Sharon Page: Blood Curse

A mouth-watering aroma reached her nose.

Her tummy clenched in sheer pain. Dinner now seemed like it had been a century ago. But if those delicious smells were for her, she was not going to feel grateful , for heaven’s sake.

The only reason she was hungry was because some dangerous, villainous man was holding her prisoner. Out of pride and anger, she should refuse his food. But she had learned through her captivity with Mrs. Darkwell that she had to eat, even when her stomach was in knots with fear. Starving herself hardly helped in an escape.

Could she appeal to the servant bringing the food? Maybe convince whoever it was to free her?

Hope flared. Then the tiny flame of it went out as fast.

Ravenhunt strode into her room, carrying a tray laden with dishes. Sweet scents and savory aromas swirled around her.

Heavens, she hated this man.

It was a crime he was so handsome. That behind the high cheekbones, full lips, and dramatic black eyes lurked the heart of a madman.

He smiled. She stared up at him, mute with fury. How desperately she wanted to kick him. How could he smile kindly at her?

“Are you hungry?” he asked softly. He put the tray down on the vanity table.

“Yes,” Ophelia said, keeping her voice shaky and weak. “I am starving. I’m faint with hunger. Can you untie me so I can eat?” She hated sounding like such a weak ninny. Ravenhunt made her want to roar like a tigress and slash at him with claws.

“Sorry, love,” he answered gently, a rueful smile on his lips. “Then you would touch me, and we can’t have that.”

“You’ve already touched me,” she pointed out dryly. “It didn’t hurt you. And the gloves make no difference, usually, just so you know.”

“I do know that. I made certain I did not touch you for long. I wouldn’t want to risk what those pretty hands could do to me.”

“You touched me for quite a while, though, bringing me here. Normally that would make someone seriously ill. But you are—you are stronger. I want to know who you are! And how you know what I am!”

“I was hired to kidnap you, love, and I had to be fully warned about what you are.”

“Hired?” She squealed the word. “By whom? What madness is this? Who would want—?”

“Questions later,” he interrupted. “First you must eat. Afterward we will amuse ourselves.”

“For heaven’s sake, let me go.”

“I’m sorry, love, but I cannot. You will be here for a very long time. You can entertain yourself by asking questions. I have other ways of amusing myself.”

“How are you going to do that?” She hated him and his smugness.

He grinned. “By pleasuring you.”

Pleasure her?

“You are completely mad!” Ophelia shouted. She hated this. Hated being bound to a bed, utterly at his mercy. She had read horrid novels at Mrs. Darkwell’s about girls being taken captive. It wasn’t thrilling in reality. It was terrifying.

With Darkwell, she knew why she had to be a prisoner. She’d accepted it. But she didn’t deserve this. This she could fight.

She had begun hurting people with her horrible power when her monthly courses had started. Ever since then, she’d tried not to cause pain to anyone.

But she wanted to hurt Ravenhunt.

“You can’t touch me,” she threw at him. “You just said so. You can’t pleasure me. You must keep away from me.”

“So they say,” he responded, in the typical jaded drawl of a London gentleman. “But Society also used to say I was completely mad. And you are hungry.”

As if he’d summoned it by his words, her stomach growled again.

“Unfortunately, I assume you still consider me a foe, so I cannot take the risk of untying you yet.” Tossing that casually over his shoulder, he walked past with a small table, which he set beside her bed. On his next journey to her side, he brought the tray and set it on the table.

“I apologize for taking so long to prepare this.”

Ophelia sputtered. “You should apologize for making me your prisoner.”

“Considering I saved your life, pretty one, you should be thanking me.”

“Saved my life? What rubbish—”

She broke off. Ravenhunt stood at the side of the bed, one elbow propped against the bed column. She had forgotten how tall he was—over six feet. Gracefully, he settled on the edge of her bed. She fought against the ropes, but couldn’t get her hands close enough to touch him.

A moment ago, she would have happily slapped her hands all over him to hurt him. Now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to kill him. Not until she found out the meaning behind his cryptic words.

What did he mean, he had saved her life?

She opened her mouth to form a question and a spoon slipped in. Something creamy touched her tongue. Hunger made her close her lips around the silver spoon and suck off something that tasted like sweetened chocolate. It startled her. It was dark and lush and wonderful. She had never tasted anything so good.

She released the spoon. Stared up at him. “Who begins a meal with the dessert?”

Shadows clung to his high cheekbones and full lips. His smile was gone, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Someone who is trying to make amends.”

Firelight reflected on his dark, dark eyes, making them gleam like the eyes of a predator. She flinched.

He looked away and pressed another spoonful of the creamy chocolate to her lips. “I forgot you need light.”

He put the spoon down. The bed creaked, the mattress lifting as he stood up, long legs straightening. Firelight limned him with a reddish-gold glow as he moved across the room. A light flared, then another and another. He left two candles on the vanity, and returned, carrying one to the bedside table.

Strangely, the fact she could see him made her hope that seeing her might touch some decency in him. The way he had fed her was surprisingly gentle. And he had spoken of wanting to make amends.

“Why are you doing this? No one would pay a ransom for me, if that’s what you desire.”

Her brother and sister thought she was dead, after all. Her younger brother, Harold, known as Harry, was now the earl and head of her family. Harry would dismiss a demand for ransom as the work of a madman. “Can you not just let me go?”

Ravenhunt studied her. His rubbed his fingers against his temple as if his head ached. “If I cut the ropes securing your arms,” he said finally, “can I have your word you won’t touch me and attempt to kill me?”

She hesitated.

“It would not serve you to try to kill me, my dear. There are men who want to make you their prisoner and experiment on you. Do you understand of what I am speaking?”

“No, I have no idea.” Experiments? Like men of science? Fear clawed at her again—he had to be mad.

She had to play along. The only weapon she had right now was making him believe she was going to be obedient and docile.

“You will have to trust me for now,” he said.

She nodded, biting back her real desire to scream at him, to tell him he was insane.

Her arms were numb. To have them free, to not feel so vulnerable, she would agree to anything. “I promise I will not touch you,” she whispered.

Silver flashed in front of the candle’s flame. A knife blade.

He stretched over her, his large chest moving close to her face. Grasping the rope, he sliced one, then the other. Her arms fell limply against the bed.

She wriggled her fingers. “Oh, that hurts,” she gasped as feeling returned.

His hand came close to hers, then he drew it back. “I wanted to massage your hands. They must be sore.”