Bitten by Desire by Marguerite Kaye Page A

moon, ghostly fingers of light penetrated the gloom of her bedchamber, casting long jagged shadows across the floorboards, glancing off the mirror which hung over the mantel, creeping up the Chinese hand-painted paper on the opposite wall. Telling herself that there was nothing in the world to be scared of, she nevertheless huddled under the sheet, pulling it up over her face. She began to count, an old trick from childhood taught her by her mother. She reached eighty or so before she fell asleep, sinking into the most extraordinarily vivid dream.
    She dreamt she heard the curtains ruffle. The brass hoops jangled on the pole, followed by a soft footfall on the uncarpeted boards. Then came a lithe, padding step muffled by the Turkish rugs. The cat, she thought.
    Then her skin prickled. A premonition. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the cat. There was someone, or something, in the room. A dark, brooding presence which was watching her. She could feel its eyes upon her. She sat up, pushing her long fall of black hair back from her brow.
    He was standing at the foot of the bed. A man. A very tall man, strikingly handsome, gazing at her intently. She opened her mouth to scream, but as ever in a nightmare, no sound came out. She tried again, fighting panic. She couldn’t move. The cool night air whispered over her skin, making it clammy.
    Be careful what you wish for.
    â€œI didn’t wish for this.” The words shaped but did not form. She made herself look straight at him, as if looking would force him back to where he had came from, somewhere in the depths of her imagination. As if looking would waken her, unfreeze her limbs, give her voice.
    He had grey-green eyes, the colour of a stormy sea. Strange, but she could see them so clearly though there were no candles lit and the heavy damask drapes were drawn across the other two of the three tall windows. Coal-black hair, worn longer than was the custom now, fell sleekly back over his head, a stray strand flopping over his brow.
    She was cold, an icy cold which seemed to emanate from the man at the end of her bed. He had a pale face, with prominent cheekbones. A memorable face. Handsome but too austere for beauty, too…too… She couldn’t find the right word.
    Autocratic? Aristocratic? Intimidating?
    All of those. Other-worldly. A Roman emperor or an Egyptian pharaoh. A man accustomed to command.
    He looked so real .
    Too real. All of her senses felt stretched taut. Acute. Attenuated. The paralysis of her body that his appearance had cast eased the tiniest fraction. Enough for her to lick her lips, which felt dry and parched. Enough for her to grip the sheet, her knuckles white with the effort. She cleared her throat. “Who are you?” To her relief the words emerged, sounding hoarse.
    â€œVaelen. I am Vaelen.”
    His voice was husky, smoky, like the remnants of a wood fire. Imogen found she could move. She shuffled up against the pillows, putting a few vital inches between them. His brow raised just a fraction, the corner of his mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile. She didn’t ask herself how it was that she could see every detail of his face when the gilded ormolu clock on her nightstand was a block of grey. She thought it must be the moon, shining directly on him. Or maybe it was the luminescence of his skin.
    â€œVaelen.” She had never heard of such a name. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was breathless, tinged with strangeness and a presentment of something she did not know whether to run from, or towards.
    â€œYou summoned me.”
    â€œI summoned you?” She was still frightened, but her fear was mingled with recklessness. She dreamt and knew she was dreaming. She’d wished on the moon and this—Vaelen—was the result. Is that what he meant? Longing washed seductively over her like warm honey. She wanted it to be true. That she had conjured him. Vaelen. The product of the moon’s magic