Night's Kiss

How had he known? She lifted her chin defiantly. "I got tired of watching the television. I do not understand it."

"I thought I explained it to you."

"I still do not know what is real and what is, what was the word? Fiction?"

"I'll explain it to you again later tonight, if you like."

She sat up, the bedspread drawn up to her chin even though she was fully clothed. "What are you doing in here?"

He lifted one dark brow. "This is my room, remember? My clothes are in here."

Her gaze swept over him, noting that he was wearing the same shirt and breeches he had worn the night before.

Rising, he went to the dresser and pulled out a change of underwear, then went to the closet and selected a shirt and a pair of trousers. She noted that he favored black.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said, moving toward the bathroom. "I won't be long. Later tonight I'll move my things into another room."

She nodded, thinking she should probably feel guilty for making him move out of his bedroom, but she didn't. After all, she hadn't asked to come here.

She watched him go into the bathroom and close the door. A moment later she heard the sound of running water. To her consternation, she found herself imagining Roshan standing under the spray, the water coursing down his shoulders and arms, his broad chest, his stomach, his—

With a gasp, she jerked her thoughts away, horrified at the path her mind was wandering. No matter that she was attracted to Roshan DeLongpre, no matter that he walked in her dreams by night and occupied her every waking thought by day. Even though he was the most handsome of men, she had to remember that he was not truly a man at all. To love a vampire… ah, 'twould be folly indeed.

She glanced around the room, trying to find something else— anything else— to think of besides Roshan standing in the shower, but to no avail. The more she tried not to think about him, the more vivid her fantasies became. She had felt the strength in his arms. Was the rest of his body as hard and well-muscled? She licked her lips, remembering the excitement of his kisses, the way her very being had tingled at his touch. To her shame, she wished he would kiss her again so that she could feel his arms around her, feel her breasts crushed against his chest. Such unseemly thoughts for a maiden, she scolded. Until she met Roshan, she had never known such wicked imaginings.

Heat flooded her cheeks when the bathroom door opened. She stared at him, fervently praying that he could not read her mind.

He didn't say a word, but she knew from the amused look in his eyes that he was aware of her wayward thoughts. Whistling softly, he left the room.

Scrambling out from under the covers, Brenna closed and locked the door. Going into the bathroom, she locked that door, as well, then took a quick shower, all too aware that Roshan was in the house and that, should he wish to enter the room, the lock would not keep him out.

Stepping out of the shower, she grabbed a towel, marveling at its softness as she used it to dry off and then wrapped it around her.

Going into the bedroom, she pulled a vibrant green silk blouse from one of the bags, a long white skirt from another, undergarments from a third. She pulled on a pair of panties, loving the silky feel of the material against her skin.

So many changes in fashion, both in fabric and style, so many varieties to choose from in this new world. At home, she'd had but three dresses, two for everyday wear and one she kept for special occasions and holidays. No woman in her village had ever worn breeches. It simply wasn't done, nor, she was certain, had it ever been considered.

She brushed her hair and then her teeth, marveling again at the wonders of Roshan's time. Imagine, a brush just for keeping her teeth clean. An oven that cooked things in seconds instead of hours, machines that washed dishes and clothes, cooking on a stove instead of on a tripod. She couldn't count the number of women she had treated for burns because their skirts had caught fire when they reached into the hearth to stir a pot or retrieve one from the coals.

She glanced around the room, wishing for a looking glass so that she might see how she looked, only then remembering that there were no mirrors in the house save for the small one on the medicine cabinet. Of course, she thought with a sheepish grin. Roshan had no need of mirrors, since vampires cast no reflection.

Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door and made her way down the stairs. Morgana trailed at her heels, meowing softly. Going into the kitchen, Brenna opened the back door so the cat could go outside.

Brenna found Roshan sitting at his computer. Coming up behind him, she watched his fingers fly over the keyboard.

"What are you doing?" she asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Writing."

"Writing what?" She looked closer, frowning when she saw her name appear on the screen.

"My journal," he replied.

"Oh?"

"I've kept a record of my life since I became a vampire," he explained. At first, he had jotted his thoughts on scraps of paper; later, he had typed them up on a manual typewriter. With the advent of modern technology, he had transferred everything to his computer with the vague idea that someday in the future he might take a go at writing a novel based on his life story. He would have to sell it as fiction, of course. No one would ever believe any of it was true.

"I should like to read it," Brenna said.

"Indeed?" He closed the file, then swiveled his chair around to face her.

"Very much, especially since my name is in it."

"Perhaps one day," he replied. "What would you like to do this evening?"

"What did you say about me?"

"I wrote about how I found your name in a book and then how I traveled through time to find you, and what has happened between us since. Now, what would you like to do this evening?"

She stared at him, trying to imagine what it would be like to live as long as he had, to have seen all the wondrous things he must have seen in his long life.

"Brenna?"

"What? Oh, I should like to see more of the city."

"Let's go."

He showed her the city from one end to the other. When she expressed an interest in driving the car, he explained about turn signals and hand signals and then he drove to the outskirts of town and let her drive along a long stretch of quiet road.

She was a quick study. It was one of the things he liked best about her.

In the weeks that followed, he let her drive along quiet streets until he felt she was ready to handle heavier traffic, and then he let her drive in the city and finally on the freeway. He showed her how to put gas in the Ferrari and how to pay for it with his credit card. He found a copy of the Department of Motor Vehicles handbook and went over it with her until he was confident that she knew all the rules and traffic signals.

Late one night, he made a visit to the seedy side of town, and for a couple hundred dollars he obtained a birth certificate certifying that Brenna Flanagan had been born in a small town in Ireland in 1989. Another hundred dollars procured a driver's license from the same country.

He bought a washing machine and a dryer and together they learned how they worked. When she asked how he had washed his clothes before, he explained about dry cleaners and told her that some clothes could be washed at home but some had to be sent out. Not wanting to be bothered with laundry, he sent everything out, including his socks and underwear.

She learned how to run the vacuum and the DVD player, how to order takeout food over the phone.

Late one night, he spread a handful of currency and coins on the kitchen table and explained to her the value of each one.

Brenna spent part of her days watching television, trying to absorb what she was seeing. She understood now which programs were real and which weren't. For a time, she watched nothing but the news, completely astounded that she could watch things happening as they happened, not only in this place but on the other side of the world. She had never realized just how big the world was, or what a frightening place it could be. Sitting on the sofa in Roshan's house, she saw the grim faces of war and hunger and poverty. How blessed she was, she thought, to live in this country, in this time of peace and prosperity, a time when women were no longer considered chattel. No longer were they compelled to obey their husbands or marry for land or titles. Women were allowed to be independent now. They lived alone if they wished. They worked. They voted. They held public office. Truly, it was a wondrous age!

She spent hours experimenting in the kitchen. Once she got over her initial uneasiness at using the stove and the oven, she immersed herself in learning how to cook. Eating was, after all, a pleasurable experience, more so in this century than her own. There were so many foodstuffs she had never encountered before, so many ways of preparing various dishes.

One night, Roshan took her grocery shopping. She was aware of his wry amusement as she examined practically every item on the shelves. She was amazed at the way food was packaged, surprised to learn that you could buy milk when there wasn't a cow in sight, astonished that she could buy dinners that were already cooked and ready to eat. She discovered that bread came in a number of varieties. There was white bread and wheat bread, potato bread and egg bread, pumpernickel, dill, and rye. She was eager to try all of them, not to mention rolls and biscuits, croissants and cupcakes.

"I shall soon be as fat as old Mrs. McKenna," Brenna remarked as she placed several loaves of bread in the cart. "Do you not miss eating?"

He shook his head. "I can scarcely remember what solid food was like."

"How can you drink blood?" she asked with a shudder.

"It's normal for me." At first, he had been certain that he would rather die than do what was necessary for him to survive in his new lifestyle. He had gone for several nights without feeding, refusing to succumb to the hellish thirst that had plagued him. In the end, it had been the pain that drove him to it, pain so bad he would have done anything to end it. All it had taken was one taste, one drop, and all his revulsion had been swept away.

Brenna added a bunch of carrots to the basket. "But to drink nothing but… but that for such a long time. Do you never tire of it?" ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">