The Ravencliff Bride (13 page)

“You mark my words,” Mallory shrilled. “That animal is
dead!
”

Sara knelt paralyzed in the middle of the mahogany four-poster, her hands clasped over her mouth, watching Nero turn and lift his leg, marking his territory again and again in a semicircular arch around the bed. When he’d finished, he shook himself, raised his shaggy head, and howled his plaintive howl. It ran her through like a javelin.

She opened her arms, and he leaped up on the bed and came into them, nuzzling her hair with his cold wet nose, licking the tears from her face, wagging his bushy tail as she stroked him. There was a strong metallic odor of blood about him. They were both covered with it,
Mallory’s blood
. It
had spattered her nightdress, and Nero’s fur was streaked with it.

“I shall have to hide you here,” she said. “If he doesn’t kill you, Nicholas will surely banish you now. Are you hungry, boy? See there, I’ve saved you a treat.” She pointed out the serviette on the carpet, and Nero jumped down and padded toward it, nudging the linen cloth open with his nose, while she climbed out of the bed and began righting the candlestand. Nero had just begun to devour the mutton, when Mallory reeled back across the threshold, a pistol in his white-knuckled grip.

“Stand back!” he thundered, taking aim.

“
Noooo!
” Sara screamed, hurling the candle branch in her hand at him. It missed, and Nero sprang, sailing through the air. A thunderous shot rang out, flames spurted from the pistol barrel, and the air filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder. The animal yelped, and fell hard to the floor with the impact, blood running down his leg. It was only a hitch in his stride, before he scrambled to his feet again, whining in pain. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Sara, who was clutching the bedpost behind. The gleam of metal in the firelight caught her eye, and she gasped. The steward had another pistol! She saw it before Nero did.

“Run, Nero,
run!
” she shrilled, and the animal streaked through the door with Mallory staggering after him, grinding out a string of expletives. All at once another shot rang out. Another howl echoed along the corridor, then died away.

“No, Nero,
nooooo!
” she sobbed. Then there was silence.

Sara was certain she would find Nero lying dead on the hall carpet. She ran to the door and looked out into the corridor, but it was vacant; there was no sign of Mallory or the animal. Sobbing, she stepped back inside and locked the door behind her. Her heart ached for Nero. She wanted to help him, to protect him. He had drawn the steward’s fire deliberately to lure him out of her suite; she was certain of it, and she flung herself across the bed and sobbed her heart dry.

It was a short indulgence. All at once frantic pounding at the door bled into her sobs. Voices were calling her name, and she climbed down from the four-poster, shrugged on her wrapper, and went to answer. When she opened the door, Nell and Mrs. Bromley burst through it, screaming at the top of their voices. Others were grouped on the threshold, and still more came, flooding the hall—in the forefront, Smythe, the butler. Several of the footmen bore lit candle branches, and there were others she had never met. Nicholas was not among them.

Glancing down, Sara realized what had so overset Nell
and the housekeeper. The gown beneath her gaping wrapper was streaked with blood, as were her face and hands. The uproar was deafening. It echoed inside her head, making her dizzy, and she held on to it in a vain attempt to forestall the vertigo.

All at once, another servant, whom she’d seen about but not met, parted the sea of gaping servants and approached her. He had a kindly face, though his eyes, like molten silver, studied her long and hard from beneath beetled brows.

“Are you harmed, my lady?” he asked. His voice sounded as though it was coming from an echo chamber. “Are you in need of the doctor?”

“N-no, not harmed,” she stammered. “You are . . . ?”

“Mills, my lady,” he said, “his lordship’s valet. You’re certain you’ve no need of the doctor?” His eyes lingered on her bloodstained gown.

“I . . . I’m certain,” Sara replied. “The blood . . . isn’t mine. It was Mr. Mallory . . . he . . . he . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“I know, my lady,” said the valet. “Do you know where Mr. Mallory is now?”

“N-no,” she sobbed. “Nero? Is he . . . dead? Mr. Mallory was in his altitudes. He was trying to kill Nero!”

“That deuced animal again!” the butler barked. “I might have guessed. All right, everyone back to your stations. Resume your duties. Her ladyship is unharmed.”

A chorus of mumbles was the reply as the crowd thinned in obedience to Smythe’s command and the servants went about their business—all but Nell, Mrs. Bromley, and Mills, who hung back.

“Where is his lordship?” Sara asked the valet.

“His lordship has been called away on urgent business, my lady,” he replied. “That is why I have come . . . in his stead. Once Nell and Mrs. Bromley have put you to rights, I must insist that you lock your door and remain in your suite tonight. Mr. Mallory is still abroad in this house. Strong
drink tends to make him . . . unpredictable, and his lordship would never forgive me if you were to come to harm on my watch.”

“But Nero!”

“Nero can take care of himself, my lady,” said the valet.

“But Mr. Mallory
shot
him, Mills. In the shoulder, I think . . . or the leg. Oh, I’m not sure! It all happened so fast. He was bleeding so. We have to find him—care for him!”

“Do not distress yourself, my lady,” the valet soothed. “I shall see to Nero. I shall attend to it at once.” He turned to the housekeeper. “Perhaps a cordial, Mrs. Bromley,” he said, “something from your herbal stores, to help my lady rest. Once you’ve done, make sure you see to that door.”

“But what if Nero returns?” Sara cried. “If the door is locked, he won’t be able to get in. He’s
injured
, Mills.”

“The animal will not be returning tonight, my lady,” the valet said. “He will be found and cared for, but I shall see that Smythe posts a hall boy right outside your door . . . just in case, to ease your mind.”

He shuffled off, and Nell and Mrs. Bromley took Sara in hand, closing the door behind him.

Nicholas lay swathed in a bloody sheet, bare to the waist on the lounge in his dressing room, while the doctor worked with quick, skilled hands to remove the bullet from his shoulder. His pain-crazed eyes were trained on the door, and when Mills hurried through, he gave a lurch that caused the doctor’s hand to slip.

“Have a care, my lord!” Breeden cried. “You’ve lost too much blood as it is.”

Nicholas paid him no mind. “Is she harmed, Mills?” he said through clenched teeth, as the doctor resumed his probing. “Tell me she wasn’t harmed! Tell me Alex didn’t . . .”

“You know she wasn’t harmed, my lord,” said Mills, out of breath. “Nero prevented him. Have you forgotten?”

“No, I haven’t ‘forgotten,’ ” Nicholas snapped. “How
could I forget, Mills, considering? Where is the bounder now?”

“Mr. Mallory is still at large, my lord,” Mills replied.

“He hasn’t left the estate?”

“I would think not, my lord,” said the valet. “He was drunk as a wheelbarrow, firing off pistols in the house, of all things.” He hesitated. “I might point out that he was aiming at Nero, my lord . . . not at Baron Walraven.”

“Well, Nero would have chomped off his cods if her ladyship hadn’t begged for the man’s life. Now the chore is left to me, isn’t it, Mills? Alex is going to rue the hour—the very minute—he tossed back the spirits that foxed him tonight.”

“It’s no use if you don’t lie still, my lord,” the doctor complained, putting pressure on the bleeding wound with a folded linen towel. He glanced at the valet over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose there’s any chloroform about? I’ve laudanum for after, but it must be saved for that. Meanwhile, I have to put him under. The pistol ball is wedged against the bone, and I must pass close to the artery to remove it. If he should move again like he did just now . . .”

“We’ve no chloroform, Dr. Breeden, but Mrs. Bromley’s herbal cures are legendary. The local surgeons hereabouts swear by them, and she’s treated our ills with her ointments, cordials, and concoctions successfully for years. Why, just last month, a tea she brewed of dried passionflower blossoms put the head hall boy under so the groom could extract his abcessed tooth. We seldom need to summon a surgeon to Ravencliff.”

“Fetch it then,” said the doctor. “This is serious here.”

“You cannot involve the servants!” Nicholas groaned. “No one must know—
no one!
”

“No one will, my lord,” said Mills, halfway through the door. “I shall say the tincture is for Nero. It stands to reason that a dog would need to be dosed before it could be doctored—”

“Not a dog, Mills, a
wolf
masquerading as a dog.” Nicholas flashed. “You know the dose for a dog would not nearly be potent enough to subdue Nero.”

“Please leave it to me, my lord. Have I ever let you down?” the valet said. “You know not. Now, see if you can lie still and mind the doctor, while I attend to what needs must.”

Nicholas relaxed as much as was possible under the doctor’s probing knife, grinding his teeth closed against the pain. He dared not cry out; someone might hear. In these circumstances, he had no idea when the transformation might occur again, and no one had ever seen it but Mills. Such a situation as what was upon him now had never been put to the test. What if the change were to happen during the operation? He hadn’t broached the subject with Dr. Breeden yet. How would the man react? What would he think? He dared not imagine it.

This was not how it was supposed to be. The plan had been to take the doctor out on the cliff, out of earshot of the curious, and consult him over the situation. That could not be now. There were too many dangers to do it in the house, too great a risk of being overheard. Hadn’t Sara nearly knocked in the head two footmen listening at the door when she’d exited the dining hall yesterday?

No one, least of all Sara, was going to believe the explanation he and Mills had decided upon to excuse his absence from the house until he was recovered enough to be seen again. The staff knew he never left Ravencliff. Alexander Mallory knew he never left it, as well. That was the reason for the steward’s employment. What possible emergency could it have been to drag the master away with a houseguest just come, when he couldn’t even leave to wed his bride? It was a flimsy excuse at best, but what other choice was there? He couldn’t risk being seen as he was.

What must this esteemed scholar—this renowned doctor—think, imposed upon in such a way on his first night in residence?
First Sara, and now this! He wouldn’t blame the man for fleeing back to London on the first chaise leaving the coast.

“I know the pain is devastating, my lord,” Dr. Breeden said, interrupting his thoughts. “It shan’t be long now. Once we have the draught, I’ll have the pistol ball out in a trice.”

“Pain . . . is the least . . . of my worries,” Nicholas panted, writhing under the pressure of the doctor’s firm hand holding back the blood flow with fresh linen towels.

“Then you have no worries, my lord,” said the doctor, his quicksilver eyes like drills. “Your secret is quite safe with me. It is, after all, the reason I am come, is it not?”

Nicholas nodded. “I . . . I cannot control it,” he said. “If it should happen here now . . .”

“If it should, we will deal with it,” said the doctor. “Look into my eyes, and listen to my voice. Listen to the meter. Concentrate upon the words as I speak them. Repeat them in your mind, like an echo. Think of nothing else, nothing but my voice. You need to calm yourself, my lord, as I am calm. You are losing too much blood. Take deep breaths if you can. That’s it—deeper . . . good. Now look to the candle flame. Don’t take your eyes from it. See how it dances in the drafts? Look into its very core. I must ask you before he returns, is Mills aware?”

“Yes,” said Nicholas, “but no one else, and no one else must be. If you are going to render me unconscious, that must be understood. Mills has cared for me from the onset of this nightmare when I was but a child. If I am not able, you must trust his judgments in all things.”

“I understand. Do you trust me, my lord?”

Nicholas ground out a laugh. “Have I a choice?”

“We all have choices, my lord.”

“All but me in this,” Nicholas responded.

“We shall see,” said the doctor. “We shall see.”

It seemed an eternity to Nicholas before Mills returned with the passionflower tea. It was strong, but not quite
strong enough to put him under altogether, as he knew it would not. He wouldn’t let it. Trust was a luxury he could ill afford. Instead, he lurked on the edge of pain, dulled somewhat, but not alleviated in total. He grimaced and groaned and gritted his teeth, while the doctor dug out the lead ball, but Nicholas made no outcry, and when the doctor cauterized the wound, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

The sun was streaming through the mullioned panes in his dressing room window, laying down blinding shafts of light where dust motes danced, when he groaned awake again. He narrowed his eyes against the glare, and Mills hurried to draw the draperies. Across the way the blurry image of Dr. Breeden asleep in the wing chair came into focus—had he spent the night in the backbreaking antique? He must have done.

Nicholas groaned again. His shoulder was bound and dressed with a linen bandage slathered with an ointment. Groundsel and chickweed, by the smell of it, one of Mrs. Bromley’s favorite remedies to ward off infection. He knew it well. His arm was contained in a sling, and he groaned again, shifting position.

“It’s done, my lord,” said Mills, moistening his parched lips. “You shall be up and about in next to no time, so long as you mind the doctor.”

“Did it . . . happen again?” Nicholas murmured.

“No, my lord,” said Mills, misty-eyed. “Nothing . . . untoward occurred.”

Nicholas breathed a ragged sigh of relief.

“As soon as the doctor permits, we must have you to your bed, my lord,” Mills said. “You cannot stay here on this hard old lounge. You will never mend.”