"Why can't we cross thresholds uninvited?” He shrugged. “It's just one of those things that is." As they approached the ranger's house, she returned her gaze to the sandy soil, briefly scanning for anything that seemed out of place. “How come, when all vampires know the rules, no vampire knows why ?"
His smile made her heart do a little dance. “How come some women just can't seem to stay out of trouble?"
"It's not polite to answer a question with a question."
"It is when I don't have the answer to the question." She grinned. “If you're not careful, I'll hit you with questions you can answer." He touched her arm, gently stopping her. “Like what?” He squatted down and swept his hand across the dirt. Red dust puffed, revealing wood.
"Like asking about your brother."
"How do you know I have a brother?"
His voice was distracted as he ran his fingers along the edge of the wood. After a moment, there was a faint click. He opened the door, revealing the darkness of a tunnel. Red dust flew as he let the door to drop to the ground.
She twitched her nose, fighting the urge to sneeze as she stared into the foul smelling darkness. There was no sound, no hint of life coming from the mine. Not that she really expected there to be. “I know you have a brother the same way I know you turned him."
"I wasn't the one responsible for turning him. I merely nursed him through it." Surprise rippled through her. “Really?"
"Really."
"Then where is he now?"
"On a boat, on his way here from England."
So he hadn't been in America long when Jasper killed him. But how had Jasper killed him when Jasper had to have been little more than a fledgling at the time? “Why is he coming here?" He glanced at her. “Because he misses his baby brother."
"Really?"
A smile touched his lips. “Really."
"Are you supposed to be meeting him, then?"
"Yes, in San Francisco, once I take care of this mess.” He frowned and shadows crossed his eyes. He didn't say anything, yet she felt the surge of anger and sorrow. Deep down, he knew Patrick was long dead, and all these years later, he still quietly grieved that fact. Was Patrick dead because Michael hadn't been there to meet him? Was that the reason for the anger she'd sensed in him when they'd first met? Had his need for revenge been fueled just as much by guilt as anger?
"Was Patrick much older than you when he was turned?" Michael scrubbed a hand across his jaw and, for a moment, looked as if he wouldn't answer. Then he glanced down at the hole and said softly, “No. He took the ceremony earlier than I. But he wasn't in such a hurry to die, and he didn't turn until his heart gave out when he was in his forties."
"He had a heart attack?"
"No. Living was tough back then, and forty was a fairly old age."
"And you were by his side?"
>"Keep your windows and blinds closed at all times,” he continued softly. “I don't want Kinnard spying on you."
She kissed him, then reached passed him, opening the small cabinet above the hand basin. Sitting right beside the toothpaste and toothbrush was a cake of soap. She grabbed it and tossed it into the water. It was better than nothing. “If you don't turn it off soon, that water is going to overflow."
"The water has bad timing.” He turned off the water and stepped into the bath. “What about your wound?"
"It wasn't bad, and I heal fast.” She unwound the bandage, and shifted her leg so he could see there was little more than a pink scar on her thigh.
"Unusually fast,” he commented and offered her a hand. “Coming in?" She tossed the washcloth into the water, placed her fingers in his and stepped in carefully. The water was almost too hot. She eased down, sighing softly as the water lapped at her breasts and began to relax her muscles.
He pulled her back against him, then grabbed the soap and began washing her breasts and belly. When she could stand the tortuous pleasure no more, she grabbed the soap and cloth from him and turned around.
"Your turn,” she said, and made a swiveling motion with her fingers. “Back first." The black markings on his back were thick and ugly, and more intricate than what she'd been told to expect. And the wound on his shoulder was red and angry looking. She took care of that first, easing away the scab, washing away the infection. Though he didn't say anything, he flinched a number of times, indicating the wound was sorer than he'd admitted. Once both ends of the wound were clean, she began working on his back, carefully scrubbing at the drawings.
He didn't give her long enough, though. Maybe it was the spell protecting itself and forcing him to move out of her reach, or maybe it was just desire. Either way, he turned around and took the soap from her, putting it on the edge of the bath. Then he grabbed her legs and slid her forward until she was sitting between his thighs.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. “This is nice,” she said with a grin.