Moonless (13 page)

“One and the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” The grin twisted away and he turned toward the night. “Though I should not advise anyone who cares for their life to come in search of me.”

“Then you draw danger?”

His brows lowered seriously. “To you, Alexia, I am danger. The very essence. You would be wise to accept my offer and forget any fantastic happenings in your life.”

“And you, sir,” she pointed a finger right at his chest, “would be wise to stop advising me against my will.”

His smile broadened. “I will try, though I cannot promise success on that front. I am to protect you, to guide you, as is the tradition of our kind.” He slid nearer, eyes caressing her face.

“From what, pray tell, are you protecting me?”

“Harm.” His breath brushed across her nose and cheek. “Yourself.” His head tilted. “Me.”

She angled her face up toward his. “You healed me twice. You will not harm me.”

His lips pressed. “I will try not to.”

“Then I ought to fear you?”

“Yes. And no.” He leaned down toward her. “I have not hurt you yet.”

She scampered back a couple steps. “Yet?”

He chuckled. “There are a great many things to dread. I shall strive not to be one of them, though you must bear with me.”

“Like the creatures in Wilhamshire?”

Focused concern—with an edge of amusement flashed in his cerulean depths. “We will have this conversation, but I am needed elsewhere urgently. Stay within your home and you will be safe.”

“And if I do not?”

“Then I cannot account for what happens to you.” He smiled.

Another chill rattled through her. She moved nearer, reflexively seeking shelter, and froze. His eyes brewed, his jaw clenched. Slowly his muscles loosened, his gaze becoming the gentle swells of a summer tide. The backs of his fingers brushed over her cheek, stealing her breath, taking her back to the terrible dark house, wanting him nearer.

She advanced.

He backed away, head shaking. “You will be the death of me.”

“What?”

He stopped her solidly with a lifted hand. “Where I go you cannot follow. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

“Wilhamshire?”

He laughed. She longed for the sound to linger. “Go find
Rupert
. He may need some . . . orienting.”

“What?” She gasped. “You promised not to harm him!”

“No,” he corrected. “I promised
I
would not touch him.”

The warmth drained from her cheeks.

“He is well, Alexia.” He shrugged. “Or will be.”

“I shall be the judge of that!”

“Goodbye.”

Her heart seized. No, please! “Wait!”

He halted.

“When will I see you again?”

He met her eyes once more. Something in the stark pigment of his sapphires deepened. “Soon.” And he disappeared into the shadows.

She squinted into the darkness, anxious to detect him once more. Unsuccessful, she sighed and drifted back toward the house.

No tragedy this time, unless he lied about Rupert. She scowled. She had an angel watching over her—or was he a devil, or just Passionate? Call it what you like, he was incredible and she didn’t have to fear him.

She hoped.

So that led to the question: who did try to kill her?

A cool breeze hit her and she shuddered, looking around and feeling a sudden enthusiasm to be back inside. She hurried down the night path, pulling her skirts back for speed. She rounded the final hedge and stopped.

Someone stood there, blocking the doorway. It wouldn’t have alarmed her except for the warning already threatening to close her throat.

Danger.

34

Being Passionate

A cigar ignited.

Had he seen her? Ought she to circle around the house and enter another way?

The butt lit as he brought it to his silhouetted face, tinting his eyes with a crimson hue.

She fell back a step.

His head turned. Teeth caught the light in a grin. “Hello there, Alexia.”

She hesitated. The deep-bass greeting felt kindly, but her nerves . . .

“What is wrong? Do you not recognize me?” He stepped out of the gloom.

His hunkering form could not be mistaken: dark hair that curled, Roman nose, rectangular face.

“John?” Her hands writhed together. “John Radcliffe?”

He settled back into the shadows, leaning against the door.

“I like your father’s house.” He took another puff. “It is rather the kind I might have imagined for myself.”

She remained cemented to the spot. If not for his easy manner she’d be running. “He invited you?”

His head bobbed, the single earring glittering at the movement, a stud this evening. “I suppose I have your delightful . . . aunt to thank for that.”

“Sarah.” And she came back to herself. “She must be pleased you decided to attend.”

“I am sure.”

“You have not seen her yet?”

He took a draw.

Alexia licked her lips. “She is in the ballroom, undoubtedly eager for good company—”

“I know where Sarah is.” His words were calm, but final.

She swallowed. “You did come for Sarah?”

He chuckled, setting her at ease. “She does not like it when I smoke.” He lifted the cigar. “What about you? Does this bother you?”

She shook her head.

“Good.” And he drew on it again.

She moved serenely toward him now, ready to go back inside. “Have you seen a young man out here, eighteen, light brown hair?”

“Who?” A brow lifted.

“Oh, no one.”

He grinned. “You supposed to be meeting your sweetheart?”

She scoffed. “I do not have one of those.”

“Shame.” He continued to block the door. “Young lady like yourself ought to have several, I imagine.”

“Yes, well.” She pointed to the entry. “I should return.”

“Right.” He snuffed his smoke and pressed the door open for her. His eyes turned down, heavily hooded, nose aimed disdainfully the other direction. She hurried through the doorway, glancing back at his profile. “Nice to see you again, Alexia.”

“Good to see you, John.” She turned away, taking a long whiff of her hair and dress. She didn’t smell anything repulsing. Had he?

***

She found Rupert near the back of the house, wandering the halls aimlessly and muttering something about pretty green horseshoes.

“Ru?” He glanced at her blankly. “Rupert, are you all right?”

He blinked.

“What is wrong with you?” She grabbed a hold of his face and made him look at her. He shuddered, eyes closing, and when they opened, her friend had returned.

“Alexia?” He blinked. “Why are you not in the garden?”

“I just returned.”

“You just . . .” He shook his head. “Feeling a touch . . . dizzy . . .”

As she directed him to the study, her protector’s words came back. What happened to Ru, whatever it had been, occurred because of her. She dreaded what else might become of him if she continued to draw him into this delusive reality.

He settled on the study couch under the glow of a single lamp.

“Are you feeling better?” she questioned guiltily.

His palm pressed over his forehead. “Did I? Did you talk to him?”

“Him who?” She batted her eyes shamefully.

His face scrunched. “The man from the baron’s.”

She tried to look startled. “He came here?”

“Lex, what is going on? I thought we were going to talk to him.”

“Oh him! No, it is not the same person. John,” she grabbed at the false ego quickly, “went out for a smoke. He is a nice fellow.” She really didn’t give herself enough credit for lying. She’d become an expert in the last year—though she wished it had never been necessary.

“What happened to being afraid you would die?”

She laughed unconvincingly. “Phantom attic rats.”

He squinted at her. “Are you trying to protect him?”

She leaned on the mahogany upholstery, gazing down into his pale face. “Protect whom, Rupert?”

“Think about all those bizarre things before tonight—about what happened to me.”

“What did happen to you?”

“I . . . I really cannot . . . I was going out the door.” He glanced away. “Then you were talking to me—he did not try anything, did he?”

“Look at me, Rupert.” He did. “Do I look hurt?”

He focused on the ceiling. A silence drifted between them, carrying her mind to the rhythmic melody from the other room.

“I know you fancy him,” he muttered. The accusation startled her. Had she been paying more attention, she might have realized how much the words hurt him to utter. “Or at least you think you do, and he is no good for you.”

“What?” She prickled indignantly.

He sighed. “I went to your father.”

Her jaw fell. “Rupert, no—!”

“He is reluctant.” He crossed his arms. “Said he is waiting for you to pick someone, and he does not care about money or privilege. He wants you to be happy.”

She had to sit at that point.

“He promised if I become that man, he will gladly consent.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“I want to be that man.” He smiled weakly. “I want it badly.”

She frowned. “Ru, I told you, I do not want to marry—”

“And what if I were
John
?” he spat.

“You are not.”

“What if I were?”

The idea that
he
might go to Father seemed too wonderful, too frightening to contemplate. She pushed it away. “But you are not. And it would not matter anyway—Father hates him.”

“You are missing my point.”

“No you are missing my point.” She stood. “I am not going to marry, Ru!”

He folded his arms. “Fine, but you would change your mind if
he
were asking.”

She shook her head, but her inner head nodded emphatically. Too many
if’s
barred the suggestion, including the murderous little Bellezza and cloaked creatures on a moonless night.

She exhaled. “Do not wait for me. I am really not worth it.”

“But you are! Why can you not see that? You are the first person I played a prank with, the only one I ever told about crying for Mister Flinky—”

She had to smile at the memory of their pet-for-a-day frog.

“You are the first person I want to see every day.” He reached for her hands. “We have been friends so long and . . . and I only want to protect you.”

He would put it that way. She glared at him, disgusted. How could she counter that? “Maybe I do not need protecting.”

His mouth tugged with skepticism, hands dropping back to his chest.

She crossed her arms. “That is why I have Father.” And her angel.

His head shook. “But you will not have him forever.”

The statement brought back another of
his
:
. . . you will lose everything you love . . .

“Oh how I wish . . .” She halted a sniffle.

Rupert sat up. She turned away and focused on the music echoing through the study door. Did any of this really matter—the flirtation, the dancing, the bright lights and fancy show? If she lost Father, Mother, Sarah, Rupert, or Abby, what did a single night of entertainment matter? Was all of life so trivial?

“I do not . . .” She let out a breath. “I do not want to change. I want to stop changing. Let Father never grow old. Let Sarah never go away. Let Abby never marry. Let us be what we have always been.” She met his hazel eyes. “Friends.”

He frowned. “But time will not hold still simply because you ask it.” And then he laughed. “Well, unless you can woo Old Man Time.”

She giggled with him. “Maybe I can.”

“You are so odd.”

She smiled. “That is why you like me.”

“It is.”

***

“To warn you,” Maurine said as she entered the room, bearing Alexia’s recently cleaned gown, “your father’s been ranting all morning—can’t figure out how the stranger got invited last night.”

Alexia paused brushing her hair and sighed, envisioning her protector’s heart-stopping eyes, reliving for the hundredth time the feel of his fingers on her cheek.

Footsteps clomped up the stairs. The entry widened to admit her fuming parent. “Alexia?”

“Yes, Father?” She put on a look of innocence.

“I uh . . .” He met her gaze and smiled. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Are you certain you do not want me to send for the surgeon?”

“No, I am well. I must have fallen asleep.”

“Hm,” he grunted. His eyes accused her of having done it intentionally to avoid the crowd. Another suspicion she couldn’t place crowded behind the allegation.

“Well, I will see you at breakfast.” And he left the chamber.

He ought to be angry. She didn’t like that he wasn’t.

“He’s been asking all the help about the invitation.” Maurine shook her head and hung the dress. “Been in such a tizzy this morning.”

Alexia laughed despite herself, then sobered remembering: she would lose everything she loved, including Maurine. She stared sullenly into the mirror as the maid exited, resenting her dazzling exterior, and yet, if it brought her closer to
him
. . .

***

Just after tea the bell rang. Alexia sat in the overly-warm study reading
The Castle of Otranto
as the butler rushed to his duty. Could it be . . . ?

Her heart leapt.

“Lord Dumont? Yes, he is in. Please enter, sir.”

No. Maybe?

She turned another leaf struggling to focus beyond the midday heat. She checked the windows again to make sure they were open to full capacity. Even in the cooler rooms of the house it was impossible to find comfort at midday. She took a sip of rose water.

“He wishes you to join him in the yard,” the servant’s voice echoed. “Right this way.”

She flipped the page, realizing she hadn’t read the previous one.

Father had dragged Mother and her fair complexion out into the sun after the meal, and though she appreciated that they were interacting, Father’s mood worried her. His voice carried in through the shades. “. . . growing more impertinent every day. If we do not find her a match soon—”

“My Lord, may I present Sir Amadeus Bulfdane.”

She put the novel down. Impertinent? Her?

“Herr Dumont, it is an honor.” A thick German accent grated against her ears.

“To what do I owe the . . .” He cleared his throat. “. . . pleasure?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I have come to inquire the whereabouts of a man, one who came here last evening.”

“What business do you have, and with whom?”

“I am not aware by which name you would know him.”

She could almost hear Father growing impatient. “Well then, what is his description?”

“Brown hair, yay big, eyes—very blue—a scar here, does not keep company more than a few hours.”

She gasped and neared the window, keeping herself from sight.

Father’s face had gone red, and it wasn’t a result of the heat. The visitor looked small next to him, with very blonde hair, and middle aged from the bald spot on the back of his head. A pearly-gray colored suit hung loosely on his bony form, a strange round hat clasped in his fingers.

“What is your business with him?” Lord Dumont boomed.

Alexia stiffened. Rarely had she heard Father’s
danger
tone when addressing a member not of his household. She leaned against the window frame, sincerely worried for the German.

“Oh, it is personal, sir.”

“I am not in the practice of giving information without merit.”

The stranger sighed. “He has a habit of running off with young girls from my town.”

Father’s glare softened. “Ah.” He stretched his shoulders and nodded for them to proceed walking. They moved on, rounding the corner of the house.

“Just last summer, Lorelei—you see—she is my sister . . .”

She strained to catch more, but all she could discern was, “How tragic. Tragic indeed.”

Surely this Amadeus had been mistaken. Her protector, mentor perhaps, must have rescued the girl from a situation of distress or enslavement, or taken her away like Bellezza.