Tempted By the Night (22 page)

Now he has no choice but to come for you. I’ve killed you as surely as if I…

She dodged around the carriages in the street, coming dangerously close to being run down, for the drivers were unable to see her. As she crossed, she spied the earl’s carriage, a lad holding the reins. She climbed in and caught hold of the bag stored beneath the seat. Yanking it open, she searched first for Carpio, then the earl’s cross-bow. With those secured, she caught up a handful of bolts and ran for the alley.

Hermione only made it a few steps before Quince rushed into her path.

“You cannot follow him.” The lady caught her by the arm.

Hermione tried to tug herself free, but to no avail. “Get out of my way,” she cried, juggling the weapons in her arms to get a hand free. “He could be killed.”

“If he is, then surely you will be as well,” Quince said. “And then the ring will fall into
their
hands.” Her brows creased into a firm line. “I cannot let that happen—for with that ring, they could do terrible things. Cause tragedies for this world and mine.”

Horrible things are happening right now,
Hermione wanted to shout at her. Tears stung her eyes, for around the corner Rowan’s great growls and barks had faded to pained whimpers and yelps.

Each one tore at her heart. They were hurting Rowan. Terribly. And that could only mean…

They had Rockhurst cornered…or worse.

That thought, that horrible picture in her mind was enough to give her the strength to shove Quince out of her way.

As she rounded the corner, she searched frantically for any sign of Rockhurst, for in her path stood all ten of the derga Quince had warned her about before. One of them larger than even Dubhglas.

The fearsome creature turned toward her, as if he sensed her arrival, but she didn’t think he could see her. That didn’t stop a cold chill from running down her spine, for the loathsome fellow held Rowan high in the air, as if the massive wolfhound were a child’s plaything.

And beyond him, stood three others with Rockhurst held fast.

He was already bloody, but he fought them nonetheless with a wild, anxious agony.

Hermione tucked Carpio under her arm while she shoved a bolt into the cross-bow, then struggled to pull the lever back and lock the bolt in place.

“Leave him be,” the earl was saying, cursing with words she understood and with ones she didn’t.

She glanced up and looked with horror at Rowan held so high in the air. Oh, heavens, that monster wasn’t going to…

Hermione tugged at the lever again. She didn’t remember it being this hard, but then Rowan’s life hadn’t hung in the balance.

Save Rowan, save Rowan,
she whispered, her every limb trembling as she took one more deep breath and pulled with all her might. The bridle clicked into place, and she raised the cross-bow to take aim, but it was too late.

The derga threw the faithful, fearless dog across the alley. With a horrible, heart-wrenching
thud,
Rowan hit the wall, then slid down limply to the cobbles at her very feet.

She couldn’t even breathe. The shaggy fur, the great paws, the muscled shoulders that had always seemed so full of life were suddenly so very different.

So still.

Hermione scrambled to Rowan’s side and knelt before him, wishing with all her heart that she was wrong. But this wish couldn’t be granted.

Rowan, the finest wolfhound a Paratus had ever owned, was lost. She knew it with a certainty that cut to her very heart.

And so did Rockhurst. He wrenched himself free and rushed to Rowan’s side, close to where she knelt.

He shook, with rage or grief, she knew not. Both, she assumed. And when he looked up, she swore he stared directly into her eyes.

A look that burned with an unearthly hatred. His usually bright blue eyes glowed with a dark light that wasn’t natural. Like something out of one of Mary’s monster books.

Hermione pulled back, seeing this man she loved anew.

Seeing for the first time the fearsome power of the Paratus.

Yet with all the power in the world, it was still ten against one. So she placed Carpio atop Rowan’s body and released the hilt, letting it reappear.

He didn’t even blink, didn’t look for her, didn’t even acknowledge her gift.

The affable Rockhurst she knew and loved was gone, the lover who’d tenderly possessed her body lost, and the Paratus arose, sword in hand, and did what the protector of London had been ordained to do for over eleven hundred years.

He killed them all.

Hermione buried her face in Rowan’s still-warm fur and clung to the dog as the Paratus went about his ruthless revenge.

It wasn’t until an eerie calm descended over the alleyway that she finally lifted her gaze.

Rockhurst’s chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged thuds, Carpio trembling in his tight grasp.

But he wasn’t done fighting yet, slashing out and thrusting the sword into the now-empty spaces, as if his lust for blood knew no end.

“One left,” he was muttering, his wild gaze sweeping the alley. “I can smell you, I know you are here. Come out and die.”

Hermione had heard whispers of such madness, of people driven out of their minds in the face of some horror. And she feared Rowan’s death had sent Rockhurst past the point of no return.

Beneath her fingers, the wolfhound’s soft fur gave her comfort. She ran her hand over his silky ears, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Whatever would Rockhurst do without Rowan at his side?

Who would protect him, watch over him, as Rowan had?

“I suppose now there is no one else but me,” she whispered to the hound.

Slowly she rose, still trembling from what she had just witnessed.

Oh, why hadn’t she spent more time learning about the world, instead of wasting most of her life poring over fashion plates and gossip columns? What did she know of these things? Her sister Cordelia was better suited for such a charge, with her vast knowledge of the classics. Or even her friend Charlotte. Practical, sensible Charlotte. She’d know what to do.

But she? Lady Hermione Marlowe? With her horrible taste in fashion and oblivious to anything that wasn’t a whispered
on dit
?

Whatever had the Fates been thinking putting her in this fix?

“Come out! I order you to come out!” Rockhurst shouted, as he swung and thrust Carpio at demons only he could see now.

Hermione covered her mouth, quelled the “jiminy” that had been about to slip out. Jiminy, indeed.

“Oh, demmit!” she whispered.

This madman, this grieving aching man that she loved, seemed to have forgotten her, as he continued to slash and curse his enemies. He needed to stop, he needed to give up Carpio before he harmed someone, or worse, himself.

She took a quiet step toward him, and then froze as he sliced into the space before her.

Whatever are you doing, Hermione?
she thought in a rare burst of common sense.
He’s as likely to kill you…

She glanced back at Rowan and shivered. Oh heavens, for there was no else to help him.

“Rockhurst,” she called out in a shaky voice. “’Tis me—”
Lady Hermione.
She bit back that confession.

The poor man was bereft as it was, no need to tell him the truth about her.

“It’s me,” she called out. “Your Shadow. I’m here. Right here.” She bit her lips and considered what she could possibly say to coax him out of the darkness that had stolen his soul. “Rockhurst, come back. Rowan needs you. He must be seen to. Properly. Please, Rockhurst, it’s over.”

He swung around wildly, but only too late did she see that his eyes were still filled with that horrible, unsee
ing light, that the one he was searching for, the “one left” was her.

For before she could gather enough wits together to run, he rushed toward her, Carpio raised high in the air, with only murder on his mind.

A woman’s scream pierced the blackness that had descended over the Paratus. With it came a blinding flash of light and suddenly, the powers that had held him in their thrall left, rushing back to whatever cubbyhole in hell they’d come from, and leaving Rockhurst wavering and reeling in their wake.

What the devil had just happened? The earl tried to breathe, his lungs burning. Then, ever so slowly, his vision cleared, and he spied Rowan lying before him on the cobbles.

Only then did he remember.

Immediately the blackness threatened to engulf him anew, a hatred and fury like he’d never known, and for the life of him, he welcomed it, wanted it, for it blotted out the horrible grief descending toward him.

But then he looked again at Rowan and sank to his knees, steadying himself with Carpio.

A Paratus shall do no harm.

No harm…

Oh, God, what had he done?

His eyes jerked open and looked around. Aside from Rowan, there was nothing but ten piles of dust. And for a moment he gave over to a smug sense of satisfaction.

That is, until he spied a bright red stain of blood amongst them.

Blood?
Derga didn’t bleed.

But humans did.

His chest clenched, and he clamored to his feet, gasping for air. “Shadow?” he called out, his gaze swinging from one side of the alley to another. He knew he couldn’t see her, but that didn’t stop him from looking.

Oh, God, I’ve killed her.

Slain her as surely as he’d laid waste to Dubhglas’s clan.

He took a staggering step forward, out toward the street, where a lamp glowed like a beacon. And there beneath it, he spied another bit of blood, and then farther on, more.

She was moving. He hadn’t killed her.

And he would have continued after her, but suddenly he heard her voice, as if carried on the wind.

Go back. Rowan needs you. He must be seen to. Properly. Please, Rockhurst, it is over.

She’d been the one calling to him, pulling him out of the darkness. And her only thought had been for Rowan.

He glanced over his shoulder.
Rowan…no.
It couldn’t be true. He stumbled back to the alley, falling to his knees and burying his face in the familiar soft fur, his hands gathering up his lost friend and holding him close.

And there and then Rockhurst did something he hadn’t done in nearly twenty years. Not since the night he’d found his father slain, and he’d had to carry his broken body home to face his mother’s grief.

The Paratus wept.

Mary Kendell settled into her favorite chair in the library and let out a contented sigh. She had a newly acquired text Cricks had sent over for her to translate and didn’t have any pressing social engagements this evening.

She didn’t even feel guilty about not going out. As much as she’d proclaimed to her father that she was going to find a husband this Season, she certainly wasn’t making much of a splash.

“It would help, you muttonhead, if you would go out,” she chided herself. But why ever would she want to go out when she had this little-known treatise by Cicero to translate? Better the comfortable reliability of a good book over the social maze of disappointment that awaited her outside her own doors.

That is, until the library door opened.

She glanced up, but no one was there. Not Cosgrove or one of the maids or even a footman.

“Hello?” she called out, rising to her feet. She cocked her head and studied the empty space between her and the door.

Empty space or not, she knew without a doubt someone was in the room with her.

“Whoever you are, you had best introduce yourself.”

“You already know me, Mary.”

Mary stepped back. She knew that voice. “Hermione?”

“Yes, ’tis I. I’m afraid this is going to be hard to believe, but I’m—”

“Invisible,” Mary gasped.

“How—” Hermione’s voice faltered before she spoke again. “Oh, never mind. I suppose one has only to look at your library to realize you, of all people, wouldn’t find this shockingly appalling.”

She shook her head. “Hardly.” But then it hit her. “You! You’re Rockhurst’s Shadow!”

“He told you about us—” Hermione’s words revealed the blush that must be coloring her cheeks. “Oh, dear, I thought it was all a secret.”

“Us?” Mary’s hand went to her gaping mouth. The implication was unmistakable.
Us.
Now it was her turn to blush. “You don’t mean to say…?” Then she shook her head and waved her hands back and forth. “No. No. He didn’t tell me anything personal, just that he was seeking a lady who roamed the night unseen. He had the glove…your glove!”

“Yes, that was my glove.”

“Oh, heavens,” Mary whispered, as it all tumbled together. “And he found you?”

“I’m afraid so” she whispered, a painful note to her words.

That didn’t sound good. “Hermione, what has happened?”

“That’s why I’m here. I can’t find him.”

“Rockhurst?”

“Yes. Not since the other night, when Rowan died.”

Rowan?
Mary’s knees rocked beneath her as Hermione’s words sank in. She reached for the high-backed chair nearby to steady herself. “Rowan is lost? When? How?”

“Oh, Mary it was awful. Horrible,” Hermione said, a ragged sob cutting off her words.

“You poor dear,” Mary said. “Sit and tell me what happened.” For she needed to sit as well, her legs were about to give way. Rowan lost? A Paratus without his wolfhound? It was unheard of.

And what else had Hermione said?

I can’t find him.

A black fear filled her heart. For without a Paratus to safeguard the city, mayhem could ensue.

But it was more than that. Rockhurst was her cousin. Her blood. And without him…

Then she became conscious of Hermione’s voice coming from the sofa, so Mary sank into her chair and turned her attention to the story Hermione was telling.

“Four nights ago. In an alley near Grosvenor Square—”

As Hermione’s story unfolded, Mary’s fears grew more piercing.

Rockhurst had never really trusted his heart—perhaps it was the fact that he knew his fate would eventually entwine any woman he married—leaving her a legacy of an early widowhood. Nights spent wondering if he was coming home. Odd callers at all hours. Or worse, living each day with the fear that the man she loved, had promised her heart to, was in mortal danger from his enemies.

Instead, he’d flitted away his years with courtesans and in blithe dalliances with women who could never touch his heart.

And now if what Mary suspected was true, he’d lost his heart and lost Rowan as well. She doubted her proud, stubborn cousin would ever admit to the pain inside him…or that the love he’d avoided so studiously could now be the only thing possibly to save him.

And without even being able to see her friend, Mary knew Hermione loved him. Now she only hoped she could help.

And there was only one way to find out. Mary glanced over at the chair where Hermione sat. “I know where to find him.”

An hour later, Hermione glanced over her shoulder at Mary’s carriage as it pulled away from St. Paul’s, thankful for the ride that had brought her here from Mayfair but wishing she possessed more of Mary’s certainty that Rockhurst would be here. Especially as she gazed up to the very top of the cathedral, towering like a behemoth into the night sky.

She made her way to the side door Mary had promised
would be open, and it was, and once inside, she walked down the main aisle toward the magnificent center dome.

I can do this. Yes, I can do this,
she told herself, even as she glanced at the great stone tombs and soaring ceilings shrouded in darkness.

And what if Mary is wrong? And he isn’t here?
a little voice, edged in fear, piped up.
Then what will you do?

“He must be here,” she told herself.

“Hello? Is someone there?” One of the young priests held up a candlestick. “Is someone there?”

Hermione stilled, her lips pressed together.

“There is no one there, Simon,” an older voice called out. “You are hearing things.”

Undeterred, Simon held the candle higher. “I swear, monsignor, I heard steps and a voice.”

“You’ll hear those all your life in this place,” the old man said. He came forward and patted Simon on the shoulder. “’Tis the nature of the Lord’s house to welcome all those who come here.”

“Even him?” he whispered, nodding to one side of the center dome, where Hermione could see a door cracked open.

Right where Mary said it would be.

“His lordship most especially. He keeps us all safe and from things more unearthly than your phantom footsteps.” The man sighed. “We owe him sanctuary when he asks.”

She shivered and closed her eyes. Rockhurst. They were talking about him. Hermione didn’t know if she was relieved finally to have found him, or terrified at the prospect of what she needed to do next.

Oh, jiminy! she cursed as she glanced again at the
doorway. Why couldn’t he have a more sensible place to go soothe his soul, say like Gunter’s? Didn’t he know a good bowl of ices had remarkable restorative powers?

But this? She shuddered as she slipped quietly through the door and looked up. Candles fluttered in their sconces, twisting up and into the darkness.

All the way to the very top of the cathedral.

“For Rockhurst,” she whispered, as she took first one step, then another. Up and into the very sky of London.

Rockhurst sat on his perch and let the rain fall on him. He was damp all the way through already, so what would a few more drops do?

As he stared out over the rooftops of London, he wondered how many times he’d come up here. Most of them he remembered with aching poignancy. When he’d killed for the first time. When his father had died. When he’d found Podmore…

There had been so many other times as well, lost in the images of his life, events that he’d rather forget.

But this time, this time was different. Usually after a few hours up here, even through an entire night, the sun would rise, and he’d find himself filled again with purpose, with hope.

A sense that this new day would be different.

Of course, all those other times, he’d descended down the stairs and ladders to find Rowan waiting for him, usually gnawing away at a bone one of the younger vicars had nicked from the rectory kitchen for the friendly hound.

But this time there would be no great tail wagging, no swipe of his rough tongue on the earl’s hand to welcome
him back to earth, back from his sanctuary in the sky.

This time the only thing different would be the fact that his companion and protector wouldn’t be there.

And his days? His sense of hope?

“Demmit,” he muttered. What were the sum total of his days and nights? Death and destruction. What sort of existence was that? What kind of legacy to leave?

He stared moodily into the inky darkness. Whatever had Thomas of Hurst been thinking?

Rockhurst made an inelegant snort. He knew exactly what the fellow had been thinking if family legend was true.

The idiot had been seduced by a beautiful woman.

So apparently he wasn’t too far removed from the family tree.

He groaned, thinking himself twice the fool Thomas had been.

“Rockhurst?” came a soft voice.

Shadow!
He twisted around, without any reserve, without the cool detachment he’d spent the last three days hoping to find when it came to her. He listened to her tentative steps as they drew closer, but she stopped well out of his reach—which was telling in itself.

“Is it
you
?” she whispered.

He knew exactly what she was asking. Had he shaken off the darkness that had consumed him that night?

“I’ve been worried,” she continued. “Terribly so.”

But she came no closer, proof she feared him now.

Good. That was how it should be.

“Please say something.”

“What the hell are you doing up here?”

There was a small laugh. “I barely know myself. Why couldn’t you have found some sensible place to go lick your wounds? Like Almack’s or Vauxhall? Did you have to pick some place so high?”

He wanted to smile, for she was still, after all she’d seen the other night, the blithe and light spirit he loved.

He loved?

In a blinding moment of revelation, he nearly toppled from the ledge. He
loved
this woman. Loved her so thoroughly, so terribly.

“Just go away.” He waved toward the door behind her. “You don’t want to be here.”

“You’re right about that,” she shot back. A feminine little sigh escaped her, and her footsteps came closer to where he sat. “Won’t you come down off that ledge and at least face me?”

“What does it matter? I can’t very well see you.” He turned his head in her direction, and suddenly he longed to. Like nothing he’d ever wanted before.

He wanted to see her. To see that pert nose that he’d covered with kisses, to see the color of her hair—tresses like silk, but ones he wanted to see spread out over his sheets. He wanted to know whether or not she had freckles. He’d wager his house in Cheshire that she did.

And he wanted to see her eyes. The green ones Cricks had called magical. “Green,” he muttered like a curse.

“Pardon?” she whispered, closer than he ever suspected she’d venture.

Then he caught a whiff of her perfume on the night wind, and it wound through his senses like a favorite memory. “Your eyes, that’s all I know. They’re green.”

“Just green. Nothing special.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Green.
That he could see. And he had to imagine her eyes were as mysterious as quicksilver—as she was to him.

“Will you come down now?” she asked. “Please, Rockhurst.”

He shook his head. Stubbornly. For if he came down, he was afraid of her hold over him. She might even be able to make him forget. Or at least ease this pain in his chest.

And he couldn’t have that. Not now.

“Whyever not? You look soaked to the bone, and you’ll most likely end up with a chill…or worse.”

He snorted. “I never get sick. I’m the Paratus. Remember?”

She sighed. “How could I forget?”

No, how could she? He’d made damned sure of that the other night when he’d butchered Dubhglas’s brothers. Made them pay for their crime like he’d never done before.

The sight of Rowan’s limp, lifeless body had ignited a madness inside his heart. The madness she’d kindled the night they’d made love in his bedchamber. But Rowan’s death had brought forth a different force. It had unleashed a black, dangerous power that had given him a strength he’d never known he possessed. And without any thought to the consequences, he’d used it.

Used it without remorse, for even now, he wouldn’t change a thing. He’d kill them all again just as ruthlessly.

And now he feared not only for himself, but her.

He’d nearly killed her.

His head turned toward her. “You’re well? I didn’t—”

“I’m unharmed.”

He didn’t believe her, for he’d heard the catch in her voice as she’d spoke. “You were bleeding.”

“It was merely a scratch.”

“Carpio never leaves a mere scratch.” That thought, above all the others, had been the one that had kept him awake these past few nights.

Killed his Shadow. Caused her harm.
He wondered how cursed he’d be then?

“How did you explain it to your mother…to your family?” Rockhurst asked.

“I didn’t have to. In the morning the cut was healed. There isn’t even a scar.”

He shook his head, for he’d seen the blood.

“I’d show it to you if I could,” she insisted. “Your cousin said it was most likely because of the ring. That the same magic that makes you the Paratus forged this ring, and therefore protects me. Of course, according to Mr. Podmore, there is the argument to be made that—”

Rockhurst spun off his perch and jumped down onto the parapet so he stood right in front of her. “What did you say?”

“Well, if you’d let me finish,” she huffed. “According to Podmore—”

He caught hold of her and held her firmly. “No. Not about that idiot. What you said before.
About my cousin.
”

“Oh.” There was a moment’s pause. “I’d rather hoped you hadn’t heard that.”

“You know Mary?”

There was another sigh. “Yes.”

“How long has she known?”

“About the ring? Well, it seemed to me that she knew—”

“Not about the ring,” he ground out. “About you. How long has my cousin known about
you
?”

“Only since tonight,” she confessed. “I went to her when I couldn’t find you. I just thought, well I hoped that she might…”