Dawn Thompson (4 page)

“Mmm,” Joss grunted. “I shall see you below. This time, stay there, if you please. Miss Applegate is in my care now. I will see to her needs from now on. You are obligated no longer.”

With no more said, Joss led the coachman below and remanded him to Bates’s keeping, with a warning that
he’d best see that the man stay below stairs. The butler, having been awakened from a sound sleep by the reprimand, took charge, and Joss padded back to the yellow suite for a word with Grace.

The housekeeper was still snoring in the chair when Joss entered. He didn’t dare call out to her for fear of waking her charge. Granted it was late, and Grace was certainly past her prime and overworked in an understaffed house, but that had always been the case at Whitebriar Abbey, and he couldn’t remember her ever failing him before. Gripping her shoulder, he shook her gently. She didn’t respond, and he shook her again. Bending close, he nudged her a third time, whispering her name. This time, her eyes popped open. It was a moment before they focused, and she vaulted upright in the chair, her bleary-eyed gaze sliding back and forth between him and the inert figure heaped with quilts in the sleigh bed across the way.

“Can no one in this house be trusted to stay awake?” Joss gritted out through clenched teeth.

“I dunno what happened,” Grace said. “I was wide awake, and then . . .”

“You let that coachman, Sikes, into this room. What were you thinking?”

“I never done no such, sir!” Grace defended.

“Lower your voice,” Joss warned. “I just found him stooping over that bed”—he made a rough gesture toward it—“and you snoring like a bear. You don’t remember him being in this room?”

“I do not! I’d have died o’ fright if I seen ’im in here.”

“What am I to do now?” Joss said, low-voiced, waving a wild arm in the air. “I cannot very well remain in this room in your place without compromising the young lady, and I cannot trust you to stay awake. Something is
not as it should be, and I mean to get to the bottom of it, but first we must get through this accursed night. So! Here is what we shall do: You will remain here, and I will camp on the settle outside in the hall—”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Grace interrupted. “Ya can’t! It’ll break your back, that hard old thing!”

“Better than having more harm come to the poor unfortunate girl in that bed.” The housekeeper opened her mouth to speak, but his raised hand and rigid posture would brook no opposition. “You’re certain you do not recall that man coming into this room?”

“No, sir, I do not!” Grace said, indignant.

“Hmmm. Well, he shan’t do it again. Now then, carry on, and call me at once if she comes ’round.”

Joss didn’t wait for an answer. Stomping past her, he quit the chamber and paced a bit to calm himself before plopping down on the settle. Seldom used, it groaned with his weight. Thirty years ago, a hall boy would have been posted there . . . and then again, maybe not. The Abbey had always lacked servants; there were too many secrets to keep. How he’d managed to keep his own secret from the household was a bona fide miracle. They would all run screaming from the house if they knew the heir to Whitebriar Abbey had the power to shapeshift into the form of a wolf whenever he pleased, not to mention this new development, whatever it was. But that was largely due to the fact that he never stripped off his clothes, streaked through the air, and hit the ground running on the pads of a huge gray wolf. At least, not in front of the servants. Bates was the only one that knew. Bates knew
everything
. How the butler had managed to keep it from his wife was a mystery.

Inspiration struck. Did the faithful butler know what he did not? Had the answer been right there under his
nose all the while? A ray of hope. He would wait until the present dilemma was resolved, and then have a nice long talk with Bates. The butler wasn’t getting any younger, and if he did know something, he wasn’t going to take it to his grave if Joss Hyde-White had anything to say about it.

Dawn was still a ways off, and the sharp edges of those rambling distractions finally dulled. Could no one keep their eyes open in the Abbey tonight?

Joss tried first one position and then another on the hard old settle, until he finally found a bearable one, arms folded, with his long legs stretched out before him and his head cushioned on his shoulder. Trusting Bates to hold the coachman below stairs, and counting upon Grace to at least sleep with one eye open so he could close both of his, he slowly began to unclench his mind and drift away. . . .

Cora’s eyes came open to shadow-steeped semidarkness. The fire had dwindled. The only light was issuing from a candle branch on the nightstand, where the candles had burned down to stubs dripping tallow on the embroidered linen runner. What was that wet, foul-smelling rag doing on her forehead? The liquid from it had dampened her hair and begun to trickle down her neck and into her ear. That must have been what woke her . . . unless it was the rotund woman snoring in the wing chair beside the hearth. Cora slapped the folded scrap of cloth away with her hand, as if it were a creepy crawly spider or worse, and vaulted upright in the gauze-draped sleigh bed. She winced for having grieved the lump on her brow that the poultice had covered, not to mention her aching muscles. Her whole body throbbed with pain.

Where was she? She threw back the counterpane and glanced down at the all but transparent voile nightdress clinging to her body. It was the color of melted butter, and just as soft to the touch, with a neckline that bared
her shoulders. Whose was it? Certainly not hers. She brushed the hair out of her eyes. Her amber combs were gone. In their absence, her long chestnut mane fell over her shoulders and arms from a center part, and puddled in her lap. She flung it behind her shoulders and eased her feet over the edge of the mattress to the floor.

Eyeing the sleeping woman across the way, she wondered,
Where have they taken me, and what evil are they plotting now?
She wouldn’t be a party to it, whatever was afoot. That resolve summoned strength she never would have believed she possessed, and she surged to her feet, glancing about for some object she could employ as a weapon. This time, she would not be beaten into submission—never again!

Her eyes flashed at once to the hearth and the pokers amassed there. Tiptoeing to the hearthstone, she hefted one. Why was it so heavy? It took all her strength to lift it with both hands. Her whole body was trembling and vertigo starred her vision. She set the poker back in its bracket. Her tiny wrists weren’t strong enough to wield it. Anyone could easily wrest it away from her. Staring at it longingly, she sighed. In her present condition it was useless.

Turning back, she glanced about the room again. There had to be something. . . . Yes! She lifted the porcelain pitcher from its bowl on the dry sink and tested it in her hand, assessing its weight. Perfect. She could wield it easily enough to do damage if needs must; at least, whoever happened to be unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of it would be hard put to escape unscathed. And if it were to break . . . Yes, it would do nicely, indeed.

Wasting no time, Cora padded to the door and lifted the latch. It creaked open a crack. The candles in their sconces, like the ones beside her bed, had burned low, and the hall outside was in semidarkness. Where was this place? Nowhere she had ever been before, that was for certain. Surely not Gretna Green. There wasn’t one familiar thing about it. Without hesitation, she floated over the threshold only to pull up short before a tall dark figure rising stiffly from a settle beside the door. Who was he? No one she knew. When he took a step toward her, she uttered a strangled sound and wielded the pitcher. It struck the man hard on the head, making an awful sound, and broke, raining porcelain shards over the corridor floor.

The man swayed, and Cora made a bold attempt to race past him, but several porcelain slivers pierced her feet. She cried out in pain, and again in shock as he captured her with a strong arm wrapped around her waist and hoisted her over his broad shoulder. She fought against his grip.

“Put me down, you great oaf!” she shrilled, beating his back with her fists, kicking whatever she could reach. “Put me
down,
I say!”

“And have you cut your feet to shreds?” he growled. “I think not. You’re bleeding already. Hold still! I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Where is this place? How have I come here? Who are you?” she rattled on as he gave the porcelain shards a wide berth and carried her back toward the bedchamber she’d just quit. “Where are the others? Ow! You are hurting me, you brute! Put me down, I say!”

“You are hurting yourself, Miss Applegate,” he replied. “If you would cease thrashing about, you will come to no harm.”

She let loose a shrill, bitter laugh heavy with scorn and unshed tears.
Come to no harm?
she despaired. It was too late for that. But it wasn’t going to happen again, and she fought him like a tigress until he burst through the chamber door and literally dumped her on the bed.

“Grace!” he roared.

The housekeeper vaulted erect in her chair, clearing the sleep from her throat.

“Ring for Amy! We need warm water and dressings. She’s cut her feet, thanks to your vigilance.”

The housekeeper gasped. Both hands flew to her mouth. “You’re bleedin’ yourself, sir!” she cried. “What’s happened to ya?”

He wiped the blood out of his eye, and Cora gasped in spite of herself. She’d given him a nasty scalp wound.

Struggling to a standing position, Grace started shuffling toward the door.

“No!” he barked. “I need you to stay here. Someone must remain with her at all times for propriety’s sake. I shan’t compromise her.”

“Will somebody please tell me who you people are and where I am, sir?” Cora demanded. Glancing down, she realized he could see through the thin nightdress he was staring at, and yanked the counterpane up to her chin.

“Well, my little spitfire,” he drawled, wiping more blood from his forehead. “If you hadn’t tried to murder me in my own house just now, I’d have introduced myself long ago. “Joselyn . . .
Joss
Hyde-White, at your service, Miss Applegate,” he said, with what would have been a heel-clicking bow if he weren’t barefooted also. “You are at Whitebriar Abbey, my Cumberland estate . . . at least, it will be mine one day.”

Cora stared. He seemed like a gentleman, and he had mentioned not wanting to compromise her, but someone else had said that, hadn’t they? And then . . . No, she wouldn’t think about that now—
couldn’t
think about it. She stared up at him, into eyes that shone like molten silver with a hint of blue steel. He was handsome enough, the blood notwithstanding, tall and well muscled beneath the bottle-green satin dressing gown now stained with crimson splatter. His face was a study in finely chiseled angles and planes that collected shadows about his deep-set eyes, sensuous mouth, and the thumbprint dimple in his chin. A dark mask of stubble was beginning along his jawline, where stiff muscles had started to tick, and his thick dark hair was matted with blood.

He brushed it out of his eyes, examining the blood on his fingers, then threw the counterpane back and reached for her foot. Why was he trembling so all of a sudden? Instinctively she yanked her foot away, and drew them both up, dragging the counterpane up to her chin again.

“I want to see if the cuts are clean,” he said. “If there are no slivers in the wounds, it is a simple matter of cleaning and binding them. My housekeeper, Grace here, is an able nurse. She has cared for you since I brought you back yesterday, but she is in her seventies and her eyesight isn’t as sharp as it used to be. Mine, however, is infallible. May I?”

Cora gave it thought. Reaching behind, she pulled her long hair in front and draped it over her breasts. Let him see through
that
with those roving eyes. Then, curling her toes defensively and fixing in place what she hoped was her most fearsome glower, she nodded her assent and let him move the counterpane.

How gentle his hands were as he examined her feet. A strange sensation rippled through her at his touch. Making matters worse, his fingers tickled her, and she wiggled her toes. How could she even think of laughing in such a circumstance? He didn’t seem to notice. He seemed more interested in the oozing blood than probing for shards. After a moment, she drew her feet up beneath the nightdress, again out of sight and out of his reach.

He replaced the counterpane and stood up, raking his hair back into more blood. His hands were covered with it by the time Amy knocked at the door.

Ignoring the maid’s gasp, Joss rattled off instructions that she stoke the dwindling fire, then fetch warm water, some of the cook’s healing balm, and bandage linen. That done, he dismissed her, crossed to the window and pulled the draperies aside. The gray streamers of first light were showing no break in the storm. The glare hurt Cora’s eyes, and she diverted her gaze. He seemed to be deep in thought, but she wouldn’t stand for that. She had too many questions demanding answers.

“How did I come here?” she said. “Where are the others . . . my father? How do you know my name?”

“All in due time, miss,” he said, stalking toward the door. “Rest assured that you are perfectly safe in my care. Let my servants minister to you. We shall talk once you’ve rested.”

Joss reeled out of the room and stumbled along the hall in the direction of his chamber. He hadn’t taken two steps when he backed up a pace. He’d forgotten about the broken pitcher, and he cursed under his breath as some of the slivers pricked his feet. One by one, he
brushed them off, then skirted the rest and staved off toward the sanctuary of his apartments.

What a wildcat! Cheeky little slip of a girl. What could have provoked such a display? Just minutes in each other’s company and they were both bloodied. That was another thing: there was no mistaking the strange phenomenon now. The scent of her blood was still with him—on him, in him, mingled with his own. He tasted it on his fingers. How salty-sweet it was, thick and red and heavy with the taste of precious metal. The thrill it gave him rocked his soul. And then there was the physical attraction. Her strange, hostile behavior was part of that. Granted, she had come through a great, nearly fatal ordeal, but something horrendous must have occurred in her life for her to fly at him in such a way without provocation.