When he remained silent, she scowled. It was so like a man to play the innocent when he was guilty of hiding secrets. But this secret couldn't be hidden. It was staring them both in the face: his crypt.
Her Frankenstein curiosity taking over, Clair forgot most of her fear. Yes, this was the baron's crypt. This was where he probably slept the day away, dreaming of ill-gotten gains of blood and who knew what else a creature of the night like himself might dare to dream in the depths of sleep.
"What game are you speaking about?" Ian was fascinated in spite of himself. He should call the Bow Street runners, he thought. He should call his staff and have her thrown out, but he'd rather have his staff throw her into his bed. She was a petite beauty and she was in his territory now, right where she'd put herself.
He drew closer, nostrils flaring slightly as he breathed in her scent. She smelled of winter, fresh and frosty. He found it remarkably stimulating.
Dramatically, the woman pointed and chastised him. "How about that great big stone coffin in the corner? My lord, you are deliberately trying to draw my attention away from it."
"Oh, that coffin," Ian replied stiffly, questions flooding his mind. He wondered if any of the enemies he had made spying for the British government had something to do with this. He wondered if she was playing a game, and if so, what were the rules? He wondered if the woman was mad as a hatter. Then he wondered if he himself was mad as a hatter for listening to her demented ramblings in his basement on a Tuesday night. Surely he was. But though curiosity had killed many a cat, he was as curious as any cat—and not as easily killed… nine lives or not.
Clair smiled smugly, her fright easing. The baron had not rushed her. He had not attacked her, leading her to believe that he probably wouldn't. She felt fairly safe—as safe as one could feel in the presence of a crusty, mad vampire. And though he was a handsome devil, he would still have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool a Frankenstein. And he went to bed in the mornings.
"Yes, that coffin." She pointed primly to the massive stone monument. "Your coffin."
"Actually, that's my ancestor, the second Baron Huntsley's coffin."
She snorted.
The unladylike noise from the woman caught Ian unaware and had him staring at her transfixed. He arched a brow as he observed the way the candlelight highlighted the golden strands of her hair. Parts of it had become undone from her braid, giving her a wild, tousled look, as though she had just stepped from a lover's bed. He wanted to be that lover, although he couldn't tell much about her figure with that grotesque cape she was wearing. Still, that didn't stop the flow of blood to his groin.
She actually gave a little laugh then, the sound chiming in the darkness like the brisk bells of St. Matthew's Chapel. "Baron Huntsley, somehow I knew you would say that."
Ian cocked his head to study her. "If you knew the coffin was my great-great-grandfather's, why pretend it's mine?"
Again she snorted. "No, I know it is yours. Your coffin. Although I do find it odd that you are returning to it so soon, after only leaving it a few hours ago."
He'd been right. She was mad. What a pity. Such a beautiful woman to be raving. "Returning to it? Do I look like a corpse to you?"
"Not now." She stopped, groping in her pocket and pulling out a watch. "But in six hours you will be."
"I will be what?" Ian asked with the barest modicum of civility, wondering why he was still standing there arguing with a Bedlamite.
"You will be a corpse."
Ian smiled. It was a smile devoid of all warmth and humor. "I do so love challenges. Are you planning on killing me?"
He should be concerned, he supposed, but instead he was simply intrigued. It had been a long time since he had felt this way. Life had become a blur of days and nights, blending into one stark shade of gray. Nothing was special anymore, or remarkable; all was mundane.
Lately he had wondered if something essential in life had passed him by some afternoon when he was hunting or playing cards. For the past five years, the joys of his life had faded into the vague nothingness of memories. That is, until tonight, when he had been alerted by the sound of footsteps making their way to his basement and he had silently followed. Suddenly the night had seemed more alive than it had in years, as if a fresh stiff breeze were blowing away the cobwebs in his mind. Unfortunately, it appeared his savior was a loon.
She stared at his mouth. "Do you plan on biting me?" she asked.
Ian looked her up and down. "I can't tell in that awful cape. Are you good enough to eat?"
Clair cocked her head, glaring at him. "No." The baron really was too saucy for his own good. But then, she reasoned, vampires were masters of manipulation and seduction. Still, she would be no one's puppet, even if this vampire did make her heart almost stop with his rich, husky voice and his attractive features.
"Then why would I bite you?" he asked.
She gave him a look which named him stupid. "You're a vampire, of course."
Ian Huntsley, fifth Baron of Huntsley, threw back his head and laughed. Long and hard.
"I see no humor in this remarkable and riveting discovery," Clair said haughtily. "After all, it took great skill and courage to track you to your lair."
He chuckled. "My lair… ?" Suddenly the chuckles faded and he growled, "Madame, I do believe you have a screw loose. Maybe more than one."
Clair glared at him. "How dare you presume to say such a thing? I, sirrah, am a scientist!"
Ian eyed the woman, a scowl darkening his features. "That makes little sense. No sane person I know, a scientist especially, would enter the… what did you call it? Ah yes, the lair of a vampire alone, at night, with no protection!"
She could be killed pulling such stunts as this, he knew. London was a dangerous place, especially at night. All kinds of creatures were lurking about. And this small woman was out seeking bloodsucking demons and God knew what else. In addition, as bad luck would have it, she was seeking them in his home. The group of men with which he sometimes did business, would not be pleased if they found out about this night's adventure.
"I am not just anyone," the woman stated dramatically, her nose stuck proudly in the air. "I am Clair Elizabeth Frankenstein, niece to Dr. Victor Frankenstein and niece also to Dr. Johann Tieck."
"Oh, good Lord," Ian groaned. "You are niece to both a quack and a deranged writer."
Until that point, Clair had been cautiously keeping her distance between the devil and the deep blue sea, mainly this baron of vampires. But hearing the unkind remarks the man made about her uncles, Clair threw caution to the wind. Dashing forward, she closed the distance and slapped Ian smartly across the face.
"How dare you demean my uncles? They are great men, worthy of the Frankenstein name!"
Ian looked down at the furious spitting kitten and had to clench his teeth to stop from grinning. "I am sorry, Miss Frankenstein. I lost my good manners at the surprise of your illustrious family heritage."
She eyed him suspiciously. He was staring at her neck and he had all those white teeth. Those big white teeth. THOSE BIG WHITE TEETH!
"Stop staring at my neck," she demanded bravely, feeling far from courageous, wondering how those big white teeth would feel in her neck. She bet they would hurt tremendously. Then her mind spun down other scientific avenues. Would she like sleeping underground… so far, far underground? If she became one of the undead, would the dastardly baron let her have a nightlight in her coffin so that she could continue her research after-hours? She would insist upon it. After all, if she were to become immortal, she would certainly take advantage of some fringe benefits.
"My lord, I would appreciate it if you would leave off eyeing my neck. You make me feel rather like a lush roast pig."