Page 38
Which meant she was a woman who interacted with men outside of wedlock. Likely of the demimonde, or perhaps even a widow who didn’t move about in the ton. Which would have made it fairly impossible for Maia to have met her at a Society function. So she must have caught a glimpse of it somewhere else, as she’d previously surmised.
Giving a mental shrug, Maia finished her toast, contemplating this new information. Perhaps Mrs. Throckmullins wasn’t the owner of the ruby hairpin, but at least knew the designer. It was the best lead she had so far, and Maia decided it was worth investigating. She’d have to wait until the afternoon when social calls were made.
Thus, later in the day after a brief practice session in the special, empty room (this time without Iliana) and a bit of lunch, Maia called for Tren and the carriage. Angelica was otherwise engaged with a dress fitting for her wedding, and Mirabella wanted to look for some new lace and so they declined to go with her.
Mindful of Dewhurst’s warning not to go anywhere by herself, she advised Crewston, who arranged for two other footmen to accompany them. Her plan was to call on Mrs. Throckmullins under the guise of returning the hairpin, which would allow her to find out whether it belonged to the woman or whether she merely had one similar. If the latter were true, then she could find out where it had come from and follow on that lead.
And she’d be home in time to get ready for tonight’s dinner party at the Werthingtons’.
Maia opened her eyes.
Where am I?
Confusion and a dark, unfamiliar room made her mind groggy. She tried to sit up and realized her limbs wouldn’t move. An ominous clink indicated the reason why.
What in the world?
Panic trammeled through her and she drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes, ordering herself into calmness. What had happened?
She flipped back in her mind…she remembered riding in the carriage to Mrs. Throckmullins’s home, a room she’d let in a boardinghouse in a respectable area of the City, not far from Bond.
Mrs. Throckmullins was pleased to meet her in the parlor of the house, and Maia introduced herself and explained the purpose of her visit. She remembered giving her the hairpin, and Mrs. Throckmullins pressing her to stay for tea so they could talk about the jewelry. The next thing she knew, the room was wavering and spinning…
And now she was here.
Wherever “here” was.
Maia tried again to move and realized that her wrists were bound to some object and that she was lying on a bed or sofa.
It was difficult to tell, for the room was dim. Whatever was beneath her was soft, however, and the object to which she was tied moved beneath her when she pulled on it. Curtains covered the windows, and a faint gray outline told her that it was late in the evening, but not yet dark. So she’d been here for several hours.
The panic that could have spiraled out of control settled again. If she’d been missing for that long, someone would be looking for her. Angelica and Dewhurst and perhaps even her wayward brother.
Tren and the other footmen would have returned to Blackmont Hall when she didn’t come out of Mrs. Throckmullins’s boardinghouse…if they hadn’t besieged it in the first place, looking for her. And if not, they knew where to search for her.
But Maia became aware of the pungent scent of fish filtering through the air; something she hadn’t noticed in the parlor. So either Mrs. Throckmullins—who was clearly the villain or at least in cahoots with the villain, as Mrs. Radcliffe would describe it—had moved her to a new location, or someone else had.
Either way, that would make it even more difficult for the others to find her.
But on the bright side, perhaps Corvindale was here, as well.
Maia lay there, waiting for her vision to become used to the dim light, listening to every sound around her that might give her more information. She’d read enough Gothic novels to know what a heroine who was in a dangerous situation shouldn’t do, and she was determined to be intelligent about her predicament.
After listening for quite some time—she heard a clock tolling the quarter hour in the distance, and then a second toll—Maia concluded that she was either alone in the house, or whoever was there was either sleeping or very quiet. She also took stock of the room she was in, half pulling herself up on her side with her elbows. Sheets covered chairs and tables, making the chamber appear ghostly.
Her wrists were bound with a chain of large links that were looped around the leg of the chaise on which she reclined. Her bonds were loose and shifted up and down her arm, and Maia tried for some time to slip them over her hands. But her thumbs were in the way, and try as she might, she couldn’t curl them flat enough into her palm to slide free.
Her next effort was to carefully climb off the chaise, taking care to make as little noise as possible in case she was wrong and the building wasn’t deserted, to see if there was a way to unhook the chain.
Excitement bolted through her when she saw that it might be possible. The way the chains were looped and if she could lift the chaise and pull them free…
It took countless efforts, most of them aborted when the chains slid the wrong way as she struggled to lift the chaise with bound wrists and a short length with which to work…but finally, she worked it loose and at last pulled away from the chaise.
Her wrists were still bound, but she was free.
Moments later, she had figured out how to unravel herself and left the chains in a heap on the floor. Maia’s first instinct was to start out of the chamber, but she forced herself to wait and listen for another quarter of an hour.
Her patience was rewarded when the house remained quiet and the gray outline around the windows had disappeared into black. The last thing she did before leaving the chamber was to take up the poker from the fireplace, and also to search for something that could be used as a wooden stake. The only possible article was an umbrella in a corner stand, and she used her foot to break its handle.
Thus armed, she tiptoed to the door and eased it open.
Through the glaze of pain, Dimitri saw the door in front of him ease open.
He closed his eyes, his head tilting back against the chair. Again? So bloody soon?
She’d visited him more than three times in however many hours and days he’d been here. His only measurement had been the light filtering through the curtains, and even that was inaccurate as he went in and out of consciousness. Lerina had opened one of the sets of drapes so that a slice of sun cut over the headrest of his chair close enough to sizzle his hair.
And as a parting gift, she’d taken off her last ruby necklace and hung it around his neck so that it settled against his bare torso.
The pain…
It had finally dulled to something merely excruciating.
How long had he been like this?
He dared not move during the day for fear the sun would fry his skin, keeping his head at an impossible angle, hardly able to breathe in the wake of pain and paralysis. All the while, he was left with only his thoughts, his fears. Dark and ugly, swirling over and over in his mind.
It was because of that mad vortex of fear and anger that he didn’t just allow the sun to burn him. He remained intact, fueled by the desperate knowledge that he must, somehow, escape. He must get to Maia before Moldavi did.
A figure that was not Lerina had moved through the door way and into the chamber. Dimitri’s labored breath caught. This was new. This was—
Maia.
Was he dreaming it? Hallucinating now, his brain turned to mush? He was too weak to even discern her scent.
But no, the glance of moonlight over that amazing bronze-gold hair and elegant nose confirmed his worst fears.
No, no, no! What are you doing here, foolish blasted woman?
He struggled violently, but nothing moved but for the intent, deep inside.
She didn’t see him at first; the r
oom was dim and he was too weak to make a sound. But then she did, for she cried out and rushed to his side, dropping whatever she’d had in her hands.
“My God,” she whispered, suddenly there in front of him, close enough that he could smell her at last.
Such a clean, welcoming perfume after hours of his own blood and sweat mingled with the desperate essence of Lerina. His eyes hooded as he drank in the pure, fresh pleasure.
“What has she— Oh, God. ” Her hands were everywhere, peeling away the blood-soaked shirt that hung from his shoulders, tugging at the rubies that bound him to the chair. When she lifted the necklace that had settled against him he was at last able to draw in a complete breath.
Even once he was loosened from the ruby manacles, Dimitri found he couldn’t move. He sagged in the chair, at once infuriated by his weakness and focusing on gathering up strength again. Trying to lift even a finger was impossible.
She’d taken much blood from him. Much. Too much, and the hours encapsulated in his Asthenia had drained him to little more than a loose pile of skin and bones.
Dimitri tried to speak, and managed only to say, “A…way. ”
He was trying to tell her to take the rubies that she’d tossed to the floor away, far away, but Maia misunderstood. “I’m not going anywhere, you idiot man. Look at you. ” There were tears in her voice, and fear, as well. “You need water. Something. ”
Water was not what he needed.
No indeed.
Dimitri closed his eyes. Now that the incessant pain had ebbed a bit, his body was reawakening in a different way. Warmth stirred deep inside him, flowering into need. Soon, once he recovered his strength, it would be uncontrollable. No. Not now.
Maia—there was no use forcing himself to think of her as Miss Woodmore any longer; that shield was gone—had moved into the shadows and he dimly heard a dull clink. The next thing he knew, she was back, holding a pitcher.
It was a wonder there was any water left in it, after Lerina had dumped it on his head or splashed it in his face numerous times in an effort to awaken him. Perhaps she’d replenished it. Regardless, the cool water had been the highlight of his experience here, and now Maia applied it in a much gentler fashion that made his skin heat and leap.
She’d torn off a piece of sheet that covered a chair and used the wet cloth to mop up the grime and blood from his face. Dimitri closed his eyes, allowing the cool rivulets to trickle down his jaw and neck, concentrating on gathering what little energy he still possessed.
The Vampire Dimitri Page 38
