Dawn Thompson

by The Ravencliff Bride

  “Very well then, carry on,” Nicholas concluded, going back to his ledger.

  He penned three characters and set the quill aside again, taking his aching head in his hands. It was beyond bearing. He was half mad anticipating Sara’s decision, losing faith in Dr. Breeden’s experiments, and now this. There was no use trying to attend to anything until the animal was found. Reaching into the drawer in his desk, he yanked out the loaded pistol he kept there, rose to his feet, and stormed from the study.

  Twenty-seven

  Nicholas was absent from the breakfast room at nuncheon. He prowled the passageways until twilight robbed the light, with no results, then dragged himself to the master suite draped in cobwebs, slimed with mildew and dust, and precious little time to put himself to rights in time for the evening meal.

  “I abhor the lies,” he growled, submerged to the neck in his tub of herb-scented water.

  “You cannot tell them the truth, my lord,” said the valet.

  “Having your rooms adjoin mine has its drawbacks, old boy,” Nicholas regretted. “If you’d been housed below stairs with the rest of the staff this never would have happened. You’d have seen them feeding that damned animal. All this time wasted. Bloody hell!”

  “Would you like me to take a room below, my lord . . . at least until all this is over?”

  “What, and give them something else to talk about? No, Mills. I need you where you are. Besides, it’s too late. The damage has been done. I think I’ve put the fear of God in them enough to keep anything similar from happening again.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Nicholas struck the water a vicious blow with his fist, showering Mills in the process. “Why won’t she decide?” he said. That was what was really bothering him. He could think of nothing else.

  “Might I point out that she has not run screaming from the house as you predicted, my lord? I would take that as a good sign.”

  “The guards would hardly let anyone leave until the investigation is completed to their satisfaction. We can count ourselves fortunate if they don’t call Bow Street in. There’s been murder done!”

  “By an animal, my lord. Why, Dr. Breeden’s testimony alone—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, Mills, but you can trust me when I say they’d be on us like hounds on a rabbit if one of us tried to leave Ravencliff now.”

  “All right, my lord,” the valet said, “cast aspersions where ye may, the fact still remains that she has not left, nor does she seem about to leave, the house. Why, just look at the way she conducted the funeral affairs. She had it in control in a manner that rocked me back on my heels.”

  “I do not want to pressure her. I told her I would give her time, but it’s been four days, Mills. How much more time does she need?”

  “Evidently more than four days, my lord.”

  Nicholas’s eyebrow shot up, and his lips formed an exasperated crimp. Mills met the expression by dumping a bucket of tepid water over his head, and Nicholas shook like a dog, showering more water over the valet still glistening from the last.

  “There’s no need to drown me!” Nicholas snapped.

  “Fine talk of drowning, my lord, when I am wetter than you,” Mills countered, setting the bucket down. “Have a care. You need to calm yourself. Now is not the time for Nero to roam freely through the house, with half the inmates bearing arms and ill-equipped to use them. We shall be hard-pressed to come off all of a piece as it is, without presenting them any valid targets, my lord.”

  Nicholas sighed. “No one has seen Alex since the shooting,” he said. “Below stairs, they thought I’d sent him on an errand. It isn’t likely that he’s able to change back if he hasn’t by now, so says Dr. Breeden. I’ve spread the word that he’s been sacked for his conduct, but that some of his belongings are still here, and that I want to know at once if he returns to collect them.”

  “Wise decision, my lord,” said the valet. “How are the sessions going?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “Nero hasn’t visited since he left me in the alcove chamber.”

  “That’s a good sign,” said the valet, holding the towel, as he climbed out of the tub.

  “If this keeps up, Breeden tells me I’ll be ready to try and transform at will soon.”

  “But that’s excellent news, my lord!” cried the valet.

  “I wonder,” Nicholas replied. “Suppose I cannot? Or, worse yet, suppose I can, and I cannot change back . . . like Alex? I’m almost hesitant to try.”

  “I wouldn’t advise conducting an experiment until after the guards have come and gone, my lord,” the valet opined. “They still think it was Nero that killed the girl.”

  “I’m not ready in any case, Mills. I’ve too much on my mind. Besides, who knows if anything the doctor is about will do one bit of good?”

  “You have not corrected your problem with trust, my lord,” observed Mills, “and until you come to grips with that, I fear that nothing will work in your favor—not the good doctor’s efforts, or resolution with her ladyship. Forgive me for speaking my mind, but this is your most grievous fault. I’ve told you many a time you cannot expect blind trust from others when you are not willing to give it yourself. Now perhaps, you finally begin to see the folly of that tack.”

  “I told her the truth, didn’t I?” Nicholas snapped.

  “After a fashion, and after the fact. I pray not too late. I told you from the start that you might consider telling her. Trust must exist for love to survive, my lord. Love will wither and die on the vine without it, sure as check.”

  “And you are an expert in this area, eh?” Nicholas chided.

  “Let us just say . . . that I have learned from my mistakes, my lord, and would spare you such a costly lesson.”

  It was impossible for Nicholas to imagine Mills in love. When had that happened, he wondered? Yet, judging from the faraway look in the valet’s misty eyes, he didn’t doubt that it had at some point in history. Mills rarely showed emotion, and never in recollection had he betrayed such thoughts, or let anyone glimpse his private side.

  “I appreciate that,” said Nicholas on a sigh, “but you know my situation isn’t something I could ‘trust’ to just anyone. I believe that Sara is probably the only woman in the kingdom I could safely trust with it. She has honor and integrity—and at such a young age. I’ve never met a woman like her.”

  “And you never will again,” said Mills. “You are learning, my lord. Just remember, no lesson comes without a price. Trust does not come too dear for what you’re seeking—from either her ladyship or the doctor.”

  It was late, and Mills helped Nicholas into his evening toilette, consisting of black pantaloons, superfine tailcoat, and burgundy brocade waistcoat. Once his neck cloth was engineered in the intricate Oriental wrap fashionable that Season, he hurried below to escort Sara to the dining hall, hoping for some sign that would end the torment and put his mind at ease. There was none. Except for the barest amenities, no words passed between them.

  During the meal, while she was bright and engaging with Dr. Breeden, Sara did not address him directly, or make eye contact. When he tried to instigate a response, her replies were polite and succinct, but that was as far as it went.

  She was the picture of loveliness in buttercup-yellow muslin scattered with tiny green satin bows, her upswept hair haloed in the nimbus of candleshine. There were no more telltale signs of weeping painting her cheeks, and her eyes were no longer swollen and red as they had been more often than not over the past few days. They were a clear aqua blue, like the transparent curl of an ocean swell, and only a delicate blush tinted the apples of her cheeks. Whether that meant she’d gotten over her sorrows, or they no longer mattered, was unclear, and his heart sank fearing the latter.

  After the meal, when he returned her to her suite, it was in silence. He didn’t try to draw her out. Resisting every instinct in him crying that he seize her in his arms, bury his fingers in the shimmering gold of her hair, and taste again those petal-s
oft lips, he stood on the threshold, bowed while the door was closed in his face, and retreated to the master suite, where Dr. Breeden waited.

  Since time was of the essence, they had foregone the custom of brandy in the drawing room after the meal for some days, and had it instead in the master suite sitting room. Despite his hermit’s existence, Nicholas had until then managed to maintain the rituals of the times. That could no longer be, in these circumstances. The doctor didn’t seem to mind. He had been most accommodating—as anxious to resolve Nicholas’s problem as Nicholas was. Would he one day be part of another of the good doctor’s treatises—anonymously, of course? Nicholas had no doubt that such a motive moved the man through his paces with the persistence of a juggernaut. Still, he’d decided to give way to Mills’s advice, and as he and the doctor sipped their brandy before the session, he commenced to do so.

  “I must confess to something,” he began, swirling the brandy in his snifter. “I haven’t been fair to you, Dr. Breeden. Mills pointed that out to me earlier. I’m not going to make excuses for myself. There is no excuse for wasting another man’s time, but I’ve lived so long with hopelessness, I haven’t put myself completely in your hands.”

  “Oh, I know that, my lord,” said the doctor. “It’s quite to be expected.”

  “Then, too, I have a gnawing fear that if I raise my hopes only to have them dashed here now, when so much depends upon it . . .” Nicholas shook his head. He couldn’t finish the thought.

  “Rather like taking a dreadful, foul-tasting tonic, only to find that all was for naught when it doesn’t work, eh?” said the doctor.

  “Mildly put,” Nicholas replied, through a humorless laugh.

  “But accurate,” the doctor said. “You mustn’t reproach yourself, my lord. We are dealing with an ailment that medical science does not even want to admit exists, and you are under greater strains than any man should have to endure. I frankly do not know how you stand it, but you do. I should like to study that. It defies reason.”

  “There is a certain discipline that is by-product of this . . . condition,” said Nicholas, “but I cannot take credit for it. It’s part of the process, and you either stand up to its demands, or succumb. I learned early on that if I were to survive, I had to steel myself against it—form a shell around myself, where some part of me could exist normally, if such a thing could be. I thought it served me well enough . . . until her ladyship. Now, I see how empty that shell was, and I shall never be able to crawl back into it after tasting what I’ve missed of life.”

  “I am here to do all in my power to see that you never have to, my lord,” said the doctor.

  “Then I must do more to aid you in your efforts,” Nicholas said. “Mills says I lack trust, while I demand it of others. He’s right, of course. He always is. I’ve made a clean breast of it with the baroness, though he faults me for not doing so at the outset. Now, I should like to try and be more open to your treatments. If I can show her that I can at least control the transformations, it might make a difference. Oh, I don’t know, Doctor, but I shall try harder.”

  “Do not try too hard, my lord,” said the physician. “There is no quick solution to controlling your malady. What’s wanted is openness, and a relaxed state.”

  Nicholas’s lighthearted laugh replied.

  “I know, my lord, it is much to ask under the circumstances, but necessary. Remember, we are charting new waters here, and we have only just begun to plumb the depths, as it were. When you enter here for these sessions with me, leave the world without for this brief time.”

  “I shall make every endeavor to do so,” said Nicholas. “But while I am closeted here with you, the baroness is vulnerable, unprotected, and quite frankly, judging from past experience, I cannot trust her not to take matters into her own hands. With such as that weighing on my mind, and the threat of a shapeshifter wolf on the prowl, leaving the world on the doorstep is rather impossible.”

  “Does it help to talk about these things? Sometimes voicing them aloud brings relief, and I am a good listener.”

  “There are just too many ‘things’ banging about in my brain, Dr. Breeden,” said Nicholas, draining his snifter. “For example, to take just one: As you know, if she should decide to leave me, I offered to use my connections to see our marriage dissolved. I’ve been consulting several legal volumes in the study. That shan’t be as easy a thing to manage as I first thought—if it can be managed at all. An annulment could actually take longer than a divorce, and nonconsummation is not a valid reason to petition for one. Impotence is, but I am not impotent—far from it. None of the other ‘valid’ reasons apply. We are not closely related, or secretly married to others, nor did we use the wrong names on a special license, and there were no parents or guardians to dupe. While I’d thought a year’s wait for a Parliamentary decree was a lengthy period, I’m now beginning to think that it may be the only alternative, since my most useful connections are with Canterbury through my father. I have no impressive Parliamentary favors to call in, and a church divorce is useless. It could be had more quickly, but it amounts to nothing more than a legal separation and neither of us would be able to marry again. That matters not to me, but what of her ladyship? She’s young, and vital. I could not damn her to that, or make a whore of her, because that’s what would be. She would have no choice but to take a lover. My God, what have I done?”

  “Let’s not borrow trouble, my lord,” said the doctor. “I should think it’s deposited enough in our account as it is. If worst comes to worst, a way will present itself, and we shall avail ourselves of it . . . even if we have to bend the truth a bit. You are no longer alone in this. Now, loosen your grip on that empty glass, and set it aside before you cut yourself as I did. Close your eyes, my lord. Listen to the armonica. We have much work to do.”

  Despite the warm, scented bath Mrs. Bromley had drawn for her, Sara couldn’t sleep. Dressed in her ecru nightdress and wrapper, she paced from room to room, from tapestry to tapestry, like a caged animal, studying the artistry, etching every stitch in her memory, wondering what had become of the new ones Alexander Mallory was supposed to have brought back from London—anything to take her mind off the real issue at hand. It was no use. The subject matter of the beautiful wall hangings brought Nero to mind, and thoughts of Alexander Mallory brought the image of another wolf, and the cold reality that her husband was a shapeshifter. The ramifications of that were beyond imagining, and yet it was a reality.

  Had he suffered enough? No, not yet. Had she? Oh, yes, there was no question. Could she bear to continue the punishment? Would it do any good? Probably not, but she wanted Baron Nicholas Walraven to think twice before denying her his trust again . . . if she were going to stay, of course. That still remained to be seen.

  Anger had dried her tears: anger that he had let her discover his secret in such a shocking manner, anger at herself for falling so desperately in love with the man. How hard it had been to ignore his pleading glances, to disregard the sadness in those hypnotic obsidian eyes that devoured her, that spoke to her soul and melted her heart. The only way was to avoid his gaze altogether. She did it for his betterment, and for her own, for she would not stay where there was deception, and she could not leave. It was a hard lesson, but her lesson to teach. He had to earn her love with trust, and she needed to be certain he would never deceive her again.

  As far as Sara was concerned, their agreement, such as it was, was nullified in the shadowy passageway outside the alcove chamber in the bowels of Ravencliff Manor. It could be all or nothing now, and to her thinking, she’d earned the right to set the ground rules. This had been the longest four days of her life. Was it enough? Had he learned the lesson?

  She went to the window. Outside, stars winked down from the indigo vault. There was no moon, at least not one she could see from her vantage, though silver spangles of moonlight danced eerily on the ink-black water, becalmed for the first time since she’d arrived on the coast. Was it an omen—if so, of
what? That the crisis was past . . . or was it just another calm before another storm? Either way, looking at that sky, it was a fair assumption that the guards would come in the morning. A ragged sigh brought her shoulders down, and after a moment, she turned away.

  Padding through the foyer to the sitting room, she spied the handgun Nicholas had given her on the table beside the door. What if she were to shoot the wrong wolf with it? No. She would take no chances. Picking it up gingerly, she deposited it in the table drawer, out of the way of temptation.

  She started on her way again, but a noise in the corridor stopped her in her tracks—footfalls, heavy-sounding and weary, making no attempt at stealth. Tiptoeing to the door, she leaned her ear against the panel listening. They had stopped outside. Sara held her breath, but he did not hold his. On the other side of that door, Nicholas emptied his lungs just as she had done.

  Tears welled in her eyes at the sound. She blinked them back. After a moment, the footfalls receded along the corridor. Then there came a soft, metallic click, as the door to the green suite closed across the way, sending shivers down her spine. There was something final in the sound. Something palpable, which struck her with terror. It tied knots in the invisible cord stretched between her and the man she loved more than life itself, despite and because of the nightmare and how he bore it. Something that, if not grasped then with both hands and held tight, would be lost forever.

  Bursting from her suite, Sara crossed the span of carpeted hallway between with quick, light steps, and followed him inside.

  Twenty-eight

  The unseen moon wove its magic in the green suite as well, throwing shafts of silver light through the mullioned panes, where dust motes danced. Sara moved on bare feet that made no sound through the foyer, and entered the bedchamber. Nicholas didn’t see her at first. His back was turned. He’d stripped off his jacket, neck cloth, waistcoat, and shirt, and stood bare to the waist before the window in his stocking feet, gazing out over the garden.