The Scarlet Deep

  And while he was still presumptuous, Anne found that she couldn’t fault him for it when he told the truth.

  She was his mate.

  Sometimes she didn’t like him much. Sometimes he pushed her buttons a little too far.

  But oh, how she loved him.

  The only remaining question was, did she want him more than the life she’d established? More than her patients? More than her home?

  Who in there knows you? Knows you really?

  No one.

  But Murphy did. Josie did. Brigid and Carwyn did.

  She still cared for her immortal patients. But… she didn’t care for them more than she loved the man beside her.

  Patrick Murphy had grown into a responsible leader. Respected. Admired for qualities beyond his bravado or brute strength. He’d done all that on his own, and she found herself fiercely proud of him.

  He’d broken her trust, and she’d abandoned him. They had both made mistakes. Maybe Murphy’s were more obvious, but she wasn’t perfect either.

  Part of her wished she had fought harder for him, but part of her also realized that losing her might have been the thing that drove him to become the man he was. He could still be rash. He still fought his temper and his demons, as she did. But he had also learned care and patience. He had taken control of a city and made it a thriving, safe place. He sacrificed for his people.

  Anne had loved the man he’d been, but she loved and admired the man he’d become.

  She opened her eyes and twisted so that she was facing him. His skin was cool to the touch, as hers was. She took a deliberate breath and let her amnis run faster, heating her body to warm them both. It was a little thing, but she liked the idea of Murphy waking to warmth. She knew there had been many human years when that hadn’t been the case.

  Anne hummed a low tune as she brushed the hair out of his eyes and smoothed it back from his forehead. She closed her eyes and let herself revel in the feel of his blood waking within her.

  Such powerful amnis.

  Much was made of the strength of older immortals, and it was true that they had far more control. But the vigor of youth couldn’t be forgotten. She felt Murphy’s leg twitch against hers, and his amnis, which had been washing gently over her as he rested, rushed back to his body as he began to wake.

  She whispered the words to a song he loved as he woke. Murphy sucked in a deep breath as he always did when the sun set, but instead of sitting up or rolling over, he stayed exactly where he was, watching her with lidded eyes as she sang him awake.

  The wonder in his eyes put to rest any lingering doubts that had plagued her.

  She belonged with him.

  “What were you thinking about?” he asked. “Before I woke. What made you sing that song?”

  “I knew you loved it.”

  “I do.”

  Anne smiled. “That’s all. I know you love that song, so I sang it for you.”

  “And what thing can I do for you, Anne Margaret O’Dea”—gentle fingers began to play at the small of her back—“to repay you for the gift of that song? I may have fine houses and a fleet of ships, but I don’t think I own its equal.”

  She smiled. “There is one thing.”

  “Please,” he said. “Tell me how I can repay you.”

  She put her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes.

  “Do you know of a fine wild man,” she whispered, “with dark hair and brown eyes who might love me? I lost one long ago. I ran away, but I could never go far enough to forget the sound of his voice.”

  His voice was rough. “Anne—”

  “Do you know of one who might have me? For I’m lonely, and I’m needing him back.”

  Murphy said nothing but pulled back and tipped her chin up so her eyes met his. All his gentle amusement had fled, and his gaze held the longing of the young immortal she’d met so long ago.

  Angry and cocksure, he’d been. Passionate and impulsive.

  Vulnerable.

  Age had shaped him and molded him, but in that moment, he was as unguarded as she’d ever seen him.

  “Truly, Áine?”

  “A chuisle mo chroí,” she said. “Pulse of my heart, Patrick. Your blood runs with mine. I don’t want to live without you anymore. Don’t make me—”

  He stopped her mouth with a hungry kiss. His arms banded around her, and she could feel the length of his fangs against her skin as he rolled her under his body. He was hard against her soft. Her head began to spin with his energy as he kissed her over and over again. He was already naked, and he quickly stripped the nightclothes she had donned.

  Anne was painfully, instantly aroused. She tilted her head back, baring her neck. “Please…”

  She didn’t have to ask twice. His fangs pierced her skin as he entered her. Pleasure and pain and a dizzying swell of energy. Her legs came up and pressed against his hips, holding him closer.

  It wasn’t close enough.

  He drank, pulling hard against her neck as the first wave of pleasure crested and swept over her. She felt him inside. Her body. Her blood. There was no truer joining than this.

  Were you born of woman

  Or did you come from the earth?

  He didn’t come from the earth but from the water. From the springs deep within and the waters that fed the land. And when she closed her eyes, she saw them—the river against the sea—and it was a beauty she understood with trembling awe. They were more than two in that moment. They were the blood of creation.

  Her mate licked the wound closed and began a gentle rhythm that seemed to go on for hours. Murphy didn’t rush. Didn’t race. He savored her with every stroke and every kiss.

  “Patrick—”

  “You feel amazing,” he murmured. “You taste even better. I feel you everywhere, Anne. I love you so much.”

  “I love you too.” She closed her eyes. “But right now, I’m wishing you hadn’t learned patience so well.”

  He smiled and bent to press a hard kiss against her lips. “Are you ready for me to be impatient?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He laughed as he picked up a faster rhythm, bracing over her and staring into her eyes. Anne pulled him down to her kiss, teasing the small of his back as her feet stroked his legs and the back of his knees. Any of the sensitive spots she remembered. She felt the wave crest between them, and she rode it, throwing her head back as he struck again, biting the curve where her neck met her shoulder as she came hard.

  Anne felt him groan deep in his chest as he followed her, licking her skin where his fangs had pierced it, kissing her as the last tremors of pleasure shook them both. Then he rolled to the side and gathered her close. Anne threw her arm over his chest and let the afterglow of amnis light them from within.

  She was in him now, as he was in her.

  “You love me?” he murmured.

  “Silly man, of course I do. When have I ever not loved you?”

  He paused and reached for her hand, knitting their fingers together. “But do you trust me, Anne O’Dea?”

  She paused. “Do I trust you?”

  “I hope you do.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. “For I plan to love you more than myself. Plan to depend on you to tell me when I’m being an arse. Plan to love you better every night, until you can’t imagine your life without me. That way I’ll trap you, love. And you’ll never leave me again.”

  She thought her heart might burst with love for him.

  “Are you trying to make me fall in love with you, Mr. Murphy?”

  He smiled a cheeky grin. “I take nothing for granted, Dr. O’Dea.”

  IF Anne were a wind vampire, she’d have been flying when she arrived at the Cockleshell Pub later that night. Not even the smell of piss and old fish could dampen her mood.

  “Did you really think I was going to let you go by yourself?” Murphy asked, her hand gripped firmly in his.

  He’d become her shadow, even more affectionate than he’d been bef
ore and twice as watchful.

  “I’m going to start calling you a limpet if this continues, Patrick.”

  “Give me a few years,” he grumbled, his eyes sweeping the waterfront. “I’ll calm down. It’ll be better when we’re home.”

  “We haven’t talked about that yet,” she said. “Home.”

  “One thing at a time. Your father didn’t give any indication who this was?”

  “An old friend was all he said. Could be an old friend of mine. Or his. Or a new friend who’s actually old in years. It’s Da. I have no idea.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  Brigid and Carwyn had stayed behind to deal with the representatives from Amsterdam, but four of Murphy’s men and two of Terry’s accompanied them. They walked behind them, but not far. Anne had protested that guards were unnecessary, but Murphy and Terry had overruled her.

  Murphy’s paranoia seemed prescient when several large vampires stepped out of the shadows. Anne didn’t recognize any of them, and her fangs dropped.

  “Anne O’Dea?” one said, his thick Russian accent stumbling over her name.

  “Who’s asking?” Murphy said. “And where’s Tywyll?”

  The large vampire wore a heavy beard, his hair hanging into his eyes. Anne thought he resembled a very bad-tempered bear.

  “I don’t answer you, Englishman,” he said. “Are you Anne O’Dea of Galway?”

  Anne rose on her tiptoes to see over Murphy’s shoulder as their guards moved closer.

  “I’m Anne. Are you Russian?”

  “Don’t talk to them,” Murphy said. “I don’t know what’s going on—”

  “You’ll come with us,” the bearlike vampire said, stepping forward and moving to grab Anne.

  Murphy’s fist hit his face faster than Anne could see. In a flurry of blows, the large immortal was on the ground and Murphy was kicking him.

  “Patrick!”

  Their guards moved forward, blocking the other vampire’s compatriots and pulling Anne back to the edge of the road. With a loud snarl, the foreign vampires lunged forward, teeth bared and weapons out. One carried a long dagger, but the rest pulled handguns.

  Guns couldn’t kill a vampire unless the bullet severed the spine at the base of the neck, but they were still an efficient means of stopping one. Bullets hurt, and the guns these Russians took out looked like they could take down an elephant.

  With no idea who was trying to grab her, Anne went immediately into defensive mode. She elbowed one vampire who managed to get too close before one of Terry’s men belted him with a cricket bat. The solid swing sent the vampire flying toward the riverbank, over Murphy and the surly Russian.

  The bearded vampire had rallied and was tumbling over the ground, trying to get a grip on Murphy, who dodged in with another kick every time the man made a move to stand. Two of Murphy’s men, one human and one vampire, blocked Anne from the fight as the others pulled out weapons to face the foreigners.

  “You don’t touch her,” Murphy growled, pulling the Russian’s hair back and punching him in the throat with three quick jabs guaranteed to crush the vampire’s windpipe. “Do you understand that?”

  Anne could see that two of the foreign vampires had one of Murphy’s guards by the neck. She heard someone cock a gun.

  “No!” she yelled, frightened that the situation was escalating past the point of salvage.

  Just as she was about to push calm into the ruckus, she saw the water at the edge of the riverbank rise.

  “Stop,” a low voice said. “Ye’re bleedin’ eejits. All of ye.”

  The slap of water came suddenly when two waves rose from the river and grabbed Murphy, the bearded Russian vampire, and most of the guards, pulling them into the river and submersing them with a resounding smack.

  In a second, everything was silent.

  Tywyll stepped from the shadows with Oleg at his side.

  Anne heard Oleg cursing low in Russian. “That boy. Always wanting to travel, and these things keep happening. I cannot travel with him.”

  “I’ll just keep ’em down there while we talk.” Tywyll nodded toward the black water before he turned to Anne. “There’s my girl! How’re things, lamb?”

  Anne pushed past her guards. “Da, could you let Patrick out of the river, please?”

  Her sire’s eyes twinkled. “Was young Murphy in that ruckus? Oi, the lad. He needs to stay out of trouble, eh?”

  “The big bearded one tried to grab for me. What did you expect him to do?” She looked at her friend. “Hello, Oleg.”

  “Apologies for Misha. He is a good boy, but young. Not so bright yet. He will learn.”

  “Well, he won’t be able to talk for a bit after Patrick’s fists. Da?”

  With a swish and a slap, Murphy was spit out of the river, dripping and glaring at Tywyll.

  “Tywyll,” he spat. “So very nice to see you again.”

  “You too, lad! See you’ve made things right with my girl.”

  “Indeed.” He stood and did his best to straighten a sopping wet suit. He snapped at one of the guards who had covered Anne, and the man turned and trotted back to the car. “Campbell will get me some dry clothes in a moment.” His attention turned to the Russian fire vampire towering over Tywyll. “Oleg Sokolov.”

  “Patrick Murphy.”

  “This is how you meet friends, Sokolov?” The water behind Murphy stirred with his anger.

  Oleg, to his credit, raised his hands immediately. “I take responsibility for the boy. Misha is young and quite stupid. Very loyal, but stupid.”

  “He tried to grab Anne.”

  Oleg shook his head. “Did you punish him for me, Irishman?”

  “He won’t be talking for a while.”

  The Russian shrugged. “Good. This is good. I can see you are a man who appreciates protocol.” He gave a shallow bow. “Anne O’Dea, I come in the company of your sire to speak with you. I hope I will be welcome. If I am not, I ask that you allow my guards and me to depart with no offense on either side.”

  Anne caught Murphy’s eye and nodded. This was better than she’d expected. She’d been hoping, at the most, for a phone call from Oleg. Talking with him in person would be much better.

  One of Terry’s men asked, “Mr. Tywyll, sir, does Mr. Ramsay know about this one?” He nodded toward Oleg.

  Tywyll’s chin tipped up. “I don’t recognize ye, so I’ll assume yer new, boy. This ain’t London here.” He gestured to the broad expanse of water behind the old floating pub and Tywyll’s flat barge. “This is the river. And the river’s my own and none other. Yer master knows that better’n anyone.”

  Murphy put a hand up to stop Terry’s man before he could speak again. “It’ll be fine, Cooper. I’ll explain it to Ramsay.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Murphy.”

  The first guard returned from the car carrying a garment bag. Murphy took it and went to Anne. She put her hand on his cold cheek and gave him a quick kiss.

  “Enjoy your swim, mo chuisle?”

  “Refreshing,” he muttered. “I’ll change and meet you inside. Stay with your father, yes?”

  “Of course.” She glanced at Oleg, who was watching them with a curious expression on his face. “He’s a friend, Patrick.”

  “Let’s hope so.” He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Stay with your father until I get back.”

  “I’m not helpless.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  Anne felt the cool slide of the steel against her skin as Murphy passed a dagger to her before he slipped away.

  She took a deep breath and turned. “Oleg,” she said, walking toward her sire and the Russian. “It’s so good to see you. Thank you for coming, even though I doubt this pub serves any of your vodka.”

  Oleg smiled. “An inauspicious beginning, my friend, but we will survive, no? Come talk with me. Your father assures me we will have privacy.”

  “We will.” They turned toward the pub, and Anne noticed the still-churning wa
ter. “Da, are you just going to leave them down there?”

  Tywyll shrugged. “They’re vampires, girl. They’ll be fine.”

  Chapter Twenty

  BY THE TIME MURPHY RETURNED to the Cockleshell Pub, Tywyll, Oleg, and Anne were the only inhabitants. The two guards not currently submerged in the river were standing by the door. He slipped inside, grateful that the low lights of the pub masked the less than hygienic condition of the place.

  Oleg and Anne were speaking in a booth while Tywyll watched from a distance. They were speaking low enough that Murphy couldn’t hear them, but judging from their body language, Anne was trying to convince Oleg of something the Russian wasn’t very happy about.

  He sat down next to Tywyll.

  “When did he approach you?”

  “Just last night. Anne sent him a message, and he wanted to talk in person. I’ve had dealings with him in the past. I trust him as much as I trust any fire vampire.”

  “They’re the least dangerous to our kind.”

  “Oleg is dangerous to everyone,” Tywyll said, watching Murphy from the corner of his eye. “You’re a smart lad and a good fighter. But Oleg? Steam. Any water you sent against him would be nothing.”

  Murphy watched his mate and the Russian.

  Oleg leaned forward, listening intently, but he made no move to touch her, nor was his body language aggressive. If Murphy had come upon them as human, he’d assume the two were colleagues of some kind, which confirmed what he had suspected after his flair of jealousy had calmed. Oleg was one of Anne’s patients.

  So the Russian saw a shrink? That might explain why Oleg was considered one of the more well-adjusted despots in their world.

  He was shaking his head, pulling back, but Anne caught his hand and placed her palm on the back of it.

  Was she pushing?

  Murphy wanted to scream no, but he didn’t want to give her away either. If Oleg even suspected Anne of using any mental manipulation on him, she’d be dead. Murphy tried to reassure himself that Anne would never push a patient to reveal their secrets to others; she told him she only used it to reinforce suggestions for their mental health.