Marcello frowned. He"d actually had been staring at the pulse in her neck. She smelled so sweet and he knew she"d taste even sweeter. His eyes rimmed with red, but he kept the desires in him back. Slowly, he tilted his head to the door. His words were hard, as he said, "After you,bella ."
Tatiana turned to lead the way. Cesare came forward, handing Marcello his long black overcoat and top hat. She did not look at the servitor again. Soon they were beyond the front door, into the darker maze of the Paris underground.
Tatiana stumbled to a halt as the door to Marcello"s home closed behind her. She"d seen a long tunnel before her, but was now in almost complete darkness.
"Lost already,bella ?" Marcello"s amused voice from behind her.
"I can"t see, vampire," she answered dryly. "My eyes are human, not demon."
Marcello chuckled. Instantly, torches lit along the underground path. Tatiana gasped, seeing his hand lowering back to his side. She"d never actually seen anyone start or smother the fires in Marcello"s home, but she"d never expected he"d done it by will alone.
"How...?" Tatiana began, her eyes turning to him in fascination. "How did you do that?"
Marcello merely smiled.
"You--"
"Tu sei bellissima," he broke in quietly.You are very beautiful.
"Thank yo--" Tatiana began. She frowned, looking him over. "I understood you."
"Come, we will be late," Marcello said. He took her arm to glide her over the tunnel.
Tatiana lifted the hem of her gown out of old habit so it wouldn"t touch the stone floor. She noticed that, as they walked, the torches behind them sputtered out and the ones before them lit. She said nothing, letting Marcello lead her over the long walkway of smooth stone.
Coming to an incline, they began to climb. Tatiana stumbled in her dress slippers and fell slightly forward. She glanced up in instant apology as she used her hold on Marcello"s arm to stop her fall.
"Allow me,bella ," Marcello murmured. The Count leaned over and swept her up to his chest, fitting his arms beneath the bend of her knees and length of her back.
Tatiana couldn"t help but relax into him as he carried her with ease. Her hand strayed lightly to his chest to rest against his heartbeat. It was strong and slow against her fingers. Now, as he did not wait for her to walk with him, he sped faster.
Tatiana shivered as they pa.s.sed a round chamber filled with old bones. The bones were stacked into neat piles, separated by type. Along the tops of them were endless skulls.
"Why would someone display them in such a way?" she asked, eyeing the orderly bones in fear and fascination. She hugged her arms around Marcello"s neck, not wanting him to let her go. She felt safe in his arms.
"The Parisian graveyards were overrun with the dead, so they moved them below the city streets to make room for others,"
Marcello answered.
It was still silent as a grave where they walked. Tatiana hugged closer to Marcello"s chest and she felt him gripping her body tightly in response. Her wide eyes watched over his shoulder, as the torches faded into unyielding black.
As they came to a narrow row of stairs Marcello set her down. He climbed, lifting his hand above his head to move a block of concrete from above, opening an entryway to the streets of Paris. Almost instantly the sounds of Parisian nightlife wafted down from above. Marcello stepped back down. The orange glow of the torches faded, replaced by the softer light from the streetlamps above.
Marcello stepped aside, offering his hand as he began to lead her up the narrow stairs. Tatiana"s gown was tight and she tried to step sideways and keep her balance. Marcello chuckled and wrapped his arm about her waist. She gasped as he pulled her into his strong chest. She felt the hard length of him against her body and shivered in needy response.
"Hold on," he whispered. Tatiana"s gaze moved to his lips, wanting to kiss him, at the perfect angle to do so. Marcello jumped lightly and they flew up, emerging from the catacombs.
Tatiana gasped as her feet hit pavement. The narrow side street was wet and the air smelled like it had just rained. She blinked looking around. The city air wasn"t as fresh as the country, but it was better than the stillness of the catacombs.
Realizing she still held onto Marcello, her wide green eyes turned up to him. He was looking down at her, an openly curious expression on his features. His hands stayed around her lower back, kneading her lightly. She became all too aware of his thick erection pressing into her stomach. He was ready for her. With one command, she knew she could have him take her there on the dank city street.
Tatiana pushed back, ashamed by the thought and her brief consideration of it. Marcello let her go, a frown marring his brow as if to say "very well then,bella mia" . He placed the concrete back over the hole.
"What is that music?" she asked. "Where are we?"
"We are in Montmartre, home of the wonderful bohemian movement of Paris," he answered.
Tatiana was surprised to see the wave of interest cross his face as he offered her his arm. If she didn"t know better, she would"ve thought he was excited. She began to go to him, only to pull back.
"Wait, Marcello, I can"t go about Montmartre. My father said that it is full of heathens--women of low morale, poverty stricken artists and writers who have no respect for the old rules of n.o.bility and propriety and ... and--"
Tatiana looked at him helplessly, only to stop when she realized what she"d said. Her nose burned almost instantly in tears to know he would bring her to a place such as this instead of a Parisian opera or ball.
"Oh," she sighed. Dejected, the light in her eyes looked as if it died a little in that moment, as she finished, "And I am a woman of low morale, am I not?"
Tatiana sniffed and nodded her head. She tried to smile, but the effort was weak. She couldn"t meet his steadfast gaze.
"Tati--"
"Lead the way, my lord," she said calmly.
Marcello took her arm and led her out from the alley into the busier city street. Tatiana"s eyes couldn"t help but widen as they looked up into the night sky. She gasped in amazement and wonder. Above them turned an illuminated windmill.
Gentlemen stepped out of grand carriages, looking as fine and respectable as Marcello did on her arm. They wore their black suits, top hats, and pristine white gloves. Their presence did not comfort her, for there were no women of gentry with them.
But, there were women on theboulevard de Clichy-- women brightly painted, women who wore vivid colors, women who called out to the gentlemen in their swarthy French accents and brazen laughs. Tatiana could make out a few of their words, but she did not need a full translation to know what they said. The shameless movements of their worn bodies, as they grabbed their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and wiggled their hips enticingly, said it all.
A few of the women they pa.s.sed by on the street stopped to point at her. She heard their mocking laughter as she pulled closer to Marcello"s arm. Tatiana"s eyes turned down, as she tried not to stare. She saw the vividness of her own dress and knew they thought her to be Marcello"s courtesan. How could she blame them? How could she deny it? Even though he"d not pressed her to again be with him, she knew it would only be a matter of time before she submitted.
Marcello looked around with interest, loving this section of Paris. He displayed the beautiful woman on his arm proudly, knowing he would be the envy of all the men at the Moulin Rouge. The nightclub was the perfect representation of the artist movement of the modern time. It was a dance hall, a cabaret of the senses, an underworld of discovery. Energy flowed in excitement over the air, crackling it with life.
The music hall was a great achievement of the time. It housed a gallery and a large dance floor surrounded by a hall of mirrors, lit by gas lamps. There was an outdoor stage in the gardens, along with a giant wooden elephant where you could climb to its top. There you would find a howdah of gla.s.s that let you see the sites below. Or, hidden, in the elephant"s belly, you would find an opium den.
To Marcello, this one place embodied all that humans were capable of--their love and hate of each other and of themselves.
Their grand dreams were represented in the amazing buildings and structures. Their nightmares were in the tired faces of the drug addicts lining the streets, hallucinating on absinthe and numbed by morphine and opium. There was the gaiety of entertainments--street performers, exotic dancers, side-show freaks, tamed monkeys, the infamous can-can dancers, music, comedy. But, there was a darkness lurking beneath the bright lights and brilliant colors. For a price, a gentleman could buy any dark desire, feed every deviant pleasure.
Marcello had explored it all, feeding off the dancers and patrons alike, but always leaving them alive. He did not have to hide himself here, as he watched it all in enthrallment. He was looked at as another grand eccentricity, a gentleman rogue of the night.
Life here was like a play set before him and it amused him greatly to watch it. That is why he wanted to bring Tatiana. He wanted her to witness it as he witnessed it. He wanted her to see things as he saw them. He wanted to share his fascination of it with her. And, truth be told, he wanted her stirred by it as he was stirred by her. He wanted the excitement, the danger, the thrill of this underworld to hammer her blood and to again stir her darkest desires for him. He wanted to show her that there was more to life than the proper, stifling upbringing she"d been fed since birth. He could feel a burning need within her, a need to break free, a need to discover and learn.
Curiously, Marcello glanced down at Tatiana. She"d said nothing since they"d left the alleyway. He expected her to be looking around in amazement. He expected her mouth to be agape with wonder and awe. Instead, he found her face toward her shoes. A wave of intense misery flowed out of her and into him. He felt her deep pain. He felt the squeezing of her heart. Her agony was dizzying and it left him feeling sick. He blocked it quickly. He was tormented that she could feel such next to him in light of the gift he tried to give her--the gift of truly being able to live, to see, to experience.
"Bellamia?" he asked quietly. "What is it? What is wrong?"
"I am ashamed," she answered. He could feel the honesty within her.
Marcello"s face hardened and some of the pleasure left him to be replaced by anger. She insisted on thinking him a demon.
She was ashamed to be seen with him. Well, if she wanted think of him as a monster, who was he to stop her? Grabbing her arm, he pulled her roughly forward. Perhaps, he"d just have to show her just how much of a monster he could become!
Chapter Nine.