Another man jumped up on the table—he grabbed Liam by the hair and hauled him back. One hard thrust of the slayer’s arm and he drove a stake through the vampire’s heart from the back. A toss and Liam tumbled to the ground. Slain.
Her savior caught her gaze and grinned. His blond hair—startling white-blond hair—swung free and wild around his face. His green eyes flashed with excitement. And then he glanced lower and winked.
Drake Swift. Drake Swift and Lord Sommersby had come to her rescue.
A silk robe flew at her.
Swift caught it.
“Cover her!” The command could only have come from his lordship. Humiliation, frustration, and fear burned through her. Mr. Swift and Lord Sommersby had laughed at her determination to become a vampire hunter. She’d planned so carefully, yet she’d made a mistake and proved them right.
And if they knew that she was a vampire, they would stake her. Kill her.
It was too late to even pretend she was in control. She was shaking. Mr. Swift was sweating from the fight, his platinum hair damp with it, his handsome features gleaming. Towering above her, he looked like an avenging angel. He dropped the robe over her. But he was distracted for the moment, and out of the shadows, Guillaime lunged, fangs bared.
The scream died in Serena’s throat as Guillaime plunged his teeth into Drake Swift’s neck.
3
Destined
Serena rolled down the billiard table, toward Guillaime’s outstretched legs. Toward his dangling ballocks. This time she wouldn’t miss. She slammed her foot up and connected, driving her heel hard into his most sensitive place.
The vampire jerked, flinched, but his hands clamped tightly on Mr. Swift’s broad shoulders.
Mr. Swift snapped his head to the side. “Christ Jesus! Thank you, sweetheart, but he’s plunged deeper!”
Blood rolled down Mr. Swift’s neck. Rivulets of it, racing over his tanned-bronze skin, soaking into his pristine white collar, into his cravat and coat. He flicked his arm and a sharpened stake slid into his hand.
Serena kicked again to divert the vampire’s attention as Mr. Swift gripped the stake. It worked—Guillaime kicked out at her. His foot slammed into her ribs before she could roll. The wind flew from her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Whimpering against her will, Serena tensed for the next blow.
“Stay down, Miss Lark,” Sommersby commanded. He trained a crossbow on Guilliame. Her heart pounded furiously, in panic for Swift, while his lordship adjusted his aim, his movements calm and controlled. With a flick of his hand, he fired, and the bolt raced toward them. Instinctively she shut her eyes. She heard Guillaime’s shriek as the bolt drove through his heart. He fell away from Mr. Swift’s neck, crumpled to the table. She had enough breath to push herself away as his body dropped. For a brief moment she was in free fall. Then the floor greeted her with a smack. Her teeth rattled. Her head seemed to separate from her neck and then snap back with a shattering pain.
She craned her neck, though it hurt like the devil to do it. Aristide and Brittan sprawled, slain, on the floor. Liam and Guilliame were destroyed. Roman was gone. Where was Leonardo?
“Bastard!” Mr. Swift shouted. “Two escaped. Damn them to hell! I’ve never lost a bloody vampire before.”
She didn’t care that they weren’t destroyed. She was safe.
Or was she? Why were the hunters here? What did they know about her?
“Miss Lark?”
Elegant black-clad fingers brushed her tangled hair back. A face came into view—one surrounded by tousled hair the color of coffee. Lord Sommersby bent over her, and she gazed up into compelling and worried dark brown eyes, fringed by the longest lashes she’d ever seen.
“My—my lord.” She must have clutched the robe as she fell off the table. It had landed with her, and now she was wrapped in it, so she was covered at least.
“God—” Sommersby abruptly drew back. His mouth became a grim line—he had a beautiful mouth, wide, firm. Quite unlike Mr. Swift’s, which was pouting, boyish, and heartwrenchingly sensual. “You almost got yourself killed, you little fool.”
“I am not a little fool.” Defying the throbbing pain in her skull, Serena sat up. She held the silk robe to her chest, and though she fumed at his arrogant tone, she prayed Lord Sommersby’s only thought was—how could this silly little governess imagine herself to be a vampire slayer? She prayed he didn’t know the truth.
She cast a horrified look to Mr. Swift. He stood on the table, his hand at the wound on his neck.
He grinned down at her. “A flea bite, love. I’ve had worse. I’ll live.”
Sommersby’s hand shot out, and his fingers wrapped around her wrist. His touch was gentle as he traced the red marks there. “What did they do to you?”
The soft stroke of his lordship’s thumb sent a warm tingle through her. She intended to tell him, but she knew she had to lie, and her lips trembled as she met his astute, penetrating gaze.
Fool! She could not cry—and she knew how to fight tears. All her years as an unwanted ward and then a dutiful servant had taught her that. How odd that curbing emotion to be a gray and invisible governess had been the perfect education for a vampire huntress.
She pulled her hand away.
“There’s a passageway on the other side of the wall and stairs leading underground to a tunnel.” The table creaked and groaned, and then Mr. Swift jumped down. “I can’t believe demons escaped me.”
Mr. Swift dropped into a crouch at her side as Sommersby stood. His thighs bunched, solid and powerful. Serena looked up into green eyes—darkly lashed green eyes. The lashes dipped. She saw pained concern. She had never seen Mr. Swift look worried—she had never seen him without his cocky confidence.
“Why did you come to this place?” The growl was Lord Sommersby, now pacing, as he raked his fingers through his hair.
She couldn’t tell his lordship she feared she was the first child of a vampire. That Lord Ashcroft—his commander—had lied to her. That she needed the Vlad Dracul journal to black- mail the arrogant lord who controlled the Royal Society and force him to give her the truth about her past.
Lord Sommersby turned on his heel. “You haven’t answered my question, Miss Lark.”
“Leave her alone, milord.” Mr. Swift snarled the title. “The little lark has had a bad fright. She doesn’t need your questions.”
Little lark? Yet the name sent warmth to her heart. Mr. Swift moved his arms around her and leaned gently against her from behind. The satin of his waistcoat brushed her back. Smooth leather—the gloves covering his palms—skimmed down her arms. He was cradling her! “There’s nothing to fear now.”
“Thank you, Mr. Swift, but I am able to withstand his lordship’s examination.” She hoped. She knew she should draw away from Swift’s touch, but she couldn’t. Straining, she kept her voice even and cool. “I came to find vampires, my lord. I am training to be a vampire slayer, after all.”
“You did not have permission to come here. You are not yet a vampire slayer.” Sommersby crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. The earl stood six and a half feet tall—with enormous shoulders, massive arms, a huge chest.
Serena tipped up her chin in answer to his glare, aware she was cradled close to Drake Swift. “I did not require your permission.”
“Yes, you do, Miss Lark. You are an apprentice member of the Royal Society.”