by Lydia Dare
“Blaire wanted ye ta stay with me, Ben,” his wife pleaded. “Just in case.”
Just in case the vampyre came here. So Brannock would have more than a drunken brother and an expectant witch to protect him. And had Sarah still been alive, that might not have been a bad plan. But Trevelyan had no desire to take his revenge on James through anyone other than Blaire. He blamed James for the loss of his own wife. He blamed James for making him live an eternity without the woman he loved. And now that Trevelyan knew James cared for Blaire, she’d be the only one upon whom he would exact his revenge.
“Trevelyan doesn’t care about the others,” James breathed out. Dear God, how would he ever find her? He felt so dizzy that the room nearly spun.
“What do you mean?” Westfield narrowed his eyes.
“All he cares about is Blaire.” Damn it, he didn’t know Edinburgh at all. Where would he even go to find Trevelyan?
“But he attacked all of ye at Briarcraig,” Elspeth found her feet. “And Blaire wasna even with ye at the time.”
“That would have been Sarah’s idea,” he explained, looking toward the door. “How long have they been gone?”
“Sarah’s idea?” Elspeth pressed. “The woman who died?”
“She had pointy teeth,” Brannock piped up, holding his scraggly cat close to his chest. “She was scary.”
“Believe me. Trevelyan only cares about Blaire.”
“I can find them.” Benjamin Westfield started for the door. “I can follow their scent.”
What a wonderful trait to possess.
“Brannock and Captain Lindsay are safe?” Elspeth followed her husband.
“I’d wager my life on it.” James was quick on Westfield’s tail, following him down a corridor toward a back entrance.
“Well, then I’m comin’, too.” Elspeth slid her arms into a long coat that billowed about her ankles.
“Ellie, go back,” her husband directed over his shoulder.
“Doona order me about, Benjamin. If Blaire needs me ta heal her, I willna spend my time sittin’ in the Lindsays’ parlor twiddlin’ my thumbs.”
“Headstrong witch,” her husband grumbled.
“’Til the bitter end,” she confirmed.
If James’ heart wasn’t aching at the thought of losing Blaire, he might have smiled at the exchange. His own witch was headstrong. If he would be battling Blaire’s will for a lifetime, there was no reason Westfield should get off easy.
***
“So doona look him in the eyes?” Sorcha asked as they climbed from the hack. “That makes him sound a bit like Medusa.”
“If ye make eye contact,” Blaire explained once more, “he can enchant ye. Take over yer will.”
“Oh, what a wonderful power ta possess,” Sorcha gushed. “Ye dinna say—is he handsome?”
Blaire’s mouth fell open as Rhiannon smothered a smile and handed the driver a few coins for his trouble.
“Honestly, Sorcha Ferguson, ye are the most fanciful witch alive,” Blaire complained as the driver led his dray horse back toward the main road. And Sorcha truly was the most romantically inclined witch ever born. She definitely needed her own love affair in time.
Blaire had spent the entire trip detailing how dangerous Padrig Trevelyan was. He could enchant them. He was faster than a blur. He could pierce their flesh with his teeth faster than they could blink. He was as strong as a Lycan, perhaps even stronger. Blaire wasn’t certain, since she’d never actually seen a battle between the two breeds, and yet all Sorcha worried about was whether or not the man was handsome.
“I doona think I’m fanciful at all. El and Cait both have Lycans, and now ye have a vampyre. Why should I no’ wish for a handsome husband who’s strong and has wonderful powers?”
Rhiannon tried to hold back a giggle, but it came out as a snort.
This was why they shouldn’t have brought the littlest witch along on this excursion. Blaire folded her arms across her chest and glared at Sorcha. “I think ye’re mad. We’ve come out here ta find a dangerous creature and finish him off, and ye’re husband-huntin’.”
Sorcha rolled her eyes. “I only asked if he was handsome. Ye doona have ta be so surly, Blaire.”
Surly. She’d like to surly Sorcha right back in a hack and send her home across town. “Can ye be quiet? I canna think with yer prattlin’.”
Rhiannon gestured toward the dark taproom door, and a gentle breeze rattled the hinged Thistle and Thorn sign outside the entrance to the inn. “Are ye goin’ ta walk in there ta see if ye spot him?”
Well, it certainly couldn’t be one of the other two. They’d never laid eyes on the vampyre before. “Aye.” She retrieved a dagger from her calf and handed it to Rhiannon. “I canna imagine he’d cause a scene with the room full of patrons in there. He’ll follow me back outside. Ye’ll have ta use yer wind ta keep him from advancin’ too quickly.”
“Willna ye need this?” Rhiannon bounced the dagger in her hand as though she were testing its weight.
Blaire shook her head. “I have another. But if he gets past me, remember—go for his main appendages. James said that would slow him down. If we can slow him enough, I can take off his head and be done with it.”
“And what if ye canna?” Sorcha’s mouth dropped open as though she was just now realizing what a dangerous situation they were about to put themselves in.
“Then ye’ll have ta bat those pretty brown eyes at him and hope he’s flattered by yer interest.”
Sorcha’s eyes narrowed at her. “Just be careful, will ye?”
Blaire nodded and then went straight to the taproom entrance. She could hear the laughter of men deep in their cups, and one even singing an old Gaelic love song somewhere deep inside the inn. She took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and then stepped inside. She was immediately assaulted by the smell of ale and too many bodies.
One would think the men of Edinburgh would notice a tall woman without a coat in the middle of February standing in their midst, but not one of them looked up from their tankards. Blaire scanned the room looking for her quarry, to no avail. She didn’t see Trevelyan’s dark head anywhere in the bunch.
However, she did spot Sorcha’s brother, Wallace Ferguson, at the far side of the room, slurring his words as he asked the barmaid for another drink. For half a second she considered turning Sorcha over into her oafish brother’s keeping, but dealing with Wallace Ferguson would only slow her down in the end.
She sighed at her own foolishness. Had she truly expected to locate Trevelyan so quickly? As Sorcha had said, there were numerous pubs throughout Edinburgh. Finding him at her first stop was highly unlikely. She wished they hadn’t excused that hack driver so quickly. They’d do better at the next stop.
Well, there was no need to stand here all night. Blaire turned back around to escape the din and odor of the Thistle and Thorn taproom. She walked back out into the bitter cold, and the sight that met her eyes was the most terrifying she’d ever seen.
Standing in the moonlight, Padrig Trevelyan held Rhiannon’s hands behind her back. He met Blaire’s gaze, and a wicked smile turned up the corners of his lips. “Ah, Miss Lindsay, we meet again. I understand you’ve been looking for me. Pity your friends didn’t heed your warnings.”
Twenty-Seven
Every bit of knowledge Blaire had about vampyres flooded her mind. Don’t look him in the eyes, she reminded herself. She kept her gaze focused on Padrig Trevelyan’s hairline and forced herself to ignore the tranquil sound of his voice. “Release her this instant!”
“As the lady commands.” Trevelyan smoothly stepped away from Rhiannon with his hands turned upward as though he was no threat at all.
But Rhiannon didn’t move an inch toward safety. No rainstorm thundered above their heads; no winds whipped violently to defend them against the vampyre. Blaire glanced at her weather-controlling coven sister, and her heart plummeted when she noticed the empty expression on Rhiannon’s face.
“Ye encha
nted her,” she accused.
“Well, we all use the powers we’re given, don’t we?”
Blaire’s eyes darted around the coaching yard. Where the devil was Sorcha?
“Looking for your other little friend? She didn’t even get the chance to…what was it you said, ‘bat her pretty brown eyes at me and hope I was flattered by her attention’?”
He’d heard everything she’d said. Blaire nearly groaned aloud. How long had he been there? Had he followed them to the Thistle and Thorn? “What have ye done with her?”
Trevelyan shrugged. “She is safe.” His silky voice washed over Blaire, but she still refused to look in his eyes, even as he stepped closer to her. “And she’ll remain safe, as long as you do what you’re told.”
Blaire shook her head and backed away from him toward the door of the Thistle and Thorn. “Sorcha!” she called out. The moonlight glinted off something on Trevelyan’s hand, and Blaire recognized James’ ring, or one very like it.
Trevelyan laughed. “She cannot hear you right now, Miss Lindsay. And I have no desire to hurt her, so rest easy.”
Rest easy. The vampyre had put Rhiannon in a trance and absconded with Sorcha, and he wanted her to rest easy? Ha! If she could get further in the darkness and lure him closer, she’d thrust her dagger into his neck. “I just want my friend.”
Trevelyan smiled as he advanced on her. “And I just want Kettering. So why don’t we make a trade?”
Again Blaire shook her head, moving further into the shadows of the inn. Where had that ring come from? It wasn’t James’. When she’d seen him last, the old heirloom had been on his hand; and if Trevelyan had encountered James to take his ring, he wouldn’t be playing this game with her now. No, it must be the one that had belonged to Sarah Reese. “Whatever is between ye and Kettering has nothin’ ta do with my friends or my family.”
“Ah, but it has everything to do with you, my dear, with what you represent. And I’ve been waiting for this chance for over two centuries.”
“And what chance might that be?” she asked. If she could engage him in casual conversation, she might be able to distract him and gain the upper hand.
“The chance to return the favor,” he sneered the word, “Kettering did me all those years ago.”
“I doona ken what ye mean.”
Trevelyan snorted. “Of course not. Do you think he would admit to anything that would tarnish his good name? His unimpeachable honor?”
Bloody hell! What had James done?
“No.” Trevelyan shook his head, answering his own question. “But he’s responsible for it all the same. And now I finally get the opportunity to thank him properly for making me suffer this miserable existence.”
Near the line of trees, Blaire noticed a patch of white and recognized Sorcha’s dress. The youngest witch, lay lifeless on the cold ground just a few feet away. Blaire couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped her. What had Trevelyan done to the little wood nymph?
He glanced over his shoulder, and a wistful smile settled on his lips. “A sweet girl.”
A fireball flared to life in Blaire’s hand, and a lump formed in her throat. “How dare ye hurt her?”
His glare darkened on Blaire. “I told you she was safe.”
“She doesna look safe,” she growled in response.
At that Trevelyan tipped his head back and laughed, for which Blaire was exceedingly grateful as it gave her the opportunity to retrieve the dagger from her sleeve without the vampyre realizing it. “For one who consorts with those of my kind, Miss Lindsay, you really are ill-prepared.”
“Because I doona care for creatures who harm the innocent? She could never have hurt ye. She doesna have it in her.” Blaire tucked her hand against her skirt, using the fabric to shield the dagger from his view.
Trevelyan shook his head as though she was the silliest lass in the world. “Your friend is merely sleeping. I didn’t touch one hair on her pretty little head. I’ve come here for you, Miss Lindsay, and no one else will do, not right now anyway.”
“Because of Kettering?”
“Because of Kettering,” he agreed. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for the good baron to fall, just as he has for you. Turnabout is fair play, and if I have to live the rest of this godforsaken life without my Anwen, then Kettering should suffer the same fate.” There was pain beneath his words. Blaire could almost hear his agony.
“Anwen?” What had James done to cause such turmoil?
“My wife,” he said softly and then gestured his head toward Sorcha’s lifeless form. “Your friend resembles her. Porcelain skin. Innocent, trusting eyes. Her whole joyful life in front of her.”
Padrig Trevelyan’s expression softened, as though he was lost in the past. Blaire extinguished the ball of fire in her palm. If the man could be reasoned with, it would make everything so much easier. No one had to be hurt or killed.
Wind whipped delicately at Blaire’s skirts. Apparently, delving into the past forced him to release his hold on her sister witches. Rhiannon’s gentle caress was a signal of that. Blaire wanted to rejoice. “She sounds lovely.”
Anguish settled on his face. “She was until Kettering killed her.”
Blaire couldn’t imagine James ever doing any such thing, vampyre or not. He’d had no reason to kill women even when he’d partaken of their blood.
A voice boomed from behind her. “You know as well as I, Trevelyan, that fate took her, not me.” Blaire didn’t need to look over her shoulder. She would know that voice anywhere.
James had arrived. She wasn’t sure if she should celebrate or cry.
Then James stepped into the clearing, with Benjamin following in his wake. Trevelyan’s eyes found the two men as well. “I know that’s the story you’ve told for nearly two centuries. I also know it for the lie it is.”
From the corner of her eye, Blaire could see the flame of Elspeth’s red hair at the edge of the nearby line of trees. Why wasn’t Elspeth watching over Brannock and Aiden? What if Trevelyan had gone after her brothers instead? Then a chill seeped into her bones. But he wouldn’t have, would he? Trevelyan hadn’t even hurt Rhiannon or Sorcha when he’d had the chance. He’d openly announced that he’d come for her and only her.
“Ye really do mean ta kill me?” Blaire refocused on the dangerous vampyre just outside her grasp.
Elspeth quietly dropped to her knees beside Sorcha, which brought Blaire a bit of comfort. If any harm had come to the littlest witch, Elspeth wouldn’t rest until Sorcha was back to her irritating, bubbly self.
Trevelyan didn’t seem to notice anything but Blaire, however, as his black eyes stared into her soul. “Think of it as saving you from a life of heartache, Miss Lindsay. Do you really want to grow old and die, while he stays virile and young? Or worse, do you want to become one of us to remain with him? That existence is far from pleasant. You can take my word on that.”
“Blaire,” James bellowed, “back away from him. Now!”
But she couldn’t back away. This fight was hers. He’d come after her with the intent of killing her. Backing away was out of the question.
“Blaire!” James called again.
“Stay where ye are, James,” she ordered. All she needed was for Trevelyan to attack James instead. He was human now, after all. He could die at her feet and leave her with nothing more than the pain Padrig Trevelyan had endured all these years. “We’re only talkin’.”
Trevelyan laughed. “Do you think you can charm me, Miss Lindsay, into changing my course? I can promise you I’m immune to ladies’ charms.”
The blasted vampyre wasn’t helping the situation at all. She glared at him. “I doona mean ta charm ye, Mr. Trevelyan. But ye sought me out, dinna ye? That makes this between us, and we are only talkin’.”
He smirked. “Well, then I hate to spoil your fun, Miss Lindsay, whatever amount of it you have left. What shall we talk about?”
She glanced at his hand and the ring upon his pinkie. “I thought
ye were goin’ ta tell me about Anwen.”
The vampyre’s smirk vanished and he sighed wearily, though Blaire knew he had no need to breathe at all. “She was full of energy. Cheerful. I couldn’t deny her anything.” Even after all the years spent without Anwen, Trevelyan’s love for her was evident in his voice. “We should have had the rest of our lives together. Children. Grandchildren. But in the end, we’d been married only a few months before she died.”
Why did he insist on blaming James? “How did she die?” From the corner of Blaire’s eye, she saw ivy grow at Sorcha’s feet and then start to spread toward where she stood with Trevelyan. She only hoped the vampyre didn’t notice it, too.
“The Great Plague,” Trevelyan replied, “not that we knew that at the time. We’d traveled to London to help care for Anwen’s uncle who’d fallen ill. By the time we arrived, the old man was dead as well as half of London. And in no time, Anwen and I were struggling to hold on to life ourselves.”
James could hardly be blamed for the Plague, though Blaire kept that thought to herself. Sorcha’s ivy had almost reached them, and there was no reason to antagonize the man until a trap was set.
“Blaire!” James once again called out to her, pain lacing his voice.
She wished she could soothe him, but she mostly wished he’d keep his blasted mouth closed so Trevelyan wouldn’t focus on him. “It’s his story, James. Pray allow him ta tell it.”
“And then he showed up.” The vampyre nearly spat the last in James’ direction. “Promising salvation from the pain.”
“I only asked if you wanted my help,” James bit out.
Trevelyan nodded, keeping his eyes leveled on Blaire. “And I did. But I wanted him to save us both. Living without Anwen has been a torture I wouldn’t wish on anyone but him.” He snorted. “And there he was, decade after decade. Wooing some pretty girl here or there, anything he had to do to get a drop of her blood. He never cared for any of them. Not until you. I’ve waited several lifetimes to get my revenge. I even followed that bloody Sarah Reese like a puppy so I could stay apprised of his actions. She always knew his whereabouts. She always knew where he was. Until the one day he disappeared, vanished, for twenty years.”