Quince

Aubrey settled in his bath with a long sigh of contentment. Let the damnable snow keep falling. He was beyond caring for the time being.

The curtains had been drawn in his sitting room, giving him a grand view of the white-drenched landscape. Even the trees were losing against the relentless snow. It had not stopped for more than an hour or two the past few days, and had started after only a couple of days rest following the last snowfall. Very likely, they would not be able to leave the house for the next week or two at least.

He had forgotten how ruthless winter could be here. The weather at school had been much mellower.

It mattered not, because the fire was roaring, he was soaking in near-boiling water, and after his bath, he fully intended to ensconce himself in a comfortable chair with a generous allotment of blankets and spend the day reading.

Perhaps he'd go find Carmilla and read with her awhile; they could read a play aloud, as they used to do during the long winters. Yes, she'd enjoy that.

Smiling, he closed his eyes and sank deeper into the steaming water. The maid who had arranged his bath had taken the liberty of adding scented oils, but he could not find reason to complain. Purple violet combined pleasantly with peppermint, both mingling with the smell of a crackling fire.

Though, beneath it all, he could still catch a hint of the peach blossom that Ruthven seemed to prefer.

He scowled, refusing to think about the damnably confusing Ruthven while he was trying to relax. He had no business intruding, not when Aubrey was finally enjoying some time to himself. He did not even want to contemplate what Ruthven might be about—no doubt revealing that he could do yet another thing that was normally forbidden to Pets.

Sighing, he slowly dragged his eyes open and stared out the window, frowning at the snow.

Reporting Ruthven would be the proper thing to do. A Pet that free and knowledgeable was a danger; there was no telling what he might be conveying to Elisabeth and François.

Aubrey could not bring himself to do it, however. Something held him back. Well, something more than the fact he refused to report a slave for not being a 'proper' slave.

Images of Ruthven dipping his head, looking up through his lashes, anything but submissive, rolled through his mind.

Aubrey sat up with a jerk, swearing softly, the bath water suddenly far too hot.

Damn it, he was going to relax!

Forcing himself to lie back down, he closed his eyes again and refused to think about anything.

Stregoni—there was something to think about. He had shown up with Gilles just two days ago, looking rather like he'd come out the loser in a fight. Aubrey wasn't certain which was odder—that Stregoni had been in a fight, or that he'd arrived with Gilles.

He also wondered where the devil Gilles had been that he would encounter or meet Stregoni and both of them arrive at seven thirty in the morning.

Neither had been terribly forthcoming with answers. Stregoni had offered only the problem of the quack ensconced in Blackfield and that his horse had taken a wrong turn in the snow, where he had then encountered Gilles.

Aubrey sensed there was much missing in the telling, but it was not his preference to press where it was not necessary.

He felt as though he were spending his days drifting. He missed the constant work of school: always class, or a meeting, or papers to write and test preparation to be done. Home again, he felt superfluous. It was obvious that in his absence, Gilles had filled the role of son and heir far better than Aubrey ever would.

Well, it didn't matter. Once winter was past, perhaps he would leave again. Playing the good son had accomplished nothing in the weeks since he'd been home. Beyond being set to handle the household accounts and other such tedious work, he had done nothing.

It should not bother him. It didn't bother him—he was simply unused to being idle. His crates had yet to arrive, no doubt stuck somewhere because of the snow. Unfortunate, for cataloguing the books they contained and shelving them with the rest of the household collection would have occupied him most of the rest of the winter.

Perhaps he'd help Carmilla with her book of flowers and herbs. Shrugging to himself, annoyed he could not quite seem to relax, Aubrey reached for soap and cloth. It was good, soft soap, one of the things he had missed at school, where his funds had been limited to the pittance Sangre had restricted him to.

Rinsing off, he quickly washed his hair, and then finally stood up. Water splashed everywhere as he climbed from the tub, soaking the mat laid out, glistening on his skin in the firelight. He stretched with a groan and gave in to an urge to yawn, absently reaching out for his bathing rob—only to come up with empty air where it should have been.

He frowned, but even as he turned, the soft, warm fabric of his robe was draped over his shoulders by hands that lingered.

Aubrey whipped around, fumbling with the robe when it tried to slip—and glared. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. His cheeks heated as he hastily did up the robe. How the hell had he not heard Ruthven come in? How long had he been standing there? "When did you come in?"

"Only a moment ago," Ruthven said demurely, but there was a spark of mischief in his eyes in the moment before he lowered them.

He was, as ever, too beautiful for Aubrey's peace of mind. He wore dark brown breeches and a white shirt, but nothing else. Either he did not feel the cold, or simply was not bothered by it. Around his throat was yet another velvet collar. Aubrey had thought by this point he had seen all of them, but this one was new—the same delicate beeswax color as his hair.

"You—" Aubrey raked back his soaking wet hair, moving closer to the fire to ward off the chill he would begin to feel shortly. "Did you need something?"

Ruthven looked up, though he was still partially inclined in a polite half bow. "I came only to see all your needs were properly tended, Master."

Aubrey jerked his gaze away from the dark eyes, cheeks hot. "I'm fine," he said curtly. "If you want to please me, then stop calling me 'master' and stop being impertinent."

"Alas, that I cannot do," Ruthven said, and Aubrey knew he was smiling now—smirking, really—but did not turn to confirm it. "For you are my master, and I enjoy calling you so."

The sound of movement made Aubrey twitch, but he did not turn to watch Ruthven approach. Nor, he told himself, did he shiver when he felt Ruthven's warm breaths against his bare skin as his voice spoke softly close to Aubrey's ear. "And I like being impertinent."

"I've noticed," Aubrey said. "I cannot believe no one ever…took care of you."

"Some vampires are harder to put down than others," Ruthven said, the words barely audible.

Aubrey jerked away, hand going to his ear, where he swore he had felt the barest touch of lips. "What did you say?"

"I like being impertinent?" Ruthven asked, all innocence.

"Not that," Aubrey snapped.

Ruthven persisted with the innocence. "Some Pets are harder to put down than others?"

Aubrey narrowed his eyes. He started to speak, to demand to know what the hell that word Ruthven had used was, because he was pretty certain he had only seen it once, in an old historical tome.

"I'm feeling a bit famished, Master. May I?"

Thrown by the abrupt shift, wishing his damned Pet would at least have the decency to make sense, Aubrey gave an automatic nod and offered his wrist. But instead of taking it like usual, Ruthven stepped close. Too close.

Aubrey gasped as teeth grazed his neck, then bit down sharp. He fumbled for something to hold, gripping Ruthven's arms tightly, eyes growing strangely heavy as he was fed upon.

Then Ruthven's mouth was gone, the feeding over as swiftly as it had begun. A soft tongue lapped at Aubrey's throat, and he was too startled and lethargic to repress a shiver.

Ruthven didn't withdraw though, simply nuzzled his neck, and Aubrey realized he still clung for dear life, but his fingers would not obey his command to let go.

Lips brushed his ear again, the touch so soft, but he felt it all the way to his bones. "You taste sweet, Master," Ruthven murmured, making Aubrey shiver again, though he could not say quite why. Not the words themselves…something in Ruthven's voice, his tone.

He forced his eyes open, but doing so forced him to meet Ruthven's gaze, and he was drugged anew on the dark eyes. "What…"

Ruthven smiled, more than a little fang in it, and opened his mouth to reply—but a sharp and sudden knock on the door made them both jerk.

As suddenly as it had fallen over him, the strange lethargy vanished, and Aubrey abruptly felt more like his usual self. Face hot, he swallowed and stumbled back. His legs collided with the tub, and he let out a startled yelp before Ruthven reached out and snatched him back.

The knock came again. Aubrey pushed away from Ruthven and struggled to display a calm he did not feel as he walked toward the door and opened it.

Carmilla smiled at him. "Thank you for the new book, Brey."

He frowned, noting the small, leather bound book in her hands. "I did not give you a new book. I have several for you, but the weather has kept them from reaching me."

"Oh," Carmilla said, her confused frown matching his own. "I wonder who left it for me, then…" She shrugged and smiled, then leaned up to kiss his cheek. "Well, sorry to bother you. Go back to your bath. You smell nice." With a wave, she turned and made her way slowly down the hallway, deep scarlet gown looking like fresh blood in the weak light of the hallway lamps.

Closing the door, Aubrey turned around to confront Ruthven—who sat calmly in one of the chairs by the fireplace, skimming over the book Aubrey had left there to enjoy after his bath.

"What was all that?" he demanded, hand going to his neck, which still throbbed. The pain was mild, but he wouldn't be surprised to find a bruise there come morning.

Ruthven looked up through his lashes. "I was hungry."

"That is not what I mean and you know it!" Aubrey said. "Do not take such liberties with my person."

"I like taking liberties with your person." Ruthven looked up, those dark eyes hitting Aubrey full force. And you like it, too, they seemed to say.

"Well, don't do it," Aubrey managed, breaking eye contact only with great effort. "Leave me in peace."

"Yes, Master," Ruthven replied, the words so soft he barely heard them. He did not move as Ruthven stepped past him, though he felt the slight brush of Ruthven's arm against his like it burned.

He wished he knew who to talk to about Pets. His father and Gilles were clearly out. He could not think of anything more mortifying than discussing the bizarre behavior and frustrating tension between him and Ruthven with either of them.

Stregoni, maybe, though he had no experience with Pets, not so far as Aubrey knew. He was smart, though, and level-headed. He'd never seen Stregoni completely lose his head over anything. These past few days were the worst Aubrey had ever seen him, and Stregoni was simply quieter than usual.

Aubrey nodded to himself, liking the idea, but as he moved to get dressed, the wound at his neck throbbed. He grimaced and tried to picture telling Stregoni all that had transpired. How, precisely, did one go about explaining he was being…seduced? Toyed with? Attacked? What was Ruthven about? If it was a seduction, did he mean it? How could he?

No, Aubrey could not explain to Stregoni that he was being tormented by a Pet who didn't seem to fit that role very well at all. Stregoni knew little or nothing about Pets, and he could not see Stregoni foolishly seduced by anyone. His friend had always been far too bright for such nonsense.

Not that Aubrey was going to be foolishly seduced either. Whatever game Ruthven was playing, Aubrey was not going to be part of it.

He discarded his robe and began quickly to dress. He was many things, but a hypocrite was not one of them. Most of high society might view Pets as little more than bedroom toys, but he was not one of them.

So why did Ruthven seem intent upon it?

Aubrey touched the mark at his throat, moving to the full-length mirror across the room to examine it. Sure enough, he could already see the bruise forming. Odd, Ruthven usually was so careful. His wrists bore faint scars, but that was all. The feedings had never left bruises before. What did it meant that this one had?

Letting his hand fall away, he finished dressing and returned to his sitting room. Ringing for servants to take away the bath, he settled in his chair and retrieved the book Ruthven had been flipping idly through. The scent of peach blossoms lingered in the air around him, and almost without thinking, he again reached up to touch the bruise at his throat.

The servants came and went, leaving him in blissful silence. Behind him, the snow continued to fall relentlessly, the crackle and pop of the fire the only sound in the room beyond the occasional whisper of a turning page.

He paused only when the light grew too dim for him to comfortably read. Lighting the lamps, he promptly returned to his book, not bothering to call for food, refusing to do anything that would permit his thoughts to get the better of him for even a moment.

It was the sound of his book thumping to the floor which woke him with a start, and Aubrey blinked groggily around the dark room. The fire was mostly dead, and only the weakest threads of moonlight came through the window, making the snow outside seem to glow.

His candle had long since gone out. What time was it?

Yawning, he hauled to his feet and struggled to reach the door. Still more asleep than awake, he banged his shins several times before reaching his goal, groggy and grouchy when he finally yanked the door open.

It was quiet, extremely so. The house had the feel of sleep about it, meaning he had slept for several hours and no one had bothered to seek him out or wake him. Had Ruthven gone to bed? Aubrey started to turn back to his room to see, then scowled at himself and continued on toward the main hall, where he could find a clock.

He paused as he reached the upstairs landing, catching movement further down the west wing hall. His own rooms were in the east wing, well away from his father's rooms.

Wondering who else might be awake, or if it was not as late as it had seemed to him, Aubrey moved down the hallway and started to speak—but stopped short at the sight before him.

Ruthven stood with Elisabeth just outside the full glow of a hallway lamp, hair like dark honey. Elisabeth shook her head and murmured something Aubrey could not hear—then she slowly held out her hand, pressing something into Ruthven's.

He smiled at her and started to pull away, but Elisabeth kept firm grasp of his hand. Aubrey stared uncomprehendingly as she raised it to her lips and kissed the knuckles softly.

Soft, warm laughter filled the hallway as Ruthven finally withdrew, cupping her face in one hand and gently kissing Elisabeth's cheek.

Elisabeth smiled at him, then turned and walked a short distance down the hall, vanishing into Sangre's room.

Ruthven turned toward the door he stood before, and Aubrey realized abruptly that Elisabeth had given him a key.

A key to his mother's room.

He watched as Ruthven unlocked the door and vanished inside.

Scowling, Aubrey went after him.

He hesitated in front of the door. His mother's room was inviolate. No one went in or out, not even his father. In all his years of memory, Aubrey could not remember this door ever being open.

Reaching out, he lightly traced the design carved into the wood—a rose in full bloom laid over two rosebuds.

He heard a soft rustling from inside, and his hesitancy turned back into anger. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside. "What in the hell do you think you are doing?" he hissed.

Ruthven paused where he stood over a vanity table. "Good evening, Master."