Dawn Thompson

by The Ravencliff Bride

  “I wish I knew more about Father,” said Nicholas.

  “Researching these . . . phenomenon is speculative at best,” said the doctor. “Most scholars agree that one has to be bitten by a werewolf to become one. There are exceptions to every rule, of course, but you are not one of them, my lord. Neither is Mr. Mallory. Whatever your father passed on to you at conception was a weakened form of what he was—an altered strain, if you will. You will always be what you are. You will never be what he was, whatever he was; nor will you pass what he was on to anyone else. The condition is not progressive. There are no lycanthropes here. I knew that the moment your letter arrived in the post. Your case is quite unique among my studies. Though all manner of similar tales abound in India, I have never personally come upon anything quite like it before. That is why I was so eager to take you up on your kind invitation to come out here. If nothing else, you may rest assured that neither you, nor Mr. Mallory are now, or ever will be, werewolves.”

  “Then, Alex will always be . . . as I am?”

  “He will be what he has become, yes, my lord. What will you do if he does surface? Will you sack him?”

  “What—and have him do to another what Nero has done to him? How could I?”

  “What, then?”

  “Perhaps . . . whatever you can do for me might help him as well, assuming you can do anything for me.” His tone was pleading, but the doctor didn’t respond to it.

  “You’re certain Nero has never bitten anyone else, my lord? Think carefully.”

  “No—never.”

  The doctor sighed. “You need to confide in the baroness,” he said, “and you need to do it at once.”

  “I cannot do that,” Nicholas snapped. “I will lose her! She might even disclose my situation.”

  “You do not know that.”

  “I cannot risk it.”

  “She thought that wolf tonight was Nero. What if he were to bite her, my lord? You’ve said she leaves her door ajar. She needs to know.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “She will be watched—I will watch her. I will scarcely leave her side until Alex is dealt with.”

  “Forgive me, but is that altogether wise, my lord?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happened between you two before that wolf appeared tonight?”

  Was he so transparent, or was this man clairvoyant as well?

  “Come, come, my lord, I cannot help you unless you let me,” said the doctor.

  “I very nearly lost my head,” said Nicholas. “I let my heart rule, and I nearly transformed right there in front of her. I cannot stop it, but I always know when it’s going to happen—when I need to shed my clothes and let it happen, just as I know when I’m about to change back. But for that, I would have been caught out long since.”

  “And, you also know what triggers the attacks?”

  “Yes. Tonight, I was aroused.”

  “How did you prevent the transformation?”

  “I . . . I broke contact, came to my senses and put her from me before the transformation began. I . . . I couldn’t let her see what happens.”

  “That was control, my lord. You can do it; you need help perfecting how.”

  “My God, help me then—whatever the cost—whatever you can do.”

  “There are several things, my lord, and we shall try them all. To begin with, Mills tells me he prepares an herbal cordial of skullcap, linden, and hops for you each evening.”

  “Mrs. Bromley prepares it. Mills sees that I take it. It’s supposed to relax me, and keep me calm.”

  “That may continue, but I shall make it from now on,” said the doctor. “Do you have a kitchen garden?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Bromley prides herself upon it.”

  “I shall need henbane and angelica to begin with,” said the doctor. “You needn’t trouble her. I will know them on sight, as well as any others I require. We shall dispense with the hops in the cordial. While it has long since been hailed as a cure for uncontrolled sexual desires, it obviously isn’t working for you. It has excellent properties for inducing sleep, however, which would be beneficial. I would suggest an external application. An herbal pillow, perhaps, filled with hops mixed with lavender tucked inside your bed pillow—very effective. I will have Mrs. Bromley prepare one. Meanwhile, we shall try angelica as a replacement to adjust your libido instead—a good deal of it—and see how we fare; but not in the cordial; separately, taken in wine. Don’t look so stricken, my lord. All this is temporary. Have you roses—the briar rose in particular?”

  “Y-yes, quite a number of varieties,” said Nicholas, still dwelling on the angelica. “I cannot name them all, but we have an excellent groundskeeper, Henry Gibbs. I shall introduce you. He’s tended the estate since Father was alive. He takes particular pride in the roses. There’s a walled garden off the courtyard, somewhat sheltered from the gales, though the wind spreads the perfume through the whole house when they’re in bloom.”

  “Good,” said the doctor. “The ancient Celts used the root of the briar rose to doctor infected wolf bites on themselves, and on their animals, and it was once touted as a cure for rabies, widely used in the Orient . . . and in India. Its properties will be beneficial—just how beneficial, remains to be seen. The baroness must have this also. I would suggest a tea made of rose hips—a minimum of eight ‘fruits,’ as they are called, a day, steeped well and sweetened with honey. I shall instruct Mrs. Bromley. The taste is quite pleasant—”

  “If I can get her to take it without telling her why,” Nicholas interrupted.

  “I shall see that she takes it,” said the doctor. “I shall prescribe it as a tonic to set her to rights after her ordeal in the priest hole. Your dose will be more potent, combined in the cordial. There will be other herbs as time goes on, but we shall not try too many at once. We shall see how each one affects you until we reach a satisfactory combination. I tell you all this, because I want you to be aware of my methods. I want you to know what I am using, and why.”

  “Do you really think any of this will help?”

  “Not if you don’t believe,” said the doctor. “We have established that your condition is not all in your mind, my lord, but your mind is not exempt from it. You’ve just proved that in the way you forestalled the transformation. Next, we must teach that mind how to think, but not tonight, or should I say ‘this morning’? Dawn is soon upon us, and we have much to do, but first you need to rest, and I need a walk in the garden, if you will direct me. Herbs are best collected when the dew is still upon them.”

  Nicholas nodded, and got to his feet, leading the doctor out. “We must find Alex, Dr. Breeden,” he said, as they left the chamber. “Before more harm is done.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “There is a gun room below stairs. I will have Mills fetch you a pistol. If you are going to roam about on your own here now, I’m afraid you shall have to do so armed. From what I’ve read, I understand that silver bullets are required. Unfortunately, we haven’t any. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with lead.”

  “We shan’t need silver bullets to defend against the wolves in this house, my lord; those are only necessary in the case of werewolves. Unfortunately—for you, that is—an ordinary pistol ball is all that is required to kill a shapeshifter.”

  Fourteen

  Sara woke at the crack of dawn to the soft mewling sobs coming from her dressing room, where Nell was laying out her toilette. Shrugging on her wrapper, she followed the sound to find the abigail red-faced and teary-eyed, ordering the sprigged muslin frock Sara would be wearing to breakfast. One look in her direction, and the stricken girl burst into a fit of wailing.

  “Whatever is it, Nell?” Sara said, sitting her down on the lounge. “What’s happened?”

  “He’s been sacked,” the girl moaned. “The master come home and sent him off before sunup, and it’s all my fault.”

  “Who’s been sacked?”

  “My Jer
emy . . . you’d know him as Peters, my lady. He was ta stand guard outside your door last night, but you was retired, and he sneaked off ta be with me. Now I’ll never see him again!”

  “Evidently his lordship isn’t aware of your part in this, or he would have sacked you as well,” said Sara.

  “I wish he did!” the girl moaned. “Oh . . . oh, my lady, I didn’t mean . . . it ain’t that I don’t want ta be your lady’s maid . . . and I really need the wages, it’s just . . . I love him, my lady!”

  “I know that, Nell,” said Sara. She could relate to the girl’s misery. The physical aside, she was falling in love with her strange, brooding husband as well. There, she’d admitted it. She’d realized it the moment she entered his sanctum sanctorum and found him wounded—realized he could have been killed, that she might never have seen him again. How could she have borne it?

  They too were separated, but their separation was crueler. They were close enough to touch, close enough to kiss, to embrace, to make love, but there was a barrier between them, an invisible shield of Nicholas’s making, and she didn’t know why he’d walled himself in, or how to penetrate the barricade he’d built between them. She hadn’t the skill. She was too inexperienced, and he was a man of the world—far too sophisticated to succumb to the transparent wiles of such a pitifully inept goose as herself, when it came to affairs of the heart. The worst of it was knowing, since that night, that he felt something for her, too—something he obviously didn’t want to feel, something he wouldn’t allow. But why? She hadn’t imagined it. It was in his kiss, in the strong arms holding her close, in the bruising pressure of his arousal leaning against her, in his very breathing, hot and steamy against her flesh.

  “Ya won’t tell him, will ya, my lady?” the girl sobbed, jolting her back to the present. Sara’s hands were trembling, her palms moist, and her innermost regions—those secret places Nicholas had awakened at her very core—were palpitating from the mere memory of that brief embrace.

  “No, I shan’t tell him,” she said, “and there’s something that you shan’t tell him either.”

  “W-what would that be, my lady?”

  “It concerns Nero.”

  “That scruffy old dog? Fie, my lady! Nobody’s seen him or Mr. Mallory either, since they had that set-to. For all we know, he’s crawled off and died o’ that wound, and good riddance, I say!”

  “He hasn’t,” said Sara. “I saw him just last evening.”

  “Well, the master better no’ set eyes on him. Smythe says, more’n likely, he’ll be after gettin’ shot o’ that dog for good and all after what happened with Mr. Mallory.”

  “Yes, well, not while I draw breath,” said Sara. “If Nero chooses to visit, he will be welcome here in my rooms. I intend to leave my foyer door ajar in case he does, and I do not want his lordship to know. That animal is treated shamefully in this house. Why, he’s thin as a shadow. He looks like a half-starved wolf, instead of the house pet of a baron.”

  “The master’ll skin me if he finds out,” the girl protested.

  “He won’t find out, Nell, unless you tell him.”

  “But the hall boys,” the abigail said. “They’re ta be keepin’ watch out there night and day, my lady. They’ll see that old dog comin’ in here, and I’ll be sacked for fair!”

  “You leave the hall boys to me,” said Sara. “I shall see that they are dismissed from their duties. This shall be our little secret, Nell. You will keep mine . . . and I will keep yours. Do we have an understanding?”

  Sara abhorred the necessity of such a tactic, but she jumped at the chance to employ it nevertheless. These were extraordinary circumstances. Baron Nicholas Walraven wasn’t going to take any more shots at her beloved Nero if she had anything to say about it.

  “Nell?” she prompted during the girl’s silence. “I’ve kept the bargain already, you know. I was questioned about Peters. I knew where he was, and with whom. I’ve known all along that you two sneak off to meet, but I held my peace. You owe me as much in kind. Now, I shall ask you again . . . do we have an understanding?”

  “Y-yes, my lady,” the abigail mewed.

  “Good! Now, you had best dry those eyes, and help me into that frock before his lordship arrives to escort me down to breakfast.”

  The abigail had just finished tucking the last green grosgrain ribbon into Sara’s upswept coiffure, when Nicholas’s knock sent the girl scurrying to the foyer door. Had Sara left it ajar last night after the animal left? Her heart sank. Nicholas pushed it open with his finger before the maid reached it, answering that question. Nonetheless, Sara squared her posture and met him with her most fetching smile in place, despite his tight-lipped scowl. They passed the new hall boy stationed outside her suite as if he didn’t exist, though she was bursting to get her teeth into that issue, and neither spoke on their way to the breakfast room, except for the barest amenities.

  Sara breezed through breakfast playing the perfect hostess; Nicholas’s raised eyebrow on more than one occasion during the meal was proof positive that she couldn’t be faulted in that regard. It was a shallow victory, but a victory nonetheless, and she claimed it like a polished trophy. It wasn’t until afterward that it began to tarnish.

  Dr. Breeden excused himself early. Mrs. Bromley had given him space in her herbarium for preparing his herbals, and he was anxious to attend to his just-picked specimens before the effects of the morning dew upon them were lost. Sara was delighted. The study was Nicholas’s domain. Her victories had been won in the cheery breakfast room, with its urns filled with flowers, creamy table linens, and breathtaking view of the gardens through the diamond-fretted windowpanes. She accepted a second cup of coffee, and adjusted her position in the chair as though she were battening down for the onslaught of a Cornish flaw.

  “There is something I should like to discuss with you, Nicholas,” she said, taking a swallow from her cup. “You did say that if I had any questions . . . or issues, I should bring them directly to you . . . first.” That last got his eyebrow up, and his own cup suspended. Why did he always look like an animal ready to spring whenever they conversed on serious topics?

  “Yes?” he said, his voice edged for battle.

  “It concerns the hall boys outside my room. I want them removed.”

  “That is impossible, Sara,” Nicholas said.

  “Why?” she persisted. “It is my suite, is it not? I do not wish an armed guard posted there day and night. I feel like a prisoner. I had more freedom in the Fleet!”

  Nicholas vaulted out of the carver’s chair, scudding it out behind him, and tossed his serviette into his empty plate.

  “Please leave us,” he charged the footmen collectively. “Close the door after you, and if I find you with your ears pressed up against it again, you can all collect your wages. Is that clear?”

  A monotone rumble replied, as the footmen tripped over one another retreating, and Nicholas resumed his place at the table looking daggers.

  “That wasn’t necessary, Nicholas,” said Sara. “They all know I’m under guard.”

  “Yes, but they don’t know why, and I’d rather they not be privy to . . . certain matters. They’ve enough ammunition for manufacturing on-dits as it is. The breakfast room is not the place for such a conversation, Sara.”

  “Oh, I know,” she served, “but it seems to be the only place in this house where we can converse on equal footing. If that is due to the footmen eavesdropping, then I say—God bless them for it!”

  “You will have hall boys stationed outside your door until Alex is found and dealt with,” said Nicholas. “That is not negotiable now, nor will it ever be in future. Have you so soon forgotten what occurred in your suite?”

  “You do not trust me, and that is insulting.”

  “I do not trust him, and you are evidently no match for his prowess. So much for keeping him in his place.”

  “That’s not fair. I was sound asleep when he . . . when—”

  “When he tried to mo
lest you?”

  “He was foxed, Nicholas.”

  “And you would have been raped just the same but for . . . Nero. How did Alex gain entrance, Sara? I’ll tell you how, you left the door ajar—just as I found it up there when I came to fetch you down to breakfast. I should think you’d have learned your lesson . . . unless—”

  “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Nicholas Walraven, don’t you dare!”

  Nicholas heaved a mammoth sigh. “Sara,” he said, in that sensuous baritone voice that melted her to the marrow. She could deal with his anger, but not that deep, resonant silkiness that had the power to arouse her from across the room. “This is hardly a permanent situation,” he went on. “Once Alex is found—”

  “Find him, then!” she cried, vaulting to her feet. She had to call the anger back. It was her only defense against this paradox of a man who had tied her heart in knots. “Because, I tell you here and now, I did not come to Ravencliff to be held prisoner. I could have stayed where I was for that!” Did he flinch? The muscles in his broad jaw were ticking, and he was on his feet again, but he made no move toward her, and she went on speaking while she still had the upper hand. “I will not stay where I am held captive again—never again!” she seethed, hurling her serviette down. “And, do not forget, I saw that last night, Nicholas. You nearly killed that poor animal. The servants in this house are just as hard-hearted in that regard. I’ve heard them talking. Why Nell alone is harping on getting rid of him each time she opens her mouth. I don’t know what is going on here, but I warn you—you can mark my words, nothing had better happen to Nero in this house. Ever! Not while I’m residing in it.”