Midnight Embrace (30 page)

Slightly flustered, she nodded.

"You're looking quite well," Geoffrey remarked, taking the seat across from her.

"Thank you."

"Will you have another cup of tea?"

"No, thank you." She glanced out the window, suddenly aware of the time. "I really should be going."

"Please," he said. "Stay a moment."

She didn't want to be rude, so she nodded and agreed to stay long enough for one more cup.

"I had hoped to call on you before this," Geoffrey remarked. "But, alas, my mother was taken quite ill and I've been afraid to leave her."

"I hope she's feeling better."

"Yes, thank you. Lady Fairfax is hosting a musicale next month. I should be most pleased if you would accompany me."

Analisa took a deep breath. She would never have a better opportunity than this. "I'm sorry, Mr. Starke, but I'm afraid I can't accept. You see, I'm going to be married."

Geoffrey stared at her. "Married? To whom?"

"To Lord Avallone."

"Avallone?" Geoffrey looked at her as if she had suddenly grown another head. "Dear Lord, you can't be serious!"

"Why not? He's a fine… a fine man."

"Don't tell me you've never heard the stories about him?"

"What stories?"

Geoffrey shook his head. "They say he's a ghoul, that he performs experiments on his patients, that he's looking for the secret of eternal life."

She laughed softly. "Surely you don't believe that."

He shrugged. "Perhaps not, but there are too many stories. There is likely some truth there, somewhere."

"I live in his house," Analisa said. "I've seen no evidence of such nonsense."

"His house?"

"Yes, didn't you know?"

Geoffrey shook his head. "I was told he rarely left Blackbriar."

"Then you've never met him?"

"No."

Analisa smiled faintly. "He was my escort at your masquerade."

"The tall man," Geoffrey murmured. "The one dressed as Satan?"

"Yes."

"And now you intend to marry him. Why?"

"Because I love him, of course."

"It happened rather suddenly, didn't it?"

"No. I've loved him for quite some time. He has only recently come to feel the same."

Geoffrey grunted softly. "Who can blame him?" He rose from the table, his tea grown cold and now forgotten. "I wish you all the best, Miss Matthews."

"Thank you, Mr. Starke."

He looked at her for several moments, dropped a few coins on the table, then turned and headed for the door.

Analisa stared after him, then quickly left the cafe. She had one more stop to make before she returned home. She glanced at the sky. She would have to hurry, she thought; the sun would be setting soon.

Chapter Twenty-five

Analisa felt a growing sense of apprehension as the carriage left the city behind. A thick fog covered the coach and spread out over the countryside like a dark shroud. Shivering, she drew the lap robe across her legs.

It would be full dark soon.

She glanced at Mrs. Thornfield. The other woman was staring out the window, her face pale, her brow furrowed.

Analisa heard the crack of the whip, felt the coach lurch forward as the horses increased their pace. Home, Analisa thought; soon they would be home. She smiled, thinking of the elegant dressing gown she had bought for Alesandro. It was blue, the same deep indigo blue as his eyes.

She was picturing how handsome Alesandro would look in it later that night when she heard a hoarse cry from the top of the carriage. Frowning, she peered out the window, screamed as Farleigh's body plunged over the side of the coach.

Analisa looked at Mrs. Thornfield. "What's happening?"

Mrs. Thornfield shook her head, her eyes wide. "Highwaymen, perhaps," she replied. "Just give them whatever they ask for."

Analisa clasped her hands in her lap. Farleigh was dead. She was sure of it. The thought filled her with pain, and fear for her own life and that of Mrs. Thornfield. It was not unusual for carriages to be robbed. She had never worried about it when she was with Alesandro, knowing that he would protect her. She wished suddenly that he was there now. He would know what to do.

She glanced out the window again, but there was nothing to see. Whatever lay beyond the coach had been swallowed up in the thick gray mist.

She looked back at Mrs. Thornfield. "Why aren't we slowing down? Who's driving the horses?"

The housekeeper shook her head.

Analisa felt a growing sense of terror as the carriage continued at breakneck speed. This was no ordinary robbery, she was certain of that. And, judging by the expression on Mrs. Thornfield's face, she knew it, too.

The carriage turned off the main road and onto a narrow, rutted lane. Tall trees lined both sides. Leaning out the window, Analisa saw they were approaching a house made of stone. A house that seemed to have no windows.

Moments later, the carriage came to a halt in front of the house. Analisa was reaching for the carriage door when it opened, revealing a bulky man clad in a heavy cloak.

"Get out," he said, his voice gruff. "The master is waiting for you."

Frannie clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. She'd had little to do with the master of the house, and for that she was grateful beyond words. Seeing him now, his face dark with rage, his eyes blazing like the fires of hell, she hoped she would be as fortunate in the future.

"N-no, my lord, I… I haven't heard from Miss Analisa," she stammered. "She left this… this afternoon with… with Mrs. Thornfield. She… she said they would be home before dark."

Frannie watched him pace the floor, his long strides carrying him swiftly, silently, from one end of the parlor to the other. There was something passing strange about Lord Alesandro de Avallone, she mused, though she could not have said why she thought so. Something about the way he moved, as if his feet didn't quite touch the floor. The light of the fire cast eerie shadows over his face and hair; for a moment, it looked as though he were drenched in blood.

He stopped abruptly, turned, and stared at her. It was a look that chilled her to the marrow of her bones.

She took a step backward, her hand going to her throat. "No—"

"Come to me, Frannie."

She tried to speak, tried to shake her head, tried to run from the room, but her feet refused to obey. She was horrified to find herself walking toward him. His gaze never strayed from her face. Try as she might, she could not draw her gaze from his.

And then she was standing before him. She cried out, her voice little more than a shrill squeak of terror as his arm slid around her waist. It was like being encased in iron. She thought she might melt from the intensity of his gaze.

"Do not be afraid," he said. "I will not hurt you."

She stared up at him, mesmerized by the slow seduction of his voice. She could hear the sound of her own heart beating wildly in her breast as he bent his head toward her. There was a sudden pain that was not quite pain just below her left ear. She felt herself being drawn into a swirling crimson vortex, and then she felt nothing at all.

Analisa stood beside Mrs. Thornfield, the older woman's hand clasped in her own as she glanced at her surroundings. They had been ushered into a large, well-furnished room that looked like any other room in any other well-kept house, except that it had no windows. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth. There were expensive paintings on the walls; a plush carpet covered the floor. A comfortable-looking sofa faced the hearth. A large mirror hung over the mantel.

She had tried the door as soon as they were left alone. It was locked, as she had known it would be, but she'd had to try.

"Where are we?" Analisa wondered aloud.

Mrs. Thornfield shook her head.

"Do you think we've been kidnapped?" Analisa asked. Since they hadn't been robbed, that seemed to be the most logical explanation. She knew Alesandro would pay whatever was asked to get them back.

Mrs. Thornfield squeezed her hand. "I hope so."

"But you don't think so?"

"I think—"

The words died in the housekeeper's throat as the door opened. A tall figure stood in the doorway.

"What do you think, Elisabeth?" he asked.

"How do you know my name?"

He shrugged, but made no reply.

Mrs. Thornfield squared her shoulders. "I think you had better let us go before it's too late."

His laughter filled the room. It was a dark, ugly sound, like dry bones rattling in a grave.

"Rodrigo." Analisa whispered his name.

He bowed from the waist. "You remember me. I am flattered. I, of course, remember you." He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"What are you going to do with us?" Analisa demanded, and immediately wished she hadn't.

Rodrigo looked at her and through her, and she knew in that moment that she was as good as dead, and Mrs. Thornfield as well. They were simply pawns in an endless game of revenge.

"Alesandro—"

"He will not save you," Rodrigo said. "This is my home, and he cannot enter uninvited. Surely you know that?" His smile could only be described as fiendish. "He can prowl the outside, he can pound on the walls. He can listen while you scream. But he cannot come inside."

Rodrigo lifted his hand toward Analisa's cheek. She recoiled, only to find she could not move. Helpless, she could only stare at him in horror, a horror made worse by the fact that she could see her revulsion in the mirror, but no sign of the vampire. His hand caressed her cheek. She felt the coolness against her skin, and then he leaned forward, letting her feel his fangs against her throat.

"Do not worry," he said, his breath like hellfire against her skin, "I will not take you now. Not until he is here."

"Please, don't—"

"It is not personal, you understand?"

She grimaced with repugnance when his tongue slid over her neck.

"But I am fortunate," he went on, glancing at Mrs. Thornfield, "to have the company of the two women he cares for most." His eyes narrowed. "I think I shall dine on the elder first, and save the younger for dessert."

Releasing Analisa from his hold, he glided toward the other woman, his fangs gleaming in the light of the fire, his eyes as red as the coals in the hearth.

Mrs. Thornfield screamed and ran toward the door, her nails clawing at the wood, her cry rising in horror as Rodrigo's hand curled over her shoulder, his fingers sinking like talons into her flesh.

Analisa hurled herself at the vampire's back, her own safety forgotten. She cried out in fear and pain as the vampire reached behind him, took hold of her neck, and threw her across the room. Her head slammed into the wall, and everything went black.

Alesandro stalked the dark shadows of the night, his cloak billowing behind him like the shadow of death. Where was she?

His mind searched for her, called to her, but silence was his only answer. In desperation, he sought a link with Elisabeth. As soon as he established the link, her terror slammed into him.

Rodrigo! Alesandro swore under his breath. He should have known! By damn, he should have known!

Elisabeth's fear shone in his mind, bright as the sun at noonday. It was a simple thing to follow it, to follow the sound of her screams as Rodrigo savaged her throat. But he had no sense of Analisa. Was he already too late?

Analisa woke to the sound of a groan, only to realize it was coming from her own throat. Afraid of what she might see, she opened her eyes. Closed them. And opened them again.

She was in a dungeon, her arms chained over her head.

A wrought-iron wall sconce held a single candle. The walls and floor of her prison were cold gray stone. The air was musty. In the flickering flame, she could see that she wasn't alone. Mrs. Thornfield was chained on the opposite wall, held upright only by the manacles on her wrists. Her head lolled forward. Her hair had come loose; it fell forward, hiding her face. As far as Analisa could tell, the housekeeper wasn't breathing. There was dried blood on her neck, on the shoulder of her dress.

"Mrs. Thornfield? Mrs. Thornfield! Elisabeth!"

No answer.

Analisa bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from screaming. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a nightmare. Soon she would wake and find herself curled up on the sofa in front of a fire in Alesandro's study, or safe in her own bed, anywhere but here.

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, only then realizing that her ankles were shackled as well. Her arms ached. Her shoulders ached. Her neck… oh, Lord, he hadn't bitten her, had he?

She stared at Mrs. Thornfield, felt panic rise up inside her. The woman was dead, she knew it; she was chained in a medieval dungeon with a dead woman. Did Rodrigo intend to leave her here to die?