Then that thought was swept away as she cl**axed, taking him with her, so that he came in the middle of her spasms and cries, muffled in the pillow as she turned her head into it, though her arms and legs remained firmly locked around him, rocking with him, undulating, moving in tandem until he’d pumped out the last drop he could manage.
When his head dropped to the pillow next to her head, his fists were curled around her head, touching her loose hair. He felt her soft breath on his shoulder. And while she was there, pressed against his temple, she spoke to him.
I’m sorry, Dev. She looked up at him, her hair a fan around her porcelain princess features. I gave you the third mark.
It wasn’t hard to discern why. He’d felt her worry, knew she’d been violently opposed to him sticking his neck out on her behalf.
She didn’t think he had a chance tomorrow, and she’d decided in her typically unilateral way that this would give him a sporting opportunity.
Do you know why so many seventeenth-century sailors never learned to swim, my lady? Because if they fell off the ship and were inadvertently left behind, they would drown more quickly, not prolong the agony.
It took him considerable effort, but he lifted his upper body to discover why there was a raw, burning sensation on his chest. He’d been marked in truth, by something that looked like a cross between a tattoo and a scar. The design was a raven, his skin permanently branded the charcoal color. The wings stretched over either pectoral, the lifted head and sharp beak engraved over his sternum.
As he pulled away from her and stood, examining the mark, he recalled the quote from Babylonian texts. A raven, the bird that helpeth the gods . . .
The Tibetans considered the bird special, a messenger. The Irish thought it was all-seeing, all-knowing. And in Norse mythology, Odin had two ravens, Thought and Memory, who brought the day’s news to him. Christ, it was like everything else. A different story, depending on which shore your feet were planted. But he could see how all of it figured in to vampires.
He knew she was likely waiting for him to light into her, but he needed a few minutes. Everything felt . . . remarkable. Every detail in the room and every sound magnified, but not in a disturbing or irritating way. It was just so much clearer. And while he was a fit man, he felt better than fit. Strong enough to lift an opera singer off her pins, or run for miles without tiring.
“It’s more feeling than actuality right now.” She was watching him closely. “But in a few hours, your capabilities and senses will have actually improved dramatically.”
“A few hours’ wait to become a superhero. Well, that’s pretty intolerable, love, when all’s said and done.” Pacing across the room with some caution, he used the mirror to examine the raven.
“When a servant is given a third mark,” she explained, before the silence between them drew out further, “it always manifests itself in some way upon him or her. Vampires have no control over it or really any understanding of why it happens, though most believe it’s totem-related magic. Dev . . .”
He turned, looked at her. “I understand why you did it, love. Maybe one day you’ll trust me enough to ask before you leap, but I know you’re trying to protect me. You think I don’t have a chance in hell, and that I’m a daft bugger for not cutting and running.” She turned away, slid out of the bed. Her back to him, she straightened her gown and picked up her robe, sliding it over her shoulders. “It will be dawn soon,” she said shortly. “Charles is giving you the day to get ahead of them. He’ll release the children on you right at dusk.”
“He’s pretty confident.”
“Vampires can move at swift speeds. Not as fast as we move in short distances, but still much more swiftly than a human. And they take far longer to tire. If you can cover twenty miles a day, they can cover forty-five, maybe even up to sixty.”
“So I go with my strengths, instead of trying to match theirs.”
“It’s . . . Oh, damn it all.” She turned to face him, impatience in the lines of her lovely body. “Dev, it’s nothing that binds you to me.
Well, bloody hell, of course it does. But I mean, you don’t have to stay with me forever or anything. I wanted to give you a chance, damn it.”
The look on her face was one he hadn’t seen before. Sad, almost desolate. Alone.
“You’ve taken the choice from me, three times. Three marks. An apology’s getting rather thin.” But he said it mildly.
She shook her head, and that sadness touched her lips in a poignant smile. “I’m done apologizing, bushman. You’re determined to go through with this madness I’ve forced upon you, even though I’ve given you an escape route.”
“You knew that I would.”
“Because you think your life is worth my face, my pride. You don’t want me to give anything up to Charles unwillingly.”
“No, I don’t,” he agreed, and took another step, so now he was before her, but she turned away from him. When she didn’t move away, he realized it wasn’t to scorn him, but because she didn’t want him to see her face.
If he’d been out on the porch, he knew the moon would have been a half crescent, silhouetting the distant mountains, the odd shape of scrub and eucalyptus in darkness. Dingoes would be howling somewhere, and since the daytime heat made many of the bush’s creatures nocturnal, there would be many listening ears and eyes out there.
He hadn’t touched her since he’d left the bed, hadn’t been ready to do so. She’d picked up on it, was standing rigid. Not reaching out, either.
With a mental sigh, he bent enough to slide his arm across her shoulders in front, pulling her back against him. After a moment, her hands came up and closed on his forearm, her temple brushing his bare biceps, the raw skin of the mark as she turned her head.
Her blond hair teased his lower abdomen, above the waistline of the pants he’d hitched back on when he’d crossed the room.
“Do you care so little about your own life that it doesn’t matter anymore?” She murmured it, anger in her tone, but that desolation was there, too. “I will be really angry if you die in my service because it gave you a good excuse to do so.” He couldn’t help it. He chuckled. When her eyes narrowed upon him, he suspected she was considering whether to gouge him with her considerable nails. He averted puncture by slipping a hand alongside her face, tunneling his fingers into her hair, letting his thumb touch her resolute jaw, the corner of her delicious mouth. “If I die out there, I’ll make sure to write you a note in the sand, letting you know I didn’t let it happen.”
“That’s not—”
“I know what you meant.” His voice got quiet, and he put a trace of hardness into it that made her gaze flicker in surprise. “I don’t look too deeply into my mind, love, and I wouldn’t suggest you do it, either. I’ve been on walkabout, letting whatever will happen to me happen, for a long time.” He gave a rueful smile. “So I can hardly take you to task for making choices for me, when I’ve done everything possible in the past decade to make sure I don’t have to make any of real significance. Maybe there’s a reason my feet have brought me to your side.”
Tilting her chin, he looked down into her face. “I don’t entirely understand your world, and I know you’re no lamb. But I also know when a woman needs help, no matter how powerful she is, and I’m not walking away until I’m sure you’re all right here.”
“Even if you die for it.”
“Worse things to die for. Like nothing.” He changed topic. “Now, I saw what happens when Ian died. But what will happen to you if I’m . . . if they catch me? I can’t imagine it’s as simple as ‘the vampire lives,’ like you said.”
“You think I didn’t tell you everything?”
He gave her an arch look. Danny wanted to tell him it wasn’t going to happen, but instead she swallowed, turned her face into his touch, closed her eyes. He had wonderfully strong, masculine hands, and she loved the way they felt. She wished she was the type of person who could easily tell him that, or even let him into her mind to see the way she felt, but there were too many things there at this moment. If she did that, it would be too easy to let him past the doors to the parlor and into the rest of the house, with its more personal effects.
“It will hurt me, physically and emotionally. But it would be much, much worse if we’d been together for years. I’ll be all right.”
“So you’ll be able to get over it soon enough.” He gave her that ghost of a smile, and she had a sudden desire to slap him, but instead she pulled back, leveled a fierce gaze on him.
“You say I don’t own you, Devlin. That’s your opinion, and I’ll let you have it, but you’ll hear mine. In my world, once a human is marked three times, he is the property of the vampire who marked him. So keep all your notions of independence you want. I am ordering you to do your very best to survive and come back to me. Whatever happens then, we’ll figure out, but you will obey me in this. You return to me.”
Picking up one of his hands then, she brought it to her face, and surprised Dev by pressing fervent lips to the palm. Sliding his other arm around her, he brought her close, cautiously laying his head over hers.
He remembered one time, when his vehicle was rolled by a flash flood. He’d nearly drowned except for the luck of working his way to a tree and holding on. Several weeks later, he was headed out for the same trip. Tina had become angry at him about some nonsense right before he took off, something about not wiping his boots on the porch and mucking up her floor. He’d tried to tease her about it, baffled by her irrational anger, but then she’d slapped him, started hammering at him until he caught hold of her, gathered her in and made her quit, let her sob it out on his chest. He realized then how afraid she’d been for him during the flood, the days of inexplicable absence with no news of him on the radio exchange. But she’d never shown it until the row over the shoes.