The Witch and the Vampire

by Tricia Schneider

  Sebastian sat up, tilting his head toward the sound of his butler’s voice. “And her head? She was injured in the accident.”

  “Mary is seeing to it. It’s not a deep gash.”

  Sebastian sighed and felt his mouth water. “It was enough.”

  “May I ask, sir, why you thought to bring her here?”

  He grunted. “This was her intended destination. I’ve not yet an idea as to why. But she was wounded, and I couldn’t leave her at that inn, where Heaven knows what might become of her.”

  He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her at all. At the first touch of his hand on hers, even through the thick gloves they both wore, he could sense her vitality. Her strength. Her determination.

  She intrigued him. What was she doing, daring the forces of nature to get to his home? Who was she, and what did she want? As much as he forced himself to realize the predicament he placed them in, he couldn’t control his curiosity. He wanted to know more about her.

  “She’s asking after a Mr. and Mrs. Collins.”

  “Mrs. Collins? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sebastian turned back to gaze into the fire. Why would she ask for Mrs. Collins? No one would make such an inquiry. He had not made mention since…

  He sat in silence for a moment, pondering this information while his butler stood by the door.

  Perhaps he should have taken her to that inn. He should have charged the driver with her safety and turned her away from Caldwell House.

  It would have been best for her.

  And for him.

  Instead, he’d momentarily lost his good sense. Damn curiosity. “Have her join me here, Harrison. And bring some tea.”

  Melora followed the butler through the maze of the house until he stopped at a doorway and knocked softly.

  A strong masculine voice called from inside, “Come.”

  The butler opened the door, the creaking of the hinges particularly loud in the silence. Then he backed away and bid her enter.

  She clenched her fists, the letter she had carried all through her journey clutched in her left hand, and entered the room. A quick glance revealed the library. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with books of all shapes and sizes. She suppressed the urge to run to the shelves and finger the spines, reading the titles and discovering new authors. What a wonderful room with all of these books! It made her think of her father, and with that thought came the familiar twinge of pain.

  She forced her gaze away from the numerous volumes and focused instead at the figure standing a few paces from the fireplace. When he tilted his head in greeting, a familiar icy blue gaze pierced her, as if he looked straight through her.

  “You?” She said, startled to see her rescuer when she had expected to be introduced to the master of the house. And then, as with her previous encounter with him, her skin flushed with heat, and she felt drawn to his side. Melora forced herself to stand still as she tried to comprehend his presence in this room. “You are Sebastian Collins?”

  “I apologize for our earlier lack of introductions. How is your head, by the way?”

  Melora’s shock kept her from responding. She stared at him. His beauty was a distraction, but there was something else about him. Something about his eyes, she found intriguing, almost hypnotic…

  She shook her head.

  “Fine. A scratch.”

  “You were very lucky indeed to walk away from such an accident with only a mere scratch. I heard Mary took care of it.”

  “Only two stitches were necessary.” Mary, the maid, had tended to her wound, but the laceration still burned and her head continued to pound. Mary had insisted on rest, but Melora wished to proceed with her interview with Mr. Collins. Too many questions needed answering, and she had waited too long for this opportunity. Now, seeing him here, some of her dreams began to make sense. She prayed he was the answer her dreams had implied.

  “Sir, I do apologize for my untimely visit. I wish there had been some way of communicating with you beforehand.”

  She heard a faint grunt from his direction. “A letter would have been sufficient notification, Miss…”

  “Merriweather,” she said. “My name is Melora Merriweather.” She remembered now that during her rescue, in her fright of falling off that small cliff, she had not revealed her full name.

  “Merriweather?” Mr. Collins repeated, turning suddenly in her direction.

  “Yes.”

  He seemed about to say more, but he straightened instead and waved her toward the chair next to him. She sat where he indicated and watched as he sat in the one opposite.

  “I assure you, it was impossible to send a note in advance. I had no time to delay.”

  “Indeed?” he said. “I have sent Harrison for some tea to warm you.”

  “That is very kind. Thank you,” Melora said, trying to remember the manners her family had instilled in her at such a young age. It was difficult when her heart kept pounding at the very sight of Sebastian Collins. The memory of him pulling her from the carriage and the moments they held each other kept replaying in her mind. And then another memory intruded, and she suddenly felt ill.

  Melora’s throat tightened, and she coughed delicately to clear it.

  “Is Mrs. Collins available?” Yes, Mrs. Collins. Melora had nearly forgotten the content of the letters involving Sebastian Collins’s wife. Now that she remembered, she felt ashamed of her physical reaction to another woman’s husband. Thinking him handsome was one thing…desiring to be back in his arms was quite another. “I should like to wait to speak with her, as well. I do not wish to have this interview twice. It’s difficult enough as it is.”

  “What makes you think there is a Mrs. Collins?” he asked, raising one dark brow at her inquiry.

  Melora stared for a moment. His words did not register in her head. Could she be suffering more from her injury than she thought? “Are you…” She licked her suddenly dry lips to moisten them. “Are you saying there is no Mrs. Collins?”

  “Why do you think there is?”

  Melora’s gaze fell onto the letter she held in her hand. She stared at it. Reading a few of the lines she had memorized for the past several days.

  “You are Sebastian Collins? Of Caldwell House?” she asked. Had she made some horrible mistake? Who knew how old this letter might be? There had been no date written on any of them. Could this have come from a previous owner of the single address she had managed to discover leading her here? But, no, it could not be possible. Her dreams never misled her.

  “Indeed, I am,” he answered, relieving her fears. He paused briefly, and then continued, “But there is no Mrs. Collins.”

  Comprehension dawned. The blush of embarrassment and dread crept up her neck. To her surprise, Mr. Collins stiffened in agitation.

  “I-I am truly sorry,” she stated, suddenly understanding his reaction. At least now it made sense why Mrs. Collins never entered her dreams. “I had not realized she had passed. I apologize for the grief I have surely inflicted on you.”

  “No, no,” he said, with a shake of his head. He appeared to have difficulty speaking for a moment, until at last with a deep breath he reclaimed his composure. Still, he kept his eyes cast down, toward the fire. “You fail to understand. I have never married.”

  Melora stared at him. Confused, she looked again at the letter in her hand. “But the letters…?”

  This time, his head snapped up, and he looked in her direction. She inhaled sharply at the sight of his light blue eyes staring at her. Into her. Through her. Sharp. Piercing. As if he searched her soul for the answers to his questions.

  “What letters?”

  Her fingers trembled as she lifted the parchment to him. Let him see for himself the words he wrote.

  He didn’t move but continued to stare, waiting for her answer.

  “Take it,” she whispered.

  Swiftly, he turned back toward the fire. “What?”

  “Take the l
etter. See for yourself.” Melora’s courage slowly returned. His behavior baffled her. Certainly, she had imposed upon him. Even she could see the rudeness in not writing him to announce, or more properly request, her intentions to visit him. And to have him rescue her on the road when he was quite obviously on his way in the opposite direction was beyond inconvenient. But denying the existence of a wife, when he so clearly had written about her… Concerned over her welfare… Her health…

  Melora could certainly sympathize with one who shared grief such as she, and it was clear to her now his wife’s ailments had overcome her struggles. Mrs. Collins was dead. But why would he refuse to acknowledge she ever lived?

  “Read it to me.”

  She hesitated, her hand still lifted toward him.

  “Read the letter,” he said.

  Bewildered, she returned the letter to her lap. Staring at it, she knew there was no need to read it. She knew all the words by heart. She had read and reread this letter countless times in the last two weeks since she had discovered it in her uncle’s private library.

  “Dear Mr. Phillip Merriweather,” she began, hating the slight waver in her voice as she spoke her father’s name. “I must extend my thanks to you for your efforts in searching for an explanation and a remedy for my wife’s affliction. Mrs. Collins feels much gratitude to you. However, I must refuse any visitations. We do not wish to inconvenience you or your good wife over our meager troubles. We will do well enough to continue our correspondence in an attempt to locate some manner of solution to the blood affliction with which my wife suffers. Sincerely, Mr. Sebastian Collins.”

  After she finished, she looked back at Mr. Collins, searching for some sort of reaction to the words he had written. He continued to stare at the fire. He didn’t move any muscle except for a barely perceptible tick in his jaw. Indeed, it appeared that for several moments he failed to even breathe.

  “Well?” Melora asked, breaking the unbearable silence. The fire crackled to life, and she clenched her hands again, crinkling the edge of the letter. She forced her fingers to relax, and then neatly folded the parchment. “How do you explain this?”

  Mr. Collins sighed, but before he could answer the creaking of the door announced Harrison’s presence. Melora turned to see the butler entering with the tray of tea.

  “Where did you get that letter?” Mr. Collins asked, finally. He did not spare her or his servant pouring them tea a glance, but she heard the tension in his voice, she could see it in the way he held his shoulders stiff, his eyes narrowed as he stared into the fire.

  “I found it,” was all she admitted. Something in his manner made her refuse to offer more.

  “I see,” he answered with a deep sigh. Still without moving so much as a muscle, he said, “Harrison?”

  The butler hesitated after setting the teapot back on the tray. “Yes, sir?”

  “May I ask you to examine the letter which Miss Merriweather is holding?”

  Harrison turned to Melora, reaching out to take the letter she held in her hands. He unfolded it and peered closely at the words written there.

  “Well?” Mr. Collins asked. “Is this one of yours?”

  The butler lowered the letter, handing it back to Melora. She took it, her fingers suddenly numb. He glanced from her to his master, cautiously.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As I thought. That will be all.”

  Melora watched in fascination as the butler’s complexion grew rosy, and he excused himself, then left the room. She looked at the tea, the letter, then back at Mr. Collins sitting so still. It unnerved her how motionless he seemed.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My butler wrote to Mr. Merriweather with concerns over his wife, not mine. Embarrassment led him to falsify his name.”

  She reached out her trembling hands for the steaming cup the butler had left her, then thought better of it. How could she hold a delicate cup of tea at a time such as this? “That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Melora stated, standing in frustration. “Are you telling me you didn’t write these letters at all? It was some sort of hoax?”

  “It was no hoax, Miss Merriweather,” he stated, calmly. Melora took a step closer to the fire, nearing him, watching in fascination as he spoke with not a care in the world, and yet his right hand was white knuckled over the arm of the chair.

  “Your butler has a wife who suffers from a mad blood disorder? One that requires her to travel to London once a month, most commonly at the rising of the full moon?”

  She watched his knuckles spasm. He stood, then turned away from her. He walked several steps to the window. Pushing back the drapery, he looked out into the snowy darkness.

  “How many of these letters have you discovered?”

  “How many were there?”

  He chuckled, throwing her a quick glance. “How should I know? I did not write them.”

  “Indeed?” Melora asked, forcing a smile to her stiff lips. Why did he continue to lie? What was he hiding? “Then why is it, sir, you were on your way to London tonight when you encountered my unfortunate carriage? Tomorrow night is the full moon, and your butler and his ill wife remain here at Caldwell House.”

  Chapter Two

  Sebastian strained against the trembling that consumed his entire body. The delicious fragrance of her blood drifted in the air, even after he placed distance between them. Of course, it did not help that every so often she took small steps toward him, advancing on him, as if she were a predator and he the vulnerable prey.

  The irony of that particular thought made him grin, sadly.

  Another whiff of lavender wafted to his nostrils. That and the subtler aroma of her skin beneath the scented soap she favored. Bare skin, with blood pumping so strongly beneath its soft surface. She smelled of fear, confusion and anger. Her emotions mixed like a delectable cloud wrapping around him, enveloping him and making him forget who and what he was and, more importantly, where he was. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply but trying so desperately not to inhale her scent.

  “Did you hear me?” The anger in her voice preceded another wave of the heated aroma of her skin.

  “Yes,” he stated, calmly. If only he could feel as controlled as his voice. Such practice it had taken him, years upon years to master the even tones, to deceive those with whom he spoke, to conceal the truth. “Is he your brother or your father?”

  “What?”

  Her confusion mirrored her voice. She had such an expressive voice. If he didn’t have the ability to smell her he would still be able to tell what she was thinking or feeling simply from the dulcet tones of her tender voice. He had no need to see her when he could listen to her. With that, he could paint a picture of what she looked like in his mind. She was young. Early to mid-twenties. Much too young for him to take. Too pure. Innocent.

  Oh, God, how she must taste! His stomach clenched with desire, but he pushed it away, focusing on their conversation.

  “Phillip,” he said, forcing a masking smile over his lips. “Is he your brother or your father?”

  “My father,” she stated, her voice suddenly a soft whisper. He could hear her. His eyes might fail him, but his hearing was beyond excellent. “He was my father.”

  Sebastian turned.

  The grief poured from her, spilling onto him, quelling his hunger. He could not keep the surprise out of his controlled voice. “Was? He’s dead? How?”

  A slight whimper escaped her. Through his cloudy vision he saw her figure waver, and he realized, with quiet dread, what was about to occur. He moved, his body reacting before he could argue with the logic of his brain. When he reached her, he found her trembling, and he knew it was not from the cold of her journey. He caught her just before her wobbly knees gave out beneath her.

  “Forgive me,” he said, urging his voice back into the calm timbre he used so often when dealing with such as she. But as soon as he touched her, he realized with shock she wasn’t like the rest.

  Tingles eru
pted from his fingertips and traveled up his arms into his neck and chest, stabbing him with liquid fire. It spread through him like warm wine. He realized when he had touched her before it had never been skin on skin. His gloves had protected him…and her. He pulled her close, breathing her scent, tasting it on his tongue.

  He wanted more. So much more...

  As he held her tightly, his hand found the skin of her neck. Her pulse beat wildly against his fingers, tempting him with the gift of her blood. With clenched teeth, he moved past her neck and onto her face. His cloudy eyes observed only a blur, but as his fingers drifted over the smooth skin of her cheekbones, the delicate arch of her brows, the butterfly wings of her lashes, and onto the bridge of her nose, he could see a better picture of her in his mind’s eye.

  She was beautiful. More beautiful than he had imagined.

  His fingertips touched her lips. He felt the air stir with her gasp as her lips parted in surprise.

  His gut spasmed with renewed hunger. His teeth ached, pressing against his upper lip. His mouth watered for a taste of her. And his manhood throbbed with sudden passion. He wanted her.

  All of her.

  He closed his eyes, forcing himself to the stillness of control.

  Release her, he told himself. Release her and all will be well. And then that other part of him, the demon that consumed him every month, whispered in his ear, “Taste her. See if she tastes as wonderful as she smells.” With a groan turning quickly into a roar, he released her and stepped away. He staggered toward the fireplace, grasping tightly onto the mantel for his very survival.

  For her survival.

  “What?” she asked, in the softest whisper. “What happened?” Surprisingly, he heard no fear, only curiosity.

  What happened? He mocked, silently. I very nearly ate you. “Nothing,” he muttered, instead. “Nothing at all.”

  ****

  How untrue, she thought. She rubbed her arms, clasping them close to her chest as she fought to ease her sudden gasp for air. She watched in horror as he grasped the mantel, his obvious control slipping away as he struggled to contain whatever it was that had flitted across his face only a moment ago.