Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  “Oh, damn the man. Why on earth is he—” whispered Rowena as she pulled her smock off; she gave Ragoczy an apologetic look. “It’s Rupert.”

  “Where is she?” The voice below was loud. “Rowena Pearce-Manning!”

  “I had better go deal with him,” she said, resignation making her look weighted down; she sighed and hung her smock over the newel post at the top of the bannister. “I will be back in a few minutes.”

  “Would you like me to come with you?” Ragoczy offered, his dark eyes revealing his concern for her. He would be able to send Rupert away quite handily, but knew that Rowena would dislike him doing it.

  “No; he would only want to make an issue of your presence, and would linger.” She ducked her head and started down the stairs.

  Ragoczy waited at the top of the flight, listening intently. Much as he wanted to attend to Rupert himself, he knew that Rowena would not forgive him for interfering in her life. She had made it unques-

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  tionably clear that she did not want him as anything more than her subject and lover; he was not permitted access to more than a very narrow part of her life. He sighed once, and remained where he was.

  “What are you doing at my house?” Rowena demanded coolly as she faced her determined suitor.

  “Do I need an invitation?” he countered; it was a foolish tactical error.

  “Yes, you most certainly do. And I do not recall issuing one to you. You are not here through any wish of mine.” She shoved past her housekeeper, giving the woman a brief smile to show her irritation was not directed on anyone but Rupert Bowen.

  “For Heavens sake, Rowena,” he said, doing his best to be patient with her. “You cannot still want to remain here and paint, do you?”

  “No, I don’t,” she announced, and went on, dashing any hope he might have had. She motioned to the housekeeper to leave them alone. “I want to go to Paris and Vienna and Rome. Where I will continue to paint.” She tossed her head defiantly. “And neither you nor my father can stop me. Only my grand-father can do that, and I know he will not. Unlike the rest of you, he is proud of my painting.” It would be wonderful to slam the door in his face, she thought, hanging onto the latch to keep from doing it. “No, you may not come in.”

  “I will not leave you,” he told her.

  “Yes, you will. Or must I notify the authorities and have you removed by force? I will do it, Rupert, do not think I won’t. My housekeeper will carry word for me.” She let him consider her words before she went on. “Rupert, understand me: we are not engaged. I am not going to marry you. Go home, Rupert.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said at his most indulgent. “You will not want to live this way for the rest of your life. You probably will not want to live this way for another year. I am not as feckless as you seem to think I am. I will not be persuaded by your odd starts; I know you will remember the values you learned as a child, and when you do, I will be willing to help you reconcile with your father and mother.”

  “How very, very good of you,” said Rowena with heavy sarcasm, adding, “When that matters to me, I will attend to it myself. I am not incompetent.”

  “By then, your reputation may be beyond repair, if you continue to live in this highly irregular manner,” he warned her, leaning hard against the door frame. “At least as long as I am near you, I can answer for your conduct. It should keep those who matter from thinking the worst.” His earnestness served only to fuel her anger.

  “If you don’t mind, I will answer for my conduct. It is my conduct,

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  after all, not yours. I am busy just now. If you will excuse me.” She was getting ready to slam the door when Rupert made one last attempt.

  “You cannot want to have it thought that you have lived an abandoned life.” He was determined to convince her, and his face was set with constrained emotion.

  “If you mean free when you say abandoned, I want nothing more. And nothing less.” She leaned on the door with greater purpose. “Leave me alone, Rupert, do. If you have any regard for me whatsoever.”

  “But you cannot understand what you are doing—” he began, making ready to launch into another series of admonitions.

  “We have discussed this before. There should be no reason to repeat myself, but apparently I must: I do know what I am doing. It is what I have said I was going to do since I was a child. I am not acting on caprice or with the intention of disgracing my family.” She took a long breath. “Difficult as it may be for you to grasp, I am very happy, Rupert. I want to remain that way.”

  He shook his head. “Then at least take down the address of my hotel. I will be there for at least six weeks. If it is necessary, I will remain longer.”

  Rowena’s eyes widened in dismay. “You can’t,” she said, and faltered in her determined efforts to close the door on him.

  “I can, and I am going to,” he vowed. “If you have no regard for your welfare, I do, and I intend to preserve your good name no matter what you do to ruin it.”

  “Rupert, please. Do not bedevil me any longer. Go back to England. Find yourself a wife who is the kind of woman you want and marry her, with my blessing.” She stared at him, as if she could move him with the weight of her eyes.

  “You know I can’t do that,” he chided her. “I have already found that woman.”

  “You certainly can, as soon as you realize I am not the woman you think I am. The sooner you do that, the better it will be for all of us. I am not going to marry you. How often must I tell you?” She gave the door an abrupt push, and had the satisfaction of seeing him stumble back a step. Her eyes hardened as he tried to regain his position. “I want you to stay away from me, Rupert.”

  “I will leave this house now, since you insist,” he said, making an effort to recover his dignity. “But I am going to call again tomorrow, and every day thereafter, until you come to your senses.”

  “I wish you would not,” she said, keeping her voice level and reasonable. “You will do nothing to advance your cause with me if you try

  to wear me down.” Her temper flared again. “You will gain nothing by it but my disgust.”

  He started to protest. “Be grateful that I am not like most men, who would take you at your word and leave you to—”

  She slammed the door, cutting off the last of his words. When she had thrown the bolt into place, she swung around to see her housekeeper standing in the shadow of the parlor door. “Do not admit that man. In fact, do not open the door to him,” she ordered as she started for the stairs once more.

  “I didn’t realize what...” the woman said softly, her English overlaid with Dutch.

  “My dear Yseut, do not fret. You had no way of knowing what sort of overbearing lout Mister Bowen can be.” Rowena did her best to reassure the older woman as she paused on the second step. “I am aware that your duties require you to receive callers. In the case of that man, however, I am instructing you to refuse him entrance to the house, and to deny me to him whenever he is so inopportune as to call here.”

  “As you wish, Miss Saxon,” said Yseut, looking relieved.

  When Rowena reached her studio again, she glared at Ragoczy, her annoyance with Rupert increasing. “Did you hear? You must have done. How dare he? What is he thinking of, badgering me in this unconscionable way?”

  “He thinks you are someone he wants you to be, not the person you are; you are right—that is what he is seeking,” said Ragoczy as gently as he could; he did not move toward her, realizing she did not want comforting but vindication.

  “When have I ever given him the least reason to suppose I would change my mind and marry him?” she went on without truly hearing Ragoczy s words, her voice rising now that she could give free rein to her ire. “What have I done, ever, that made him think he could—” She flung her hands in the air to show her disgust.

  “He does not know you, Rowena. And regrettably, he does not want to know y
ou.” Ragoczy saw her hesitate in her outrage; he kept on. “He knows his idea of you.”

  Ragoczy s words stopped her. She put her hand to her face, consternation in every lineament of her being. “Dear God. Yes. His idea.” Her demeanor changed, becoming disheartened. “What if he’s right? Is that all any of us ever know of one another—what we suppose the other is? What we hope the other is? What we want the other to be? Is that all we can know?”

  “No, Rowena, it is not,” he said, and something in the deep note of

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  his voice caught her attention and held it. “I know you as you are. In my case, there can be no deception, even if you wished to deceive me.” She stared at him as if seeing him clearly for the first time. “You mean because of the blood?”

  “In part; it is the core of you. The rest is found in what we have together.” He chose his words cautiously. “It is what forges the link between us.”

  “Link?” She frowned, her hands locked fretfully. “I’ve told you before, I will not be held by you, Count, or by any man.”

  “The only one held by it,” he reminded her with a look of such kindness that she wanted to flee from him, “as I’ve told you, is I myself. You will know the bond only if you become one of my blood.”

  “One of your blood. It sounds so . . . theatrical.” She made a gesture to minimize offense. “That isn’t going to happen, is it?”

  “Not yet. When you have knowingly let me love you six times, then—” His smile was sad. “You will have to make arrangements to prevent changing, when you die. Unless you decide you want to live as—” “As a vampire? No,” she said, shaking her head. “And I will not be obligated. I know what you told me, but I will not hold you to it. You need not feel any bond or link or whatever else you wish to call it, with me.”

  “Too late,” he said lightly. “The die was cast the first time I tasted your blood.” He studied her. “I explained then. The damage is done.”

  “I wish I knew if I should believe you,” she said, cocking her head as she began to put Rupert out of her mind. “It seems so . . . absurd, to have one taste of blood—”

  “Which do you disbelieve? that I am bound to you because I truly know you, or that I am a vampire?” He spoke easily enough, but there was a flicker of apprehension in his steady, dark eyes.

  She smiled a little. “I reckon I would be best served to doubt it all, but I cannot bring myself to do it. You are very convincing, but...” As she reached for her smock, she went on, “What sensible person would think that vampires roam the world today?”

  “Seeking whom they would devour? Climbing headfirst down castle walls?” he suggested. “If that was truly our nature, we should not survive long.” He watched her as she tugged her smock back on. “Do you want me to sit again?”

  “Yes, if you would, please. I must take advantage of the light while I can.” She had retrieved her brushes and now reached for her paints. “It changes so quickly.”

  Ragoczy knew it was not the light or her work that lent her urgency,

  Chelsea Quinn Yarhro

  but he complied without any contradiction, aware that she needed time to reassure herself that she had not escaped the fantasies of Rupert Bowen only to fall into a greater delusion provided by Ragoczy. He sat down and resumed the pose she had asked for, saying only, “Will this do?”

  “Yes; thank you.” All her attention was on her work once again, and she went at it with determination, as if the way in which she put oil paint on canvas would somehow convince the world of her dedication to her chosen profession.

  “Would you like me to stay?” he asked when she finally released him from sitting; it was growing late and long, muted-purple shadows angled across the studio.

  She moved into his arms and kissed him, then pulled back almost at once. “You must have things to get ready tonight.”

  “Roger attends to my packing,” said Ragoczy quietly as he touched her face with the backs of his fingers. “But if you would rather be alone you have only to tell me.”

  It took Rowena a few moments to answer. “You’ll think me past praying for, but I am afraid that Rupert has quite taken the—”

  He took her hand in his. “I thought he might have bothered you.”

  Her laughter was brief and apologetic. “I didn’t realize how much he had upset me.” She looked at him. “You did, didn’t you.”

  “Shall we say I sensed something of it?” His one-sided smile was kind, without any condescension or indulgence.

  “From the blood?” Her curiosity was real; Ragoczy s intimacy intrigued and worried her, and never more than now.

  “Among other things,” he said, trying to reassure her.

  “You aren’t angry?” she asked him nervously.

  He did not answer until she looked directly at him; then he spoke quietly and gently, his steady, compelling gaze never wavering. “I wish I could convince you that I want no accommodation from you, only that which is genuine. Anything else would serve no purpose. There is no benefit for either of us if you decide you must sacrifice yourself to indulge me.”

  “But you will be gone for more than a week,” she protested, as much for herself as for him.

  Now his amusement was more apparent. “And you fear I will become a ravening beast, creating mayhem wherever I go? I am no Dracula, or Mister Hyde, for that matter.” He welcomed her slightly guilty chuckle. “Perhaps I might have done so, if this were thirty-six hundred years ago. But it has been a very long time since I made such a . . . disastrous—”

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  She held up her hands in protest. “No. You could not do anything of the sort. Do not joke about it.”

  “Not now,” he agreed somberly. “The provocation would have to be . . . extreme.”

  They parted twenty minutes later at the front door, Rowena glancing nervously out at the narrow street and the canal beyond. “To hell with Rupert Bowen. And I will not excuse my choice of words. I hate the thought of him watching me.”

  “Better him than some others,” Ragoczy said, lifting her hand to kiss it. “I will be back shortly. We will be able to resume our sitting then.”

  “Yes.” Her formality was made awkward with apprehension. “Send me word as soon as you return.” She leaned forward and whispered to him quickly, “I want to kiss you and embrace you.”

  He released her hand, saying very quietly, “I would like that very much. But it might be wiser to wait until we may be private awhile. When I return.”

  “Rupert is out there,” she said fatalistically. “You’re right.”

  Inwardly he hoped that Rupert Bowen was the greatest of her worries, but he said nothing as he bowed formally to her, saying, “Until next week,” and then made his way down her steps carefully, the nearness of the canal making him queasy; he dared not look down into it, for he had accepted long ago that his lack of reflection was more bothersome to him than to others. At least it was after sunset and dusk was wrapping Amsterdam in its darkening folds, the western sky fading upward from gauzy, mist-silver to mauve to purple. As Ragoczy made his way through the streets, he was aware of being watched and was fairly certain that it was not Rupert Bowen who shadowed him.

  Roger was putting the last of Ragoczy s papers into a valise of black Florentine leather when the Count arrived back at his house in Leonardostraat. He indicated the two chests standing near the vestibule, one filled with clothing, the other with Ragoczy s native earth. “We are ready to leave at any time. I will summon the porter, if you like. The station has notified me that your private car has been positioned for the journey to Liege.”

  “Let us wait a short while for that; we have hours before we leave for the station. There is no need to reveal our plans,” Ragoczy advised in Imperial Latin. “I had . . . company on my way back here.” The sternness of his features belied his mild words.

  “German?” Roger suggested in the same language.

 
“Possibly.” He went on a trifle sardonically, “It wasn’t that young fool who is trying to wear Rowena Saxon into being his wife.”

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  “Is he here?” Roger asked in some surprise. “I wouldn’t have thought he would take such a chance.”

  “He is. He presented himself at her house today, claiming to be attempting to save her reputation. He has appointed himself her savior.” His smile was harsh and there was a shine in his eyes that boded ill for Oliver Rupert Dominic Bowen. “The man has got it into his head that all he need do is lecture her sufficiently and she will become the woman of his dreams.” He chuckled. “Of his nightmares, should he succeed.”

  “Why his nightmares?” Roger wondered. He locked the valise and put it with the other luggage. “You are pleased enough with her, and she with you. Why should she be a nightmare for Bowen?”

  “Because the person he wants Rowena Saxon to be is not the woman he has assumed she is. What he has decided about her is all he wishes to know of her. She is far more than he has thought she could be, and of another character than the one he has invented for her; he wants a biddable woman, and that is one of the last traits he will find in her.” He walked over to the waiting chests and rested the tips of his fingers on one of them. “He thinks that Rowena Saxon does not know her own mind, or that she has no grasp of the consequences of her decision to be an artist.”

  “He has no understanding of her, if that is the case,” said Roger bluntly. “I have small acquaintance of her, but I would not have made either of those assumptions.”

  “It is what he wants her to be: capricious and unaware,” said Ragoczy slowly. “He has got his way in most things, and now he is attempting to do the same with her.” He shook his head. “He may never accept that she is not painting as a ploy.”

  “What use would such a ploy be?” Roger shook his head in a show of dismay that only served to baffle Ragoczy as well.

  “I cannot read the man’s mind, not on that point, in any case; I must assume it is all part of his image of her. I was not encouraged to deal with him myself.” He glanced toward the curtained windows. “Whoever is out there, I am fairly certain it is not Bowen.”