Blood Bond

by Alicia Ryan

  “So why do you sound like there’s a problem?” Roxanna asked.

  “The problem,” he replied, “is she has a brother I think is unlikely to approve of me as a match for his sister.”

  Hartley’s gaze came to rest rather pointedly on Phillip.

  For a moment, no one spoke, but Phillip’s brows rose, and he took a step back. “Oh, no,” he said. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.”

  “Branham...”

  “Wait,” Roxanna said, cutting Hartley off. “You have a sister old enough to marry?”

  Phillip nodded. “She’s only seventeen, but this year was her debut into society.”

  “Seventeen?” She turned to Hartley. “I see you decided to start looking among the teenagers.”

  He shook his head. “No, no. I did exactly what you said. I ignored all the smiles, all the pretty faces. No fluttering lashes deterred me from my task. I looked for someone who wasn’t playing the game, who wasn’t pretending.” His smile got wider. “And there she was. Sitting in a window seat looking out into the dark. When I asked what had captured her attention, she said she was watching the party’s reflection—that seeing them all transparent seemed closer to the truth than the solid bodies in the room.” He gave a shrug. “How could I not be captivated? In one sentence, she graced me with more poetry, wit, and insight than I’d heard all night.”

  Phillip continued shaking his head. “Need I repeat myself? Absolutely not.”

  “How did she come to know so much at such a young age?” Hartley asked, ignoring the rejection.

  “I gave her my books when I was at school. She had a tutor in addition to her regular schooling, and she forced him to teach her essentially the same things I was studying.”

  “But she’s at least five years your junior.”

  “Six,” Phillip said, nodding. “She’s one of the smartest people I know—of either gender.” He glared at Hartley. “And she deserves a husband who will treasure her for it.”

  “I treasure her for it already.” Hartley turned to Roxanna. “Good lady, would you plead my case?”

  Roxanna laughed. “I’m not sure my opinion holds much sway.”

  Hartley snorted. “You shouldn’t underestimate the weight of your opinion, I think.”

  She looked at him. “Do you really intend to pursue...”

  “What’s your sister’s name?” she asked, turning to Phillip.

  “Diana.”

  “Do you really intend to pursue Diana for a wife?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And to treat her honorably in such a pursuit? I don’t care how smart she is, she’s still only seventeen. You could hurt her badly if you convince her to love you and then don’t return the favor.”

  “I know. But she flattens me. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her—or change her. And I’d make her a duchess.”

  “You’re not a duke yet,” Phillip pointed out.

  “Fair enough,” Hartley replied, shrugging. “But my uncle is approaching seventy and still mourns the death of my aunt five years ago. The chances of him roping a young wife just to get a son at this point are exceedingly slim. And everyone knows he and I are on good terms. He’s made no secret he intends me to be the heir.”

  “A duchess is pretty high up, right?” Roxanna asked.

  “The highest,” Phillip grunted.

  “And are you rich?” she asked, turning to Hartley.

  He grinned. “Respectably. Once I inherit the title, I shall be embarrassingly wealthy.”

  Phillip looked down at Roxanna. “Do you trust him to court my sister?” His voice was quiet and serious.

  Roxanna turned and studied Lord Hartley. Turning back to Phillip, she asked, “Is your sister as extraordinary as he says?”

  He nodded. “Yes, but...”

  “Then she needs a man who can challenge her. Hartley can be that man, if he makes the grade. And she doesn’t sound like the kind of girl who’s likely to go easy on him.” She turned back to Hartley. “Or stand for any relapses.”

  “There won’t be any other women for me,” he said. “Not as long as she’ll allow me to call on her.”

  Phillip looked long and hard at Roxanna and then at Hartley. The man’s reputation was respected, despite his somewhat roguish behavior. And Roxanna saw something in him, something to make him worthy of the advice she had originally given. He didn’t especially want his sister to be the future duke’s experiment in wife-hunting, though. On the other hand, Hartley could take care of her and his mother in a way he couldn’t.

  Finally, he sighed and dropped his shoulders. “I won’t say anything against you,” he told the other man. “For now. But don’t expect me to plead your case.”

  Hartley grinned and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Branham, you won’t regret it. I promise you.”

  Laughing, Roxanna turned and stepped down off the stage. “Now that poor Diana’s love life is settled, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “Sleep well, Roxanna,” Phillip said to her retreating back.

  He turned to find Hartley staring at him.

  “What now?”

  “I think perhaps you haven’t considered all the benefits of having me as a brother-in-law.”

  Phillip frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “If your sister becomes my duchess, she and your mother will be welcome in the most exclusive company no matter what becomes of you.”

  “That’s very encouraging. Thank you.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Hartley said. “You misunderstand me.” He nodded in the direction Roxanna had just departed. “What I meant is that you’d be free to marry whomever you chose, without having to worry about your family’s reputation. Your family would be my family.” He shrugged. “You and Miss Collins wouldn’t be welcome everywhere, but some people would come around once she stopped singing here. And you’d always be welcome at my home and at the manor in Gloucestershire.”

  Phillip shook his head. “That’s not what I’m about, Hartley.”

  “It may not be what you’re about, but it’s what you want. I’m not blind.”

  Marrying Roxanna. The thought he’d not allowed himself to think. The impossible, forbidden, never-to-be dream.

  He shook himself. That dream remained in the distance, but Hartley was correct. If he married Diana, that dream could go from impossible to merely improbable.

  “I said I wouldn’t speak against you,” he repeated.

  “I know you did. And I’m not seeking anything more. Just allow Diana to keep an open mind. That’s all I ask.” He put his hands flat on the piano top. “I just want a chance with her. A fair chance.”

  Phillip nodded, taking in Hartley’s earnest expression. Whatever he did in the long-run, at this moment, he meant what he said. “You’ll have your chance,” he agreed.

  “It wouldn’t hurt if you’d find objectionable qualities in some of her other suitors,” Hartley said, winking.

  Phillip laughed. “Don’t press your luck, Hartley.”

  Hartley extended his hand, and Phillip reluctantly shook it. “You won’t regret this, Branham. Thank you. I’m in your debt, and I won’t forget it.”

  He watched Hartley go from under raised brows, trying to calculate the odds that he would forget his gratitude or his sister or both before the break of dawn.

  When he stepped off the stage, he realized he’d forgotten to give Roxanna the message from Darren.

  For a moment, he was tempted to keep it to himself, but the thought of her feeling worried or rejected weighed too heavily on him for that, so he followed the back hall down to her room and knocked lightly.

  “Yes?” came her voice from inside.

  “It’s just me,” he said. “Phillip.”

  The door opened a crack. Phillip could see a lit candle on a small table at the foot of her bed—a candle that illuminated her from behind, revealing the edge of her silhouette through a thin chemise. He th
anked the heavens that the door hid most of her figure. He’d never have gotten the message out otherwise.

  “Hi, Phillip. Did I forget something?”

  “No. I did. I was supposed to give you a message from Darren—that he might not make it here tonight if events kept him longer with Cranston than he foresaw.”

  She nodded. “That explains it. I was wondering. Thanks for telling me.”

  “You’re not worried?” he asked.

  “About Darren?”

  “Yes. Cranston won’t be easily cowed.”

  “Don’t worry about Darren. He’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  She chuckled. “Yes, I can.” She peeked around the door a bit further, still smiling. “Goodnight, Phillip.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was half past midnight when Darren reached Cranston’s home in Knightsbridge. It was a fashionable address, close to the House of Lords, but small, even as London homes went. Of course, Cranston had no family to accommodate, which was no surprise. Darren had heard he’d once had a young wife, but that she’d never been seen again after their marriage—ensconced in the country somewhere—and several years later, it had been put about that she’d died from consumption. The whispered gossip was that he’d taken to beating her after she didn’t produce a child in the first year and that her illness had taken her suspiciously quickly. The thought that he might have beaten Roxanna to death spurred Darren on in his cause.

  He had it on good authority from Harris that only Cranston’s valet lived in. Knowing the manservant would be lodged on the lowest floor, Darren cut into the small alley between Cranston’s and the house on its left.

  No lamplight penetrated here, and all the windows in both houses were dark. Nevertheless, a heartbeat gave itself away at the third window on his right. With one smooth motion, he ripped the iron bars free from the mortar around the window and tossed them to the pavement. The heartbeat inside accelerated, and a figure sat up in the gloom.

  That figure was still trying to light a bedside candle as Darren grabbed hold of the stone lintel and swung his legs through the window. Glass landed all around him as he slithered the rest of the way into the room.

  As the candle flared, Darren bared his fangs, waited just a moment for the inevitable gasp, the inevitable mask of fear, and then he pounced onto the unfortunate valet.

  The rush of blood filled him—his mouth, his mind, his ears—as his weight forced the man back onto the bed. He drank deeply, giving his victim little opportunity to struggle before strength left him, and stopping only when consciousness was also gone. His activities this night would bear no witnesses. He licked his tongue across the punctures so the man wouldn’t bleed to death. Then he inched up and whispered into the man’s ear—“forget me”. That’s all it took. Two little words to keep his secret—a power of suggestion so potent it could penetrate even the unconscious mind.

  From the servant’s room, he climbed one flight of narrow stairs to the main floor. Cranston’s heartbeat thundered like a racehorse at the gate. Darren made his way to a closed door down a short hall but didn’t knock. Instead, he called out Cranston’s name.

  It took only a second for the door to swing open, a red-faced Cranston nearly having pulled it off its hinges. “What the hell are you about, Highmore? How did you get in?”

  He stepped out into the hall and looked around. “Where’s my man?”

  “Probably sleeping it off.”

  Cranston eyed the still firmly shuttered front door. “Then how...?” He shook his head. “No matter.” He gestured into the room from which he’d emerged. “Shall we go into the study?”

  Darren looked down at him. “No need.”

  “Fine,” the man said, straightening his shoulders. “Say what you’ve come to say and be done with it. I’ve already sussed you’re upset about the girl, but I assure you it was nothing like she must have described.”

  “And Mister Branham? He has it all wrong as well, does he?”

  “Why, of course. He barged in and got the wrong impression is all. And the girl got frightened—probably didn’t want you finding out what she was about—so she egged him on in some story where I’m the offender.”

  “Ah, so I’m to take the word of a gentleman over that of a singer.”

  “Well, of course, man. What else would you do?”

  Darren lowered his voice. “Exactly what I’ve come to do.”

  “Which is?” He shifted his gaze down the hall. “Are you sure you won’t sit down? Have a drink?”

  Before he finished the sentence, Darren had him by the throat. The word “drink” came out like the bleating of a sheep. When he hit the wall, his head made a satisfying crack that was echoed by the shattering of a splendid vase as it crashed to the floor. Cranston’s hips had hit the marble side table on which it stood.

  Darren reached down with one hand, grasped the front of the table, and shoved it to the side. Cranston’s eyes strained to confirm what his other senses told him—that Darren had just shifted a table weighing at least a thousand pounds.

  “That’s better,” Darren told him. “We’ll need some room to work.”

  He released Cranston’s throat long enough to spin him around and slam his face into the wall. Cranston grunted, but Darren was far from satisfied. He relocated his left hand to the center of Cranston’s back, holding him tight to the wall.

  “What are you about, Highmore? She’s just a tart; I don’t care how well she sings. Why, you’ve seen her up there—advertising her wares. What’s a man supposed to think? She practically begs the whole place to put it to her every night.”

  “This will perhaps go easier for you if you don’t speak.” With his right hand, Darren secured his grip on Cranston’s upper arm and forced him to extend it outward. “Though I don’t intend to go easy on you.”

  “Now, Highmore, you can’t just come in here and—“

  A scream cut off further comment as Darren twisted Cranston’s shoulder forward far beyond its natural rotation and snapped it out of its socket. That scream whet Darren’s appetite, the appetite for carnage he’d thought long suppressed. But he recognized it instantly.

  After a moment, Cranston stopped screaming and took a deep breath. “You bastard. That hurt like the devil.”

  Darren switched hands and dislocated the man’s other shoulder. Cranston screamed again and dropped to his knees, his arms hanging at odd angles.

  “Don’t worry,” Darren told him. “I’ll be putting them back.”

  Cranston grunted again, and Darren backed up and took a seat in a delicate, wood-framed, Queen Anne chair.

  “What are you doing?” Cranston demanded.

  “Waiting for the muscles to set. If I put your shoulders back right away, it won’t be as painful as it will in a few minutes, after your muscles have finished stretching to accommodate your lovely new shape.”

  Cranston tried to raise his arms but failed, gritting his teeth against the pain. Then he tried to stand.

  “Don’t make me break your leg,” Darren ordered, convincing Cranston to remain on his knees. “Not that I won’t before the night is done.”

  “Highmore...”

  “You’re a beast, Cranston, and when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to hurt another woman again for the rest of your rotten life. I’m going to dislocate your shoulders until I hear the bones of the sockets crack, and then I’m going to do it a dozen more times. You won’t even be able to feed yourself when I’m done.”

  “Now see here...all this over a bit of a frolic with your little tramp? Come to your senses, man. I’ll have you on charges in the House of Lords for this.”

  “You touched something that belongs to me, Cranston. Did you think I’d let that go? That you could take from me and pay no price?”

  “My God, man. It’s just a bit of skirt. Let me make amends. I have a new gray—spectacular specimen. I could let you have her for a pittance.”

  “I’
ve told you how you’re going to make amends. And if you continue to speak, I’ll break as many bones as it takes to shut you up, starting with your fingers and working my way down.

  “And when we’re done with our discussion here, you are going to pack up your household and return to your estate for an extremely extended stay in the country. And if I ever see you in the same room as Roxanna Collins, I will bury you alive and dance on your grave every night until I’m sure the worms have eaten all the best parts of you.”

  Sweat beaded across Cranston’s protruding forehead.

  “I see I’ve made myself clear,” Darren said, getting to his feet. “Now, let’s see to those shoulders, shall we?”

  It was dirty, physical, visceral work—ripping a man’s bones apart inside his body. The groaning, the cracking, and the screaming reminded Darren of other times he’d undertaken such violence—always willingly, initially just because he could, with his newfound strength, later because it served a cause he believed in. But it always thrilled. To his senses, fear was palpable. It had a smell, a taste. In Cranston’s hallway, it permeated the air, along with sweat and sniveling. The unadulterated predator in him responded to fear. It wanted to rise up. It didn’t mind waiting for torture, but it wanted the kill. And holding it at bay this night was proving especially difficult because of his towering rage. The one constraint on his instinct to terminate life was the certain knowledge that Cranston had a worse fate in store for him after this night if he left him alive than if he put him out of his misery quickly.

  Still, in the end, Darren was rather disappointed. It only took three rotations for the right shoulder socket to fracture—forward, then back into place, backward, then back in, and the snap came on the second forward twist. But he kept his promise to dislocate it twelve times after that. And the socket continued to fracture. He counted seven more times.

  The left shoulder didn’t break until the fifth dislocation, but it did more than fracture, and it ripped an ear-shattering scream from Cranston. That made Darren smile, and he continued about his work with a grim glee until Cranston’s shoulder bones were in about the same state as the shattered vase at his feet. And the man was weeping, but Darren found it didn’t slake his anger. Cranston had tried to take what was his, had touched—hurt—what was precious to him.