Dallas’ eyelids twitched at the memory, but they didn’t open. Would hanging have been preferable, after all? Time, like sand from an ocean’s depths, swirled and revealed more long-dead memories.
Young Dalys’ stance did not waver, nor did he shrink his gaze from the small watery eyes that pooled above the magistrate’s florid cheeks. It was no more than Dalys had expected. The charges were serious—hanging was the only punishment a judge could impose. Not a muscle twitched in Dalys’ body, and when the magistrate’s scrutiny took refuge in the papers before him, Dalys cast his eyes at St. James. Bewigged and as seemingly bored as the sessions crowd, St. James met his stare, the affectation of slightly raised brows not changing, but a hint of a smile sending a message to the condemned man that the sentence would not be stayed.
Dalys held his breath, no hope for pardon and release.
It was known to happen, but not with a prosecutor and victim like Viscount St. James. No older than his own twenty years, St. James nevertheless had the advantage of position and wealth. The eldest son and heir of the Earl of Coventry, Christian wore the mantle of his power as easily as he did his dark embroidered suit. Dalys matched the challenge of arrogance with all that a common man could summon—strength that came not with titles or shillings, but honor and virtue.
The magistrate’s throat rumbled again and the courtroom quieted. “The sentence of death is hereby pardoned on condition of transportation, said transportation to take place when and where practicable. Defendant is to be remanded to Newgate until such time. Sessions will continue with the next defendant at the hour . . . ”
Dalys’ chest expanded with his quick intake of breath, and the thick stew of courtroom air, laden with the aromas of sweat, dust, and smoke, filled him with a joy no pure meadow air could match. Transportation. Life.
The rattle of a windowpane snapped his mind to the present. His senses tested the room, but all was as it invariably was. The door to the stairs remained closed, and nothing but the soft glow from the rustic chandelier invaded the room’s darkness. There was no wind to be heard whispering outside the casement, no raid of night sounds straining to pillage the utter stillness.
Ah, you relish torturing me, don’t you, Veilina, my love? I can almost see that soldier’s smile of conquest on your face. You tease me with life knowing I am yours for eternity in damnation. And yet you will let no other harm me, will you?
The chandelier flickered on and off, and Dallas stared at it, the quirk of his mouth acknowledging the reply.
A rap on the door left Dallas alone with his bitter thoughts.
“Who is it?” The question was loud and abrupt, and Dallas immediately regretted his ill-mannered response to the soft knock.
“It’s just Angie, Mr. Allgate. Miss Martell is here. You’re expecting her?”
Regardless of how it had happened, Dallas had allowed his attention to be drawn from the present. Foolish, that. And while he felt safer at the inn than anywhere else, it was still dangerous to allow such a lapse in awareness. To be lulled to a dream state during the night, even in the sanctity of the inn, was inexcusable carelessness. However, it was no reason to take it out on his staff. He took a deep breath and ran the tips of his fingers through his hair, dislodging heavy locks that swung across his forehead. He rose and stepped to the stout door, pulling it open easily. Angie, used to the potholes in his temperament, stood with a bemused look on her face. Behind her, Tia Martell looked neither bemused nor amused. There was a slight upturn to one dark brow, but no hint of a smile.
His eyes stayed on Tia. “Thank you, Angie.”
“Can I bring anything up right away?” Angie asked.
“Miss Martell? What can we get for you? On the house, of course.” He watched Tia’s eyes watching his.
“Just an iced tea, please.”
His focus lowered to her mouth. Coral. Like her outfit. “Bring a menu, too, Angie. I’m sure Miss Martell will want something . . . in the way of a late supper.”
“Right up.” Angie turned and squeezed past Tia to descend the steep, narrow staircase.
Dallas opened the door wider, but took only one small step to the side. He had left room for her to enter, but just barely enough. Proximity to an opponent was a device of the Undead. Intimacy maximized the power of his senses and brought the mirror of his eyes directly before those who dared gaze upon it.
“Come in, Miss Martell.”
He watched her cool blue gaze crawl down the length of his body to the tips of his polished black shoes, then climb up again to grasp his eyes. His abilities didn’t quite extend to the reading of specific thoughts, but what was on her mind was clear nonetheless. Her eyes had outlined his size, and the quirk that returned to one eyebrow asked why he didn’t move that size to allow her more room.
He stood his ground.
She smiled in return—a strong smile that told him she accepted his challenge.
She carried a bulky camera case on one arm. Turning sideways to squeeze herself and the bag through the opening he had given her, she faced him, her eyes inches from his. She paused, adjusted the weight of the bag on her shoulder, tossed her head to extricate an errant tendril from her face, and sidestepped past him. Her gaze remained locked on his, her smile confidently in place.
His strategy backfired in his face.
Desire flared in him as her fragrance flooded his senses. Life itself had its own scent, but the chemistry of each individual seasoned it uniquely. This one was sweet and strong, the clean tang of her blood spoiled only slightly by the trace of artificial perfume. He could almost taste her heated skin on his tongue, honeyed and unspoiled. He inhaled her flavor, and it ran along his skin like the sweet sweat of arousal, insistent and undeniable.
One sleeve of her flowing silk blouse brushed his arm, and her heat freed her scent even more. Every breath filled him with the reminder of the covenant he had made with death two hundred years ago. All the gentility and civilized living he could cocoon himself in couldn’t change the primal need that animated him. That need raged inside him now more strongly than it had for a long, long time. It was the blood, but it was more than that. It was the journey that led up to the blood.
She finally turned away from him, and the red-orange of her outfit vibrated before his eyes. He closed the door behind her, drew a deep breath, and followed her into the room to pull up one of the chairs for her. Light from the chandelier sparkled off rhinestones on the back of her blouse. Rhinestones arranged in a sunburst design.
His desire quickly cooled to anger. Did she indeed know what he was? Was this, so reminiscent of the sunset he had viewed just two hours ago, to mock him?
“Have a seat, Miss Martell.” His eyes raked her and, both his appetite and ire still aroused, he allowed his gaze to linger on the sleek legs exposed by her short skirt longer than good manners dictated.
“Please, call me Tia. Miss Martell sounds so much like a schoolteacher.”
“And you are certainly not that, are you?”
She dropped the smile. “No. And before we go any further, I’d like to say how sorry I am that Mr. Macklin didn’t survive the accident. If he was a friend, I’m doubly sorry.”
“Thank you. He was a business acquaintance. I, too, regret his death.”
A knock sounded on the door.
“Come in, Angie.”
The hostess entered and placed a drink and menu on the desk in front of Tia, who thanked her with a renewed smile.
“If Miss Martell would like anything more, I’ll call down, Angie.”
Angie nodded and left, pulling the door shut again. Tia filled the silence between them by taking a sip of her tea.
Her journey began.
When she raised her head again, his vampiric eyes snared hers—eyes that he knew would grow opaque and reveal nothing about him, but everything abo
ut her. She would see truth, not the absolute truth that philosophers debated about, but her own personal truth. She would see what she wanted to see—everything that was good, right, and necessary for her life, from this day on. Whether she consciously knew it or not, she would see before her the reality that was hers alone, not only the “is,” but the “could be.” The power of his eyes would reflect back to her everything she ever dreamed of, fantasized about, and lusted after, and she would see all as possible, attainable, and within reach.
The mirror never lied.
And Dallas would see it all. Not as a mind reader or fortuneteller, but as simply the observer to whom she would bare all. Her journey would take her from appearance to reality, and when her reality was revealed, he would be ready for her.
Her eyes flickered with uneasiness and tore away from his, staring at the room around her as if for the first time. It was a manifestation of her resistance to him, and it vexed him.
“Is this Veilina’s room?” she asked, her eyes still avoiding his. “Where she killed herself?”
“You’re not squeamish about death, are you?” he asked softly.
“No. Especially not with something like this.”
“Something like this?”
“A ghost story. For the tourists.”
“A story, yes, but it did happen. Do you know the full legend of Bishop’s Inn, Tia?”
“No, not the whole story.”
“You know that the Old Natchez Trace was the nexus connecting the river with all points north to Nashville.”
She nodded her head. “It was originally an Indian trail.”
“Very good. You’re right, it was. Well, if the Old Trace was the ‘Devil’s Backbone,’ then Bishop’s Inn in the late 1700s and early 1800s was the head of the beast. Generations of Kaintucks stayed here before starting their trek north, but it was more than just boatmen. Liam Bishop played host to preachers and politicians, traders and thieves. Liam employed a stable lad named Rowan Kiley, who was mute. He couldn’t command the horses with his voice, but they responded to the touch of his hands. Liam’s youngest daughter was a spoiled brat named Veilina who had hair the color of a red fox and a cunning personality to match. But Veilina loved only herself and other beautiful trinkets, including Devon Alexander, a rich planter.”
Dallas paused, pleased to see that his eyes had her full attention once again.
“Rowan was nothing to her as he was only a servant. One day the vixen made up her mind to go out riding, insisting she take Liam’s most spirited stallion, Forrest, a huge black beast. They were barely away from the inn when Forrest reared, and Veilina was thrown and struck in the head by Forrest’s flailing hooves. Rowan heard her cries and soothed the animal with a touch of his hand. He saved Veilina’s life, but she was blinded by the blow she took. Rowan cared for her, and comforted her as he did the beasts, and soon she fell in love with Rowan, and he with her. She forgot all about Alexander, whose mask of beauty she could no longer gaze upon.”
“Good riddance.”
Dallas’ brows twitched. “Why do you say that? He was wealthy and handsome.”
“And arrogant, I’ll bet.”
“Perhaps. Well, Liam was furious at the prospect of losing a rich son-in-law, and he conspired with Alexander to murder Rowan. It was said that Alexander was maddened by Veilina’s betrayal. In any case, Alexander did kill Rowan, and Veilina, upon hearing the news, took her own life in this room. But the legend is that Rowan rose from the dead and avenged himself on Alexander, for Devon was never seen again after that. For a long time people believed that Rowan and Veilina haunted the stables, but they burned down in 1852. Veilina still haunts the inn.”
“And Rowan? What happened to his ghost?”
“After the stables burned, he was never sighted again.”
“But Alexander’s spirit was. I’ve heard the legend about him.”
“Really. I’m impressed. There was never much written about Alexander. He was the villain in the story, after all.”
“I was talking to an old caretaker at Longwood yesterday. He told me about the ‘Vampar of Natchez,’ the spirit of a spurned lover who still wanders the night, searching for revenge. The old man said that any time someone dies unexpectedly in Natchez the death is blamed on Devon Alexander.”
He smiled. “That’s the legend, yes.”
“I guess he stays away from here. Veilina must hate him.”
He smiled again, a sad smile. A thud sounded against the window, as if a bird had flown into it by mistake.
“No doubt,” he said, feeling the smile slide from his face.
She rose from her chair and moved to the window. “You’re not going to tell me that was her pounding on the window.”
He was on his feet and beside her before she could do more than turn. “Belief can only come from within the eye of the beholder, Tia.”
“Veilina’s sight improved when she could no longer see. What do you suppose she ever saw in Alexander anyway? He was rich, but it doesn’t sound like he had anything else going for him.”
“Perhaps he knew how to please a woman.” With that, he held her with his eyes long enough for his hand to cup her chin and lift her face to his. He did what he had wanted to do since the moment she blew into the room. He brought his mouth to within an inch of hers, and when she offered no opposition, he brushed his lips over hers. Unable to resist the taste of her any longer, his mouth worked gently on hers, savoring the life force that sweetened the warmth flooding his senses. He parted his lips, but when his teeth pressed against the softness of her lower lip, she jerked her head away from his. Her hand started to whip forward, but his was quicker. He gripped her forearm, pleased by the challenge of the strength he felt in her slender arm.
“Let go. If Devon was anything like you, I can see why Veilina left him.”
Tia’s empty chair fell backward to the floor with a dull thump. Dallas released Tia’s arm and righted the chair with a sigh. “All right. I get the message.”
He was afraid for a moment that she would storm out, but the moment passed. She hadn’t yet gotten what she came for.
“Show me what information you have, Tia.”
“First, do we have a deal?”
“Deal?”
“The information in exchange for a photo shoot.”
“I don’t make deals. And I don’t allow photos. If you want to share your information, do so. If not, order whatever you like from the menu and enjoy a leisurely supper.”
The first emotions of many to be revealed slipped past the mask of her attitude. The quirk of compressed lips. The exhale that bordered on a sigh. The eyes that roamed the room for a decision on what to do next. She was a strong woman, to be sure, but she was human. And vulnerable after all to his power, as all the others before her had been.
Still, Dallas almost felt . . . something. An emotion that had touched him once, a long time ago, when he was human. His mind flew farther and farther into the past to snag the scrap of memory. Australia. When he was a convict, wrangling horses for MacArthur. The feeling he had when he broke a spirited animal. The memory and feeling dissolved, as quickly as they had formed.
This is what he did. No, what he was. There were no regrets. Could be no regrets.
“Well, Tia?”
“I’m not a mercenary, Mr. Allgate.”
“Dallas.” He surprised himself with that.
“Dallas.” She paused, as if the name was foreign to her. “I came here to offer you help. That’s what I’m going to do. I was hoping you’d consent to a few photos in return, but I’m not going to hold the information I have for ransom. Here.” She opened her bag and slid out a photo mailer. Opening the envelope, she shook out several photos and a piece of paper. She arranged all of them on the table for him to see. “These are photos I took o
f the inn just before I went inside for dinner. The accident happened about an hour later. I had all of them enlarged. In this one you can read the license plate of the car, and in this one you can clearly see a man behind the wheel. Here’s the listing on the plate. Unfortunately, it comes back stolen.”
He glanced at the photos. It was no doubt the hit and run vehicle. And Conner Flynne, though only he would know that. The photo showed only the back of a man’s dark head. You were lucky, Conner. The camera caught the only good side a creature like you has.
“How did you get this listing?”
“I have friends with the police.”
“What else do you know about Marty Macklin or about what happened to him?”
“Just what I read in the newspaper.”
“What else do you know about me?”
The question seemed to surprise her. She sat back in her chair and stared at him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “About you? Only that you have an unlisted phone number. That your staff won’t give out any information about you. And that for a man who’s too good looking for his own good, you shy away from having your picture taken. Or is that just part of the mystique you maintain for the sake of the tourists?”
He laughed, something he rarely did. Perhaps there was nothing to regret after all. Her candor was much more refreshing than the warrior armor she had arrived with. And she was telling him the truth. If she had known more about him or about Macklin’s death, his eyes would have compelled her to reveal such knowledge.
“I don’t photograph as well as you might think. Call it a phobia. I’ve had it for a long time.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
Double Image Page 5