As Vital as Blood (Victorian Vampires Book 1)

by Amanda DeWees

  A faint smile touched his well-formed mouth. “That is a symptom more than a cause. I’m afraid that I have a skin condition that precludes exposure to sunlight, so I have been forced to reverse the usual hours of waking and sleep.”

  Perhaps that explained not only the remarkable whiteness of his skin but also the startling intensity of his stare. If he went about only at night, his vision might have lost acuity, although now under his piercing gaze she could not imagine anything escaping its scrutiny.

  “Would you prefer that I do the same?” she asked boldly, making him smile again, this time more broadly.

  “You are trying to make me commit myself to hiring you,” he said. “I applaud your initiative, Miss Cargrave, but I must ask that you let me make my own decision.”

  Before she could come up with a reply that would not reveal the depth of her nervousness on that score, he gestured for her to walk with him. After they had followed one corridor around a few turns, he lifted the latch on a high arched door. Ana slipped inside, but before Michael could follow, her escort had shut it again.

  “Is that the library?” she asked. “I should like very much to see it.”

  “And so you shall. Let us give Ana a moment to prepare it for us.”

  Ana had taken the candle, so the only illumination was the moonlight that shone through the small windows on one side of the corridor. In the dimness the baron’s face and hands were almost luminous, and the deep shadows that etched his cheekbones also cloaked his eyes so that she could not tell if he was watching her. But he probably was. He was a watchful sort of person.

  Alone now with him in the silent corridor, Michael found herself at a loss for something to say. Her mind darted about in a search for something that would impress him, that would convince him he must hire her, but all she could think about was how extraordinary it was for her, practically a spinster, to be standing in the dark with a dashing foreign baron. Which was the very last thing she should be thinking. You are here in a professional capacity, she scolded herself.

  But thoughts of professionalism fled altogether when Ana opened the door, revealing the room beyond. It was pure adoration that flooded Michael and evoked her caressing “Oh!” as she stepped across the threshold.

  The library was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. Accustomed to her father’s capacious but serviceable study, she was completely unprepared for what seemed a kind of cathedral of books.

  Two stories high, with movable stairs leading to the walkway around the upper level, the room was lit by branched spirit lamps and candles in frosted-glass wall sconces. The massive fireplace had a fire going as well, and its flickering light bathed the designs of scarlet and cobalt and gold leaf that brightened the walls between the bookshelves. There were no exterior windows, she realized, perhaps to protect the books, which was why so much artificial lighting was necessary. The ceiling was painted with a hunting scene in brilliant colors.

  At floor level, there was a long table where one could spread out many books at once, and in various places lecterns stood to permit close study of a single volume. A writing desk featured an array of writing paper, pens, and colored inks. Best of all were the velvet-upholstered armchairs that beckoned one to curl up with a novel.

  This, then, was the heart of the castle. Not the dusty, drafty old banquet hall with its sparse, faded tapestries. This was the place where the baron lavished his care, his money, and his love.

  “It’s glorious,” she said inadequately, but he must have heard the emotion in her voice. He gestured for her to venture forth into the wondrous place.

  “Please look around to your heart’s content.”

  She did. She darted among the shelves, scanning titles and authors, drawing books from their places—being careful to grasp them not at the top, which could damage the binding, but by the sides, as her father had taught her. She thought she saw an infinitesimal nod of approval from her host. She noted authors, dates, editions, bindings. She began to learn how the books were organized, the system the baron used. She found sections on philosophy, folklore, history, and comparative religions; there were small but carefully selected collections of poetry, criticism, and fiction. There was a rack of newspapers and magazines, mostly English, but some in German and others that she supposed must be Romanian.

  “Well?” The sonorous word startled her out of her absorption, and she turned to find the baron standing on the threshold still, his hands clasped behind him, watching her intently. “What do you think now? Do you still want the position?”

  She almost blurted that she wanted it more dearly than anything, but she managed to grasp at some remnants of propriety. “I think it well within my capabilities,” she said instead. “Indeed, you have everything organized so beautifully that it would take little skill to catalogue it.”

  “There are certain conditions, Miss Cargrave.”

  “Oh?”

  “One is that you do not wander about the castle or the grounds alone.”

  She blinked. She could rather understand about the grounds, for there might be wolves or bears, but indoors?

  He noted her confusion and explained. “Parts of the castle are falling to ruin. I should hate for you to find yourself trapped or injured with only me and my servants to search for you. There are only Ana and Dumitru besides myself, and they cannot be everywhere at once. And it is all too easy to become lost in these woods, especially for one not accustomed to them.”

  She thought about what would happen if she were to lose her way in the castle’s labyrinth of corridors, and how long she might have to wait to be found. In any case, now that she had seen the magnificent library, she could hardly imagine wanting to spend her time in any other place. “That is agreeable to me as long as Ana or Dumitru doesn’t mind taking constitutionals with me from time to time. What are the other conditions?”

  A tiny change in his posture, a minute relaxation in the carriage of his broad shoulders suggested that he was relieved by her response, but nothing in his voice or words indicated as much. “The second is that you do not discuss me or my affairs with anyone outside my household.”

  That was a startling demand, and her face must have revealed her feelings again, for he relented enough to explain. “There is a great deal of superstition here, and a certain hostility remains between the different peoples who have claimed ownership of this region. There still remains bad blood, as it were, and I find that my existence is most peaceful when my neighbors are allowed to more or less forget my presence.”

  “But may I not even mention you to my sister? I have already written to Rosamond of my arrival here. She will be frantic with worry if I don’t continue to write to her every day, and she will naturally want to know about my new employer.” She hoped he could not read from her face that her remarks about him, chosen to delight her younger sister, had been less than discreet. You would adore him, dear. Such a striking and aristocratic bearing, and fully mysterious enough to be the hero of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s tales…

  “I think confiding in your sister is acceptable,” he murmured, and she couldn’t be certain whether he was amused. She hoped he was—hoped he would not be disagreeable about what she had to tell him now.

  “While I don’t have any conditions,” she said, “in the spirit of honesty I must disclose something in case it should be objectionable to you.” How calm she sounded—far calmer than she felt, with her heart thudding in apprehension. “You may be aware that my father was a freethinker and an atheist.” When the baron showed no reaction, she continued, “I feel obliged to tell you that he raised me to be skeptical as well. If my atheism is objectionable to you, please say so at once, and I shall make arrangements to return to England.” Where it would be every bit as difficult to find an occupation unless she played the hypocrite and pretended to be a devout Anglican.

  To her pleased surprise, however, the baron did not recoil from her or expostulate. He said only, “You have not heard my final condition. Will
you do me the honor of taking dinner with me at eight o’clock?”

  “Of course,” she said in relief. The position was hers! She would have agreed to practically anything in her euphoria. Then she remembered. “I’m afraid I didn’t come prepared to dress,” she said.

  “That’s quite all right. Congratulations, Miss Cargrave. I am delighted to find someone to fill the position who is so thoroughly in love.”

  She opened her mouth to reply but could not think of what to say. Before she could embarrass herself, the amber in his eyes warmed to honey as he smiled.

  “In love with my library,” he said softly. “Until eight o’clock, then.”

  Before she knew it, the hour had almost arrived. So absorbed had she been that the time had flown, and at a quarter to the hour she ran up to her room to tidy herself before dinner. Although she had no dinner gown, she could remove her white collar and cuffs, wash her face and hands, and tidy her hair, perhaps even add a piece of jewelry. That was the extent of what she could do to make her appearance more formal, and she could only hope the baron would not be offended.

  When she opened the door to her room, though, she realized that he had made arrangements of his own. Spread on the counterpane of the bed was a magnificent gown of the style of more than a century before.

  This must have belonged to one of the baron’s forebears, she realized, for the intricate ivory-and-gold brocade and delicate hand-worked lace bespoke wealth and grandeur. She touched the fabric, and it was still supple, not crumbling away from age. It would suit her beautifully. More daring now, she picked it up and held it against herself. The room had no mirror in which to check, but she believed the dress would fit her. How much more feminine it was than what she was wearing now.

  Then reality flooded in like a cold, bracing wave. This was entirely inappropriate. She had believed the baron to be trustworthy and honest, to have awarded her the position on her merits, not because of her sex. But presenting her with this dress suggested quite different motives.

  Well, she must set the man straight immediately.

  Chapter V

  When Miss Cargrave marched into the banquet hall at eight o’clock in her day dress, without having so much as changed her ink-smudged cuffs, she looked as if she was anticipating a fight—a fight that she had no desire to avoid. Vasile was so startled that he almost forgot to rise at her entrance.

  “I am sorry if my appearance disappoints you,” she said, but she did not look sorry. Her beautifully sharp jaw was set at a challenging angle, and her eyes were snapping. She looked, he was forced to admit, utterly beautiful. Anger suited Miss Cargrave, revealing the woman behind the ladylike facade.

  “Not at all,” he automatically. “Did the dress not meet with your approval?”

  Before he could draw out her chair for her, she yanked it out and plumped down on it. “Baron Dalca, I came here to be useful, not ornamental. If I am to lodge in your household while I catalogue your library, I must insist that you not treat me as some kind of Galatea to be dressed up to suit your idea of what a woman should be.”

  “Galatea?” he repeated, baffled.

  “In the old myth, that is the name of the ideal woman Pygmalion sculpted. I am not here to be sculpted, sir.”

  He was more intrigued than affronted. “The story is familiar to me, Miss Cargrave. I was merely surprised to learn that I resembled an officious Pygmalion. If I have done anything to give you the impression that I wish to change you in any way, I apologize. I thought that dressing for dinner might make you feel more at home, since it is—or so I understood—a widespread custom in your society, and you said you had no suitable clothing with you.”

  The light of righteous indignation in her eyes died, and she dropped her gaze to the table. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  As she bowed her head in embarrassment, a lock of her glossy dark hair slipped out of place to lie against her cheek. He suddenly wanted very much to lean across the table and brush it back behind her ear—the ear that was flushing pink in embarrassment as she realized her error.

  “You were afraid,” he said gently, trying to put her at ease, “that I might take advantage of your vulnerable position, here alone in a widower’s household without a chaperone or protector.”

  “I’m very sorry to have been rude. It’s just that I know nothing about you, and…”

  “Please don’t apologize. It was shortsighted of me not to consider how the loan of something as personal as a gown might appear from your perspective.”

  “I suppose it must seem to you that I have a very suspicious mind.” She raised her head to meet his eyes, and the shining strand of loose hair freed itself entirely from its pins.

  It was just the touch of dishevelment that was needed to remind him how young she was, and how fragile. He took hold of himself. She was not here to be admired, as she had pointed out. His priority should be making her feel that she could trust him.

  “As a woman traveling alone, you naturally need to make your safety a priority,” he said, taking his seat across the table from her. “Do I gather that you have encountered a number of men all too eager to intrude themselves into your affairs?”

  She nodded. “My affairs, my favors, even my room…my experience on this journey has been a bit of a shock, to be honest.”

  A sharp, fierce anger flared in him at the thought of this splendid young woman being subjected to the insults of lechers. He should have recalled there had always been men who were too enthusiastic about feminine beauty to remember that they held no right of ownership over it. It had been years since he had picked up a sword, but he could happily envision skewering anyone base enough to treat Miss Cargrave in such a way.

  Unaware of his vengeful thoughts, she continued. “You will understand, then, why I would prefer that you think of me not as a woman but as a…a sort of sexless functionary.”

  “That may prove difficult,” he said.

  “Why?”

  Had she really been sheltered to such an extent that she did not recognize how charming she was? “I can catalogue your attractions if you like,” he said. “But that might embarrass you—and it would inevitably mean a more intimate conversation than you may be comfortable with, especially considering our unconventional business arrangement.”

  Perhaps she truly was unaware of her appeal, for she darted one swift, startled look at him, her eyes wide and vulnerable, before the mask of propriety came down again.

  “You’re probably right,” she said quietly. “I’m grateful for your discretion.” Then she gave a rueful chuckle. “If I were my sister Rosamond, your compliment would be only natural. No one can help admiring her.”

  “Tell me about your sister,” he said, since speaking of her seemed to make her more relaxed.

  She unpinned a brooch from the bodice of her black dress, and when she opened the lid he realized it was a locket. She extended it toward him, then set it on the table when he did not reach to take it from her. “That’s her photograph,” she said. “Isn’t she beautiful? She was lucky enough to take after our mother, though I did not.”

  A young woman smiled out of the picture in the locket. She had light hair demurely arranged, and her gaze was equally mild. Her chin and mouth were daintier than her sister’s, and thus less piquant. Compared to the vibrant woman sitting across the table from him, Rosamond was simply not very interesting.

  But he couldn’t say that to her proud older sister. “Lovely,” he said politely, and placed the brooch back on the table. Miss Cargrave, who seemed to have realized that he was avoiding physical contact, waited until he had withdrawn his hand before extending her own to retrieve the brooch and pin it back on her bosom.

  Her fingers were slender and tapering, the nails short but with their edges smoothed. The smudges of ink did not surprise him, given her scholarly bent, and she had a slight callous on her index finger from many hours of holding a pen.

  Abruptly he pictured another woman’s hands: blunt but cap
able, swift and deft in sewing, gentle when they smoothed his hair back from his brow, strong and sure when they kneaded tension out of his shoulders. Ioana’s hands. With that image the memories flooded in, as vivid as if they had happened the day before: The peaceful low tones of her voice at mealtimes coaxing him away from his books to the table. The warmth of her hand in his as they walked through the field at sundown, with the soft susurration of the grain stirring under the wind all around them.

  Even now his body held the memory of hers, the way it had felt when they embraced, and the recollection struck him with a pain no less sharp for being so familiar. No matter how many years passed, he still missed her.

  Still felt the guilt of destroying her life.

  “If you could only meet her, you would agree that Rosamond is an angel,” Miss Cargrave said now, bringing his thoughts back from where they had wandered, and he wondered if she realized there was the faintest wistfulness beneath her admiring tone. “And far more sweet-tempered and womanly than I am. Naturally I feel protective of her, but she awakens the same impulse in everyone who knows her. Also, she is a devout churchgoer, so she does not risk ostracism on that count.”

  That did not tell him whether Rosamond was a believer or simply canny about her social standing. “And what is she occupying herself with while you are hazarding your future on a foreigner’s library?”

  “She is making her society debut. A distant relation is sponsoring her. Almost all the money we could scrape together went toward funding her Season in London. But it is a worthwhile investment, for she stands a far better chance than I of making a good marriage—or any marriage.”

  “Come, Miss Cargrave,” he said chidingly, as she took a sip of her Tokay wine and Ana served her plate. There was, of course, no plate for him, but he would pretend to take some wine to keep his guest company. “It is not flattery in me to say that I find it impossible to believe that no man has made an offer for your hand, especially when your father’s death left you in a predicament that would bestir the gallantry of any gentleman worthy of the name.”