Wicked (5 page)

Trembling, Camille remained on her feet, staring at the door, long after he had gone.

“You are truly a wretched creature!” she cried then, certain that he was far beyond earshot.

The door opened. She tensed.

It was Mrs. Prior. “You poor dear!” she exclaimed. “He does have such a ferocious temper. I try constantly to make him see it, but…quite honestly, he can be charming and kind.”

“I must see my guardian. And I must take him from this place,” Camille said, fighting for what dignity she might summon. “Away from that monster.”

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Prior said. “Truly, he’s not such a monster. It’s just that…well, it is quite shocking that you work for the museum, dear.”

“It’s an honorable position!” she said.

“Yes. Well…” Mrs. Prior cast her head at an angle, studying Camille. Perhaps she, at least, approved of what she saw. She lowered her voice. “It’s just that your employers—well, the group dealing with your department—were all there when…”

“When what?”

“When his lordship’s parents were murdered,” Mrs. Prior said. “It’s not your fault, dear, but still…. Do come along, then, please. I’ll bring you to your guardian.” She
paused, looking back. “Honestly, dear, he may look a bit beastly, and perhaps his behavior thus far has been horrid, but there is that dire fact of those terrible murders having completely changed his life.”

C
AMILLE HURRIED ALONG
after Evelyn. “Wait, please. I’ve heard the rumors, of course. Everyone in London has heard the rumors. Perhaps if I understood more about what happened, I could even be—”

The word
helpful
never left her lips because Evelyn, who had been moving rapidly before her, came to a dead stop, throwing open a door. Camille, in her hurry to keep up, nearly plowed into Evelyn’s back. Then Evelyn spoke as if she hadn’t been listening to a word that Camille had said. “Here, child. Your guardian.”

Thoughts concerning her host and his wretched behavior flew from her mind as she looked into the darkened room and blinked. A fire burned at the hearth, but all was cast into shadow. She felt her heart skip a beat as her eyes at last fell upon the figure on the bed. Still. Dead still.

“Oh, dear God!” she exhaled, trembling, her knees going wobbly.

Evelyn spun around, catching her by the arms, offering support before she buckled completely.

“No, no, dear! He was so restless that we gave him laudanum. He isn’t at all dead. Well, I guess you can’t actually be partially dead…Here I am, making no sense. He’s all right. He probably won’t be coherent, not that I seem to be doing much of a job in that direction.” Evelyn, who had appeared such a composed woman, apparently did
have a sense of sympathy, and was therefore flustered by Camille’s heartfelt and terrified show of emotion. “Dear girl!” Evelyn continued. “Run on over, give him a hug. He may wake enough to recognize you.”

Not dead, not dead, not dead! That was all that registered in Camille’s mind. Then Evelyn’s words sank in and she found the strength to tear across the room to the bed. Once there, she saw that there was color in Tristan’s face and that he was breathing deeply.

In fact, as she hovered just above him, afraid for a moment to touch, he let out the most winded snort she had heard in the whole of her life. Flushing, she turned back to the door where Evelyn Prior remained.

“See, he is quite alive,” Evelyn assured her softy again.

Camille nodded, then looked down at her guardian. He was dressed in a handsome linen nightgown—something he had never possessed in all his life, she was certain. He’d been cared for and well tended, that was obvious. The monster of Carlyle wanted his prisoners to be in decent shape when he saw them prosecuted, so it appeared.

She fell to her knees by Tristan’s side, clutching his shoulders in a gentle hug, laying her head against his chest. “Tristan!” she whispered softly, tears springing to her eyes. Whatever sins he had committed in his life, he had surely redeemed himself when he had saved her, when he had given up his goods—ill-gotten and by other means—to feed a number of the street urchins they had known in their days together. But why now, when she had come to a point in her life where she could take care of them…?

“You sorry son of a sailor!” she muttered, lifting her head, angrily wiping tears from her cheeks. “Tristan, what on earth were you doing?” she whispered fervently.

He inhaled on another snort, blinked and met her eyes. Tenderness came to his, the gentleness that really was the
crux of the man. “Camille, moppet! Camille….” He frowned, as if aware that she shouldn’t be there. But the effort was too much. He blinked again, but his eyes closed, and she heard only the depth of his breathing once again.

“You see?” Evelyn called from the doorway. “The man has been quite decently tended. Now, come along, dear. I’ll show you where you may sleep tonight.”

She rose, kissed Tristan on the forehead, adjusted his covers and then turned to follow Evelyn. The woman led her out, closed the door firmly but silently and started down the hall again at a brisk speed.

“Mrs. Prior,” Camille began, racing after her, “I can see that no harm has been done to my guardian, but, as you can understand, I’m anxious to get him home.”

“I’m sorry, dear, but I do believe that Brian intends to prosecute.”

“Brian?” she murmured, puzzled.

“The Earl of Carlyle,” Mrs. Prior said patiently.

“Oh, but he can’t! He mustn’t!”

“Perhaps you’ll be able to talk him out of it in the morning. Oh, dear! If only you hadn’t worked for the museum!”

“To the very best of my knowledge, Mrs. Prior, many people have fallen prey to Egyptian asps. It is a danger of the desert region.”

Mrs. Prior stared at her in a way that made her feel severely uncomfortable, as if she had, until that point, been deemed an intelligent young woman.

“This is your door, Miss Montgomery. The castle is large and winding, started with the Norman Conquest and built on ever since, not always with the best architectural eye! I suggest you refrain from roaming in the night. There is a quite modern bath connected to this guest room, I do say with some pride. Night clothing and toiletries have
been left at your disposal. In the morning, dear, this situation will be solved, one way or the other.”

“Yes…thank you. But wait! Perhaps, if I understood more—”

“The earl is awaiting me, Miss Montgomery. Sleep well.”

“Oh! But Ralph, our valet—”

“Has been seen to!” Mrs. Prior called back over her shoulder. She disappeared around a corner.

Somewhat aggravated by her dismissal, Camille stepped into the hallway, debating the course of simply running after the woman and demanding more answers.

But just as easily as Evelyn Prior had disappeared, the hound from hell reappeared. It sat in the hallway and stared at her. She had never known before that dogs could actually sneer and dare someone, but that was exactly what this hound was doing.

She pointed at the animal. “You, sir, will get yours one day!” she vowed.

The dog growled.

Camille stepped quickly into the room she had been assigned and closed the door. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes with a beating heart, conflicting emotions racing through her. Then she opened her eyes and gasped.

The room was quite incredible. The bed was handsomely canopied, topped with a rich, embroidered ivory quilt and numerous pillows. The rest of the furnishings were…Egyptian.

Startled, she walked across to the dressing table and realized that certain pieces from antiquity had been copied for the decor and combined with current Victorian detail to create something of a fantasy. A dressing table with smooth, stark lines was topped with a threefold mirror, carved with a symbol of the god Horus,
wings spread, in a typical manner of protection. A large trunk was covered with hieroglyphs, as was the tall standing wardrobe. Chairs that stood before draperies were carved with the great protective wings of Horus, as well.

She turned and was startled by a large statue of a pharaoh. Walking toward it, she narrowed her eyes. The statue was real. Hatshepsut, she thought, the female pharaoh who had herself displayed with a beard, showing her world that she was a woman, but one with the power of a man.

The statue was surely priceless. And set here, in a guest room? It was a museum piece, she thought angrily.

On the other side of the door, she discovered another life-size statue, this one of the goddess Anat. A war goddess, Anat was supposed to protect the pharaoh in battle. She was usually sculpted or drawn with a shield, a lance and a battle-ax. This statue was slightly damaged. Still, a great find. A priceless relic! And here, in a guest room!

Camille stepped back, wondering if she had purposely been given this room. The statues might well unnerve most women. In fact, she was certain that many a young respectable woman—the type preparing for her season before society—might well awake in the night terrified and screaming bloody murder, certain the curse of the castle had awakened the statues, that they had become real and were seeking her in the night…. In the firelight, they were decidedly eerie, Camille admitted.

“But I’m not afraid!” she said aloud, then winced. It was as if she were assuring some long-dead or mythical creature that she was beyond its control. “Nonsense!” she whispered to herself.

Two lamps burned on stark little tables on either side of the bed. They, too, were in Egyptian motifs. And rather shockingly, both depicted the fertility god Min with his
huge, erect phallus and double-plumed headdress. Camille hardly thought herself prudish, but really…!

Shaking her head, she had a feeling that she would not have been assigned to this room if she hadn’t tempted the earl’s fury with her assertion of the truth—that she worked for the museum. She had been sent here, she was certain, with a sense of vengeance. With that thought, she smiled. Fine.

She ventured more fully into the room, pulling back the draperies behind the chairs. There were, indeed, windows there. At one time, she was certain, they had not held panes, nor had they been quite so large. They showed the width of the castle stone, and in that they were far more startling than the Egyptian artifacts. At one time, these walls had been made for protection. Castle Carlyle had once defied the swords and arrows of the enemy, just as surely as the earl now defended himself from English society behind his bastion of stone and strength.

She let out a sigh, itching to race back to Tristan’s room and give him a thorough tongue-lashing, even if he couldn’t hear her. But she knew that the hellhound would be beyond her door, keeping watch. So she shook her head, walked to the bed and picked up the linen gown left for her, determined to find the bath.

Toiletries had been provided as promised, and the bath was quite modern with a tub, commode and running water. The earl might have his wicked sense of justice wherein he thought ancient artifacts might disturb a body’s sleep, but at least the room came with niceties far beyond those to which she was accustomed.

A candle burned in the bath, and by it was a tray with brandy and glasses. Without hesitation, she drew hot water into the massive tub, then stripped, poured herself brandy and settled in.

How strange! The night was quite a disaster, yet here
she was, luxuriating in a hot bath, sipping brandy. Frowning, she reminded herself that the situation was extremely dire.

She felt herself tense and wasn’t at all sure why she did so. A sixth sense gave her warning of something being not right. She held very still and thought that she heard something. Movement. Not a rustling. Not footsteps. Just…as if stone had shifted against stone.

She waited, but the sound didn’t come again. Had she imagined it? Then, from outside the bedroom door, she suddenly heard a furious barking. Whatever had seeped into her senses, the dog had heard it, too.

She nearly threw her brandy down, but managed to set it upon the throw rug on the floor. She leaped out of the tub and into a heavy brocade dressing gown that hung on the bathroom door. It occurred to her that perhaps she should be locking herself into the room, but instinct sent panic into her veins, and she knew she had to find the source of the noise that had given rise to such a state of distress.

As she burst out into the bedroom, she heard herself being called.

“Miss Montgomery!” It was the Earl of Carlyle himself, shouting her name.

She ran forward as the door burst open. There they were, staring at one another. He, blue eyes sharp behind the beast of the mask, she, most startled and feeling terribly vulnerable, hair wild about her face, robe not at all decently closed.

She caught at the edges, seeking the tie.

The dog rushed into the room. He was no longer barking, but standing by its master’s legs, sniffing the air, rigid.

“Ahem.” The beast actually cleared his throat. “You’re quite all right?” he asked.

She couldn’t find her voice at first, so she nodded.

“Did you hear anything?” he demanded.

“I…don’t know.”

He let out an oath of impatience. “Miss Montgomery, either you did or didn’t hear something. Was someone here?” He frowned, as if sincerely doubting the possibility of such a situation but determined he must ask.

“No!”

“You didn’t hear anything?”

“I…don’t believe so.”

“You don’t believe? Then why do you appear to have bolted from the bath as if chased by demons from hell?”

“There seemed to be…I don’t know,” she said, lifting her chin. “A scraping sound from somewhere.” She squared her shoulders. “But as you—and your creature—can surely see, there is no one here. I assume that ancient places such as this might well creak.”

“Mmm,” he murmured.

She hated the mask. It hid all but his eyes, leaving her feeling as if she were continually dueling without all the weapons she needed in her corner. She stiffened again, determined on dignity. “Do you mind, My Lord? I am an unwilling guest at best, and as so, would prefer my own company at this hour.”

To her surprise, he seemed reluctant to leave.

“You do not find the room…disturbing?”

“No. Did you intend that I should?”

He waved a hand in the air. “I am not referring to the decor,” he said.

“Then…?”

“The creaking, or whatever it is that you—and my monster dog—apparently heard.”

She shook her head, thinking on the one hand that she was a fool.
Yes! I want out of the room,
an inner voice cried.
But she wouldn’t let this man know that she could be frightened. Not in any way.

“I’m quite content to remain here,” she told him.

He studied her, and she thought that he might well insist that she do so. He didn’t. Instead he said, “I will leave the dog, then.”

“What?”

“I promise, you will be safe from creaks and groans, no matter what, with Ajax in attendance.”

“Ajax hates me!” she said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come. Give him a pat on the head.”

She just stared at the man incredulously.

She was amazed to realize that he was actually smiling. “You’re afraid of the dog?”

“You, sir, must not be ridiculous. I merely respect such a creature.”

“Come. You’ll have nothing to fear when he knows I wish him to look out for you.”

She moved forward, once again determined not to betray fear. Yet, even as she did so, her heart was pounding. But it wasn’t the dog. It was proximity to the man, she knew.