Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)

Jessie removed the metal domed cover and the scent of fried potatoes and eggs reached her nose. Her traitorous stomach growled. Her gaze narrowed on Margaret’s eager face as the woman pulled back a chair, ready to seat her at the table. The older woman was right about one thing—Isabel had no idea how to maneuver around this strange place or what to expect from the man who kept her prisoner, Lord Delraven. She needed information and Margaret could provide it.

Are you an actress, or what? a voice in her head asked scathingly.

She bit her lower lip in a show of hesitation and glanced entreatingly at Margaret.

“You must understand…waking up to find myself in such a strange place—and…and I think I saw…”

“What, dear?” Margaret asked, her forehead wrinkled in concern.

“Vampires,” Isabel whispered. Jessie shifted on his feet uneasily.

“Don’t be frightened. I know it seems strange—I recall how shocked I was when I first discovered Lord Delraven’s and the Literatis’ unusual natures. They’re not vampires like in tales. Or like Morshiel and his revenants are,” she added under her breath. “Delraven and his followers never kill to sustain themselves. Never. It’s anathema to them. They take only enough vitessence for nourishment.”

“By sucking blood?”

“Among other fluids, yes,” Margaret said. She became distracted while she arranged a meticulously folded napkin.

“How can you tell me not to be frightened? This is terrifying.” Isabel wasn’t lying, exactly. It was the delivery that made it acting.

Margaret’s face collapsed in compassion. “Of course it is, you poor thing.” She came toward Isabel, arms outstretched. “Sanctuary is a lovely place, once you get used to its…er…idiosyncrasies. You’ll see. You’ll feel better once you’ve had your breakfast, and after that I’ll draw a bath for you and you can try on some of your new, lovely clothes. Then perhaps Jessie can give you a tour of Sanctuary. Would that be all right, Jessie?” Margaret asked with a wide smile. Jessie dropped the china sugar bowl he was arranging on the table.

“Of course, ma’am. I mean…no.” The young man blushed all the way to the roots of his dark brown hair when he glanced at Isabel. “That is, I would show her around, of course. It would be my pleasure. But Lord Delraven says she’s to remain confined to her quarters,” he added apologetically under his breath.

Margaret straightened indignantly. “He did, did he? Never you mind about that. You plan to come and collect her in exactly two hours time. I’ll speak to Delraven. Go on with you.” She waved toward the door, suddenly as imperious as a matron monarch. Jessie didn’t dawdle, but did exactly as he was ordered.

“Be seated, dear.”

“Only if you join me,” Isabel said in her best meek manner.

“I’d be honored. Come now, tuck in. There. Now…what am I to call you?”

“Isabel. Isabel Lanscourt,” she said, picking up a heavy silver fork.

The next thing she knew, she was eating the most delicious eggs Benedict she’d ever tasted while Margaret Turrow served her tea from a service that wouldn’t have looked at all out of place in Buckingham Palace. Strange sort of prison, Isabel thought as she accepted her steaming cup.

But a prison, nonetheless.

She opened her mouth, determined to get as much information as possible about the mysterious master of Sanctuary, Blaise Delraven.

Her jailer.

Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven, hung upside down, his feet buckled into metal boots. Aubrey watched contentedly as his friend completed four hundred inverted sit-ups—one hundred more than usual. Blaise stared at some fixed point, his eyes as cold as stone, his expression stoic. Only his lean, bulging muscles and sweat-glistened, olive-toned skin hinted at the turmoil that must be frothing inside him at the moment.

Long, ropey muscles contracted and bulged. He released himself from the boots, grabbing the suspended bar and swinging to the floor. As usual, Aubrey found his lack of self-consciousness in regard to his sleek, magnificent male beauty incredible. Blaise’s disregard of aesthetics rankled him, at times, but Aubrey also thought his friend’s insouciance sublime, somehow.

Blaise began pacing the moment his feet hit the ground, only pausing to occasionally glance at and touch a series of maps hanging on the wall.

A caged animal, Aubrey thought as he watched Blaise from where he sat sprawled on a couch. Aubrey had never ceased to enjoy the sight of Blaise. He relished it now like a connoisseur might sip the rarest of wine.

The object of his delicate aesthetic taste currently was wearing nothing but a pair of for

m-fitting black pants. Blaise must be planning on channeling his agitation over recent events in the work-out facility, for Aubrey knew he wore the simple garment for sparring. His gaze lingered appreciatively on the sight of Blaise’s long, well-muscled but exceptionally lean torso as Blaise ran his finger along a line on a map.

He’d grown used to the fact that he could not make love to Blaise, but that didn’t prevent Aubrey from desiring him. Blaise epitomized brilliance, loyalty, sex and strength, and those were the things Aubrey held dear to his heart.

Although really, they all boiled down to power. That was the quality Aubrey admired most.

A Londoner might have immediately recognized the familiar outlines of the Underground on the map where Blaise focused his attention, but then become confused by the addition of a number of anomalous tunnels and unfamiliar labeled landmarks. There was a world beneath the city streets that would amaze a typical Londoner. Sanctuary was the hub of that secret, subterranean world.