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His gaze slid down her body to her leg. “You're dripping blood onto the floor." She looked down and saw that he was right. “Damn."
"And are you intending to bleed to death in the doorway, or will you step over the threshold so I can take you home and tend to your wound?"
"I can look after my own wounds, thanks."
He simply gave her a look that said, "Of course you can, but you won't be," and held out a hand. She placed her fingers in his and stepped over the threshold. He immediately swung her into his arms and raced her back to the house. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the ride. Enjoyed the momentary closeness.
Yet, this close, she was aware of the tension growing in his limbs. The quivering in his muscles that spoke of desire, but not sexual desire. If the spell that contained them brought to life the worst of her fears, wouldn't it also be working on Michael, causing his darker desires to surface?
"What do you have in the way of salves and bandages?” he asked, as he placed her on the sofa. She studied him, seeing the tautness in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. “You are not tending my wounds until you let me look after yours."
"Woman, I am not bleeding to death—"
"Neither am I.” She placed a hand against his lips, felt the slight elongation of his teeth. They weren't fully out, meaning he was retaining some control, but still, she dare not risk it. If he drank from her, he could kill her. He was her creator—he might have given her life eternal when he'd shared his life force, but he could also take it away. “You hunger for my blood, Michael. You can't tend to my wound until you tend to the need surging through your veins."
He scowled at her. “I am not a monster who is driven to lust at the sight of blood."
"I know. But the spell placed on you is trying to force that very reaction. Trust me. Go feed, then come back and let me fix your shoulder."
He pushed away from her. “If I go, I will not be coming back." He'd be back. Because of the spell and because of the bond they shared, a bond and a love that couldn't be erased as easily as memories.
"That's your choice. I'll be here if you change your mind." He didn't say anything, simply turned and walked out. The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the windows. She winced and slowly pushed to her feet. After treating and bandaging the knife wound, she hobbled into the bedroom, dumped her bags on the bed, and dug out the T-shirt and sweatpants she intended to sleep in.
Once changed, she swept back the covers, fluffed the pillow and stopped. She didn't want to go to bed alone. She wanted to go to bed with Michael, to go to sleep with his arms wrapped around her, his breath whispering warmth past her ear, and his body hugging her with heat. God, it seemed like ages since she'd been with him.
She yawned hugely then shook her head. Not alone, damn it. She just couldn't. She'd spent far too many years alone, and she wasn't about to do it again when the man she loved was only a stone's throw away. She grabbed a blanket off the bed, and trundled back into the main room. As she switched on the TV, she wondered what Michael's reaction would be to it. After all, in his mind he was living in the past, and TV certainly hadn't been around one hundred years ago, But then, the past wasn't being perfectly created, so there was every chance he would simply accept what didn't fit. She turned the sound down to a murmur, then made herself comfortable on the sofa and tucked the blanket in around her. Michael would be back, of that she was certain. All she had to do was wait. And figure out a way past his admirable but annoying reluctance to get into bed with her.
* * * *
Michael strode down the street, annoyed at himself as much as the witch who seemed to know him so well. Damn! He had better control than this. He'd fed earlier tonight and shouldn't have needed to feed again for a least another day or so.
But the need for blood thrummed through his veins, and not just any blood. He wanted her blood, wanted to taste the sweet life that flowed under her creamy flesh. His teeth elongated further at the thought, and he swore.
Maybe she was right. Maybe there was a spell on him. There could be no other explanation for the desire that raced through his veins. He'd spent too long denying the darkness to have it raise its head this easily, this quickly.
And if it was some sort of spell, maybe she would know how to stop it. Darkness swirled and pain hit, a blinding jolt that had him stumbling and falling. He shook his head free of the pain and climbed back to his feet. He frowned and tried to catch the trail of his thoughts but couldn't. His gaze hit the stable. That's where he'd been heading. He drank his fill from a brown mare, then retreated. He stopped in the street, his gaze sweeping the darkness. The drunken revelry had eased, and though he could see life and movement in a few of the rooms above the various hotels, most of the miners had apparently collapsed into an exhausted and drunken sleep. He couldn't see the strange blur of energy that was Kinnard. Couldn't see Dunleavy. Damn it, the men had to be here, somewhere.
Or did they?
He frowned and glanced under his feet. Maybe the rat was back in his hole. And maybe his reluctance to search that hole had nothing to do with the desire to wait for the day, but had everything to do with the spell the witch insisted lay on him. He'd certainly never worried about cornering a fiend on his own ground before, and he certainly had nothing to lose by doing so now—or did he?
The nagging sense that he did wouldn't leave him alone. Yet the only one he truly cared about these days was his brother Patrick, and Patrick was still on a ship on his way here to America. He strode down the street, but his gaze went to the blonde's house as he came out of Main Street. Light still shone from her window. She wasn't asleep yet. Part of him wanted to go there and discover what she was up to, but he resisted the temptation. He was here to kill Dunleavy. It was high time he began concentrating on that.
A short time later he arrived at the trap door. The sandy soil was still free of footprints. He wedged his fingers under the wooden hatch, feeling along the edge until found the catch and released it. Soil puffed skywards as he dropped the hatch to the ground, revealing a set of stairs leading down into a deeper darkness. He could feel no sign of life within, but the smell coming out was of dank earth and sour, unwashed human. Kinnard, not Dunleavy. Switching to infrared, he slowly entered the rat's hole. And it was a hole, not the tunnel he'd half expected. It was round, small, and shored up with wood that had bent under the weight of the earth. There was a bed covered with several foul-looking blankets, a small table on which sat a candle and some matches, several cases of booze stacked next to this, and little else. Except pictures. They were everywhere, filling almost every inch of the rough-hewn walls. Unable to see just what the pictures were with his infrared, he switched back to normal vision, swept several photos off the wall and moved back to the entrance. At least there the starlight provided a little light.
It was a woman. A woman with shoulder-length brown hair that shone with auburn highlights in the sunlight. A woman with pixie features and rich amber eyes. A woman he somehow knew, and yet he didn't know her.
Rage swept through him, a rage unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He spun, sweeping more photos off the wall, bringing them to the light. Kinnard had obviously been watching her for some time. There were photos of her laughing. Photos of her eating with an older man. Photos of her in a large, bubble-filled tub with a dark haired man whose face he couldn't see. Photos taken through her window as she changed clothes.
His rage grew, until every muscle shook with the need to find Kinnard and kill him. To rip his body limb from limb, as Dunleavy had ripped that woman's.
Instead, he turned, tearing the photos from the wall and piling them on the filthy bed linen. When the last of the photos had been taken down, he grabbed the matches and set the pile afire. The rat would know he'd been there, but Michael didn't particularly care. He waited until the bedclothes had caught, then he climbed up the stairs and slammed the hatch shut on the smoke. And stood there, scanning the night, shaking with anger and wondering why. There was still no sign of Kinnard or Dunleavy, but rats usually had more than one hole. And as much as he needed to find them, he suspected he needed answers more. There was only one person in this town who seemed to know what was going on. And, oddly enough, that woman had eyes the same color as the woman in the photo. He suspected it was more than coincidence. Suspected that there was a hell of a lot more happening here than what he'd originally thought.
His simple need to kill Dunleavy suddenly didn't seem so simple any more. He ran swiftly to her house and went inside, only to stop just inside the door. She lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, her pretty face serene in sleep.
He couldn't wake her. She needed sleep more than he needed answers. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to calm the turmoil and anger still surging inside. He closed the door and walked across to her, tucking his arms under her body and carefully lifting her. She stirred, murmuring something he couldn't quite catch, and snuggled closer to his chest. God, it felt so right holding her like this.
Pushing the thought away, he found her bedroom and placed her gently into bed. She didn't stir as he tucked the rest of the blankets around her. In the darkness, her blonde hair looked almost brown, but her face was nothing like the woman in those pictures. So why did he have the certainty that, somehow, the two were related?
