The bloody trail of carnage his father and grandfather had left behind still haunted him. Yes, he was vampire. But that didn’t mean he must be a monster. His people were in his care. To brutalize and enslave them, subjects who depended upon him for protection and security, would transform him into what he hated most—a man like those he was sired from.
And while it would be safer if he’d abandoned Winter Hill and joined the Black Lily at the training camp of Cutters Cove, just as Marius had implored him to do, he could give them better intelligence regarding their enemy if he remained in place. Though more dangerous, he still believed his role as the seemingly loyal duke of Winter Hill was vital to the cause. For now.
He scanned the letter once more then stepped over to the fire and tossed it onto a burning log, watching as the sides curled in with flame.
“Do they know of the White Lily then?” asked Grant.
“No. They haven’t heard of him. But they urge us to seek his identity. His talents would be helpful for more than the north.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “Not only that, but my uncle has his damned huntsmen on the loose. We must find the White Lily before they do. Captain Mikhail has his men scouting the area should any of these huntsmen show up here.”
The steady stride of footsteps drawing closer made them both stop abruptly. Grant put some formal distance between them as no one in the castle knew, except perhaps the butler who’d been in the household for ages, that Grant was more than a servant.
Mikhail entered with a tight bow. “She is safely home, Your Grace. Is there anything else you might need for the evening?”
Grant and Mikhail exchanged wary glances. Friedrich realized he hadn’t apprised Grant of bringing Mikhail into his confidence.
“Mikhail, you know my valet, Grant.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Grant, Mikhail is more than captain of my guard. When you were gone, we learned of our mutual dislike for the current dealings of the crown.”
“I see,” said Grant, nodding to the man with more respect.
And that was all that needed to be said aloud.
“Mikhail, you said you are originally from the east, did you not?”
“Aye. From Korinth. As are many of the Bloodguard.”
Friedrich smiled. He’d done as much digging as he could on Brennalyn Snow. After Grant’s report of her local life, he’d investigated with his manager Henley, who’d hired her, finding only that she was from Korinth, had no family to speak of, and had impeccable references for the position of schoolteacher.
“I wonder if you might have contacts to discover Miss Snow’s history. My manager seems to have a blank page beyond her time here in Terrington. And little else other than a few basics.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Do you suspect something amiss?” The captain’s brow bunched together, as if he couldn’t believe anything ill of the lovely schoolteacher. Who would? But he needed more information than she was apparently willing to give.
Grant snorted. “If anything is amiss, it’s with His Grace’s interest in the dark-haired beauty.”
“Shut up, Grant.”
Mikhail’s face paled. If he didn’t know Grant was more than his valet before, he did now. No servant would speak with such insolence to the duke. And it wasn’t in Friedrich’s nature to be so curt with the servants.
“Ignore him,” said Friedrich with a wave of the hand. “But I do want to know where she came from. What of her father? Anything you can discover. She didn’t simply spring out of the ground,” he said, turning toward the window as light snowflakes began to fall.
Though, when her sweet face and form came to mind, he thought she could easily have been born of another world. Like a moon faerie of palest skin and reddest lips, seducing him with a flicker of her dark eyes, summoning him to his own death if she so beckoned. He scoffed, for if she crooked her finger and led him off a cliff, he was quite sure he would willingly follow.
Did he have the blood madness? No. Sanguine furorem urged vampires to maim and kill with the boiling of the disease through their veins. Like those huntsmen killed their fellow sailor, the lure of the blood more than they could withstand. Friedrich didn’t want to harm a hair on her head or put a scratch on her skin. Perhaps he wasn’t being entirely truthful with himself. He did want to mark her skin. With his fangs and his teeth, he wanted to make her fair skin pink and flushed with his attentions. But only in pleasure.
He should stay far, far away from Miss Brennalyn Snow. She was dangerous to his sanity and perhaps his well-being. He’d never been called to a woman’s body, to her blood, as he was to her. It would be better to return to more frivolous delights—a sweet peach of a maiden from town who didn’t set his skin on fire when she walked into a room.
But it was far too late for that.
The Terrington ball couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Seven
“Oh, Mimi,” cooed Helena. “You’re the fairest of all!”
She and Beatrice stood back admiringly as Brennalyn checked her appearance once more before the oval mirror in her bedroom.
Izzy sat on a footstool at her feet in her long-sleeved nightgown, twirling a lock of her golden hair. “You look like a pwinthess.”
“A princess, do I?” Brenna beamed, her heart squeezing at the love of her girls. “I imagine a princess might have finer jewelry.” She fingered the small, single pearl on a red silk ribbon around her neck. It was the only heirloom she had of her long-dead mother. “But this was my mother’s, and I rarely get to wear it.”
“I think it’s charming,” said Beatrice, her sweet, round face smiling. “Will you dance with Mr. Dawson?”
“Mr. Dawson?” she asked innocently.
“Yes. He likes you. I saw the way he looked at you when he stopped by the schoolhouse today.”
“Mr. Dawson is giving me a ride to the ball, that is all. He was just being a gentleman, knowing I don’t have a carriage.”
“Pfft.” Beatrice grinned at Helena.
“What I want to know”—Helena added with a grin—“is if you will dance with the duke.”
“The duke?” exclaimed Beatrice, gray eyes widening. “Will the duke be there? Oh, why am I too young for balls?” she whined.
“Stop. Both of you. The duke won’t be there.” She smoothed down the skirts of her sapphire gown. Though not an expensive fabric, the color complemented her fair complexion, and the fit accented her slender waist and curving hips. She frowned at her hips, which were perhaps a little too curvy. And her bosom. She should stop eating all of the apple spice cake that Beatrice baked so well. Sweets were her weakness. “He rarely appears at local events like this.”
Even while the words spilled from her mouth, she wondered if he might. He’d never attended a public ball before. Still, she’d taken great care with coiling her hair into soft curls, pinning the sides only, and letting the rest fall down her back. She’d thought of him as she coiffed her hair, remembering how he continued to try and pull it loose every time they were alone.
Her chest seized at his promise. Next time. She wondered when that time might come. He didn’t tell her when he’d see her again. She also questioned her sanity for the hundredth time since she’d been toying with the idea of becoming the vampire duke’s lover.
She’d been unable to do anything at all the rest of the evening, bumbling around the house and in the basement, accomplishing nothing of consequence. She glanced down at her nails, catching sight of a smudge of ink under her thumbnail.
“Oh, Beatrice, can you fetch the soap water?”
A knock came at the front door. All of them gasped. Except Izzy of course.
“Let me get it!” Izzy dashed out of the room to the front door.
“Izzy.” Beatrice shot up and chased after her. “You’re in your nightgown, for Pete’s sake!”
“Oh, well. No time. My gloves, Helena.”
Helena grabbed her long, white gloves, her only formal pair. “They’re so
beautiful, Mimi. Were these your mother’s, too?”
Brenna stared down at the shimmery white satin as she pulled one on, her stomach dropping at the painful memory. “No,” she replied with a tight smile. “These are mine.” She banished woeful thoughts. For one night, she simply wanted to enjoy herself. “Now then. All ready.”
Helena wore a forlorn look of longing.
“What is it, darling?” Brenna lifted her chin, finding her pretty green eyes watering. “Oh, dearest. Is this about Reggie?”
She nodded shakily. “I just worry with the work that he’s doing. All the time, I worry.” She swiped a tear before it made its way halfway down her cheek. “It’s so dangerous. And then I see how lovely you are, going to a ball, and I wonder will Reggie and I ever do such things together?”
“Oh, Helena.” She pulled her slim form into her arms. “I was afraid this would happen. You’ve apparently already gone and fallen in love.”
She could hardly blame her. Reggie was barely twenty, only two years Helena’s senior. He’d asked to formally court her on her last birthday. Brenna was hesitant simply because his position in the resistance would make him a target, and therefore could endanger Helena. She couldn’t bear to think of harm coming to Helena or any of her children. In the end, she couldn’t deny Helena.
“I have, Mimi,” she sniffled. “I didn’t know that love was supposed to hurt this much.”
Brenna would’ve laughed if this were a fickle girl’s fascination, but Helena had an old soul and felt things deeply. And Brenna knew better than anyone the icy sting of heartbreak.
“Dry your eyes.” She brought her to arm’s length and squeezed her shoulders. “When this war is over, you and Reggie will go to so many balls and dances and festival gatherings that you’ll be sick to death of them.”
Helena laughed on a sniffle. “I hope so.”
They shared a silent look. There was no guarantee that the humans would win this coming war. If they didn’t, then chances were they’d be living in darker servitude than they did now. The Duke of Winter Hill was a good master for the people of Terrington and the other villages in his dukedom. Even so, Reggie informed them with news from around the Varis Empire that corpses were piling up, and those closest to the Glass Tower suffered the most. There had been sightings of the dread Queen Morgrid visiting her son, King Dominik at his palace, Izeling Tower. The vampire king of the north was known for his savage cruelty, which he’d kept close to his own home, not venturing too far into the duke’s territory. But what if he changed his mind and set his sights on the people of Terrington and Ferriday and the rest of their region?
“You must go,” said Helena, forcing a smile. “Sorry I was being so silly.”
“Don’t ever apologize for your emotions.” Brenna squeezed her shoulder. “They are as important to your being as your mind and spirit.”
They marched together down the hall to the front of the house. The boys were talking over one another. George Dawson stood just inside the entry, smiling at them as they tried to impress him all at once. Except for Denny. He was a year older than Izzy and the newest member to the family, but he had never spoken. He wasn’t sullen, just quiet. No one knew if he was mute by birth or whether he chose not to speak. He was found on a turnip cart, hiding beneath a pile of sacks. When the farmer who’d made deliveries to several villages along the northern road said he didn’t know where he came from, he’d deposited the child with the schoolteacher. Her generosity to children was known in these parts. And though he had never spoken, she was certain his parents had come to some tragic end or that he’d been abandoned. Either way, he was hers now.
“But don’t you think mine is more brilliant?” asked Caden with a grin, shoving his wooden sword in Mr. Dawson’s face.
Emmett snorted. “You don’t even have a proper hilt. Take a look at mine.”
Jack grinned up at both his brothers. These three were in fact legitimate blood brothers, all two years apart with Caden the oldest at fourteen. They lost their mother to a fever two years gone on their farm outside Ferriday, and their father disappeared last harvest, like many strong, healthy men going missing these days.
Brenna had taken them all in, unwilling to send them to the city poorhouse in Izeling, like the ones she’d seen in Korinth. The boys would likely be separated and starved or worked to death in one of those dismal charity houses, which were little more than slave pens. Brenna could never let that happen. And one by one, within the short year she’d been living in Terrington, she’d become the sole provider to these seven rambunctious and darling children.
“Caden. Emmett. That is enough,” she said firmly.
The boys instantly fell back and had the good sense to look a little abashed for overwhelming poor Mr. Dawson, who smiled politely with his hat in hand. Then his eyes alighted on Brenna.
“Good evening, Mr. Dawson.”
“Miss Snow.” He gulped visibly and could say nothing more. Brenna took that as a good sign.
“Oh, my cloak, Helena.”
Helena hopped over with the black wool cloak in hand and helped her clasp it at the neck.
“Shall we?” asked Brenna, seeing as Mr. Dawson was still speechless, gaping down at her.
“Yes. Of course, yes.” He held out his arm for her.
“Now Helena is in charge. Caden, you boys listen. I won’t be late.”
She placed a kiss on Izzy and Denny’s heads. They expected good-night kisses every night. They’d be deep in slumber by the time she returned.
“Lock up tight, Helena.” She gave her a warning look, which Helena aptly interpreted.
“We’ll be fine.”
Brenna had privately trained both her and Caden on how to properly use the gold-embedded daggers should they have any trouble when she wasn’t at home. The element of gold, poisonous to a vampire’s blood, could stall a vampire long enough for a human to escape.
Caden had wondered where she’d found such treasures, but she refused to give him more information than he needed to know. Only that should anyone invade their home, they were to use these daggers. She’d given them lessons on where to best make a man immobile at once—particularly the balls or the eyes—just as Reggie had taught her. Caden had looked on her with new respect after that.
“Don’t worry,” assured Caden with a wink.
“Have a good night,” said Beatrice.
Brenna sighed relief when she heard the bolt slide home. A light snow floated down. She pulled the cowl up and let Mr. Dawson escort her down the path to the wrought-iron gate.
He gazed down at her as he walked her to his phaeton. “You look very…”
He couldn’t seem to find the words. Brenna felt a pang of sympathy for him and gave his arm a squeeze as he helped her up. “Thank you, Mr. Dawson.”
His phaeton had a nice overhanging cover, though a closed carriage would’ve been warmer. But she had neither, so she was grateful for his offering to drive her to the town ball. Unfortunately, Mr. Dawson’s admiration was more than she had realized.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked. “I can give you my coat.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Dawson.” She smiled kindly. “I’m plenty warm.”
He nodded nervously then clicked to his horses with a flick of the reins. They lurched forward and rounded back toward town.
Brenna wasn’t a green girl. She knew when a man was attracted to her. She’d only ever been with Mr. Dawson in larger circles and for short amounts of time. But the longing looks he kept casting at her were of a man quite besotted. Perhaps she should’ve declined his offer to escort her.
She hadn’t courted a man in ages. Not since Elliott. Not that she had plans to court anyone, least of all the duke. A schoolteacher didn’t court a duke. His sultry promises stirred her to one realization. She didn’t have to commit to a man to enjoy the pleasures he could offer. Consequently, there was no fear in letting the duke make good on his promises. She was in no danger of letting her feelings run away with he
r. Any kind of relationship with the duke would be purely physical. She’d been so focused on teaching and caring for the children that she’d rarely given a thought to her own womanly needs. But her arousal in the duke’s presence told her she certainly still had them.
Unlike sweet George Dawson, who kept glancing at her as he kept his horses in a nice trot heading into Terrington. George was a good, hard-working man who could keep a woman happy in a stable marriage. He had that twinkle in his eyes of a man who longed for hearth and home and bouncing babes on his knee. This was particularly why she shouldn’t lead the poor man on. She would never marry. Never again.
Warm lights twinkled up ahead as they made their way into Terrington. The town hall at the very end was ablaze with braziers in the circle drive. The strains of lively music and a murmuring crowd drifted into the courtyard.
“It seems the ball is off to a roaring start,” said Brenna, unable to keep from glancing around for the silver-wheeled, shining lacquered carriage. She didn’t see it.
Mr. Dawson hopped off and helped her down. One of the village boys, the butcher’s son named Simon, took the reins, gawking at Brenna.
“Good evening, Simon. It’s good to see you hard at work.”
“Thank ye, Miss Snow. Ye look pretty, miss. If’n I can say so about me schoolteacher.”
She laughed. “You can. And thank you.”
Mr. Dawson tossed him a copper coin. Simon caught it in the air.
“Smart boy,” said Mr. Dawson, smiling down at her before he ushered her into the foyer. “Let me take your cloak.”
“Thank you.” He carried his coat and her cloak to the coat room.
Brenna edged forward. The hall was a whirl of brilliant color and sound. Dancers spun with their partners in a merry cotillion. Ladies’ skirts painted the room in a pastel kaleidoscope. Musicians made of two farmers and Old Mr. Sellers from the post office played a jovial tune from a dais on the side. Onlookers laughed and talked while enjoying a cup of punch or a mug of ale. It was a blissful scene. Surely, Brenna could forget about the duke for one evening here.
The White Lily (Vampire Blood series) Page 6