“He has no reason to,” she snapped, surging to her feet. Her frock brushed the desk and one of the menus she had been working on floated to the floor. Mallory sprang off the lounge and dove to retrieve it as she bent to the task also. Their faces were very close, both their hands vying for the parchment on the carpet. Neither would give quarter. He smelled sour, of strong liquor laced with sweet wine. The result was sickening. Was the man in his altitudes? If he wasn’t, he was well on the way.
“Allow me,” said the steward.
“I have it, Mr. Mallory. Please! You have outstayed your welcome. I do not know how much plainer I can possibly make it.”
“ ‘Methinks the lady doeth protest too much,’ ” Mallory quoted.
The delivery was an unmistakable attempt at seduction, and Sara snatched the parchment in contention from his grip, tearing it in the process, and surged to her full height in such haste that vertigo threatened her balance. Though Mrs. Bromley’s herbal compresses had reduced the swelling on her brow, the bruise remained, as did the effects of the concussion. The last thing she needed was to swoon into this man’s arms, and she steeled herself against it.
“You, sir, are quite foxed,” she said. “You reek of liquor. While that hardly excuses your conduct, I shall make allowances—so long as you leave my suite at once!”
“You are a very desirable woman, Sara,” Mallory crooned, straightening up. He tugged his waistcoat back into shape and squared his posture, looking for all the world like a strutting rooster, Sara thought. “He won’t do you justice,” he went on. “He’s a cold fish, is Nicholas. But then, I imagine you’ve gathered that by now. I, on the other hand, would be worth your while.” Sara floated to the door and flung it wide. Mallory raised his hands, strolling toward it. “All right, I’m going, my dear,” he said. “Just remember, when you’re ready for a real man, you know where to find him.”
Sara slammed the door behind him and leaned against it. Should she tell Nicholas, as he’d told her to? Why, when he’d left her open to such a confrontation? Was this some sort of test? If it was, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He hardly deserved blind obedience. Tears stung her eyes. She refused to let them fall. What did she expect? What could she expect after marrying a man she’d never even seen, by proxy, then accompanying a total stranger to the hind side of nowhere to fulfill her marital obligation? How much respect would that generate—even though Nicholas was the one who’d engineered it? He’d made the proposition; all she’d done was accept it and he knew why. It was obvious what Alexander Mallory thought of the whole business. He had no way of knowing that there had been no consummation. He thought her a tart, a ladybird, no better than a whore. He never would have behaved in such a manner otherwise—drunk or sober. The man at least had the veneer of a gentleman, albeit thin and brittle, no doubt veined with the cracks of previous conquests. Well, she would not become one of them.
She examined the torn menu in her hand. The rest of it lay crumpled on the carpet where he’d left it after his seduction failed. She snatched it up and smoothed the halves out on top of the desk. She would have to copy it over, but not tonight; Nell had already reclaimed her dinner tray.
She was just about to ring for the abigail to come and prepare her for bed, when the girl appeared and helped her into her nightdress. Sara was exhausted, and she dismissed Nell, who was only too happy to slip away in search of her hall boy. It was just as well. Sara was in no humor for aimless gibble-gabble.
She produced the portion of mutton she’d saved from her dinner tray, wrapped loosely in her serviette, and set it on the rug at the foot of her bed, where she’d left it the last time in hopes of a visit from Nero, who hadn’t appeared since the night of her fall. Had Nicholas gotten rid of the animal in spite of her pleadings? She couldn’t bear to consider the possibility. Padding to the foyer door, she left it ajar just as she had done from the first, in case her fears were unfounded and Nero did pay a visit. Then, snuffing out the candles on the branch beside her bed, she climbed in between the sheets trying to make some sense of the situation, but her thoughts would not order themselves. They always returned to the same questions: Why had Nicholas married her if all he wanted was a hostess? What was the real reason he didn’t want an heir? He was capable of heart-stopping passion. It was in him when he’d carried her out of that priest hole, when he’d held her in his arms and soothed her with such tenderness she ached for it to go on forever; how could he treat her with such total indifference after that—leave her prey to such a one as Alexander Mallory? Nicholas was drawing her in, despite her valiant resolve to put from her the feelings she could no longer deny. She’d tried to transfer some of those feelings to Nero. Now he was gone, too, and she began to doze, imagining herself wrapped in Nicholas’s strong arms again, imagining the feral, salt-sea aroma drifting from his skin—or was that Nero’s scent? They were similar, and why wouldn’t they be, all tangled into her dream state? She loved them both, didn’t she?
The arms she’d conjured held her tighter, but the scent drifting toward her nostrils was not clean, like Nicholas, like rain-washed air drifting over the sea; it was sour—fetid with brandy and vomit. Her eyes snapped open. This was no dream, it was Mallory clutching her—groping through her peach silk gown.
“I knew it was all an act, for that abigail of yours next door, no doubt. I knew it,” he whispered close in her ear, his words slurred and halting. “She isn’t in there now, is she? Nooo, and you left the door ajar for me, just as I knew you would—didn’t you, ‘my lady’? You won’t be sorry. . . .”
Sara screamed, but the hand clamped over her mouth cut it short, while his other hand fumbled with her gown. The scream in her throat reduced now to a desperate squeal, she kicked at him, meanwhile clawing at the hand holding in her cries. When that failed, she bit down hard, and he let her go with a yowl in concert with another blood-chilling sound, a guttural snarl that froze Sara where she crouched.
It happened in a blink. Nero’s silver-tipped black body sailed through the air, and his sharp teeth sank into Mallory’s forearm, driving the steward off the bed to the floor with a thud that echoed. Blood spattered the counterpane. Nero was going to kill him! Why didn’t Nell come? Was she still trysting with her hall boy?
Sara tried to scream, but fear closed her throat over the sound—fear that Nicholas would surely banish Nero now. She couldn’t let it happen. She couldn’t scream and bring the servants or Nicholas himself and risk it. This was twice now that Nero had saved her.
She peered over the side of the bed. Mallory was holding his own, fending Nero off with the fallen candle branch wedged between the animal’s bared teeth and his throat, but he was weakening. Sheer terror found her voice.
“Nero, no!” she cried. “Let him go. My God, let him go!”
As if released from a trance, the animal hesitated, looking her in the eyes as though he understood—just long enough for Mallory to scrabble to his feet and stagger toward the door, clutching his bleeding forearm, the blood spotting the carpet as he went.
“I’m going to kill that mangy cur!” he gritted. “You mark my words, he won’t live out the night!”
Nero faced him, feet apart, hackles raised, his dilated eyes glowing red in the firelight. Baring lethal fangs, he made a short lunge toward the steward, then another, digging his nails into the carpet with each advance, blood-flecked foam dripping from his jowls. A warning snarl leaked from his curled-back lips, and then a hoarse, rattling bark, with his head held high, before he lowered it and lunged again, another snarl driving the steward through the open foyer door.
“You mark my words,” Mallory shrilled. “That animal is dead!”
Sara knelt paralyzed in the middle of the mahogany four-poster, her hands clasped over her mouth, watching Nero turn and lift his leg, marking his territory again and again in a semicircular arch around the bed. When he’d finished, he shook himself, raised his shaggy head, and howled his plaintive howl. It ran her through like a
javelin.
She opened her arms, and he leaped up on the bed and came into them, nuzzling her hair with his cold wet nose, licking the tears from her face, wagging his bushy tail as she stroked him. There was a strong metallic odor of blood about him. They were both covered with it, Mallory’s blood. It had spattered her nightdress, and Nero’s fur was streaked with it.
“I shall have to hide you here,” she said. “If he doesn’t kill you, Nicholas will surely banish you now. Are you hungry, boy? See there, I’ve saved you a treat.” She pointed out the serviette on the carpet, and Nero jumped down and padded toward it, nudging the linen cloth open with his nose, while she climbed out of the bed and began righting the candlestand. Nero had just begun to devour the mutton, when Mallory reeled back across the threshold, a pistol in his white-knuckled grip.
“Stand back!” he thundered, taking aim.
“Noooo!” Sara screamed, hurling the candle branch in her hand at him. It missed, and Nero sprang, sailing through the air. A thunderous shot rang out, flames spurted from the pistol barrel, and the air filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder. The animal yelped, and fell hard to the floor with the impact, blood running down his leg. It was only a hitch in his stride, before he scrambled to his feet again, whining in pain. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Sara, who was clutching the bedpost behind. The gleam of metal in the firelight caught her eye, and she gasped. The steward had another pistol! She saw it before Nero did.
“Run, Nero, run!” she shrilled, and the animal streaked through the door with Mallory staggering after him, grinding out a string of expletives. All at once another shot rang out. Another howl echoed along the corridor, then died away.
“No, Nero, nooooo!” she sobbed. Then there was silence.
Ten
Sara was certain she would find Nero lying dead on the hall carpet. She ran to the door and looked out into the corridor, but it was vacant; there was no sign of Mallory or the animal. Sobbing, she stepped back inside and locked the door behind her. Her heart ached for Nero. She wanted to help him, to protect him. He had drawn the steward’s fire deliberately to lure him out of her suite; she was certain of it, and she flung herself across the bed and sobbed her heart dry.
It was a short indulgence. All at once frantic pounding at the door bled into her sobs. Voices were calling her name, and she climbed down from the four-poster, shrugged on her wrapper, and went to answer. When she opened the door, Nell and Mrs. Bromley burst through it, screaming at the top of their voices. Others were grouped on the threshold, and still more came, flooding the hall—in the forefront, Smythe, the butler. Several of the footmen bore lit candle branches, and there were others she had never met. Nicholas was not among them.
Glancing down, Sara realized what had so overset Nell and the housekeeper. The gown beneath her gaping wrapper was streaked with blood, as were her face and hands. The uproar was deafening. It echoed inside her head, making her dizzy, and she held on to it in a vain attempt to forestall the vertigo.
All at once, another servant, whom she’d seen about but not met, parted the sea of gaping servants and approached her. He had a kindly face, though his eyes, like molten silver, studied her long and hard from beneath beetled brows.
“Are you harmed, my lady?” he asked. His voice sounded as though it was coming from an echo chamber. “Are you in need of the doctor?”
“N-no, not harmed,” she stammered. “You are . . . ?”
“Mills, my lady,” he said, “his lordship’s valet. You’re certain you’ve no need of the doctor?” His eyes lingered on her bloodstained gown.
“I . . . I’m certain,” Sara replied. “The blood . . . isn’t mine. It was Mr. Mallory . . . he . . . he . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“I know, my lady,” said the valet. “Do you know where Mr. Mallory is now?”
“N-no,” she sobbed. “Nero? Is he . . . dead? Mr. Mallory was in his altitudes. He was trying to kill Nero!”
“That deuced animal again!” the butler barked. “I might have guessed. All right, everyone back to your stations. Resume your duties. Her ladyship is unharmed.”
A chorus of mumbles was the reply as the crowd thinned in obedience to Smythe’s command and the servants went about their business—all but Nell, Mrs. Bromley, and Mills, who hung back.
“Where is his lordship?” Sara asked the valet.
“His lordship has been called away on urgent business, my lady,” he replied. “That is why I have come . . . in his stead. Once Nell and Mrs. Bromley have put you to rights, I must insist that you lock your door and remain in your suite tonight. Mr. Mallory is still abroad in this house. Strong drink tends to make him . . . unpredictable, and his lordship would never forgive me if you were to come to harm on my watch.”
“But Nero!”
“Nero can take care of himself, my lady,” said the valet.
“But Mr. Mallory shot him, Mills. In the shoulder, I think . . . or the leg. Oh, I’m not sure! It all happened so fast. He was bleeding so. We have to find him—care for him!”
“Do not distress yourself, my lady,” the valet soothed. “I shall see to Nero. I shall attend to it at once.” He turned to the housekeeper. “Perhaps a cordial, Mrs. Bromley,” he said, “something from your herbal stores, to help my lady rest. Once you’ve done, make sure you see to that door.”
“But what if Nero returns?” Sara cried. “If the door is locked, he won’t be able to get in. He’s injured, Mills.”
“The animal will not be returning tonight, my lady,” the valet said. “He will be found and cared for, but I shall see that Smythe posts a hall boy right outside your door . . . just in case, to ease your mind.”
He shuffled off, and Nell and Mrs. Bromley took Sara in hand, closing the door behind him.
Nicholas lay swathed in a bloody sheet, bare to the waist on the lounge in his dressing room, while the doctor worked with quick, skilled hands to remove the bullet from his shoulder. His pain-crazed eyes were trained on the door, and when Mills hurried through, he gave a lurch that caused the doctor’s hand to slip.
“Have a care, my lord!” Breeden cried. “You’ve lost too much blood as it is.”
Nicholas paid him no mind. “Is she harmed, Mills?” he said through clenched teeth, as the doctor resumed his probing. “Tell me she wasn’t harmed! Tell me Alex didn’t . . .”
“You know she wasn’t harmed, my lord,” said Mills, out of breath. “Nero prevented him. Have you forgotten?”
“No, I haven’t ‘forgotten,’ ” Nicholas snapped. “How could I forget, Mills, considering? Where is the bounder now?”
“Mr. Mallory is still at large, my lord,” Mills replied.
“He hasn’t left the estate?”
“I would think not, my lord,” said the valet. “He was drunk as a wheelbarrow, firing off pistols in the house, of all things.” He hesitated. “I might point out that he was aiming at Nero, my lord . . . not at Baron Walraven.”
“Well, Nero would have chomped off his cods if her ladyship hadn’t begged for the man’s life. Now the chore is left to me, isn’t it, Mills? Alex is going to rue the hour—the very minute—he tossed back the spirits that foxed him tonight.”
“It’s no use if you don’t lie still, my lord,” the doctor complained, putting pressure on the bleeding wound with a folded linen towel. He glanced at the valet over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose there’s any chloroform about? I’ve laudanum for after, but it must be saved for that. Meanwhile, I have to put him under. The pistol ball is wedged against the bone, and I must pass close to the artery to remove it. If he should move again like he did just now . . .”
“We’ve no chloroform, Dr. Breeden, but Mrs. Bromley’s herbal cures are legendary. The local surgeons hereabouts swear by them, and she’s treated our ills with her ointments, cordials, and concoctions successfully for years. Why, just last month, a tea she brewed of dried passionflower blossoms put the head hall boy under so the groom could extract his abce
ssed tooth. We seldom need to summon a surgeon to Ravencliff.”
“Fetch it then,” said the doctor. “This is serious here.”
“You cannot involve the servants!” Nicholas groaned. “No one must know—no one!”
“No one will, my lord,” said Mills, halfway through the door. “I shall say the tincture is for Nero. It stands to reason that a dog would need to be dosed before it could be doctored—”
“Not a dog, Mills, a wolf masquerading as a dog.” Nicholas flashed. “You know the dose for a dog would not nearly be potent enough to subdue Nero.”
“Please leave it to me, my lord. Have I ever let you down?” the valet said. “You know not. Now, see if you can lie still and mind the doctor, while I attend to what needs must.”
Nicholas relaxed as much as was possible under the doctor’s probing knife, grinding his teeth closed against the pain. He dared not cry out; someone might hear. In these circumstances, he had no idea when the transformation might occur again, and no one had ever seen it but Mills. Such a situation as what was upon him now had never been put to the test. What if the change were to happen during the operation? He hadn’t broached the subject with Dr. Breeden yet. How would the man react? What would he think? He dared not imagine it.
This was not how it was supposed to be. The plan had been to take the doctor out on the cliff, out of earshot of the curious, and consult him over the situation. That could not be now. There were too many dangers to do it in the house, too great a risk of being overheard. Hadn’t Sara nearly knocked in the head two footmen listening at the door when she’d exited the dining hall yesterday?
No one, least of all Sara, was going to believe the explanation he and Mills had decided upon to excuse his absence from the house until he was recovered enough to be seen again. The staff knew he never left Ravencliff. Alexander Mallory knew he never left it, as well. That was the reason for the steward’s employment. What possible emergency could it have been to drag the master away with a houseguest just come, when he couldn’t even leave to wed his bride? It was a flimsy excuse at best, but what other choice was there? He couldn’t risk being seen as he was.
Dawn Thompson Page 10