The Ravencliff Bride (3 page)

“The tapestry suite, my lady,” Mrs. Bromley said, jarring her back to the moment.

The windows rattled in their lead casings when the housekeeper threw the door open, and she waddled through the foyer that separated the rooms to draw the bedchamber
draperies. Still, drafts snaked their way over the floor, ruffling the hem of Sara’s damp traveling costume. Outside, the flaw was in full swing. Rain pelted the panes, driven by gusts that moaned like human voices, and the roar of the sea rolling up the cliff chilled her to the marrow. She had scarcely crossed the threshold when another sound bled into the rest and gave her heart a tumble: a plaintive, wolf-like howl echoing along the corridor. It rooted Sara to the spot.

“I knew there was a dog!” she cried.

“The wind, my lady, only the wind,” said the housekeeper, shutting the door to the hall. “It howls through these old halls in a flaw somethin’ terrible.”

“That was no wind,” Sara insisted. “I ought to know a dog’s howl when I hear one. We had kennels once, fine hunting hounds . . . and horses.” She spoke haltingly, remembering. She’d had to sell them all, and still it wasn’t enough to satisfy the debt. Mist blurred her vision. She blinked it back. How she missed her beloved hounds. Losing them had wounded her heart. She would never forget the confused look of betrayal in their eyes, their whines and whimpers as their new master took them away—a cruel master, compared to the cosseting they were accustomed to at her hands. She couldn’t think about that now else she dissolve in the threatening tears.

A maid burst through the door of the adjoining sitting room, face as white as milk.

“Ah! There y’ are,” Mrs. Bromley said. “Have ya readied my lady’s hip bath?”

“Y-yes, mum,” the girl replied, sketching a curtsy.

A stern look from the housekeeper softened the maid’s expression, and she offered a feeble smile in Sara’s direction, though her owlish eyes were still riveted to the door as though she expected someone to come crashing through it.

“Good,” said the housekeeper, turning to Sara. “This is Nell, my lady, your abigail. She’s a feared o’ storms, but she serves this house well, and she’ll serve you likewise.” She
glanced at the maid. “Well? Set out madam’s nightdress, then help her ta bathe and make ready for bed. It’s past eleven, and mornin’ comes quick in this house.”

“Y-yes, mum,” the girl mewed.

“The clothes the master ordered sent are all hung in the armoire,” the housekeeper explained, “your unmentionables are in the chiffonier. Whatever’s lackin’ will be brought from Truro, you’ve only ta make a list so’s I can go myself, or send one o’ the maids.”

“I’m sure everything is more than acceptable,” Sara responded. Compared to the state Mallory had found her in at the Fleet, anything would be an improvement.

Glancing around at the tapestries hung on the walls, it was easy to see how the suite got its name. But she was too distracted to do them justice. She was straining her ears in anticipation of another howl from the dog no one seemed to want to acknowledge. There was no sound now but the true wind driving the rain, slamming against the mullioned panes, and moaning about the pilasters.

Sara shuddered, moving on toward the dressing room, where her bath awaited. Having set an ecru gown and wrapper on the bed, Nell turned to follow, when Mrs. Bromley caught the maid’s arm, drew her aside, and whispered something to her. It was obvious that whatever was being said was not for Sara’s ears, and Sara left them to it, anxious to take advantage of the bath before it grew cold.

The water was strewn with crushed rosemary and mint, and Sara let it envelop her, while Nell sprinkled a few drops of rose oil into the mix. The effect was rapturous, and she groaned as the mingled scents threaded through her nostrils, and the precious oil silkened her skin.

“We’ll have real rose petals soon now,” the maid said. “They’re late this year, too many flaws. You’ll know when they’re bloomin’. The wind spreads the scent all through the house.”

“That wasn’t the wind before, was it, Nell?” Sara asked.
“It
was
a dog, wasn’t it—and you heard it too, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what ya mean, my lady,” the girl said. “All I heard was the wind. I’m scared o’ it—ever since it took the north turret roof clean off, and blew it over that cliff out there. The master had it fixed, but that don’t matter. It’ll only go again. You’re fortunate he didn’t put you in one o’ the turret suites. You’d be wakin’ up in the ocean.”

Sara would have no answers from the mousy little maid, and she was too tired to argue. The heavenly bath had relaxed her enough to sleep, and she let Nell help her into the gown, and brush out her hair.

“Such a fine color, my lady,” the girl observed. “It shines like spun gold in the candlelight. Most o’ the ladies are cuttin’ their hair off these days.”

“Do you think I should?” Sara queried, recalling Nicholas’s remark earlier. She still wasn’t sure if he’d meant it as a compliment or a criticism.

“Oh, I wouldn’t venture ta say, my lady,” the maid returned. “That’ll be up ta you.”

The decision would have to wait; the turned-down four-poster looked inviting, and Sara dismissed Nell, snuffed out the candles, and climbed beneath the counterpane and crisp linen sheets. The chamber faced the sea, and the westerly wind blowing off the water slammed full bent against that section of the house. The draperies—heavy though they were—trembled against the panes, and drafts teased the fire in the hearth, throwing tall auburn shadows against the tapestries on the wall. Sara shut her eyes. Lulled by the rhythm of the breakers rolling up the coast, she’d just begun to doze, when a strange noise rose above the voice of the storm, a scratching sound at the door.

She swung her feet over the side of the bed, but hesitated before she stepped down.
Rats! Of course there would be rats this close to the sea
. She shuddered. There were rats in the Fleet—big, ugly, hairy black creatures, with long, skinny
tails. More times than she cared to recall, she’d awakened to one crawling over her legs in the night . . . in the dark. Gooseflesh puckered her scalp, and she sucked in her breath, remembering.

The noise came again, and a crippling chill gripped her spine. It wasn’t coming from inside the chamber. Something outside was scratching at the door, and she tiptoed closer, listening. She held her breath. This was no rat scratching at the paneling. It was something . . . larger.

For a moment there was silence. “Who’s there?” she said, waiting. There was no reply, but then she didn’t expect there to be. This was not a human sound. It came again. This time there was a whimper, and her clenched posture relaxed.
The dog. Of course!

Sliding the bolt, she eased the door open, and froze on the threshold. She gasped again, come face to face with what looked like a large black wolf. Surely not! It was a dog that
looked
like a wolf. It had to be. There were no more wolves in England.

For a moment, the creature stood gazing at her, its eyes glowing blood red in the firelight. Then it turned and padded away, disappearing in the shadows that collected about the second-floor landing.

The storm was still raging when Sara woke at dawn. She hadn’t had much sleep. It had been some time before she drifted off after her nocturnal visitor disappeared, and though she’d lain wide-eyed in the mahogany four-poster waiting until the wee hours for the scratching to resume, the animal had not returned. Deep in the night, the howl had come again, from some other part of the house—one long, mournful wail, the way a dog . . . or a
wolf
, bayed at the moon. But there was no moon. Even if there had been no storm, there wouldn’t have been; it was moon dark.

She was still groggy when Nell came to help her dress and order her hair. From the selection that was provided in the armoire, Sara chose a high-waisted sprigged muslin frock with touches of blue that complemented her hair and eyes. Nell had just finished adding ribbons to Sara’s upswept coiffure, when Mrs. Bromley arrived to escort her down to the breakfast room.

Liveried footmen presided over an array of breakfast entrees set out in silver chafing dishes on the sideboard.
Nicholas was already filling his plate. Aside from a polite “good morning,” Sara refrained from conversation as she helped herself to a modest portion of baked eggs and sausage, and a warm, fragrant cheese biscuit.

The table was set before a bay window that overlooked the courtyard. Sara and her new husband were seated at opposite ends, while a footman poured the coffee. But for the storm, the window would have offered a spectacular view of the garden. Instead, the well-manicured lawn was strewn with beheaded blooms, like confetti littering the ground. All but obscured by the rain sliding down the panes in sheets, the scene more closely resembled a spoiled watercolor.

“I presume you slept well,” said Nicholas, breaking the awkward silence between them.

“Actually, I didn’t,” she responded. “I had a visitor last night.”

“Oh?” he said, dosing her with that riveting obsidian stare. It was even more alarming in daylight, but the effect it had on her was the same. It made her blood race, and her heart begin to pound.

“A dog,” she said, “a black and silver dog that looked like a wolf. The odd thing is, no one will admit that there is a dog in residence.”

“That would be Nero,” Nicholas said, around a swallow from his cup. “He isn’t supposed to have the run of the house. He belongs below stairs. The staff is supposed to keep him there, which is probably one of the reasons they denied him. Another, more pointed reason is that I instructed them not to call your attention to the animal. I do not want him made a pet of.” An exasperated frown knitted his brows. His nostrils flared, and his taut jaw muscles began to tick. “I shall speak to Smythe,” he said. “He shan’t bother you again.”

“Oh, but he was no bother,” she said. “He’s a beautiful animal. I love dogs. We had so many wonderful hounds at
home. I had to sell them. That was the worst of it for me. What breed of dog is Nero? He looks so like pictures I’ve seen of a
wolf
. . . something about the eyes.”

“I have no idea,” her husband replied, making short work of his sausage. How fine and white his teeth were. A pity he never smiled. “He walked out of the woods on the other side of the drive one day after a flaw, and the servants took pity on him. You know what happens once you feed an animal.”

“Please don’t punish him on my account,” Sara said.

“What makes you think I would punish him?” he said, his fork suspended.

“I . . . don’t, that is to say . . . I . . .”

“Yes?”

“That look in your eyes just now,” she said. “I get the impression that you aren’t too fond of dogs.” He seemed almost angry, and she didn’t know how to regain her footing on what seemed unsteady ground. This was no way to begin, and she wished she hadn’t brought the topic up.

He said no more. After dosing her with that articulate stare for longer than she cared to suffer it, he speared the last piece of sausage on his plate with a punishing stab of his fork, and resumed his meal.

“My rooms are quite beautiful,” she said, aiming for neutral ground. The conversation needed a new direction.

“I’m glad you approve,” he replied, troubling his eggs with his fork. “There are a few reproductions, but most of the tapestries are very old. My father was a collector.”

“I haven’t had an opportunity to appreciate them as yet,” she admitted. “I shall do so after breakfast.”

He shook his head. “After breakfast, Mrs. Bromley will give you a tour of the house,” he said. “You are free to make yourself at home here, of course, but as I told you last evening, there are certain areas that are unsafe. Pay close attention to her directives.”

“I shall, of course,” she said, concentrating on her food.
He had almost cleaned his plate, and was lingering over a second cup of coffee waiting for her to catch up. He was a gentleman, if nothing else. His etiquette was without flaw.

“My wardrobe is exquisite, Nicholas,” she said. He appeared to have mellowed somewhat, and a few well-placed compliments couldn’t hurt.

“I have jewelry for you as well,” he replied, over the rim of his coffee cup.

“Oh, that isn’t necessary,” she protested.

“Yes, it is. You must dress and look the part, Sara, and if there is anything lacking in what’s been provided thus far, you have only to bring it to my attention.”

“I’m sure you’ve omitted nothing, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Mrs. Bromley said that if anything has been overlooked, she or one of the maids would fetch it from Truro—”

“Yes.”

Sara hesitated. “Am I not permitted to shop on my own?”

“Not unchaperoned,” he said, torturing her with those eyes again. “It’s neither safe nor appropriate. Aside from the issue of propriety, Cornwall is rife with cutpurses and brigands, and I can spare no male escort to attend you. We are short-staffed here. It would be more convenient for the servants to deal with your needs. They make regular trips for supplies.”

“I see.”

“I don’t think that you do,” he said. “You are not a prisoner here, Sara, if that’s what you’re thinking. But you are Baroness Walraven now, and you must behave accordingly.”

Sara didn’t much care for the “behave.” He had an arrogant streak, this paradox she’d married, but that could wait. It was only their second conversation, and she’d already managed to anger him once. One thing was certain. If Nero paid her any more nocturnal visits, she’d keep it to herself. She wouldn’t put it past Nicholas Walraven to chain him up,
or otherwise chastise the poor animal—or the servants either, for that matter—and she would not put any of them to the hazard.

“I doubt there’ll be need to send anyone for anything, Nicholas,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve overlooked nothing.”

He studied her for a moment, and then went back to the remnants of his meal, giving her a chance to do likewise since she still couldn’t meet his eyes. She watched the way the muscles stretched the cotton fabric taut across his biceps and shoulders, admired the way his jet-black hair fell across his brow in soft, glossy waves, feeling them with her eyes, since she wasn’t likely to get the chance to do so otherwise. He was too far away for her to inhale his scent, but that didn’t matter; it was still with her. It had been all night. His angular features—the shape of the jaw and the ledge of his smooth brow were signs of strength; but the eyes beneath, for all their glower, possessed a facet of something vulnerable and sad. She knew it well. She’d seen it in her own.