Accursed Abbey: A Steamy Regency Gothic Romance (Nobles & Necromancy Book 1)

by Tessa Candle

  Chapter 20

  She was in a magnificent chamber that extended outward, and whose walls grew into the landscape beyond it. The floor was covered with sumptuously thick carpets in rich colours—wine, indigo, emerald, saffron, tangerine, and the deep purple of scarab shells and plump, ripe grapes.

  The soft fabrics were velvety beneath her feet, and on every wall hung tapestries with myriad stories woven into their surfaces. The air was heavy with generations of spicy incense that made her head swim among the waves of coriander, cinnamon and other unidentifiable temptations.

  A dais stood in the middle of the chamber, supporting a pillar upon which sat a grand silver bowl, overspilling with fruits of all kinds. A single cut fig sat beside this dish, its glistening maroon lips offering themselves to Elizabeth's eye.

  The seductively ripe and tangy notes reached out to her and caressed her nose. She could almost taste it. But when she made to take a step toward the fruit, she found her feet confined. She had sunk into the velvety carpet of the floor. It coiled around and around, so no matter which way she twisted or moved her legs, they found themselves swathed in heavy fabric.

  She opened her eyes. They felt swollen and heavy. She winced at the light of fiery torches that flared up at intervals as she passed by.

  She was being carried along a torch-lit path, wrapped in a thick velvet blanket. She could smell the yeast and tannins thick in the air. It must be a winery estate. Who was carrying her?

  She twisted her neck to try to make out a face, but she could only see the shadowy back of a head, for she was slung over a man's shoulder. Somewhere ahead, she could hear that another person walked. There was little point in trying to get free. She was sluggish and could barely keep her eyes open. She would only be caught and restrained.

  Elizabeth's foggy mind then realized that she had been drugged. She thought back to the last thing she remembered. She had been sitting at table with her aunt and uncle. Orefados' wine. He had put something in it.

  She thanked the heavens that she had not swallowed the mouthful of wine, but artfully spit it back into her glass, though it was delicious, because she could not bring herself to accept any gift from Orefados. At the time she thought she was being madly superstitious.

  But if this was the effect of such a tiny dose, what might have happened if she had properly drunk it? Had the man been trying to kill her, or just to render her insensible?

  And what could he possibly have in mind? This was not revenge for a few fish, surely. Was the man so deranged as that? Yet her aunt and uncle had seemed quite enamoured of him. Had he drugged them, too? Were they safe? What of Silverloo?

  She felt a pang of anxiety. The sweet, brave little dog would never let them take Elizabeth away without a fight. She prayed that he had not been harmed.

  Elizabeth reasoned that, thinking she was thoroughly drugged, her captors were not expecting her to be awake. She could feign unconsciousness and wait for her chance to escape.

  The torches that lined their path ceased, suddenly, and she was plunged into shadow. Momentarily she emerged on the other side of a great doorway into an entrance room lit by candles. They must be in Orefados’ fortress-like manor.

  She was carried though a twisting course of hallways, then finally through a doorway into a chamber. She lowered her lids to feign sleep as she was laid upon a couch of white leather. Her skin revolted against the touch of the animal skin upholstery. There was something not quite dead about it.

  She could just make out, through the veil of her lashes, the forms of Orefados and his servant. Orefados spoke in a strange language to the servant, who disappeared briefly, then re-entered the room with a box.

  Orefados took something from the box and seemed to be working with it. Elizabeth wondered what he could be doing, but was forced to close her eyes entirely when the bizarre lord walked over to her.

  As he leaned in he murmured, “You have eaten my fish and drank my wine. Welcome to my realm.”

  She should have listened to her superstitions. The fish wasn’t even that good.

  She could feel that he applied something to her forehead, right between her eyes, and then around her mouth. She hoped it was not some further application of the drug. Cold metal traced over the skin of her neck, down her chest. It took all her concentration not to shiver at the strange sensation this caused in her.

  But she maintained the facade of sleep and Orefados left her—to do what she could not imagine. However she was convinced that she was being prepared for something. She shuddered to think what.

  She had to escape.

  Chapter 21

  A foreboding sensation of cold crept over Lord Canterbourne’s skin as he followed the torch-bearing servant up the shadowy stair to his rented home. It was not his new abode that disturbed him. It was the recollection of his conversation with Giuseppe.

  The poor terrorized girl had been in Orefados' care. And this horrid man was Miss Whitely's neighbour. He hoped Miss Whitely and Orefados had not had occasion to meet, but he felt, more than ever, that he needed to get her away from Melonia.

  He sped to the small chamber he had appointed as his office and looked at the sole letter upon his desk. A special messenger must have sent it while he was out. It was from Mr. Johnstone, the solicitor visiting Treviso. He thanked the heavens and tore open the missive to see what assistance the man might lend.

  In the usual manner of solicitors accustomed to being paid by the word, he carried on at some length about the great honour Lord Canterbourne paid him in seeking his services, etcetera. But the part of the note that was interesting was only a few paragraphs.

  In the case of this young woman you mention, under English law, if she is beyond her twenty-first year, she is capable of consenting to marriage of her own volition, and the consent of her guardians is unnecessary. She would thus enter into the protection of her husband and the guardianship would be dissolved.

  Canterbourne frowned. Miss Whitely was not of age. He continued to read.

  I should have to look through the documents pertaining to the creation of the trust before I could deliver an opinion. However, a marriage would, under all but the most unusual arrangements, reappoint the trustee to be her husband.

  This was excellent news! He did not care a whit about the money for his own sake, but he did not wish his plans to propose to her to become the means of separating her from her inheritance. His heart grew troubled as he read on, however.

  A more problematic factor which your lordship may not have considered is that the beneficiary and her guardians are residing in Venetia. This does not change the trust arrangements, but it does present any of my countrymen wishing to marry with some very practical problems.

  Though the sun might never set upon our empire, the same may not be said of the Church of England. I know of no local churches, certainly. I suppose, if you are not too particular, you might persuade a Catholic priest to marry you. I have heard that there are always a few renegade cupids willing to aid the cause of love.

  Our country recognizes foreign marriages, but I suppose you might wish to be married again upon your return to England. If her guardians zealously wish to maintain control of the trust, they may challenge the validity of the marriage to prevent the trust from transferring to the putative husband. In the very least, this could tie matters up in litigation.

  This was a serious complication that he had not considered. He read on to see what further counsel he might glean, but Johnstone offered only more problems.

  The task of removing the young lady to England while she is still unwed carries its own problems. There would be difficulty doing this properly, if the guardians are not consenting. If you will pardon my indelicacy, to some it might have the whiff of an abduction about it.

  Canterbourne wanted to do things properly, but it was frustrating to be hampered by such details when he felt that Miss Whitely was in such a perilous situation. Mr. Johnstone continued on at some length, offering to enquire after
potential chaperones among his sister's acquaintance in Treviso. It was a kind thought, but Canterbourne thought the matter too urgent for this sort of delay.

  He would, of course, ask for her guardians' consent at the first opportunity. But he was uncertain that they would wish to give over their ward. He corrected himself: it was more the funds in her trust than her person that they would be loath to part with.

  He supposed his suit might be rendered more acceptable if he were to offer a substantial dowry. Canterbourne huffed and shook his head. It was the sort of business that gave him disgust. Miss Whitely should not be touched by the taint of such an arrangement, as though she were a beast to be sold at the market.

  But it was quite a normal practice. Besides, he was out of his element here, and he could not be too nice. Whatever it took, he would remove Miss Whitely from danger and marry her, if she would have him.

  He tapped his fingers on the desktop. It was late, but he had the mad desire to go back out to her house and check to see that all was well. He scrawled off a reply to the lawyer, handed it to the waiting servant, then went to splash some cool water upon his face.

  Canterbourne felt refreshed as he wiped his skin with the coarse towel. He certainly would not sleep a wink until he knew that she was safe. He made for the door. It was not such a long drive. He needed at least to put her upon her guard against her mad neighbour.

  Chapter 22

  When Elizabeth was sure that her captors had both left the chamber, and she could no longer hear the sound of footfalls in the hallway beyond the door, she opened her eyes. If she did not know better, and she scarcely could claim to, she would be persuaded that she occupied a tent in some Bedouin encampment.

  The walls were hung with woven carpets and goatskins, heads still attached and strangely preserved with glass eyes—she believed they were glass—that stared out at the room in a gloomy half-life, animated with an occasional flicker of candlelight.

  The horrid little couch upon which she lay was in a small enclave that had been partly curtained off by swathes of Egyptian cotton.

  In the centre of the room stood a table dressed with a white cotton cloth. Over this were laid out the antique instruments of some foreign ritual, surrounded by incense and spices formed into perfect pyramids of red, yellow, orange, ash grey and cardamom green.

  A scrap of parchment lay near the table's edge, weighted down with a moonstone orb, a bone axe, and a short sword, whose hilt was carved of bone into which strange symbols had been stained with pigments and ink. There was a lacquer of ancient grime over these objects which made Elizabeth feel the oppressive weight of their age.

  Or perhaps she felt heavy because of the drug she had been given. This was an eerie and outlandish tableau, and she wondered at the diseased mind of the man who had constructed it. What might he do next? What might such a man not do?

  She risked moving to a sitting position and tested her arms and legs. They moved, though sluggishly. She tried to stand. Her legs wobbled, and she had to steady herself against the couch, but she could stand. She took a few, agonizingly slow steps. Her head swam from the exertion and she returned to the couch.

  How much time did she have? Could she recover sufficiently to escape before they returned to—she shuddered at the thought—complete the ritual?

  Chapter 23

  Canterbourne knocked at the door to the Whitely's house. It was past midnight, but he did not care. He waited. No answer came. The flickering light of a candle shone through the kitchen window. Someone must be awake.

  He hammered on the door in a very un-English fashion, for it occurred to him that the doors in these parts, or the people behind them, were unresponsive to anything short of brutality.

  No answer came, but Canterbourne strained his ear. He could hear the muffled sounds of Silverloo's barking. Surely this would awaken someone. And when they answered the door in their nightcaps and stared out at the deranged man on their stoop, what would he say?

  He did not care if he looked like a madman. He was convinced—he knew it like he knew the sound of his mother's voice—Miss Whitely was in danger.

  He went to the kitchen window to peer inside, the bramble guarding it tearing at his cloak. The candle was sputtering inside, but he could see by the dim, pulsing light two forms slumped over the table.

  “Good lord, they have been murdered!” Canterbourne dashed back to his carriage to retrieve his sword and a lantern. He ran to the front door, determined to bash it open. But when he tried the handle, he discovered it was unlocked. It opened with a meekness that quietly suggested it did not understand the violent tempers of these passionate Englishmen.

  He ran through the house, knocking bits of precariously perched clutter off of shelves and tables as he went. Into the kitchen he galloped, brandishing his sword and looking for Miss Whitely.

  Upon closer inspection, the two slumped forms proved to be Mr. and Mrs. Whitely, not murdered, but sleeping deeply. Their dinner, only half eaten, remained upon the table. Mr. Whitely's face lay across half of his dinner plate. Green peas and fish squished into his skin.

  Canterbourne cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Mr. Whitely, but I wonder if you might do me the service of checking upon your niece to see that she is quite well.”

  No response came.

  “Sir? Madam?” He shook them. They did not waken. This was not a natural slumber.

  Silverloo was still barking somewhere in the house. He followed the sound into the back pantry, to a small corner closet. When he opened the door, the furry mass of nerves sprang out and jumped up at him, whining. He returned his sword to the scabbard and petted the dog.

  “Poor little gentleman.” Canterbourne smiled in spite of his horrible sense of foreboding. “There's a lad. Show me where your mistress' chamber is.”

  Seeming to understand him perfectly, the dog flew out of the pantry and through the kitchen. Canterbourne followed behind. Silverloo stopped before the door of a room in the back of the house, at which, despite the unpardonable degree of intrusion in which he was already engaged, Canterbourne still felt the need to knock politely.

  “Miss Whitely? It is Lord Canterbourne. I beg your pardon. Please only answer me through the door and tell me you are quite well, and I will leave you to your slumber.”

  “Miss Whitely?” But he knew no answer would come.

  The little dog was now barking frantically, intermittently breaking into a whine. Surely no one could sleep through such a commotion.

  He said a silent prayer, braced himself for what he might find and reached for the doorknob.

  Chapter 24

  Elizabeth broke out in a cold sweat as the sounds of footfalls in the hallway announced the return of her mad captors. She tried to arrange herself on the couch as she had been before, calmed her breathing and closed her eyes.

  She could hear them enter, and the movements around the room suggested further preparation. She dared not look, as much from fear of what she might see as from fear of detection.

  The smoke of some sort of incense, a fragrant wood, tickled her nose, then burned it, then made it feel pleasantly numb. In a few minutes she was lifted again, and although she feared that she was falling deeper into a useless state of stupefaction, at least the effect of the smoke was helping her feign the relaxed body of an unconscious person.

  This time, as the servant carried her over his shoulder, Orefados followed behind, chanting something and lightly spanking her backside with branches. She had to suppress a little hysterical laugh at the absurdity of such behaviour, which continued as they proceeded down the winding hallways.

  When she felt that their attention was no longer upon her, she allowed herself to peek through lowered lashes. The hallway was lit up with torches, and she could make out that the stone walls were carved with impossibly tiny detailed forms or symbols.

  The servant seemed to be carrying a brazier of the woody narcotic incense, for she could see the trail of red ash th
at dropped to the floor as they proceeded. This was a good thing, she knew instinctively. It took her addled brain a few moments to puzzle out why it was a good thing.

  Ah yes, the ashes were a trail that she could follow back if she escaped. But then she would not want to come back to that nasty little chamber, except to proceed past it to the outer doorway. But how would she find the doorway? The whole building seemed to be a writhing tangle of hallways.

  She supposed she could think about that later. There was first the small matter of escaping. She hoped, despite all the drugs she had imbibed, that she would be capable of running away when she got her chance.

  It seemed like they wandered forever among the litany of guttural incantations, cloying smoke and strangely carved hallways until the tedium was broken, and a door opened before them to the outside.

  She relished the fresh night air. Surely this was her chance. But they did not put her down, and instead proceeded in precisely the same bizarre, ritualistic fashion. They climbed upward along a stone staircase that wound back and forth up the side of the mountain.

  A memory stirred. The old ruins in the mountainside. Could they be heading for the dilapidated abbey? And whatever purpose could such a—she could not but call him a mad magician, have for a holy place? She would have thought such a devil would cringe from any artefact of God.

  Chapter 25

  Lord Canterbourne did not know whether or not to be relieved when the chamber door opened to reveal a small, sparse but tidy room, completely empty of Miss Whitely's person. The bed was too neatly made to have been slept in this night.

  At least she was not harmed—or not apparently so. But if she was not in her room, where else might she be? Her aunt and uncle had been drugged at the dinner table, and she had probably been taken at the same time. Surely all this meant his instincts had been completely right. It had to be Orefados. She was in grave danger.