The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance (Trisha Telep) (Kitty Norville 0.50)
She yawned. She was so drowsy. “I think my mother hoped I would never have to do this.”
“I can see why,” Nassar said softly. “We live in constant danger. I would think any mother would want to shield her child from us.”
“I would.” Drowsiness overtook her. Grace set the cup down and curled into a ball in the chair. “Even though your world is so . . .”
She vaguely saw him rise from his chair. He picked her up, his magic cloaking about her. She should have been alarmed, but she had no resolve left.
“So?”
“So magical.”
He dre
w the canopy aside and lowered her onto the bed. Her head touched the pillow and reality faded.
Nassar stepped out of the room, gently closing the door behind him. Alasdair waited in the hallway, a lean sharp shadow, with a robe draped over his arm. Nassar took it from him and shrugged it on, absorbing the last of his feathers. His whole body hurt from too much magic expended too quickly. Walking was like stepping on crushed glass.
“Is she asleep?” Alasdair asked.
Nassar nodded. They walked down the hall together.
“She’s pretty. Chestnut hair and chocolate eyes - a nice combination.”
She was also calm under pressure, smart and wilful. When she looked at him with those dark eyes, Nassar felt the urge to say something intelligent and deeply impressive. Unfortunately, nothing of the kind came to mind. It seemed her eyes also had a way of muddling his thoughts. The last time he felt that dumb was about fourteen years ago. He’d been eighteen at the time.
“You like the girl,” Alasdair offered.
Nassar levelled a heavy gaze at him.
“Lilian said you tried to be funny in the car. I told her it couldn’t possibly be true. The moment you try to make a joke, the sky shall split and the Four Horsemen will ride out, heralding Apocalypse.”
“How droll. Did you double the patrols?”
Alasdair nodded his dark head and stopped by the ladder. Nassar walked past him, heading to his rooms.
“Did you?” Alasdair called.
“Did I what?”
“Did you joke with the girl?”
Nassar kept walking.
“Did she laugh?” Alasdair called.
“No.”
Nassar entered his room. He hadn’t expected her to laugh. He was grateful she didn’t collapse in a hysterical heap. Her uncle had been scared to within an inch of his life - fear had rolled off of him in waves. In Gerald’s life of some fifty odd years his services had been requested only twice, but the second time had scarred him for life. In the zone he would be useless.
Grace’s mother, Janet, was always meticulous and formal. She took no initiative. Working with her was like being in the presence of an automaton that obeyed his every order while being grimly determined to dislike it. Taking her into the zone, even if he could compensate for her age and health, would be suicide.
He was never comfortable with any of them. He was never comfortable with the whole idea of the bonded servant and took pains to avoid requesting their presence. But this time he had no choice.
Working with Grace presented its own set of difficulties. He could still remember her scent: the light clean fragrance of soap mixing with the faint rosemary from her dark hair. His memory conjured the feel of her body pressed against his and when he’d picked her up to place her on the bed, he hadn’t wanted to let go. He wasn’t an idiot. There was an attraction there, and he would have to manage it very carefully. The imbalance of power between the two of them was too pronounced: he was the master and she was the servant. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Don’t imagine what it would be like. Nothing can happen. Nothing is going to happen. She’s off-limits.
Grace followed the servant into a spacious atrium. Morning sun shone through the glass panels in the ceiling. The stone path wound between lush greenery, parallel to a stream lined with smooth river pebbles. Spires of bamboo rose next to ficus and ferns. Delicate orchids in half-a-dozen shades dotted the moss-covered ground. Red Kaffir lilies bloomed along the stream’s banks, echoed by paler blossoms of camellia bushes. The air smelled sweet.
The path turned, parting, and Grace saw the origin of the stream: a ten-foot waterfall at the far wall. The water cascaded over huge grey boulders into a tiny lake. Near the shore stood a low coffee table surrounded by benches. A dark-haired man lounged on the bench to the left, sipping tea from a large cup.