Midnight Embrace (8 page)

She jumped when Sally knocked on the door.

"Mornin', miss," the maid said brightly. She placed a tray on the table beside the bed, then crossed the floor to draw the drapes. "Lovely day."

Analisa squinted as the room was flooded with sunshine. "What time is it?"

"Half past eleven." Sally smiled at Analisa. "You must have been havin' some lovely dream, to stay abed so long."

Analisa sat up. "Yes, lovely." She reached for the cup of cocoa on the tray and took a sip. Cook made the most delicious chocolate she had ever tasted. She had once asked Mrs. Thornfield what his secret was, but the housekeeper insisted it was a recipe known only to Alfred and his deceased mother.

"Will you be wantin' breakfast?" Sally asked.

"Yes, I find I'm famished this morning."

"Very well, miss,." Sally said, bobbing a curtsey. "Will you break your fast here, or downstairs?"

"Here, please. Sally?"

"Yes, miss?"

"Is Lord Alesandro at home?"

"I don't believe so, miss. Is there anything else you need?"

"No, thank you. Sally, wait," she called as the girl turned to leave.

"Yes, miss?"

"Sit down, won't you?"

Sally's eyes widened. "Oh, no, miss, I couldn't."

"Please."

Wringing her hands together, Sally glanced at the door, obviously uncertain as to whether she should obey or not.

Squaring her shoulders, Analisa forced herself to remember she was the lady of the manor, at least for the time being. Pointing to the small chair near the window, she said, "Sally, sit down."

The young maid did so with alacrity, her hands folded tightly in her lap. "Yes, miss?"

"Have you worked here long?"

"Going on three years now," Sally replied. "And right good years they've been."

"Have you ever seen anything… singular?"

"Singular, miss?"

"You know, anything strange? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Why, no, miss." The maid leaned forward a little, her eyes widening with curiosity. "Have you?"

"No, not really."

Sally sat back, looking relieved.

"You have seen something, haven't you?"

The maid shook her head vigorously. "No, miss, but… well, I have
felt
something."

"What? When?"

Sally glanced at the door. "You won't tell anyone?" She meant Mrs. Thornfield, and they both knew it.

"No," Analisa replied quickly, "of course not."

"When I first come here, I went into the master's room late one night," Sally confided, her voice low, "to clean up, you know, because I'd forgotten to do it earlier in the day, and I…" She shook her head. "You'll think me mad."

"Go on."

"I felt like there was someone, or something, in there, watching me." The maid's laugh was high-pitched, nervous. "Gave me quite a fright, it did."

"Was that the only time?"

"Yes, miss. I never forgot to clean in there again, I can tell you that."

"Thank you, Sally."

"You're welcome. Is that all, miss?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I'll bring your breakfast directly," the maid said. Rising, she left the room.

Sipping her cocoa, Analisa tried to recall the details of her dream. She remembered that it had been pleasant in some parts and disturbingly frightening in others.

Sally brought her breakfast a short time later. For all that she was hungry, Analisa hardly tasted what was placed before her.

When she finished eating, she dressed and went downstairs. She read for a while, then spent two hours at her lessons with Mrs. Thornfield.

"You're doing wonderfully, dear," the housekeeper said, offering Analisa one of her rare smiles. "I think we're ready to move on to the next level."

Analisa basked in the housekeeper's praise. She loved being able to read, loved knowing how to write, though she had no one to correspond with. But perhaps she did, she thought, and dipping her pen in the ink well, she began to write:

Dear Doctor Martinson: I take pen in hand to write and let you know that I am doing well.

Lord Alesandro has returned, and he has been most kind. His housekeeper, Mrs. Thornfield, is

teaching me to read and write. I hope this short letter finds you well.

Sincerely, Analisa Mathews

She examined it critically, pleased that there were no unsightly blots. When the ink was dry, she folded the paper neatly and left it on the desk. Tomorrow, she would ask Mrs. Thornfield to post it for her.

Picking up her book, she read for half an hour, then put the book aside and left the house. It never failed to amaze her that all this land belonged to Alesandro. Acres and acres of grass and trees, ferns and flowers. It was like a wonderland, a fairy land, with trees cut in the shapes of elephants and giraffes and bears, ferns that grew in wild green splendor, a clear pond where colorful fish swam in lazy contentment. Winding paths lined with neatly trimmed hedges led into the gardens, where flowers in brilliant shades of red and pink and yellow and purple grew in abundance.

She wandered further away from the house than she ever had before. The grounds were not so carefully tended here. There were weeds in the grass; the hedges weren't trimmed. The path she was following gradually disappeared. She heard the sound of a waterfall up ahead, and followed it into the forest that rose up to her left.

As she went deeper into the forest, the trees grew taller, thicker, their branches rising upward, entwining, so that very little sunlight penetrated through the foliage to the forest floor. Sparrows flitted from tree to tree. Once, she saw the white flash of a deer's tail.

Enchanted, she walked faster, and then, as if by magic, the waterfall appeared before her, cascading over a high granite cliff, falling into a large pool that emptied into a river. A rainbow shimmered in the spray.

"Oh," she breathed. "It's beautiful."

Hurrying forward, she sat down on the grass. Taking off her shoes and stockings, she put her feet in the water. And immediately took them out again. The water was icy cold.

She sat there for a long while, watching the birds flutter back and forth from tree to tree, listening to the music of the waterfall.

She glanced up as the sky grew dark, surprised to see gray clouds gathering overhead. Moments later, it began to sprinkle. Grabbing her shoes and stockings, she put them on; then, flinging out her arms, her face turned up to the sky, she twirled round and round and round until dizziness overcame her and she dropped to the ground, breathless. She sat there until the world stopped spinning.

The rain was falling harder now.

"Time to go back," she muttered, and stood up.

Chilled to the bone, she hurried down the path, only to come to an abrupt halt as there was a blinding flash of lightning. A moment later, the tree in front of her burst into sizzling flame.

With a shriek, she threw her hands in front of her face as sparks and bits of bark exploded before her eyes. The storm was raging now, the skies black, the wind scattering sodden leaves and small branches. Thunder rumbled like distant drums across the heavens.

Turning, she ran through the forest, heedless of her direction, ran until the trees were far behind and she found herself in the middle of a small meadow.

She stopped abruptly, peering through the rain's gray haze. Was she imagining things? Wrapping her arms around her waist, she stared at the sight before her. At first glance, there appeared to be a small cottage made of gray stone at the far edge of the meadow. Only she had never seen a round cottage before, or one that had no windows and no chimney. The roof, also made of stone, was peaked, reminding her of one of the turrets at the manor house. The door to the cottage was made of iron instead of wood.

Shivering from the cold, she moved closer, taking shelter from the wind and the rain under the slight overhang that extended above the doorway. What manner of place was this? she wondered. Certainly no one would live in a dwelling without windows or a fireplace. Perhaps it had once been used as a jail, or a storage shed.

Convinced that she wasn't about to intrude on someone's home, she reached for the latch. She was still reaching when the door swung open of its own accord. She hesitated a moment, then stepped warily inside.

There was a whoosh of air as the door closed behind her, plunging her into complete and utter darkness.

And the realization that she was not alone.

Chapter Seven

She was there. He had sensed her presence the moment she entered the forest. It had been the sweet musical rhythm of her heartbeat that had aroused him. He had lain there, his body heavy, unmoving, trapped in the death-like lethargy that possessed him by day, yet still aware of her nearness. She was forever bound to him by the blood he had taken; a bond that could not be broken, except by her demise, or his.

Her scent, as fresh and clean as the rain, was carried to him on a breath of air. Her skin was almost as cold as his own. The fear coursing through her was a palpable entity as the heavy iron door to his lair whispered shut behind her.

She was right to be afraid, he mused, for he was in desperate need of blood to heal his wounds, to satisfy the voracious hunger that was clawing through him, ravenous as a wild beast. Until his hellish thirst had been quenched, nothing living that crossed his path would be safe.

He fought back the need raging inside him, his senses probing the surrounding area. It was not yet sunset, but the heavy clouds hanging low in the sky gave the appearance of dusk. The woman was the only living creature in the vicinity. His presence had long ago frightened away the wildlife that had once inhabited this part of the estate.

He lifted a hand to his throat, his fingertips exploring the bite marks left by the other vampire. The wounds had not healed; even now they burned with fervent heat, the pain spreading downward, sending fingers of flame sizzling inside his heart and lungs, through his arms and legs, draining him of strength. Was his old enemy suffering the same agony? It had been a brief and bloody battle fought in near silence. If Rodrigo had known how badly he had wounded his opponent, he would not have fled the scene. Alesandro's last attack had been born of desperation and a deep-seated instinct to survive. And now he was paying the price.

Blood. He needed blood to regain his strength, to conquer the pain, and Analisa's called to him like no other, warm and sweet, virgin blood, so pure that it would take only a little to heal him. The urge to go to her was strong, yet fear for her safety held him back. Weak as he was, he doubted his ability to stop before he took too much, before he drank her dry and left nothing but an empty husk behind.

Yet even as he fought the hunger, he was rising, drawn by the pulsing beat of her heart, by the glow of her life's force. He moved swiftly up the narrow winding staircase to the top of the landing, silent as a dark shadow. A wave of his hand opened the thick stone doorway that was invisible from the other side. It was the only entrance to the lair below.

She whirled around at the faint whisper of stone sliding against stone. "Who's there?"

He saw her clearly though there was no light at all in the room; her face was pale, her eyes wide and scared. The pulse in her throat beat wildly as she peered into the darkness. Raindrops clung to her hair and skin.

He moved silently across the cold stone floor until he stood directly behind her. For a moment, he basked in the glorious heat radiating from her body, letting her warmth banish the cold that was so much a part of him, a cold that emanated from deep within his being. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, his fangs lengthening in response to the scent of her blood, the promise of relief.

"Who's there?"

He heard the quiver in her voice, the terror she couldn't hide.

"Do not be afraid, Analisa."

He heard the catch in her breath as she recognized his voice. "Lord Alesandro, is that you?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, relief evident in her tone. "What is this place?"

"What are
you
doing here?"

"I was out walking and I got caught in the rain," she said. "I can't see you. Can we light a lamp?"

"There are no lamps here."

"Oh."

Unable to help himself, he placed his hand on her shoulder.

She flinched at his touch. "You're very cold, my lord."

Cold didn't begin to describe it, he thought, releasing her. He ran his tongue over his fangs. Relief was near, so very, very near. Relief from the cold that engulfed him, the seething hunger that clawed at every fiber of his being, relentless, insatiable. A four-hundred-year-old thirst that could be appeased but never quenched.

He groaned low in his throat, a primal, animal-like growl that made her shiver.