His erection rose taut against his lower abdomen, hot and insistent. Even now, with her back to him and sound asleep, the curve of her shoulders and hips, the nip of her waist, the spread of her hair behind her was an overpowering lure, the urge to bury himself within her silky depths irresistible.
God, he would have done anything to bring her pleasure now. But it was not the right time—there would likely never be the right time.
"Anthony."
Though several walls separated them, he had no trouble discerning his mentor's voice. His reply was quiet, to avoid disturbing Emily's sleep. "I'm here."
"Are you enthralled?" Hugh asked bluntly.
Anthony bit back the angry response that rose to his tongue; of course his mentor had heard Emily's and his exchange. And he knew that Hugh's real question was: Given your feelings, can you effectively protect her?
Emily sighed in her sleep, and he walked over to stand next to the bed. Her lips were gently parted, her lashed fanned against her cheek. Lavender and her unique, feminine fragrance filled his senses.
He could easily lose himself in her, but he would never permit himself that luxury if it endangered her. He would die before he allowed that to happen.
Again.
"No," he finally murmured. "Being near her has always affected me thus." A lifelong enthrallment.
There was a long pause and then Hugh said, "I will not listen anymore."
Anthony glanced in the direction of Hugh's voice, his eyebrows arching in amusement. Had the Guardian just given him leave to make love to Emily if he wished—and had he really thought Anthony needed that approval from him?
But he was not insensible to the tacit compliment accompanying the approval—if Hugh thought Anthony incapable, he would never have offered privacy.
"Have you sensed the demon?"
"Everywhere," Hugh said cryptically and then was silent. The short answer was a signal that Hugh either knew where the demon was but was biding his time before confronting her—or conversely, that he had no idea but did not want to alert the demon to her advantage.
Anthony tilted his head and tried to open his senses to locate the demon, as Hugh had once instructed him.
Nothing.
He sighed at the failure, but it did not dishearten him. He would have years to learn, and he was no stranger to study.
Emily turned over with a rustle of linen. Her nightgown climbed over her knee, revealing sleek muscles and satin skin. How simple it would be to draw his palm over the length of her limbs, to seek the dark secrets between them.
If he had eons to study them, it would not be enough.
He'd thought the taste of her he'd had long ago would be—though he had been aroused, there had been little passion; it had been swept away by his surprise and her bitterness. When he'd returned, he thought he could resist her sensuality, could keep his craving for her under control; the kiss they'd just shared had banished that notion. He knew she made him happy; he'd forgotten how she made him ache.
And with every move, every laugh, every word she reminded him, until it seemed as if there had never been anything else.
Chapter Nine
Those who have been transformed yet cannot release their former lives should Ascend. For those, the hundred years of tutelage is an eternity, and their pain upon return to Earth—where nothing is as it was—excruciating. Guardians do not wish pain upon their own; those unfortunates should be encouraged to Ascend and not made to feel an obligation to serve.
— The Doyen Scrolls
Emily looked in on Colin when she woke; he was as still as ever, but it did not make her ache as it once had. "It will not be much longer," she promised him. She straightened his bedding and smoothed the hair that had become tangled on his forehead. Although she knew Hugh was in the room, watching, she could not see him. His silence and invisibility unnerved her, and she left the bedchamber as quickly as she could.
Anthony waited in the hallway, his eyes hooded and dark. "Where will you be?"
She paused at the top of the stairs. He could not be with her always. Only a fool would reject the protection he offered her, and yet they could not risk the servants seeing him. "Because I have minimal staff, we have not kept many rooms cleaned and heated. In the library," she decided. "Should Mrs. Kemble need to speak with me, you could wait in the adjoining parlor until she has left." A door connected the two rooms; he would be able to exit the library without going into the hallway, and he would still be close enough to help her should anything occur.
He nodded. By the time she took the first step, he had disappeared in a blur of movement.
She smiled to herself as she descended the stairs. He took such pleasure in his new abilities. She imagined him, a thousand years in the future, grinning as he healed those he protected.
It was an image that made her as happy as it made her want to cry.
She found him waiting for her in the library, turning the pages of a slim volume of poetry. He glanced up at her, a charming, slightly petulant look in his eyes. "I thought I might be able to read more quickly, but I can't."
Byron would likely have been gratified. "Not everything should be done quickly," she said dryly. "He titled it Hours of Idleness, after all."
A lazy, carnal smile spread across his face. "There are many things to spend hours on; poetry is not one of them."
She blushed, her nipples tightening as his gaze slid down her form. Wanton need slipped through her; she had the sudden urge to lock the door, push him onto the sofa, and replay the scene that had gone so wrong before, in London. Only this time, make it right.
But his gaze shifted from her, and he tilted his head, listening. "Someone comes," he said. "By the jingling of keys, I'd wager it is Mrs. Kemble."
Emily straightened, a flush coursing through her as if she were a child about to be discovered in some naughty act. Anthony grinned and strode to the parlor door. The flex and roll of his buttock muscles made her mouth water.
She looked up and found him watching her. He winked salaciously and closed the door on her gasp of embarrassment.
Composing herself took effort, but she managed to smooth her countenance before the housekeeper's brisk knock sounded at the door.
"Good morning, Mrs. Kemble," Emily said as the older woman swept into the room. "I think I shall take my luncheon in here today. I have some correspondence to complete in my brother's stead, and we are behind in tallying the accounts." Color rose in her cheeks as her effort to appear as if everything was normal brought forth a garrulous spill of words; she did not need to explain herself to the housekeeper.
Mrs. Kemble sniffed. "Very well, milady." She looked Emily up and down. "Have you come out of mourning, milady? We will need to air your wardrobe."
Emily nodded. Anthony had ripped her best mourning dress; though she had others, when she had faced the selection of blacks and grays, she had not been able to make herself wear them. She had chosen a fine woolen dress in pale blue instead and then topped it with a sunny yellow shawl as a ward against the chill in the house.
As Emily had only just entered her period of half-mourning, the disapproval on Mrs. Kemble's face deepened. But she only said, "I will send Mr. Davison to Hartington to collect one of the upstairs maids."
Though she wondered at the housekeeper's boldness at showing her displeasure, she didn't comment. Mrs. Kemble was not the softest of women, but she had served the family faithfully for years. It was likely the peculiar arrangements had strained the other woman's temper. "Aggie White is staying with her family only half a mile away," Emly reminded her.