The manor rose three stories and was built of the finest local limestone. It sat atop a hill overlooking the land it commanded. Everything as far as the eye could see would belong to Michael. A thrill coursed through Amaia. There had been no point in approaching him when she lived too far away to visit often. She was sure he would captivate her attention as he had last time, and there was no sense making her life more difficult. Her last eight years had been spent in the court of Empress Catherine II of Russia.
Russia had been marvelous. Knowing that she could look forward to an open friendship with Michael when the time was right made it easier for her to focus on the work before her. Not only had she played her part in political intrigue well, but she had furthered her skills in aura manipulation. Each day she improved her speed, the range of her reach, and her ability to affect multiple energies at once. Her skill had played an integral role in the assassination of Peter II and Catherine’s subsequent accession.
The cultivation of patience finally paid off. After twenty-one years of feeling the pull of his energy, she was once again in a position to see Michael. Two weeks ago, they had moved to London, little more than an hour and a half away. It had been nearly one hundred and fifty years since she had been to her mortal home, but all she could think of was finally meeting with Michael again.
Amaia knocked on the door to the servants’ entrance. It didn’t feel right simply walking up to the front door. For a moment, she worried that he wouldn’t want her, that he had decided that mere friendship wasn’t enough, and she wasn’t worth the headache. It was easy to forget the strength of their bond. If he turned her away, Amaia would learn to cope. After all, as long as he was happy, she didn’t have cause to complain. She knew they could never be mates the way others were. Her gloomy thoughts were interrupted when a harried woman opened the door.
“What do you want?” The harsh tones nearly made Amaia wince.
“I am friends with a friend of your master’s, and I’ve come to call on him.”
“You are acquainted with Lord Whittaker?”
“Indirectly, yes. If you would tell him that a friend of Jocelyn’s is visiting, I’d be much obliged.” Nerves fluttered in her stomach. In a moment, she would see him. Would he be as excited as she was?
The woman put her hands on her hips and stared down at Amaia, not the least bit cooperative.
“I know it sounds rather strange, but I promise I’ll cause no trouble. If you could just let him know I’m here, I’d be very grateful. If he says he doesn’t want to see me, I’ll leave. I promised I’d stop by on my way through. I wouldn’t want him to be upset when he’s discovered he’s missed me.”
“Hmph. Stay here.” The door shut resolutely, and Amaia stood outside, awaiting her fate.
Time was supposed to move faster for her, but the minutes dragged by. Amaia half wondered if the woman would even deliver her message. Perhaps Michael didn’t want to see her, and the servant didn’t think it was worth relaying that information. Amaia had always known the day might come when he didn’t want her. She had even hoped for it. All she wanted was his happiness. A little demon inside her whispered that she lied to herself. Maybe she did.
Just when she thought she would go mad with waiting, the door reopened to reveal a footman.
“Come this way. The master will see you.”
Amaia followed the man through the house to a study on the main floor. When she entered, Michael’s back was to her as he stared out a window. His appearance this time surprised her. He was average height and broad without the lean muscle from his last life, with a healthy head of thick, light brown hair. Hair she longed to feel with her hands.
“Your guest, Lord Whittaker.” The footman made his announcement and then withdrew. Michael didn’t move until the door had shut behind the servant, and when he did, Amaia wished he hadn’t.
Gray eyes, icier than the frosty lochs of Scotland, stared at her. And just like the lochs of Scotland, under the icy exterior, the water churned. It was a blessing Amaia didn’t require breath—her lungs were so chilled she didn’t think she’d be able to move them.
“I remember what happened now, Amaia.” His tone held no warmth.
“What do you mean?”
Heat flashed in his eyes. In an instant, the fire replaced the ice, and Amaia realized that the frost had been an attempt to control his temper. “Stop the lies. You’re not my Jocelyn. You are a demon. You killed my sweet lady, and then you killed me.”
Oh, that memory. She had been a fool to think he would never recall the circumstances of his death. “I’m not a demon.” The truth was the only argument she had, and she knew it was weak.
“You sucked the blood from my body.” An accusatory finger jabbed in her direction.