Taken By the Night by Kathryn Smith

Saint came to London looking for a little rest, blood, and maybe some feminine company. He never wanted to avenge the murders of two prostitutes, and he certainly never asked for the censure he sees in Ivy Dearing’s eyes.

Though, the desire he sees there awakens a hunger inside him unlike any he has ever known. He is not the only man taken in by Ivy’s considerable charms, but he plans to be the only man in her bed. And when the madman he’s hunting turns his attention toward Ivy, Saint will risk everything – even his immortality – to save the woman he loves.

Just in case you haven’t noticed… this isn’t your run of the mill Avon historical. The whorehouse in question is really a brothel. Ivy really does know what momma runs and likes these women.

So we will just put a warning on here to beware no widowed virgins in this story (not that there is anything WRONG with some widowed virgins damn it!). Just saying… 😉

First excerpt can be found here

E X C E R P T

Ivy was still thinking about her mother’s surprising confession at Clementine’s funeral that afternoon, although the fact that her mother had kept quiet about Saint’s importance in her past paled in the shadow of her grief.

Why had she never known that it was Saint who saved her mother from a slow and frigid death on the streets of London? He found her alone, weak and about to give birth and took her to Maison Rouge where, after Ivy’s birth, she worked, was treated well and eventually became madam.

Ivy’s life wouldn’t have been half so comfortable were it not for Saint.

Damn it.

She stood beside her mother on the damp grass, a tiny bouquet of violets in her hand. They were joined by the ladies and staff of Maison Rouge and members of Clemmy’s family. Gathered around the small hole in the ground, the damp, clean air smelling of earth and flowers, the group perspired and fidgeted in their mourning clothes as a unseasonably warm sun shone down upon them.

A trickle of sweat ran down Ivy’s jaw from her hairline, but she ignored it, letting it flow as the tears refused to. She wanted to weep for her lost friend. She wanted to scream at the newspaper artist capturing the scene from several feet away. She wanted to slap the authorities for doing nothing.

Whores across the city could be in grave danger, and yet the pimps sent them out onto the streets, not wanting to risk losing one penny of revenue. Did the police patrol those areas of London ‘unfortunate’ women frequented any more than usual? No. Did they send anyone to Chelsea to watch over her mother’s establishment? No.

No one cared if prostitutes died. Foolishly, she had hoped Saint might. That he didn’t seem to made her feel all the more stupid for making an idol of him in her youth.

As soon as the thought of him entered her mind, Ivy pushed it away. She would not allow him to take the pain of this moment away from her. She wanted to feel empty and hollow and lost — Clemmy deserved no less.

Clementine’s mother stood across from them. She was a handsome woman, but years of hard living had taken their toll on her face and figure. Draped in black and holding a rosary, she stood straight and silent, a steady trail of tears streaming down her lined cheeks.

Watching her, Ivy felt an awful prickling behind her own eyes. What a horrible ordeal for this poor woman, to lose her daughter in such a fashion. To have the newspaper people and morbid onlookers watching her, taking some kind of horrid delight in her sorrow.

Warm fingers twined with Ivy’s and squeezed. Ivy squeezed back. She and her mother didn’t have to speak to know what the other was thinking. For all the times she might lose her patience or not understand her mother, Ivy loved her with all her heart and knew she was loved in return.

When the vicar concluded, Clementine’s mother threw a handful of dirt on the casket. Ivy, her mother and the rest of the Maison Rouge mourners tossed a variety of flowers — mostly violets — into the grave as well. Then, Ivy put an arm around her mother’s shoulders and escorted her to where the carriages waited. There was enough for all of them. Madeline had been determined that no one would have to walk home from the funeral — that no one would be alone for the vultures to take advantage of.

They rode home in silence. It wasn’t until they were inside the house that her mother spoke. “Ivy, be a love and fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar will you?”

“I’m sure there is some in the cabinet, Mama.”

Her mother stripped off her gloves. “I want one of the good ones.”

A sneer threatened. “Trying to impress Saint?”

Madeline sighed. “Please, darling.”

And so Ivy went. She could not deny her mother, no matter how much she detested the preferential treatment Madeline gave Saint. She understood that her mother felt beholden to the vampire, but what of the arrangement the vampires had with Maison Rouge and all who lived there? The house provided food and shelter, and yes, female companionship to the vampires in return for financial security and protection. When was the last time they had asked their benefactors for anything? And just a few weeks earlier — before the murders started — one of them had been there, glutting himself on practically every girl in the house. They came, they took what they wanted and they left again. They had done it for decades and they always would.

Using the concealed entrance under the stairs, Ivy stomped down to the cellar, her ire growing with her descent. It was directed at Saint, but he didn’t deserve all of it, she was woman enough to admit that. Much of her anger stemmed from her own helplessness. There didn’t seem to be a damn thing she could do on her own to find justice for her friends.

Not even her good friend Justin would help her. He said he admired her, but when she asked him to aid her in her quest, he told her that he didn’t want her endangering herself.

As if he had some kind of right to demand that of her.

Good God, if she didn’t find some way to release the frustration inside her she would explode with it. It threatened to consume her. In fact, she was so preoccupied with her own helplessness that she didn’t even notice she was no longer alone until her hand closed around a dusty bottle of red wine on the rack on the far wall.

“French or Italian?” A smooth voice asked.

“Bloody hell!” Ivy’s heart pounded like it was trying to burst from her chest and run for cover. Thankfully she hadn’t lifted the bottle, otherwise she’d have to explain a destroyed bottle to her mother.

Hand pressed to her bosom, and slightly giddy from the scare, she turned. He stood near the entrance to his secret apartment, looking rumpled and careless and infuriatingly lovely.

“What are you doing here?” It was still daylight. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Good afternoon to you too,” he replied silkily, as though she amused him. “Contrary to popular belief, we vampires do not have to sleep from sunrise to sunset. We can wake whenever we chose, just as mortals do. It is only that the day puts us…on edge, and the light of it can kill us.”

“Only that?” It was no use trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “So you thought you’d skulk around the cellar until it was safe to come up stairs?”

The light in the cellar wasn’t the best, and there was only one bulb, but still she could see him arch a brow at her tone. “I’m hungry. There’s no blood in my room.”

She would not feel guilty for forgetting about him, not when she had been at the graveyard burying her friends, but there was a twinge in her stomach anyway.

“We were at a funeral, Mr. Saint,” she informed him coolly. “If you would wait here, I’ll see that…something is brought to you.” He’d have to settle for something bottled because she’d be damned if she’d send one of the girls down after all they’d been through.

She turned to go. Fast as lightening, he moved around her, blocking her path. “So deliciously tart,” he murmured, that mocking smile curving the bow of his lips. “And yet you look so undeniably sweet. Which is it, Miss Dearing?”

Ivy’s own lips tightened, but she was more annoyed at the traitorous pounding of her heart than his audacity. She did not want to like him — she didn’t like him — and yet she could not deny the raw sexuality of him. But she didn’t have to respond to it. She wasn’t seventeen anymore.

“Are you trying to frighten me?” She demanded. “Because I assure you, it won’t work.”

Saint’s smile grew, revealing sharp, white teeth that were startling in the tan of his face. His fangs weren’t extended, but she shivered a little just the same. He raised his hand, brushing her cheek with the rough, warm tips of his long fingers.

“Frighten you? Never.” He leaned in, bringing his head downward, closer to hers so that she could feel the warmth of him, smell the spicy scent of his skin.

“What I’m trying to discover, Miss Dearing, is whether or not you are on the menu.”