One With the Night (11 page)

“That wasn’t kind of me.” She took a breath. “I learned housekeeping from books.”

“From books?”

She glanced up and saw she’d caught his interest. “Those books.” She gestured with the knife to the bookshelf that looked so out of place in the kitchen. He rose and bent to peer at the titles. She knew what he’d see:
Economical Housewife: A Treatise on the Homely Arts, Cuisine de Campagne
and all her books on midwifery, as well. “One can learn almost everything from books.”

“Not everythin’.” His voice was bleak.

She continued on lightly. “I already knew how to sew. One of the few practical things out of the so-called education they give to women today. Speaking of which, we should stop in the village and see if we can procure you a shirt. Old Mrs. Dulnan’s son was killed last November. She might sell you his clothes.” She thought about his threadbare coat. “I can buy them for you, if … if money is a temporary problem.”

“Our kind always has money.”

“Really? How? Why?” Oh, dear! Where was her vow not to press him too soon? She’d let curiosity overcome good sense. He’d never answer her. Indeed, his expression closed, and then … to her surprise he consciously gathered himself to answer.

“I’m lucky. And I invested in th’ funds. David Hern gave me a tip.”

“You knew the Chancellor of the Exchequer?” He had died in a spectacularly grisly way.

Those gray-green eyes measured her. “He was one o’ us. A member of a lost cause.”

That took her aback. She wanted to ask what the lost cause was. His eyes said that was not allowed. But she had to keep him talking “You believe in lost causes, then?”

“No’ anymore.”

Now
that
was a bleak tone. She smiled. “Of course you do. You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Point taken.” Were there crinkles around his eyes? They certainly had a gleam in them. She liked provoking that gleam.

She laid the potatoes in a large pot with a little of the bacon grease from her father’s breakfast yesterday, rolled them about in it and put the pot into the coals. Half an hour until they were done. That meant half an hour with Mr. Kilkenny and nothing to distract her …

“Ye dinnae ha’ a dog whistle, do ye?”

“I have no idea,” she said, raising her brows. “There aren’t any dogs here now.”

“Ah,” he said, disappointed.

“Oh, you mean to give that to Papa! Will … will you be able to hear it?”

“I should think sa.”

“Well, we have the original furniture. The drawers are filled with all sorts of things. And a farm like this ought to have had dogs once, should it not?”

“D’ye mind if I’ve a look round?”

“Of course not.” He got up. How could she ask him questions if he was leaving?

CHAPTER
Seven

Callan found himself in the front of the house. He puffed out a breath. It was easier when he wasn’t so close to her. Glen Urquhart was settling into the long gloaming. This far north, there would be less and less night as the year drove on to the summer solstice. He’d be trapped in the house, with her, for long hours if he hadn’t moved on. He’d better have moved on. By then they must have a cure. Would the doctor try some terrible new concoction on him every day? Could he survive that for long without going mad? He set his jaw. He’d survived worse.

To the task at hand. The chances of finding a dog whistle weren’t good. He looked around. The old stone house was richly furnished. It had probably been a laird’s hunting box, and not a true farm. Turkey carpets covered the floors, comfortable wing chairs sat in front of the fire, rather than the usual Scottish settle, hard and unyielding. He could imagine how cheerful the room would be with a fire crackling and snapping in the grate, a dog or two dozing in front of it, and Jane Blundell, sewing by lamplight or reading. She seemed to read a lot. Housekeeping out of a book? Inventive. He’d give her that.

He went to a scarred desk and started opening drawers. Old bills, balls of string, unmended quills … this didn’t look promising. Accounts from ten years ago, a miniature of a young man in uniform, no doubt dead in a war long over. The desk yielded nothing. The gaming table had a drawer, but it held only chessmen.

He went into the other room. This had been made into a library, with bookshelves to the ceiling on one wall. Botanical treatises, anatomy books … On the other wall were hung a series of startling paintings. They were botanical studies of the very first order, flowers and leaves in intricate detail, just as you would see in drawing rooms all over Edinburgh or London, though of better quality. Except for the fact that they had obviously been painted at night.

Normally botanical studies were painted without the distraction of a background on plain white paper. But these paintings had backgrounds shaded of black and gray, perhaps faintly washed with color and intricate themselves in detail. A pine cone stood against the background of green needles and starry sky. And there, a white flower (he didn’t know its name) was shown against a cloudscape and moon. Whites glowed with life. Colors snapped. They all seemed to vibrate with energy, an energy he recognized immediately. They had been painted by a vampire, who saw that clearly, that vibrantly, at night.

She had painted them. It was if she were standing in the room with him. So it was with little surprise that he heard her say, “Did you find…”

He glanced around. She was looking abashed. “Ye painted these.”

She nodded, then shrugged in deprecation. “The other useful thing about a ladies’ education. They teach us watercolor. Frivolous, of course, for most girls, but it has its scientific uses. The lily is from our greenhouse in London. And when we first came here, before the local folk got frightened, we had help around the farm. I had time to roam the hills and valleys … excuse me, glens and carns, with my paints.”

“These are more than scientific studies.” The woman who painted these loved beauty.

“No, they aren’t. But that’s all I wanted, just competent studies.”

“If ye’d wanted only scientific studies, ye’d no’ ha’ bothered with th’ backgrounds, or ta give them such life.” He looked around at them. “These are th’ world as only we can see it.”

“Well, that’s a compliment coming from you,” she remarked dryly. “I don’t get the feeling you’re in the habit of doling them out.”

He felt himself flushing. In spite of the dim light she would be able to see it. He cleared his throat. “Ye should be proud.” He stalked by the mirror over the mantel toward a small cabinet in the corner.

“I always thought vampires couldn’t be seen in mirrors,” she said, tentatively. “That appears to be a myth.” She was trying to draw him out again about the properties of vampires.

He wouldn’t be drawn. “Mostly.”

The cabinet was triangular to fit the corner exactly, one of those pieces of furniture he’d never seen a use for. He pulled open the door. Inside were a collar, long empty, and a little silver dog whistle. He held it up. A very small miracle, but maybe only small miracles were available.

“It seems you have the luck of the Irish, Mr. Kilkenny,” she remarked, a glint of mocking laughter in her eye. “Dinner’s ready.” She slipped from the room.

It occurred to him that she had taken what her condition gave her, seeing well at night, and turned it into something beautiful. His gaze roved over the paintings once again. He hardly even minded her teasing him about being Irish.

*   *   *

Jane was just clearing up the plates when she heard it; the clatter of wheels and the thud of horses’ hooves on the soft earth of the road. She glanced to Kilkenny. Their eyes met, as she sifted possibilities through her mind and rejected them. Not the rumble of a cart, therefore it wasn’t someone from the village. No one owned a carriage there. An outsider, then.

Kilkenny stood, tension radiating from him.

“Who could that be?” she wondered. She shrugged at Kilkenny, trying to dispel his obvious anxiety. “Probably one of Papa’s colleagues come at last to consult with him about his research. He’s been expecting his article to generate some interest.”

The carriage rolled up the circular drive as they made their way to the front of the house.

“Jane,” her father shouted from upstairs, “who comes calling so late?”

Jane almost gasped. She could think of one brand of visitor who would only come at night. Kilkenny was striding toward the front hall. Outside gravel crunched and horses snorted. Jane heard her father coming down the stairs. Kilkenny pulled open the door with a jerk.

The scent of cinnamon overlaid by something else she could not name washed over them. Vampires! She glanced around. There was no weapon to hand. The great claymore was not hanging over the fireplace in the library. It was probably upstairs in Kilkenny’s room. A thrill of fear made her throat close. His big frame filled the doorway. Jane had to peer around him to see a strange figure leap down from a very stylish barouche, its wheels picked out in an odd shade of lavender against shining black. The figure appeared to be a monk. He wore a habit of rough brown wool tied with coarse rope, his cowl thrown back to reveal the face of a man in his prime. He had a prominent nose and thin lips, black hair cut short but not tonsured, eyes so brown they were nearly black. There was a look of surprised disappointment about him, as though he were shocked that life held so little. He glanced their way, but went directly to open the carriage door.

Out of the carriage came another surprising creature. Her lilac traveling costume was rouched and braided down the front and on the sleeves. It was made by a modiste of the first stare. And the lilac kid half-boots that encased the visitor’s dainty feet must have been shockingly dear. On her head sat a hat with no less than four lilac ostrich plumes. Such marvelous clothing matched and accessorized so perfectly made Jane cringe in envy. And that wasn’t all. The woman was, quite simply, the most beautiful creature Jane had ever seen. Her black eyes and black hair set off creamy skin. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes slightly slanted. She was shorter than Jane, and more delicate. She looked exotic, fragile. But the fragile part, at least, was a lie. Her cinnamon scent overpowered the more masculine version of the monk, and she brimmed with life. She took the monk’s offered hand and stepped to the ground.

Behind the ravishing creature was a young-looking woman, plain and drably dressed. She had the look of a servant girl to a demanding mistress, eyes downcast and self-effacing.

“Elyta Zaroff,” the beautiful woman said, as she moved toward the door, holding out her hand to Kilkenny with a regal air. Her accent was … Austrian? Hungarian? Balkan? Jane wasn’t sure, what she was sure of was that her vibrations were both powerful and so intense they seemed to be operating at the edge of consciousness. Kilkenny made no move to take the woman’s hand, so she dropped it. Her eyes flicked to Jane, then back to Kilkenny. Her gaze roved over Kilkenny’s body as well his face. A sly complexity crossed her eyes and was gone. “I’m sure I did not expect the doctor to be so young, and … handsome.” Then her great, dark eyes narrowed. “But you are
both
vampire…”

“Sa there’s five o’ us,” Kilkenny said shortly. “What d’ye want?”

Behind Jane, her father bustled up, a robe hastily pulled over his nightshirt, his feet bare. “Who is it, Jane?”

Everyone ignored him. The tension in the air was palpable. “Ye ha’ no’ answered.” Kilkenny threatened.

“We come for the cure, of course,” Miss Zaroff said, finally glancing at the doctor.

“One o’ yer brethren was here th’ other night,” Kilkenny rasped. “I buried him behind th’ barn.” Jane could feel his power ramp up. But he would be no match for three of them.

“I thought Khalenberg would send someone. He wants to see the cure destroyed. We, however, do not.” The woman’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Are you going to invite us in or not?”

“Of course we are,” Jane said, pushing past Kilkenny. They really had no choice, after all. “I’m Jane Blundell.” Jane held out her hand. “And this is my father, Dr. James Blundell.” Energy shot up Jane’s arm as the newcomer shook it. “And Callan Kilkenny, our … our guest.”

“How do you do?” Miss Zaroff said, her gaze fastening on Jane’s father, then flicking back to Kilkenny. “This is my maid, Clara.” Miss Zaroff waved vaguely at the girl hovering in the background by the carriage. Clara dropped a curtsy. “And this is Brother Flavio.”

“Brother Flavio.” Jane made her curtsy. Kilkenny did not extend his hand or make his bow to any of them. He stood aside only grudgingly as they entered. Jane led them to the sitting room to the left of the entry.

“I’m surprised one of your age and strength could dispatch one of Khalenberg’s followers,” Miss Zaroff remarked. She peered at Kilkenny as she sat. “Or perhaps not, if you are whom I think you are.”

“And what d’ye want with th’ cure?” Kilkenny had folded his arms across his chest.

“To give hope to lost souls.” Miss Zaroff’s eyes went limpid. Was her emotion real? “As hard as it is to believe for those new to our state, there are those who would give up eternal life.”

“We who’re made dinnae think it such a blessing, either.” Kilkenny’s voice was raw.

She nodded. “So you want the cure, as well. It has been found?”

“Not yet.” Her father sighed. “But I am close, I know.”

“Then our mission is clear: to protect Dr. Blundell and the formula once it is found,” Brother Flavio said. Jane had forgotten all about him. He came now to stand in the group that surrounded Miss Zaroff. “Khalenberg and his faction won’t give up. They can’t bear to have our condition changed. They are true conservatives.” He too studied Kilkenny intently.

“Aye. A cure would change everythin’, would it no’?” Kilkenny asked grimly.

“I wonder if you are trustworthy, Mr. Kilkenny? I rather think he should not be trusted around the cure, don’t you, Flavio?”

“He suffered terrible wounds to protect my father and the laboratory,” Jane protested. “Those actions serve as his credentials.”

“Hmmm, I rather think he is dispensable now that we are here, though.” Was that beautiful face suggesting murder or simply banishment for Kilkenny?