Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood Series, Book 2) (6 page)

No one had called to wake her. Not even the smallest sliver of light had managed to penetrate the darkness. The absence of any scrumptious smells wafting up from the kitchen led her to believe she'd slept through breakfast.

Finding a clock on the mantle, she noted it was almost nine. Grace was used to keeping country hours and never slept past seven. Although it must have been well into the early hours when she finally stumbled into bed.

Recalling Lord Markham's fondness for rising late, she assumed it would be at least three hours before he made an appearance. It didn't seem quite right to be wandering around his house with him being absent.

Dressing quickly, she pulled the cord and waited for the maid. Responding to the light tap on her door, Grace was surprised to find a footman enter her chamber.

"I wondered if I could trouble a maid for some fresh water and perhaps some toast and tea as I fear I've missed breakfast."

The footman inclined his head. "There are no maids, madam. Lord Markham keeps a small, rather select staff and so I'm afraid I will be providing for your needs."

How odd. She had never heard of such a prestigious house having no maids. What about the beds and the laundry?

"Will you be taking breakfast in your room, madam, or shall I lay a place in the dining room?" Noting her hesitation, the footman added, "Here, mealtimes are rather informal affairs."

Grace smiled. She found Lord Markham's unconventional habits quite refreshing. The gentleman conveyed an air of mysteriousness. His dark brooding features implied a volatile, unpredictable temperament. Yet he had been far more considerate and attentive to her needs than she could have ever expected.

"Then I shall take my breakfast in here," she replied feeling a little more at ease.

When the footman left, she jumped back onto the huge bed and grabbed the diary from the nightstand. The grazes to her arms were still visible, though they had healed remarkably well overnight and caused not the slightest irritation.

The footman returned with a pitcher of clean water and two empty buckets and asked if Grace minded if he cleared away the bath tub. Some twenty minutes later, he returned with the breakfast tray, and she was finally able to concentrate on her task.

In the last two days, she'd scoured the notes looking for any indication as to where her sister may have gone. Perhaps starting at the beginning was not the best idea. Only last night, they had made an interesting discovery on the last page. Grace stared at the dot again as she bit into her toast. Had it not been for the indentation on the blank page she might have missed it.

Her sister wrote with a heavy hand, and so she ran the pad of her finger gently over the surface of the empty page in the hope of feeling any other marks pressed into the paper. The texture felt different near the bottom; to the naked eye, it was almost impossible to see anything.

Then she had an idea.

Rushing over to the fireplace, she rubbed her finger along the inside of the chimney-breast and smudged the soot over the marks on the blank page. Like a conjurer's trick, the words appeared before her eyes, practically rising off the page.

Caroline must have used the diary to lean on when she had written a note as there were no torn or missing pages. Grace could make out a string of words, nothing more. What she did see caused a sudden burst of panic.

I'm tired of the games and the lies … I want to end it all.

Grace struggled to catch her breath and her pounding heart felt ready to burst from her chest. Tears threatened to fall. Just spending one day as Caroline Rosemond had proved a horrendous ordeal. She gathered the diary to her chest and hugged it tight. If only Caroline would have confided in her.

Not knowing what to do. Not knowing what to think. She wished Lord Markham was awake. She needed to talk to him. He would know what to say to calm her; he'd apply his usual logical approach to the situation, and she'd be able to breathe freely again.

Pacing the floor for what felt like hours, she glanced at the mantle clock again. Surely it was later than eleven. Perhaps she should tap on his door. Given the severity of the information she had uncovered, it was unlikely he would mind.

Tucking the diary under her arm, she opened the chamber door and wandered to the other end of the landing. If she heard a sound coming from one of the rooms, she would know he was awake.

But she could hardly storm into a gentleman's bedchamber. Heaven knows what sight would greet her.

The thought caused her cheeks to flame.

For goodness sake, she was hardly a young girl making her debut. She had intimate knowledge of men, even if her experience was limited to one man in particular. To one cold-hearted devil.

There were four other doors situated on the landing. Grace imagined Lord Markham would want a room overlooking the garden: a quieter, more subdued space. That left two options. She was drawn to the room furthest from her own. With no female staff in the house, she guessed the lascivious nature of the man she'd grown to like demanded her room be at opposite ends of the house from his own.

She tapped lightly on the door she suspected was his, but he did not answer. Grace gave an indiscreet cough and then knocked again.

Nothing.

Oh, well. Her poor heart would give out if she had to wait a moment longer and with trembling fingers she wrapped her hand around the handle.

Lord Markham was understanding and considerate, and not at all the mean-spirited monster Henry once was. She had nothing to fear.

Elliot knew Grace Denton had entered his chamber without lifting his head from his pillow. He had picked up threads of her thoughts as she hovered outside, assumed she would walk away, convince herself that to enter a gentleman's private chamber was certain folly.

But he should have known it would not be the case. When the lady set her mind to a task, she'd not let something as trivial as impropriety stand in her way. Next time, he'd be sure to turn the key in the lock.

As he heard the door groan in protest, he snuffed out the candle, laid the book flat on his chest and closed his eyes. If he squinted, he could just see her outline entering the room. With only the briefest hesitation, she padded lightly over to the bed, stood over him and stared.

He could see her gaze drift over his bare chest, lingering on the dusting of hair trailing down below his abdomen. With part of his branding mark visible, he wondered what she would make of it. Thank the Lord he'd kept his trousers on, else she'd not be able to mistake the sight of his arousal. The need to have her had consumed him from the first moment he'd met her, more so when he'd heard the evidence of her kind heart and witty tongue. She intrigued him. He was captivated by her contradicting qualities: a deeply passionate nature mingled with a soft, sweet temperament.

"Lord Markham," she whispered. But he knew if he opened his eyes fully, if he gazed upon her sultry smile, the needs of his famished body would overpower all rational thought. And so he tried to keep his breathing calm, more sedate, as he feigned slumber.

She sighed, the sound revealing frustration rather than fatigue.

He felt her move away before he noted the sound of light footsteps. Disappointment and relief waged an internal war. He knew which side he was on. Curiosity forced him to peer through squinted lids, and he choked on the sudden wave of panic exploding from his gut.

"D-don't," he yelled as her hand gripped the drapes.

She jumped as he stumbled from the bed. His arms and legs struggled to keep up with the chaotic train of his thoughts.

"I must speak with you urgently," she said. "It's so dark in here."

"Leave them." The words sounded like an incoherent growl as he tried to reach her before she gave into her innocent whim.

Elliot heard the swishing sound before the slivers of light hit his chest, the piercing rays searing into his skin. He put his hands to his face as he crumpled to the floor, shock swallowing down his cries.

"What? What's wrong?" she cried rushing down to his side.

Amidst the agonising pain, he knew he had to force the words from his lips. "C-close them … close the drapes. Hurry."

With a mix of fear and confusion marring her brow, she did as he asked, dragging them across to plunge them back into darkness.

Relief coursed through him.

She knelt down at his side, her trembling hands hovering over him, patting at the air above his chest. "Your skin, it is all blistered and burnt. What can I do?"

"The decanter," he said, his breathing raspy, ragged. He knew his eyes were dark, his teeth visible. Lifting a limp arm, he pointed to the console table on the far side of the room. "I need to drink."

With wide eyes, she gaped at the sharp points overhanging his lip. "Good heavens, what's happening to you?"

"Just … just get me a drink."

She hurried away and came back with the decanter and glass. "Shall I pour it?"

"Help me sit up." His arms felt weak as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows.

Understanding his dilemma, she sat on the floor behind him and pulled him up to lean against her chest, her shoulder supporting his head. She removed the stopper and brought the decanter to his lips.

That first smooth sip of blood brought instant relief. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, aware of her other hand stroking his hair from his brow. He could sense her fear, her confusion, but she continued to help him take small sips, continued to soothe his spirit.

"Don't… don't be frightened," he managed to say, aware of her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe.

"Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I could scarcely believe it."

"It is a terrible affliction." He took a large gulp from the decanter. "But beneath it all, I am the same man."

"The drink seems to be helping," she said incredulously. "Your breathing sounds a little better. But you're dribbling."

When she wiped away the trickle of blood with the pad of her finger, a warm feeling flooded his chest. Perhaps assuming it was wine, he heard her suck away the residue, heard her retch at the taste. "What on earth are you drinking?"

Too weak to manipulate her thoughts, too tired to care, he told the truth. "It is blood. My illness demands I drink it."

There, he had said it. He had spoken the words to another. Despite fearing the consequences, he felt the shackles of his burden break in two.

"Blood!" The loud gasp revealed the true depth of her fear.

"Yes. I do not drink it out of choice."

"Are … are you dying?"

"No. I am not dying." The parts of him that controlled all feeling and emotion had long ceased to function. "Can you help me up onto the bed?"

Taking the decanter from him and placing it on the floor, she put her hand on his back to support him as she stood, the intimacy of the action overshadowed by necessity. Scooping her arms under his, she helped him up to lie on the bed.

"I need a few minutes to rest. But I will answer any questions you may have."

He expected her to flee the room at the first opportunity, but she came to stand at his side, her gaze roaming over the scars on his chest, up to his sharp teeth, his black eyes.

She shuffled back, just a step or two. "What's wrong with you? Part of me wants to run far from here. Part of me is desperate to know how to help you."

He blinked a few times. "If you want to leave, by all means do so. I only ask that you do not mention what you have witnessed."

When he regained his strength, he would make her forget.

"Did the sunlight do that?" She nodded to the marks on his chest, stretched her fingers out but didn't touch them. "Did the sun burn your skin?"

"The illness causes a severe reaction to sunlight."

Trembling fingers came up to cover her mouth, as a means of protection or to suppress shock — he wasn't sure.

"It is not contagious," he added. "You will not catch it."

"Your eyes … they're different."

"I need blood to live. My eyes darken when I feed."

She leaned closer and peered into his eyes and he fought the urge to take her in his arms. "They are green again," she said, marvelling at the fact.

Amazed at her response, he said, "Are you not frightened? I want you to tell me the truth." For some strange reason, he needed her to be honest with him.

"Of course, I was frightened," she said. "I thought you were going to die."

"I meant are you not frightened by my monstrous appearance?"

She shrugged. "Yes, but it is hardly monstrous. How long have you suffered from this dreadful illness?"

"Four years." Elliot took a deep breath. "Look. Mrs. Denton, I understand—"

"Please don't call me that," she interjected. "It implies a connection I do not wish to be reminded of. Besides, after what has just occurred, I believe we have crossed the boundaries of propriety."

Elliot snorted. "I think we crossed them way before that. But let me reiterate. If you wish to leave, I will find someone else to help you in your quest to find your sister."