already touched her. He had done so to hold the cloth on her face and bring her here. He might be dead already.

With her weak fingers, she tried to find the knots at her wrists. Even though he would die if he touched her—might already be dead—she was afraid. He had worn gloves. So had others, who had then . . . died, but the touches had been longer. Some had just become very sick. What if he had not touched her long enough for her curse to work? What if he had not touched her very much to bring her here? He could have tossed her in a sack after all.

What if he just wanted to kill her?

He could do it safely with a pistol or a blade. He could hurt or murder her without touching her. After all, he knew what she was. What if he wanted to kill her because he thought she was evil?

Her power was evil. But she didn’t mean to hurt people. It was something she could not control. To protect other people from her power, she kept away from them.

Closing her eyes, Ophelia made a solemn vow. If she made it back alive to Mrs. Darkwell’s house, she would never leave it again. She would never break a rule again.

First she had to escape from Ravenhunt.

The fiend had tied her wrists and secured her bonds to the bedposts. She could reach the knots at her left wrist with her right hand, but no matter how much she tugged and clawed, she could not loosen the ropes.

Roaring in anger, Ophelia pulled wildly at them, but that only made them tighter. Her legs were free and she kicked and slammed the bed, but it didn’t help.

Tears burned in her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry. She had cried over so many people—people she had killed with her wretched power. She would not waste tears now. Exhausted from useless thrashing and fighting, she lay still.

A board creaked in the hallway.

She froze with fear. Was it Ravenhunt? Was he alive? Her heart galloped and she sucked in frantic breaths, her brain swamped by panic.

Think, Ophelia.

All she had to do was coerce Ravenhunt to touch her without his gloves and do it long enough for her curse to work on him.

Then what?

There might be other men here. Servants. She had to get past them, too—

The door creaked open.

“I assume you are awake now, Lady Ophelia?”

Deep, like the rumble of a lion, his masculine voice came to her. He was alive. He spoke mildly and softly, but in the tones of a gentleman who felt he was in charge. Smugness infused Mr. Ravenhunt’s every word.

He would not be smug for long. If he touched her long enough, her cursed power would affect him, and then he would pay for kidnapping her.

That thought banished fear. Instead, anger blazed in her heart as how evilly pleased with himself he sounded.

“Yes, I am awake, you foul blackguard.” She snapped the words at him, sounding utterly unlike herself. Usually her voice was so soft it could barely be heard. But her angry shout must have been heard by everyone in the house.

A dark shadow filled the doorway. With so little light, it was hard to distinguish him at first. It occurred to her he carried no candle or lamp and he had walked up a dark corridor to this room without trouble.

This must be his house. Apparently he knew it well.

He wore his dark clothing and his hair was black, so she could barely see him. “I demand that you untie me. Now!”

He shrugged. “I am considering it. I’m not sure which one I prefer.”

“What?”

“I cannot decide if I prefer having you tied to the bed in that erotically fetching way, or having you free so I can see what you would attempt to do to me.”

Nausea roiled in her belly. Erotically fetching?

She could make out a little more of him where he stood in the doorway. It was not easy to see him. She had to rest her cheek against the pillow to do it.

Mr. Ravenhunt’s shoulder was propped against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest. Relaxation exuded from him. Obviously, he wasn’t afraid that anyone else in the house—servants, for example—would learn she was his captive. They all must know.

She wanted to spit on him. But years with Mrs. Darkwell had taught her to pretend to be a docile prisoner, to bide her time.