Chapter 24
Slowly Meg became conscious of the world around her. Not that she wanted to be conscious. No, because the more awake she became, the more aware she was of her throbbing lip and jaw. The more she was aware of the way her arms were pinned back so far she thought they would pop from her shoulders. And the more aware she was that the world was completely and utterly wrong.
Her lashes fluttered, barely lifting. She couldn’t move her legs apart and knew her ankles were tied together. A hard, wooden floor spread out before her, the dusty slats pressed against the side of her face. With a groan, she managed to tuck her knees to her chest and sit up. The room spun. A large, open room that had been elegant at one time, but now looked abandoned. Thick curtains covered windows, allowing no light to enter, but a fire burned brightly in the hearth, the only sense of warmth.
As the room slowed and her eyes adjusted to the low light, Meg studied her prison. A small table was placed against the far wall. A settee and chair near the hearth. A kettle hung on the hook above the fireplace, indicating someone was nearby. There were two doors, one that led into a hall and another that seemed to lead outside. Some sort of hunting cottage, was her bet. Which meant she was far from any town, far from any well-traveled road.
Grimacing she shifted, trying to loosen the ropes around her wrists. The twine burned against her sensitive skin. With a frustrated cry, she ceased her struggle. Her head throbbed something fierce and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream or burst into tears. Her lovely red dress was torn at the hem, a large dark, stain marred her right hip and her hair hung down around her face, having come lose from the coiffeur. But none of that mattered.
Hanna. Where was Hanna? Was she still alive? No! She couldn’t even contemplate the idea that she might not be. And Grayson… would he go through life never knowing what his brother-in-law was truly capable of?
Grayson’s green gaze flashed to mind. That dimple as he smiled down at her. Would she never see him again? Tears burned her eyes. With a frustrated snarl, she jerked her arms, attempting to pull the ropes free. He wasn’t using her. He would come for her.
“No use in trying to escape,” someone said from behind her.
She wasn’t surprised in the least that someone was there. Meg turned her head to her left, glancing over her shoulder. A man sat on a chair, his body indistinguishable from the dark shadows where the firelight didn’t reach.
Sweat gathered between Meg’s shoulder blades, but she would show no fear. “Who are you? Where am I?”
He leaned forward, the firelight hitting a face rugged with age and life. “Don’t rightly matter who I am, but you can call me Mr. Smith. Was hired by Lord Winters to see you killed, if need be.”
The man who had held her in Hanna’s room while William had hit her. Her gaze dropped to the knife in his hand. He turned the blade this way and that, the metal flashing in the firelight.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll use a pistol. You’ll go faster that way.”
A shiver of unease raced over her skin. “So kind. They really should saint you.”
He grinned showing a few black spaces where teeth should have been. With an ease that belied the situation, he set the knife upon a small side table and took a pocket watch from his jacket. “Yer husband has fifteen minutes to get here.”
Her husband. She’d barely had time to enjoy being married. Meg swallowed over the lump of emotion in her throat. “And if he doesn’t?”
The man shrugged. “Don’t know. Winters doesn’t tell me the details. All I know is that if he’s not here in fifteen minutes, I kill you.”
So easy for him, as if they were discussing the weather. Her life meant nothing to this man. But it didn’t matter. She knew Grayson would come for her. Surely he would. Yet, what if he was too late? “Have you killed before, Mr. Smith? Do you know what that will do to your soul?”
He shrugged, completely unconcerned. “I’ve killed before, some gent from your area and his old bat of a mother. It’s too late for me soul.”
A cold shiver raced over her body and she had to resist the urge to scoot back. Oh dear God, Lord Brockwell and his mother had been murdered by this man. “It’s never too late to ask for forgiveness.”
Mr. Smith winked. “Well, then, I’ll ask for forgiveness right before I die. That way I can appreciate the money I make now.”
She wouldn’t react to his statement. “When my husband gets here, he will kill you.”
He shrugged again, raking his hands through his dark hair. “If he comes. Ye heard Lord Winters. Yer husband might not love ye, tis best if ye accept it now.”
“He does,” she whispered. Yet, why did her heart ache with doubt?
“Has he said it then? Proclaims it to the world every morning?” He was mocking her and she wouldn’t react.
She’d ignore him. She’d ignore the pull of her shoulders, the ache in her head. She could not change this man, but she could keep the man occupied until Grayson arrived. And he would arrive. “Please, water. Can I have some water?”
“I’ll do you one better.” He took the wooden cup at his side, and tossed the contents to the floor. “And prove I’m not as bad as you think. As soon as the water is hot enough, I’ll give you some tea.”
Yes, as if tea could make up for the fact that he murdered innocent people in his spare time. “You’re too kind,” she muttered, watching him stroll across the room to the fireplace where the kettle hung. With his back to her, she wrestled with the ropes, frantic to gain her freedom, even knowing it was useless. The ropes held tight and she only managed to burn her skin even more. Blast!
A sudden burst of cold air swept into the room, stirring the dust on the floor and sending the flames in the hearth higher. Meg jerked her head toward the door. Mr. Smith surged to his feet and spun around. The door stood wide, the dark night quiet and watchful, invading their small abode.
“Did you open the door?” Mr. Smith demanded, dropping the cup to the floor. It rolled across the floor boards.
Meg shook her head.
He rushed across the room, slamming the door shut and bolting it. “Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not, I swear it!”
Raising his hand, he started toward her, his face furious, yet something else there, in his eyes. Fear.
“Touch her and your death will only be more painful,” Grayson’s familiar voice sounded almost unrecognizable, inhuman, but Meg had never been happier. Meg turned, her heart hammering.
He stood near the hall, his dark shadow tall and intimidating. A shiver of unease raced over her skin.
“Stand back,” Grayson continued. “And I’ll kill you quickly.”
Mr. Smith spun around, grappling with the pistol in his waistband. Before he could even touch his weapon, Grayson flew across the room, a blurred shadow. Mr. Smith was slammed against the wall so hard, the entire building trembled. Meg gasped, scooting backward. Grayson held Mr. Smith to the wall, his hand wrapped around the man’s throat.
The Grayson she knew, the man she loved, was barely there. This Grayson was feral. She didn’t want this Grayson. This man frightened her.
“Grayson, please, untie me!” Meg begged, attempting to find the man she’d married within the feral being in front of her.
Meg held her breath, waiting. Finally, Grayson released Mr. Smith, letting him slump to the ground. Mr. Smith rolled onto his side, his hands going to his injured throat, gasping for air. Grayson was at her side in a blink, pulling a knife from his boot.
Meg bit her lower lip, studying this handsome face, looking for the man she’d married. He’d come for her. He did love her. She studied his features, but this Grayson was different, wrong. His face paler than normal, his eyes wide and haunted.
The rope around her ankles was cut, her legs free. He reached around her, searching for her wrists. Meg rested the side of her face against his chest, tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. He was quick as he cut the ropes around her wrists.
Even though her arms burned, she threw herself into Grayson’s hard body.
“You don’t know how happy I am to see you.”
His hands moved over her hair, cupping her face and she could feel his body trembling. “Shhh, it’s all right now.”
Her Grayson. Her love. As much as she wanted to keep holding him, she moved back and grabbed his hand. “Hurry, we need to get back to Hanna.”
He didn’t stir. She pulled on his heavy body. “Gray?”
He knelt there, watching her with sad, emotional eyes, staring at her, as if trying to memorize her face. “You weren’t hurt?” He reached forward with trembling hands and cupped the sides of her face, his thumb gently rubbing the spot where Lord Winters had hit her.
“Grayson, I’m so sorry. I took Hanna to protect her. Hanna is your niece, Grayson. Your niece.” She swiped impatiently at the tears coursing down her face and stood. “But they’re trying to find her. Lord Winters is trying to find Hanna.” She rushed to the door. “I’m sorry, and you can yell at me later, but for now, we have to find her before he does.” She fumbled with the handle, but her hands were damp with tears and sweat. “Blasted door!”
Sensing that Grayson was not behind her, she paused. A shiver of unease raced over her skin. Something was wrong. Slowly, she turned. Grayson still knelt on the floor, his head bent low. Mr. Smith was watching them cautiously, as if he understood when Meg hadn’t a clue.
“Grayson?” her voice trembled.
The world seemed to grow quiet, as if holding its breath. Why wasn’t Grayson moving? Why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he doing something?
“Gray?” she whispered, inching closer. “What is it?”
Slowly, he lifted his head. Was it her imagination or did he looked paler than normal? The thin blue veins more prominent along his temples. His eyes glowing more brilliantly than she’d ever seen before. And his body… his entire body was trembling almost violently.
Meg dropped to her knees. “What is it? Tell me now. Is it Hanna?”
He smiled then, a soft, sad smile. “No. She’s well. She’s safe.”
“Then what is it?” Meg demanded, fear making her voice harsher than she’d intended. But Grayson didn’t answer, merely continued to stare at her with those sad, knowing eyes.
“He’s dying,” Mr. Smith whispered, slumped against the wall.
Meg jerked her head toward him, then looked back at Grayson. Neither looked as if they were jesting. The words sank into her gut, wrapped around her heart and crushed her soul. “No! He can’t die!”
“I can,” Grayson whispered softly. “It’s merely more difficult to kill me.”
Meg stumbled to her feet. “No! You’re not.”
“He puts something in their drink.” Mr. Smith grimaced as he stood, leaning heavily against the wall. “It makes them bleed. They die from the inside.” The man stumbled toward the door, but she didn’t care a fig that he was escaping.
Die from the inside. Frantic fear pulsed through Meg. “No.” She reached out, cupping the sides of Grayson’s face. He was cold. Much colder than normal, almost like ice. He’d tasted her blood only yesterday. He should be warm.
He took her hands in his. His touch was so chill that her fingers grew numb. “Meg, you’ll go to Brimley, understand? He has Hanna. He will protect you.”
“Stop!” She gripped his hands tighter. Damn him for giving up already. “I won’t hear of it! You’re strong, Grayson. You’re strong, you will survive this!”
“Listen to me, Meg. I’ve never told you, and perhaps it’s selfish of me now, but I must before it’s too late … I love you.”
Tears stung her eyes. The words she’d wanted to hear but not now, not this way, for his words of love were his farewell.
“From that first moment I saw you in the stream, you’d captured my heart. The way you protect those you care for…”
She jerked her hands away. “Grayson, no. You will not do this now, damn you! ”
“Listen to me.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, his face serious, stoic. “I don’t have long, there are things I must tell you. I…I didn’t think I could be human. I didn’t think I could love until I met you. You’ve made me believe in happily ever after, Meg. You’ve made me believe in life. In love. In you.” He slipped his fingers through her hair and drew her forward, pressing his cold lips to hers in a soft, gentle kiss.
“Grayson, you’re frightening me.” She cupped the sides of his face, her entire body trembling so hard she thought she’d be sick.
“Don’t be afraid. You will no longer want for anything now that you are my wife.”
Anger overtook her fear. How dare he think she only cared about his money. She gripped his shirt in her fists. “I will want for you, you blasted man!”
His eyes glistened and for a moment she thought he was crying. But no, not tears…no. Red liquid slipped from his green eyes, trailing over his pale skin. She’d seen it happen before with his sister. Meg released her hold, her grip on his shirt loosening.
The world around her spun…off balance, tilting precariously.
“No,” Meg whispered. “No!”
He reached out for her. “Meg, shhh. Please.”
“No! I won’t let you!” She stumbled to her feet. “I won’t let you die!” Meg spun around, searching for something, anything that would staunch his injuries, anything that would clot his blood.
“Meg,” he whispered.
She ignored the plea in his voice and tore open the door to the cottage. “Julia,” she whispered, looking up to the heavens, a crescent moon smiling mockingly down on her. “Please help me.”
Her heart hammering wildly, she dropped her gaze to the wavering field that spread out front of the cottage. What could she use? Something, surely there was something! A soft breeze swept down form the Heavens. The weeds in the field wavered, swaying hypnotically back and forth. And then she spotted it… a green plant, almost silver under the light of the stars. Tall stalks that lined the front garden, disappearing into the dark trees.
“Sheperd’s Purse.” Meg pulled her skirt high, struggling to hold the massive weight and darted across the lawn, the dew soaking her slippers.
Hundreds and hundreds of the plants grew, so many she wanted to cry out with relief. Meg wrapped her fingers around the tall plant with the small white flowers and pulled. Thanks to the rain, the plant easily released its grip on the damp earth. “Thank you Julia!”
She had no time to waste. With dirt sprinkling across her gown, she held the flower close and rushed back into the house. Grayson was sitting, leaning against the wall, the trails of blood contrasting brilliantly against his pale face. Meg shivered, biting her lip to keep from crying.
“Meg,” he rasped. “You must leave. Hide. You can’t stay here.”
“Shhh! I need to think.” She wouldn’t look at him, she couldn’t concentrate if she looked at him. He must not die.
“Meg, please. Stop.”
“No, I won’t.” She rushed to the kettle hanging over the fireplace and latched onto the handle before she thought better. The burn was immediate. Meg cried out and jerked back, dropping the wildflower.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Grayson growled from where he sat, a weak representation of himself.
Meg ignored him and using her skirt, picked up the kettle. She dropped to her knees, grasping the cup Mr. Smith had left. He must not die.
Hot water splashed on her hands, burning her skin as she poured, her fingers trembling too badly to work properly. Ignoring the sting, she scooped up the plant and tore it to bits. She dared to glance at Grayson.
His eyes were closed.
“No!”
He jumped, startled by her outburst. Meg almost laughed in relief. With shaking hands she scooped up the pieces of plant and tossed them into Mr. Smith’s cup. She stumbled to her feet, moving carefully so as not to trip on her gown.
“Drink,” she demanded, kneeling before Grays
on.
He mumbled something indecipherable. Meg pinched his chin and pulled down, parting his lips. “Grayson, please, you must drink for me.”
She pressed the cup to his lips and tilted the contents into his mouth. He coughed, his throat working as the muddy mixture went down his throat. He must not die.
The contents empty, he turned his head away and Meg dropped the cup to the floor. “How do you feel?” She pressed her hand to his forehead, his skin still icy cold.
He shook his head, his eyes closed. “Meg, let me go.”
“Never,” she whispered, tears burning.
He needed strength. He needed something that would heal his body. He needed … blood. Clean, good blood.
She spun around and spotted Mr. Smith’s knife on the side table. Deep down she knew she was grasping at straws, but she was determined. Grayson would not die. Not now. She snatched the knife from the table and fell to her knees. “Gray, love, please, open your eyes.”
He didn’t.
Her hands trembling, she lifted the knife and sliced it across her forearm. The sharp pain was nothing compared to the ache in her soul.
“Grayson, you must drink. Please, please hear me.” She leaned close to him and pressed her injured arm to his lips, hoping the blood would seep into his mouth. Praying he’d taste the sweet nectar and flourish. She would allow him to drain her, if she must.
“Please, Grayson. Please. I love you,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You can’t leave me here alone.”
Chapter 25
William strolled into his townhome, his footfalls impatient. For three days he’d bedded down at a disgusting Inn halfway between Cumberland and London, his injuries too severe to travel.
Damn Grayson Bellamont to hell for tossing him out that window. No doubt, the story had traveled to London already, arriving before him. Even in death, the man had to leave his mark. How would he explain the man’s actions? How would he explain his brother-in-laws sudden disappearance? It didn’t matter, nothing mattered but the fact that he had finally succeeded. The soft tap of footfalls alerted him to his butler’s presence.
A Night Of Secrets, A Paranormal Romance Page 32