Tempting the Wolf (22 page)

O’Banyon awoke in his bed chamber, groggy, achy, disoriented.

What had happened? Pieces of reality floated back amidst the flotsam of uncertainty. He had gone to Arborhill. That much he knew. He had gone because he could not resist. He was drawn to her, pulled against his will. And she had been there, as fragile as a winter rose, as lovely as the dawn, but with an icy briskness that fascinated him and drew him and scared him to death.

He had gone to ask questions, to demand answers, to clear some of the muck from his head.

He closed his eyes. The muck was still there, only muckier. They had argued. He remembered that and then—

Dear God!

He sat upright in bed.

Pain ripped through his biceps. He glanced down. A bloody furrow had been plowed across the flesh of his upper arm.

Noise exploded in his head. He remembered the sound of a gunshot, but ‘twas the memory of their argument that kept him frozen as he was, rigid with terror.

What had happened? Was she well? Was she safe?

Questions stormed through his mind. Answers dragged behind, recalcitrant, groggy.

Bolting out of bed, he was dressed in a matter of moments, was out the door seconds later, his body tense with keeling, ripping fear.

Two carriages were parked on the cobbled boulevard outside Arborhill. O’Banyon wrapped Luci’s reins through an iron ring and strode up the walkway. No one answered at his knock. He pushed the door open and paced inside, guts cramped.

“Oh.” Mistress Catrill stopped her scurrying pace as she burst into the towering vestibule. “My lord. I suspect you’ve heard the news.”

His stomach yanked up tight. Fear, like bitter acid, ate his innards. “News?”

“Poor thing. Poor thing.” She shook her head, distraught and mumbling.

He felt sick. Sick and weak. “What happened?”

“Never ‘urt a living soul in all ‘er life. It’s not right. What’s the world coming to?”

“Where is she?” he growled.

“Worser times, that I’ll say. She didn’t ‘ave no—”

O’Banyon grabbed her arms. “Where the devil is she?”

The old woman’s mouth fell open, but she nodded sideways, her eyes wide with fear.

It shamed him that it took a moment to gather his nerve, to turn, to stride down the hall, his boot heels ringing like a death knell against the marble tiles.

The door opened beneath his hand. A bed stood against the opposite wall. The blankets were pristine white, the pillows plump, and across the snowy linen dark hair was spread like spun silk. But the face—

He almost hit his knees, almost collapsed there in the doorway, for the face was damaged beyond recognition.

“Jesus God!” The words rasped forth as if torn from him by claws.

The maid’s eyes were swollen shut. A jagged, angry gash ran from her brow to her jaw, and her lips… those lovely, bowed lips were split open and weeping.

He clenched his fists and forced himself inside, one painful step at a time. Sickness curdled his stomach. Horror blurred his thoughts. No. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t have—

“O’Banyon.”

His mind jolted to a halt. He held his breath and turned slowly. And she was there. The white countess. As lovely as a song, her breathtaking face somber, her gloved hands clasped in front of her immaculate gown.

“Lass.” He was barely able to breathe the word. “Ye are well.”

She stood very straight, far back from the bed. “Why have you come?”

He shook his head. “I worried… I thought—” He turned toward the bed. “Who—” But then he knew. ‘Twas the pixie girl with the grubby face and lightning quick eyes. The pixie girl what had graced him with a smile reserved for so few. “Sibylla,” he breathed.

Antoinette stood perfectly still, her hands clasped tight. “Word travels quickly in this city, I see.”

“What happened?” It took all his strength to voice the words, for he did not truly wish to know.

The countess’s face was all but expressionless, but if one was obsessed enough, if one had studied her long enough, perhaps he could see the spark of something in her eyes. Anger? Blame?

“I do not know,” she said. “Doctor Lambert believes she may have been attacked by an animal.”

“I may be mistaken,” said the doctor and rose from his chair in the corner. It was not until that moment that O’Banyon realized there was another present. He was narrow and short with a balding head that he shook morosely. “The wounds are…” He shrugged. “Frankly, they are quite baffling. There are gashes, of course, but there are also—”

“What kind of animal?” O’Banyon’s voice was barely audible to his own ears.

The doctor scowled. “That’s impossible to say. In fact—”

“Might it have been a wolf?”

“A wolf?” The man studied him quizzically. “This time of year? And so close to the city?”

O’Banyon waited, breath held, head pounding.

“I find it highly unlikely that such an animal would have ventured this close to man. In fact I wonder…“He paused, still scowling as he turned toward the white countess. “Indeed, my lady, I must ask, might one of your other servants have attacked her?”

Silence echoed in the room.

“Understand me,” he continued. “I admire you for taking these people into your home. Truly I do. I only wish I had the opportunity to do the same, but I often find that ladies of your quality are too…” He smiled, pulling his lips back from over-large teeth. “Naive. And sometimes—”

“You think me naive, doctor?” Her expression was perfectly placid, but her eyes were bright. With what emotion?

“Perhaps naive is the wrong word. Trusting, then. Maybe you are too trusting.” He lifted a tool from the chair. Black tubes dangled from his hand. “I couldn’t help but notice your footman.”

She didn’t even blink as she watched him.

“What caused his deformities, do you know?” he asked.

“No,” she said, and bending slightly, lifted a Bible and a water glass from the nearby table. “We’ve not discussed it.”

He nodded. “I do hate to say it, but sometimes deformed features hide a mind just as damaged. Might he have attacked—”

“No.” The countess’s voice was firm and quiet.

“You maybe—”

“No,” she repeated.

The doctor pursed his lips. “Very well then.” He tucked his gadget into a leather bag that sat on a nearby console and glanced up. “Might the wounds be self-inflicted?”

“What?” The countess’s question was barely a breath in the stillness of the room.

“Sometimes this sort of child…” He lifted a hand toward the bed and cleared his throat. “Sometimes they’ve done things…” He shook his head.

“Things?” she repeated.

“She has…” He cleared his throat again. “
Had
,” he corrected. “She had a sweetness to her face, but as I am certain you’re aware, a lovely countenance can hide a host of sins.”

She lifted her chin the slightest degree.

The doctor furrowed his brow as if wrestling to convey reason to a lesser species. “As much as it pains me to say it, sometimes people are struck dumb for a reason.”

“So you think she is being punished for her sins, doctor?”

“Perhaps.” He glanced toward the bed, nodding. “Perhaps she has done evil. In the past, I mean. All in the past. Then, you, in your… innocence…” He gave her a preening smile. “Take her in. She sees your goodness, but the evil is still in her. And in her soul she wants to do evil again. So she is torn, you see. Torn between right and wrong. A war of sorts…” He made a tugging motion with his knotty hands. “Until finally—”

“What the devil be ye talkin’ aboot?” O’Banyon asked and stepped abruptly forward. “She be only a bairn with a bairn’s—” But in that instant the countess moved between them.

“Thank you for your assistance, doctor,” she said.

“If you like I could stay and—”

“No.” She lifted the Bible, indicating the door. “I’m certain you’ve got important duties elsewhere.”

“Very well then.” His tone was snooty. He bent, lifted his bag from the console. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Loss?”

“She’ll not live,” he said and strode out the door. “Not through the night.”

The world went silent but for the brisk, offended fall of his footsteps.

O’Banyon turned toward the bed. The girl lay unmoving. It took him a moment to find his voice. “Her face is broken, aye,” he said, “but I’ve seen such things heal in the past. Surely—”

“There is damage within.” Antoinette did not turn toward him when she spoke. Neither did she tread the floor to the child’s side. Instead, she looked out the window toward the garden below. “Broken bones,” she said. “Deep bruising that suggests damaged organs, or so says the good doctor.”

“The good doctor,” he growled, turning toward her, “is a—”

“Countess!” Mr. Winters rushed into the room and stopped short, his eyes going wide as he found the girl on the bed. “Dear God, I heard it was bad, but I had no idea… What happened?”

She stood perfectly straight, like a princess facing an armed battalion. Like a warrior queen on a hopeless quest. “We’re not entirely certain.”

“Not certain? Tell me there was not an intruder in your house.”

“No,” she said, and for a fraction of an instant, her lips twitched with some emotion so deep she could not quite hide it behind her careful facade. “Mrs. Catrill found her in the gardens.”

“Your favorite place in all the world,” breathed Winters. “Thank God you were not there yourself,” he said and pacing to the bed, gazed down at the small, broken face. “It’s terrible. Simply horrible,” he murmured, and when he turned, his eyes shone with an artist’s sadness. “You’ve been fraught with such hardships of late. ‘Tis unfair that luck should turn so sharply against you.”

“I fear this is Sibylla’s hardship,” she said, but her eyes were empty and lost.

“You’ve no need to hide your true feelings, my lady,” Winters said. “Not with me. I know how you cherish her.” He shook his head. ” Tis too much. Far more than you deserve. You all but drown saving our poor doomed Amelia. Your cart horse dies mysteriously, you—”

“Thank you for coming by, Mr. Winters,” she said and lifted her hand again toward the door. “I do so appreciate your condolences.”

“I’m a fool,” he said, his eyes brighter still. “I’ve upset you.”

“No,” she denied, and indeed, her face looked perfectly serene as she stepped through the doorway ahead of them.” ‘Tis simply that I need some time alone with my thoughts.”

She met Winters’s gaze with her own.

“Very well then,” he said and nodded sadly. “I understand. Truly.”

She bowed with shallow grace, and Winters left, even his footfalls sounding sad as he paced away.

The house went quiet.

She stepped back into the bedchamber, facing O’Banyon.

“My apologies,” she said. “I do not mean to be a poor hostess, but I fear I am horribly tired and—”

“What will you do?” he asked.

“What?”

“About the wee lass,” he said and watched her, every nerve strung tight as the strings of a crossbow. “What will you do?”

“You heard the doctor,” she said and turned away. “There is little I can do.”

“Truly?”

“I would like you to leave,” she said and faced him. Not a flicker of emotion shone in her eyes now, though her body seemed as stiff as death. “Now. If you would please.”

“I did na do it,” he said.

Dark brows dipped over evergreen eyes. “What?”

Pain ground at his innards. How much did she know? How much did she guess? “We argued. That much I admit. I became…” What had he become exactly. He didn’t truly know. Would never know. Would be cursed forever, torn from the things he loved, living a half life in haze and dread. “I was angry,” he rasped. “But I would na have harmed a wee sweet lass.” Jesus God, his eyes burned with the idea, like that weakling Mr. Winters, brought low by the sight of the girl’s torn face.

He turned his stinging gaze to the countess.

“I would na,” he rasped, and hoped to God it was true.

“I believe you,” she said.

“Do ye?” he rasped. He felt weak and foolish, nearly limp with hope and sorrow.

“If I did not… you would know it.” Something deadly and bright flashed in her eyes.

He watched her, his mind roiling. “Go to her, then,” he urged motioning toward the bed. “Hold her hand, lassie. Speak to her.”

She didn’t so much as shift her gaze in that direction. “Whatever are you talking about?”

He drew a deep breath, fighting a thousand battles on a hundred fronts. Remembering darkness and isolation so deep he could not breathe, could not hope. But the lass was wounded. What was a little witchcraft where the wee one was concerned. “She cherishes ye like none other,” he breathed. “Mayhap if ye call her name, encourage her, ye can yet draw her back from the darkness. Save her.”

Silence, then she laughed. The sound was brittle and hard in the dead air of the room. “I didn’t imagine you to be a dreamer, Irishman.”

He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher, to understand, to see inside the mask she had so carefully constructed. “Didn’t ye?” he asked, his voice quiet lest he disturb the truth.

“People die, O’Banyon,” she said. “Every day. Every single day. I do not know what you think of me, but there is nothing I can do about it.”