Never Been Bitten by Erica Ridley Page B

homesickness he himself had suffered. And he would never forgive himself if Ellie were Compelled to spend the rest of her life serving the Elders.
    So why did he feel like he was losing something important?
    Cain leaned his good shoulder against the conservatory wall. He bloody well knew why he regretted leaving Ellie. Because he liked her, dammit.
    She was bonny, clever, delightfully skeptical. . . . He’d actually had to work to charm her and was not at all confident as to the extent of his success. She, for her part, had managed to charm him quite effortlessly, with her arch wit and unpredictability. Yet her very mortality ensured he could never have her. His clan only accepted fellow vampires as mates, and he would not turn her. Conversion had been banned for centuries, for good reason: Only one in a hundred survived the process. Even were it legal, it would still not be worth the risk. Besides, what he liked best about Ellie was her humanness. He’d damn near sprained his cheek muscles keeping his smiles at bay so as not to flash his fangs by accident. Being in her company was simply good fun.
    Even if she could accept him for who and what he was, he still could not have her. Regardless of his clan’s laws against mating with a human, Cain wouldn’t be able to bear falling in love with someone who would grow old when he would not, who would die when he would not, who would leave this world—and him—forever.
    The slight squeak of a hinge set his muscles on edge. If the sound heralded the arrival of servants or a groundskeeper, his gift of thought Compulsion would keep unwanted questions at bay. But if the entire party had decided to take a turn amongst the exotic flowers, his blood-weakened state might not afford him the energy needed to Compel a multitude of people at once. He would be forced to . . . mingle.
    With a sigh, he straightened to his full height and prepared for the worst. The thick rows of tangled flora offered plenty of shadowy nooks, but if Cain had never sought to hide from immortal warriors, he certainly would not cower from a gaggle of ladies and lordlings. Let them do their worst.
    “Cain?” called a warm, familiar voice. “Are you here?”
    From the first sultry syllable, Cain’s entire body stood at attention. Ellie. Bloody hell. He might have faced less danger with the picnic-goers after all.
    “Here,” he managed, inanely pleased his voice hadn’t cracked like that of some green youth.
    “Where?” she called, her footsteps falling faster.
    Cain didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, because even as his addled brain sought to form a reply, she stepped into view. If he’d still had breath, she would certainly have stolen it away. He swallowed hard.
    Although she stood at the opposite end of a long row of hothouse flowers, just enough dappled sunlight filtered through the tropical blooms to give her silhouette an angelic glow. Not that he needed the reminder. Stray curls danced alongside elegant cheekbones. A simple gown highlighted a perfectly curved figure that required no ruffles or flounces to distract the eye. The faint, but irresistibly sweet scent of her blood blended with the perfume of the flowers, pricking both his nostrils and his nethers.
    “You look . . . dashing.” Blood infused her cheeks at the apparently unintentional compliment, but she boldly took another step in his direction.
    Dashing? Cain glanced down at himself abstractedly. His costume was Corinthian out of necessity rather than personal style. After so many decades of ever-changing styles, the vagaries of vogue blended into incomprehensibility. Cain followed fashion in order to avoid looking like a centuries-old relic. He donned the sheep’s clothing du jour to better stalk his prey. Except for those ridiculous cravats. He’d never worn one as a warrior or as a Scotsman, so he’d be damned before he noosed himself every morning for the English.
    For reasons of her own, Ellie had likewise not chosen to