Free The Vampire Who Loved Me by Teresa Medeiros Page A

the fire crackling on her brick hearth. Although carriages had carved muddy ruts through the broad cobbled streets below, snow still frosted the rooftops and the spindly arms of the tree branches, making them glow in the lambent light. A thin mist trailed ghostly fingers through the deserted streets.
    She drew her woolen shawl tighter over her thin cotton night rail, her hungry gaze searching the night. The sleeping hush of the house made her feel as if she was the only one left awake in all the world. But she knew Julian was out there somewhere, a prisoner of the nightwith all of its dangers and temptations. For all she knew, he might already be in the arms of another woman who could never be anything more to him than his next meal.
    She touched a finger to the plump swell of her bottom lip, remembering the demanding pressure of his mouth on hers. How he had kissed her as if she was both his salvation and his doom. How he had wrapped her in his arms so tightly that even the furious lash of the wind couldn’t tear them apart.
    But in the end, it had. She slowly lowered her hand. What if Julian’s kiss truly had been a kiss of farewell? What if he went back to wandering the world, exiled from everyone who had ever loved him? What if she never saw him again? Somehow that prospect was even more unbearable than it had been before. In time, she might even come to believe that those moments in his arms had been nothing more than a dream, the feverish delusion of a woman destined to spend her life yearning for a man she could never have.
    The wind moaned through the trees overhanging the courtyard below, sending a shiver dancing over her flesh. She reached to draw thewindow closed, but after a moment’s hesitation, edged it open even wider.
    “Come home, Julian,” she whispered to the night. “Before it’s too late.”
     
    Julian slipped through the window of Portia’s bedchamber, landing on the balls of his feet with the soundless grace of a cat. He should have been halfway to France by now, sailing across the Channel with a clueless Cuthbert in tow.
    Instead he’d spent the day huddled in an abandoned warehouse in Charing Cross, waiting for the pale winter sun to set. He had crept out just after moonrise, dodging the crowded thoroughfares of Fleet Street and the Strand where one of Wallingford’s henchmen might still be lying in wait for him. Before he’d realized it, his aimless wandering had led him to the alley behind his brother’s mansion.
    He lingered in that alley, drawing back into the shadows when Larkin emerged to bundle Vivienne and a matched pair of chattering little lads into their waiting carriage. He watched through a lighted window while Caroline slipped into Adrian’s study and then into Adrian’s lap, seeking to ease his visible tensionwith a tender kiss. As the two of them strolled from the room, arm in arm, Julian studied his brother’s handsome face, knowing he was responsible for the new lines of strain he found there. Adrian had always been willing to bear every burden that should have rightfully been Julian’s.
    As Wilbury made his customary rounds through the house, extinguishing the last of the lamps, Julian bided his time. It was easy to be patient when one had an eternity to waste.
    Or so he thought until he crept around to the front of the house and saw Portia sitting in the window of her bedchamber. She was gazing up at the night sky with her chin cupped in her hand, looking as wistful as a child who had just been told that the man in the moon had departed for sunnier climes. Julian knew he should bid her a silent farewell and melt back into the shadows where he belonged.
    He would leave London. The murders would stop. And if she spent the rest of her life believing the worst of him, wouldn’t that be the best for her? He turned to go.
    Come home, Julian. Before it’s too late.
    Julian froze, his keen hearing picking up theecho of her whispered words. His gaze shot back to the window