The Vampire Narcise (Regency Draculia #3)(23)
Author: Colleen Gleason

This suspicion was confirmed as they strode through, chatting amiably about a variety of things, and Giordan smelled Narcise, among other aromas. She obviously spent much time here, as did Moldavi and others.

That was an optimistic sign. If she were kept here, in this furnished, plastered and painted area, Giordan would have a much better chance of freeing her from it. And perhaps not quite as many nightmares about her cloistered in the torture chamber.

"Please, sit," Moldavi offered as a steward opened a tall, white door at the end of a gently ascending hallway. Inside there were many comfortable chairs and a roaring fireplace. "I hope you do not mind," his host said, gesturing to the flames. "But I tend to easily take a chill and I prefer a blaze in every chamber."

"I find it rather chill and damp beneath the ground, so I welcome the heat," Giordan told him.

Glasses clinked and Moldavi offered him a small ornate vessel shaped like an upside-down bell. They talked for some time about the spice ship, and all the while Giordan kept his ears and nose attuned for the presence of Narcise.

But it was when Moldavi, after a long moment of silence, said, "I find that I will need to be absent from Paris for a week or more to attend to a business interest in Marseilles," that Giordan’s body came to full awareness.

Something prickled over the back of his shoulders and he sipped the very fine sparkling wine that had come from Barcelona. "Do you travel by coach or horse?" he asked just to keep the conversation going, even as his mind worked madly. He kept his eyes heavily-lidded and his attention purposely jumping about the chamber. "I cannot help but admire your selection of artwork," he said. "Perhaps you’ve noticed I am a patron of Monsieur David."

"I did notice," Moldavi replied. "He has given my sister painting lessons, and in fact, that is one of her works." He gestured to a small square painting, surrounded by an ornate frame as wide as the image it embraced.

Giordan had already taken note of the dark, stark image of a city beneath the moonlight. The rows of buildings appeared like angry gray teeth thrusting up into a dark sky. Out of politeness, he looked again, and then, because he couldn’t appear too interested, he drew his attention away almost immediately.

"I see little resemblance between her work and that of David," he commented, thinking of not only the lack of hue but also the subject matter. Monsieur David generally concentrated on portraits rather than landscapes, and even his stark portrait of the murder of his friend Marat wasn’t as angry and undulating as Narcise’s world.

How does she live?

Cezar gave a short laugh. "I certainly concur, but the painting keeps Narcise occupied." He spoke as if she were some young girl who tended to be around underfoot.

Giordan had to raise the drink to keep from speaking his mind…and from lunging for the repugnant being next to him…and found that his fangs threatened to clink against the edge of the delicate glass. He drew in a slow breath and sipped, willing his teeth to resheath themselves, his eyes to keep from burning with an angry glow. Calm. "I suppose she cannot practice her fencing all day," he managed to say.

Aside of his surprise that the painting was Narcise’s, Giordan was also taken aback that Cezar obviously allowed his sister to interact with people-men-other than when she fought for her own body. Through general conversation with Moldavi and others of those who moved in their circles, he was aware that Narcise often helped her brother entertain, and of course, very occasionally accompanied him on social engagements. He also realized why Narcise had seemed to be so familiar with, and interested in, the David painting in his own parlor.

"No, indeed not," Moldavi agreed. "But a thought has just occurred to me."

Giordan raised an eyebrow in question and tried not to look back at that dark, hopeless painting.

"I must be gone for a week perhaps, as I mentioned. I have no desire to bring Narcise and the entire household with me. Perhaps since you both are so appreciative of Monsieur David-although for different reasons, I venture-perhaps you might be willing to see to Narcise in my absence?"

Giordan went cold for a moment but recovered immediately as he saw the trap. Clever, Moldavi. Very clever. It wasn’t difficult to force a grimace of distaste. "I hope you won’t think me rude if I decline," he said with a self-deprecating laugh. "I expect to be very busy in the next fortnight, and might even need to travel outside the city myself." He watched the other man closely and was rewarded when he noticed the slightest release of tension in his fingers.

Giordan had obviously made the right move in such a blatant denial of interest.

But whatever it was that Moldavi intended, Giordan had also learned one other thing: without a doubt, the man was exceedingly cunning.

He would have to be very careful in how he proceeded. To give a man like Cezar Moldavi any sort of knowledge was also to give him the greatest of power.

And to make a move in haste or desperation could be a fatal mistake.

Trust me, Narcise.

I pray you are safe until we meet again.

Narcise woke suddenly, those words echoing in her mind. Remnants of dreams. As she stared into the soft candlelight, a bitter laugh formed in the back of her throat, startling her with its ferocity, and she pressed her lips together.

Trust me, Narcise.

Her fingers shook as she skimmed them over her naked belly, then curled them between her br**sts, where her heart beat roughly, and held her hand there. Oh, yes, she had a heart, and though it had become enclosed by stone, she still felt its soft core.

What had Cale meant by saying such things? Particularly the absurd I pray you are safe until we meet again.

Dracule didn’t pray.

And how would they ever meet again? Did she even want to meet him again?

A little twinge deep inside told her that, yes, she did. She would. He had touched her without actually touching her.

Climbing out of her bed, Narcise let the covers fall. It was always damp and cool here, below the ground where Cezar insisted on living. Even here in her private chamber, which was comfortably appointed with an attached parlor furnished with upholstered chairs, a mirror and dressing table, a wardrobe, and even a place for her easel and paints, the chill was never fully banished. There were no windows, of course, and the only indicator of time was a clock which she kept wound.

A stone and brick hearth held the fire that never ceased blazing, and it was only when she drew near it that Narcise was able to completely stop the little shivers of cold and dread. She stood there now, staring into the tongues of flame, feeling its warmth seep into her skin, heating the sheer lace gown she wore.