Wicked (23 page)

“Keep the cloths on him, if you’d be of any help. We don’t want him getting a fever. So far he’s breathing, and his pulse has gotten steadier. Keep him comfortable, and keep his forehead cool.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“And what about you?”

“Me?”

“You sucked in that venom.”

“I’m fine. I spit it all out immediately.”

“And are you often called upon to rescue snake-bite victims?”

“I’ve never done such a thing before.”

He arched a brow.

“I read a great deal,” she told him.

He nodded, eyeing her through half-closed lids. “It was a dangerous thing to do, young lady. If you’d had a cut in your mouth…well, you’d have the venom in you now.”

“I feel fine, honestly. And thank you.”

She cooled Alex’s head as instructed, longing to believe that it made a difference. And she thought it did, because every few minutes, there was a shiny glow of sweat arising, and her administrations kept it at bay.

At some point she began to doze, leaning upon her arm, which rested on his chest. She woke with a jerk when she heard a rumbling. At first, panic seized her. His lungs were giving out. But that wasn’t the case. He was restless, and his lips were moving. She glanced at Dr. Morton, but the
man appeared to be sleeping. She touched Alex’s cheek. It wasn’t hot.

“Alex, it’s all right. You’re going to be all right,” she murmured.

“He keeps them,” Alex said, his head tossing. “Keeps them…keeps them in the crypt. The crypt…dangerous….”

“What, Alex? What is dangerous?”

“Asps…in the crypt.” His eyes suddenly opened fully upon hers. “Cobras…in the crypt. And when he’s ready…he’ll kill. He’ll kill us all.”

His eyes closed again. Camille sat in icy silence, shaken into deep fear by his wild comments. She glanced at Dr. Morton. His eyes remained closed. She leaned closer to Alex.

“What are you saying, Alex?” she asked softly.

He tossed and twisted again. She bit into her lower lip, praying that she wasn’t making him worse. But she was, of course.

His eyes opened again, wide. She didn’t think that he was actually seeing her face. Then he stared into her eyes. His fingers flailed on the sheets.

“The beast!” he exploded in a whisper. “The Beast of Carlyle. Beware the beast! He has a bitter plan. He wants vengeance. He wants to kill us all!”

Then his eyes closed, his fingers went still and it was as if he had never spoken.

From somewhere, a clock chimed the hour of three. Dr. Morton let out a snore and twisted in his chair. Then all was silent.

B
RIAN LAY AWAKE,
listening. But that night there were no strange noises to awaken him and draw him down the stairs to the crypts. Ajax slept peacefully by the hearth. He swore to himself in the darkness, remembering that he was having someone in to clean and oil the hinges.

The evening had certainly ended in disaster. Again he wondered why he hadn’t killed the asp in a fury. Maybe he had realized that the animal was just that, and though its defenses were lethal to human beings, it had been cornered and was probably far more terrified than the elite who had fled at the very mention of its existence. But how had the creature come to be among the company?

Alex Mittleman’s lack of riches had made him a likely suspect, but now he was stricken. He had nearly died that night, the same way Lord and Lady Stirling had met their demise.

Brian halfway rose and sent a fist into his pillow. Then there was Lord Wimbly, who apparently had gambling debts. But would such a man risk so much? And Aubrey? Aubrey was the main man to handle the asp at the museum, but there wasn’t a soul among those who worked there who hadn’t been to Egypt, except for Camille. Those who had been in the desert, and in the cities and towns along the Nile, had experience with the Egyptian cobra.

He gritted his teeth, concentrating. Maybe Sir Hunter, the great adventurer? But even Brian had to admit that his main issue with Hunter was the man’s apparent interest in Camille.

He still had no real indication of who the guilty party might be, but he believed now that whoever it was had information that he did not—knowledge his father had apparently discovered just before his death. There was a piece of tremendous value that had not been catalogued, that existed somewhere. And if it wasn’t at the museum, then it was among the relics and artifacts below.

He had kept the grounds a jungle, and they were known to be inhabited by wolves. He had allowed doctors onto the property, but only because it had been necessary. Other than that, Evelyn had brought in a few local women from
time to time to help with the cleaning. Only those he truly trusted with his life had real access to the estate, despite its rambling size—Shelby, Corwin and Evelyn. And among them, only Evelyn had been in Egypt.

None of this was a conspiracy he was solely creating out of loss, bitterness and anger. That had become evident when the fellow they had followed at the bar was killed. Oddly enough, that rascal Tristan had proved to be an asset. Except now, what should have been simple, cut-and-dried, was complicated. He had allowed Camille and her guardian in because he had intended to make use of both of them, not counting on his own feelings in the matter.

But now….

He rose, causing Ajax to leap to his feet, as well. The great wolfhound looked at him, wagging his tail, waiting.

“It’s suddenly cold and lonely in here, isn’t it, boy?” he asked. “So let’s explore.”

First things first. He silently moved down the hall. Shelby had fallen asleep at his position before the door. Ever the faithful friend, however, he opened his eyes and nearly jumped up with alarm at Brian’s arrival.

“It’s me,” Brian assured him. Shelby nodded, leaning against the wall again.

Brian slipped open the door where Alex Mittleman lay, fighting for his life. The doctor dozed in the chair. Camille had fallen asleep, slumped over Alex, still in her elegant gold. Neither stirred when he entered.

He set a finger against a vein in Alex’s throat. The pulse was strong.

Tenderly he shifted a lock of hair from Camille’s face. He felt a wave of warmth and then a tautness constrict his limbs as he surveyed her, captured again by all that he had come to admire and covet, and feeling as well a steely sense of self-doubt. She cared about this man. Because he
was her co-worker? Or was there something more sinister between them?

He drew a throw from the one chair remaining by the fire and carefully set it around her shoulders. Still she didn’t move. He returned to the hall, left Shelby dozing at his post and headed down the stairs.

A
LEX SHIFTED.

The movement woke Camille. For a moment, she lay confused, eyes on the fire, unable to remember where she was. Then the horror of the night rushed in on her and she jerked up, quickly looking at the man on the bed. His color seemed good. His face was not shining with sweat. She set a finger against his throat and felt the steady beat of his pulse.

She sat back, relieved. Dr. Morton was snoring. After a moment, she rose and stretched, rubbing her neck where it was tight.

Suddenly she had the strange feeling that the castle was alive. Pinpricks of unease filled her as she remembered Alex’s delirious words. The crypts here, he had said, were filled with asps. It was ridiculous. How could he know such a thing? And whatever might make him suspect it?

She glanced at the door, aware that Shelby kept guard, though why, she wasn’t certain. Unless Brian had his own doubts about Evelyn Prior? Or his doubts about her, the half-dead Alex and Dr. Morton.

She walked to the door, silently opened it. Shelby was instantly alert.

“It’s just me,” she whispered.

“How’s the patient?”

“His pulse is strong.”

“Thank God.”

She feigned a yawn. “I believe he is well enough that I
will seek out my own bed for a while. Shelby, are you quite all right there? Should I bring you a pillow, a blanket?”

“Oh, no, Miss Camille. I’ve slept in many a worse situation, in India…in the Sudan. I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

“Good night, then.”

She left him, hurrying down the hall to her own room. She entered it, but didn’t close the door all the way. She waited several seconds, her heart pounding, wondering just what she was so determined to do. Assure herself that there were no cobras in the crypts, she realized.

She waited. Time seemed to stretch, but she wanted to make sure that Shelby had gone back to sleep so that she could slip out her door and down the stairs without being noticed. It occurred to her to take a lamp, so she ran quickly into the room to procure that, along with a box of matches.

She went back to the door and peeked out. Shelby appeared to have returned to sleep, his head resting atop his arms, which were folded over his knees in his position against the wall by Alex’s door.

She walked on out, silent as a wraith, tiptoed to the stairway, started down it, then looked back. Shelby hadn’t moved. She hurried downward. At the stairs, she moved into the side hall and continued on, coming to the tiny chapel.

She opened the door to the dark curving stairs that seemed to go downward into emptiness. But as her eyes adjusted, she realized that from somewhere, the faintest light glowed. She hesitated, set down her own lamp and started downward.

Inch by inch, aware of the sound of her own breathing, she entered ever farther into the pit of bare illumination. At last, her feet fell upon the final step and she started around the corner.

The first room of the crypts was not what she had expected. Though it was so dismal down here that the one lamp burning on the floor did little more than provide for shapes and shadows, Camille could make out something of the room.

No vaults of the ancient dead were neatly aligned, nor were there musty tombs surrounded by spiderwebs. It was an office. The floor was stone and appeared to have been swept clean.

She strained to see against the darkness. Far across from her, and leading into a true stygian darkness, were massive iron gates. Those, she was certain, would lead to the long dead, yet not of an ancient Egyptian world.

Here in the office there were ordinary things—desks, files and cartons. Parts of the vast area were very much like the storeroom of the museum. Relics that might be of tremendous value were always carefully packed, and just as carefully unpacked. She had come upon the cache of items sent straight to Castle Carlyle, rather than the museum! She blinked as she realized that one of the cartons lay open. She inched toward it, wishing that she had brought her oil lamp. Drawn, yet unable to force her limbs to move quickly, she slowly came to the wooden carton. It was immense. The nails had been pried from the wooden lid, which lay at an angle to the side of the now gaping box.

Slowly, barely daring to breathe, she came closer. She stared down at the treasure in the straw packing.

Within the huge shipping carton was a sarcophagus. The beautifully painted and adorned receptacle for the dead had been opened, as well; its lid lay against that of the shipping carton. Moving ever closer, she saw that the mummy remained within its resting place. Darkened by time and the resin used to assure immortality, the mummy lay in typical fashion, its wrappings in place, arms folded over its chest.

Then something scurried near her. She nearly cried out, but saw the rat heading for a tiny hole in the wall. Her heart was thundering. Why? There had been no noises tonight. And she didn’t begin to believe that a nest of cobras lived beneath the long-dead being in the box.

So what was she doing? What had she hoped to prove? That there was no dark, dank, evil laboratory here. That Brian Stirling had not gone mad and begun breeding cobras in his crypts. Fine. She had discovered all that she needed to know. She could retreat.

Suddenly the lid of the carton burst outward. A dark figure leaped toward her. Before she could scream, a hand clamped over her mouth, and a low, furious, rasping whisper touched her ears.

“Now, you’ll pay the price!”

S
OFTNESS.
Pleasant, clean sheets. A bed. A fire burning near.

Alex Mittleman opened his eyes. He tried to speak, but nothing came out except a croaking noise.

“Here, here, son. Water, take a sip.”

Alex looked into the eyes of a total stranger. He blinked and accepted sips of water. He was parched, desperately parched.

“Slowly, boy. Slowly. Take it easy now.”

Alex nodded, and though he longed to inhale the water, he sipped. His jaw hurt. Everything hurt. His vision seemed clouded.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” the stranger said.

He nodded, then frowned, confused.

“I’m Dr. Morton,” the stranger said. “Do you remember? You were bitten by an asp, an Egyptian cobra, at the museum.”

Alex nodded slowly. He swallowed, signaling an entreaty for another sip of water. Then, he asked, “Where am I?”

“Carlyle Castle.”

His body gave an involuntary spasm. His frown deepened. “Camille…I thought…I spoke, I saw her, saw her face.”

“She was here, son. Earlier. She stayed awake with you
for hours, cooling your brow, keeping your fever down. Poor girl. She must have awakened and gone to get some sleep herself.” The doctor cleared his throat. “She saved your life. Well, she and the Earl of Carlyle. They both seemed to know something about snake venom.”

“Camille…she saved my life?”

“Yes, son. And the earl.”

The Earl of Carlyle had helped save his life!

“You’ve got to rest now. I’d say that your survival, even with the quick thinking of that pair, is something of a miracle.”

“Camille…”

“No, no, you’ve got to let the lass rest now, and get some sleep yourself. I’ll stay until midday, son. Then you’ll be on your way to mending, and the lass can attend to you again.”

Alex nodded, settling in. He’d been bitten by a cobra. But he was at Castle Carlyle. And
Camille
was going to tend to him.

Life was a miracle.

E
VELYN
P
RIOR
couldn’t sleep. She rose, found her robe, turned on the lamp at her bedside and hesitated. Then she silently opened her door and walked down the hall.

The door to Alex’s room was closed. Shelby slept by it, leaning against the wall. She had known the man a very long time. She took a few steps closer and hesitated. She nearly jumped a mile when a voice sounded behind her.

“Why, Mrs. Prior!”

She whirled around. Tristan, standing in the long white cotton nightgown she had provided him, was right behind her. The man had moved without a sound. But then again, he was a sneak thief. She should have expected that he could do so.

“Are you all right?” he asked politely.

Naturally, Shelby woke up.

“What? What is it? What’s going on?” he demanded with a voice like a growl.

“I came out to see to the welfare of our patient,” Evelyn said, her chin high as she stared at Tristan. “What our guest is doing, I do not know!”

“I heard noises in the hall,” Tristan said with a shrug. He frowned fiercely, staring at both of them. “And my ward is residing here. There’s not a chance that I will not look after her welfare!”

“Go back to bed, the both of you!” Shelby admonished, apparently disgusted that his sleep had been interrupted. “The patient’s doing well enough—looks like he’ll live. And under the circumstances, that’s damn well. And Miss Camille is sound asleep—neither of you will disturb her!” he said firmly.

“Perhaps I should just check on Alex Mittleman,” Evelyn said.

“Be my guest,” Shelby told her. “But the doctor’s still in with him. Get some sleep and save your strength. The doctor will be leaving by noon tomorrow, and the lot of nursing will fall to you all again.” He glowered, obviously very grumpy.

“Get back in your room!” Evelyn said firmly to Tristan, not to be outdone by Shelby.

“Let me escort you to your own first,” Tristan suggested, very politely.

“As you wish,” she said. But she looked back at Shelby. “See that Sir Tristan makes his own way back to sleep, will you?”

“Everyone is to go to sleep!” he said, and shaking his head, he sat back down again, leaning his massive shoulders against the wall. But his eyes didn’t close. He was watching.

C
AMILLE WAS FIERCELY SPUN
around in stark terror. A light was suddenly shone in her eyes and she backed away, blinking.

“Camille!”

Breath rushed from her in a terrible expulsion. It was Brian.

“Oh, my God!” She was so relieved that she sank down to the floor, catching herself on her knees, her hand flying to her throat.

But then again, what was he doing down here in the darkness, hiding by a mummy?

“Get up!” He set his lamp down on the ground, caught her hands and dragged her to a standing position. She swallowed, staring at him, catching sight of his face. His real face. And that scared her more than she might have imagined.

“What the hell are you doing down here?” he demanded angrily. “Sweet Jesu, what in God’s name do I need to do with you? Tie you down at night?”

There was nothing wrong with his face, nothing at all. Except for the scar that slashed from his forehead across his cheek on the left side, but it was barely a white line. It certainly didn’t detract from the line of his skeletal structure, high cheekbones, firm jaw, almost aquiline nose, and high, well-set brow. He was exceptionally striking, handsome in a rugged and classic sense, and there was nothing of a beast or monster about his appearance at all. It was all a lie. A charade.

“What are you doing down here?” she cried.

His hands fell to his hips. He was dressed in nothing but a pair of white knickers, and his chest gleamed in the candlelight, muscled shoulders and abdomen a taut ripple of shadow and pulse. “I am the Earl of Carlyle,” he reminded her coldly. “I have title to the castle. I live here, Camille. And beyond that, you are more than aware that I am always searching for the cause of the noise at night!”

She swallowed hard, aware that she was far less than
presentable herself. If she were clad with a bit more dignity it would be an easier task to explain her presence. As it was, her hair was half up, half trailing in pins, and her elegant gown was askew.

He crossed his arms over his chest and his eyes glittered upon her. “It was my understanding that you were desperate to watch over your friend during the night. I will assume that he’s doing well. Did he send you down here?”

“No!” she gasped with horror, although, in a way he had. She had come looking for cobras. Which was not the wisest thing to do, not when a man had just been bitten by such an asp. But, she was certain, had the Earl of Carlyle been raising the creatures for some perverted reason, they would surely not have been allowed to roam free.

“There…there is something going on here,” she said.

“Obviously. We’ve established that.”

She shook her head. “I heard noises again.”

“And you didn’t come for me? How odd. This was the one night I didn’t hear any noise.”

“Then I must have heard you,” she said. Her words had a lovely ring of possible truth to them, but she went on the offensive again. “And you, My Lord? Suddenly, in the middle of the night, you found it expedient to start opening up sarcophagi?”

He didn’t so much as blink. “I repeat, my dear, I own the castle. And all that lies within it. If I choose to open boxes in the middle of the night, it’s entirely my right to do so.”

“But one would have to admit, as well, that it’s quite odd!” she said. Then she backed away. “And you! Your very existence is a lie! Why the mask, why the pretense? There is nothing wrong with you!”

He walked forward, reaching for her arm. She backed away. “No!”

He caught her anyway. “Hush up, will you! You’ll wake the entire house.”

She fell silent, staring at him. And as she did so, she felt anew the incredible magnetism that he could exert. She wanted every evil possibility about him to be a lie. She wanted to reach out in the light and touch his face, to marvel at it.

And she wanted it to be true, that she had come into his life and changed it. And that he had been as blind to her poor status and sad start in life as she had been to the scarring of his face. She wanted to believe…

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. He doused the lamp he had carried, leaving it on one of the desks. Then he caught hold of her hand and led her up the stairs. In the chapel, he closed the door firmly behind him. He frowned. “You got past Shelby?”

“Don’t you dare be angry with him.”

“I’m not. I’m sure you were cautious—and amazingly cunning—when you decided to make your way down.”

She turned away, starting up the steps. He came behind her fleetly. As she rose up the stairway to the second landing, he was just inches away. At the top of the stairs, she hesitated. Shelby appeared to be sleeping again. She started to tiptoe by him, heading for her own room. But Brian came behind her. The hold he planted at the base of her spine was firm as he ushered her swiftly down the hall to his room. When he’d opened the door, he propelled her in firmly.

She spun around. “You’ve no right to just assume—”

“I’m not assuming anything. I don’t intend to leave you alone again at night. Ever. And I don’t care which of your so-called friends is ailing next, or from what cause!”

“Oh, my God! You would imply that that poor man was not stricken, when he rushed in to save others, when your grand and rich peers ran like rabbits!” she exclaimed.

“I imply nothing of the kind. I merely state that I will not leave you alone at night anymore!”

She suddenly started to tremble, aware that he meant it, aware that she couldn’t bear being this near him without…

“It’s all a game, isn’t it?” she asked softly.

“A very deadly game.”

She backed away. “I can’t play it with you anymore!” she said.

He blocked the door. There was no exit in that direction. She turned, yet got nowhere, for in seconds he was at her back, his hands upon her. With gentle force he turned her around. His eyes were cobalt with tension, his muscles locked. He looked as if he longed to speak, yet shook his head. Then he crushed her to him, caught her chin, and his lips found hers.

She felt as if she exploded against him. Before, she hadn’t even really known what she sought. Now she knew.

Right or wrong, she trembled anew, falling against him, feeling the plunge of his tongue in her mouth, the passion behind it, and the overwhelming desire. Her hands, rising to his chest, marveled in the bare flesh, the play of muscle beneath. Her fingers crept to his shoulders, and she clung there as they kissed. Her fingers fell down the length of his back, tracing the spine, again glorying in the simple feel of naked flesh and all that burned beneath.

His lips broke from hers at last, and he spun her easily in his arms, then began working at the cord that laced her bodice. An oath escaped him after a moment. She heard the slight snap of the cord in his fingers, and it didn’t matter in the least. She could scarcely breathe now and his haste mattered more dearly. In seconds she had wrangled from the tightness of bodice, and his hands were there when the length of it was pulled over her head.

He swore again, spinning her once more, starting at the laces of the corset, tearing into them, as well. It took forever, and when she was freed from it she could wait no longer. Turning back into his arms, she melted against his chest, feeling the chafe of it against her breasts, knowing that she willing to live and die there. Again his mouth found hers while his hands busied themselves with the petticoat tie. When that fell to her feet, he went to his knees. She clutched hard upon his shoulders as he removed the elegant little slippers and then the garters.

Suddenly his touch was slow as his fingers brushed against her thighs and behind her knees, rolling down the length of silk. She shivered, standing, longing to come down to him. His lips found her kneecaps, her inner thighs, her calves…the top of her foot. One stocking was gone. He began to remove the other. Again hands, fingertips, lips, tongue lingered upon her flesh as the silk slipped from it. And he halfway rose, burying his face against her belly, teasing her thighs, falling to her hips…bathing her.

At last she fell to meet him. His arms crushed around her again, his mouth falling upon and consuming hers. Firelight played upon them, intoxicating them with the headiness of sight and touch and taste and scent. She knew then, as they burned as one along with the flames, that come what may, she was lost. He was all that she craved in life, all that she needed, all that she…loved.

His whisper touched her ear. “How is it that you can do this to me?” It was a breath, barely discernible, yet it continued. “I forget the world, and reason, and even sanity….”

They were the words she should have been saying to him, but she refused to let them come to her lips, refused to let them enter her heart. Her fingers threaded into his hair, down his nape, down the length of his back. She came closer, her hands riding over the leanness of his hips
to the muscled walls of his buttocks as she inched herself ever closer. She felt herself lifted and slowly eased down upon him. The focus of her entire being became the sensation of him within her, part of her. She could not come closer, could not feel anything so penetrating and wildly exciting ever again.

Before, she had followed. Now she could lead. And she did.

Digging into his shoulders, she was aware of each painstaking sensation—fingertips upon his flesh, breasts scraping against the matt of his chest, arms tightening around him. His hands upon her, catching her hips, adding to the momentum, touching, guiding.

As she exploded in ecstasy, he swept her around and beneath him. The world blazed with the blue flames from the hearth, and the winds that had seized her tore through the forests surrounding them.

And then, as the wind shifted to the slow catch of her breath, she reached out and touched his face.

“Why?” she asked softly.

She thought he would move away, but he did not. His arms lifted his weight from her, but his flesh still hovered over hers, his limbs parting her own.