Colin took another sip of beer, then laughed. “Little Sophie, big bad vamp,” he teased and then froze, staring at her.
Sophia didn’t have to hear his thoughts to know he was remembering why he shouldn’t be hanging around talking to her—or God forbid, laughing with her. She saw it in his striking blue eyes. But she also saw the tug-of-war going on behind them. He wanted to do those things. He wanted her.
He stood suddenly, setting his beer bottle on the bar with a loud clunk. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. You want a drink or something?”
“Colin,” she said quietly.
“I’ve got pretty much everything,” he continued, walking around the bar and into the kitchen. “Or I can make—”
“Colin,” she said again.
He stood with his back to her, his hands flat against the refrigerator door. He was silent a long time and then he turned around and looked at her. “What?”
“We have to talk.”
“No. I don’t think we do, Soph.”
“I’d like to. Please.”
His mouth twisted into a scowl. “Give me a reason, Sophie. Tell me something that can wash away the lies and make me believe in you again, something to make me believe you’re the woman I was in love with ten years ago.”
Sophia’s heart thudded in her chest. She could hear it even if he couldn’t. He’d never told her he loved her, not back then. Although she’d known it anyway. It was difficult not to read a man’s mind when you were making love to him, when he was buried inside your body, bringing you more pleasure, more joy, that you’d ever felt before.
And she’d already promised herself that she’d tell him the truth.
“I was frightened,” she said simply.
Colin jerked back. “Bullshit. I never did anything—”
“Not of you, Colin. Never of you. That was part of the problem. You were . . .” She shook her head in amazement. “Perfect. Too good to be true. You were kind, generous, funny. A wonderful lover and so vicious in protecting me from the slightest threat.” She smiled, her thoughts going back to the time they’d spent together.
Colin huffed a dismissive breath. “It probably seems stupid now,” he said. “I mean, you hardly needed me to protect you, but I didn’t know—”
Sophia looked up. “No,” she said quickly. “No, Colin. It was never stupid. It was lovely.” Her smile fell away. “And I knew it couldn’t last. I was a vampire. Even worse, I was a vampire living alone. Lucien had sent me away. Not harshly, and not without affection, but I couldn’t go back to Vancouver. Not then. So I moved from country to country. I was still pledged to Lucien, and no other vampire was going to let me live in his territory for long when I was pledged to another.”
“So why not do whatever it is you all do? Find a new lord or whatever?”
“I loved Lucien. I still do.” Sophia saw Colin’s eyes narrow unhappily at this and felt a little thrill of hope.
“I don’t get it,” Colin snapped. “This guy throws you out and you still love him?”
“It’s not like that. Lucien is my Sire. We were lovers once, centuries ago when he first made me, but not since then. It would be almost unnatural if we were to become lovers now.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can explain it. I don’t know if I have the words for something that is ingrained in every cell of what I am, what he made me, what he gave me.”
“And what’s that, Soph?”
Sophia stared at Colin and wondered if she could go back to that horrible place even for him. Her chest ached at the thought of reliving those terrible times. Almost as much as it did at the thought of losing Colin forever.
She closed her eyes briefly. “My father was a very wealthy man,” she began. “My older brothers had all fallen to disease or warfare before I was ten. I was his only living child, his heir. My only virtue, the sole reason for my existence in my father’s eyes, was my ability to produce a grandson to replace his dead sons. By the time I was thirteen and starting to grow breasts, we were entertaining suitors every night of the week. I say we, but no one cared what I thought. I was trotted out like one of his show horses and then sent back to my rooms. I wasn’t even permitted to eat at the table.”
Sophia stood and began pacing. None of these were good memories, but the next part . . . the next part was so painful, so powerful, it could still bring her to her knees. She paused and glanced over to where Colin was watching her, waiting. She turned away and started talking. “I was married at sixteen to a man I detested.”
1755 – Southern Spain
“I’m hot, Mama.”
Sophia turned from the doorway where she’d been enjoying the fresh scents of the garden, hoping for a cool breeze. It had been hours since the sun had set on yet another scorching day, and still the air was warm, the breeze almost nonexistent. She stepped carefully in the near darkness, making her way over to the makeshift bed where her two young sons lay next to each other.
“I know, Teo. I’m sorry.” She sat down, hearing the wooden frame creak beneath her weight. Teo, the oldest by less than a year, gazed up at her, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light of the single lantern.
“It should cool down soon.” She smoothed sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead, high and elegant like his father’s. Both of her sons resembled their father, which was only natural, she supposed. Although she would have liked to see something of herself in them, maybe around the eyes or the shape of their chins? But no, they were each the very image of their father. And he was a handsome enough man, for all that he was a pig.
“Where’s Papa?” Her younger son’s face popped up over his brother’s shoulder.
She smiled fondly. “He’ll be home soon, Miguelito.”
“Will you stay here with us?”
“Of course, bebé. I will never leave you. Now sleep. I’ll sing you a song.”
She sang softly, sitting with them until they’d drifted off to sleep, so tired from their busy little boy days that not even the heat could keep them awake for long. She only wished she was so fortunate. The heavy layers of clothing she was forced to wear, even here in the privacy of her gardens, were stifling. The lacings were so tight she sometimes thought she’d suffocate before the sweltering heat could take her. On a normal evening, she’d have retired to her rooms and removed the binding clothes by now. But her little ones were so uncomfortable with the temperature in the house, despite its thick walls, and the gardens were green and welcoming.
She stood with a long sigh, walking over to the doorway and its feeble breeze. A light moved on the second floor of the main house and her lips tightened in irritation. Her husband had come home at last, finally leaving the bed of that French whore Alberto Alejandro had married last winter. Unfortunately, Alberto had dropped dead soon after, leaving his young wife a penniless widow in a strange country, without even the money to go home in disgrace, which was all she deserved.
One might have felt sorry for the woman had she possessed a scrap of virtue. But having lost one husband, she’d set her sights on Sophia’s husband Teodosio, who was far from penniless. Or so the whore thought. She was too stupid to understand that Teodosio would never leave Sophia, not even for a beautiful French whore. Not because he loved Sophia, but because he loved the money and lands she’d inherited from her father. An estate which was vested in her sons, not her husband. If Teodosio abandoned Sophia, he would be just as penniless as his whore.
She watched as the balcony doors opened and her husband stepped outside, clearly seeking the same nonexistent breeze as she had earlier. He glanced down at the summer cottage where his sons slept and paused. Perhaps his eyes met hers. It was too dark to know, but he knew she was watching him. He turned without a word or gesture and went back inside.
A wave of pure, bright hatred swept over Sophia, leaving her shaking in its wake. Hatred for her father who’d married her off to a man she despised. Hatred for her husband who hadn’t touched her since the birth of their second son. Not that she cared about sharing a bed with him. Many husbands and wives lived separate lives, especially those with estates to consider. But most at least played the game of courtesy, keeping their affairs discreet. Not Teodosio. The French whore was only the latest of his indiscretions and would not be the last. He would tire of her as he had the others, while Sophia bore her embarrassment in silence.
She spun back into the garden cottage, a flimsy structure with open half walls and a thatched roof, meant for picnics and children’s games. Her sons had thought it a great adventure to sleep out here these last few nights. She smiled, remembering. They were the joy of her life, her treasures. Not even their pig of a father could destroy that.
She crossed over to the pitcher of water she’d had a servant bring out before retiring. The water had been cool then, fresh from the well. She tipped it over, pouring out the last few drops and remembered she’d used much of it to bathe their little faces before sleep. She made an impatient noise, thinking they were very likely to wake again during the night, asking for water and she’d have none.
She could wake one of the servants to get it for her, but the well was only in the courtyard on the other side of the kitchens. It seemed pointless to wake them for such a small thing, especially when she was up and certainly strong enough to do it herself.
Sophia checked each of her sons one more time, smiling at Teo’s sprawl of sleep, while Miguelito lay quiet and tucked in against his brother’s back like a mouse. She picked up the pitcher and walked into the gardens, heading for the courtyard.
She met no one as she passed through the kitchens and back outside to the big well in the center of the courtyard. The wooden cover was half open, the bucket sitting on the edge. It made a flat slapping noise on the water when she dropped it inside, and she leaned over idly, staring down into the dark depths until the rope tightened, telling her the bucket was full. Straightening, she took hold of the crank and began turning it to bring the bucket back up again.