Blood Wicked (23 page)

Unlike Dimitri’s house, this one was not deserted in daytime. Vivienne went out into the corridor. A maid with a feather duster was hurrying down the hallway. “Wait,” Vivienne called.

The girl turned. Her brown eyes were wide and she bobbed a curtsy. “Oh mum, I didn’t know you were awake. Did you wish for—?”

“Lord Blackmoor. Do you know where he is?”

“The library, I think, mum.”

And that was where she found him. His cravat was ripped open and he still wore his torn and blood-soaked clothes. He stared hollowly down at his mud-spattered boots.

“Vivi? Are you all right?”

The pain in his silvery-green eyes stunned her. She’d never had a man look prepared to cut his heart out for her. She couldn’t find words—so she nodded.

In a blur, he leaped up from the chair and crossed the room. He dropped to his knees before her. “Vivi, I’m sorry.” His throaty voice spoke of agony. “I don’t know what happened.”

“You’re a vampire. You drink blood. I know it wasn’t your fault.”

He kissed her belly through her dress, gazing up at her. He looked so fearful, so vulnerable. “That’s never happened before. I’ve never lost control before.”

“It’s proof,” she answered hollowly. “Proof we are not supposed to be together. I tempt you and you tempt me. And it is madness for both of us.”

He lowered his head. Then leaned forward and planted a kiss on her quim, through her skirts. “Heath,” she gasped.

“I promise it will never happen again. And for now, love, we need to be together. I need to look after you and Sarah.”

She rested her hands on his wide shoulders. Her instincts screamed
He is a vampire—it had to end this way. Badly, and with you as a victim if you don’t run
. Caution and fear had kept her alive in the past.

But she lowered herself so she was on her knees on the rug in front of him. He had only a moment to look startled before she kissed him. A lush, open-mouthed kiss, where she slanted her lips lovingly over his, and tangled her tongue with his. She gave him a long, hot, sensual kiss that promised trust.

He rose to his feet, took her hand, and helped her up. And she saw hope in his eyes.

Then she saw a pile of books opened on the long table that ran down the center of the library. One was open to an etching. Frowning, she picked it up to study it. The picture depicted a man’s body, but with a gargoyle’s ugly face, long fangs, and huge wings that were tipped with long, white talons. Claws curved on the beast’s hands and feet.
“This
is what attacked you?”

“Yes.” A smile actually lifted his lips.

She put her hand to her mouth to stop the quaking that threatened to turn her to jelly. “How did you defeat that?”

He came to her side, and wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her to rest against his chest. “With you, love.”

“I wasn’t even there.”

“You gave me the determination to win. To destroy him, I lured him to stand under a heavy iron hook and chain and dropped it onto his head.”

“Heavens. Did you truly go to Guidon to find out about me?” The vampire historian had allowed her to leave his bookstore only because she had promised to return and tell him who her father was.

“I had many questions to ask him, but yes, I wanted to find out about you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” His brows drew together. “What a question, Vivi. Why do you think? Your entire existence has changed in days. You’re afraid, and the council is hunting you. How can I protect you if I don’t know where to start?”

A sharp knock sounded at the door. It creaked open, and a slender man minced into the library. He wore crisp white shirt sleeves, a waistcoat of bottle green, and black trousers. His dark hair fell in tousled curls. He looked like a slimmer Byron.

“My valet,” Heath said. “Hensworth.”

The man clapped his hands. Maids hurried in, carrying towels, bowls of water, a silver tray with metal implements upon it.

“There’s no point in trying to stitch the wounds,” Heath growled. “I told you that.”

His back? Suddenly his voice flowed into her thoughts.
They opened up again a short while ago. The bleeding is only a trickle but—but they won’t heal.

“My lord, I cannot leave you to bleed all day.” Hensworth snapped his fingers and the tray of sharp instruments was presented in front of him. “Damnation,” the valet muttered. “There is no thread. I believe what I need is in the naturalist room—”

“Leave it there,” Heath said sharply. “I don’t need it.”

“The naturalist room?” Vivienne echoed.

“No one is to go in there,” Heath’s tone was cold and fierce. “Leave the room locked—”

“Nonsense.” She swept forward to the two men. “The wounds need to be tended.” She did not know how much his servant knew. She had to be careful. “We will get the thread, clean and stitch you.”

“Vivi—”

“It will be done. I am not going to let you bleed to death, when we can try to stop it.” She waved at the small, dapper valet. “Do you have the keys to the room? Take me there.” Vivienne turned to Heath. She could not stand by and do nothing. “Give me this. Let me try.”

Heath slid his hand into hers. “All right, Flower.”

Brow raised, his valet turned on an imperious heel and led the way. Heath suspected he would regret this as Vivi tightened her grip on his hand, and she led him to the room he had not been inside since Ariadne and Meredith had died.

Hensworth drew out an ornate key and opened the door. The room looked almost exactly as he had left it ten years before. Ash still stood in the grate, all that remained of the book he had been working on a decade ago. He’d burned it page by page.

Cobwebs dangled from the walls and ceiling, and draped the desk. Books littered the floor. He had dragged every copy of the books he had written from the library and had thrown them in here. He’d intended to tear each one apart and feed it to the flames.

Vivi turned slowly, taking in the scene of devastation. “What happened in here?”

“I did.” He pointed to one of the shelves. Stuffed birds stood on it in a row. “If you need instruments, the case will be there.” He hadn’t touched the scalpels for more than ten years.
But he’d always treated them with meticulous care. They would be sitting in their velvet-lined dockets, all razor sharp and clean. “There should be thread in there, too.”

Vivi crouched by a pile of torn books and shredded paper. She picked up a volume, cradled it gently. “You are the author of this book.” Puzzlement touched her blue eyes.

“They are all mine. I wrote six books about the flora and fauna I found in my travels around the world. I’d traveled for over ten years.”

“Why did you destroy your work?”

“Because it was all that mattered to me.” He stalked to a stack of books on the desk. He had to show her what he had been. An arrogant, driven fool who pushed his family away, who hurt them callously. Hard to say whether he was more of a monster now or then.

Vivi moved to him, her skirts shushing around her slim legs. She placed her hands on his chest. He winced, expecting her to push him away. Instead she said firmly, “You must sit with your back to me. I have to try to peel this shirt off you, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry about causing me pain.” After all, he deserved it. So he did as she bid: he turned his back to her and straddled a simple wooden chair.

“I should tend to him, Madam,” Hensworth said behind him.

“Nonsense,” she said swiftly. “But you can obtain a pair of scissors for me.”

“I should at least open the curtains, Madam. You cannot work in this stygian gloom.”

“No,” Heath barked, but Vivi spoke over him. Smoothly, irresistibly, she said, “No, thank you, Hensworth. It will be fine. My eyes have grown accustomed to it.”

With care, Vivi cut his shirt away, peeling the fine linen in
strips. Water splashed in the basin Hensworth had put down. Heath hissed through his teeth as a wet cloth stroked along his raw flesh.

“Careful washing is the key,” Vivi said. “We must ensure there are no fibers from your shirt inside. It is usually the subsequent infection that is more deadly than the wound.” She spoke with confidence.

To Heath’s surprise, Hensworth did nothing more than make a soft sound of agreement. Normally it was impossible to shut the man up. But how did she know all this?

Something cold probed into one of the wounds, deep and hard. “Christ Jesus,” he exploded.

“I’m sorry, Heath. But there was grit in there. It’s … hard to see.”

His teeth ground as she worked. He knew it would make it easier for her if he didn’t move. It would be better for him if he didn’t shout and startle her. But he also knew why he was trying to stay silent and stoic. It was his pride, the damnable pride that had cost him everything.

“Now, to stitch the wounds closed.”

He half-turned. She held a needle high. In the gloom, she squinted at the needle, threaded it swiftly. He closed his eyes, settled his chin on his hands.

Her hand rested firmly on his shoulder. “You will feel a prick, Heath.”

His own prick stirred at her touch. Then a sharp jab of pain lanced his skin, followed by a long tug. He felt the thread slide through. Another stitch followed, her fingers deftly pushing the needle through. His hands were fisted tight. Sweat rolled along his forehead. Normally, he didn’t respond to pain; he could tolerate a great deal.

“Why did you destroy all your work?” she asked softly. “Tell me. You must still be angry if you have kept this room locked up, and let it get covered with cobwebs and dust.”

He had told himself he owed her the truth. Now he had to see it through. “It was because of all this”—he encompassed the room with a sweep of his hand—”and my stupid, arrogant pride that I lost my wife and child.” He paused. “That will be all, Hensworth. I believe Miss Dare has everything well in hand.”

“Very good, my lord.” Then Hensworth was gone.

“What happened to them, Heath?”

Where did he begin? “Ariadne drowned in a carriage accident I caused. Meredith, my nine-year-old daughter, died afterward.” He closed his eyes, the memories tumbling thick and fast.

He remembered swimming desperately through murky water toward Meredith. She was floating beneath the surface, her dress swirling around her. He’d scooped her into his arms and carried her to the riverbank….

“I’m sure,” Vivienne said softly, “you didn’t cause the accident. I know you, Heath. I am sure you tried to stop it.”

“The fault was entirely mine,” he said harshly. “I was at the reins of the carriage. I was traveling to London at high speed because of my pride. My intention was to reach town before nightfall, so I could attend a meeting of the Royal Geographical Society. A competitor of mine, Lord Crawley, was supposed to present a paper the next day. It was on the same topic as mine, a study of the causes of malaria on the African continent. I was obsessed with the drive to present my work first. I had spent four years on it, and for much of that time, I had been on the coast of Africa, away from my family. My work had kept me away from Ariadne for years, away from Meredith for most of her life. I was a stranger to my own daughter, and too much of a damn fool to recognize how stupid that was. It was my intention, that day, to travel swiftly to London, alone. But Ariadne insisted they would travel with me. I forbade it, yet when I went to the carriage they were both inside, waiting for me. My
wife’s act of rebellion infuriated me. I believed I didn’t have time to argue so I took off at top speed. Angry and late, I was reckless. I was like any English peer: I saw only what I wanted. I definitely didn’t see a farm cart trundle out of a field as I was racing over a narrow bridge.”

Vivienne was halfway through stitching his wounds. His story had let him ignore the pain, but it had brought pain to her heart.

“I jerked on the reins to slow the horses. Even then I was too damn arrogant to see the danger. I was enraged the delay would cost me precious time. But as the horses reared and the right side of the carriage began to tip, I realized the bridge was collapsing beneath us. Heavy rains had turned the river to a torrent, and it had washed out the old bridge. The posts under us gave way and the carriage went in.”

His voice sounded so flat and hollow. She re-threaded her needle with shaking hands.

“I remember the shock of icy cold water. The carriage had fallen in on its side and was sinking toward the murky bottom. But the current was strong. It slammed us into rocks, then the carriage began to splinter apart. I swam for the door, but the current took me. Luckily it pounded me against a rock. I grabbed onto it before I was swept away. I managed to grab the carriage’s roof. I kicked in the window glass with my boots, then I reached in and pulled Meredith out. The carriage had air in it, but water rushed in when I smashed the window. I didn’t know whether Ariadne was still alive or not.”

Vivienne stayed silent. She knew he was reliving his own private hell. She was afraid he would stop if she said anything.

“I kicked through the current with Meredith clamped to my chest. The water tried to pull her away from me but I managed to reach shore and push her up onto the bank. Then I feared the water would suck her back in so I dragged her farther away from the raging river. I pulled off my coat, even though it was
soaked, and draped it over her. Then I jumped back in after Ariadne—”

He paused, shuddered. “Before I even dove under, I heard the rending sound, the splintering of wood. The water was pounding the carriage against the rocks, tearing it into kindling. I let the current drag me toward the rocks, but pieces of the carriage were shooting down the river. I thought … I thought I saw Ariadne’s hand, reaching for me. Like a madman, I swam, letting my body get pummeled against the rocks. I was too late. I stopped fighting the water, let it drag me. I prayed it would take me to where it had pulled Ariadne. But it didn’t. Minutes later, my limbs were numb with cold. I managed to drag myself out to get back to Meredith, but I was sick with fear for Ariadne.”

Gently, she stroked Heath’s shoulders. He hung his head. “I found my daughter surrounded by people. The farmer had stopped his cart and brought help. A coachman, bless him, had brought a fur throw from a carriage. Desperately, I wrapped Meredith into it. I didn’t know what to do. I knew she needed warmth and shelter, but I had to keep searching for Ariadne. In the end, I had to let strangers take her so I could keep looking for my wife. By nightfall, men dragged me away from the river. They told me it was hopeless. They took me to an inn, and I found out they had brought Meredith there. She was lying in one of the rooms, and she looked so pale. I sat at her side all night. But close to dawn, she wasn’t cold anymore. She was burning hot and shaking. She looked … looked like the men I had seen die of malaria. She had a seizure. Then … then she was gone. Her breathing stopped.”