This Rough Magic
Author
Heather Graham
Reads
19.5K
Chapters
12
When costume designer Carly Kiernan gets an invitation from her sister to attend a costume ball at Castle Vadim, she immediately jumps on the professional opportunity of a lifetime. But upon her arrival, Carly quickly realizes that the Carpathian mountains are nothing like New York city. Right in the border with Romania, the Gothic castle stands implacable and chilling, and the full moon and howling wolves definitely fit the Halloween vibe. But nothing could have prepared Carly for her encounter with Count Vadim himself. Mysterious, perplexing, and incredibly handsome, Jon is an enigma, so why is Carly stuck between the instinct to run away or to fall in love?
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
The moon rose high over the misty night, bright, round and full. It cast an eerie glow upon the shrouded forests that sat on either side of the ancient trail that led to Castle Vadim.
A wolf howled. It was a lonely, haunting sound in the darkness. Despite herself, Carly Kiernan felt a rivulet of chills cascade down her spine. In her corner of the elegant Vadim carriage, she smiled to herself, holding back the velvet drapery at the small window to see the peculiar beauty of the night. The count, it seemed, was being granted some magnificent special effects for his Halloween party.
But then, what else? Castle Vadim sat high upon the picturesque Carpathian mountains, in the Duchy of Westphalen, which bordered Romania. Like Transylvania, its other neighbor, Westphalen was a land of legend, of baying dogs and howling wolves, of the real Vlad Dracul, the Impaler. By day the castle was a splendid Gothic structure, her sister, Jasmine, had assured Carly. It was impeccably clean and elegant. No cobweb would dare to dust its ancient rock.
But by night, as Carly could see now, the castle stood implacable and chilling, surrounded by a surreal, yellowish glow, turrets and towers rising stark against the moonlit sky.
The wolf howled again. Plaintively.
Despite herself, Carly shivered once more. This was a far cry from Manhattan, where the mass of buildings created a landscape of pure concrete, where neon and glitter, noise and bustle were the order of the day.
Carly was struck by the sheer loneliness of this place. Miles of forest and swirling mist separated each tiny village from the next, and the shrouding fog seemed to rule eternally, resting upon the ground, dancing within the trees, creating imagery, fantasy and the magic of illusion.
And that wolf! She could hear the creature’s cry over the sounds of the hooves of the black stallions that pulled the eighteenth-century carriage, over the grating of the wheels and the jolting of the coach body. The cry hung on the night air, and each time she heard it, she shivered with some primal fear. This was the modern world, and she knew she was perfectly safe. Wolves did prowl the woods, but she would soon be at the castle—safe from the beasts of the night, if nothing else.
She frowned, leaning back, watching the moon with its ivory circle of haze. The atmosphere was fascinating, marvelous. She couldn’t believe that she was here, and she wouldn’t have been here if it hadn’t been for Jasmine.
Carly opened her evening bag and fingered the letter that had come to her in the States last week. She smoothed out the paper and read the words again.
Carly, I know that you have been hesitating, but you must come here for the Halloween party! The count is wonderful. I’m so very excited. I need you. I really need you. You must come!
Jasmine ran a travel agency that was very popular with the jet set, and she was always jaunting off somewhere. Carly had known about the party—she had planned costumes for herself and her sister months ago—though she hadn’t decided whether to really come or not until she received the letter. But the words “I need you. I really need you” had bothered Carly.
Carly was even more disturbed now, because she hadn’t been able to contact Jasmine since she arrived this afternoon. Her calls to the castle had been answered by a confused maid. It seemed as if the count didn’t want to see her or even talk to her. Actually, it seemed as if he wanted her to go home. Carly had even tried to explain about Jasmine, and that she’d been invited herself.
At long last the concierge at her hotel had appeared at her door to tell her that the count would see her at the party and would send his coach for her at eight.
Jasmine had so forcibly tried to persuade her to come, and now this count, whom Jasmine was so crazy about, was behaving incredibly rudely.
Staring out at the night sky as they lurched along, Carly remembered how it had all begun. Jasmine had come to see her in New York between trips, and she had already been talking about Count Vadim’s costume ball. Carly designed costumes for a living, and Jasmine was convinced that she could help Carly’s career through her acquaintances.
“The ball will be wonderful for you professionally,” Jasmine had assured her. “You must wear the blue silk Empire gown with the velvet cloak. It’s the most stunning outfit I’ve ever seen. Geoffrey Taylor will be there, and I’m sure he’ll demand you do the work for his next play.” She had added softly, “And you’ll have to come out of that cocoon you’ve spun around yourself since Tim. It’ll be good for you.”
Carly had been hesitant, and it now appeared that Jasmine had known it. But Carly had thought even then about coming.
It was more than the professional benefit. She had felt that she needed to come. She had been hiding for a long time, and maybe she was ready to meet the world again. Or maybe she wasn’t really ready to meet the world at all, but the tiny duchy was so different that there she could more easily reenter society. Perhaps she did not have to come into the world as herself at all; her entire time here could be a wonderful dress-up party, and she could pretend that she was living a dream.
“You’ll like Geoffrey,” Jasmine had assured her. It didn’t really matter to Carly whether she liked the man or not; she wanted only a professional association with him. He produced the kind of plays she found fascinating, wonderful extravanganzas, and she longed to design the costumes for just one of his plays.
“Ah...and just wait until you meet the count!” Jasmine had teased her with wide eyes.
“Count Dracula?”
“You laugh, my dear child,” Jasmine warned, shaking a finger at her. “I’m talking about Count Vadim, of course, but I warn you, my sweet innocent, his effect is the same.”
“Is it?” Carly had been amused. She and Jasmine were very different women. Jasmine was a whirl of emotion; Carly was more careful. It often seemed to her that a part had died with Tim, that she could not feel again.
“Just wait,” Jasmine warned her sagely. “I’ve seen many a supersavvy jet-setter lose her heart, virtue—and her very soul—over the man.”
“Her very soul?”
“Be a smarty,” Jasmine retorted. “You’ll see!”
Just what was going on? Carly wondered. She hadn’t been able to see much of her sister lately, and in fact, Jasmine had been in a big hurry in New York. She had simply taken her altered harem costume and left.
Forgetting the conversation with her sister, Carly suddenly sat up, her frown deepening. The coachman seemed to be going faster and faster, and from inside the ancient carriage, Carly thought his speed didn’t seem at all safe.
“Hey!” she protested as a sudden jolt sent her crashing against the side of the carriage. She didn’t know if “Hey!” translated as anything into French, the official language of the duchy. It wouldn’t matter; he would never hear her over the clatter of the hooves.
She steadied herself, biting her lower lip in perplexity. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing in the carriage, anyway. She would have gladly called a cab. But the concierge at the hotel had assured her that the carriage was very real, that it had been in the Vadim family for generations. With its velvet seats and carved coat of arms, massive wheels and elegant brass folding steps, it was beautiful. The stallions wore plumes on their bridles, and Carly thought the whole thing resembled Cinderella’s fabulous carriage.
She wasn’t at all thrilled with her curious transportation at the moment. They were going far too fast, and she wished she’d been picked up in the Vadim Lamborghini. Carly didn’t know a great deal about the roads here nor about eighteenth-century carriages, but she did know that the speed of this one couldn’t possibly agree with the condition of the road.
Carly clutched at the ancient velvet seats to steady herself.
“Hey! Stop! Slow down!” she called out. She gritted her teeth, wondering if the driver was insane, wondering if she was about to be pitched into the valley far, far below.
“Please!” she cried. She tried to reach the window, but the tremendous pitching and swaying of the carriage sent her sliding back.
Hadn’t there been a movie like this? she wondered uneasily. A dark night with a full moon, a misted forest and the cry of a wolf. A carriage wrecked within the fog-shrouded forest, and a woman left there alone, vulnerable, frightened, easy prey?...
For the terrors of the night.
A full moon. The time for demons, for witchcraft and satanism...and werewolves. And here she was, on All Hallows’ Eve, in the mountainous region so very near Transylvania....
Don’t be absurd! Carly raged to herself in silence. She didn’t need to be afraid of a legend. What she needed was to be wary of the very real danger that threatened her now, the runaway carriage. Her life was in peril; the vehicle could overturn at any moment.
“Please! Driver! Sir!”
Against the jolting, she managed to pull herself to the window and held on with all her strength. The carriage veered, but she wound her fingers around the wooden frame and brought her head just outside the window so that she could look for the driver.
“Sir!”
The moon passed behind a sudden cloud, then came out again. Cold panic seized Carly.
There was no driver. The coachman’s seat loomed dark and empty beneath the glow of the moonlight.
“No!” she whispered.
Her grip upon the frame went limp. The carriage slammed and jolted, and she went flying to the opposite side. Her head struck the paneling—hard.
For a moment she saw stars. Her head cleared and she tried to sit up again; she needed desperately to think. She’d surely kill herself if she jumped.
Yet if she remained inside as the horses careened along at this gallop, she would surely be cast over the side of the mountain when they came around one of the perilous curves.
Suddenly, the carriage veered, slowed somewhat, then lost a wheel. Carly screamed as the carriage slammed down with a horrible rending sound. She prayed almost mindlessly, certain that her life was at an end.
Then the carriage spun and tumbled. Carly screamed again as she was thrown savagely about. Her head banged against the roof of the vehicle, and blackness followed.
Carly opened her eyes slowly. She had no idea how long she’d been out. She blinked, thinking that she had a hell of a headache. She looked above her, and the moon was still shining.
Painfully, she raised herself on her elbows.
She was still in the carriage, or what was left of it. The vehicle’s frame had broken apart. She lay upon a velvet seat, but that seat lay on the ground.
It was as if a sudden twister had picked up the carriage and tossed it to the ground in a frenzy.
Carly groaned aloud, pressing on her temples. She flexed her fingers and her toes, then her arms and legs. She was all right, she decided with relief. She was disheveled and disoriented but otherwise alive and well.
Just as she was congratulating herself on her well-being, the wolf howled again.
The sound was so much louder now. Frightening.
The wolf was near. Trying to stagger to her feet among the wreckage, Carly looked around. She was in a small clearing. Thank God the carriage had crashed into the forest, she thought, and not over the edge of the rugged mountain road.
But the mist was heavy around her. It swirled against her, covered the base of the trees and made an eerie enigma of the forest.
The wolf could be anywhere. He could be watching her from the cover of the trees.
There was a sudden rustling to her left. Carly tried to spin around. She cried out, aware suddenly that her ankle was injured. In pain she fell back against the seat, straining to see through the mist.
Something was out there. The rustling came again, and her heart began to pound.
A cloud hid the moon once more. Total darkness descended upon her.
Her breathing was ragged and desperate as she blinked into the total darkness. “Oh, God!” she whispered.
Then she assured herself that she didn’t believe in ghosts or goblins, werewolves or vampires or anything that went bump in the night.
No...she didn’t believe in ghosts or in mythical beings.
But she was in the Carpathian mountains. And a full moon was hidden by a black cloud and she was alone and hurt on a mist-shrouded mountain where wolves preyed....
“Don’t be silly,” she warned herself aloud, needing to hear the sound of her own voice. She didn’t usually have a wild imagination, and wasn’t easily frightened. She was a New Yorker. She lived in a city with any number of wolves and bloodsuckers; it was just that those wolves and tricksters walked upright and spoke with smooth voices. In the city, she carried her Mace.
But in these mountains...
She could imagine an old gypsy woman warning Lon Chaney, Jr. that the curse of the werewolf would come upon him by the light of the full moon. There had been woods in the movie, too.
There was no such thing as a werewolf! But there were great, big, hairy canine creatures that might very well come after a defenseless woman in the woods.
She wasn’t defenseless. She was a New Yorker, and that had to count for something.
“Oh, God,” she said. But it was true. She had nothing to defend herself with.
There came a rustling sound from the bushes.
Carly swallowed. Even if she knew in which direction she should be going, she couldn’t walk. She still couldn’t see, either.
She reached forward blindly. Groping, she found a long, splintered piece of wood.
Where was the driver? What the hell had happened to him? she wondered irritably.
The wolf howled again. Carly let out a gasp, gripping her weapon more tightly. It was really just a splintered piece of wood, she thought dismally. Not strong at all. If a rabid wolf came after her, it would probably break in two seconds. But it was sharp, at least. It was kind of a stake, she decided. A stake, like the kind used to kill vampires.
Vampires.
“Oh!” she wailed. “Stop it!”
But there was a wolf out there. And it was coming closer, circling around her, she thought.
And it was so dark. She could feel the mist about her, soft and damp and swirling. There was another rustle in the trees, right in front of her.
It was just the horses, she tried to tell herself.
No, she was sure she had heard them running away as the carriage crashed and broke up.
Maybe they had come back.
No. Whatever moved toward her seemed to have night vision. It came slowly, slyly. Furtively.
The cloud moved. Eerie moonlight lighted the copse again. Carly looked up at the orb in the sky, then gasped when she heard movement once more. She looked across the copse, and her scream seemed to freeze in her throat.
It was the wolf.
Huge and snarling, its yellow eyes fixed upon her. The beast stood not twenty-five yards away. Saliva dripped from its ivory fangs.
It would kill her, Carly thought. She had her little stick; the wolf had sharp fangs. How much did the beast weigh? she wondered. A hundred pounds? A hundred fifty pounds?
What did it matter? She herself was five foot four and not quite a hundred and ten pounds. The wolf could devour her in one swallow, or, at the very least, tear her to shreds.
If it was just a wolf.
A distant howl sounded; Carly decided that the woods were full of beasts. This one wanted her. To rip her limb from limb.
“No!” She shook her head to dispel the fantasy. If she weren’t frozen by such sheer terror, her eyes locked with those of the wolf, she would have smiled at her imagination.
She had to realize that the wolf was as real as the careening carriage, and she had to fight it to save her life. But her weapon was so flimsy.
Still, she faltered to her feet, then carefully balanced her weight upon her good foot and raised her flimsy stick high above her head in what she thought was a threatening manner.
The wolf took a step toward her.
She knew not to run. A wolf was cousin to a dog, and Carly knew that running would only bring on a growling dog. Not that she could have run, anyway. But despite herself, when the wolf came forward, she stepped back, nearly screaming out at the pain that shot through her ankle.
The wolf came on again. Slowly. As if he could corner her.
And again, despite all the commands her mind gave her limbs, Carly took another step back.
This time she collided with something. Something massive and dark and living. Another scream catching in her throat, she whirled.
The moon passed behind the cloud again. Darkness filled the sky and the night.
And then the moon reappeared.
Carly discovered that she was looking up at a man. She had backed up against an immense horse, and astride the horse was a man. He wore a high-collared cape and sat the curiously still animal with a natural grace. His hair was as jet as the night, and his eyes...
They were the same golden glowing amber as those of the wolf. Striking eyes. So powerful that it was several seconds before she realized that they belonged to a ruggedly handsome face.
Carly tried to open her mouth to speak. The man smiled, then looked past her to the wolf. He stared at it hard, then spoke softly to the creature.
“Go, Vixen!”
The wolf whined, tucked its tail between its legs and hurried into the forest.
The man dismounted. His cape swept about him as he did so. When he stood before Carly, she realized that he was wearing a soft cotton shirt with fine lace sleeves, black velvet breeches, white hose and black buckled shoes. He was several inches over six feet, she guessed. His shoulders were broad, and he moved with the lithe grace of an athlete.
“Ms. Kiernan?” he said sharply.
Carly swallowed, finding it difficult to speak. He was dark and fascinating, and the mist swirling about their feet made her wonder if the man could be real.
“Yes,” she managed to reply.
He smiled slowly. She thought it was the most sensual smile that she had ever seen. His smile was youthful, but his eyes were all knowing. They were hazel, she assured herself. A nice, normal hazel.
“You’re hurt.” His voice was husky and warm and deep. It entered her bloodstream and warmed her. There was a very slight accent to it, as if he spoke English without hesitation, as if he knew her. As if he had known that she would be here, alone and vulnerable in the misted woods.
He towered over her, and on this night in particular he left her in no little awe. She stared up into his eyes as if she were compelled to do so, and then realized what she was doing. Quickly she lowered her lashes.
“You’re hurt,” he repeated.
“No, no, not really—”
She broke off as he reached into her hair and removed a strand of dry grass. Self-consciously Carly moved her fingers through her hair. Her French braid had come loose. Half her tawny hair remained entwined; half of it spilled upon her shoulders. He stared deep into her eyes and gave her a crooked, rueful smile. Carly felt herself returning that stare, unable to turn away. She trembled slightly, feeling as if he touched her.
He was a stranger, a man who had appeared in the woods out of nowhere, she reminded herself. A silent wraith in the night. She felt warm and safe, though she was alone in the fog-drenched woods with him. She didn’t know who he was, or where he had come from, only that he wore a cape and rode a black horse and had the power to make a wolf slink away from its prey.
At least he spoke English, she thought. Her French was sufficient when she was ordering food and wine; it would not carry her far in a political debate.
She could not tear her eyes from his, nor could she fight the feeling that she was warm and safe now, because he was here.
He broke the eye contact, looking beyond her to the ruins of the carriage. He stared at the wreckage, then back at her.
“My God! What happened?” he exclaimed huskily.
“I, uh, I’m not sure. Suddenly we were speeding, and then I realized that there was no driver, and then the carriage...crashed.”
“You could have been killed.”
There was a harsh sound to his voice; it had a deep timbre, and the concern in it seemed to touch her all over again.
“I’m all right,” she told him.
“Where the hell is the driver?” he demanded.
“I—I don’t know. I hope he isn’t hurt.”
“If he isn’t hurt, then he should be horsewhipped.” He stared at the wreckage again, still scowling. “My God,” he murmured once more. His eyes, darkened by emotion, sought and held hers.
“I’m all right,” she insisted. “Really. Thanks to you. I admit that I was quite frightened by the wolf.”
“Ah...the wolf,” he said softly, arching a brow. “Yes, well, the wolf is gone now.”
Then the moon slipped behind a cloud again and darkness descended upon them. Carly couldn’t see his face or his features; she was barely aware that he still stood before her in front of the sleek black horse. Just then a streak of lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the night. Now she saw the stranger before her clearly. He seemed to tower over her. He was very dark, compelling with his striking good looks. There was something about him that was so starkly masculine that it added an aura of tension and sensuality to him. If he did touch her, Carly knew, she would tremble.
The lightning flashed again. Furiously, the black horse pawed the earth.
“Satan!” the man said sharply.
Satan, Carly thought fleetingly. How appropriate.
Would the horse listen to his command just as easily as the wolf had?
The black horse reared suddenly, then slammed down upon the earth. The stranger caught hold of Carly’s bare shoulders and dragged her away from the horse’s hooves.
She cried out as her weight was placed on her sore ankle.
“You’re hurt!” the man observed.
“No, I—”
“You’ve been injured. Don’t act like a fool. You screamed in pain.”
“I’m—”
“It’s going to pour. All Hallows’ Eve—a good rainstorm is right in order. I’ve got to get you out of here.”
“Wait! If you’ll just listen to me! I was heading for the castle—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take you there,” he promised her softly. His eyes held hers again. For the life of her, Carly couldn’t look away.
Nor for the life of her could she remember when she had met such a man. He infuriated her with his dictatorial manner, but he also fascinated her. He was both elegant in his costume and so crudely male that he made her shiver. Made her think of illicit things in a peripheral, forbidden section of her mind. Staring at him, she felt a blush cover her cheeks. No man had ever made her feel this way.
She was feeling things that she barely understood. She’d never known such a sexual attraction. It was the night, she assured herself. It was the mist and it was the wind, and it was the primal howling and prowling of the wolves in the darkness. It was something instinctive inside her that brought her to him, for she was alone in this world of danger and fantasy, alone with him and in his keeping.
It was like a spell, she told herself. When they reached the castle, when they were surrounded by people and lights, the spell would be broken.
“If you’ll take my hand,” she managed to whisper, “I’m sure I’ll be able to walk.”
He didn’t take her hand. Instead, he stepped forward and swept her into his arms. She clung to him, her arms locked around his neck. And yet when his gaze fell upon her then, she blushed again. It was such an intimate hold. She could feel the warmth of his blood as it coursed through his body. She could feel his heartbeat.
And she knew he could feel and see her pulse. Her gown left bare her shoulders and soft cleavage. She was sure he saw the quick rise and fall of her breasts, and when his eyes met hers again, there were both enigma and truth there.
“This isn’t necessary,” she told him.
He grinned down at her, and she thought he knew all her weaknesses.
“I think that it is.”
“And what you think always matters?” she parried.
“At the moment, yes, it does. Do you care to debate the subject with me?”
Finding no words, she chose to stare at him, hoping that a pretense of cool condemnation would duly chastise him.
It didn’t seem to affect him in the least.
“You’re cold,” he said softly. “We will quickly warm you.”
And he did warm her, with the mere tone and cadence of his words. The blood rushed through her. She felt a flush rise to her cheeks.
Lightning flashed across the sky once more. He started walking toward Satan. Another bolt rent the night air.
The black stallion reared again. Reared and bolted.
“Satan, you devil, you!” the stranger roared in anger. Carly felt the constriction of his arms, felt the power of him. He was all warmth and vitality. Her heart began to thunder. He was holding her so tightly. She reminded herself that she was on foreign soil, lost in the mist, more alone with this man than ever as the black stallion’s hoofbeats faded.
He looked down at her. His eyes glimmered gold, and he smiled slowly. “It may take us time to get back.”
“You could put me down.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
It was preposterous, she thought. He wasn’t going to release her. She could only hope that he was really—decently—trying to help her.
“Do you know where we are?” she asked. It was so odd to talk to a total stranger when that man was holding her in his arms. They were so intimate, and yet their conversation had to be so casual.
“Yes, I know where we are.” He grinned wickedly, and for an uncanny moment he resembled the legendary Count of Darkness. “I know my way well. It will just take us a little longer to reach our objective. I’m afraid that I’m not as fleet as that monster of a stallion.”
Carly swallowed, wondering why she felt as if he could have compelled the animal to return, had he truly desired to do so.
“Well, my lady,” he murmured gallantly, falling into the role that her fine silk and velvet costume suggested. He started walking. He moved easily, as if her weight meant very little to him.
For a while they walked in silence. Carly keenly felt the mist. A wolf howled somewhere, and she tensed. The stranger tightened his arms around her, and she discovered his hypnotic eyes staring into hers again, his lips curled into a fascinating and wicked smile.
“You are safe, you know,” he said.
Carly wasn’t sure of what to say. Where he held her, she seemed to burn. Where he didn’t touch her, she felt cold. She was struck with the intimacy of his hold and was amazed anew at her reaction to him. She had never easily fallen for a man.
But then, she had never met such a man. When she had loved, it had been slowly and deeply. She had never known this feeling of...excitement until love had found its roots within her.
Perhaps she had never been touched by someone like this. Someone who towered against the darkness of the night, vibrant, sure and strong. Someone who swept her into his arms without thought of asking permission. Someone who compelled her, frightened her, who fascinated her to no end....
Was this safety?
She had to get down. She could not let him hold her so intimately any longer.
“Please, really, you can’t carry me all that way,” she said.
He looked down at her and arched a deadly dark brow. He smiled again, slowly. They both knew he could carry her all night with little effort, if he so chose.
“I promise you, you’re safe,” he told her.
Perhaps, but safe from what? Certainly not from him...
Lightning came now in a sudden flash; thunder cracked ferociously. And suddenly rain fell. It was a soft patter at first but turned to a blinding flood.
He held her more closely against him. Water streamed down his strong features and clung to his lashes. He caught the corner of his cloak and swept that around her, using the breadth of his shoulders to protect her the best he could.
“I don’t think we can make the castle in this!” he shouted over the rain. “I’m heading for the hunting lodge. All right?”
She sincerely doubted that she had a choice.
He turned off into the woods. When the moon fell behind the clouds, she couldn’t see anything. She couldn’t protest; she could barely move as he hurried along. The rain was hard and stinging. She opened her mouth once to speak, and it was instantly filled with water. Having little choice, Carly closed her mouth and her eyes and clung to him. Branches and twigs snapped and the foliage crackled beneath his feet as they hurried on.
In another flash of lightning, Carly saw that they had come to something at last. It was the hunter’s cottage, made of hewn logs. She had hoped they would come upon people, but they didn’t. The place was dark, and the absence of wires indicated there was no electricity.
He burst through the doorway. Carly was blinded by the darkness, but apparently he could see. Without faltering, he set her down upon something soft and dry and warm. She lay still, shivering. She heard his footsteps as he moved about. A second later, a candle gleamed from a bare wooden table in the center of the room. His face was eerie above that glow as he smiled at her.
“I’ll build a fire,” he promised. He came back over to her. She trembled as he touched her lower lip with his forefinger. “You’re shivering. It will warm you and dry us, I hope.”
Carly didn’t speak as he moved away. She watched the easy way he hunkered down, his weight on the balls of his feet as he built a fire. Taking a long match from the narrow stone mantel above him, he touched the flame against several places.
At last, he seemed satisfied that the fire was catching. Though Carly could already feel the warmth that radiated from it, she shivered.
He rose, then swung around, sweeping the cape around him. She noticed again the jet black of his hair, the glowing gold of his eyes, the full sensuality of his mouth and the lean but powerful grace of his stance.
“Is that better?” he asked.
Carly nodded, still huddled upon the bed.
“I think I can make it even better than that,” he assured her. He left the mantel and walked to the other side of the room. There was an old well pump there, a sink and a number of cabinets above a counter. He reached into the cabinets and produced glasses and a bottle of brandy.
“Do you—know the owner?” Carly asked. She should be nervous, she told herself. She shouldn’t feel so comfortable and so easy with this strange man in this strange place. He was dressed as Dracula, and he might as well have been that elusive demon, for it seemed his power over her was as great as that of the legendary Count over the young women he seduced.
He paused, smiling slowly as he looked at her a moment. He set the glasses down and poured brandy into each. “Yes, I know the owner,” he told her.
He walked over to her, offering the brandy. She took the glass. He raised his. “A toast, mademoiselle. You are a demoiselle this evening, no? A lady of Napoleon’s court?”
Carly smiled. “I was.”
He stood over her. His wet shirt and breeches hugged his body. She looked up into his eyes and raised her glass to touch it to his. “Cheers, monsieur. You’ve done all this and we’re not even properly introduced. Well, you knew my name. I’m here with my sister, Jasmine, for the Vadim’s ball. Well, I’m not with Jasmine. I’m looking for her. She should be at the ball.”
“Ah, I see.” He offered her no more information. He stood there, and she was keenly aware of him as a man again, disturbingly aware of the body the wet clothing clung to—the lean, masculine hips, the long well-muscled legs.
She looked back into his eyes, his compelling amber eyes. He moved away from her, walking toward the fire, which was growing steadily to a sure blaze.
Carly swallowed her brandy. It burned her throat, then warmed her belly and limbs. He tilted back his head and swallowed his brandy and set the glass on the mantel. He turned around to face her. He was purely arresting there, tall and powerful and supremely confident, supremely male.
He smiled, a smile that was both wicked and amused.
She was no easily frightened child, Carly knew. She was a mature woman who knew how to deal with life and death and men. Even this one, she assured herself.
But still the tremors raced through her.
Seated upon a quilt-covered bunk with her toes curled beneath her, Carly straightened her shoulders. She returned his smile with a slightly arrogant one of her own, her brow arched. “Who are you?” she asked bluntly.
He moved away from the mantel, picking up the brandy bottle from the counter. He came back over to her and poured a second measure into her glass. She had to will herself to hold it steady. When he was finished, his eyes met hers.
“I am the count,” he said.
She smiled. “Vlad Dracul, yes, I can see that. Your costume is wonderful. I meant who are you really?”
His smile deepened. “The count, mademoiselle.”
Carly frowned. “The count—”
“Count Vadim, Ms. Kiernan. I am Count Jon Vadim.”
He kept his eyes locked upon her. The fire rose and crackled, and the room seemed to be ablaze. Carly wanted to tear her gaze from his but could not.
He touched her chin, caressing it lightly with his palm and callused fingers. “Welcome to Westphalen, Carly Kiernan.”
Carly felt his touch, and her flesh caught fire. She wondered vaguely if she hadn’t already lost her sanity, her soul.
So this was Count Vadim.
She had been warned about him.
Jasmine had warned her....
His smile suddenly seemed cold. “All right. Fantasy time is over, Ms. Kiernan. So now tell me. Just who are you really, and what the hell do you want here?”
