The Ravencliff Bride (17 page)

“What are you going to do?”

“Alex keeps rooms here, which he occupies when he isn’t off on business for me. They’ve been checked a dozen times, but not by me. I want to walk through those rooms now. I’ll know if he’s been in them.”

“Let us go and do it then, my lord.”

“Oh, no, I cannot impose further upon you tonight, Dr. Breeden,” Nicholas said. “There has been nothing but chaos in this house since you arrived.”

“I shan’t sleep in any case now,” said the doctor. “Besides, you’ve overreached yourself by the look of you, and will doubtless have need of me before the night is out. You’re a reckless young fellow, aren’t you, my lord? You’re hardly fit enough for heroics just yet. Let me go with you, and then we shall talk. I need to know what occurred here just now.”

“Then I shall fetch my dressing gown,” said Nicholas. “The wound must be concealed. Baron Walraven has just returned, whether he’s ‘fit enough’ or not.”

Sara threw herself across her bed, muffling her sobs in the counterpane. What did Nicholas mean, it wasn’t Nero? Of course it was Nero, and he’d almost shot him. He’d meant to
kill
Nero, and would have done if she hadn’t spoiled his aim. Minutes before, he was holding her in his arms, those incredible arms, driving her to the brink of ecstasy. Why did he stop? What secret was he keeping, and why didn’t he trust her with it?

There was still no sign of Peters, and no one had come to replace him. Sara climbed down from the bed and opened the door a crack. There was no question that Nero needed refuge, what with Nicholas prowling about armed, and she prayed he’d come to her. There was no sign of Nell, either,
and she undressed on her own, slipped on her ecru nightdress, and climbed into bed. She was exhausted, and her head hardly touched the pillow, when she dropped off to sleep to the wail of the moaning wind.

At first she didn’t recognize the sound that woke her. Not until the familiar padding of the animal’s feet bled into her strange, disquieting dreams. They dissolved in the presence of that beloved sound, and she vaulted erect in her bed. He was marking his territory again, raising his leg and sprinkling the carpet in the same semicircular arch around the bed that he’d marked before. Having done, he shook himself, his whole body rippling, from the thick, shaggy ruff of silver-tipped black fur about his neck, to the tip of his bushy tail.

“
Nero!
” she cried, reaching toward him, but he passed her by, and stretched out on the rug before the mellow fire in the hearth, licking ooze and crusted blood off his left foreleg.

“I could have sworn your wound was higher . . . in your shoulder,” Sara mused. She shrugged. “It all happened so fast, I must have been mistaken.” She slid her feet to the floor. “Poor thing . . . That looks infected. Will you let me have a look?” she murmured, starting toward him.

The animal stopped licking his wound. He didn’t growl, but his lips curled back, exposing vicious-looking fangs. He had never bared his teeth to her before, and it stopped her in her tracks.

“I know, boy,” she soothed. “My dogs never wanted to be disturbed when they were injured, either. One nearly bit me once when I tried to give aid, but you wouldn’t do that, would you, Nero? Not to worry, I shan’t interfere, and I shan’t tell Nicholas that you are found, either. We dare not risk it, not after what he nearly did tonight.”

The animal didn’t move. He was poised to spring, though she couldn’t imagine it. Nevertheless, the hairs on the back of her neck had risen, flagging danger. His nails were curled under, seeking traction from the thick, sculptured rug, the
sinews in his forelegs standing out in bold relief. For the first time since she’d met her canine friend, she feared him—enough to inch toward the bed. The minute she sat on the edge of it again, the animal’s attention returned to his wounded leg. There was no sound save the rhythmic lapping of his long, pink tongue.

Sara said no more. She climbed back into bed, taking care not to make any sudden motions. He was in pain, and obviously out of sorts. He was following her every move with his dark, firelit eyes. Pulling the counterpane up to her chin, she closed her own, but she didn’t fall back to sleep again until the animal got up and padded out of her chamber shortly before dawn.

Nicholas and Dr. Breeden made their way back to the master suite after searching Alexander Mallory’s apartments. The steward’s bed hadn’t been slept in, and there was no sign that he had been there in recent days. In the absence of Mills to keep watch against eavesdroppers, they repaired to Nicholas’s dressing room, where the doctor examined his wound, and dressed it with fresh bandage linen.

“Bind it tightly,” Nicholas gritted out. Though it was mending, the wound was still sore, and he’d taxed it. “The bandages mustn’t show through my clothes.”

“You shouldn’t be up and about yet, my lord,” said the doctor. “This here is hardly healed enough for what you’ve put it through tonight. If you won’t pace yourself, I shall have to dose you.”

“No, no laudanum,” said Nicholas. “I need my wits about me now. There is no doubt that it was Alex I nearly shot tonight. I saw the dried blood on his leg where I . . . where Nero bit him. This doesn’t bode well for me, does it, Dr. Breeden?”

“It eliminates the possibility that your condition is all in your mind, my lord,” said the doctor, “but then, we knew that already, didn’t we.”

Nicholas nodded. “What troubles me, is that we haven’t seen Alex himself since the incident. Is it possible that he cannot transform back into human form?”

“Anything is possible, my lord. It’s hard to say what you’ve passed on to him, or what he was susceptible to. In these cases, one thing seems to be the rule. Unlike the were-wolf, the nonviolent shapeshifter tends to take on the personality of its human host. That is to say, what you are in human form, so will you be in your animal incarnation—with the strengths, weaknesses, and extraordinary abilities of that incarnation, of course. What sort of man is Alexander Mallory?”

“Alex is a bit of an elbow bender, Dr. Breeden. He’s amiable enough when he isn’t drinking, but when he’s foxed, there’s no telling what he’ll do. He doesn’t imbibe on a regular basis. At least, he never has in the past while attending to my business, or I would have sacked him long ago, childhood friend or no. Liquor brings out the worst in him. He’s a bit of a womanizer as well. I don’t know what set him off this time, but both vices were working against him that night.”

“Jealousy,” said the doctor.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your wife is a very beautiful young woman. Unless I miss my guess, he is smitten, wishing he were the bridegroom in earnest. No doubt he feels that since there is no longstanding relationship between you and the baroness, considering that you are virtual strangers, he has just as much of a chance to win her affections.”

“She did imply that there was something amiss, but she assured me she had it in hand.”

“Evidently not, my lord,” said the doctor through a humorless chuckle.

“You say that the animal takes on the character of its human host. Nero was in a blind rage when he attacked Alex. Mightn’t that color what Alex has become? Mightn’t it make him more . . . violent?”

“No,” said the doctor. “Any animal that bites is angry, my lord. The man bitten would not become violent from the bite, unless, of course, he were violent to begin with. Whatever inherent traits are at his core are what he will carry into animal form. It’s like heredity. If the man is gentle and kind, so will his wolf be. If he is brutal and vicious, his wolf will be also. The personality of the man will be the personality of the wolf, unless we are discussing werewolves. In that case, the wolf becomes what his attacker is, a bloodthirsty predator. We have already established that you are no lycanthrope, my lord.”

“I wish I knew more about Father,” said Nicholas.

“Researching these . . . phenomenon is speculative at best,” said the doctor. “Most scholars agree that one has to be bitten by a werewolf to become one. There are exceptions to every rule, of course, but you are not one of them, my lord. Neither is Mr. Mallory. Whatever your father passed on to you at conception was a weakened form of what he was—an altered strain, if you will. You will always be what you are. You will never be what he was, whatever he was; nor will you pass what he was on to anyone else. The condition is not progressive. There are no lycanthropes here. I knew that the moment your letter arrived in the post. Your case is quite unique among my studies. Though all manner of similar tales abound in India, I have never personally come upon anything quite like it before. That is why I was so eager to take you up on your kind invitation to come out here. If nothing else, you may rest assured that neither you, nor Mr. Mallory are now, or ever will be, werewolves.”

“Then, Alex will always be . . . as I am?”

“He will be what he has become, yes, my lord. What will you do if he does surface? Will you sack him?”

“What—and have him do to another what Nero has done to him? How could I?”

“What, then?”

“Perhaps . . . whatever you can do for me might help him as well, assuming you can do anything for me.” His tone was pleading, but the doctor didn’t respond to it.

“You’re certain Nero has never bitten anyone else, my lord? Think carefully.”

“No—never.”

The doctor sighed. “You need to confide in the baroness,” he said, “and you need to do it at once.”

“I cannot do that,” Nicholas snapped. “I will lose her! She might even disclose my situation.”

“You do not know that.”

“I cannot risk it.”

“She thought that wolf tonight was Nero. What if he were to bite
her
, my lord? You’ve said she leaves her door ajar. She needs to know.”

Nicholas shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “She will be watched—
I
will watch her. I will scarcely leave her side until Alex is dealt with.”

“Forgive me, but is that altogether wise, my lord?”

“What do you mean?”

“What happened between you two before that wolf appeared tonight?”

Was he so transparent, or was this man clairvoyant as well?

“Come, come, my lord, I cannot help you unless you let me,” said the doctor.

“I very nearly lost my head,” said Nicholas. “I let my heart rule, and I nearly transformed right there in front of her. I cannot stop it, but I always know when it’s going to happen—when I need to shed my clothes and let it happen, just as I know when I’m about to change back. But for that, I would have been caught out long since.”

“And, you also know what triggers the attacks?”

“Yes. Tonight, I was aroused.”

“How did you prevent the transformation?”

“I . . . I broke contact, came to my senses and put her from me before the transformation began. I . . . I couldn’t let her see what happens.”

“That was control, my lord. You
can
do it; you need help perfecting how.”

“My God, help me then—whatever the cost—whatever you can do.”

“There are several things, my lord, and we shall try them all. To begin with, Mills tells me he prepares an herbal cordial of skullcap, linden, and hops for you each evening.”

“Mrs. Bromley prepares it. Mills sees that I take it. It’s supposed to relax me, and keep me calm.”

“That may continue, but I shall make it from now on,” said the doctor. “Do you have a kitchen garden?”

“Yes. Mrs. Bromley prides herself upon it.”

“I shall need henbane and angelica to begin with,” said the doctor. “You needn’t trouble her. I will know them on sight, as well as any others I require. We shall dispense with the hops in the cordial. While it has long since been hailed as a cure for uncontrolled sexual desires, it obviously isn’t working for you. It has excellent properties for inducing sleep, however, which would be beneficial. I would suggest an external application. An herbal pillow, perhaps, filled with hops mixed with lavender tucked inside your bed pillow—very effective. I will have Mrs. Bromley prepare one. Meanwhile, we shall try angelica as a replacement to adjust your libido instead—a good deal of it—and see how we fare; but not in the cordial; separately, taken in wine. Don’t look so stricken, my lord. All this is temporary. Have you roses—the briar rose in particular?”

“Y-yes, quite a number of varieties,” said Nicholas, still dwelling on the angelica. “I cannot name them all, but we have an excellent groundskeeper, Henry Gibbs. I shall introduce you. He’s tended the estate since Father was alive. He takes particular pride in the roses. There’s a walled garden off the courtyard, somewhat sheltered from the gales,
though the wind spreads the perfume through the whole house when they’re in bloom.”

“Good,” said the doctor. “The ancient Celts used the root of the briar rose to doctor infected wolf bites on themselves, and on their animals, and it was once touted as a cure for rabies, widely used in the Orient . . . and in India. Its properties will be beneficial—just how beneficial, remains to be seen. The baroness must have this also. I would suggest a tea made of rose hips—a minimum of eight ‘fruits,’ as they are called, a day, steeped well and sweetened with honey. I shall instruct Mrs. Bromley. The taste is quite pleasant—”

“If I can get her to take it without telling her why,” Nicholas interrupted.

“I shall see that she takes it,” said the doctor. “I shall prescribe it as a tonic to set her to rights after her ordeal in the priest hole. Your dose will be more potent, combined in the cordial. There will be other herbs as time goes on, but we shall not try too many at once. We shall see how each one affects you until we reach a satisfactory combination. I tell you all this, because I want you to be aware of my methods. I want you to know what I am using, and why.”

“Do you really think any of this will help?”

“Not if you don’t believe,” said the doctor. “We have established that your condition is not all in your mind, my lord, but your mind is not exempt from it. You’ve just proved that in the way you forestalled the transformation. Next, we must teach that mind how to think, but not tonight, or should I say ‘this morning’? Dawn is soon upon us, and we have much to do, but first you need to rest, and I need a walk in the garden, if you will direct me. Herbs are best collected when the dew is still upon them.”