He could hear the music well before he reached the upper level. His contact on the mainland had said he could get his hands on a wealth of 1940s popular music, but he’d apparently found a few fifties records as well, because Mal was hearing the lyrics to “Tell Me Why” by Eddie Fisher. Despite the seriousness of his conversation with Danny, it made him smile, the whimsical sound of it. That smile only deepened as he reached her open door.
Since the night she’d agreed to stay, Elisa had offered to move to the bunkhouse a couple times, wanting that validation that she was here as staff, but Mal hadn’t agreed to that. So in that way she had, she’d gotten what she wanted via a different route. She’d transformed her room from a generic, comfortable guest room into a reflection of the woman now inhabiting it. There were flowers in jars, seashell arrangements with colorful soda bottles. She’d used spare cloth to sew herself brightly colored pillows.
It wasn’t the validation Mal was avoiding. He wanted her in the house, far more convenient to him. His bed. When he was in his office at night, he liked hearing her putter around the kitchen with Kohana. After she was done with her chores, she’d gotten brave enough to read in the study while he worked. She’d take one of his books down and read about the cats, learn more about their behavior and the island, sometimes falling asleep on the sofa in the corner. At times he looked over and saw both of his tomcats curled up on her, one under her arm, the other behind her legs. They kept her suitably pinned and slightly uncomfortable in that position, but not enough to disturb them, that unique and diabolical method all domestic felines seemed to inflict on those willing to appreciate and indulge them.
Sometimes, when she was helping Kohana, a favorite song came on the radio and she sang along with it, as she was doing now. Her voice was a mix of cultured Brit with a spicing of Aussie colloquialism, probably because her parents hadn’t been a big part of her life and Lady Constance’s education had been top-notch. But every once in a while, he thought he caught the sound of her Irish blood in the pleasing notes.
Reaching her doorway, he found it a pleasure to focus on the pretty tableau before him. Several of the books she’d borrowed from his library were stacked next to the bed. A mending basket sat in a chair, a torn skirt spread over it. On the bed were some papers, and he saw she’d been scribbling, drawing some rough sketches of his cats, making notes about them, details she wanted to remember about their care and personalities when she helped out at the habitat area. In another corner she had a sewing project going, new clothes for the fledglings, using fabric Kohana had given her from their stores.
Right now, though, she wasn’t mending, studying, reading or sketching. The new record player he’d gotten for her was placed on the dresser. The Eddie Fisher selection swelled in volume, filling the room. She was dancing to it, twirling now and again, swaying back and forth as she studied another record cover. She was wearing one of her maid outfits, the calf-length skirt and delectable apron, a clean and pressed blouse. As usual, the button over her ample bosom was straining a bit, giving his fingers the wicked desire to slip it. It would reveal a deeper view of that tempting valley of cleavage, one that even the severely proper brassiere couldn’t quell.
He’d done that recently, in fact, surprising her when she was cleaning the back porch. He’d backed her up against the wall, slid that button free and nuzzled that valley, making her breath shorten and her hand catch in his hair. He’d been on his way out for the evening, and had been strongly tempted to say the hell with it and take her up against the wall, but managed to curtail his baser urges. She was like a drug, his little maid whose eyes went opaque with desire as she clutched him with real, honest need in her body.
Knowing his Irish flower, when the record player came in and Kohana told her it was hers, she’d probably said she’d run it up to the room and then come right back down to continue her wide array of self-imposed chores. However, she’d obviously been unable to resist playing just one record. He wondered if she knew the song or if it had been random, the top of the stack.
When she made another twirl, she saw him and gave a start. “Oh. I usually know when you’re around. I guess”—she hurried toward the player—“I was too busy listening.”
“Leave it on; that’s fine. Or put on that next one you’re holding.”
“It’s a wonderful gift.” She paused as the current song faded. The gaze she gave him was slightly apprehensive. “Were you picking on me?”
“What?” He stepped into the room. “What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . what you said the other night, about any other young girl would be pining for the mainland, and record players, and such. I just . . . Oh, never mind. I really like this. It shouldn’t be just for me, though. I’m going to take it down to the bunkhouse so they can enjoy it, but I thought it would be all right for me to have it to myself for just one night. I’ll bring it back up to the kitchen for Kohana and me to listen, during the early part of the day when we’re cleaning. It’s so nice and easy to carry around.”
When he took another step toward her, she turned away, busying herself with replacing the record, her head bent so her hair exposed her nape, the line of her shoulder. He paused behind her, knowing she was hyperaware of his closeness.
“No. And yes. No, I wasn’t picking on you, not in a mean way. I was suggesting you can be both. The girl who’d like to wear a pretty dress and go dancing on the mainland, as well as the woman who’s dedicated her soul to helping those nobody else wanted to help.”
She remained in the same position, but he sensed her mind turning it over, trying to figure out what he was doing here, what he wanted. She was imagining a variety of things, some of which were making it hard not to get derailed and indulge in tugging her blouse off her shoulders, releasing her from the bra and filling his hands with those generous curves.
“I was talking to Danny.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll go with me to Lord Marshall’s. I think it would be best if you did that with a third mark. Mine.”
That word had a wealth of meaning, for certain, but he left it at that, waiting to see what she would do and say. As the silence drew out, he added, “While the mark is of course a permanent binding, it doesn’t bind you here forever. Once we get things sorted out with the fledglings, you’d be able to go back to Danny’s station whenever you wished. It’s not a prison sentence.”
“I would never think of it that way.”
Suddenly he wanted to see her face. She was drawing her hand away from setting the needle, and he closed his hand on that wrist, turning her around to face him. Her eyes were serious, mouth soft, worried.
“Vampires require many things of their human servants, regardless of the number of marks, Elisa,” he said, keeping a grip on her hand. “But accepting a third mark is always a choice. You know why.”
“Because ever after, the human is fully bonded to the vampire. You own my heart, mind and soul. I serve you forever.”
“It can be that way. But as I said, I’ll concede your service to Danny, if that’s the way you eventually want it. This has to be your choice.”
Her hand in his hadn’t moved. The variety of thoughts whirling in her mind were too chaotic for him to pick up one linear thread. He caught one entirely random thought—she wished she’d put away the mending before he came in.
“Elisa.” He drew her gaze back up to him with a faintly impatient tone. “I know you’ll do anything for the fledglings. Any number of foolish, hazardous things. But you don’t have to do this for them. It will certainly help them, and me, but we can accomplish something similar if it’s not something you want.”
“But the chances of success won’t be as great.” Her shrewd eyes studied his face. “You need my help, mind to mind, the way Danny and Dev are.”
“Damn it, I don’t want you to do this just for them.”
“Who do you want me to do it for?” Those blue eyes were intent. “For you, Master?”
His jaw tightened. That quiet word, the curl of her hand on his arm. He could be in her mind, but for some reason at this moment she was mysterious, unfathomable. “I want you to do it for you,” he insisted.
The music started playing, a lovely, strong female voice, and her eyes softened. “I guess she’s saying it all, isn’t she? A sign, maybe?”
The woman was singing about traveling to exotic places. However, with every sight, every marvel, every dream, she exhorted the listener to remember one key thing. Elisa mouthed it, her breath whispering over the syllables.
“You belong to me.” Then the corner of her mouth quirked. “Or is that your line? Do you like to dance, Mr. Malachi?” Her slim fingers twined with his.
Mal wondered if the floor had dropped two feet beneath him, because his ground had definitely been shaken. “It’s been a long time. I was taught . . . waltzes, things like that.”
“Is it painful to remember?” Her expression said Chumani had told her some of his past. Still, he answered the question.
“No. Because it was the first time I got to touch girls.”
That quirk became a tiny smile. “Boys do tend to remember that fondly.”
“What do girls remember?”
“The first kiss. The first time a boy holds her hand. The first time a man says, ‘I love you,’ and really means it, not just as a way to get . . . you know.” She pressed her lips together, hesitating, then removed both her hands from his, but only to lay them on his chest, gaze up into his face. “I know I’m being a bit forward, but . . . will you dance with me?”
It was more than being forward. In this moment she was acting as if they were simply man and woman, circling each other, accepting bond and attraction, no worries or reservations. He should be disabusing her of such a notion, knowing its dangers, but she looked directly into his eyes, and there were no fledglings, no cats, no one watching, just the two of them standing in her bedroom, enjoying a song.