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blasted questions, Sommersby.”
    His lordship glowered, but he inclined his head, let go of her wrist, and stood up. “For the moment,” he agreed. “Put the robe on, Miss Lark.”
    She cast a nervous glance at the door. “We are in a vampires’ brothel. Others must have heard the attack—”
    “We aren’t in the brothel. You have enough time to dress.” Mr. Swift assured. “We’ll give you privacy, my dear.” He bent closer. His warm breath danced over her neck. She was chilled—
    trembling. The heat in his breath felt so good.
    “Then where are we—?” she broke off. For one mad moment, she felt Mr. Swift was leaning in to kiss. She’d been kissed on her neck before—it was a touch that made her wanton. That sweet, intoxicating drug still filled her senses, made her feel sensual. Her nipples were erect, and the brush of silk against them made her dizzy.
    Her wantoness frightened her. Vampires had uncontrollable sexual cravings.
    “How did you escape the chains, love?” Mr. Swift’s voice was gentle and reassuring.
    Serena twisted around to meet his brilliant green eyes. “I convinced them to release me.”
    “Convinced them? Bravo.” With that, Mr. Swift moved back. The heat of his chest left her, and goosebumps rushed over her shoulders, down her arms.
    He straightened in a smooth, graceful movement, turned his back, and prowled toward the one burning candle. Serena tried to stand, but her legs felt like mist. Lord Sommersby reached down and caught her hand—his gloved hands were larger than any man’s hands she’d ever seen. His lordship helped her up without a word, then turned his back.
    Serena held the robe against her, vainly searching for the sleeves to slide her arms in. Finally, with a sigh, she grasped it by the neckline, let it drop, and then swept it around her body. But both men behaved as gentleman, not even taking a peek—Sommersby was closing the door, Drake Swift searching the room.
    The silk enveloped her—the robe was enormous. It smelled clean—freshly laundered. She was so relieved at that.
    But she’d failed. She’d be hauled out of here—wherever here was—naked beneath a borrowed robe.
    Swift strolled over toward her. “No sign of your clothes, love.” His gaze swept over her—over the swell of her breasts, the belt at her waist, her hips swathed in sapphire silk—and flame touched her skin in its wake.
    “Miss Lark?” Lord Sommersby gently jostled her arm. He’d returned to her side.

    Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 16

    “I want to know exactly where I am!” She turned from Swift to Sommersby. “Not in the brothel, you said.”
    “No—in an empty house beside.” His dark eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember, do you?”
    Her cheeks burned. “Fine! I’ll admit it. I barely remember anything after being let into the brothel. I have no idea what went wrong.” She tried to jerk her arm from the Earl of Sommersby’s grasp, but he held firm. “But you, of course, were able to infiltrate the brothel, then find me, without any trouble at all, I suppose. And how did you do that?”
    “Skill and experience.” Sommersby replied, and condescension hung in the room like smoke.
    She gritted her teeth. “And how did you even know to come here?”
    “Mortimer. He mentioned you had been researching this brothel.”
    She had pleaded with the Society’s librarian for his discretion—he’d obviously ignored her. It was infuriating that her wishes had been discounted, though it had saved her life.
    “You were engaged to assist in research, Miss Lark,” Sommersby said. “Not to steal stakes and crossbows and plant yourself in a brothel surrounded by aroused vampires.”
    “Let her alone,” Mr. Swift growled.
    But she was too angry to cower. “I was engaged to do nothing more than return books to shelves!”
    The earl shook her arm. “What is it you want here? What did you come for?”
    She glanced from his lordship’s intense