Dawn Thompson

by The Ravencliff Bride

  Throwing his head back, he loosed the closest thing to the howl of a dog she’d ever heard, and let her go. It reminded her of Nero’s plaintive howl. The sound spread gooseflesh the length of her body, and left her trembling in the chill that had come between them in the absence of his warm arms around her.

  “Nooo,” he moaned at the end of it. “No, Sara . . . no!”

  Sara scarcely drew breath, watching him struggle toward composure. His chest was heaving, and he raked the ebony hair back from his sweaty brow with a trembling hand as he fought to control his breathing.

  “Why, Nicholas?” she murmured. Covering her breast, still wet from his lips, she took a step closer.

  “No, I said,” he repeated, backing away as she advanced. “Stay back. Come . . . no closer.”

  “But, why, Nicholas,” she pleaded. “You want me. I know you want me. I felt how you want me just now. How can you stand there and deny it?”

  “I want you, yes,” he gritted out, filling his empty snifter. He downed the brandy in one rough gulp. “You are a very desirable woman, Sara, and I’m hardly made of stone, but I cannot have you—not now . . . maybe not ever. It isn’t fair to either of us to live with false hope. It’s best that we stick to the original agreement.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The breath left his lungs on a long, empty sigh. “I know you don’t,” he said, “and I’m sorry for that. This here just now . . . never should have happened. It shan’t again, I assure you.”

  “But I want it to,” she murmured through a tremor. “If you do not want children—”

  “Sara, it’s not that simple,” he interrupted. His misted eyes were dark pools of red fire catching glints from the hearth, and his moist skin glistened with sweat. “This whole arrangement was a mistake,” he said. “I see that now. If you find that you cannot abide by it, I shall take steps to release you. It would be best if we do that now, before things become . . . more involved . . . Before we go too far.”

  “It’s already too late for that,” said Sara. “If you would only explain yourself. All this time, I thought it was something in me that repulsed you—”

  His mad, humorless laugh interrupted her.

  “I did . . . until tonight, Nicholas. You’ll never convince me of that now. What in God’s name can it be?”

  “God has nothing to do with it, Sara,” he snarled. He began to prowl the edge of the Aubusson carpet before the hearth in the same manner that he had done several times before in her presence, only now, he was shaken, and it showed. Was it the injury that had drained him so, or what had just occurred between them? She didn’t speak, watching him travel the textured rug for what seemed an eternity before he stopped in his tracks and faced her. “All right,” he said, “since you will not make it easy for me to end it, I shall have to take the initiative. I owe you an explanation, it’s true, but that cannot be just yet. Before I could even think of carrying you through that door to my bed, we would need to talk, and I would have to be assured that you would keep what I tell you in the strictest confidence, that what I confide be held no less than sacrosanct—inviolable.”

  “Done,” she said.

  “No, it isn’t that easy, Sara. I have to be certain of it. At the moment, I am not, or I would have put it to you long ago.”

  “What can I do to convince you?”

  “Nothing! That’s the hellish part, and such a conversation between us cannot even be considered until all this business with Alex is settled. You must be patient. If you cannot be, I shall have Watts bring the brougham ’round, and have you away at once to one of my other properties until permanent arrangements can be made for you elsewhere.”

  Sara gave it thought. Something dark and dreadful lurked between the lines, but she could not read it. Perhaps it was better that she could not. All she knew then was that, no matter the consequences, she could not let him send her away. She could not bear never to see him again, never feel those strong arms, those hungry lips—the anxious pressure of his manhood leaning heavily against her. Even with the broad span of rug between them, the ghost of his arousal haunted her, sending white-hot ripples of achy heat through her most private regions. A fresh surge of hot blood rushed to her temples at the realization of the power this man had over her even from a distance. They no longer needed to touch; he was in her soul.

  “Very well, Nicholas,” she said, her voice steady, for all that she was a shambles then. “I shall be patient, but not for long. That would be cruel.”

  “I will never harm you, Sara,” he said. “That is the reason we are having this little talk. I am not a cruel man. I want this situation dealt with just as much as you do. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, Nicholas.”

  “Good,” he said, bending to retrieve his dressing gown, which lay forgotten until that moment in a heap on the floor. The minute he picked it up, she took a step closer, of a mind to help him into it, but he held up his hand, and flung the robe down again. “Ohhh no!” he said. “Enough! I shall see you to your rooms just as I am. Come.”

  Exiting the suite, he took up a pistol from the gateleg table beside the door, and cocked it. Sara hadn’t noticed it lying there until that moment, and a shattering chill raced the length of her spine. She gasped in spite of herself.

  “Just in case,” he said, ushering her into the corridor without touching her. “Stay close to me. There are no hall boys stationed on this floor, which reminds me, how did you get past Peters? It was he stationed outside your suite at this hour, was it not? Was he nodding again? It wouldn’t be the first time—lazy gudgeon.”

  “I saw no one outside my suite, Nicholas,” she said. She would not betray Peters. To do so would bring retribution down upon Nell also. Nicholas would keep his secrets, so would she keep hers. Hoping that Peters was still closeted with the abigail when they reached the tapestry suite, she stayed close to her husband’s side, wishing she hadn’t promised to keep her distance. The corridor was very dark, and her heart had begun to pound again, but not with arousal this time.

  They had nearly reached the landing, when something moved toward them from the dimly lit south wing, stopping them both in their tracks. For a moment, Sara’s heart hung suspended in her breast, until the familiar four-footed padding on the carpet that she had so longed to hear these past few days echoed toward them.

  “Nero!” she cried, as the animal materialized out of the shadows. At sight of them, it stopped in its tracks, slowly exposing its fangs.

  To her surprise, Nicholas shoved her behind him, and raised the pistol. “Stay back!” he commanded, squeezing the trigger.

  “Noooooo! Are you mad?” she cried, spoiling his aim. With both her hands clamped around his wrist, she deflected the bullet toward the ceiling as it discharged. The reverberation was deafening. The acrid odor of gunpowder rose in her nostrils, and a spurt of flames burst from the pistol barrel, all but scorching her skin, as plaster and fragments of a shattered candle sconce rained down over them. Loosing a guttural snarl, the animal bolted and skittered back the way it had come, disappearing in the darkened south wing hallway.

  “You little fool!” Nicholas thundered at Sara, sprinting after it. “Get back to your rooms at once, and bolt the door! That isn’t Nero!”

  Thirteen

  The pistol shot brought Mills on the run in his nightshirt, his own pistol drawn, which he handed to Nicholas in exchange for the empty gun. Dr. Breeden, wearing his dressing gown and slippers, and carrying a candle branch, joined them minutes later, and all three set out on a search of the south wing chambers.

  “Well, we needn’t speculate any longer over the effects of Nero’s bite, Dr. Breeden,” said Nicholas. “I just saw with my own eyes what might well have been Nero himself, and we both know the impossibility of that. There are no other wolves at Ravencliff.”

  “You were aiming to kill, my lord?”

  “No, certainly not. When it bared its fangs, I meant only to wound it, to bring it d
own and end this madness, and I would have done if the baroness hadn’t spoiled my aim.”

  Smythe and the footmen came running, tugging on their livery coats, their wigs askew, and their hose and breeches twisted. Mills shuffled back and met them at the landing, as more servants came pouring through the green baize door below.

  “All is well, all is well,” he called down to Smythe and the others. Nicholas and the doctor ducked inside the nearest chamber—it wouldn’t do to be caught out pistol-shot, when one wasn’t supposed to be in residence. “I was cleaning his lordship’s pistol, and it discharged accidentally,” the valet explained. “I was just now coming to reassure you.”

  A rumble of out-of-rhythm murmurings replied to that, as the servants began filing back to their quarters. After a moment, Nicholas stepped out into the corridor again.

  “See what you can do with this mess, Mills,” he said, gesturing toward the bits of broken plaster littering the carpet, “and replace the sconce. Those lazy buffleheads will never notice the ceiling, bent over with their ears pressed up against the doors in this house spying on their betters. Just take away the obvious.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Once that’s done, I want you to find Peters, and remand him to Smythe. I want the boy sacked, Mills. This is outside of enough. I told you what would be if he mistepped again in this house, regardless. See to it. He left his post tonight, and her ladyship was with me when . . . this occurred. Smythe knows the consequences of disobedience. See that someone else is posted outside the tapestry suite at once. Make certain whoever replaces Peters understands that the same fate shall befall him if her ladyship is left unguarded again. Ever! Then join me in my rooms.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the valet, set in motion.

  One by one, Nicholas and the doctor threw open the doors in the south wing, and searched each suite, but there was no sign of the animal. He seemed to have vanished into thin air.

  “Where could he have gone?” said Breeden, as they exited the last chamber.

  “This house is veined with escape routes,” said Nicholas. “Smugglers occupied it for centuries before the Walravens came to Cornwall. He could have ducked into any one of them, or melted into the shadows and passed us by when we entered one of these suites. He could be anywhere in the house by now. He has been obsessed with its intricacies since a child.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Alex keeps rooms here, which he occupies when he isn’t off on business for me. They’ve been checked a dozen times, but not by me. I want to walk through those rooms now. I’ll know if he’s been in them.”

  “Let us go and do it then, my lord.”

  “Oh, no, I cannot impose further upon you tonight, Dr. Breeden,” Nicholas said. “There has been nothing but chaos in this house since you arrived.”

  “I shan’t sleep in any case now,” said the doctor. “Besides, you’ve overreached yourself by the look of you, and will doubtless have need of me before the night is out. You’re a reckless young fellow, aren’t you, my lord? You’re hardly fit enough for heroics just yet. Let me go with you, and then we shall talk. I need to know what occurred here just now.”

  “Then I shall fetch my dressing gown,” said Nicholas. “The wound must be concealed. Baron Walraven has just returned, whether he’s ‘fit enough’ or not.”

  Sara threw herself across her bed, muffling her sobs in the counterpane. What did Nicholas mean, it wasn’t Nero? Of course it was Nero, and he’d almost shot him. He’d meant to kill Nero, and would have done if she hadn’t spoiled his aim. Minutes before, he was holding her in his arms, those incredible arms, driving her to the brink of ecstasy. Why did he stop? What secret was he keeping, and why didn’t he trust her with it?

  There was still no sign of Peters, and no one had come to replace him. Sara climbed down from the bed and opened the door a crack. There was no question that Nero needed refuge, what with Nicholas prowling about armed, and she prayed he’d come to her. There was no sign of Nell, either, and she undressed on her own, slipped on her ecru nightdress, and climbed into bed. She was exhausted, and her head hardly touched the pillow, when she dropped off to sleep to the wail of the moaning wind.

  At first she didn’t recognize the sound that woke her. Not until the familiar padding of the animal’s feet bled into her strange, disquieting dreams. They dissolved in the presence of that beloved sound, and she vaulted erect in her bed. He was marking his territory again, raising his leg and sprinkling the carpet in the same semicircular arch around the bed that he’d marked before. Having done, he shook himself, his whole body rippling, from the thick, shaggy ruff of silver-tipped black fur about his neck, to the tip of his bushy tail.

  “Nero!” she cried, reaching toward him, but he passed her by, and stretched out on the rug before the mellow fire in the hearth, licking ooze and crusted blood off his left foreleg.

  “I could have sworn your wound was higher . . . in your shoulder,” Sara mused. She shrugged. “It all happened so fast, I must have been mistaken.” She slid her feet to the floor. “Poor thing . . . That looks infected. Will you let me have a look?” she murmured, starting toward him.

  The animal stopped licking his wound. He didn’t growl, but his lips curled back, exposing vicious-looking fangs. He had never bared his teeth to her before, and it stopped her in her tracks.

  “I know, boy,” she soothed. “My dogs never wanted to be disturbed when they were injured, either. One nearly bit me once when I tried to give aid, but you wouldn’t do that, would you, Nero? Not to worry, I shan’t interfere, and I shan’t tell Nicholas that you are found, either. We dare not risk it, not after what he nearly did tonight.”

  The animal didn’t move. He was poised to spring, though she couldn’t imagine it. Nevertheless, the hairs on the back of her neck had risen, flagging danger. His nails were curled under, seeking traction from the thick, sculptured rug, the sinews in his forelegs standing out in bold relief. For the first time since she’d met her canine friend, she feared him—enough to inch toward the bed. The minute she sat on the edge of it again, the animal’s attention returned to his wounded leg. There was no sound save the rhythmic lapping of his long, pink tongue.

  Sara said no more. She climbed back into bed, taking care not to make any sudden motions. He was in pain, and obviously out of sorts. He was following her every move with his dark, firelit eyes. Pulling the counterpane up to her chin, she closed her own, but she didn’t fall back to sleep again until the animal got up and padded out of her chamber shortly before dawn.

  Nicholas and Dr. Breeden made their way back to the master suite after searching Alexander Mallory’s apartments. The steward’s bed hadn’t been slept in, and there was no sign that he had been there in recent days. In the absence of Mills to keep watch against eavesdroppers, they repaired to Nicholas’s dressing room, where the doctor examined his wound, and dressed it with fresh bandage linen.

  “Bind it tightly,” Nicholas gritted out. Though it was mending, the wound was still sore, and he’d taxed it. “The bandages mustn’t show through my clothes.”

  “You shouldn’t be up and about yet, my lord,” said the doctor. “This here is hardly healed enough for what you’ve put it through tonight. If you won’t pace yourself, I shall have to dose you.”

  “No, no laudanum,” said Nicholas. “I need my wits about me now. There is no doubt that it was Alex I nearly shot tonight. I saw the dried blood on his leg where I . . . where Nero bit him. This doesn’t bode well for me, does it, Dr. Breeden?”

  “It eliminates the possibility that your condition is all in your mind, my lord,” said the doctor, “but then, we knew that already, didn’t we.”

  Nicholas nodded. “What troubles me, is that we haven’t seen Alex himself since the incident. Is it possible that he cannot transform back into human form?”

  “Anything is possible, my lord. It’s hard to say what you’ve passed on to him, or what he was susceptible to. In these cases, one
thing seems to be the rule. Unlike the were-wolf, the nonviolent shapeshifter tends to take on the personality of its human host. That is to say, what you are in human form, so will you be in your animal incarnation—with the strengths, weaknesses, and extraordinary abilities of that incarnation, of course. What sort of man is Alexander Mallory?”

  “Alex is a bit of an elbow bender, Dr. Breeden. He’s amiable enough when he isn’t drinking, but when he’s foxed, there’s no telling what he’ll do. He doesn’t imbibe on a regular basis. At least, he never has in the past while attending to my business, or I would have sacked him long ago, childhood friend or no. Liquor brings out the worst in him. He’s a bit of a womanizer as well. I don’t know what set him off this time, but both vices were working against him that night.”

  “Jealousy,” said the doctor.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your wife is a very beautiful young woman. Unless I miss my guess, he is smitten, wishing he were the bridegroom in earnest. No doubt he feels that since there is no longstanding relationship between you and the baroness, considering that you are virtual strangers, he has just as much of a chance to win her affections.”

  “She did imply that there was something amiss, but she assured me she had it in hand.”

  “Evidently not, my lord,” said the doctor through a humorless chuckle.

  “You say that the animal takes on the character of its human host. Nero was in a blind rage when he attacked Alex. Mightn’t that color what Alex has become? Mightn’t it make him more . . . violent?”

  “No,” said the doctor. “Any animal that bites is angry, my lord. The man bitten would not become violent from the bite, unless, of course, he were violent to begin with. Whatever inherent traits are at his core are what he will carry into animal form. It’s like heredity. If the man is gentle and kind, so will his wolf be. If he is brutal and vicious, his wolf will be also. The personality of the man will be the personality of the wolf, unless we are discussing werewolves. In that case, the wolf becomes what his attacker is, a bloodthirsty predator. We have already established that you are no lycanthrope, my lord.”