Born to Bite Bundle

by Hannah Howell

  The silver cross was still visible, but lay forgotten against the lace fichu of her gown. Her candle listed precariously in her outstretched hand, and she was goggling at him with nothing short of wonder. Incredulous wonder, perhaps, but wonder nonetheless.

  “You have a dog?” she demanded, her voice pitched high with the same level of shock in which another person might have asked, You have fangs?

  “A cursed puppy,” he admitted with another bow. “You have found me out.”

  Miss Breckenridge stared at him openmouthed, apparently content to stand there gaping at him until the small flame melted her taper to a nub.

  “May I escort you to dinner?” he asked.

  Suspicion returned to her features full-force, but Miss Breckenridge was astute enough to realize she had but two options: Give an invited guest the cut direct en route to the planned festivities, or place her palm on his proffered arm.

  A well-timed whine by Moch-éirigh decided the matter.

  She relinquished the taper to Cain’s free hand and settled the barest tip of her fingers on the crook of his evening jacket.

  When they reached the intersection leading to the opposite wing, Cain’s muscles tensed. There had been no telltale sound, no scent, no flicker of flame or shadow, no hint at all that they were not alone—yet his every sense was prickling. He jerked his head around just in time to glimpse a slender woman at the far end of the corridor slip into the furthest chamber and disappear. For a moment, he’d thought it might be Miss Ramsay, but the movement had been too quick, too soundless. The only audible heartbeat had been that of the woman on his arm. And most damning of all: He’d recognized her.

  “What is it?” Miss Breckenridge stammered, alarmed. “Did you see something?”

  “A woman,” Cain answered. “Do you know her? Medium height, golden hair, very beautiful . . .”

  “Of course I know her.” Miss Breckenridge’s lips pursed, as if she interpreted his interest to be of the licentious variety. “She is not to be disturbed. She’s a guest, just like yourself, and the reason I was in this wing to begin with. She has the headache and shall not be attending dinner, but I assured her anything she desired from the kitchens was hers for the asking, should she be hungry later.”

  Cain’s eyes narrowed. If his instinct was correct, the woman’s hunger could not be quenched with anything present in the Breckenridge larders, short of partaking of the servants themselves. “Tell me—is she from the family Munro?”

  “No.” Miss Breckenridge’s raised brow indicated she now perceived him as more of a dunce than a deviant.

  He made no further comment. Perhaps his leap from the carriage had addled his brain as well as broken his shoulder. First he had thought his hostess suspected him of bloodlust, and then he imagined glimpsing an infamous runaway vampire under the same roof. What he needed was a nice, warm sip of fresh blood to clear his head and put his shoulder to rights.

  “Come to think of it,” Miss Breckenridge said presently, “I’m not rightly acquainted with her given name. We simply addressed the invitations to Mrs. and Miss Ramsay.”

  He came to a dead stop. “Ramsay?”

  Miss Breckenridge nodded abstractedly. “She’ll feel worlds better after a good night’s rest. I’m sure you’ll meet her on the morrow, when we break our fast.”

  “Is this woman any relation to the Miss Elspeth Ramsay you introduced to me at the Wedgeworth soirée?” he asked, careful to keep his tone light and disinterested.

  “Her mother, of course,” Miss Breckenridge replied with a little laugh. “Although she looks more like an elder sister. A bit melodramatic that way, too—reminds me of my own sisters. She was in a perfectly pleasant mood until she realized there were meant to be other guests, and then suddenly it’s oh dear, I must retire from the shock, and off she floats. Her daughter is turned out excellently, though. She’s clever enough to—”

  But here Miss Breckenridge broke off her speech, with a snap to her teeth and a blush to her cheeks. She stared resolutely forward, as if determined not to meet Cain’s gaze.

  For his part, silence was just the thing, as his mind was reeling with implications and calculations. If “Mrs. Ramsay” was in actuality Aggie Munro, then of course she’d appear more like a sister than a mother, as her looks had been frozen at six-and-twenty. . . three hundred years earlier. Perhaps young Miss Ramsay was a great-great-great-descendant thrice removed or some such, but more likely she was simply a human lass, chosen for her superficial resemblance rather than any convoluted blood relation.

  Because his glimpse had been from a distance and his quarry awash in shadows, the cynical side of Cain’s personality prepared for the possibility of mistaken identity. The elder Ramsay might well be human, and Cain not the slightest bit closer to his goals.

  His heart was hopeful, however. Too many signs pointed otherwise. That was Aggie. He was sure of it. But what about Miss Ramsay? Since no vampire parents had ever beget a human child, some deeper game must be afoot. Servitude? Coercion? The very thought made his flesh run cold.

  His castle had plenty of human servants, but all of them were perfectly aware of who they served, and how. Any of them were welcome to leave at any time—although they would be psychically Compelled not to breathe a word of the truth and to forget everything they had seen.

  So, what was Elspeth Ramsay doing pretending to be Aggie Munro’s daughter? Either young Miss Ramsay had known all along whom Cain was and why he was so far from home, or else she was an innocent being dishonorably used by an unscrupulous vampire, either as an alibi, a distraction, or a slave. What if Miss Ramsay was an involuntary companion, forced into servitude by vampiric Compulsion? Aggie could have abducted her as a child, changed her name, forced her to forget her parents, her past life, her identity. Being human, Miss Ramsay would have been powerless to resist. She could also have been a food source for as long as she’d been an unwitting prisoner. Cain’s fingers clenched. A harmless nip here and there was one thing, but using thought control to enslave an innocent girl was quite beyond the pale.

  If only there were some way to broach the topic without, well, broaching the topic. Cain frowned and quickened his pace. His desire to taste and touch Miss Ramsay had now been eclipsed by a desire to see her safe and well protected.

  He glanced down at Miss Breckenridge. Although she seemed more discomfited than delighted in his presence, she, too, was an innocent and not to be exploited. Or was Miss Ramsay perhaps a willing participant in whatever scheme Aggie Munro was about? Cain shook his head. Even were that the case, a human girl clearly had origins outside of a vampire clan, which meant she came from somewhere, and whatever complicity Aggie had engendered in her young charge had undoubtedly arisen from machinations rather than fair play. Nonetheless, it was paramount to discover just how closely Miss Ramsay knew her “mother.”

  Upon reaching the dining hall, Miss Breckenridge shot from his arm to join a gentleman undoubtedly leagues more eligible. Grouped in ranked pairs, the guests filed into the dining room to take their seats. The placard bearing Cain’s name was just far enough away from Miss Ramsay that there was no hope of private conversation, although his removed position on the opposite side of the table did afford him an unobstructed view of her profile.

  She was lovely. Easily as comely as the infamous Aggie Munro. But unlike his quarry, whose beauty was legendary, Miss Ramsay seemed wholly unaware of her extraordinary looks. Her soft, red-gold curls framed large blue eyes and a lush rosebud of a mouth. Her gown, although not the first stare of fashion, boasted high-quality tailoring. The aquamarine confection complemented that lustrous hair and the creamy perfection of her skin. How she could believe anyone immune to her charms was beyond his ken.

  Cain frowned to realize that the other guests were, in fact, incomprehensibly unaffected. No one glanced in Miss Ramsay’s direction, much less engaged her in conversation. Despite her being seated between two easygoing lads and directly across from a notorious flirt, none of t
he three seemed aware of her presence . . . nor did she attempt to engage their attentions.

  Instead, she kept her eyes focused on her plate, where she spent the entirety of the meal nudging each course with the tip of her fork without consuming any of it. Did she seem paler than last he saw her, or was it a mere trick of the light? Perhaps she had taken ill. Bending his head to concentrate, Cain isolated the sound of each guest’s heartbeat until he recognized hers. Faint, but steady.

  He lifted his gaze and considered her down-turned profile. She seemed to be having an absolutely miserable time. If she were not here of her own free will, such enslavement would drive another nail into Aggie Munro’s (figurative) coffin. But first, he needed to be certain. Look at me, he commanded her with his mind.

  As before, his order went unheeded.

  He gradually became aware of the conversation around him and was alarmed to discover a picnic had been planned for luncheon the next day. He would need a full feeding to be able to withstand the rays of the sun. Since that didn’t seem likely, he would be forced to remain indoors.

  The moment the meal drew to a close, the gentlemen rejected the habit of retiring for port in favor of immediately joining the ladies for card playing. Cain would have preferred to stalk his prey. But as this was the last time the company would be together this evening, and he would necessarily be indoors much of the morrow, he would take advantage of the game play in order to steal a moment of Miss Ramsay’s time.

  His opportunity came before the players had settled at the tables. Miss Breckenridge had been standing near Miss Ramsay until being borne away to determine which guests would partner at which tables. Cain positioned himself just behind Miss Ramsay. Close enough to whisper into her ear. Or to feather kisses beneath the curls at her neck.

  “Miss Ramsay,” he murmured. She started, but did not increase the distance between them as she turned to face him.

  “Mr. Macane,” she responded composedly, although her pulse pounded louder in Cain’s ears. He would have liked to attribute the phenomenon to mutual desire, but her expression gave nothing away. She nodded in the direction of his broken collarbone. “I trust you don’t suffer unduly?”

  He very nearly gaped at her uncanny comprehension, then realized she was not referring to his swan dive at all, but rather to their previous encounter. “Nary a mark remains,” he assured her with a playful smile, “and you are welcome to bite me anytime you please.”

  The sweet scent of blood teased his nostrils as a touch of pink feathered across Miss Ramsay’s cheeks as she lowered her eyes and glanced away. She was so easy to embarrass, so lovely, so . . . human.

  Never before had the chasm between what he was and what she was seemed so insurmountable. He was a vampire. She was human. It would never do. As much as she intrigued him, he longed to experience the biting ritual shared by a vampire couple in love. There was no greater sensation in this world. And while Miss Ramsay would undoubtedly make a very bonny bedmate indeed, vampiric mating rituals were not something they would be able to share. Particularly since her humanity was one of the qualities he liked best about her.

  Miss Ramsay’s humanity—and implicit mortality—brought the specter of Aggie Munro back to mind. He needed to find out what, if anything, Miss Ramsay knew . . . and then decide what to do about it.

  He lowered his voice. “Have you been to Scotland?”

  “I told you last time I had not.” She raised a brow at him in a mock-disgruntled expression. “Were you not attending?”

  “I was undoubtedly preoccupied with my baser instincts at the time.” He gave an exaggerated leer and startled an involuntary giggle from her. He smiled back to distract her from the import of his next question. “How about your mother? Has she been to Scotland?”

  “Mama?” Miss Ramsay repeated with choked laughter, as if she had not heard a more preposterous idea in her lifetime. “She won’t even visit the milliner, much less go on holiday.”

  Cain carefully monitored her heartbeat and breathing pattern, but could discern no deception. Whatever Aggie Munro was about, Miss Ramsay was not privy to the wherefores. But perhaps there was still something to be learned.

  “Ah,” he said sorrowfully. “Then you’ll not know about Foulis.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Who’s Foulis?”

  “Not a who, a what. Foulis was one of the most enchanting castles in Scotland . . . until it burned down yesteryear.”

  Miss Ramsay’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “Oh . . . is that why you’re spending time abroad? Foulis was your home?”

  Cain shook his head. “Mine still stands. Foulis was home to clan Munro.”

  The confusion creasing Miss Ramsay’s brow was genuine. “Then what does it have to do with me? Or my mother?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps nothing.”

  And perhaps everything. When he rounded up Aggie Munro and dragged her back to Scotland to face the tribunal, where was Miss Ramsay meant to go?

  Chapter Six

  Well before dawn, Ellie awoke to hunger pangs so acute she had to clench her teeth so as not to cry out with pain. She must have been clenching them all through the night, because even her gums were aching terribly.

  She couldn’t recall having consumed a single bite of last night’s meal. The inevitable row once Mama realized she’d been tricked into attending a house party had soured Ellie’s appetite completely. This morning there was no ignoring the biting pangs twisting her insides into painful knots. Ringing for service would only awaken Mama, however, and there was no sense starting the day with another terrible row.

  Ellie dressed as silently and quickly as she could, but caught herself gnawing on everything within grasp—the nub of a pencil, the handle to a comb, even the knuckle of her own finger. If she didn’t find the Breckenridge kitchens soon, she’d be down on her knees chewing holes in the carpets.

  The drowsy hall boy at the end of the corridor pointed the way to the kitchen before snuggling back into a large wingback chair. A stroke of luck. Ellie would just as soon pillage the pantry unaccompanied.

  She had just finished off a leg of meat and was halfway through sucking the marrow from the bone when the distant creaking of a door snapped her back into the present.

  Ellie jerked the tooth-marked bone from her mouth and stared at her red-tinged fingers in horror. Had she just eaten raw meat in a blind stupor? What the devil was wrong with her?

  She dropped the bone into a waste bucket and slid the now-empty platter onto another. Desperate to rinse the bloody evidence from her hands and face before the kitchen staff came upon her, she hurried to the water pitcher—only to find it empty.

  “Blast.”

  Ellie scrambled to a rag bin and rubbed her mouth and fingers with a cloth that smelled strongly of brandy. No matter. She would far rather stink of wine at six o’clock in the morning than have her face smeared with the juice of . . . whatever she’d just consumed. Good Lord. She snatched a mint leaf from a nearby jar to cleanse both her breath and mind of the memory.

  She tossed the rag back into the bin and swallowed the mint just as a small tornado of fur shot through the kitchen door and launched itself directly at her. Any remaining trace of foodstuff would have disappeared under the ministrations of an excited, lapping puppy.

  Ellie’s pent-up breath dissolved in a burst of nervous laughter. Had she known her only witness would be a little tea-colored puppy, she wouldn’t have been so hasty in getting rid of the bone. In fact . . . why deprive the adorable creature? With the licking, wriggling puppy balanced in the crook of her arm, she picked her way back to the scrap bucket in search of the dropped bone.

  Her success in this mission was rewarded with instant abandonment as the puppy snatched the bone from her grasp and shot into the shadows to noisily consume its prize. Ellie shook her head and smiled at the wagging tail just visible in the darkness. How marvelous it would be to have a pet! If only she and Mama didn’t spend so much time running from nothing to
nowhere, perhaps Ellie would’ve been able to have a dog or a kitten or anything at all to call her own.

  She was so entranced by the puppy’s overzealous tail-wagging and bone-chewing that she scarcely registered the kitchen door’s opening once more, until a familiar masculine voice spoke wryly from the corner.

  “I see you’ve met my dog.”

  She whirled around to find Mr. Macane lounging against the closed door, one hand hooked at his waist and the other lazily massaging his shoulder. Perhaps he hadn’t slept well. As she’d also been unable to settle into sleep, she’d spent hours at the window, gazing up at the moon.

  “Good morning,” was all she said aloud, however. Being alone with a notorious scoundrel was scandalous enough without adding the topic of how he spent his nights to the mix. “I see you’re both early risers.”

  Amusement flickered across Mr. Macane’s handsome features. “I don’t think she sleeps at all.”

  “It’s a girl?” She grinned at the puppy’s wagging tail with renewed delight. “What’s her name?”

  He gazed at the shadows as if debating whether to divulge a dark secret. After a long moment, he gave a one-shoulder shrug and replied, “I call her Moch-éirigh.”

  “Mac Eric?” Ellie repeated doubtfully. “What a horrible name for a puppy.”

  Mr. Macane blinked at her, then laughed. “Not Mac Eric. Moch-éirigh. It’s . . . Scottish.”

  “What does it mean?”

  A hint of a smile still played about the edges of his lips. “It means ‘early riser.’ ”

  “Oh, it does not.” Ellie shook her finger at him in mock chastisement. “It probably means, ‘I love calling attention to myself.’ ”

  “You too?” he answered innocently. “Why then, we have something in common.”

  She laughed. “Unlikely. People who’ve never met you know all about your exploits, whereas those who’ve met me dozens of times recall neither my name nor my face.”

  Mr. Macane’s raised brows indicated his skepticism. “I find that hard to conceive.”