Dawn Thompson (14 page)

You will never find out standing here,
the other said.

Another howl broke the silence that had fallen over the thicket. Neither Joss nor the other answered, though both their hackles raised at the sound.

That is why I cannot leave until I see who lies here,
Joss said of the blood-chilling howl.
There is no time to tell you now, but lives depend upon that knowledge. I have left one that I care about in the hands of someone I believe to be
vampir.
See? He changes!

And indeed he did. At their feet the savaged wolf began to take human form, and Joss’s heart sank like lead in his breast. It was one of the passengers in the carriage lying naked in the snow, one of the older, portly members of Cora’s party. If he was infected, chances were better that Lyda was also. His heart nearly stopped at that realization. What he had was five vampires running loose—counting the one at his feet that there was neither
time nor means to kill—not to mention the strange white creature standing beside him.

There was no time to lose. He spun on his heels and bounded back toward the Abbey, without a thought of anything but Cora.

The white wolf growled behind him.
Just like your father! Where are you off to?

The Abbey,
said Joss.

Good!
said the other.
Your parents will vouch for me.

Joss inclined his head toward the tor as they forded the stream.
It is
—

The other interrupted his thoughts.
Oh, I know the way. Your father spoke so often of this place, I’ve needed no map
.

Well, you won’t find my parents in,
Joss informed him.
And knowing where the Abbey is isn’t a great feat. Any of the locals could have told you.

The other let loose a strange-sounding titter.
Like this?
he said.
I think not, young whelp.

Where are your togs?
Joss wondered.

On the ship.

Joss stopped in his tracks and faced his strange companion.
You disembarked like that?
He was incredulous.

The wolf snorted.
Let us say that I was in rather a hurry.

They had just begun to pick up speed again, when shots rang out behind, followed by angry voices, then
more shots, and a yelp. Joss spun around. The white wolf had fallen on his knees, high-pitched whines testifying to his pain. It was a shoulder wound that would leave a trail of blood.

Damn and blast!
Joss seethed. All at once he remembered the Vicar Emmerson’s warning, and he cursed again.
Bloody hell!
His father had made the same mistake before Joss was born. He, too, had been brought down by a hunter’s musket. Wherever the hunters were, they had both wolves in their sights, and Joss would surely be next. Then what would become of Cora? It wasn’t until that moment that he realized he’d been thinking of her as Cora instead of Miss Applegate. He shook himself. So what? He could think of her however he liked.

Go on without me.
The white wolf growled, its voice somewhere between that of man and wolf.
I will only slow you down.

But Joss was undecided. If this strange wolf was Milosh, as he claimed, Joss needed him now. Of course, if he was just a vampire glamour and he admitted him to the Abbey, he would be letting death itself cross his threshold.

Another wolf howled in the distance, and again the white wolf snorted.
The hunters will not be long diverted by that. If you must risk both our lives deciding, ask me something only Milosh would know.

Joss thought for a moment and then said,
My mother’s animal incarnation . . . what is it?

The white wolf snorted.
Well done, young whelp. Your lovely mother’s first incarnation was a tiny kitten. It evolved twice more from cat to cub before becoming what I assume it still is to this day—a sleek black panther.

Joss checked his instinct to howl into the night.
Forgive me for doubting,
he said.
It is just that—

That you are a Hyde-White through and through,
Milosh concluded for him.

Are you badly hurt?
asked Joss.

A shoulder wound—just a graze, I think. Believe me, I have suffered worse.

Joss scanned their surroundings. The stream was the safest choice, considering Milosh’s wound. Joss had also made a mess of the ice crust by fighting with the other animal earlier, and much of the layer had fallen away.
Follow me,
he said.
Stay in the stream until we reach those trees ahead. Our tracks will be less noticeable once inside the wood. When we are close enough, we will make a break for the tor. If the snow keeps falling it will hopefully cover our tracks and the trail of blood you’re leaving, but we haven’t much time. The storm is soon over.

Milosh didn’t answer. Whether it was the wound or that he felt no more need to talk now that his identity was proven, Joss had no idea. The great white wolf followed silently along the stream, over the bank, and through the wood.

The hunters’ shouts grew distant, but Joss took no comfort in that. He wouldn’t draw an easy breath until they were back inside Whitebriar Abbey. Glancing behind, he took Milosh’s measure.
My father said you taught him how to jump,
he said.
Are you able as you are?

I will try,
came the white wolf’s response.

Very well,
Joss said.
I would like to say ‘rest,’ but we dare not, for more than one reason. Stay close, and do as I do.

Leading the way, Joss bounded over the remaining drifts, streaking through the darkness, depending upon his extraordinary vision as he hoped Milosh was doing. The distant howl of wolves rode the wind that had picked up again, and now and then a gunshot echoed also. The falling snow had ceased by the time they’d
climbed the tor. Joss wasted no time leaping up to the second-story ledge and accessing the tunnel. Milosh moved somewhat awkwardly because of his wound, but followed him through the chimney fire wall to the chamber where Joss had left his clothes. Surging to his full height, Joss dressed himself like a man possessed, then turned to Milosh, still in wolf form, lying on his side on the dusty parquetry, chest heaving.

What have they named you, young whelp?
Milosh said.

Joselyn, though I prefer Joss, after my paternal grandfather.

They have named you well. It suits you.

Joss strode toward the door.
Wrap yourself in the Holland cover on that bed,
he said.
I will send Parker, my valet, to tend you. He will prepare rooms for you close to mine, and once you’re settled, we will talk. Forgive me for running on, but unless I miss my guess, there’s a vampire in the house.

“Make up the fire in the toile suite across the hall,” Joss charged Parker. He tossed a suit of clothes on the bed from the selection the valet had transferred to the yellow suite from the master apartment. “Then take those below to the chamber I showed you earlier, and tend my guest that you will find there. He has been shot. I do not think it is serious, but you will be the better judge. The villagers are hunting rabid dogs that do not exist, and maiming the populace.” Parker’s eyes were wide as saucers, so Joss went on quickly. “Once you’ve dressed his wound and clothed him, show him to his rooms then wait for me here, and I’ll explain.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Parker stammered, his Adam’s apple leaping. “W-will you be wanting a bath before dinner, sir?”

“God knows, Parker. I do not even know if I will be having dinner. Just carry on.”

Joss stalked out and went straight to the master suite.
His knees were shaking when he rapped at the door, his heart in his throat when it came open in Lyda’s hand. She was beaming as she sketched a curtsy.

“I would have a word with your mistress,” he said.

The abigail curtsied again as she stepped aside to let him enter. Cora floated across the threshold from the adjoining bedchamber. She was exquisite in a plumcolored frock with an oval neck edged with lace at the décolleté, her waist-length chestnut hair swept up in a graceful cluster of curls cascading down her back. Tendrils framed her face, and there was color in her cheeks. She took his breath away, and Joss worked his hands in and out of white-knuckled fists against his thighs for want of seizing her in his arms from sheer relief that she was unharmed.

“I would like you to join me in the dining parlor at eight for dinner this evening,” he said.

She raked him from head to foot with skeptical eyes. “What has happened to you?” she asked, aghast.

Joss glanced down. He’d dressed so hurriedly that his buckskins were twisted around his legs. They were mushrooming haphazardly from his top boots, and his Egyptian cotton shirt was buttoned askew. He raked wet hair back from his brow and cleared his voice.

“Ahhh, we have another houseguest,” he said. “A friend of my parents. There was a difficulty climbing the tor, and my help was required. I got quite drenched, and I dressed hurriedly in order to extend this invitation before you made other arrangements.”

“Well, you are too late,” Cora said. “It is already arranged that I have dinner on a tray in my rooms, sir.”

“What? All dressed up so prettily to dine alone in these dreary old rooms?”

“Oh, she won’t be dinin’ alone, beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Lyda put in. “She’ll be suppin’ with me.”

Incredulous, Joss stared at the abigail. “I think not,” he said frostily. “Miss Applegate will dine in my rooms with me, and you shall dine below in the servants’ hall with the staff. I need a word alone with your charge.”

Lyda gasped. “Oh, but that would be highly improper, sir,” she said. “I couldn’t leave her alone with ya unchaperoned. ’Tisn’t done, as I’m sure ya know.”

“And how do you suppose we conducted ourselves before you joined us, Lyda?” Joss said, out of patience. “It’s far too late to stand on ceremony over proprieties. She was compromised the minute we met, and you, miss, must remember your place.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Lyda said, her eyes downcast. But it was no demure demeanor; she was angry.

Joss’s eyebrow lifted, and he studied her. “Very well, then,” he said, yanking the bellpull for the footman. “When Rodgers arrives, have him clear the sideboard in the sitting room for the food, and set up the drop leaf table before the fire with the Chippendale chairs. There will be no ‘trays.’ We shall dine as we would in the dining parlor . . . only more intimately.” Cora’s eyes flashed like blue fire, and her lovely lips pursed in an unattractive crimp. “When Rodgers leaves, you are to go with him, Lyda, and remain below stairs until you are summoned. I may have a chore for you later.” Then to Cora he added, “I will return once I have managed a more appropriate toilette.”

Affecting a heel-clicking bow, he left, not giving them a chance to protest, and poked his head into the toile suite. The fire was blazing in the hearth, but the rooms were empty; Parker and Milosh were apparently still below.

He went to his own camp across the hall to find that Parker had set a steaming tub before the hearth in his dressing room.
Bless the man!
Stripping off his togs, Joss sank into the water fragranced with crushed rosemary and pine tar soap. He inhaled deeply and sank down to the neck, a rapturous moan escaping him, and shut his eyes.

What was he thinking? An intimate dinner for two in his—well, what used to be his—suite, with a wounded vampire-turned-vampire-hunter across the hall, a dead butler laid out in the salon, a housekeeper stricken with a fit of apoplexy, and God only knew how many more vampires taken refuge under his roof, himself included? Madness! He tried to excuse his dinner arrangements as a ploy to keep Lyda away from Cora, but what would he do when the intimate dinner ended and Lyda returned to her charge? This was to be a long night.

On top of it all, the girl was again hostile. He was likely to come away wearing more food than he’d eaten.

He wouldn’t examine his motives too closely. Until a determination was made as to whether Lyda Bartholomew was infected or not, he could salve his conscience in that he was protecting Cora from harm. That would justify anything . . . well, almost anything. That her closeness turned his legs to jelly, made him sweat, stammer like a schoolboy, and caused his sex to betray him had nothing to do with the issue at hand . . . or so he told himself. What did matter was the dark legacy with which he was wrestling—a legacy he scarcely believed and didn’t understand. Milosh couldn’t have come at a better time; perhaps he could shed some light on the subject.

Joss was pondering this when Parker entered. The valet’s face was ghost gray, a haggard look about him, from the fringe of his thin silver hair fanned out on end like a slipped halo, to the way he moved with jerky steps, half shuffling, half staggering. Joss’s jaw dropped at sight of his valet, and he surged upright in the tub.

“Good God, Parker, what is it?” he said. “Has he died?”

“N-no, sir,” the valet replied, taking up a towel from the bureau in anticipation of Joss’s rising. That was what made him such a prized servant: he always seemed to anticipate Joss’s needs before Joss did. It had been that way when he tended Joss father, too.

The water having grown cold around him, Joss stood and let the old man wrap the towel around him. The valet continued, “ ’Tis just a flesh wound, little more than a graze, but a real bleeder. He needs the surgeon, sir . . . but I do not suppose . . .”

“No,” Joss said. “We cannot have the surgeon tend him. We shall have to make do with Cook’s herbals.”

“I thought as much,” said the valet. “H-he told me his name, sir . . . and that he was an . . . acquaintance of your good parents. There couldn’t be more than one Milosh among them, could there?”

Joss smiled in spite of himself. “So, you’ve heard the tales, too, have you?”

“I never eavesdropped!” the valet defended. “It is just . . . well, sometimes the master of a house tends to forget that a servant has ears just like everyone else. We are oftentimes mistaken for furniture, sir.”