by ML Guida
Kelley pulled away from the desk and looked at the window. Sadness replaced the fear in his eyes. “Thank you for this information. What is your name?”
“Palmer. Quinton Palmer.” The lie easily rolled off his tongue, but tonight, the fool would be quaking from the name.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Palmer, I have some matters to attend.”
Phearson cocked his eyebrow at the heaviness in his voice. “I will take yer leave.”
He exited the provost’s office, but not before pocketing the gold cross on the bookshelf. Michael Kelley shouldn’t have easily dismissed him and would have to justify the missing religious artifact. Phearson wondered how quickly the provost would learn that his son was the sacrificial lamb so his so-called friend could escape. He headed into town to buy a cloak and hat. Like the Pious Twelve, he did not want to be recognized.
For the last three nights, he’d been lying in wait for them but found nothing. It hadn’t been all wasted. He’d robbed several carriages, and his purse had gotten fatter. Not enough to bribe a crew yet, but enough to give him hope that his dream was possible.
Phearson wiped down the bar, waiting for his shift to end. Rosalind bustled around the tables, carrying platters of hot food and tankards of ale. She didn’t appear to have any more bruises, but he didn’t trust her ill-mannered stepfather.
She came back, her face flushed. “I need five more tankards.” Her skin glistened under the lantern light, which only enhanced her beauty.
She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I need to talk to you in private.”
He tilted his head. “’Tis busy enough. Meet me in the corridor.”
She nodded, then grabbed the tankards.
In a few minutes, she disappeared into the corridor. Doyle had hired another man to work the bar–Samuel–a grizzled old sailor. “Sam, we’re low on rum. I need to get some more.”
“Hurry back,” he grunted.
Rosalind waited in the shadows of the corridor for him, looking around nervously. “I haven’t seen you for the past three nights. Where have you been?”
“Miss my kisses?”
She blushed. “No.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Ye didna like it?”
“I didn’t say that,” she stammered.
Before she could say anything else, he put his hands on her tense shoulders and kissed her. This one was longer and more intense than in the cemetery. She struggled for a minute, but then leaned into him. He wanted to taste more of her femininity. For the last few days, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. It had only been one brief kiss, but it had lingered on him for days. She had tasted sweet and innocent, not like the whores he’d dallied with previously. He was tired of being forced to live with the undesirables.
He lost himself in her embrace. He maneuvered her against the wall and pressed his body against hers. She was soft and curvy, stirring his passion.
She broke off his kiss and panted. “Stop…before someone sees us.”
He could hear the fear in her voice and silently cursed Doyle. “I’m sorry, Rosalind.” He groaned inwardly. Her normally tight bun had fallen loose, allowing wild strands of hair to frame her flush face.
She straightened her dress. “So, where were you?”
“I had some business to attend.” He pushed a lock of a stray hair behind her ear. “Why?”
“Did you talk to the provost?”
He’d almost forgotten about that since he’d been so taken with her. “Aye, I talked with him.”
“Well, is he going to do anything?”
He shrugged. “I dona know. I dona think he took it seriously.” He didn’t know if either Kelley or DiSanti’s father were part of the Pious Twelve. Until he knew for sure, he wasn’t going to make any assumptions.
Her shoulders sagged, and she let out a long breath. Disappointment spread across her face, and she tapped her fingernails on the counter. “We have to do something.”
He frowned. “’Tis too dangerous for ye to do anythin’.” He kissed the top of her clenched knuckles. “Please, let me handle this. I dona want to see anything happen to ye. Where is this secret tunnel?”
She edged closer and whispered, “Do you see that hook with the burlap of vegetables hanging from it?”
“Aye.”
“’Tis actually a lever that opens up to a secret passageway. That’s where Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster dragged that man below. It actually goes all the way down to the river.”
“Ye followed them?”
“Yes.”
He grabbed her shoulders. “Rosalind, promise me ye willna do that again. ’Tis much too dangerous.”
Before she could answer, Sam yelled, “Rosalind, Phearson, what are you doing? We need help out here.”
“Excuse me.” Rosalind broke away from him and hurried back to the tavern.
Phearson stared at the lever, vowing to investigate further and put an end to Doyle’s little scheme.
He went back to working behind the bar. Rosalind returned. She opened her mouth to say something, but when Doyle approached the bar, she quickly grabbed the mugs of beer and hurried to deliver them to thirsty customers.
Doyle looked around the tavern and leaned against the bar. “”Tis been a good night. A very profitable one.” But he wasn’t looking at Phearson, he was studying a young man who sat in the corner, deep in his cups. He nodded his head, and Foster followed his gaze.
Phearson frowned and avoided looking at Doyle. Instead, he served two men sitting at the counter. Obviously, Doyle had designs to kidnap the poor chap. There was no depth to the evil in the man.
The memory of being forced to serve on the Fiery Damsel made him grit his teeth. He still bore the scars from Palmer’s lash. He slammed another mug onto the counter, and mead sloshed over the rim, onto the man’s shirt.
“What the hell are you doing?” the man slurred as he jumped out of his chair.
“Sorry,” Phearson said, as he wiped up the mess. “I will get ye another one on the house.”
Doyle walked over toward the young man who was turning his cup around and said something. Even with his vampire hearing, Phearson couldn’t hear above the crowd.
The man shook his head, turned his body away, and went back to drinking his cup. Foster glared down at the top of the man’s blond head.
Doyle gestured with his hand as he walked toward the back of the tavern. This wasn’t good. They were determined to get this young chap.
He studied Foster. He was a pompous, older gentleman who would not take kindly to creatures. He smiled. Time to show the world his cowardliness.
Another tired barmaid, Alyssa, came over. “I need two more shots of whiskey, mate.” Penniless, she’d recently sailed from Australia and was forced to work in the tavern. To make money on the side, she turned tricks in the alley.
“I need to get another bottle––wait here.” He slipped around her and headed toward the storeroom. No one was in the corridor, and drawing on his vampire powers, he transformed into a bat. He’d been doing this so long it only took a couple of minutes. His muscles and bones quickly contracted, and he shrank in size. His incisors grew, and he released a loud, chilling shriek.
He flew out of the corridor into the crowded tavern. He whizzed past Alyssa, who screamed and dropped her tray.
“A bat! Kill it! Kill it.”
Someone cursed. “Look at the size of that bloody thing!”
Chairs and stools toppled as men tried to get away. Swords and pistols were drawn. Pistols fired and shot ripped through Phearson’s wing. Hot pain stopped his heart, but he didn’t care.
Rosalind ducked and put her tray over her head as if she were afraid he’d tangle her silky hair, but he only had plans for Foster.
The bastard grabbed Rosalind and used her as a human shield. Anger swelled inside Phearson. He wanted to rip out the coward’s soul.
“Captain, what are you doing?” Rosalind lifted her foot and stomped on his toes with her heel.
Rosalind hid underneath the table, alongside some of the other patrons. Phearson admired her courage to fight and never give up. She wasn’t a fainting damsel who always expected to be rescued. But then, living with Doyle, she had to be strong if she wanted to survive.
Phearson flew over the top of their heads and lowered his talons, ripping off Foster’s powdered wig. Blood spurted into the air. He put both his hands on top of his now blood-soaked scruffy hair. An emerald and gold ring glistened in the light.
Phearson wasn’t done yet and landed on top of Foster’s hands. He bit his fingers, and Foster screamed. He lifted his hands in the air to push Phearson off him. Even in bat form, Phearson had learned to steal and ripped off both rings with his fangs, tearing and shredding Foster’s fingers.
“My fingers, my rings!” Foster shrieked, as he held his bloody fingers underneath his armpits. “It bit me. I need a doctor.”
He raced out of the tavern and into the street, screaming. Men pushed their way through the door, along with the young man who unknowingly escaped a horrible fate.
Rosalind peeked from underneath the table. Her mask was splattered with drops of blood. Her eyes were huge, and her face had turned ashen. She had no idea he was trying to protect her, but after she’d tangled with Foster, maybe she didn’t need protecting.
Dizziness swept over Phearson, and the world spun around him. He flew above the chaos and headed for the docks, but his vision blurred, and he lost all direction. His flight was erratic, and he struggled to move his hurt wing. He spiraled downward––his wound must be worse than he’d thought.
His vampire strength failed, and he crashed into a tree. He transformed back into a man and fell through moss and branches. His clothes tore, and branches scratched and pierced his skin. He landed hard on the ground and passed out.
Chapter 8
Rosalind woke up in a hot sweat and trembling. The sunlight shone through the window. Breathing hard, she stared at her mask, which was stained with blood. She couldn’t forget what happened at the tavern. Phearson had kissed her so possessively that she’d lost herself, but she wanted so much more.
He acted as if he wanted her. She couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him, but that didn’t mean she trusted him. Too many times, men had disappointed her––like when Captain Foster used her as a human shield against that blood-thirsty, killer bat. She’d kept waiting for Phearson to fight it, but he’d never appeared. Was he like her stepfather and Captain Foster, hiding like cowards? Somehow, she couldn’t believe Phearson had a yellow streak.
She picked up William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and started to read it. It belonged to her father. According to Mother, he loved the story, because he thought their relationship was like the star-crossed lovers. Mother’s parents didn’t approve of Rosalind’s father, and they had to run away to get married. She sighed. Like Romeo and Juliet, her parents’ love story ended in a tragedy, and now, her life was an endless nightmare. Unable to read at the moment, she put the book carefully back down on her dresser.
She kicked the blanket off and walked over to the window to look out at Colonial Cemetery, wishing she could feel her dad’s presence, but she felt nothing. The sun had just peeked over the horizon, and birds chirped a sad song.
A stork glided down onto a grassy mound and then lifted its leg as it walked. Something flickered by its feet, and she gasped. ’Twas a hand. She pressed her palms against the windowpane.
Someone tried to get up, and then Rosalind froze. ’Twas Phearson. His face was ashen. A look of pain flashed over his handsome face, and then his eyes fluttered shut. He fell backward and didn’t move.
Oh, Lord, he must be hurt! He must have tried to fight the bat and lost.
Her heart pounding rapidly, Rosalind quickly grabbed her robe and slippers, then without thinking about decency, she ran out of her room. She hurried out of the house and raced over the dewy grass to Phearson.
He lay on his back. Blood drenched his right arm.
“Phearson,” she said quietly as she knelt next to him. “Can you hear me? What did that creature do to you?” She pushed his hair off his face.
Only the birds answered.
She put the back of her palm over his mouth and warm breath tingled her fingers. He was alive. Barely.
Blood trickled down his arm and stained the grass. She examined his wound more closely. Muscle and flesh had been torn away. ’Twas not a bite mark. He’d definitely been shot. He needed medical attention. There would be no way she could lift him and needed help. She’d have to reluctantly ask Mr. Doyle.
“Phearson, I promise I’ll be back.” She kissed him on his forehead, then hurried back to the house. He would get well. He was the first man that seemed to genuinely care about her. At least enough to defend her against her stepfather. He’d even been willing to try to get a message to the provost for her. What if that was why he’d been shot? This would be all her fault.
“Mr. Doyle! Mother! Wake up!”
“What the devil–” her stepfather called from upstairs.
“Hurry, Mr. Doyle! Phearson’s hurt. He’s in the cemetery, I think he’s been shot.”
Her stepfather came down the stairs, tying his robe, his black hair standing straight up. “How do you know he’s been shot?”
Her mother followed, her long blond hair sleek. Concern flared in her eyes as she glanced at Rosalind’s gown. “Darling, you didn’t leave the house unescorted, did you? Especially not without your mask on.”
Rosalind flinched and immediately touched her scarred cheek. “Mother, he’s hurt.”
Like everyone else, her mother could barely look at her face. Rosalind blinked back unwanted tears. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Phearson.
Mr. Doyle glared. “What will your fiancé say?”
Rosalind grabbed some towels out of the wash closet. “You actually want me to marry a man who used me as a human shield to protect him from a flying creature?”
“You have not received any other marriage proposals,” her mother said. “You need someone to take care of you.”
“I can’t believe you’re both worried about Captain Barnard. He isn’t important. Phearson is, and he’s hurt.”
Mr. Doyle snagged her arm. “And he is an employee and a stranger. Why are you calling him by his first name? ’Tis not proper. You have a fiancé. What would he think?”
Rosalind held her tongue. “We work together–that’s all. Please–he’s in trouble.”
“You will stay here and not make a spectacle of yourself.”
He left and slammed the door. Rosalind opened the door, but her mother put her hand on hers.
“Rosalind, no. Do not make him angry.”
The warning in her mother’s voice made her hesitate. She didn’t want to be locked in her room, but she wasn’t going to allow an innocent man to die.
Mr. Doyle searched the cemetery.
Rosalind pointed from the doorway. “He’s by the tree!”
Mr. Doyle walked over to the tree. He put his hands on his hips. “There’s no one here.”
“No, he was right there.” Rosalind broke away from her mother’s grip and dropped the towels onto the floor. She bolted across the street to where her stepfather stood, looking around with his hands on his hips.
She looked at the pressed grass soaked with blood.
“See! He was right here.”
“You’re a foolish girl. That could be an animal’s blood. You try my patience. Now come with me before I lock you up again.”
Rosalind looked around the cemetery for a clue on where Phearson had gone, but she didn’t see any trails of blood or footsteps in the wet dewy grass. He’d been here. She knew it.
But he wasn’t now.
“You must have been dreaming,” her stepfather said, his voice sharp. “What an inconsiderate girl you are–waking me from a sound sleep and playing these foolish games. You’ll go back to your room
and stay there. You’ll not have any breakfast this morning. That ought to teach you some respectability.”
Rosalind didn’t answer. She looked over her shoulder, wondering what had happened to Phearson. He’d been so pale, and she’d seen him passed out cold. What if someone was hurting him? She shouldn’t have left him and called for help. This was all her fault. Someone must have taken him. She just hoped they’d taken him to a doctor and not to finish him off.
Rosalind’s stomach growled as she rode in the carriage with her stepfather. He gave her a knowing smile. It hadn’t been just the morning meal he’d denied her. She missed out on afternoon tea as well, but she refused to beg for one more morsel.
Neither he nor her mother believed that Phearson had been shot. Yet she knew what she saw and wanted some answers.
Captain Foster must have had something to do with his disappearance, and when she saw him, she’d demand he’d tell her the truth. He owed her this much after throwing her at a monstrous bat.
The carriage stopped, and the footman opened the door. He took her hand, and unlike her custom, she didn’t wait for Mr. Doyle.
“Rosalind, wait for me.”
Ignoring his harsh tone, she walked into the tavern, looking for Captain Foster. He sat at a table sipping a tankard of mead. She hoped his head hurt. Rather than going to the bar, she hurried over to the table.
“Evenin’ to ye, Rosalind.”
She jerked her head around to see Phearson wiping the bar down–handsome as ever. She lost all interest in Captain Foster and headed over to the bar.
“How are you feeling?” she blurted.
He raised his eyebrow. “That is an odd question.”
“Were you hurt earlier?”
He avoided her gaze and filled a man’s tankard. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Rosalind.” Her stepfather came up behind her. “We have customers.”
“Yes, Mr. Doyle.” She rolled her eyes, but grabbed the tray and went to a table where men were demanding drink orders.
She wasn’t satisfied with Phearson’s answer. But why would he lie?