She shook her head. “Simply very obscure. It was privately published, with only one hundred copies printed, and the author never published another book. Going by your request list, I thought it would appeal to you.”
“That was very insightful of you.” His interest quickened as he riffled through the small volume, pausing at the woodcut illustrations. This might contain lore not covered in his collection, vast though it was, and he was suddenly impatient to begin reading. Pushing back his chair, he stood so abruptly that Miss Cargrave’s fork froze halfway to her lips. “I’ll leave you to finish your meal in peace,” he said.
She blinked, making him notice her long, dark eyelashes, and apprehension touched her wide gray eyes. “Does that mean I may stay?”
“For tonight. As you say, we cannot risk your vanishing like the other young woman.” Against his intention, he paused to draw her out. “What do they say in the village is the cause of her disappearance?”
Her wide mouth quirked in a smile. Completely unlike the rosebud shape currently in vogue, her mouth belied all her attempts in dress, coiffure, and manner to appear demure. “You have a legend in this part of the world,” she said, “one that is written about in volumes like Malgram’s. The legend of the vampire.”
His lips tightened grimly. Not again.
He made certain when he responded that his tone expressed no more than mild interest. “Is one of these undead creatures said to have absconded with the missing maiden?”
“That seemed to be the most prevalent theory. There was also a suggestion that she might have gone off with a suitor, or that wolves might be the culprit.”
“Hmm. Unusual before the first hard frost. I suppose it’s no wonder that the young woman’s family should seek for supernatural reasons, though the explanation is probably more benign.” Then he took himself in hand. Better to ask Dumitru for more information than to linger here with this troublingly attractive invader. “As for your staying on to catalogue my library—”
“Yes?” In her eagerness she leaned forward, and he caught sight of the pulse beating in one temple, the quickened rise and fall of her bosom beneath the black dress. Anxiety only heightened her vibrancy and fresh youthfulness, and a wariness born of long experience sounded a distant warning in his brain.
“We shall see about that tomorrow,” he said.
Undeterred by his curtness, she gave him a radiant smile. “Thank you for your kind welcome, Baron Dalca, and for not turning me out. I’m grateful to you for giving me a chance to prove myself.”
This was a touch of audacity on her part, for he had promised nothing of the sort. It only quickened his interest in her, but that was a dangerous feeling to indulge.
“We shall see,” he repeated. “My serving woman, Ana, will show you to your room when you ring for her. I shall bid you good night now.”
“Good night.” Her hand made a brief motion, quickly stilled, and he knew she had stopped herself from reaching to shake his hand after his earlier rebuff. He sketched a bow and left the room, forcing himself to keep to a dignified pace instead of making as hasty a retreat as he desired.
Soon he was safely out of sight and hearing, striding down the passage and exiting through a side door into the night. What she had said about the missing young woman was disturbing. He must find a way to determine how much more she knew without raising her suspicions…and without making her alarmed for her own safety. And if the rumor of a supernatural culprit truly had taken hold of the local population, he might need to take action.
He would let her stay only for the night, he decided. She had to go.
But in his mind’s eye he saw again every quiver of eyelash, every indrawn breath that brought home to him how vividly full of life she was, how strong in body yet how vulnerable, and he wondered if his resolve would be so firm when he was in her presence again.
Light shone around the edges of the stable door, and when he drew it open, Dumitru glanced up as he brushed down the coat of the younger mare. She rolled her eyes at Vasile and twitched her nostrils, but the servant spoke softly to her, and she did not bolt. Horses were never easy in Vasile’s presence, but he kept his distance, and they trusted Dumitru despite his giant size.
“Where is the young lady’s trunk?” Vasile asked, and his servant nodded toward the corner where he had left it. He had not opened it. The burly man was strong enough to break the lock, but he knew his master preferred subtler means and was adept at picking locks. Soon the battered old leather-bound trunk was yielding its contents to his sight. Vasile drew on a pair of gloves before he began to rifle it.
Never before had he been ashamed to search a visitor’s belongings, since it was simply a basic precaution, but he had to fight a rising disgust at himself as he sorted through soft chemises and drawers, nightdresses, and darned black stockings. He felt as low as a footpad, pawing through a woman’s most intimate possessions.
But he had to be certain she was telling the truth about herself, the entire truth, and that she posed no threat to him.
What mainly impressed itself upon him during his examination was the strenuous grip on respectability in the face of straitened circumstances. Garments were much mended, used until the fabric had worn thin, and some showed alterations as if they were hand-me-downs or had been purchased from a seller of castoff clothing. Her vanity set of hairbrush, mirror, and comb was tortoiseshell ornamented in silver, but he suspected they had been inherited, since the designs in the silver were almost rubbed away from use. A pair of shoes whose leather was soft as cloth from so much wear had been resoled.
Of fripperies there were few, books many. Not valuable books; perhaps those had all had to be sold. But there was no Bible among them. For that matter, there was no crucifix among the simple, cheap jewelry carefully wrapped in a fabric roll. She had not been wearing one—at least, none that was visible. Perhaps it was hidden by the high-necked dress she was wearing. Or perhaps she was an Anglican and resisted anything redolent of Catholicism.
That might be dangerous for her. Especially after what she had said about the village girl’s vanishing.
“Have you heard anything about a young woman going missing?” he asked Dumitru.
His servant kept his eyes on the mare, brushing her with a gentleness unexpected in such massive hands. “Nu, Lordul meu. I did not go as far as the village.”
“Then make inquiries as soon as you can. If something is attacking people, I want to know what the villagers are saying about it. Were there any letters for me?”
Dumitru gave a grunt of negation. Curious. A second letter should have arrived by now to explain why he was to uproot himself and move to England. Perhaps an envoy would be sent instead to maintain secrecy; letters, after all, could be waylaid and rifled by strangers…just as he was rifling his guest’s belongings now.
He made swift work of the rest of the trunk’s contents, then returned everything to its former place and closed and locked the trunk. There was nothing there to worry him, except for the evidence of near penury. She clearly needed this position. His conscience twinged at the prospect of turning her out, sending her back to England and to—what? Would the next step down be separation from her sister and taking a position as a paid drudge at some obscure school or in the household of some malicious old biddy?
“When you’ve finished here, take Miss Cargrave’s trunk to the dowager’s room,” he said. “Make certain it’s furnished with everything she’ll need. Check that the mattress has no mice in it. If it does, find a better one.”
“Da, Lordul meu.” Dumitru set aside the brush and drew a blanket over the mare. The older was already settled for the night in her own stall. “Will the lady be staying longer than just the night?”
Vasile stroked a hand over his beard, thinking of the pitiful mended clothing but also the astuteness with which she had selected the books for him. Remembering the lambent glow of life and youth that radiated from her, like the warm haze that filled the memories of golden
summer afternoons from his long-ago childhood.
“I don’t know,” he lied.
Chapter IV
He was the most disturbing man she had ever met.
Not that she had met many men. Sometimes other scholars and collectors would visit her father, elderly and faded, with papery voices, like him. Occasionally the earnest young curate would call, ostensibly to attempt once more to persuade her and her father to attend church but mostly to gaze at Rosamond.
The baron was different. He had a strange gift for stillness. With his pale skin and beautifully modeled head and hands she almost could have thought him a sculpture, except that in his stillness lay tension, as of a mighty force reined in that any moment might break free.
She shivered, for the great hall was full of drafts, and one wreathed around her ankles like an affectionate cat.
When the serving woman Ana came to conduct her to her room, Michael tried to divert her. “I should like to see the library before I retire. Bibliotecă?”
Perhaps the woman had been instructed otherwise, or perhaps the word from Michael’s phrase book meant a public or circulating library instead of a private room, for the woman shook her head impatiently and gestured for Michael to go along with her. Framed by a kerchief, her face was seamed and folded like a walnut, and she might have been anywhere from forty to sixty. She showed no signs of infirmity or old age, however, as she tramped up the stone stairs ahead of Michael.
She wondered if the woman was always this ill-tempered or if she was being greatly inconvenienced by having to ready a new room. As soon as they reached that room, Michael felt she had her answer.
Surely all the finest things the castle afforded had been amassed here for her comfort and pleasure. The chamber itself was large and beautifully appointed, with birds and flowers carved on the dark paneling of the walls and the exposed beams of the ceiling. Thick portieres, in softly faded greens and reds, cloaked the windows, and the warm light of candles and a fire bathed the room. The bed was carved of dark wood, with square posts supporting a tester, where more heavy draperies hung ready to draw closed to keep the sleeper cozy. Bearskin rugs cushioned her footsteps, and vapor curled up from a ewer of hot water on the washstand.
The thought of the older woman having to go up and down the stairs to bring her hot water horrified her. Perhaps tomorrow she could ask the baron if a better arrangement could be made.
That is, if he hired her.
She did not yet know him well enough to tell whether she had won the position or not. Perhaps in his culture it was rude to reject a petitioner outright and he intended to cushion the blow. Or perhaps she and the books she had brought had made a strong enough impression to win her a probationary period.
She ought to retire early, the better to be alert and efficient on the morrow. As soon as she wrote to Rosamond, as was her usual habit in the evenings. First, though, she went to one window and drew the draperies aside. Through the rippled glass the moonlight showed her a courtyard three stories beneath her, and at the opposite end a building that she supposed must be the stable, judging by the huge doors. Beyond that, thick forest stretched as far as she could see.
The moonlight was bright enough that it would aid her in her letter writing, and there was no chance of being spied upon at this height, so she left the drapes open. Her trunk had been deposited at the foot of the bed, and she opened it and extracted her writing case, which held stationery, pen, and ink. The baron could send his servant into the village to post it the next day, as she supposed he did with his own mail. How curious now to be in the same place he had been when he wrote the letter to her father that might change her life—had already changed it.
She had progressed no further than Dear Rosamond, I write to you from the castle of Baron Dalca when a faint sound from the direction of the casement made her look around. On the floor, in the patch of moonlight that shone through the uncurtained window, a man’s head and shoulders were silhouetted.
Startled, she dropped the pen, spattering ink across the paper as she whirled to stare at the window. No one was there, of course. How could anyone be clinging to the outer wall three stories above ground?
Nonetheless, her heart was beating more quickly as she ventured to the window. The only thing that moved was a flutter of wings, then all was still. An owl, perhaps, or a bat. But neither could have cast that shadow on the floor of her room.
You are simply nervous, she told herself. All that talk of abduction and vampires made you imagine you glimpsed something.
Nevertheless, she could not rid herself of a feeling of unease, and when she had finished her letter she shut the draperies before she began to undress.
In the morning all thoughts of her minor scare were far behind her. She realized at once that it was far later than she had intended to rise, and dressed quickly. But when she descended to the great hall, she found to her surprise that again only one place had been laid at the great table. Waiting for her there were coffee, bread, cheese, and a kind of yellow porridge called balmoş, made from maize flour boiled in sheep’s milk, which she had been served at the last inn.
In the light of day she could see more clearly the marks of neglect in the great hall, like the dust and the lusterless finish of the massive banqueting table. Evidently the baron did not care greatly about his surroundings, which puzzled her; his letter’s meticulous detail about the books he needed and the arrangements for traveling to his castle suggested someone who was alert to details and valued a job done correctly. Or did he simply choose to spend his money on priorities other than a full staff of servants to keep the castle spotless?
When no one appeared after a quarter of an hour, she decided to explore. She was eager to find the library, which might help her determine what kind of man the mysterious baron was. She did not entirely trust her own perceptions of him from that brief meeting the night before. Embarrassing though it was to admit it, even to herself, she was evidently so unaccustomed to speaking with handsome, commanding men that she felt flustered just remembering him. What kind of impression must she have made? She only hoped that he would give her another chance to convince him that she was not always so awkward and was right for the position.
But since he seemed to be a late riser—or perhaps it was his custom to break his fast alone—she rose from the table and began to investigate.
The first door she tried, next to the mighty hearth, was locked. A smaller one farther down also baffled her. Then, spying the ripple of a faded tapestry on the wall, she drew it aside to find a door that had been left slightly ajar.
Even though she knew it was probably just the entrance to Ana’s domain, from which she brought Michael’s meals, it was a start. With an enjoyable little prickle of anticipation Michael entered the small stone passage and followed it as it sloped gently downhill. The air grew warmer as she progressed, and homely smells of food reached her. She was not surprised to soon find herself in the castle kitchen.
Wrapped in a bright fringed shawl, Ana dozed in a rocking chair by the hearth, where a shining kettle on the hob puffed out steam. Feeling a twinge of sympathy, Michael decided to let her sleep. No one else was in sight, and it was little wonder that the serving woman was tired if she bore the entire burden of seeing to the household’s needs.
Spying another door, Michael lifted the latch and stepped outside into the castle courtyard. Closing the door softly behind her, she gazed up at the red rooftops and limestone towers, the sections of different styles that stood shoulder to shoulder, showing that the castle had been built and expanded over the course of centuries. Parts of it looked like a fortress, blunt and bulky, with arrow slits to fend off invaders. Yet some of the slender towers with their conical caps were closer to the fantasy castles of King Ludwig of Bavaria. It would be futile, she saw, to hope to find the library without a guide in this labyrinth.
The air was scented with balsam and heavy with mist, and beneath the overcast sky the light was wan and pearly. Exploring t
he castle grounds, she decided, would be a better plan, and she soon located the massive gates through which her carriage had come the night before. They were closed, but in the stone wall next to them a wooden door looked as if it was meant for pedestrian comings and goings.
But before she had gone two steps her arm was seized and she was brought to a halt. She found the stern face of Dumitru looking down at her. In daylight he was even more alarming, with his massive frame and neck and wrists corded with muscles.
“Madmoazelă Cargrave not to leave castle.” The guttural words seemed to emerge from a deep pit. With his bushy beard he looked quite ferocious, and in his small black eyes she could glimpse no good humor.
“De ce nu?” she ventured. “Why not?”
“Periculos. Dangerous. Wait for baron.”
And, protest as she might, she could not prevent him from almost dragging her back indoors.
“But when shall I see the baron?” she persisted. “I need to speak to him.”
The sound of the door slamming behind him was the only reply. As the echoes died away, she gave a short sigh of exasperation. She hoped the baron would appear soon.
It was not until just after sunset, however, that footsteps announced his arrival. She had been reading in the great hall until the waning light made that impossible, and now she saw with relief that Ana preceded the baron bearing a light.
“Miss Cargrave.” Once again the baron’s accent curled around the syllables of her name to make it sound exotic and mysterious. He was dressed as before, but however commonplace the clothing, the striking effect of his golden-brown eyes and dark hair and beard against his pale sculpted face, together with the fluid way he moved, guaranteed that he would never be ordinary.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he continued. “My schedule is largely a nocturnal one.”
“Too many late nights consulting your books?” She could understand that.
As Vital as Blood (Victorian Vampires Book 1) Page 3