Vampire Instinct (Vampire Queen #7)

“Kneel next to me,” he ordered.

There were a few glances from the table, but the staff kept on as if nothing was amiss when she settled on her knees beside him. He continued to listen to their chatter, contributing to the conversation here and there, but his hand slid over her cheek, fingers caressing her throat, tracing the vee of her blouse, playing in the cleavage, though he didn’t take it further than that. That was the extent of what he wanted, for her to be on her knees next to him, silent and awaiting whatever he bid. It was fairly circumspect, except for the fact that it aroused her so strongly she knew all those second-marked staff members could smell the scent of her desire.

But she’d found that was a blade with two sides, because Mal’s treatment of her clearly caused a reaction among the staff as well. That night she’d clearly scented female musk, and had seen Chumani’s nipples grow erect, pressing against her thin bra. Elisa might have felt uncomfortable about it, wondering if Mal had ever done such things for the Indian woman, but her gaze had been stealing toward Kohana, not Mal. From the look the large Indian gave her, she figured if Chumani hadn’t challenged him to that intimate hand-to-hand match, it likely was going to happen that night. So none of them was immune to the sexually charged atmosphere Mal was creating in his “training.” She was fairly sure the fact Mal had shortened the schedule to allow staff members more opportunities to go to the mainland for R & R trips was his acknowledgment of that.

Of course, when he was off working with the cats, neither Chumani nor Kohana, nor any of the others, remarked upon it to her. She suspected he’d already briefed them on what he was doing and why. Based on that, she supposed she could have considered it playacting, preparing for a stage play of sorts. But a part of her embraced such treatment so fervently it scared her, as if her domestic training all her life had been a foundation for this. True, willing servitude.

Perhaps it was good that Chumani and Kohana didn’t ask her to explain, because if she had to articulate all the strange sensations and emotions such behavior was causing her to experience, it would open a floodgate.

She could tell herself it was that third mark, that it had changed something in her, but again, she knew the cut of that dress. It was part of her, sure as anything else. She missed Dev more than she ever had, because she might have been able to talk to him about it, work through some of it.

The strength and stamina she now had were awe-inspiring, however. She could lift things far beyond her former capabilities, could run all day and not get tired. One day, experimenting on it, she cleaned the house, top to bottom, at a rapid pace. Dusted light fixtures, molding, ran all the laundry through and put it on the line. Even swept the porches and washed the windows. The more she did, the more energy she seemed to have, and though she knew she was almost manically pushing herself, she kept doing so, enthralled with it.

Nothing slowed her down that day until she ran full tilt into Mal on the stairs, flying down with an armload of laundry piled so high in the basket it was over her head. She wasn’t worried, though, because her footing had become as nimble as one of the cats.

“Oof.” She used the reach of her much shorter arms to see what she’d hit, though of course she already knew. She could sense him like a lock of her own hair along her face. An arm interjected itself over and under the bundle and took it from her, giving her back her vision when he indifferently dumped it over the railing so it landed with a thump on the living area floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning. I’ve never had so much energy in my life. Mrs. Pritchett could work me twenty-four hours a day and sit on the porch all day drinking lemonade. Fair dinkum. I don’t even know where to start.”

She was two steps up, almost eye level with him. Putting an arm around her waist, he drew her to him, taking her feet off the wood to capture her busy mouth in a time-spiraling-down-much-slower kiss. He kept at it for some minutes, until her body was straining against him, wanting more contact, but all he gave her was his mouth, his body pressed against her and that hard arm around her waist.

“We’ll go to my room for a bit,” he said at last, drawing back, his eyes dark and piercing. “I’ll show you what the limits of your endurance are. And I have things from the mainland for you. Things you’ll wear when we go to see Lord Marshall.”

Gifts? He’d bought her a gift? Clothing?

“I can sew, sir. You didn’t need to buy me things. With the right fabric, I can make a very pretty dress . . .” Her voice trailed off as she remembered what some of those vampire servants wore on their visits to the station. Oh, they wore normal daks and boots going through the Outback, but inside, they wore all manner of titillating costumes, things that had the station hands drawing straws to see who would get to bring in more wood for the stove, any excuse to get on the porch where a curious stockman might see something through the windows. Sometimes the female servants were so immodest, they walked out into the courtyard in diaphanous, flowing clothes that revealed the shadow of nipples or buttocks. The male servants might be in leathers fit tighter than anything she’d ever seen in her life.

“Nothing quite that shameless for our first trip,” he promised her. He hefted her over his shoulder, her elbows propped on that broad platform, his hand spread over her backside as he went down the stairs and strode through the house. Reaching up, she touched the dangling light fixture in the main room, pleased to see the sparkle of the glass and not a bit of dust. She heard his huff of laughter and smiled herself.

“How did things go with the fledglings tonight?”

“Better. Having Leonidas gone, regrettable as it is, has helped the others considerably. And your visits continue to help settle them. Tomorrow night the girls will come here, join me for dinner. Then I’ll let them sit for a while in the living area, see how they do in a more civilized environment. If they do well, we’ll try the two boys the next night, then Jeremiah on his own.”

“Really? Oh, Mal, that would be marvelous.”

“We’ll see. Nerida will probably try to eat Kohana and he’ll behead her with his cleaver like one of the chickens.” He sighed. “But we need to get a feel of how they’ll do so I can give prospects a clear picture of their progress.”

“I can be there, too, right?”

He squeezed her arse. “Nope. Going to lock you in your room with moldy bread and stale water.”

She had a retort for that, but held it as he let her down in his room and gestured to several boxes on the bed that had been opened, pink tissue paper pulled back. “I want to see you in those from here forward. No more of the other.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant until she cautiously approached the bed. There were several dresses, as well as slacks and silky blouse combinations. Beautiful, store-bought things she’d expect to see screen starlets wear, in those casual black-and-white scenes where they were having after dinner drinks and cigarettes. However, what he’d gestured at were two boxes overflowing with undergarments. Lacy, filmy bits of cloth that no maid she’d ever known would wear, scanty and scandalous. The bras were barely full cups, just a crescent of cloth and wiring to hold the breast and lift it up. The tops would become a pair of plumped-up pillows, the way whores showed them off, only these were nice and fine things.

The fragrance coming from the box was like a garden in summer, rich and heady. It seduced the nose, made a person want to keep drawing in deep draughts, as if the box could pull a person into the heart of summer itself, all its passion and life.

“You’re not a whore, Elisa. You’re never to think that again.”

“Oh no. I didn’t mean it quite like that. Though I guess, in a way . . .” Those strange feelings swirled in her mind again, making her think maybe Dev wouldn’t be much help on them after all, because he was a man and likely had never seen the world that way. “The things you’ve been having me learn to do for you, with you, serving you however, whenever, you want me . . . There are times I think you could strip me naked on the picnic table outside while all the hands are eating, and root me there, and I wouldn’t do anything but ask how far you want me to spread my legs for you.”

She closed her eyes then. It seemed harsh when spoken aloud like that. Particularly when she compared it to what she’d always believed was proper, what she’d been and what she was now. “I’m willing to do all that and more to find the fledglings a place in the world, so I guess it’s all for the good.”

“You’re lying to yourself if you think that’s the only reason you submit to me.” His voice held a warning note she recognized.

“You know it’s not. That’s not what I meant.” She reached out, her fingers grazing the stiff cup of a satiny peach-colored bra. Her work earlier in the day made her rough flesh catch on the fine fabric. A third mark didn’t cure dishpan hands. At least not right away. Nor did it change the scars of what had happened before the third mark.

So she’d live for three hundred years with work-roughened hands. She supposed she could wear gloves.

“Elisa.” His arms came around her, and she realized she was crying.

“I’m sorry.” She tried to brush them away. “These are beautiful. Just don’t pay any attention to me.”

Instead, he took her to the large side chair he used for reading and sat down upon it, drawing her into his lap and bringing her close, tucking her head under his jaw. He didn’t say anything, just let her cry, that overwhelming mania of energy resolving itself into this, this difficulty reconciling all the changes and what they meant, and the fact it didn’t change what had brought her here, or who she truly was, deep inside. All of it coalesced into this volcano of feeling, hard to decipher with anything except a shower of tears.

She realized he was rocking her, chanting in that singsong manner. He still didn’t speak his language around anyone else, but sometimes he gave her snippets, in private like this. A part of his heritage, who he’d been but could be no more. She thought the singing soothed him as much as her, a reminder carried forward that it wasn’t all gone. That it would always be a part of him, no matter what. Like Willis’s smile was for her.