The Ravencliff Bride (15 page)

“How long has Nero lived in this house, my lord?”

“Nero has had many incarnations over the years . . . and many names, but he is still the same creature, my alter ego. We are one. What am I, Dr. Breeden . . . man, or animal?”

“I shall have to see this manifestation with my own eyes in order to make a positive assessment of your . . . malady, my lord,” said the doctor, “but from what you tell me, it appears that something of the wolf has been transferred to you from your father through the blood upon conception. You yourself were not bitten, so the taint is diluted in you. The mold has been broken, as it were, and you are, in my estimation, what is known as a nonviolent
shapeshifter
. Werewolves are technically shapeshifters as well—anyone who changes form would fall in that category—but not all shapeshifters are werewolves. The term covers a broad spectrum of entities,
the werewolf being the darkest, most violent creature, as different from you in your affliction as night from day.”

“Can you help me, Dr. Breeden?”

“It is too early to tell, my lord,” said the physician. “There is no cure, if that is what you’re asking, but there are other ways of . . . dealing with the problem. You will have to be patient, and you will have to trust me.”

“Just tell me there is hope.”

“There is always hope, my lord, but for now you must rest and mend. You haven’t fooled me, you know. You’re in pain. I shall dose you with laudanum, repair to my suite, and read those journals you spoke of, if you will allow. Will you give me leave to tell the baroness that Nero is dead?”

“No, Dr. Breeden,” Nicholas murmured, looking him in the eyes. “That, I cannot do.”

The doctor processed his reply without speaking. This time Nicholas met his mercurial stare, meaning to punctuate and underscore his words that there be no mistaking his resolve. It was the doctor who broke eye contact.

“Very well, my lord,” he said. “Though I implore you, think on it . . . objectively. We shall take the matter up again, when you’ve had time to consider the consequences.”

The doctor dosed him and left him then, his bushy brows knit in a contemplative frown. Mills stepped in as he quit the chamber, and Nicholas beckoned his valet closer. The laudanum was beginning to work, and he needed to have his say before it rendered him inert.

“What is it, my lord?” said Mills.

“Is there any sign of Alex?” he asked.

“No, my lord, he seems to have disappeared without a trace.”

“That is impossible. Did you go round to the stables and inquire of Watts, as I told you to?”

“I did, my lord. All the horses and carriages are accounted for, and Watts wasn’t even aware that Mr. Mallory had re-turned,
much less disappeared. He arrived by post chaise.”

“This is impossible. He has to be somewhere. He cannot just have vanished into thin air.” He shook his head in a vain attempt to forestall the effects of the opiate. “Breeden’s given me a proper dose, by God,” he grumbled. “I’ll be out before I have this said.”

“You need to rest, my lord. Everything is being done that can be done. You need to mend, so you can take command again.”

“You’ve searched the house?”

“We have, my lord, a thorough search from top to bottom.”

“Search it again! He knows where most of the hidden chambers are. He’s hiding in one of them—he has to be. He must have left a trail of blood. He was badly bitten. Did you follow it? I should think that would have been your first course of action, Mills.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but Nero left a trail of blood as well. One trail ended here, the other at the landing. He must have bound the wound somehow.”

“Look again. He may have bled somewhere else. Mills, he has to be found. We do not know how Nero’s bite will affect him. He may be as I am, or he may be something far worse. There is no way of telling. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Merciful God, my lord!” the valet breathed. “Suppose—”

“Is her ladyship guarded?” Nicholas interrupted.

“The hall boys, Peters, Clarke, and Gibbons are taking turns outside her door, my lord, whether she is in her suite or not. She is watched day and night. They have orders to alert us at once if Mr. Mallory should approach the tapestry suite. What should we do with him if he does surface, my lord? You cannot see him as you are.”

“Get those . . . damned pistols, for one thing,” said Nicholas, his speech thick and slurred as the laudanum took him deeper. “Then turn him out—
no
, you cannot . . . I am not
thinking clearly. He must remain until we
know
. You will have to . . . confine him somewhere until . . . until I can confront him. Just
do
it, Mills . . . however you must. Everything depends upon it.”

Something was wrong, very wrong. It had been three days, and still Nicholas hadn’t returned—neither had Alexander Mallory or Nero. Sara was beside herself. None of the servants would tell her anything. She was kept confined in her suite at Mills’s instruction, acting in Nicholas’s stead. The reason given her was that Alexander Mallory was doubtless deranged and dangerous, and until he was apprehended and disarmed, she was safer in her suite.

She should be in the dining hall extending hospitality to their guest in Nicholas’s absence. She wanted to prove herself to this strange husband, who evidently thought of her with no more regard than he did a piece of his furniture. What had taken him away from Ravencliff? What “urgent business” was it that was more important than taking a coach to London to marry his bride? She couldn’t imagine it. How could she have been so wrong about what she’d felt in that one delicious unguarded moment in his strong arms?

Dr. Breeden had been to see her several times during her confinement. He’d been pleasant and reassuring on those
occasions, and he’d told her that he was quite content to sup alone and repair to his rooms early to peruse some of the tomes from Nicholas’s impressive library. She mustn’t reproach herself. All would be well. Nicholas would soon return. Hopefully Mr. Mallory would be found by then, and things would go back to normal—whatever that was. Sara hadn’t had one normal experience since she’d entered Ravencliff Manor.

It was Nero’s absence, however, that troubled her most of all. No one had seen him since the shooting. He’d been seriously wounded, and he hadn’t returned to her suite. Fear that he had crawled off somewhere to die gave her no peace. Dr. Breeden hadn’t been very encouraging. Though he said that dogs often crawled off to lick their wounds when injured and sometimes survived, he also said the longer his absence the less likely that would be. It didn’t bode well, and by the end of the fourth day of her confinement, Sara had memorized every tapestry in her suite, as if she willed Nero to materialize from among the hunting hounds that lined her walls. She had to do something. She had to get out of those rooms before she went mad.

It was late. Nell had long since retired. Outside a wicked wind had kicked up, and the sound of angry breakers beating on the rockbound strand and rolling up the cliff was music to her ears. The racket would cover any noise she might make exiting her suite. There would be a hall boy posted outside. She was counting on the hour to find him nodding, or if it were Peters on watch, that he would have stolen away for one of his customary nocturnal assignations with Nell. The latter was evidently the case. When she eased her door open, the bench the sentries occupied in their turn was vacant.
Bless the boy!
She stepped into the corridor, and pulled the door to, leaving it slightly ajar for Nero. Just in case.

She had no plan. Just getting out of that suite had emboldened her to the point of recklessness, and why not? She was
Baroness Walraven, wasn’t she? Who was to stop her? Certainly not her enigmatic, absent, unfeeling husband. Puffed up with that, she strolled over the second-floor hallway, gaining confidence in her liberation with each forbidden step.

She was still dressed. She had cried off when Nell came to prepare her for bed. The seed of this escape had been germinating for days, waiting for the perfect moment to sprout. She should have put her pelerine on over the thin white muslin frock, however. The halls were drafty, the dampness penetrating. Would it be this way all summer as well? She shuddered to wonder.

Having reached the grand staircase, she hesitated on the landing, glancing upward toward the restricted third floor. It suddenly struck her that now, during Nicholas’s absence, would be the perfect time to have a look inside the master suite in hopes of unearthing some clue, some nugget of understanding of the man she’d married. Curiosity egged her on, and moved her up the third flight of the carpeted staircase on feet that made no sound.

That she had no idea which suite was Nicholas’s didn’t matter. She would find it, if she had to throw every door open until she did. Other than that it was a turret room in the north wing, which would put it on the west side of the corridor facing the sea, she had no idea where to begin. Never having been out on the cliff to view Ravencliff from the sea side, she could only speculate as to where the turret suites were located. Since the bifurcated staircase divided the house into north and south wings, she turned right, and began her search.

She’d just poked her head into the second chamber on the left side of the corridor, another suite where the furnishings were draped with Holland covers, when a door halfway down the hall came open, throwing a puddle of candlelight onto the crimson carpet. She ducked inside the chamber
she’d just checked, leaving the door open just enough to see who passed by on the way to the stairs.

Sara’s heart pounded in her breast, thudded against her ribs. Pressed up against the crack in the door, she held her breath in anticipation of the author of the heavy footfalls coming closer. Not the footfalls of one of the servants, certainly, who were well skilled at moving about without making a sound. No, these footfalls had no care for discretion, their owner was weary and borne down. When he passed, she gasped in spite of herself. It was Dr. Breeden!

What was this? The doctor’s rooms were on the second floor, not the third. She had chosen them herself, and Mrs. Bromley had made them ready. Sara waited until he disappeared in the shadows of the landing below, before stepping into the corridor again. No candlelight flooded the hallway from the chamber he had vacated now, only a thin sliver of light seeped out from under the door. She crept toward it.

Had Nicholas returned, and not sent word to her? Had she been patiently awaiting his return to be released from her chambers for naught? Hot blood surged to her temples. The heat of it narrowed her eyes. She would not knock. Grasping the knob, she threw the door open . . . and stopped dead in her tracks, teetering on the threshold of a well-appointed sitting room. Nicholas stood beside the hearth, naked to the waist, a brandy snifter in his hand. His left shoulder was wrapped with heavy bandages. When he spun to face her, the look in his eyes—half horror, half pain-laced rage—would have backed her down if she weren’t rooted to the spot.

“Step inside and close the door,” he said, setting the snifter on the mantel.

“W-what’s happened to you?” Sara breathed, taking a step nearer, her gaze fixed on his bandaged shoulder.

“Stand where you are!” he thundered. “Come no closer.”

“When did you return?” she said, halted by his words,
breath-suspended, as he took up the snifter again, swirling the liquor in it as if he expected to extract his answer from the glass.

“I’ve never been away,” he said at last, and flushed some of the liquor down.

“I . . . I don’t understand,” Sara murmured.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, gazing in her direction again. Looking into those hypnotic obsidian eyes was torture, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. His sensuous mouth had formed a hard, lipless line, and the muscles were ticking along his jaw. It was a mercy when he began studying his snifter again.

“What do you mean you’ve never left the house?” she said.

“Exactly that.”

“How have you hurt yourself?”

He hesitated. “Alex shot me,” he said, meeting her eyes again.

Sara gasped, and her hand flew to her lips.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” said Nicholas. He finished the brandy, and set the snifter aside. “Dr. Breeden has been treating me, and as you can see, I’m recovering well under his care.”

“Was that fair? I have been waiting for you to return, so that I may be released from the prison you’ve imposed upon me, Nicholas.”

“Which is where you should be right now,” he snapped. “What are you doing up here at this hour? You were told not to come up here
at all
. Alex is still at large, Sara. You are at risk abroad in this house now, and I am still not fit enough to protect you. You were safe in your rooms under guard until we sort all this out. I must insist that you return there at once, and stay there until I personally come and give you leave to quit your chambers.”

“You say that Mr. Mallory shot you? Mr. Mallory shot
Nero
, my lord.”

“There were . . . two shots fired,” he returned.

“No one has seen Nero since,” she said. “His was a shoulder wound, too, I think. He was bleeding profusely, barely able to run—yet he led Mr. Mallory out of my suite. If it has taken this long for you to stand on your feet again, despite Dr. Breeden’s expert doctoring, what of him, alone, with no one to look after him? Is he dead, Nicholas? Is that something else you’re all keeping from me?”

Again Nicholas hesitated. “Nero can take care of himself, Sara,” he said.

“So said Mills, but I don’t see how. That bullet would have had to come out, just as yours did, for him to survive.”

“If he were dead, he would have been found,” said Nicholas. “That we have not is a good sign. Put Nero from your mind. You’ve become too attached to him. I warned you that such an attachment was unwise.”

“Yes, you did, but nevertheless I shan’t rest until I see him again,” she replied. “May I sit? I do not easily become overset, but all this has quite unsettled me.”

“No,” he replied. “You cannot stay here. I’ve said all there is to say. I will fetch my dressing gown and see you back to your rooms. You are to
stay
in them, Sara, until I say otherwise. I shall visit you there, now that I’m able, and once I see fit, I shall come and escort you down to meals personally. I am sorry that I deceived you, but I knew you would never stay in your suite if you knew I’d been . . . shot. Only Mills and the doctor are aware. They were needed to see to my wound. The rest were told, as you were, that I am away, and that’s how it must remain. The others all have their duties to perform and none could be spared to keep you from falling through any more walls.”