Seduced by a Stranger (7 page)

“Given that she was free to travel to Cairncroft rather than incarcerated or hung by the neck until dead,” he observed, “may I assume that the authorities were in disagreement with your suppositions, gentlemen?”

His companions exchanged baffled looks.

“Hadn’t thought of it—”

“Couldn’t say—”

Pratt shrugged and reached up to sling an arm across Gabriel’s shoulders. It took particular concentration not to recoil from the contact.

“I met her once.” Newton frowned in recollection. “At Mrs. Northrop’s soirée. She said very little. I can’t recall…fair hair? No, more mousy brown…She was utterly forgettable.” He shrugged, and let the memory go, uninterested. The topic had already exhausted his attention.

Mousy. The description made Gabriel smile, his earlier anger dulling to a slow simmer. An image of Catherine Weston flashed in his mind’s eye, her features composed, her mask perfectly in place.

She was anything but utterly forgettable.

In fact, thoughts of her had haunted him the entire week he had been in London.

And now he knew a great deal about her.

Gabriel was inordinately glad that he had come to his club tonight. Newton and Pratt had been founts of information. Suddenly, he was driven to return to Cairncroft with even greater urgency than he had felt to leave it. London and all its dark lure paled now next to his curiosity about Catherine Weston. He had been right. There was far more to her than the face she presented to the world. Her mask was polished and perfected, her veil secure.

Unless a storm wrenched it free.

He could be that storm.

Carefully disengaging Pratt’s arm from across his shoulder, he cast an assessing glance at the window of White’s. Several sets of eyes watched their every move. Swallowing his distaste for prolonging his present company, Gabriel smiled and said, “Gentlemen, I have a fine bottle of brandy awaiting us in Berkeley Square. Shall we retire there and sample it?”

But already his thoughts had drifted to Cairncroft and Catherine Weston. He had only to conclude his time with his current companions, then pay a brief visit to the companion who had occupied him earlier in the evening. Once that business was complete, he could be away.

Likely, it would be close to dawn.

Generally, he preferred to travel at night, on horseback. Enclosed coaches and bright sunshine brought back memories he would have preferred to excise with a surgical blade.

But just this once, he found that first light could not come soon enough.

He returned to the place he had left her. Martha. She had laughed when he asked her name as they had walked through St. Giles, and said that he could call her anything he pleased. But he had wanted her name and so she gave it. Of course, he had known it before he asked, known she was the one, carefully chosen and watched for two days before he approached her. Luck had set her in his path, but if it had not, he would have found her nonetheless because of who she was and what her death would mean.

He used her name now, calling out a singsong greeting as he let himself into the empty warehouse by the river and listened for the faint, frightened whimper that told him she had heard. Dust stirred as he walked briskly to the back of the building, to the room beneath the teetering, rotted stairs. He dragged open the door, paused to turn up the lamp, and savored the sight before him.

She lay on the makeshift table—a plank stretched over two wooden kegs—tracking him with wild, desperate eyes. She was clad only in her thin shift, so much of her skin bare to his touch and the kiss of his blade. Her hands were bound, as were her feet, and the rags he had stuffed in her mouth muffled her cries as he took up his knife and began to play. He would have preferred to let her scream, to free her limbs and let her flail. But London offered little privacy, and so he made do with less than ideal circumstances and the relative seclusion of an empty warehouse, the last in a long row of empty warehouses.

He reveled in her muffled grunts and moans and the tears that tracked down her cheeks.

It was not that he hurt her. Well, not more than a little. It was the fear that built and grew and he could feel it shimmering in the rank air, taste it and smell it. That was the thing he craved. Her terror. The ability to control her and elicit what emotion he wanted.

There were points that she even accepted his comfort. No, not merely accepted it. Begged for it with her eyes. Such was his control over her and in so short a time.

He enjoyed their game as long as he dared in this vacant warehouse filled with the mingled scents of the spices that had once been stored here and the fetid stink of the river.

Time had little meaning. Moments or, perhaps, hours later, he stared down at her with febrile excitement. Sweat beaded his brow and trickled in an itchy line down his back. But he felt…right. For the first time in a long time, he felt right.

She was quiet now. No more struggles or frantic mewling pleas lost behind the greasy gag. Emotion—terror, horror, the swell of her panic, or perhaps only the magnitude of her suffering—had overwhelmed her more than once, sending her across the boundary of consciousness. He had been forced to dip a ladleful of water from the bucket on the floor and splash her face to rouse her. The last time, he had left the ladle where it rested and left her in her swoon, for though he had enjoyed every moment of their association, it was time to bring about the grand end.

This encounter had been better than his last. He was more controlled, better prepared for the tide of delight that crashed through him as he worked. And Martha, his partner in this macabre dance, had been more appealing than her predecessor—younger, cleaner, and more worldly wise—which had allowed her to suffer far more before she broke.

He was quite pleased to have been guided to her.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the letter that had detailed Martha Grimsby’s name and general whereabouts, written in a lovely, crisp hand. He brought the corner of it to the candle and let the flame catch. A dark swirl of smoke twisted upward and then the paper flared with tongues of orange and gold. He held it as long as he could, finally dropping it to the floor and watching it burn to ash before scattering the remains with the toe of his boot.

Then he turned back to Martha. Sweet, desperate, frightened Martha. She was barely conscious now, her eyes rolled back, her body still save for the occasional twitch or groan.

Stepping close beside her, he stroked her hair back from her damp forehead, and waited until she roused enough to turn her head. She blinked, her eyes hazy and unfocused. Seconds ticked past, and she came around a little more, her brow furrowing, a moan sounding behind the gag.

She saw him then. Truly
saw
him. The connection between them was gossamer as a spider’s web and stronger than forged steel. She was his.
His.

Placing a single, perfect white feather in her hand, he closed her fingers around it, curling his own tight to hers until she grasped the quill and held it. He suspected her hands were numb, for they had been bound for many hours now.

Her vision had cleared and focused, and she stared at his face, her eyes wide, rolling in fright. He caught her hair in his fist and yanked her head back, administering two deep slashes across her throat so that the arteries and veins were cut clean through and the bones of the spine revealed.

The wounds were fatal. He made certain of that this time. It would not do to repeat the debacle of his first foray so many years ago, when he had acted precipitously and, thinking the creature dead, had set to bury her body only to be confronted by a living corpse when she groaned and sat up straight in the grave.

No, this time, he acted with forethought and care.

Copper sweet, the smell of her blood was delicious, tantalizing. He set a wooden tub beneath the table to catch it, but some sprayed in a spurting arc as her heart pulsed and pumped in her breast for nearly a minute in a futile fight until the end. That blood was left to decorate the walls and floor.

He found it lovely.

Memories surged, of long-ago times and long-ago pleasures. A bird. A cat. Child’s play.

He simply stood by her side, arms hanging loose, his full attention leveled on her form. He watched. He breathed. He reveled in the joy of this kill.

At length, he roused and touched her wrists, her forearms. Cool, but not stiff. He moved his hand beneath the blood-dampened edge of her shift to the skin above her collarbone where the flesh was warmer, then ran his palms along her arms, her hair. Bending low, he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder and inhaled the fragrances of her skin and her blood. He straightened and stared down at her, memorizing every nuance of her face.

For a time, he stood in quiet contemplation. The air was perfumed by the metallic flavor of blood, the only sound the quiet huff of his own breathing. This was the time that the beauty of her being belonged to him, solely to him.

His. She was his.

This body was his to control, to touch, to pose. She was subject to his will. The certainty of that filled him with delight. His lips curved in a smile, lazy, satisfied. The intense euphoria of the kill had faded, leaving him relaxed, almost sleepy, affected by a pleased and sated detachment.

From a great distance came a boom of sound, and somewhat later a clatter and shout. Far away. The sounds had no meaning in this place. But at length, he recognized the change in the noise; it became louder, closer, the waking of the wharf, and he roused himself, for there was work to be done, bounty to be gathered.

Reaching down, he opened the lids of the four wide-mouthed ceramic jars he had set on the floor by the table. Then he lifted his knife and turned to his task.

Pinching the cloth of her shift between his thumb and forefinger, he drew it from her skin where the blood made it cling with damp tenacity, and slit the cloth neatly down the middle, baring her torso and abdomen. He stroked the skin, still pliable, but not for long. That was the disappointing thing. They never stayed like this, so perfect, so smooth and warm. Never. A handful of hours and she would be stiff, a handful after that and she would be cold as marble; the heat of her leaked away as the seconds ticked past.

But he would love her still. Even cold and stiff, and after that, soft and wet and rotted in the shallow grave he would prepare for her…even then he would love her. Because she was his.

He wanted to linger, to extend each moment so it slid past in slow, silky brilliance. But as he saw the first whisper of dawn’s light snake through the crack beneath the door, he acknowledged that his time in London was limited. He could stay away only so long.

Because, in the end, Cairncroft Abbey always called him home.

Cairncroft Abbey, March 1828

Catherine descended to the dining room, her hand gliding along the polished banister as she walked. Madeline, as always, eschewed breakfast; she would keep to her bed until past noon.

It was more than a week since Catherine had come to Cairncroft, and the house was more familiar to her now, though she was not inclined to explore. The place was large enough to get lost in, and she had already been warned that parts were showing their age with crumbling walls and rotting wood.

“How do you do, Miss Weston?”

Startled by the unexpected greeting, Catherine paused in her descent. Mrs. Bell crossed the wide hallway and waited for her at the foot of the stairs, her brow furrowed, her posture tense. She turned the large ring of keys that hung from her apron again and again, the clank of metal on metal loud in the quiet space. They had shared no discourse since the day Catherine had arrived at Cairncroft Abbey. Any contact between them had been limited to a brief look or distant nod. But today, the woman appeared bent on conversation.

Catherine proceeded down the remaining steps and said, “Very well, thank you, Mrs. Bell. And you?”

The housekeeper huffed a breath before mirroring Catherine’s reply. “Very well, thank you.” She glanced toward the open door of the breakfast room. Sunlight streamed through the portal and danced toward them across the slate floor. “The day is fair and bright.”

“So it appears. I have not been outdoors as yet,” Catherine offered warily, unable to discern the conversation’s purpose. That thought led to recollection of Gabriel St. Aubyn and his disdain of pointless polite discourse. She did not like to think of him, to recall the way his lips shaped words, or the way his amber gold eyes watched her so intently. But for some inexplicable, perverse reason, she had been unable to completely expunge him from her mind, and since his departure, such recollections had occupied far more of her thoughts than she liked.

She focused her attention on Mrs. Bell and continued. “I thought perhaps to take Madeline into the garden.”

The housekeeper nodded, but her expression tightened at the mention of Madeline’s name. “The south garden has a stone bench overlooking the lake.”

“Oh…” The lake was a shallow, greenish swamp that smelled like something dead. But perhaps the bench was not very close to the water, and the change of scenery from their usual spot might do Madeline good. “Thank you for the suggestion.”

Mrs. Bell pursed her lips. “I am sure this is no concern of mine, Miss Weston,” she said, then leaned back a bit and glanced first to her right and then to her left, as though to make certain they were alone. There was a footman standing by the door to the breakfast room, but he was far enough away that he would not overhear if Mrs. Bell kept her voice low. Apparently satisfied, she straightened and blurted in a tense whisper, “I wonder if you are aware of the nature of this place, the dangers you may encounter…”

“Dangers?” Catherine kept her voice low as well, but did not bother to hide her incredulity.

“Softly!” Mrs. Bell admonished with a quick glance at the footman who stared straight ahead, his expression blank. “What do you know of the St. Aubyns?”

“Very little. Their affairs are none of mine,” Catherine replied carefully. She had expected a verbal assault, either veiled or outright, but Mrs. Bell’s dialogue was neither. Catherine was ever wary of the unexpected.

Again the housekeeper glanced about, a quick, darting look. “The St. Aubyns are a family cursed.” She held her hand up to stay Catherine’s objection. “Oh, say nothing to deny it before you hear the tale. I myself have no belief in curses and such. Nonsense, really. But in this case, it is a word apt and true, for the family has known only ill luck and hardship passed from father to son. They have never flourished. For generations they have been plagued by malady and madness. I can tell you what passed in the time of Sir Gabriel’s great-grandfather. First, the youngest son died. Drowned. Then the oldest. And finally, the middle son, leaving the children without parents, without anyone to ensure that they grow straight toward the sun rather than bent and crooked.”

“Mrs. Bell,” Catherine said, wedging her opposition into the brief silence. “I have no fondness for gossip.”

The housekeeper clenched her fists and drew a fortifying breath, and Catherine could clearly see that this conversation caused her discomfort.

“Nor do I. Nor do I. This is not tittle-tattle, Miss Weston,” she continued, urgent and low. “There is a history here, do you see? The house…it is slowly crumbling about us. The lake is dead. No fish swim there now. And the gardens are filled with nettles, though the groundskeeper tends to everything as best as he can. There is a terrible malady to this place, and to the people who live here. When none of them were in residence, the lake was clear and the woods green and welcoming. The tenants flourished. But no longer. They have returned.” She shot a glance over her shoulder. “They have
all
returned, the living and the spirits of the dead, and their curse has returned with them. They are doomed. The St. Aubyns are doomed. Do you see?”

Catherine saw quite well. Mrs. Bell was unhinged.

She drew a slow breath, measuring every possible response to such revelation, and deciding a question was best.

“And why tell me this now?” she asked, making no effort to conceal the suspicion in her tone. Mrs. Bell had originally greeted her with hostility, then set about avoiding her for days. Now she wished to confide the deepest, darkest secrets of the St. Aubyn family. Catherine could not imagine putting her trust in any confidences the woman shared.

But more than that, she knew far too much of rumors and whispers and gossip of all sorts. There was always a story beneath the story, one that might be far different than what was whispered about with vicious titillation. And if one cared to dig deeper, there would be yet another story underlying the others. Layers upon layers. Lies upon lies.