Dawn Thompson (16 page)

Cora’s gasp interrupted him.

“That’s right,” Joss said. “Thank God it wasn’t serious—a flesh wound. Parker has tended him. There’s more, but I shall spare you the details. My point here is that if one of your fellow travelers has been infected, it is very likely that all the others have been also. That includes your Lyda.
Now
do you see why I hesitate to leave you alone with her?”

“The m-man that was killed . . . w-what did he look like?”

“He was an older, gray-haired man, portly and balding. Was that your father, Miss Applegate?”

She shook her head. “No, my father is portly, but he is not balding, and his hair is dark . . . like mine, only slightly silvered at the temples. Clive Clement fits your description.”

“Your intended’s father?”

Cora nodded. “He was killed, you say?’

“If he were human and hadn’t been infected, he would be dead. Unfortunately, he will rise again. He is
vampir
now, and cannot be killed except by driving a stake through his heart followed by decapitation. We
had neither the means nor the time to do either out there in that storm, not with armed villagers on the prowl.”

Cora stared. He was serious. “And you say that Father, and . . . and . . .” She couldn’t put her fear into words.

“Do you finally begin to accept what we are facing here?” Joss asked, nodding. “Can you put your hatred of me aside and spend your energy on the real danger?”

Cora bit her lower lip. He was easily read: he wanted her to say she did not hate him. Of course she didn’t, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it. That would only encourage him, which was the last thing she wanted to do. It was best that he think she did hate him. There could be nothing between them, ever. She was ruined. She had nothing to offer a man like Joss Hyde-White.

“What will we do?” she murmured. The soup had grown cold in her plate, and her throat had closed over the prospect of game pie. Joss cleared the soup plates and she called out to him before he could address the pie. “No, none for me. I couldn’t eat anything more. I’ve quite lost my appetite.”

“I’m sorry,” Joss said. “Cook will be disappointed. This is her favorite company meal. She has never had anyone refuse it before.” He laughed. “She won’t be fit to live with.”

“Oh, well, in that case I suppose I could taste just a little,” she conceded, rolling her eyes. He was just too slick for her. She had no argument with Cook, after all.

As if he hadn’t heard, he heaped a generous portion of the entrée on her plate and delivered it with a flourish.

“You haven’t said what we will do,” she reminded him as he set the plate before her and poured wine in her goblet.

Joss filled his own plate and joined her. “You need only keep your eyes open. When we are finished here, Milosh and I will give your abigail a little test. If she passes it, I will return her to you. If she does not . . . well, you need not concern yourself with that. You must trust us to know what’s best, Miss Applegate. Trust me when I say that you were extremely fortunate that you were not bitten . . . that I came upon you in time to chase the creature that savaged the others away before it attacked you as well.”

Tears welled up in Cora’s eyes. She blinked them back furiously. Of course he had saved her life. He must think her a total ingrate. Too many unfamiliar feelings were tugging at her. She relived the comforting warmth of his strong arms around her—longed to feel them again. All at once she could taste the sweetness of his kiss, the gentle pressure of the skilled lips that had all but stopped her heart when they closed over hers—those same lips that now glistened provocatively with wine in the candlelight. The scorching fingers of a blush crept over her cheeks. She didn’t need a mirror to know that she had flushed crimson. Her face was on fire.

“More wine?” he asked, holding the bottle above her goblet.

Having already had enough to make her dizzy, Cora shot her hand out to cover the glass before he could pour, and their hands touched briefly, but it was enough to send shock waves coursing through her sex. She drew her hand back as though she’d touched live coals.

“No more for me,” she said. “Spirits make me giddy.”

Joss laughed. How white and straight his teeth were! He was a handsome devil in his elegant attire, with the candles picking out all the angles and planes in his clean-shaven face. And those quicksilver eyes!

“You can hardly call this excellent wine ‘spirits’—too mild,” he said.

“Just the same, I shan’t indulge,” she replied. “If I am to stay awake while you conduct your little test, I need my wits about me.”

“More pie . . . some compote?”

“I couldn’t eat another bite,” said Cora, “And you may tell your cook that I have never tasted game pie as delicious.” When he nodded, stalked to the bellpull and tugged it, she said, “Oh, but do not deprive yourself on my account. Please . . . finish your meal.”

“If I am to be truthful, I am anxious to get on with the test,” he said. “You are tired, I see, and Milosh is surely wanting to rest after being shot.”

He didn’t return to the table, but went to the window. Frowning, he gazed down at the snow-covered tor, and did as Cora had done before, leaning closer, squinting toward what had to be animal tracks in the courtyard below. What must he be thinking? Were there more wolves afoot?

“Is something amiss?” Cora asked, rising from the table.

“I do not know,” he mused. “There are tracks down there. They could be deer tracks, though deer usually leave a more delicate imprint. No matter,” he said, closing the portieres again. “I’ve given orders that none be admitted unless I interview them first.”

Cora took a seat on the rolled-arm lounge beside the fire, and tried to draw an easy breath, but her heart was hammering so severely that she feared it would jump from her breast. Could he see it? Could he
hear
it? That pulse echoed in her ears like thunder, and glancing down she watched her bosom heave to the erratic rhythm.

In two strides Joss reached her, took her hands in his and raised her to her feet. If he were to let her go then, she was certain her knees would fail her—and if he didn’t let her go at once . . .

“We will sort this out,” he murmured. “You have my word.”

“This . . . test,” Cora said. “What will you do exactly?”

“Vampires cannot resist the lure of fresh blood,” he remarked. “We mean to have her change the dressing upon Milosh’s wound. If she has been infected, he will know.”

“You won’t . . . hurt her?”

“One thing you should know of vampires,” he said, avoiding the question. “When one is killed—really killed—its soul is saved from damnation. If needs must, you may rest assured that there is peace at the end of what must be done.”

Cora swallowed. Her throat felt parched, too parched to speak. Joss hadn’t let go of her hands. Instead, he drew her closer, gazing down into her eyes with a smoldering intensity that drove hers away. The blood was racing through her veins. Surely it was the wine. She tensed and was just about to break the spell, when the footman’s knock at the door caused them both to lurch.

Joss let her go. “Come!” he said, raking his hair back roughly.

Rodgers entered and stood at attention.

Joss strode to the door. “Where is Lyda?” he asked.

“In the servants’ hall havin’ her supper, sir.”

“Good,” said Joss. “Clear all this away, then go below. When she has finished, send her to the toile suite, and have her bring bandage linen and antiseptic.”

“Yes, sir,” the footman said, stacking the dishes on the silver tray on the sideboard.

Joss turned to Cora from the threshold. “Bear up,” he said. “We shall soon know what needs must be done.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he was gone. He had melted into the shadows of the corridor.

Milosh was seated in a wing chair beside the hearth when Joss entered the toile suite. The enigmatic Gypsy’s black eyes flashed toward him and cold chills raced along his spine. He could scarcely believe that he was in the company of the legendary Milosh.

The Gypsy was handsome still, for all the horrors he’d endured. Joss had cut his teeth on the tales of Milosh’s travels through the ages. He’d thrilled at the jousts with death, the narrow escapes, the unbelievable lore and daring feats of the strange, shapeshifting Gypsy. It was Milosh who had helped his parents through the mysterious blood moon ritual that brought an end to their bloodlust, though they were still
vampir;
nothing could change that. Joss knew the Gypsy would know what he was, how much had been passed on to him in the womb. He was almost afraid to ask.

“Lyda will be here directly,” he said. “What must I do?”

The Gypsy studied him. “Observe,” he said, “and do not interfere . . . no matter what occurs.”

Joss nodded. “What brought you here?” he said. They
hadn’t really taken much opportunity to talk, and there were many questions banging about in his brain.

“As you know from your parents, we who are infected do not age. We can only remain in one place for so long before it becomes noticeable, for others age as we do not. Then, we must move on. It was my time to do so.”

“And so you came to England?”

Milosh nodded.

Joss gave a chuckle. “You could have picked a kinder season to visit our shores,” he said. “North Country winters can be brutal.”

Milosh smiled. “Winter in the Carpathians is no better,” he observed. “And they know me too well at home now. It will be awhile before I can return . . . though I will one day. All I have ever loved is there.”

He had a wistful, faraway look in his hooded Gypsy eyes, and it seemed too sacred to probe. This was a lonely man condemned to live out his eternity as a shadow, wandering on the periphery of life and death, hunted by both man and monster alike, clinging to life yet waiting for the hour that one or the other would put him out of his misery.

“Well, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish,” Joss said, breaking the awkward silence. “I’m just sorry my parents aren’t here to receive you.”

“You do not know where they’ve gone?”

“No,” Joss said. “It could well be as you say, that they have stayed as long as they dare, and have moved on just as you have done. They will send word, then. They may have already done. Surely no mail coaches can get through until the roads are cleared. Of course, they will be devastated to have missed you.”

The Gypsy smiled again, wistfully this time. “You are so like your father,” he said yet again, “it is as if he is
here with us.” He laughed outright. “And it is just as well that your mother is absent. I was quite smitten with her, you know. Oh, she never knew, nor did your father. I am quite the professional martyr. But I was as enamored as a schoolboy. She was the most beautiful creature I had seen in centuries. Alas, she had eyes only for your father.”

Joss didn’t know how to respond. “I went to London seeking answers to my own . . . situation,” he said, shifting the subject. “Father and Mother thought my being able to take the form of a wolf was the extent of my infection, as it were. But there is more. Milosh, I need to find myself in all this. I cannot get on with my life until I do. Perhaps you can help me sort it all out—not now, of course . . . one coil at a time, eh?”

Milosh frowned. “You say there is more?” he said. “How so?”

Joss opened his mouth to reply, but a knock at the door turned him toward it instead, and he strode to answer.

Lyda appeared on the threshold, bearing a tray laden with a length of bandage linen, a bottle of antiseptic, and a basin of warm water. Joss took it from her and set it on the gateleg table near Milosh’s wing chair.
Not a minute too soon by the look of her,
he decided, taking in her incredulous gaze oscillating between them. She had almost dropped the tray as it was.

“I thought ’twas you what needed doctorin’, sir,” she said. “I didn’t know you had another guest.”

“This is Milosh,” Joss said. “A very dear friend of the family, come for a visit. He was injured climbing the tor. Parker tended him when he arrived earlier, but the dressing wants changing. The wound isn’t deep, but there is much blood.”

“Y-yes, sir,” said Lyda.

Milosh stood, opened his shirt and stripped it off. His braces were already hanging down, since positioning them would have grieved the wound. Resuming his seat, he settled back, a close eye upon the abigail.

Joss was watching her closely as well. She was trembling as she unbound the dressing; fresh blood had stained the linen, and her eyes were riveted to it.

“Do not say you will faint at the sight of blood,” Joss said, aiming for levity.

Lyda seemed not to hear, and he used the time to study her complexion. It was as Cora had said. Her skin was milk white, the blue veins showing through in a crazed network of spiderweb-like traceries. Cold chills gripped him, watching Milosh as Lyda discarded the bandage, hovering over the oozing wound beneath. Without taking her eyes from the blood, she reached for the bottle of antiseptic, and it crashed to the floor, its contents bleeding in a slow ragged circle toward the hearthstone.

“Noooo,” Lyda wailed. “I’m sorry, sir, I . . . I can’t. ’Tis like ya said, the sight o’ blood has always made me queasy since I was a little girl. I’m goin’ ta faint!” She covered her mouth with her hands, uttered a strangled sound and fled the room, leaving the door flung wide behind her.

Joss streaked after her in time to see the abigail disappear through the servants’ door on the landing, her wails living after her.

He went back and closed the door after him. “What do you make of that?” he asked the Gypsy.

“I will need more proof,” Milosh said. “It could be as she says, that she cannot stand the sight of blood. Many
suffer from this. It could also be that she is newly infected and confused. She certainly has the coloring. I have been doing this for a long time. My gut instinct? She is
vampir
. She may not know it yet. We shall have to watch her closely in the coming days. Where has she gone?”

“Below stairs, to the servants’ quarters.”