One With the Night
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Contents
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles By
Susan Squires
Praise for
New York Times
Bestselling Author Susan Squires
CHAPTER
One
Atlas Mountains, Morocco 1819
There was no denying her. She ran her long-nailed fingers through his hair as he sat, naked, beside the chaise on which she lay draped. His hair was as dark as hers. But her eyes were almost black, while his were light gray-green, his skin fair against her golden glow. She had chosen him for his coloring. How long would he pay for the sins of some French and English crusaders long dead? Until he died. He had prayed for death so often. Blood oozed from various cuts and punctures in his body, but she was careful not to kill him.
Heat poured from a dozen braziers and a low fire in the center of her tent. She liked heat. His skin was damp with sweat. He fixed his gaze on the intricate carpet, trying to avoid what would come. But she willed him to raise his gaze. For the thousandth time he struggled. He clenched his fists and grunted, panting.
Her laughter tinkled over him like shards of broken glass. “You know you cannot win out, English.” He wasn’t really English. She twisted his head up by his hair and showered compulsion over him. The need to obey her surged through him. His gaze jerked to her face.
Her eyes glowed with more than firelight as she chuckled. How could laughter frighten him so? His chest heaved from the effort to resist her. The fine skin between her breasts gleamed with perspiration. Her nipples peaked under the diaphanous fabric of her burgundy gown. He found his own desire rising, whether he would or no.
His stomach clenched in despair as he lifted his chin to bare his throat to her. She would use him to slake several thirsts tonight. She was always thirsty.
She bent to his throat. He shuddered at the familiar twin pains just under his jaw. She stroked his nipple as she sucked at his neck and then slid down onto the rug beside him so she could grasp his swollen member.
“You still resist me,” she whispered inside his mind. “How can I make you truly mine?”
She rocked against him, her breasts pressed to his chest. He moaned, partly with desire, partly in dread. He didn’t want to know the answer to that question.
Edinburgh, Scotland, March 1821
The busy tavern came into focus around him with a shudder. Raucous laughter punctuated the hum of a dozen conversations. The smell of unwashed bodies, cooked cabbage, yeasty ale, and smoky whisky cascaded over him. It had been two years since he’d escaped her. He was in Edinburgh, on an entirely different continent than the desert mountains where he’d suffered at her hands. Yet still she haunted him. She had made him a monster in so many ways. He downed his whisky and slapped a gold coin on the shadowed table. Too much for the bottle, but he never cared about that these days. He pushed himself up. He had hope now. All activity in the tavern stopped as thirty pairs of eyes followed him to the door. They felt the energy that vibrated around him. He had a long journey ahead of him to find the one who might have the cure for what he was. But first he had an appointment with a bully.
Drumnadrochit, Scotland, March 1821
A scream rent the Highland spring night. Jane Blundell was just climbing into the gig in the village nestled on the shore of Loch Ness, ready to head back to the house she and her father had taken up the Urquhart River valley from the loch. Jane had spent too many years as a midwife among the poor of London not to recognize that scream. A woman was in labor and it was not going well. The sound died away into a moan. It was coming from that tiny stone cottage just off the lane that meandered through the village. She scrambled down. Papa could wait for his supplies. Figures had congregated in the tiny front garden. The sun had set more than an hour ago, but Jane saw extremely well in the dark these days.
The villagers wouldn’t welcome her help. She and her father were pariahs ever since he offered to pay for blood donations, ostensibly to be used in his experiments. The words “unholy” and “sacrilegious” and “English monsters” were the ones most often bandied about when the newest occupants of Muir Farm were mentioned. The villagers were closer to the truth than they knew. The blood wasn’t for her father’s experiments. It was for her. Ever since she’d been infected, she had needed human blood to survive. And now, with her source gone, the hunger that horrified her scratched along her veins. Her father had offered to bleed himself for her. She couldn’t allow that, of course, but what was she to do? She might resort to God knew what if the dreadful hunger got any worse.
She tried to put away panic. She couldn’t think of that now. The cottage window revealed substantial silhouettes holding something down. In a village this small and remote they probably weren’t even midwives. Outside, several men milled around a young man, who paced and ran his hands through his hair in distraction. Jane knew better than to approach the women.
“What is wrong?” she asked one of the men.
“Saw the monster, she did,” the man said in that thick Scots burr she could hardly make out yet. “Put her right inta birthin’ pains.”
“She’s early?”
But the man had realized who she was. “Get back, witch! Ye will no’ hex this babe!”
Another scream tore through the night. In late March it was still cold in the Highlands, and the men’s breath was clearly visible. The scream made the pacing young man moan in distress and look around wildly. “Evie,” he cried. “Dinnae die, Evie!”
Jane pushed through the men. This was the father, surely. “Is she early?” she shouted, almost in his face.
He looked at her with frightened eyes and nodded, swallowing. Inside the cottage the women encouraged the girl to bear down and push. Jane grabbed the young husband by both biceps and shook him. “I’m a midwife, boy. And I tell you that if they make Evie push when she’s not ready, the babe will break blood vessels and your wife will die.”
The father, who looked absurdly young, blinked at her.
“Leave th’ lad alone.” A hand grabbed her shoulder and tried to pull her away.
“Ye’ve no business here, English,” another said.
Jane twisted away and stood her ground. “I’ve delivered a hundred babies, boy,” she said, staring right at the husband. “I know what I’m saying.
You
can make them let me look at her.”
“Me? I can no’ do anythin’!” he wailed.
“She’s a Sassanach, Jamie,” an older man warned.
“You’re her husband. You vowed to protect her, didn’t you? It’s up to you.” Jane laid a hand on his shoulder. It was thin under his rough flaxen shirt.
He looked into her eyes. She willed him to let her into the house. She felt a thrill along her veins, the thrill that had frightened her so since her sickness six months ago.
“Verra well,” he said at last. His voice was strangely calm.
She nodded curtly and took his arm.
“Jamie, what are ye doin’? Ye can no’ let an English witch into Evie’s childbed!”
Jamie pulled away from the hands that tried to stop him. “Get back, MacDougal! All o’ ye. Even ye, Da. If this woman can help my Evie, I’m bound ta let her.”
Jane and Jamie pushed into the tiny cottage just as another scream made Jamie wince.
“What’s she doin’ here?” one of the women accused. “And ye, Jamie Campbell! We can no’ ha’ men here.”
Jamie straightened his shoulders. “She’s a midwife and she’s goin’ ta look at Evie,” he said firmly. Jane was proud of him. “I am her husband. It is my bairn and it is up ta me.”
Jane didn’t wait for more authority. She pushed through to the woman with the distended belly writhing on the bed. She was hardly more than a child. She was sweating and heaving breath, her knees raised, plainly frightened. “Now, my dear,” Jane soothed. “Let me just see how you’re doing.” Jane gently felt the distended belly under a sheet that covered the girl’s spread knees. “I’ve attended more than a hundred births you know.” She smiled. “You had a shock?”
The girl nodded. “I seen th’ monster! I seen Nessie,” she gasped, her eyes round.
“Well, never mind that now. You must breathe, slowly and deliberately. No pushing. We want that baby of yours to take his own sweet time.” The child was in breech position. Jane moved to lift the sheet so she could see how far the womb had opened.
“What are ye doin’?” a woman screeched. “There’s a man in the room!”
“I assume this man is already familiar with his wife,” Jane remarked. “We must suppose he got the child on her.” She smiled sweetly. “Unless you believe a stork brings them?”
“It is no’ proper,” one said, shaking a finger at Jamie.
Jane turned on the three women. “Enough!” They frowned at her, fists on their hips, looking ready for a fight. “Jamie, could you escort these ladies from the room? They’re upsetting Evie.” With relief she saw Jamie set his jaw and herd the women, protesting, from the room, looking for all the world like ruffled, clucking hens.
“Jamie, why don’t you pull up a stool and just hold Evie’s hand? I’m sure your strength would be a comfort to her.”
Jamie grew taller by several inches. He pulled a stool under himself and grabbed his young wife’s hand. “You’re goin’ ta be all right, Evie,” he said with a voice almost sure of itself. Sure enough, at least, to fool Evie.
Jane wasn’t so certain. She’d seen breech births come out well, but the combination of a breech position and the early onslaught of labor, made worse by those stupid women urging Evie to push, might spell disaster. Should she try to turn the babe? If she left the child as it was, the sac might break too early and suffocate the child—but if she turned it the babe might break the mother’s blood vessels as it came out too quickly. Even if the child lived, Evie would likely die. But if Evie’s contractions were so strong already that Jane couldn’t get the baby turned one way or another,
no
birth was possible and Evie and baby both would die a painful death over many hours.
“Try to relax, Evie,” she murmured as she removed the sheet and looked at Evie’s womb. Not open enough yet for the head of a babe. Behind her, the door creaked.
“Da.” Jamie’s reedy voice had iron in it. “If ye’ve come ta help ye’re welcome. Other ways, ye kin go.”
Jane glanced back to see a rugged-looking man who was probably only forty-five, though work and a hard life made him look sixty. His face was deeply lined, his hair a shock of gray. He shared Jamie’s prominent nose and pale blue eyes. Jane turned back to her patient. “I must feel if the babe is in the birth canal, Jamie,” she muttered. “If you care to help, Mr. Campbell, you can sit at Evie’s other side.” She glanced to both men. “I’ll need her still.” They got the point. The older man looked grim as he sat down wordlessly with a hand on Evie’s shoulder.
Jane examined her hands carefully. Any cuts or scrapes would heal almost instantly, but one must be sure. If even a molecule of her blood got into Evie’s, she’d infect the girl.
Another contraction came. “Don’t push, Evie,” Jane said as the girl wailed. “Just breathe.” The girl gasped and shrieked, but the contractions had moderated a bit. When at last she went limp, moaning, Jane looked again at the birth canal. “Evie,” she said, “I’m going to feel exactly where the babe is.” She smiled reassuringly and the girl managed a tremulous half-smile in return. Jane put her hand up the birth canal. The men looked appalled as they held Evie down.
“There! All done.” Jane smiled again. Well, it wasn’t the worst news. The babe wasn’t crossways. Its feet were well into the canal. Birth was possible, but it would be wrong end round. It was still unlikely she could save the child. The sac would break and the babe would doubtless suffocate. All she could hope was to slow the birth enough to save the mother.
“Mr. Campbell.” Rising, she motioned to the older man. He followed her into the corner of the tiny room. He was a tall man and his head nearly touched the low ceiling. “She’s going to bleed, Mr. Campbell. The baby is feet first.”
