“Show her to the sitting room, if you please,” Ellie commanded before her mother could catch her breath. “I’ll be there posthaste.”
With that, she edged past her mother and raced to her bedchamber for a fresh gown.
Although she changed as rapidly as she was able, she fully expected to discover Miss Breckenridge half-mad from one of Mama’s brutal interrogations. Instead, Ellie found her benefactress to be unattended, drifting about the sitting room with what could only be described as an air of befuddlement.
“Good afternoon.” Ellie glanced about the simple room in search of whatever might have discomfited Miss Breckenridge so. “Is something amiss?”
“Amiss?” the young woman echoed, her brow clearing. “That’s precisely it. Nothing at all is amiss!”
“I’m afraid I do not follow.” Ellie motioned her guest onto a sofa and took the seat opposite.
“The Breckenridge estates are a positive museum, every inch filled with antiquities fighting for space with the latest Parisian baubles. Your domicile—while quite serviceable, Miss Ramsay, I mean no insult—hasn’t a single gewgaw on display. It gives your home quite a refreshing, timeless appeal.” Miss Breckenridge shook her head and laughed. “I daresay your staff is the more content, not having to spend every minute dusting the same tired gimcracks.”
Ellie forced a smile, unsure whether her home had just been complimented or slighted. She tried to see her plain surroundings through a stranger’s eyes.
While everything was tasteful and tidy, the “everything” in question did in fact consist of no more than the bare necessities. Aside from a few pieces of furniture and a handful of candelabra, the sitting room contained nothing else. Ellie could scarce imagine living in the chaotic opulence Miss Breckenridge described. Not only were antiquities and Parisian baubles quite above the Ramsays’ means, their inevitable midnight flights from one corner of England to another inherently prohibited attachment to any given item.
It was therefore a happy accident indeed if their inability to own any belongings had produced an ambiance of—what had Miss Breckenridge called it?—timeless appeal.
Ellie frowned slightly upon the realization that her benefactress might have been using the term in a more literal sense than originally interpreted. The Ramsay home contained no clocks, no newspapers, no correspondence, no diaries, no family portraits.... It looked exactly as it always did, with nothing in vogue and nothing to mark the passage of time. Viewing her home from such a perspective, Ellie began to suspect she had been quite cleverly insulted, and could not help but take affront on behalf of her family’s simple lifestyle.
“Miss Breckenridge, I hardly think—”
“Do I interrupt?” came a smooth voice from the doorway.
“Mama!” Ellie rose to her feet, an attack of nervousness overwhelming her momentary pique. She had stood her ground against her mother, and there was no telling how Mama would react in consequence. “Miss Breckenridge, this is my mother, Mrs. Ramsay. Mama, this is my—this is Miss Breckenridge, whom I’ve told you so much about.”
Mama arched a slender brow. “The one with the birthday, I suppose.”
Miss Breckenridge could not suppress a startled blink at that rejoinder. Wordlessly, she, too, rose to her feet.
“Just so, Mama.” Ellie tamped down a grin at the idea of Miss Breckenridge’s being on the receiving end of an uninterpretable comment, unsure whether she had just been subtly insulted.
“How do you do,” Miss Breckenridge said at last. “I do have an impending birthday, and I’ve come to call for just that reason. I’ll be two-and-twenty next Saturday, and nothing will do but to have your daughter at the celebrations.”
Ellie cringed as her mother’s smooth expression quickly changed to disapproval. “Celebrations” did not sound like two young girls roaming a country estate far removed from the public eye. “Celebrations” sounded like the sort of thing Mama would forbid out of hand. Ellie fixed her gaze on Miss Breckenridge, willing her not to say anything else that might give Mama more ammunition for a refusal.
“Mrs. Ramsay, it would be my honor and pleasure to have your daughter’s presence at this weekend’s house p—”
No, no, it’s not a party, Ellie thought desperately, wishing she’d taken advantage of the brief privacy in order to coach Miss Breckenridge on subjects to avoid. Remember, we’re just two friends. No High Society. No grand crush. Just us. And your pretend kitten.
“—for an overnight stay,” Miss Breckenridge corrected, apparently recalling Ellie’s words the previous night. Her voice took on a far-off, wistful tone. “I am not one for big gatherings, so nothing will do but a long, quiet weekend with my dear friend and my darling cat.”
Ellie jerked her gaze to her mother, who was still eyeing the two young ladies beneath raised brows.
“Elspeth found the lost kitten?”
“Yes, Mama.” Ellie schooled her features into the most angelic of expressions. “She’s the most cunning little creature, and I would so enjoy the opportunity to play with her again. Do say I can go.”
When the resulting silence began to overwhelm the small sitting room, Miss Breckenridge put in earnestly, “I live far enough away that nothing less than the full weekend will do. I would be happy to send a carriage for Miss Ramsay as well.”
“We have our own carriage, thank you very much,” Mama snapped.
Rather than being taken aback, Miss Breckenridge seemed delighted by this response. She turned to Ellie with an air of satisfaction. “Then I shall see you on my birthday, dear friend. Good day to you both.”
And with that, Miss Breckenridge took her leave.
Ellie, however, knew better than to assume capitulation on her mother’s behalf. Until the word “yes” audibly crossed her mother’s lips, the battle had not been won.
“A lovely girl, isn’t she, Mama?”
“Don’t try my patience, Elspeth.”
“Just let me do this one last thing. Let me have a small taste of freedom, of friendship. Of belonging. Then I’ll go wherever you wish.”
Ellie stepped forward until she was but an arm’s length from her mother. Miss Breckenridge’s birthday party had become the most imperative engagement of her life.
They desperately needed the money—now more than ever, if another infernal cross-country trip loomed scant days hence. But even more than that, Ellie wanted to go. She wanted to see the estate so smothered with messy riches, to hear the music of an orchestra swell around her. And, if she was being honest, she really wanted to lay eyes on Mr. Macane once more. Not because she gave Miss Breckenridge’s fear of Lord Lovenip any credence, but because Ellie rather liked him.
He’d danced with her. Perhaps he’d do so again.
“Please, Mama.” Following her mother’s example, Ellie kept her voice calm and reasonable. “I don’t wish to fight. I would just like to spend a few days with a friend before we run off yet again to some remote place where we won’t know a single soul.”
Mama’s eyes narrowed. “A girls’ weekend, she said. Just the two of you and a kitten?”
“And her parents, of course,” Ellie put in quickly, lest her mother denounce the plan due to a lack of proper supervision.
“Very well,” her mother said with an appraising once-over and a sigh. “But do not make me regret this.”
“Truly?” Ellie’s stomach dipped in a swirl of glee and apprehension. “I can go?”
“We can go,” Mama corrected with a sharp nod. “I’m coming with you.”
Chapter Five
Cain cursed whatever demon had incited him to descend upon the Breckenridge country estate perched atop a whip of a curricle.
Vampires might be immortal, but immortality did not exempt one from the discomfort of foul weather. Thunderclouds enshrouded the sky, echoing Cain’s darkening mood. Where he had once been hopeful that tonight was the night he would encounter his elusive prey, now he was simply hopeful he’d encounter a roof, and with luck, a
fire. He was shivering and soaking wet and miserable.
So were his horses.
The beasts no longer believed him when he promised their destination must be around the next bend. The ragged lightning coursing across the sky terrified the grays as much as the roaring thunder that followed. Yet the intermittent flashes of bright white shooting across the thick woods were the only source of light along the serpentine trail. His favorite mount had thrown a shoe over one of the many patches of fist-sized rocks atop unstable mud. But the smartest choice was to continue on. His lodgings were already an hour past, and his home a forgotten memory until he, as hunter, returned with the prize.
Rain-blurred lights flickered around the next bend. In his excitement, he scarce discerned a small, dark shape huddled directly in the path. His horses reared. Cain barely wrangled them under control in time to avert their course. He might have missed the trembling ball of mange altogether, had it not whined plaintively upon the realization it was about to be trampled to death.
Cain leaped from his rain-soaked perch, barely vaulting over his skittish horses. He landed hard on his left shoulder, but did his best to ignore the sickening snap and the sharp flash of pain. There was no time. He scooped up the shivering pile of wet fur and rolled out of the way seconds ere they both would’ve had the full weight of a pair-and-carriage squelching them into the mud.
If his horses had been alarmed before, now they were altogether panicked. They shot off along the pitch-black trail at a suicidal pace, the phaeton clattering perilously behind. Unsteadily, Cain hauled himself to his feet. He tipped his face into the driving rain and let the pelting drops clear the dirt from his eyes before bending his head to inspect the bundle quaking in his arms.
A puppy.
It licked his face, and Cain laughed despite himself. He’d lost his curricle, lost his horses, and broken his collarbone, but he’d managed to save the life of a half-drowned puppy.
“Stupid creature,” he scolded under his breath, but scratched its ears anyway.
He knew better than to stop for animals. He definitely knew better than to pick them up and cuddle them to his chest. But he loved animals and couldn’t resist rubbing the puppy’s belly and scratching behind its ears.
Wincing, Cain set off after his horses, puppy in hand and mud dripping from his face. When he’d accepted the Breckenridge invitation, he had wished to make an Appearance—and damn his arrogance, now he certainly would.
His clothes were ruined, his hair a fright, and his shoulder . . . Och, at least the snapped bone wasn’t protruding from his skin.
Had he been in Scotland, he would’ve already procured the sustenance necessary for rapid healing. But he was in godforsaken England trying to pass for human. Regardless, no maiden in her right mind would offer a nip to a mud-stained rogue in such abominable condition. He would simply have to give his best careless-rake smile and feign nothing was amiss. The usual.
“Well,” he murmured to the shivering puppy. “If we’re to be stuck with each other, we might as well introduce ourselves. You can call me Cain. And I’ll call you . . .” He studied the puppy in his arms. Light brown fur, dark brown eyes, a quick, wet tongue, and a whip of a tail that managed to slap Cain’s tender shoulder and spray dog-scented rainwater into his eyes with every swipe. “The more I think on it, the more I come to believe you’re the one who should be called Cain,” he informed the recalcitrant puppy, and was rewarded with exuberant face-licking. “As that’s already taken, you’ll have to settle for . . . Moch-éirigh.”
Closing his eyes, Cain shook his head in self-disgust. He’d lost his mind and named the damn thing. Hadn’t he sworn to himself a thousand times over that his puppy-adopting days were done? And hadn’t he triply sworn that he was done torturing himself by giving animals names that reminded him of home, and of things he could never, would never, see again? He’d named his grays Sunrise and Sunset, and now he’d gone and named the puppy Early Riser. As he had been, once. Back when it was a joy to greet the dawn and spend the day awash in sunshine.
A regular glutton for punishment, he was. He deserved the bittersweet reminder of who and what he was.
He took a deep breath—which only served to unbalance both dog and collarbone, and was unnecessary for survival in any case—and tramped forward into the night, his eyes squinting against the onslaught of rain. The puppy snuggled tight against his unbeating heart. They both desperately needed a bite to eat, so the sooner they descended upon the festivities, the better.
After what felt like miles but was likely no more than ten minutes of cursing and stumbling, Cain could fully make out the Breckenridge estate looming up from the darkness. Unlike Cain, his horses were apparently in no rush to make themselves known. Instead, the grays stood perpendicular on the muddy path, their faces buried in a thatch of rain-battered grass.
He managed to fetch the ribbons without dropping the puppy and hauled himself back onto his perch. With a tug, his horses abandoned their meal and resumed the miserable trudge to the Breckenridge stables. The ceaseless rain managed to cleanse nearly all the mud from both Cain and puppy, but had no ameliorating effect whatever on tangled fur or ripped linen.
The swarm of liverymen who rushed to greet the carriage had enough breeding to hide any shock at Cain’s appearance—or perhaps he was not the only guest to have arrived worse for wear from the vicious downpour. A stroke of fortune, since he was scarcely in any condition to Compel the minds of a dozen servants at once.
Nonetheless, brown and bedraggled was not at all the impression Cain hoped to make upon the weekend revelers, and his sole request of the obsequious footmen was to be granted admittance through a side door, so as not to cause a stir. This petition caused startled blinks all around, but in short order Cain found himself welcomed to Breckenridge via the connected conservatory, and ushered to sumptuous guest quarters featuring both a crackling fire and a large bath.
Heaven, Cain decided the instant he sank into clean, warm water. Hell, he amended, upon the unexpected accompaniment of his new puppy.
By the time the dinner bell sounded, Cain felt . . . well, if not like a new man, then at least like a reinvigorated Scottish warrior disguised as a harmless—and shameless—Society flirt. He had played this role for so long that sometimes he almost forgot he was acting. Both personas were men of single mind. The real Cain just wanted to return to his homeland with the missing vampire securely in hand. The false Cain just wanted the mysterious Miss Ramsay in hand. Rather, his hands on her bonny face, the fragile curve of her neck, the ample swell of her—
He groaned and considered dumping himself back into the oversize tub, dinner clothes and all. He meant the false Cain just wanted women. All women. Any women. The sillier the better, so as to afford greater access to the sweet nectar flowing hot beneath their perfect skin.
Why, then, had Miss Ramsay sprung to mind? She was far from silly, more warrior-like than waiflike, and she had no business whatever strong-arming his thought processes. Given that he was apparently the only one to have registered her presence at the Wedgeworth rout, they were unlikely to cross paths amongst the high-nosed Breckenridge set. And he was unlikely to cross paths with anyone at all, if the only thing he intended to do all weekend was kneel on the floor getting dog hair all over his gloves and breeches.
With a final pat for the puppy, Cain pushed to his feet and slipped out the door. Or he would have, had Moch-éirigh not been of a mind to follow along between her new master’s boots. Thus began a ten-minute farce wherein Cain and the puppy chased each other in and out of the doorway as they attempted to settle their difference of opinion. Cain won the battle, but only just. After securing the door, he leaned against the thick mahogany to pluck one-handedly at the stubborn puppy hairs clinging to his lawn and buckskin. He was thus engaged—though he pretended to be merely catching his breath—when the youngest daughter of his hosts entered the corridor bearing a lit candle.
“Miss Breckenridge.” He bent in a deep bow.
“Felicitations on your birthday.”
The girl in question nearly jumped out of her skin. She apparently had not noticed his presence in the sunken shadows of his closed doorway. Now that he had made himself known, the horror in her visage seemed to indicate she rather suspected him of wishing to celebrate by ravishing her right there in the hallway. He wasn’t sure whether it was good manners or panicked indecision that held her frozen stiff, just ten paces away.
Presumably having decided between abandoning whatever mission set her in this direction and continuing on her path, she inched forward, albeit keeping comically close to the far wall.
“How do you do, Mr. Macane.” She inclined her head, but did not offer her hand. Instead, she lifted a gloved finger to her neckline and tugged a slender chain into view. A moment later, the chain’s pendant was revealed to be a delicate silver cross.
Cain cut his sharp gaze to her face, where Miss Breckenridge’s previous panic had been replaced by a highly suspect expression of wide-eyed innocence. She knew! No—how could she know? Besides, if she knew, she would hardly have admitted him for a weekend house party. And yet, his hunter instincts reminded him that nothing was ever coincidence. Particularly as his hostess continued to finger the silver cross and search his face for clues as to his reaction.
Moch-éirigh took that moment to ram into the other side of the bedchamber door. Cain whirled around to verify the security of the latch that, for the moment, appeared to hold. The puppy’s plaintive cries, however, were far from muffled. Nor were the unmistakable scratching noises of her tiny claws rending against the antique wood. Blast. Cain was not so foolish as to open the door and risk whatever wild behavior his new puppy longed to enact. Nor was he so foolish as to imagine his hostess would be remotely pleased at what were bound to be permanent scratch marks marring the interior panel of the door.
But when he turned around, to his surprise Moch-éirigh had succeeded where Cain had not—Miss Breckenridge was disarmed completely.
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