Darkness In The Flames (32 page)

Luckily a reasonably well-kept road led away from the inn. It was down this thoroughfare that Nick strode—far enough from the inn to occasion no comment or association, yet near enough that he could return before the sun rose.

A convenient patch of hedgerow, a quick tip of his arms and Cooper slept amidst the grasses and dandelions of an English countryside. He stank of brandy and Nick knew that upon awakening he’d have no idea how he got there or where he’d been for quite some time. Nor would he be able to account for the marks on his back.

Hurrying back to the inn, Nick pondered the situation. He hoped Hermes would be able to reassure the rest of his men that at least one problem had been taken care of. Avoiding the official-looking horses and their riders, Nick ducked back into the inn and was in his room shortly thereafter. He rapidly made sure the shutters were closed, then jammed the bolt in the substantial door and tucked the dusty curtains tightly across the window frame.

Satisfied at last that he would be secure for at least one day, Nick slid from his garments and lowered himself naked to the bed with a groan of pleasure. It was clean, not completely uncomfortable and—he hoped—safe.

What the next night would bring, he had no clue. But for now, he was fed and he was beyond tired, thus he let sleep claim him. Not the comforting and calming sleep of a normal mortal being, but the deep unmoving slumber of an immortal.

The regular “little death” of a vampire.

He had no way of knowing that others were arriving in the daylight at the very same inn, while he lay semi-lifeless in a small and darkened room.

Or that Cooper had been discovered and that mayhem had been reported as occurring on the local roads.

Nor did he know that in the strange game of chance that comprised his existence, Fate was about to deal him a very unexpected hand of cards.

Chapter Three

“And then I heard this horrid noise, a human scream terrible enough to freeze one’s blood…” The woman’s voice shuddered dramatically as she related her tale. “It was the coachman. He’d been
shot
.”

Murmurs of outrage greeted this statement. “Terrible. Just
terrible
. What is the world coming to?”

“We’re not safe anywhere anymore.”

“I always take outriders with me now.”

“Where’s that dratted servant? I ordered tea simply
hours
ago. Does she expect me to sail to India and
pick
it for her?”

Nick stilled on the staircase of the inn as the chirping babble of female voices assaulted his ears. He’d awoken at dusk, freshened himself as best he could and decided to check out the lay of the land, uncertain of what road to take next. He had to “settle” with the Mistress of the house for his room anyway.

But he’d not anticipated this chatter of voices, this very
feminine
chatter of voices. It was quite a shock to hear such a din in an out-of-the-way location buried deep in the countryside.

A harassed-looking lad emerged from the small parlor where the women were loudly discussing their irritations. He grimaced at Nick. “I wouldn’t go near there if’n I was you, sir.”

Nick grinned. “Sounds like about a hundred ladies.”

“Only three and a helper lady or summat.” He shuddered. “That’s more’n enough fer me.”

“I will consider myself warned.” Nick nodded at the lad and quietly moved down the stairs, hoping to avoid that room and the feminine threat it contained.

His luck, as he had come to expect, was nonexistent.

“Oh—pardon me, sir…” Soft tones sounded from the open doorway.

Caught squarely in the small passageway, Nick had no other options but to turn around. “Ma’am?”

There was a brief silence as Nick looked at the woman in the doorway. Slim and delicate, her blonde hair curled softly around a face that would have enchanted a Renaissance painter. Full lips had parted as he’d turned and limpid blue eyes were widening as her gaze traveled his length. “My God.
Nicky?
”

Oh fuck
. Nick recognized her immediately. Isolde Haverford. The most licentious woman in the tightly constrained world of the Ton and one he’d bedded enthusiastically a long time ago. As the
man
he’d once been.

His first thought was that she’d not aged in the least. His second was an unspeakable oath as the implications of her recognition sank in. She knew
who he was
. And he’d been so assiduous in trying to erase all traces of his existence from his former life.

To the world he’d known, he was apparently deceased. Sir Nicholas Blaine was rumored to have met his demise in Europe, thus ending the direct Blaine line and sending the estate to a distant branch of the family.

And yet here he was, in front of Isolde, clearly—to her eyes anyway—alive.
What a fucking mess
.

Isolde’s lips curved into that welcoming smile he remembered well. “Nicky darling—you’re
alive
! I’m just overwhelmed…and meeting you
here
of all places…” She advanced purposefully on him leaving him no option but to stand and await her pleasure. “This is truly a delight and makes this hideously awful journey worthwhile.”

Nick bowed politely over the hand she’d extended. “Isolde. It’s good to see you again after so long. You look well.”

Her laughter chimed around his ears. “So formal, darling.” She leaned close, keeping her hand clasped in his. “I still remember how marvelous we were together. You made me come—what—three times? Or was it four?” Her eyes turned hungry. “You knew how to touch me, Nicky. Nobody else has
ever
managed to do it quite that way.”

“I—er—” Nick dipped his head to conceal his gaze. “You are too kind.” What else did one say to such an outrageous comment? He did not want Isolde recalling that when they bedded with such enthusiasm, his eyes had been
blue
.

She laughed again. “But what on
earth
are you doing in this godforsaken place? And where
have
you been all these years? Oh
Nicky
—there’s so much we have to talk about…”

She drew him toward the parlor, an inexorable force tugging his arm. “I want you to meet my mama-in-law. Oh, that’s right—you wouldn’t have known I’m married, would you?”

He shook his head.

“I married dear Gawain two years ago now. Did you know him? Gawain FitzAdams?” She raised an eyebrow in query, but didn’t allow him the chance to respond. “He swept me off my feet…and here’s his dear mama. Do let me introduce you.”

Nick found himself dragged across a small and dingy parlor to a chair next to the fire. An elderly woman was frowning at him, “Who’s this?” Her mouth snapped out the words.

“An old friend,
Bellemère
. A very old friend…Sir Nicholas Blaine. Nick, this is the Dowager Countess FitzAdams, my husband’s dear mother. We all thought Nick dead, he’s been gone so long.” Isolde turned to Nick and smiled seductively. “Too long, I believe. He’s been missed.”

The message was unmistakable and brought a snort to the older woman’s throat. “Looks like.” She tapped her cane on the stone floor next to her chair, ignoring Nick’s attempt at a polite bow. “Chandler.” She squinted around. “
Chandler
, damn you. Come here.”

A figure moved in the shadows behind the Dowager. Tall and slender, a woman appeared, gowned in sober grey from head to foot. Her eyes remained lowered respectfully. “I’m here, your Grace.”

“About time. Go and find out what happened to my tea, gel. Make yourself useful.” The old lady snarled out the command. “And while you’re at it, fetch me a drop of brandy. These old bones could use more warmth than this atrocious fire is putting out. And make it a good vintage, damn you.”

Since whatever heat there was radiated directly onto the Dowager, Nick realized that the old woman was used to having her every whim obeyed instantly. And probably by that poor companion of hers.

Dropping a quick but elegant curtsey, the companion headed for the door, passing Nick as she did so. For one instant, warm brown eyes met black eyes…a casual brush of glances. For Nick the result was anything but casual.

If church bells had rung in his ears he couldn’t have been more surprised. Only years of hiding his emotions permitted him to remain still as shudders of sensual awareness poured down his spine like the icy waters of a river in flood.

His cock stirred hungrily, his fangs ached within his gums and he blinked, unable to comprehend for a second or two what had happened.

Chandler’s face had paled as they exchanged looks, but now it flushed with a delicate bloom as she wrenched her gaze from his and hurried away. Nick could not have described her well at all, but the memory of those eyes burned inside his brain in the most peculiar way.

With difficulty, he turned to Isolde, feigning an air of disinterest he was far from feeling. “Chandler? I don’t recognize the name?”

“
Bellemère’s
companion. A distant relative, I believe. Nobody of importance. Although she is quite…helpful…to Gawain and myself.” An odd expression crossed Isolde’s face. “And
Bellemère
, of course. We’re quite lucky to have her, I suppose. Not that she could hope for a better position.”

Isolde shrugged. “But enough about her. Tell me of your adventures, dear Nicky.” She seated herself on a small settle and gestured to the cushion beside her. “And what you’re doing in this awful place…”

Ignoring the subtle hint, Nick strolled to the mantel and leaned against the brickwork. “‘Tis a question I find trembling on my own lips. How could such elegance and beauty could be found lurking amidst such humble surroundings?”

It was outright evasion, but Nick knew women. Give them an opening to talk about themselves and they would take it gleefully. Isolde’s answer confirmed his theory once again.

“Oh darling, it was
too awful
. Our wheel came off—
right off
—on our way to FitzAdams Towers. We could have been killed. We’d only been away for a few hours. Visits, you know. This was the nearest inn with a blacksmith that could repair it. We’re supposed to be home by now. ‘Tis only a matter of a couple of miles further too. Just the worst cursed luck.”

“Dratted roads.” The Dowager mumbled something. “I suppose Hetty’s asleep?”

Nick looked at the third lady in the room, draped in a blanket and snoring soundly on another chair. “If that’s Hetty over there, then yes. She seems to be resting comfortably.”

“Good.” The Dowager nodded. “She’s not a young gel anymore. Accidents will happen but they rattle her brain too much these days.”

Isolde glanced surreptitiously at Nick. “A bosom bow of the Dowager.” She whispered the words
sotto voce
. He acknowledged the information with a slight lowering of his head and a quick smile.

“Should’ve had outriders too.” The Dowager continued her soliloquy. “Dangerous parts around here these days.”

Nick watched the old woman. “You surprise me, ma’am. Dangers? In our very own countryside?”

She folded her lips together angrily and glared at him. “Are you mocking me, young man?”

“Not at all. I just find the notion of danger and these quiet villages difficult to reconcile.”

She snorted. “Well, just ask Hetty. Held up, she was. Robbed right in her own carriage. Bloody highwaymen.” The cane thwacked on the floor for emphasis. “They should all be strung up. Hung from the highest gallows and left there until the crows have picked their eyes out and eaten the flesh off their bones.”

A rattle from the doorway distracted Nick’s acute hearing and he watched as Chandler entered bearing a tray.

“Ah, good. You took your time, you ninny.”

Ignoring the insult, she made her way gracefully to the Dowager’s side. She also ignored Nick.

He opened his mouth to say something—
anything
—that would get her to look at him once more, when Isolde interrupted. “Oh…oh…” She clapped her hands together. “I’ve had the most
splendid
notion.”

Nick felt his skin tingle a little with something that could have passed as apprehension in a mortal man. Isolde’s “splendid notions” usually involved her and somebody else, naked, in bed. He had long since passed the point where a romp with her would be attractive in any way.

He could see her clearly through eyes that had watched his own life span wither and die. Isolde was superficial, selfish, convinced that the only way to prove her femininity was to spread her legs and also convinced that life revolved around fucking. She had aged well and was still an attractively sensual woman, but the idea of bedding her left Nick cold.

He possessed a strong urge to mate, of course. Fucking gave him pleasure
and
release, especially when coupled with the act of feeding his thirst for blood. Thérèse had seen to that.

Nick clamped down on his errant thoughts and focused instead on Isolde’s excited face. “You shall accompany us, Nicky. Ride with us as we return home. Give us your protection for the rest of our journey and set dear
Bellemère’s
mind at rest. Then you can stay at FitzAdams Towers before continuing your journey instead of in this dingy place.” She blinked wide blue eyes at him. “Do say yes…oh
please
do say yes?”

Nick knew he had no choice. To refuse would be to occasion comment and questions he did not wish to answer. Yet to agree would be to reenter a world he’d purposely left a long time ago.

Then the Dowager’s companion moved slightly and once again he received a quick glance from a pair of large warm brown eyes.

He turned to Isolde. “How can I possibly say no?”

*~*~*~*

Verity Chandler knew her hands were shaking as she took the empty brandy glass from the Dowager’s grasp. Why this man should affect her so, she had no idea. He was dangerous—of
that
she had no doubt whatsoever.