Another shiver erupted over her flesh, pulling softly at the fine hairs at her nape like ghostly fingers. Though the temperature had indeed dropped a fair amount, since the sun had disappeared altogether, she felt that her reaction was nothing to do with the north wind and everything to do with the stark and funereal beauty of the old abbey.

And the eyes she felt at her back.

She wandered about the abbey grounds for above an hour, reflecting over the beauty of it, but above all she deliberated over Markus Winterly. And was this stunning vista, so dark and mysterious, not the very embodiment of Lord Winterly himself. Where better should she ruminate over who and what he was than right here beside an abbey that might well be as old as he was. Were not vampyres immortal?

Was he a vampyre? That she had, in all sincerity, just asked herself that ludicrous question was proof enough that she had lost her mind to her queer fancies. But what else was she to think? Notwithstanding the fact that she endeavored to remain incredulous of all she had seen and discovered of late, there was, unfortunately, far too much evidence in favor of the impossible:

Vampyres were real.

She had yet to see Winterly eat. His incredible hearing was anything but natural. The strange dreams she had had in London, that had left bruises on her lips and thighs, had been inexplicable and alarming; and had occurred shortly after she'd met him. There was as yet still the matter of the unsolved vampiric murders in which the victims had all been drained of blood.

And, most disquieting of all, Emma could not efface what she'd seen in Winterly's eyes very early this morning. It had been no phantasm in the darkness, no trick of the light, but an undeniable and preternatural glow that she had seen in his dilated pupils; and she would never forget the sight.

Closing her eyes, she listened as the wind murmured across the scars, over the tall grass, and through the heather, bearing with it all the scents of the moors and the sea. Suddenly, as before, she was aware again that she was not alone. Yet this time she felt a presence at her side, and the air itself had seemed to shift aside to make room for another.

There was no need to open her eyes to know that he was standing beside her now.

It was as though the wind itself had carried him thence, for she had not heard his footfalls. Amidst the scent of rowan, heather, and imminent rain was his familiar hint of spice. It was all his own and she would have known it anywhere. Winterly.

That he was aware she sensed his presence was certain, for even she could hear how her heart had accelerated into a fearsome tempo.

"How did you find me?" she asked, her eyes still closed.

"I could find you anywhere," he answered, softly; seductively.

It was no answer at all, not by her estimation.

For a woman who had unexpectedly found herself alone with a vampyre, she appeared remarkably serene, her poor racing heart notwithstanding. But she was not calm, not by any means. Still, she lifted her lashes gradually from where they had rested on her cheeks and then turned to him.

His lips were, naturally, curled in that ambiguous way and his eyes seemed even more obsidian under the leaden sky. Could he read her mind? she wondered. Did he know what she suspected him of being?

"When my sister and Milli arrived without you," he said, "I took it upon myself to come in search of my wayward guest." He glanced up at the darkening sky and she followed the direction of his eyes to see a storm petrel swooping towards the cliff. "The weather is about to change for the worse, I'm afraid."

Though she nodded, she found herself still watching the storm petrel till it disappeared over the cliff. A sign, surely, that something, if not the weather, was about to change for the worse.

"Will you permit me to guide your tour through the abbey ruins before we leave?" He held the crook of his elbow out for her to thread her hand into.

Sucking at the corner of her underlip, well aware that there was no soul save him about, if indeed he owned a soul, she deliberated a short moment whether or not that was a good idea — to put herself so completely into his power like this. To be alone with him like this. But there was no one for miles and, if he meant to kill her, he could well have done that already, for her cries would be swallowed by the wind and the waves blasting the rocks below.

At all events, she was powerless to refuse him; she was drawn to him the very same way the sun was drawn to the horizon — inevitably. Whatever was playing out between them was inevitable. She understood that somehow.

Taking his elbow, she allowed him to guide her away from the cliff and back towards the ruins. They passed the little pond beside the abbey, its grey waters rippling under the wind's ministrations. He lead her down the length of the skeletal nave, roofless but no less grand for all that. They were each of them seemingly caught up in their own thoughts as they passed the north and south transepts, till finally he halted before what remained of the choir, studying it intently.

Evidently her nerves had finally unstrung themselves, for she found herself biting her lips to prevent a malapropos little giggle that fought to free itself. There was no doubt of her madness now. Against her better judgment, almost against her will, she now believed in vampyres; and she was standing beside one trying desperately to keep from laughing! Lord help her but she truly, and finally, had lost her senses.

She could only hope that Winterly was unaware of her sudden, maniacal urge to giggle. But of course he noticed her difficulty, because his brow arched purposefully as he watched her. "You find me amusing?" There was no mistaking that his curiosity was piqued.

"Well, yes. You promised a guided tour, and if I were a paying customer, I should have asked for a refund by now." Perhaps it had been his silence that had so unnerved her to incongruous humor.

He chuckled, his eyes growing warm with appreciation. "So I did." Without removing his gaze from her he gestured to the choir's lancet arches. "You, no doubt, remember the mural in the library?" He waited only for her to nod. "There was a time when all these windows in the choir had been glazed with colored glass; and in one window particularly was the same depiction of that which you saw this morning."

The cannibals. The vampyres. How could she forget.

She said nothing and listened, enthralled, as he continued to describe the many rich furnishings that had adorned the abbey choir. He spoke at length, his voice modulated above the wind, and mesmeric as he painted a picture in her mind's eye, as if recounting the painted walls and carved wooden furnishing as of one remembering; one who had seen it all for himself. A remembrancer rather than a man repeating only what he'd heard described.

"The first abbey," he went on, "that stood here was destroyed by the vikings almost a thousand years ago; Whitby would have been called Streonshalh, back in those days, when Oswy ruled Northumbria." There was a faraway look dimming his eyes. They began walking again and after a while he continued, "It was only after the Norman Conquest that these stones you see here were first erected at Hwitebi. And there they stood till Henry, the second Tudor monarch, had the monasteries dissolved."

When they reached the little Saxon graveyard, Winterly lapsed once more into silence.

Perhaps he was comfortable in it, but she was not. A devilish impulse had come over her and she could be silent on one particular subject no longer. "Do you believe ... in vampyres?" she asked him, her voice almost a whisper.

Quiet though her question had been, he heard her as clearly as though she had shouted it, whipping his head around at her with the speed of a striking adder. "Vampyres?" His eyes narrowed.

"Yes. This morning you spoke of demons and of creatures that defy all reason. Did you say those things to frighten me or do you yourself subscribe to those beliefs?"

"What an odd question." But his body had become rigid as he carefully regarded her. "Yes," he said, after a pause, moving to stand a little closer. "And, I'll be bound, so do you."

But where did that leave them? She could not very well ask him outright if he was a vampyre. He was in the bloom of health, not corpse-like at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. What the deuce was a vampyre supposed to look like?!

Winterly's black eyes glinted as he stared into her, perhaps guessing her thoughts, and she was so mesmerized by him that she did not, at first, notice the mizzle that had begun to fall. Not till it had become a veritable deluge.

And then, right there amidst the old Saxon graves, and the roaring tempest, he kissed her. It was as unexpected and passionate as the blinding streak of lightning that therewith forked over the sea.

In just the same way that his scent was familiar to her, she seemed also, strangely enough, to recognize the feel of his lips, the rhythm of his tongue, as he pressed them to hers. That wicked tongue that had now taken full and sweet advantage of her parted lips. Lips she had first parted in shock at his onslaught.

Skillfully he caressed her mouth with his, running his hands confidently up her sodden back and into her hair, releasing the pins so that her tresses lay heavily over her spine even as she relaxed into his embrace.

The redolence of his skin, mixed as it was with the rain and the wind, intoxicated her completely, so much so that he easily lifted her up and swiftly knelt to lay her flat against one of the tombstones, cradling her head in one hand without even once releasing her mouth.

His fingers glided down her throat to her bodice as she writhed beneath him. From here the kiss only deepened, but now she was as active a participant as any wanton, reveling in his touch; yearning for more than he seemed, for the time being, of a mind to bestow.

The rain lashed furiously at their faces, but she was insensible to it, caught up as she was in his heady, overwhelming presence. In the thrilling pressure of his body against hers. Without the slightest fumble, Winterly's hands moved over her. He dragged his lips to her ear, whispering things that became lost in the gale, and then to her throat at the very same moment she felt a strong hand splayed at her upper thigh, the fingers slipping up to her naked hip.

She arched her back and pressed herself closer to him, kneading her nails at his shoulders. But he had grown still of a sudden, his ardor diminuendoing even as hers continued to spike alongside the storm. Emma felt his lips at the hollow of her neck, his kisses gentling the while the sky, conversely, raged and cracked with more jagged light.

Her senses still reduced to chaos, she was only vaguely aware that Winterly had hoisted her up in his arms again, as though she weighed no more than a penny, and was carrying her over the escarpment. Were it not for his drugging lips, she might have regained those senses the sooner.

As it was, they reached the bottom of the stone steps before she realized what she'd allowed him to do. She immediately implored him to put her down, utterly mortified, and he did so but reluctantly, grinning broadly as she endeavored to straighten her skirts and fix her hair. Wherever her bonnet had gone, she doubted very much she'd ever see it again. Would that she never had to see his knowing smirk again either.

The barouche was waiting close by, and its top had, by now, been raised against the rain that continued to pelt them. He quickly handed her up into the carriage and then climbed up after her. No sooner had he seated himself than she felt the horses leap into action, tearing down the empty road, the traders and fishermen having already escaped the storm.

Neither of them said aught as the wheels rolled wetly across the countryside. He only stared out of the window. She thought him unaware of her own gaze drifting over his mouth — those same sculpted lips that had bruised hers — until he spoke.

"If you continue to stare, I shall consider it an invitation to continue what was started on that cliff, Emma."

She nearly gasped at the suddenness of his voice, preoccupied as he appeared to be, and felt her blood suffuse her neck and bosom. Moreover, it was her name, spoken from a lover's lips, with a lover's inflection, that had affected her the more. She had not invited him to use it, but he had done so anyway, rake that he was.

She should feel outraged that he had taken liberties, but they both knew that she had been as willing as he. Now that she had averted her gaze, she could feel his as he followed the blush of her skin. Her heart skipped wildly as her chest heaved, her nipples pebbling beneath the drenched layers of muslin.

She should hate herself for her own base reaction to him, but she could find no will to regret their impulsive kiss. She was an old maid after all, and had not so much as kissed a man before, let alone such a man as he was — handsome and irresistible.

If she was going to berate herself, let it be for kissing a vampyre. Let it be for falling in love with a vampyre.

"Shall I come to your room tonight, Emma?" Not even the rain thundering at the carriage roof could drown out his silky voice.

Taking a deep, bolstering breath into her lungs, she gave him her answer. "No."

He said nothing more. It was the longest carriage ride of her life, and all the way home she knew, with certainty, that this would not be the last time he asked her that particular question. And, likewise, she was not sure, even knowing what he was, that she could refuse him forever.

🌟unfortunately I'm having to deal with a few private matters that are making it impossible to write as much as I want to. That being said, I can only focus on one book at a time. Will therefore finish Curse Of Blood first and thereafter I'll attempt to finish this one. Sorry for the inconvenience 😞 I hope you understand.🌟