Dawn Thompson (11 page)

“Yes, sir,” she said, visibly disappointed.

“You have no idea what has become of the others in that coach?”

“N-no sir, like I said, they was gone when I come to.”

“You were on your way to Gretna Green?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“In such a storm?”

“It wasn’t stormin’ so when we left the manor, sir,” said the abigail.

“Hmmm. What was the press?”

“Oh, I couldn’t carry tales, sir,” she said, spine stiffening until the wing chair creaked beneath her. “The particulars would be up to young miss ta tell.”

“I wish my servants were so disciplined. I did not mean to pry. If I was mistaken about you, I might also
have been mistaken about your traveling companions. I do not like surprises, Lyda. If such is the case, and they, too, turn up on my doorstep, I need to know something of the situation, since I do not believe your charge was at all comfortable with it.”

“Still, you’ll have to have it from young miss, sir,” said Lyda unequivocally. “It isn’t my place to carry tales. Besides . . . if I did, and they do come, I would have ta answer for it, wouldn’t I.”

She was afraid. That was obvious. Joss wouldn’t press her. He had too many other situations to deal with at present. One of them, Rodgers, the footman, appeared in the study doorway.

“This is Lyda, Rodgers,” Joss said. “Take her below, introduce her to the others, and see that she is refreshed and fed and that accommodations are made ready for her.” He turned to the abigail. “Cook is a gifted herbalist,” he said. “She will make preparations for your wound, but I must insist that you tend it yourself . . . in case of infection, since she handles the food. Now then, you are dismissed. Run on with Rodgers here, and stay below stairs until I summon you.”

Lyda sketched a curtsy, but Joss’s voice boomed through the study, arresting the footman before she reached the threshold. “Not you, Rodgers, he called out. “I would speak with you here in half an hour. Do be punctual. Carry on.”

Three urgent interviews ahead and the morning was wearing on. It was going to be a long day.

Parker was busy hanging some of Joss’s things in the armoire when Joss entered the yellow suite; the man was never lazing idle. The valet left the chore, shuffled into the sitting room and took a seat on the lounge as Joss directed. Would that all his servants behaved with such obedience.

“Parker, now that Bates has left us, I’m going to have to . . . expand your duties, at least until I can hire another butler.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joss cleared his voice and began to pace, his hands clasped behind him. “Not just your physical duties, old boy,” he went on. “Bates was privy to certain . . . situations that no one else had knowledge of, situations that I find I must now entrust to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“First of all, I have to swear you to secrecy,” Joss said. “What I am about to tell you must not go beyond these rooms or we will have a panic. It is not a new situation. It has existed since the year before I was born, so you may
rest assured that you are in no danger. If you were going to come to harm from it, you would have done long since. That is not to say that there is no danger, which is why I must make you aware. If you know what we are facing, there will be less chance of you blundering into what could well be a life-threatening situation—just as poor Bates has done, and he
was
aware.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the valet, “but I believe I already know much of what you wish to confide . . . concerning your good parents . . . and yourself, sir. About the affliction.”

Joss stopped in his tracks and stared at Parker, slack jawed. “Bates
told
you?” He was incredulous.

Parker smiled and shook his head. “No, sir, he did not,” he said. “And he never knew that I was aware. The servants in a house oftentimes know more of what goes on in it than the master and mistress. Things . . . happen in a house that couldn’t happen without the servants. Sometimes, they see or hear things, and sometimes they just
know
.”

“Are the others aware as well?” said Joss.

Again the valet shook his head. “The women are too busy—too frivolous to notice, and Rodgers is too jinglebrained. I am not untouched by the . . . infected myself. Not personally, of course, but one killed my grandniece in London fifteen years ago. I am well able to part wheat from chaff, if you take my meaning. If I thought there would be danger, I would have left long ago. Your secret is quite safe with me, sir.”

“Well, that you have an understanding of the situation is a load off my mind, at least, Parker, but there is more that I must confide of an immediate nature. Please bear with me. It is not easy, this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Knowing as you do, I am surprised at you for going against my orders in regard to admitting folk to the Abbey.”

“But the vicar, sir! How could I not admit
him
in such a storm?”

“The vicar has brought with him someone whom I am all but certain has been . . . infected. It is my father’s word, that, for lack of a better one, for it is a disease—we have always considered it so.”

“Sir?”

“I would be willing to wager my entire inheritance that Lyda Bartholomew has been infected, and you have let her in. Reputedly the only way a vampire may enter a residence is by invitation.”

The valet stared.

“That is right,” said Joss, answering Parker’s shocked silence. “She is now anxious to see her charge—too anxious—and I do not believe Miss Applegate will be safe in her care.”

“Oh, sir, I am so dreadfully sorry! H-how can you be sure?”

“I cannot be sure, Parker; that is the problem. It may take a disaster, as if we can bear more, to be sure. Do you begin to see why we are having this interview?”

“Y-yes, sir . . . but what makes you think it . . . that she is a . . . a . . .
vampire?
” He whispered the last.

“Every occupant of that coach except for Miss Applegate was dead, when I reached it. I would stake my life upon it. A wild dog was feeding upon them. I chased it off, only it wasn’t a dog, it was a wolf. The coachman you had below stairs was
vampir,
there is no question. He tried twice to attack Miss Applegate, and I watched him shapeshift into the form of a wolf that attacked me
when we went to collect the bodies. I believe it was the same wolf that savaged the others.”

“He didn’t bite you, sir? Please say not!”

“No, he did not, but it was he who crashed through that window you have just boarded up yonder, then shifted into the form of a bat. He could be in this house, or anywhere. Believe me, he is alive.”

“Oh, sir, I had no idea. . . .”

“Well, you needs must look sharp now,” said Joss. “Miss Applegate was safe while I was standing guard. Once I admit Lyda to her rooms . . . Well, I think you take my meaning.”

“Will you make the young miss aware, sir?”

“Yes, but the young miss does not trust me, Parker. I am going now to put the fear of God into Rodgers about his wagging tongue, then I will speak with her. What I need from you is absolute confidence . . . and looking after when I am in my other incarnation, if you take my meaning.”

“Yes, sir, I do, and you have my word. If I may be so bold, sir . . . your other incarnation. Is that the extent of your infection?”

“I do not know, Parker. That is why I went to London. I just do not know.”

Joss dragged himself back up the staircase after his interview with the next servant on his list, Rodgers. Had his talk with the loose-tongued footman done a whit of good? He had no inkling. It was like conversing with the air. He had never thought the footman simple-minded, but those views were changing. Had he gotten through to the man? Doubtful. He should have sacked him—would have, if he had dared hire another. That
he couldn’t do—not now, as things were, though he had threatened to do just that if any more tales were carried. Things would just have to stay as they were for now. The most dreaded interview still lay before him, and he was anything but ready for it.

Raking his hair back, he squared his posture, shrugged his shirt into place and ordered his buckskins, then rapped on the door of his suite and waited.

“It is I, Miss Applegate,” he said. No answer came. He was just about to knock again, when the sound of the bolt being thrown open on the other side shot him through with an unexpected thrill. He was as giddy as a schoolboy in this woman’s presence, as malleable as putty in her hands. The trick was not to let her know it.

The sight of her took his breath away. He’d forgotten that he’d brought her traveling bags back from the coach in the sledge. She had dressed in a wool crepe frock of cornflower blue that precisely matched her eyes. It lacked whatever underpinning ladies employed to make their skirts bloom around them; that had been consigned to the fire with the rest of the things she’d arrived in, but its loss posed no hardship. He’d always believed those who dictated fashion had designed the hoop and such to the sole purpose of keeping men at their distance. The fashions of the day screamed “keep away,” as opposed to the soft, slender welcoming flutters of muslin and silk he recalled his mother floating about in so gracefully. No, the lack of underpinnings was no hardship. Cora was exquisite, with her long chestnut hair falling like a curtain about her in silken waves and tendrils. The hairbrush in her hand as she stepped aside to admit him suggested that she was attempting to order it when he knocked. He was glad he
had interrupted her toilette. She was breathtaking as she was, like something feral and wild; a nymph of the forest.

He crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him, keeping a close eye upon the potential weapon in her hand.

“Is something amiss?” she said.

“Amiss?”

“You are staring, sir.”

“Ahhh! Forgive me,” he gushed. “I’d forgotten I brought your bags back from the carriage. That color blue becomes you.”

“Have you come to let me out of prison?”

“You are no prisoner here, Miss Applegate,” he said dejectedly. “Won’t you sit down? There is something we need to discuss, something you’d best be seated to hear.”

“I shall have it on my feet, if you please,” she said. “Do I appear the shrinking violet to you, sir?”

“Hardly.” He frowned. Doing so puckered his scalp, where the wound was still too new to risk taxing, and he winced. “But this is something that stopped me in
my
tracks, and I believe it will affect you more severely.”

“Try me.”

How gorgeous she was with her eyes snapping like that, flashing blue fire. And where did roses come from in the snow? He breathed her in deeply. Of course it was impossible. What had he to offer her as he was—neither man nor beast?

He gave a deep nod, a close eye again upon the silver hairbrush in her tiny fist. “Do you remember my telling you that your traveling companions were all dead when I found the coach?”

“I do. What of it?”

“And do you also remember that when I returned to fetch the bodies, they were gone?”

“What? Have you found them now? You were afraid I’d swoon at that?”

“Not . . . exactly.”

“Well, what then?”

Joss swallowed hard. “The vicar has come,” he said. “He has brought your abigail, Lyda Bartholomew, and she is very much alive.”

“
Lyda
. . . ali—?” She swayed as if he’d struck her. It was as if her knees had given way. Reaching for her was spontaneous, but when Joss took her in his arms, she raised the hairbrush and began to strike him with it.

“Enough!” he thundered, wresting the brush from her hand. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her to the bed and sat down upon it. Flipping her over his knees, he raised the brush and paddled her behind. “In my opinion, miss, this is much overdue,” he said. “Obstreperous children need correction. Since you put this ugly dent in my head and marked me for life, I have been of the opinion that a sound spanking would benefit you immensely. Hold still, or it will take longer. I like this no better than you do, but believe me it is for your own good! We have a serious situation here that could be life threatening. We need to be allies here now, not enemies. How else am I to make you see it? I have tried kindness, reason, and respect and gotten naught for my pains but battle scars. You have brought this down upon your own head, miss!”

“Stop! Please . . .
stop,
” she sobbed.

He gave her one final spank and let her go. He hadn’t hurt her body, just her pride, though she scrambled off his lap, tears streaming down her red-splotched cheeks,
and backed away from him, rubbing her behind through the blue wool frock. In that moment, despite his exasperation, she was the loveliest creature he had ever seen, and he threw down the brush, surged to his feet and took her in his arms.

This time she did not pummel him with her tiny fists, or drub his shins, or reach for some inanimate object to crown him with. She sobbed her heart dry, her tears soaking his Egyptian cotton shirtfront. His hands soothed her gently, lost in the fragrant fall of hair tumbling over them, which only served to wrench more sobs from her. Perhaps this was just what she needed to exorcise whatever demons she was battling.

After a moment of this heaven, one of her tiny hands came to rest over his thumping heart, and he was undone. Trembling fingers lifted her chin, and he swooped down and took her lips in a hungry kiss, tasting her honey sweetness deeply. As their tongues entwined, he groaned. A similar sound escaped from her throat, more a gasp than a groan that set off a firestorm in his loins. Was he dreaming? No, he tasted the salt of her tears, and his heart leapt as his own eyes misted. What terrible ordeal had she suffered to bring her to such a state? She had aroused him—again! What was she, a sorceress? That notwithstanding, what she needed more than anything was comfort.

To his horror, pressure above his canine teeth began. The fangs! Though he had no desire to use them, they were descending, and he drew his lips away from hers and held her head against his chest, diverting her eyes while he strained, not even knowing how to force the deadly fangs back before she saw them. What if he couldn’t? That thought was too terrible to think, and he drove it back. Mercifully, the fangs went with it. Dared
he kiss her again? He longed to, but he couldn’t chance it. What was he playing at? What could he be thinking? It was hopeless, he’d just proven that, but oh, how he wanted to taste those velvet petal lips again, to feel the soft, malleable pressure of her perfect body molded to his muscled hardness, and the gentle flutter of her heart against his like the wings of a butterfly.