Dawn Thompson

by The Ravencliff Bride

  “Of course we’re looking,” he snapped, “and the servants in this house have much to do. A house this size hardly runs itself.”

  The look in his eyes was devastating. There was something under the surface of that hooded gaze that grabbed her heart like a fist. He wore no waistcoat or jacket, though his neck cloth was tied to perfection beneath modest shirt points that framed the shadowy cleft in his chin. His breathing was rapid and audible, the rise and fall of his well-muscled chest stretching his Egyptian cotton shirt to its limit. Her eyes drank in the rest of him—the hands fisted at his sides, the skintight black pantaloons that left nothing to the imagination, tucked into polished Hessians. He looked like an animal about to spring, just as he always did during their encounters. She wanted to rush into his arms, to feel them, strong and warm around her again, clasping her fast to that magnificent body denied her, making an end to her longing for more of him. If only he’d never touched her, if only he hadn’t let her taste what she could never have, but he had, and she would never forgive him for it. She rose to her feet, and fought against the burning ache in her heart and loins with her tongue, edged like a knife blade.

  “Well, the staff evidently isn’t looking very hard,” she said. “Perhaps they need help. I would be only too glad to assist—anything to have this unfortunate business over with. Let me see,” she said, tapping her chin with her forefinger, “you paint Mr. Mallory as an elbow-bender. Do you have a wine cellar?”

  “Of course we do,” said Nicholas.

  “Has it been searched?”

  “I’m sure it would have been first on the list.”

  “But you don’t know for certain,” she said, answering her own question. “Very well, we shall leave that for the moment. It seems to me that I heard Mr. Mallory tell of the many passageways and secret hiding places in the house. He seemed to have knowledge of them—even to a dungeon below stairs. He went on and on about it on our way here from Scotland. I suppose they would have been ‘first on the list,’ as well?”

  “Sara—”

  “Come, come, my lord, these are not difficult questions. It is only the answers that seem difficult for you, which I find quite telling. Why is that? Could it be that you don’t really want to find Mr. Mallory, or could that be a moot point? For all I know, shut up in my rooms with no more freedom than I had in the Fleet, he could have been found and dealt with long since, sir. Can it be that you are using him as an excuse to keep me here? That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t have to answer. I can see it in your eyes. Well, it won’t work. None of this was part of the bargain I made with you when I arrived here, but you are not going to kill that poor animal! I am taking him with me, Nicholas. You want to be rid of Nero? Consider it done.” She turned to leave, but his raised voice arrested her.

  “Where will you go, Baroness Walraven?” he said. “A baroness cannot go into service, and you cannot return to the Fleet. I paid a staggering sum to free you from that odious place. Have you no care for that, madam?”

  “You are an enterprising fellow. I’m certain you have friends in high places, connections that might recommend your petition to the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Court of Arches, or some such to affect an annulment. Perhaps you could approach Parliament to grant a divorce since our ‘marriage’ is a sham, so that I might take a position as governess, or companion, or perhaps marry a proper husband and eventually pay back your ‘staggering sum.’ ”

  “Such things take time Sara—years. I don’t even know if—”

  “And as to where I shall go while all this is accomplished,” she cut in, not giving him a chance to answer, “I am not entirely bereft, sir. I have a distant cousin in Shropshire, the widow of a vicar, a poor relation on in years, whom I haven’t seen since a child it’s true, but I am quite certain she would take me in gladly, and welcome the company.”

  He reached her in two strides. “Don’t leave me, Sara,” he murmured, crushing her close in his arms. His hot, moist hands were trembling, and the misted eyes riveting her were pleading and sad. “I’m asking only for time—just that, a little time.”

  “You’ve had time, Nicholas,” she said, struggling against the very arms she ached to hold her. “Let me go, you’re only making matters worse.”

  “I will never let you go. You are my wife, Sara. There is no other ‘proper husband’ for you—ever!”

  “Don’t you see the hopelessness of this?” she said, pushing against his hard chest, with both her hands. His heartbeat thumped against her fingers, and her hands slipped against the soft cushion of hair beneath his shirt, the shadow of its blackness visible through the fine cotton. She remembered the silky feel of it against her flesh. His scent was all over her, his salty, feral essence laced with whatever spirits he’d fortified himself with for this encounter, but she was the one who was foxed. He possessed the power to inebriate with a look alone. His touch was exquisite agony.

  “Just a little longer is all I ask,” he murmured close in her ear. His hot breath on her hair and skin sent shivers of icy fire through her blood. Her heart and mind were racing, pulling in opposite directions. He was all she ever wanted in a man, except for this secrecy, this barrier that kept them apart. He was otherwise above reproach. The man exuded honor, strength, and kindness—all the qualities that fostered love, but what drew her to him more than all the rest was a glimmer of tragic vulnerability about him, a mystique like that of the warrior-poets of old. It melted her heart. But this she dared not let him see . . . at least not yet.

  “Sara, please . . . ?” he whispered.

  “Odds fish! Now, I’ve done it!” said a remorseful voice from the threshold.

  It was Dr. Breeden. Sara hadn’t even heard him knock.

  Raking his hair with a shaky hand, Nicholas let her go. Uttering a groan that echoed every battling emotion raging through her body, Sara spun on her heel, and fled.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” said the doctor. “I did knock, and I could have sworn I heard you invite me to enter.” They had repaired to the library, where Nicholas was showing him some of the volumes he’d collected over time that might prove relevant to his malady. They had already gone through two-thirds of the collection, exhausting the most informative first. What remained didn’t hold much promise, but Nicholas was determined, and the doctor was willing to peruse anything remotely associated with his chosen field.

  “It’s all right, Dr. Breeden,” Nicholas said. “You may have done more good than harm. She wants to leave, and I can’t say as I blame her, but I cannot let her go—and no, I cannot tell her,” he added, answering the doctor’s look. “Don’t even ask it. She thinks I’m using Alex’s absence as an excuse to keep her here. She doesn’t think we’re even looking for him. How can I tell her that we aren’t looking for him, but for the wolf he has become?”

  “That’s all we’re apt to find, my lord. It’s been too long.”

  “I shall have to pass the word soon that I’ve dismissed him, and call off the search, except for you and Mills, and myself, of course. I have already told that tale to the guards. I’ve been holding off here because of Sara, but I can’t forestall much longer. She also thinks I mean to shoot Nero, and I cannot refute that, either.”

  “Nero has not visited her lately?” said the doctor.

  “No . . . if I could only be sure, but it’s still too soon. We are making progress—at least, we were until just now. It very nearly happened in that study. If you hadn’t come in on us when you did, she would have come face to face with her beloved Nero forthwith.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said the doctor, his posture deflated. “I was so encouraged. Perhaps a stronger cordial is what’s wanted; I shall see to it at once.”

  “She is everything that I have denied myself all these years,” said Nicholas, “everything I’ve always wanted. What I admire most is her indomitable spirit. I think I fell in love with that before her body tempted me, because we are so alike in that regard. We fight for what we want, for what
should have been ours, but for circumstances beyond our control, and through no fault of our own. I reached for that kindred spirit long before I reached for the sweet flesh that houses it. Despite the shocking indignities she endured in that place, she has not lost her poise and grace. She has not come from it hardened, or sour for the experience, only grateful to be shot of it.”

  “She is a lady, my lord.”

  “In every sense of the word; I knew that from the first. A lightskirt would have jumped at my proposal, taken me for all I possess and been only too glad to take a lover for what remained, settling in quite content to be indifferent to me. Despite her fears, for she did have them—Sara was like a frightened rabbit at our first meeting. She accepted me to save herself from being sold into the brothels. I represented the lesser of two evils, and while she took the challenge eagerly, she was anything but resigned when she arrived here. The hellish thing is, I never expected her to fall in love with me, or that I might fall in love with her. That wasn’t part of the plan. Ours was to be a platonic, congenial, mutually beneficial relationship, which would put paid to the ton hounding me. It was to address my loneliness for the basic elements of human companionship in this accursed exile, and in return she would have my eternal gratitude and all her heart could ever desire. I was a fool to imagine that the physical aspect would not enter into it with the right woman. Hah! I never expected to find the right woman shut up in this tomb, and I am not prepared for it. Needless to say, my experience with the opposite sex has been mostly abroad, and with a different sort of woman—one who made no demands of a personal nature, only a monetary one. There was never a risk of falling in love.”

  “What did you do to avoid conception on those occasions?”

  “It wasn’t a concern. You’re a physician. You must know that Birds of Paradise are well skilled in the art of contraception. They handle that themselves, their livelihood depends upon it.”

  “And there were no transformations during those intimacies, my lord?” the doctor queried.

  “No.”

  “Then, why do you fear it so now?”

  “There is never any pressure or angst when heart and loins are disjoined,” said Nicholas. “The sex act was nothing more than a clinical bodily function—a form of release that in a way helped the situation as I see it, like drawing off water from a spigot. This is different. This is an all-consuming fire that ignites the madness, and if it can cause the change to come upon me without consummation, I shudder to think what the results might be, were I to take that magnificent creature of a wife to my bed.”

  “Could part of that fire not be in the anticipation?” said the doctor. “Mightn’t the risk of it—the fear of the change occurring and frightening her out of her wits—be the catalyst—the tinder, if you will—that ignites it?”

  “And . . . if it were?”

  “You need to tell her, my lord. All roads come back in that direction.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “It isn’t just that,” he said. “I’ve said it before, and I mean it. I cannot pass this nightmare on to any offspring. I would rather cut off my cods than risk that.”

  “Right now, we must set that issue aside; there are other ways of dealing with it,” said the doctor. “We need to concentrate upon my cordials and treatments to train your mind to reject the transformations, and worry over passing the condition on once we’ve conquered that.”

  “What ‘other ways’?” Nicholas cut in. For the first time since the treatments began, there was true hope in his heart, and in his voice.

  “Patience, my lord,” said the doctor. “No stone shall be left unturned, I assure you. We shall talk on this topic again, but first we need to take care of the business at hand before we move off in another direction.”

  “Anything,” said Nicholas. “I cannot lose her, Dr. Breeden. She is no jinglebrain. She’s hardly ignorant of the law. She wants me to petition the Archbishop of Canterbury for an annulment, or Parliament for a bill of divorcement.”

  “Can you do that? Do you have the connections?”

  “I do,” said Nicholas, “but either would be a lengthy process, and difficult. It could take years. She means to go to a distant cousin in Shropshire meanwhile, and take a situation as governess or companion, or even marry again after all is said and done in order to pay back what I’ve spent on her. I cannot let her go. If I do, I’ll never see her again. I would not be able to go after her. What am I going to do, Dr. Breeden?”

  “We’d best be about our work,” said the doctor. “There’s only one thing to do in order to put paid to that plan, my lord; you’ve got to turn my lady’s head around so that she doesn’t want to leave you. You’ve got to consummate your marriage, and quickly.”

  Twenty

  “If you will not go with me, I shall go alone,” said Sara to Nell, who had dug in her heels refusing to show her any more architectural oddities in the Norman manor. “There is no danger of being caught out, Nell. His lordship and Dr. Breeden repaired to the library right after dinner. They will be closeted there half the night, and it’s impossible to do it during the day. There are too many servants about.”

  “The master’ll sack me for fair if he finds out, my lady. I’m supposed ta be keepin’ an eye on ya so ya don’t come ta harm.”

  “Which is just what you will be doing, because I’m going off exploring—with or without you, so, if you want to do as he bade, you’d best come with me right now. No one else in this house seems interested in finding Mr. Mallory, and since my future here depends upon it, I must take the responsibility upon myself.”

  “Depends upon it, my lady?” said the maid, nonplussed.

  “Never you mind. Just do as I say.”

  “What if you do find Mr. Mallory?”

  “You let me worry about that. Now, take that candle branch and light our way.”

  Sara had no idea of the mission she’d undertaken until an hour had passed and they hadn’t gotten below the first level of Ravencliff’s meandering corridors, and rooms within rooms. They avoided the third floor altogether, as well as the wing that housed the library. It wouldn’t do to tempt fate.

  Most of the secret rooms were on the seaside, and all were reached through actual suites by surreptitious means: false walls, dummy fireplaces—one even had a wardrobe, whose rear panel gave access. Obscured by the buttressed seawall, a narrow passageway on the far side of these hidden rooms ran parallel to and slightly below the main corridor, joining them like links in a chain that led to the cliff through yet another rear entrance to the house. This she assumed was one of the smuggler’s tunnels Nicholas had spoken of. The house was a literal maze of hiding places. How many more could there be? Would she ever find them all?

  She unearthed several more priest holes as they progressed. These, however, were level with the entrance, not sunken lower as the one she’d fallen into. Nevertheless, she approached them with caution, and did not venture past their thresholds. The last one, however, impressed her as the most perfect hiding place of all, since it was nearly invisible hewn in the arch of a recessed alcove. It marked the yawning entrance to a tunnel—black as coal tar pitch—that sloped farther downward. Nell stopped in her tracks when they reached it.

  “No, my lady,” she said. “I won’t go another step. The dungeon’s down there, and there’s ghosts and devils in it.” She leaned close, whispering, “We hear them in the servants’ quarters sometimes—whistlin’ like the wind and howlin’ like wolves. You’ll not get me down there. I’ll give my notice first!”

  “That is ridiculous, Nell,” Sara scoffed. “There are no such things. If you’re hearing sounds from down below, they’re no doubt coming from drafts seeping in from the outside. Don’t you feel them? My ankles are freezing.”

  “You ain’t getting’ me down there, and if ya set foot in that tunnel, I’ll go straight ta the master, I swear it, I will.”

  Sara breathed an exasperated sigh. She had no doubt that the frightened little maid meant what sh
e said. She couldn’t risk it. Now that she knew the way, she could come on her own. Vowing to do just that, she conceded mock defeat, and turned back along the corridor.

  They hadn’t gotten past the priest hole when a rumble of discordant sound exited the tunnel, a bloodcurdling, heart-stopping howl.

  “Nero!” Sara cried. “So this is where he goes.”

  Nell ran back along the corridor the way they’d come, taking the candle branch with her, a troop of screams exiting her throat. Sara raised the hem of her skirt and dashed after her, while she could still see. There were too many twists and turns in the passageway to risk becoming separated from the abigail in the deep dark. Her heart was hammering in her breast. When she reached the girl, she spun her around and clamped her hand over the abigail’s mouth.

  “Be still!” she said, shaking her. “You will bring the whole house down here. It’s only Nero. There’s nothing to fear.” The howl came again, more distant. “See? You’ve scared him more then he scared you. You’ve driven him deeper in now. I can hardly hear him anymore.”

  “That nasty old dog!” Nell snapped. “I wish the master would hurry up and get shot of him. He came after me, ya know, a few days back. He come tearin’ outta your rooms just as I was comin’ up from the servants’ hall—soakin’ wet he was. I told him ta shoo, and he come at me—showed me his teeth, and growled at me, he did. He was droolin’ all over the carpet, too. I thought sure he was goin’ ta bite me, but he run off growlin’, when I stamped my foot at him.”

  Cold chills raced the length of Sara’s spine. That must have been the night she’d doused Nero with water—so much for teaching him a lesson.

  “Have you seen him since?’ Sara asked.

  “No, my lady, but I’m goin’ ta tell the master first chance I get. That dog useta be a nuisance, poppin’ up outta nowhere and scarin’ us half outta our wits, but he never harmed nobody. Now he’s gone bad, and he could be dangerous.”