Tempting the Wolf (29 page)

“Your name is Fayette. Your mother was a milliner’s daughter. Your father was a…” He laughed. “Nobody.”

She swallowed. Memories swamped her. She held them back, fighting them down. “I have heard that strong drink can cause all sorts of hallucinations/’ she said. “But I did not expect you to imbibe so heavily when—”

“They died when you were but five years of age.”

Her breath stopped short. Her hand was inches from the drawer, but she could not move, could not function. She was too small, too weak.

“My only question is whether ‘twas you who killed them.”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.

“They knew of course. Indeed, the entire village knew you were… different, but ‘twas not until after their deaths that it became…” He shrugged. “Problematic.”

She shook her head, barely able to manage that much.

“You can hardly blame them. Times were hard in Sternbrough. No one wanted a scrawny girl with eerie ways. But they fed you, didn’t they? They fed you… until you killed the miller’s son.”

“
Non
. I didn’t do it.” She was shaking her head. Her hair was matted, her hands cold.

“Yes, my dear. In fact you did,” he said.

She was small again, small and alone. “
Non
. ‘Twas an accident.” Memories crowded in like hungry rats. He’d taunted her, teased her, his face red as he called her a witch. Still, she hadn’t wanted him dead. “He fell. That’s all.”

The laughter again, but was it Winters’s or the miller’s son’s?

“You were driven from the village.”

“I didn’t mean him no harm.”

“Of course not. Witches have to survive too.”

She jerked her gaze to his. The world fell silent. She shook her head. Her hands felt clammy. She could smell the heavy odor of the swamp where she hid. “I’m not a witch.”

“That’s not what the old man believed, is it?”

She felt her face contort at the torch of memories. “He hated me.”

“Hated you!” he snapped, then laughed. The sound was loud and harsh in the flickering darkness. “He hated everyone. And everyone hated him,” he sneered. “But at least he did not plan to disinherit his own son. Not until you bewitched him.”

Not a soul whispered. Not a spirit moved. Understanding dawned with slow certainty in Fay-ette’s shuddering soul. “Edgar,” she whispered.

He laughed, throwing back his head. His teeth flashed with carnivorous glee in the candlelight. “So you’ve finally recognized me.”

She tried to back away, but the table was behind her. She shook her head. “I didn’t ask for your inheritance.”

“No, of course not. A witch does not ask. The old man was more than willing to steal from his son. From his only heir!” There were tears in his eyes.

“You despised him,” she whispered.

“Of course I despised him,” he hissed. “He was a contemptible, withered old bastard who reeked of smoke and onion.” He shivered delicately. “I couldn’t wait for his death. That is, until I realized you’d convinced him to give everything he owned to some little guttersnipe whore who’d come begging at his doorstep.”

She shook her head. “I asked him to make amends with you.”

“Was that while you were seducing him? Little Fayette. Six years old, but you knew how, didn’t you? Girls like you are born with the knowledge.”

She felt sick, dirty, shamed to her core. She hadn’t slept with the old man. He hadn’t touched her, but if he’d asked, if he’d insisted… What would she have done to tame the hungry monster that gnawed at her guts?

The monster growled now, like a hunting beast, consuming her. Eating her from the inside out.

“It took me years to figure it out,” Winters said. “Initially I believed the old bastard had actually found some titled fool willing to wed him. In-deed, when first I saw you after his death, I didn’t recognize you as the ragamuffin girl the servants had taken in years before.”

“Anna…” She remembered the old woman’s kind face, remembered, and felt tears well in her soul. “She gives me muffins from her own plate. They taste like laughter.”

“Anna.” He nodded. “The old ogre. Half witch herself. So she took you in, and then you worked your wiles.”

She shook her head.

“You wheedled your way into the old man’s bed.”

“He didn’t never like me. But he…” She lifted her gaze to Winters, seeing the old man instead in the young man’s eyes. “He hated you.”

He gritted his teeth.

“Still and all, he wanted you back, Edgar. He tried, invited ye to Colline.”

“As if I were a guest!” he snarled. “As if it were some great favor. Like I was on trial, to see how I would perform. When the estate should have been mine. It all should have been mine.” He strode forward. “But he had you.” He hissed the words. “In his bed. In his mind.” He tapped his skull. “Poisoning him.”

“I don’t want to live no lie,” she whimpered, but the old man struck out with his crop.

You’ll do as I say, girl, or you won’t want to live at all.

“Tell me, Fayette, did the two of you laugh behind my back as you concocted your scheme?”

She shook her head. A welt stretched angry and red across the back of her hand. It stung like fire.

“Was he chortling up his sleeve the whole while he paraded you before his damned blue-haired friends?”

“They don’t trust me. I ain’t one of them. Let me stay in the kitchen with Anna. I can cook—”

You’ll not cook, child. And you’ll not eat. Not unless I say so.

“My only question is, how did you convince that stunted little Bonaparte to agree?” He shook his head. “You must be powerful indeed.”

“Secrets,” she whispered.

He scowled.

“M’ lord has secrets about the emperor. Secrets he don’t want aired.”

The room was silent for a moment and then Winters laughed. “So the old bastard blackmailed Bony himself.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I didn’t give him enough credit.” He narrowed his eyes. “I would not have thought he had the balls to train a whore to be a lady and blackmail the grand
First Consul
in one swell swoop.”

“I ain’t no whore.”

He laughed.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Truly?” he asked and pulled a knife from under his coat. “Because I dearly long to hurt you.”

She pressed back against the table, her heart dead in her chest.

“Think, my dear. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“His will.”

He laughed. “What else? You’ve got no heir. And even if you did…” He shrugged. “Stupid old bastard let the inheritance revert to me in the…” He smiled and advanced. “Unlikely event of your death. Apparently he didn’t give me much credit. Thought I’d roll over and die. But I’ve had years to think about it.” His face contorted. “Years shut away in a hovel, painting like a hermit. Living like a pauper when I should have been… Well, it doesn’t matter now. Because it will all be over soon,” he said and stepped toward her.

“No!” she screamed, and jerking about, snagged the pistol from the drawer.

He stopped dead in his tracks. They stared at each other and then he smiled, slow and sinister.

“Oh come now, countess,” he chided. “You disappoint me.”

“Don’t come any closer.”

“Such a traditional weapon.” He advanced another step. “Surely you can do better than that.” He laughed. “Turn me into a toad or—”

“Please,” she pleaded. The gun wobbled in her hands, but suddenly there was a noise from her right.

She turned in stuttering terror.

Sibylla stood in the door of the bedroom, eyes wide in her perfect face, and in that instant Winters turned toward her. The world stood still. Not a soul whispered.

“So it’s true!” he murmured. “I knew…” He was breathless, wide eyed, stunned. “I knew. But even I didn’t believe…” He turned back, his face blank with wonder. “She’s your apprentice.”

“No.” Antoinette straightened, terror ripping her soul. “She’s just a child.”

He laughed. “An apprentice who you restored with your unearthly powers.”

“No. She healed. ‘Tis—”

“Healed!” He laughed. “I all but killed the child. She could not have—”

“You?” she whispered.

“Of course me. Who else? Oh, she wasn’t my original target.” His face contorted. “I had grown tired of waiting. Thus I had come for you. But she knew. Somehow she knew. The devil…” He nodded. “She’s in concert with the devil. I had to keep her quiet. And then the old lady came clamoring out. There was little I could do but return to my hole and wait some more, spreading my little secrets. I would turn the ton against you. I would make them all see. The king himself would know what you are. What she is…” He turned again toward the girl’s flawless features. “Witches,” he said in awe. “I should have known you would spirit her away. Her sort does not die easily. But you could not afford to let the others see how you transformed her.” His eyes were gleaming. ” ‘Twas not so many years ago you would have been burned until the flesh peeled from your bones like old parchment. But we are too
civilized
for that now. Surely, I thought though, surely you would be reviled. My inheritance would be returned to me once they knew the truth. Once you were publicly humiliated.”

“It was you,” she whispered again.

“I gave up a fortune gambling when you touched me, just so others would believe you’d hexed me, but no one cared. They were far more concerned when I loosed Trulane’s worthless mutt.”

“You’re mad,” she said.

“Mad! Me?” he said and cackled at the ceiling. “Look who calls the kettle black.”

“Get out.” She was cool now, serene. She had sworn not to hurt another, had made a vow more sacred than blood, but she would do what she must. “Get out or I shall kill you. I swear I will.”

He smiled and took a step forward. She raised the pistol. But suddenly he lunged to his left.

Sibylla squeaked in terror, but she was already being dragged up against his chest, her narrow body arched against him, her grubby fingers trembling on his arm.

“What now, little Fayette?” he snarled and pressed the girl forward. “Will you kill her also?”

“Let her go.” Antoinette’s voice broke. “Please.”

“Or will you sacrifice yourself to save her?”

The world was silent, trembling in fear, in indecision.

He laughed. “Drop the gun,” he said.

Her fingers loosed without thought. The pistol fell, slowly, as if it were no heavier than a feather.

He pushed Sibylla aside. She fell in the same slow motion. He leapt toward Antoinette. She tried to jerk away, but his fingers were in her gown. She tumbled to the floor, kicking, trying to break free. Pain sliced her back. She twisted about just in time to see a blur of motion near the door, a flash of gold and suddenly Winters was snatched away with a gurgled scream.

A growl snarled through the room and then there was silence.

The world spun back into motion.

A wolf!

Antoinette scrambled backward on hands and feet.

Its teeth were bared, shining red in the quaking candlelight.

Antoinette snatched up the gun.

“Sibylla!” she croaked. “Sibylla. Get back! In your room.” The gun shook like a leaf, but the girl stepped forward.

The wolf turned toward her, blue eyes gleaming and in that instant, Sibylla dropped to her knees and curled an arm around the beast’s golden neck. Child and animal turned toward her, two pair of limpid eyes trained on her face.

And then she fell, dropping like a stone into a pool of darkness.

A knock sounded at Antoinette’s bedchamber door. She glanced up from her book of poems.

“I am resting just now,” she said. “Please, Mrs. Catrill, come back later when—” But the door opened and O’Banyon stepped inside.

For a moment she was unable to speak, unable to draw a single breath, for he was that beautiful. That stunning, his smile like a glimmer of light in the darkness.

She set her book aside and straightened slightly. She would be strong, for that was what she must do.

The world had gone mad. Winters was dead. But she had not killed him. That much she knew, for she remembered the wolf. Remembered the bright gleam in its unearthly eyes as it turned toward her.

Whitford had awakened her. Indeed, it had been he who had insisted she return to London. Insisted that she allow Mrs. Catrill to see to her wounds. Insisted that she leave Sibylla behind in Minetta’s tender care.

“I heard ye had been injured,” O’Banyon said and stepped forward. “I came as soon as I could.”

She stared at him, trying to think, to marshal her senses. “I do not believe it is seemly for you to be here in my bedchamber, sir.”

His grin lifted a notch as he settled his hip onto her mattress.

“But if ye dunna disremember, lass,” he said and reached for her hand. Magic sprang between them. He gritted his teeth happily against the pain, then dipped his golden head and kissed her fingers. Magic danced between them. “I have been here afore.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but she was weak. Weak and dangerous. She drew evil to her. Or perhaps she was evil itself, leaving death in her wake. “You must leave,” she whispered.

“Oh?” He finally released her. She felt a sharp sear of pain at the departure of their flesh. “And why is that, lass?”