Dimitri struggled to keep his voice steady. “Indeed. I sup pose I have been remiss in expressing my gratitude for your…assistance.”

Surprisingly, forcing those words out didn’t have the debilitating affect he’d expected for himself. Instead, when he saw the flash of surprise and the hint of rose flushing her cheeks, he felt rather…pleased. He took another generous taste of whiskey.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft and without that edge so often there. “We were…we worked together.”

He looked aside, trying to regain the annoyance and frustration that had begun to slip away. “What did you think you were doing tonight, Miss Woodmore? Did you really believe you and that little stake would have had a chance against Lerina if she had been a threat?”

She’d begun to straighten a pile of books on one of the tables. “In my mind,” she said, pulling out a French translation of The Iliad and placing it atop its counterpart, The Odyssey, “it never hurts to be prepared. One never knows when one might be caught unawares.”

“I’m never—” He stopped abruptly.

She looked up at him and their eyes met. And held. Something hurt, in his chest, something sharp and hot as if he’d been stabbed. Or staked. Yet, while unexpected, it wasn’t wholly unpleasant.

Her lips twitched, that full, luscious upper one curving into a hint of a smile. “Is it possible you’re learning, Corvindale? That you aren’t always right?”

“What do you want, Maia?” He forced steel into his voice, forced his expression into stone. His heart rammed hard inside.

Her face changed, the affection fleeing. “That night with Mr. Virgil,” she said, “the Incident…I had a dream about it tonight. About things I don’t remember happening. The whole night, almost, is blank in my mind.”

Dimitri raised a brow. “That’s not unusual for a traumatic situation, Miss Woodmore. People often forget what happened to them.”

“Yes, and sometimes with a bit of help from a vampire and his thrall. Is that what happened? Did you alter my memory?”

“What makes you think I’m capable of such a thing?” he prevaricated. His glass was empty and he put it on the cabinet. He had a feeling he was going to need all of his faculties. “And if so, why would I do that?”

“Don’t be absurd. You know you are. You’ve attempted it.

You said I’ve become immune to your thrall. Did you manage to do it that night?”

“It was best that way.”

“What happened?”

What didn’t happen? Dimitri drew in a deep breath.

“Your Mr. Virgil wasn’t taking you to Gretna Green for your elopement. He was taking you to an establishment in Haymarket that…well, Miss Woodmore, if you found your self offended by Rubey’s place, you would have been beyond frightened at this place. A marketplace of sorts for young, virginal women. You wouldn’t have been able to leave.”

He watched the disbelief and then horror filter over her delicate features. She’d stopped rearranging his books and now stood as if frozen. “And then what happened?”

“I followed you when I recognized you. Of course, your brother had pointed you and your sister out to me in the past.” And the impression she’d made on Dimitri had been strong and unforgettable, even then. Even from a distance.

Especially when he passed by and breathed in the perfume that was her. “I was able to extricate you from the woman who owned the…establishment…with little fanfare. Then I saw that you were taken safely home in a hack.”

“Did she have a mustache?” she whispered, and he nodded in response. “I dreamed of her.”

The hypnotism was weakening; which was no surprise, as he’d been unable to inflict it upon her recently. Something had happened since that night in Haymarket that made her immune to his thrall. His thrall. He felt a little uncomfortable niggle in the back of his mind when he recalled Voss telling him that he couldn’t enthrall Angelica, either. Was it something about the Woodmore sisters that made them indifferent to a Draculian thrall?

But no, for Lerina had managed to ensnare Maia when they were trapped. He didn’t understand it.

Maia was talking slowly, pulling things out of her memory. “I have a recollection…in the hack. We…you were there. You had a cut on your cheek, and one on your hand—I remember now. You weren’t wearing gloves.”

He held back a snort. “Even in the midst of such a harrowing experience, whilst you were clothed in boy breeches and a cap, you commented on my lack of gloves with your nose in the air. And a little sniff of disdain.”

“I did not.” She gave that same little sniff, lifting her pert nose.

He found himself hardly able to keep a smile in check and raised his brow instead.

“I…we were discussing herbal poultices for your cuts,” she said slowly, as if unraveling the memory like a thread. “You were promoting the benefits of dried woad.”

“You were under the impression that Dioscorides’s recipe for slippery elm and comfrey was the best treatment. I confess, I was amazed to learn that you were not only familiar with his writings, but that you’d read them in their native Greek. And so I commenced with a discussion to see if it was possible.”

“You,” she said, the corners of her mouth tipping up a bit again, “were singing the praises of John Gerard, simply because he was a native Englishman.”

“Aside of the fact that he was a friend of my father’s, the benefit of having a medicinal written only about plants native to the local soil, my dear Miss Woodmore, is much more efficacious than one written by an ancient. There is always the problem of translation.”

“Not if one does the translation oneself,” she reminded him. “As I did.”

“That was precisely what you said that evening.”

Their eyes met and he saw the clarity back in hers. She remembered it all now.

He’d never forgotten it.

He’d almost kissed her that night. Secure in the fact that he could mottle her mind and twist her memory, he’d nearly given in to the sudden, inexplicable urge. And now he was thankful, so very thankful, that he hadn’t done so.

Because he would never be able to explain that.

All at once, a rush of desire flooded him. He stood halfway across the long chamber from her, and all he could think about was what was beneath that loose, flimsy night rail.

Dimitri turned away, his fingers trembling, his gums suddenly tight and swelling. There was an odd ache in his middle.

“Has it occurred to you,” she said suddenly, “that I might be with child?”

Had it occurred to him? Oh, yes, oh, yes, indeed. By the Fates, by God, by Luce’s black heart, it had occurred to him.

“I pray you are not,” he managed to say. He’d been so careful over the years, for any child he sired could also be bound to Lucifer because of the agreement Vlad Tepes had made with the devil. It was inconceivable that he would visit such a burden on his child. It was a good thing he’d never had a great sexual appetite.

He looked away from Maia. Until now.

“I’m not,” she said softly.

Relief rushed over him so strongly he nearly sighed aloud.

Thank God, thank God. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I couldn’t marry Alexander until I knew for certain.”

“I’m certain he’ll appreciate that.” The words came from between stiff lips. “Are you finished, Miss Woodmore? I have things to attend to.” He gestured vaguely to his desk.

She straightened, pulling her shoulders back and outlining her breasts even more readily. Dimitri studied his hand. His fingers weren’t quite steady.

“Yes. Thank you for your time,” she said. There was more than a bit of sarcasm in her tone, but he ignored it.

He must ignore her as she walked past him toward the door, taking with her that thick, sweet-smelling hair, those delicate feet and slender wrists, those full, erotic lips.

“La Belle et la Bête?” she asked, pausing at his desk.

Leave. By all that is holy, by all that is damned, please leave.

“It’s a French fairy tale,” he said, forcing boredom into his voice.

“I’m familiar with it. This version, in fact.” She glanced at him. “How do you find it?”

“I haven’t finished it yet,” he growled. “Which I might perhaps be able to do if you’d leave me be.”

She looked up at him, quite close now as she skirted the desk, and he could hardly meet her eyes. He struggled to keep his breathing steady, to keep the pounding of his heart inaudible as it reverberated his torso. His fangs threatened and he pressed his lips together because all he could think of was how close she was. How much he wanted to touch her.

And of course, how he could not. Ever. Again.

To slide his hands over that ivory skin, to gather her against him and bury his face in her hair, to cover that impudent mouth that alternately argued and smiled and lectured and challenged.

He turned his attention to the ever-present throbbing on his shoulder, focusing on the pain there. It didn’t seem to be as harsh as it used to be…or perhaps he was becoming even more inured to it.

“Is everything all right, Corvindale?” she asked. Her night rail billowed out enough that it nearly brushed the tops of his boots. Her essence filled his nose.

“Other than the fact that you’re disturbing my studies, yes, of course,” he replied and managed to step back without appearing to retreat.

“Very well, then,” she said. “Good night.”

She left.

Maia fled to her chamber.

Her stomach was in an upheaval, swirling and pitching like a ship in a storm.

She’d thought for a moment that he was going to…do something. Reach for her. Touch her. Ask her to stay.

Tell her not to marry Alexander.

But he’d been the same cold, harsh Corvindale.