Dead After Dark (22 page)

Drew laughed and took his drink over to the table. “The devil himself won’t keep me away.”

Freya sat in the window seat, looking out through mullioned windows over what once were the formal gardens. They
were overgrown with weeds and wildflowers now. The full moon rode low over the hot night. It was only nine o’clock. The darkness stretched ahead. Moles were making heaps. A fox trotted over the meadow beyond the gardens that stretched down to the cliffs and the sea. She saw well in the dark, of course, much better than humans. The fecund, salty scent of the sea hung in the still air. Not a breath was stirring, making one wonder how the cypress trees had been bent away from the cliff’s edge. Freya caught herself. She didn’t want to wonder anything. She wanted to sit, quietly, as she always did these days, not thinking, or feeling. They said time healed everything. What did they know about time?

She daubed the perspiration at the place between her breasts with a handkerchief. Even the diaphanous white gowns she wore seemed oppressive in this heat.

She heard the horse long before she saw it, of course. She stood, sighing. One of the young men from the village must have accepted a dare to stay in the house. She thought they had tired of that after the last one had wet himself as he scrambled for the door. He was so pathetic she hadn’t even bothered to take blood from him. She hadn’t been in need, having fed several nights earlier in Tintagel. That had been more than six months ago and she’d had peace and quiet since then. Or as much peace as her thoughts left her.

Tonight was a different matter. She did need blood. Perhaps it was as well that hubris and ignorance had sent this callow youth her way. She’d frighten him, take what she needed, and send him back to the village blubbering of ghosts with two drooling bites on his neck but otherwise none the worse for wear. That would keep others away.

She rose and turned into the room. The dust covers were still on the furniture. She hadn’t bothered to remove them, though she’d been here a year. The only mark that she spent her days here was the bed, which was neatly made, and actually had clean sheets on it.

The horse did not pull up at the front portico but headed round for the stables. That was odd. Usually they left their horses tied near the doorway so they could be away quickly. She glided out the door and down the dusty hall. Dust was the worst of her situation. It made her sneeze. And spiderwebs, of course. Hastening down the servants’ stairway and out through the kitchens, she saw a light flicker on in the stable.

Well, the intruder was certainly bold. She stepped quietly across the yard and slid through the open stable door into the shadows.

The horse heard her if his owner did not. He sidled away, snorting, as the intruder tried to uncinch his girth. The prowler was a man, not a boy. All she could see was his silhouette, but no boy had shoulders like that, or thighs. How long it had been since she had had a man? The parasite that ran in her veins and made her what she was, her Companion, worshipped life. What surer urge to life than the sexual act? So she was easily aroused. That was her curse. She shut down those thoughts. She, of any of them, was not to be trusted with thoughts like that.

“Whoa, now, Darley,” the intruder soothed, in a baritone that came from no callow youth. “What’s wrong with you, boy?”

The horse quieted when she stilled herself. Animals always liked her. It was the energy she emanated. The man heaved the saddle off and turned into the light to lay it over the edge of a stall door. His breeches were close about his thighs and bulged in just the right place. Hmmmm. Interesting. His riding boots were made by the finest of bootmakers. He was in his shirtsleeves, his collar open in the heat. His sleeves were rolled up over strong forearms, and his shirt clung damply to his body. He had blond hair, tanned skin, and very, very blue eyes. He also had a scar along his left
cheek, white against his tan. That might distract the simpler of those he met into thinking he was not handsome. Hunger itched along her veins as she saw the pulse throb in the damp skin at his throat. He was definitely no boy. The lines in his face were as hard and unforgiving as the scar. But his mouth was soft and full. Incongruous. Interesting even.

But she wasn’t interested in men. Not any more. She couldn’t be trusted around them. She jerked her eyes to his horse, as he pulled the bridle over its head. The creature was magnificent: big, well muscled, with a piercing eye and flaring nostrils. Just now the horse was sweating from the ride up from the village. It would take quite a rider to master this beast.

“Good thing you were fed in the village, boy. There’s no hay in this molding old place.” He led the horse into a stall. “You’ll have to make do.” He followed the horse in and took some handfuls of old straw to rub it down. She watched the muscles move in his back and arms. The fine linen of his shirt was made almost transparent by his perspiration. She remembered that smell now, the scent of a man sweating. The throb began between her legs. She mustn’t let the beast within her rouse itself. But she couldn’t stop watching him. He looked up once or twice and peered around. He sensed her presence. He would feel her vibrations. Most humans sensed it only as vitality, an aliveness that made her incredibly attractive. But he shook his head and chuckled at himself, apparently writing off his senses to the tales he must have heard about the place being haunted.

She glanced to a large valise that sat just outside the circle of light from the lamp. No intruder had ever brought a valise. An uneasy feeling settled on her.

Nonsense. He’d be running down the road, leaving his beautiful horse behind, just after he nodded off. She’d see to that. And she’d have quenched her hunger.

Perhaps she should wait and go to one of the surrounding villages for her blood. Perhaps it was a danger to engage in the sensuous act of feeding with this one. She daren’t give in to the rising pressure between her legs.

He picked up the lantern and the valise and, with one glance behind him, strode out the door. He certainly didn’t look afraid. She’d fix that.

She glided after him. Where did he plan to wait for her? Probably in the front drawing room in the main wing of the house. He’d sit up with his lantern, pretending to read, just to say he’d spent the night. A wager no doubt. Which she would insure he lost.

But he didn’t go round to the front again. He went in through the kitchen door. She slid after him. Holding his lamp high, he found another and lighted it, and another. He rummaged around until he found the candles she had ordered—her supplies were brought from three villages over in Tremail, far enough away that the house’s reputation was not a problem. He lit a candelabra full of candles. Not good. The kitchen was fairly bright now. He looked around, surprised. She drifted into the maw of the pantry where the light did not penetrate. The kitchen was the one room she kept tidy. No dust here. And her supplies were in evidence if he looked. He did, peering into cupboards. He found the flour, the vegetables, the smoked ham. He stood, and after thinking a moment, he walked to the great kitchen fireplace. She sighed.

He held out his hands and felt the heat. When he kicked at the banked coals the ashes fell away, revealing the last glow of the fire she had used to heat water for her tea.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured. “Ghosts, have we? More likely trespassers.”

That didn’t seem to frighten him, either. He pumped water into two buckets. Pouring the buckets into the cauldron
to heat, he stirred the coals into a blaze. Then he took a lantern and started off to explore the house.

He settled on a bedroom in the main block that overlooked the gardens in the back, just as hers did from the ruined side wing. She watched from the shadowed dressing room as he opened the windows wide and flung the Holland covers from the furniture. Dust hung in the air, and she had to hold her nose to prevent sneezes. The man was not here for one night, at least in his own mind. He was moving in. He hung two coats and several shirts in the wardrobe, and placed folded cravats and smalls in the highboy drawers. Breeches went in the bottom drawers. She had to retreat to the adjacent bedroom when he came in to rummage in the dressing room. What was the stupid creature looking for?

She heard him drag it out. A bathtub. This was not good. She slipped back into the dressing room. The door was left wide open. Not tidy, this man. He had the tub out in the middle of the old Turkey carpet in front of the fireplace. He took the candelabra and strode out into the hall. He was so . . . purposeful. Soon he was back with two huge buckets of water and some soap from her stores. He poured the steaming water into the bath and took off again. This time when he returned he had clean sheets tucked under one arm and two more buckets of water. He poured these into the bath as well and bent to remove his boots.

She could come back later when he was asleep and haunt his dreams. She was in danger if she stayed. Watching him would rouse everything she had worked to suppress.

He took off his shirt.

Oh, my. He was certainly strongly built. His shoulders were positively brawny. His biceps swelled as he worked at the buttons on his breeches. His chest was covered with curly blondish hair. His nipples were soft and browned, his
belly ribbed with muscle. She should go. Was he as tanned all over as his upper body? He moved his breeches over his hips. She covered her mouth to prevent an appreciative sound escaping. No, he was not so tan all over. Though everywhere had seen some sun. The nest of hair around his man parts was dark gold. He was well endowed, and she had seen many men. No wonder his breeches bulged in such an interesting manner. But it wasn’t just his male equipment that fascinated her. The hips were slim, the thighs flaring with muscle, the buttocks in profile . . . oh, dear, firm, round. Tight.

Just like she felt inside.

He stepped into the bath, easing himself down with a sigh. He just sat in the steam with his eyes closed for a while. She half thought he’d gone to sleep. She, on the other hand, might never sleep again. She was so wet between her legs she practically dripped. She could relieve the torture if she left now. Or perhaps not. She was going to remember that body for a long time. So why leave when it was no use?

He sat up at last and washed himself briskly. She thought she might faint as he soaped his hands and then scrubbed his body under the waterline. She knew exactly what he was doing. She closed her eyes.

Why was she here torturing herself?
You don’t care about sex
, she told herself. It had always been a job to her, no more.
You turned vampires into Harriers, weapons the Council of Elders could use to protect your kind. And making Harriers meant teaching them the sexual arousal and suppression that increased their power. You never took pleasure in it. You did it because your father, the Eldest, demanded it
.

And now she didn’t even do that any more. Her purpose was gone. Her job was gone.

The water sloshed. She opened her eyes. He was drying himself in that unconscious way men had, because they
didn’t know how arousing it was to see their silken skin, slick with water, rubbed down. He stepped out of the bath and turned.

Her eyes widened.

His back was crisscrossed by dozens of ugly white troughs and ridges of scar tissue. He had been whipped. Someone had treated this man very badly. He opened the wardrobe and took out a nightshirt, but thought better of it. He flung it on the bed. Instead, naked, he went to the writing desk and opened a box he had set there. It was a traveling writing case. He removed paper, an inkwell, and a quill, and began a letter. After a few lines, he paused, growled in dissatisfaction and crumpled up the paper, throwing it into the middle of the carpet. He was acting exactly like he lived here, not as though he was staying for one night, quaking, in a haunted house just to prove he could do it.

Unbelievable.

He couldn’t live here. Her father owned this estate, though he hadn’t come here in centuries. She had a right to the house. She wanted to be left alone. She wanted a small existence. She wanted peace. And here this oaf came and stabled his horse in her stables, and moved in and took a bath and now was sitting, naked, writing a letter, and making her throb the way she didn’t want to throb at all any more.

Well, it wouldn’t last for long. She drummed her fingers on her arm. She had only to wait until he retired. She’d get the blood she needed from him and she would then send him packing, ashamed of his fear. If that idiot landowner her father had entrusted to oversee the place had rented it out, he would soon find that tenants were hard to come by.

Drew set down the pen and sighed. How could a letter he had composed a thousand times in his mind suddenly become so difficult to write? What did one say to a woman with whom you were wildly in love, but hadn’t seen in fifteen years? She
wasn’t married, but did that mean she still pined for him? Were their stolen moments together, made all the more piquant by her father’s certain disapproval, enough to last so long? He hadn’t even made love to her. A few kisses, some heated promises, the pain of lust restrained. Did they have more than that?

Of course they did. For her love he had endured pain and humiliation, near death. He’d almost died a dozen times.

And for her he had turned himself into Drew Carlowe, respectable and very rich with an educated accent and excellent taste. The perfect husband, if one didn’t count the scars on his back, or on his soul. In coming home he risked everything. But he was no longer a feckless youth. They’d have a hard time holding him, if they realized who he was and turned him in.

Drew sanded the letter. It was the best he could do. Had Emily’s father turned her against him? She must still love him. She must. The best revenge on her father was to have his daughter in spite of all. She was of age. Drew was rich. Tomorrow, he would pay a boy from the village to deliver the letter into her hands alone. They would meet. He would woo her all over again if necessary, until she agreed to run away with him. He’d let his new father-in-law know just who his daughter had married sooner or later. That would hurt Melaphont. And then he’d take care of her father in some particularly personal way. Not right away. It was hardly conducive to a happy marriage to have one’s revenge on the bride’s father. But he had vowed to see Sir Elias Melaphont suffer for the suffering he’d caused Drew and Emily. He would not be denied.