Dawn Thompson (7 page)

He had to get back to the Abbey. Suppose Bates were to let Sikes back in? Staving through the drifts, Joss had nearly reached the sledge when a heavy mass of fur and flesh and sinew impacted him from behind, driving him down into a drift. Growling, snapping jaws were trying to get a grip upon his throat, and he rolled on his back in the snow, taking the animal with him in a snarling frenzy that ended with him nose to nose with the creature.

His gloved hands fisted in the wolf’s shaggy ruff, holding the beast at arm’s distance. But the animal was relentless, pinning him down, its lips curled back, jowls dripping, teeth clacking, clamping shut upon the snow-filled air. Anger roiled in Joss—anger at himself for being duped so easily; anger that he’d let a vampire in, the only way one could gain admittance to a private dwelling. Having sprung from the mating of two vampires turned vampire hunters, how could he have been
so naïve? The answer to that was simple: He had never before had occasion to put his heritage to the test. Which harkened back to the fact that he needed answers, and quickly.

The sweaty-tooth wolf’s foul breath puffing visibly from flared nostrils nauseated Joss. Steam rose from its drool as its saliva dripped onto his caped greatcoat. All at once he saw the animal through a wavy haze of red, as if the whole world had turned to blood. Then came the rapid heartbeat, the quickening breath, the heavy pressure above his canine teeth as the deadly fangs descended, long and sharp and hollow. There was no urge to feed, only to tear the wolf atop him to pieces.

Over and over they rolled in the snow. The wolf’s guttural snarls rang in Joss’s ears as if they were coming from an echo chamber. His own fangs were painful now, and he plunged them deep in the wolf’s throat—once, twice—tearing fur and flesh and sinew, and drawing blood. The smell of it excited him, though it tasted vile. He spat it out, and plunged the fangs deep again, this time into the wolf’s side. Yelping, the animal pulled back and bounded off into the darkness.

Rolling onto his belly, Joss pounded the bloodstained snow with both clenched fists, a frustrated howl leaking from him. It was a brief outburst. After a moment, his head shot up, flashing in all directions. Where had the wolf gone? Its bloody trail seemed to go in circles and then off toward the Abbey.

Sanity was returning. His deadly fangs had receded, and the winter world was white again, not bloodred. Joss scrabbled to his feet and staggered toward the sledge. Climbing the tor would not be half as easy as it had been descending. He had to reach the Abbey before the creature did. Leaping into the sledge, he cracked the whip
over the horse’s heads and, thundering a command, turned them toward home.

Though her feet really weren’t damaged too severely to prevent her, Cora hadn’t gone down to the dining parlor for the evening meal; she took a tray in her room instead. It was just as well; she would have felt foolish dining downstairs alone. Amy had told her Joss and the coachman had gone off in the sledge to collect the bodies from the coach. That puzzled her. What use would the coachman be on such a mission? Her host may just as well have taken Bates.

She padded to the window. Sight of the snow swirling down depressed her. Would it never cease? She was anxious to be on her way. But where would she go? Her world, as she knew it, had been turned wrong-end-to when that coach was bogged down in the snow. She hadn’t thought about it until then.

Pulling the draperies closed, she drew a ragged breath and padded to the dressing room door. It was ajar, as Joss had instructed. Amy had gone downstairs with her dinner tray; Grace was feeling too poorly to come and fetch it. The dampness had gotten into the housekeeper’s bones, so said Amy, and she couldn’t climb the stairs. Besides, there was some sort of fracas going on below. The racket filtered up the stairs from the Great Hall, and the silly chit would have the particulars. It was all right. Cora had bolted the door after her when she left. She was mildly curious about the commotion, but not enough to dress herself again in order to find out. Amy had prepared her for bed in the thin butter-colored nightdress. There was no wrapper, but there was a paisley shawl, and she’d slipped that over her shoulders for warmth. She certainly couldn’t go
downstairs like this.
He
might have returned, and she hadn’t forgotten how hungrily he stared at her in that nightdress before.

Prowling the length of the carpet, she stepped lightly so as not to dislodge the linen strips that bound her feet. The sounds below grew louder, and she crossed to the door and laid her ear against it. Her hand hovered over the door handle. Should she crack it open just a little? What would it hurt? She was just about to do so when a rapid knocking against the wood backed her up a pace. It was about time Amy returned. Now, at least she would find out what all the ruckus was about.

Without hesitation she unlocked the door, but it wasn’t Amy who pushed past her, rushing over the threshold; it was a strange man dressed in coachman’s garb. She recognized the uniform, the wide-skirted green coat with the large brass buttons, cord knee breeches, and painted top boots. His crimson scarf was sopping wet, as were the rest of his togs. But he wasn’t her coachman. Had her strange host sent for another?

“W-who are you, sir?” she shrilled, backing away from him. “You aren’t my coachman. Where is Mr. Sikes?”

The man made no reply, advancing. His eyes were like live coals burning into her, holding her gaze relentlessly. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mesmerizing look. They were transporting her to a place far away—a dark place crimsoned with blood; he was covered with it. The room swam around her as he approached, and she groped for the foot of the sleigh bed for support. This didn’t seem real, yet there was no question.

Whoever he was, his presence meant danger. The fine hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. That feeling she could trust. It took all her strength to
resist the man’s stare, and even tearing her eyes away from his left her weak, her head spinning. Screaming at the top of her voice, she tore the yards of gauze curtain draped over the sleigh bed, and threw it over the advancing man. Then, screaming again in multiple spasms, she raced through the door she’d left flung wide—right into the cold, wet arms of Joss Hyde-White.

How safe she felt in those arms. That struck her at once, and it shocked her given the circumstances. Perhaps it was the suddenness of the impact that took her guard down. He was soaking wet, his fine woolen greatcoat spongy where she gripped it. He wore no hat, and his dark hair was scattered across his brow, combed by the wind. He smelled of the clean, fresh North Country air. She inhaled deeply, but the indulgence was short lived. Screams from below funneling up the staircase called her back to the urgency of the moment, and she strained against his grip.

“No!” he said, holding her at arm’s distance. “Do not go down there. Do not move from this spot.”

“The coachman!” she cried. “He . . .”

“I know,” he returned, letting her go. “Get behind me, and do not move!”

His hands had scarcely fallen away, leaving her cold in their absence, when a shattering crash brought them both to the threshold of the yellow suite bedchamber door flung wide behind. They reached it in time to see a silvery streak of misplaced energy surge across the room and crash through the window. Glass shards and splintered wood flew in all directions, as the coachman’s green coat hurtled through the broken windowpane. But it was something shriveled to a tiny splotch of black against the snow that soared off, sawing through the air to disappear in the snow-swept night.

“Who was that man?” Cora breathed. “What have I just seen?”

Joss’s head snapped toward her, his eyes fastened to the blue-black lump on her brow. “Has that knock on the head muddled your memory?” he said. “That was your coachman.”

Cora shook her head. “Not
my
coachman, sir,” she said. “Mr. Sikes is a much older man, portly, spindly legged, and nearly bald.”

Joss gave a start as if she’d struck him. “Then, who . . . ?”

“How would I know?” she said, bristling. “He is your guest, is he not? My coachman left us out in that blizzard to die. He said he was going for help, but no help ever came, and he never returned. He was saving himself. He never intended to return.”

“I do not think so,” Joss said absently.

“How would you know, sir?” she snapped at him. “Were you there?”

He seemed to snap out of some strange reverie, and took hold of her arm, turning her away from the window. “Come,” he said, “you cannot stay here.”

Cora wrenched free of his grasp. “Take your hands off my person, sir!” she said. “I mean to know what I just saw.” She shuffled closer to the window, but he pulled her back from the shattered glass and debris, including the broken remains of the porcelain basin that had evidently caused the first crash, strewn over the bedchamber floor.

“Have a care!” he said. “You’ve a penchant for treading upon sharp objects, so it seems. Do you want more wounds to those pretty feet?”

Cora pried his fingers from her forearm. “Let me go!” she shrilled. “I’m not going anywhere until you answer
me! Who was that man? Where has he gone? No one could survive such a fall from this height, the snow notwithstanding. What bird just flew out of here? I saw no bird before. Well? I am waiting.”

“I do not know who he is,” Joss said, raking his hair back from the gash on his brow. “He told me he was your coachman. That is why I let him in and extended my hospitality, giving him shelter from the storm. As to where he’s gone, I do not know that either. And that was no bird. It was a bat.”

Cora stared. “I do not understand,” she said, nonplussed. “How could a man crash through that window and a bat fly off from it? I am not hallucinating, sir. I saw what I saw. Well?”

Screams from below were still traveling upward, and Joss scooped her up in his arms. “Do you hear that racket down there?” he said, stalking through the door and down the corridor. “I’ve no time to tell you. My butler lies dying below, and I must go to him.”

Cora was in no mood to be manhandled. She kicked her feet and pummeled his head and chest with her fists. It stirred his scent, which wafted through her nostrils. The breath of fresh North Country air was now laced with citrus and spice, mysterious and evocative, spiked with his own distinct male essence, heightened from exertion.

“Here! Put me down!” she shrilled. “Where are you taking me?”

“Where you will be safe while I see to the press below. Now, kindly desist! You will come to no harm at my hand else you cause it yourself.”

“Hah! Safe, you say, when you do not even know who prowls your halls, sir?”

He set her down inside a chamber whose walls were
painted in the design of a landscape in muted shades of amber on a cream background. Where had her paisley shawl gone? With nothing but the thin nightdress between her nakedness and his eyes, her arms flew in all directions in a vain attempt to hide herself from his view. Making matters worse, a strange elder gentleman shuffled in barefeet from an adjoining chamber. It was beyond endurance. Two pair of eyes were trained upon her: her host’s gazing in blatant gawking admiration, the other man’s in confused embarrassment. After a moment, the elder man started as if he’d been jabbed with a cattle prod, and pattered to the adjoining dressing room. He returned moments later bearing a silver-gray brocade dressing gown, and offered it. Cora snatched the gown and shrugged it on. It was a mile too large. Her hands disappeared inside the sleeves, and it all but dragged upon the floor. Still, she bore it regally, tugging it closed in front.

“These are my apartments, and this is Parker, my valet,” Joss said. Then, to the slack-jawed elder; “Lock the door, and for God’s sake keep her here till I return,” he commanded. Spinning on his heel, he charged back out into the hall and disappeared.

Proprieties be damned! It was too late for preserving decorum now. Joss’s feet scarcely touched the stairs as he raced below. So many raw emotions riddled him that he could barely walk straight; the arousal straining the seam in his breeches could have something to do with that. Twice now he had held that exquisite body in his arms—felt the softness of Cora’s skin, smelled the sweetness of her breath puffing against his, felt the thumping of her heart, this time through the soggy woolen greatcoat. That garment weighed him down now, and he stripped it off and threw it over the banister at the bottom of the landing.

There hadn’t been time to take Bates to the servants’ quarters below; Joss was too anxious to get to Cora before the coachman could. Instead, they had carried the butler into the salon and made him comfortable on the chaise lounge there. Now Joss evicted Grace, Amy, and Rodgers the footman from their vigil, and bolted the door after them. Blinking back tears, he dropped down on one
knee beside the chaise lounge, and tucked the afghan Grace had left there close around the butler’s body.

“Why did you let him back in, Bates?” he moaned. “Why did you disobey me? He is
vampir
—an impostor. He is not the young lady’s coachman. The real Sikes probably lies dead of exposure, naked in the snow . . . or has become a vampire. Those were his togs the impostor was wearing.”

“Y-you left with him, sir,” said the butler feebly. “He’s been livin’ below like one o’ us. He said you was right behind him . . . and he was bleedin’.”

“Were you . . . bitten? Did he bite you, Bates?” Joss said, his misty eyes flitting over the butler.

Bates shook his head. “No,” he said, “I was looking past him . . . for some sign of you. He said you was coming on. When you didn’t come . . . I stepped aside to let him enter, and he threw me down. I’m an old man, sir . . . seventy-seven come February . . . too old for sparring . . . too tired . . .”

Tears blurred his image from Joss’s view. The beloved old butler had been his friend and protector for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t be dying, and it couldn’t be his fault. How could he bear it?

Joss’s head was swimming with questions. Where were the bodies from the coach? How could he break the news to Cora that they had vanished? Who was the stranger posing as her coachman? Where had he gone? He was vampire, and a shape-shifter as well, with two animal incarnations—the wolf and the bat. How many other shapes did he command? Joss needed answers if he was to fight, and though he was loath to have them at the expense of his butler’s last breath, he had no choice but to extract them.