Theodora is right.
Her throat tightened, and she squeezed her eyes shut to hold the tears inside her lids. Whether Theodora spoke the truth or not made no difference in the way of things. Was she expected to set aside all duty and live only for herself and her own pleasure? Did Theo think that was a better way to earn the right to be loved?
But was that not her accusation…that you believe love must be earned?
Cordelia rocked back and forth, her thoughts writhing like a mouse caught in a trap. If she were to go to Donal now and tell him of Theodora’s assertions, would he agree? Would he claim that she regarded love as no more than a martyr’s reward? Oh, God. Would he pity her?
Far, far better that she never see him again than to think that she had made herself so ridiculous in his eyes. That she could have been so dreadfully, horribly wrong about human nature.
“And if he can love you without depending upon you for his very existence, then all your self-denial is for naught….”
Cordelia sprang up just as she heard a distant, high-pitched barking from the direction of the wood. She recognized fear in the spaniel’s voice, and her first thought was of Ivy.
She was halfway back to the house when Donal stepped into her path.
“Cordelia,” he said. “You must go into the house at once, and advise your family and the servants to remain inside.”
The urgency in his words chased the self-consciousness from her heart. “What is wrong?” she demanded. “Why is Reggie barking?”
He took her arm and marched her toward the door. “The animals have escaped.”
“What?”
“Someone unlocked the menagerie doors. The wolves, the apes, Arjuna, Othello…all of them are gone.”
The blood drained from Cordelia’s face. “How is this possible? You and I have the only keys—”
“Nonetheless, it has happened. There is no sign that they were stolen, only let loose.” He shook his head, but his eyes burned with rage. “Arjuna isn’t likely to go far, and the animals will be more frightened than anything else, but there’s a full moon out tonight. It won’t be long before some farmer or villager catches sight of one of them and raises the alarm.”
“I don’t believe any of them would hurt a human being.”
“Perhaps not, but men will certainly not hesitate to injure or kill them to protect their livestock and families.”
“Then we must find them immediately.”
“Not we, Cordelia. They are my responsibility. I want you safe inside.”
Cordelia pulled her arm from his grip. “They are and have always have been my responsibility, and I shall help you bring them in.”
“Attending the dog fight was one thing, Cordelia,” he said, “but this is quite another.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “You may try to stop me, Dr. Fleming. You may even succeed, temporarily. But I will not neglect my duty.”
“You’ll only get in my way.”
“And you are only one man. There will most assuredly be panic if I alert the groundskeepers and grooms, but you cannot do this alone.”
He hesitated, staring into her eyes. “What if you’re wrong, Cordelia? What if they are dangerous?”
The fluttering sickness returned to Cordelia’s stomach. “I will not believe it. I have cared for them. They know me. I will not be harmed.”
She turned and strode into the house, calling for Croome. After she had informed him to instruct the other servants and carry the message to Dr. Brown and Theodora, she stripped out of her dress and pulled on a boy’s shirt and trousers similar to those she had worn to the dog fight.
Donal was still waiting for her outside. He broke off his furious pacing and thrust something into her hand. “Do you know how to use this?”
She stared in surprise at the shotgun. “Where did you get this?”
“I borrowed it from Mr. Perkins, without explaining my real reason for the request.”
Cordelia almost dropped the shotgun. “I know how to use it, but I detest such things. I would rather—”
“You will carry it at all times, and you will defend yourself.”
“I will not kill.”
Donal grabbed the barrel of the gun and pushed it against her chest. “Take it, or I’ll lock you in your room myself.”
“And how will you defend yourself?”
“The animals won’t harm me.”
“You are so certain.”
“In this, yes.” He lifted his head as if to smell the air. “There’s no more time to lose. Come. Stay close.”
He set off, following some inner sense with a sureness that made him seem as much a beast as the creatures they hunted. They entered the woods, which looked not at all like the ordinary place Cordelia knew by day but had somehow been transformed into an alien, magical world. Cordelia felt no fear. She was lulled by Donal’s unquestioning competence, so caught up in the night’s peculiar spell of unreality that she didn’t realize she’d fallen behind until she heard the warning cough from the shrubbery at the edge of a small clearing.
The panther moved with absolute silence, his belly to the ground, his tail lashing his flanks as he glared at her from hot yellow eyes. Cordelia froze.
“Othello,” she said softly.
The animal’s tail stilled. He lifted his lips to expose dagger teeth. There was no friendliness in his manner.
“Easy, boy,” she whispered, swallowing her foolish fear. This was a creature she knew, who knew her. He must recognize her as one who wished him only the best.
But he showed no sign of acknowledging her good will. To the contrary, he sank even lower to the ground, rumbling deep in his throat, and his eyes looked upon her as if she were an enemy. An enemy who had done him irreparable harm.
“Would you reason with them, Cordelia?” Donal had asked her. “Do you expect them to think as men do?”
He had implied that her animals were impossible to understand, but she didn’t believe it. Donal’s view of the world had been distorted by his own bitter prejudice. Othello was an intelligent being, not a mindless assemblage of flesh and bone. He owed her his very existence. He would not attack her. She would wager her life on that conviction.
“It is all right, my friend,” she said, moving to lay the gun down. “You will see. When this is over—”
But she never completed the sentence, for Othello chose that very moment to spring.
Thunder boomed in the clearing, the wordless cry of a man’s voice shaking the ground beneath Cordelia’s feet. Othello twisted in midair and brushed by her, his claws raking empty air. In a heartbeat Donal stood between woman and cat.
“No,” he said, half breathless with fear and anger. He thrust out his hand, fingers spread, and Othello cringed, ears flat to his broad skull. He snarled and lashed out with one paw, claws extended.
“No,” Donal repeated. He took a step toward the leopard, who backed away, shaking his head from side to side. Donal swayed, and for a moment Cordelia feared he would fall. She reached for him just as he turned to her, his gaze terrible in its passion.
“You fool,” he said. “He would have killed you.”
Cordelia found her voice, harsh and rough as a raven’s croak. “You’re wrong. He would never—”
Donal’s arms closed about her, stopping the words in her throat. The pounding of his heart carried into her own body, impressing upon her the terror he felt for her, forcing her to understand that her danger had been real.
“You fool,” he repeated. “You little fool. I told you…I tried to make you understand—”
“Donal. Donal, my dear.” She pressed her face to his waistcoat, smelling the maleness of him, the wonderful scent she had missed so dreadfully in her self-imposed isolation. It was impossible to feel fear in his arms, impossible to feel anything but joy, and astonishing hope….
He pushed her away before she was ready, and she made a low cry of protest. But he took her face between his hands, holding her st
ill with the sheer power of his gaze.
“Do you know what happened, Cordelia?” he asked.
“Of course. Othello was half out of his mind with terror and confusion. He—”
“Yes, he was frightened. But it was more than that. It was the very thing I was afraid would happen if you met with him or any of the others.”
“I do not understand you. He did not hurt—”
“But he would have. He would have torn your flesh without a second thought. I know.” He drew in a deep breath. “I feel what he felt. He hated you, Cordelia…as you hate him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DONAL SAW THAT CORDELIA heard only part of what he had said, and that part she refused to believe.
“Hate him?” she repeated, her face pale with shock. “How can you say such a thing?” She wrenched free, ripping at his heart with claws sharper than any cat ever possessed. “I have cared for him, fed him, given him the finest shelter—”
“And you have resented him every moment since you saved him.”
She stared at him as if at a stranger. “Why, Donal? Why should you say something so designed to wound me, when you know…know that I have done everything within my power to help creatures such as Othello?”
Donal closed his eyes, despising himself for what he was about to do. He seized Cordelia’s shoulder and swung her about to face the panther, who lay panting on his side, ears flattened to his skull in wary submission.
“Do you wish to understand what such a creature truly feels?” he demanded.
She stared at the panther. “We have played this game twice before. You showed me—”
“I showed you only a shadow of the truth,” he said harshly. “Do you wish to see what he sees when he looks at you?”
She trembled. “If it were possible…of course, I would give anything—”
He dragged her against him, enfolding her in his arms so that she would not fall. “Look, then,” he said. “Look through a panther’s eyes.”
And he opened himself to Othello, to the leopard’s memories, to the moment of his meeting with the human female who had imprisoned him with her hatred. Hatred of him, of herself, of the freedom she had lost and would never have again. Hatred that made of Cordelia a demon, a deadly foe who aroused an unspeakable terror in the breast of a hunter who understood only one law: kill or be killed.
Cordelia gave a soundless cry and slumped in Donal’s hold. He commanded the panther to stay, lifted her in his arms and strode for the house, shaking with self-contempt. He had been compelled to make her see, or she would never agree to remain safe in the house. And he would not risk her life again. Not when he had nearly lost control.
Croome and Theodora met Donal in the entrance hall. For the first time since he had met her, Theodora appeared on the verge of a swoon. But she took herself in hand and faced Donal with icy composure.
“Is she hurt?” she asked.
“No. She has only fainted, but she should be put to bed and remain there as long as she feels unwell.”
“I shall see to it.” She studied Donal’s face. “You are going back out alone?”
“I must. No one else is safe with the animals.”
“Safe from them, or for them?”
“Both.” He carried Cordelia up the stairs and laid her in her bed. Indifferent to who observed or what anyone might think, he knelt beside her, stroked the damp hair away from her face and kissed her forehead.
He left quickly, before he could obey the dangerous impulse to remain by Cordelia’s side. Once he was alone again, he could finally face the horror of that first instant when he had stared into Othello’s eyes and heard…nothing. Felt nothing. Knew that his connection to the beast had dried up like a river in a terrible drought, leaving him thirsting and weak and helpless.
And all because of Cordelia. Because, when he had realized her peril, he had finally recognized the depths of his feelings for her…understood that he could no longer escape what had become the one abiding certainty in his unpredictable existence.
When Othello had leaped at Cordelia, the full weight of Donal’s love for her had struck him so fast and hard that he had scarcely had the power to quiet the panther’s fury. He had reached for Othello’s mind, for the sturdy web of union that had always come so naturally, and found it spun out to a weak and fragile thread. He heard nothing: not the sleeping birds in the trees, not the mice in the grass nor the horses and cats in the stables.
Othello had nearly defeated him. Love had stolen his power, just as Tod had always foretold; it had made him no more than a common mortal, blind and deaf, cut off from the vital gift he had never believed he could lose again.
His love had nearly cost Cordelia her life. But with the sheer force of his will he had reclaimed his power for a few brief minutes, subdued the panther, made Cordelia see through Othello’s eyes. Now, as he ran into the shadowed woods, he listened again for animal minds, aware that he hung on to his Fane-born gifts by the merest breath. But the voices were faint, so terribly faint that he understood how close he was to losing them forever.
He looked for Othello where he had left him, but the panther was gone. Driven by fear for both the menagerie inmates and the local farmers, Donal cast about for any sign of the missing beasts. The first one he sensed was Arjuna. He followed the slender cord that still connected him to the animals and discovered the sun bear snuffling in a copse of beech down by the river.
The bear was more bewildered than rebellious. He stared at Donal, uncomprehending as Donal tried to reach his mind. But Donal heard just enough of Arjuna’s thoughts to know that the bear had no desire to face this alien world. In the end he was able to approach the animal and lead him back to the menagerie with little more than his trained veterinarian’s skill.
Heloise and Abelard proved more difficult. They had not wandered far and were still in the park, scampering among the trees. They were like unruly children, eager to make the most of their freedom.
Donal stood beneath the trees and called to the apes with all the focus he could muster. He felt his thoughts bounce into nothingness. The woods wore their silence like a shroud.
Struggling with the beginnings of despair, Donal fought to clear his mind of all doubt and fear. He stood unmoving beneath the trees. The night closed in around him. And he waited.
A small, clever hand patted his sleeve. Another tugged at his coat. He opened his eyes to find the apes beside him, staring up into his face with solemn curiosity.
Somehow he made them understand, though he wasn’t sure if they followed him because they heard his inner voice or because they had learned to trust him. They returned to their cage and gazed out at him mournfully, captive and safe once more.
He found the wolves by the sound of their howls echoing across the wolds. By the time he caught up to them they had already crossed Edgecott lands and had ventured into the fields of a neighboring farmer. The bleats of frightened sheep rose from the pasture.
Donal ran, praying that enough of his gift remained to guide him. He stumbled into the farmyard on unsteady feet. A single lantern lit the tableau of a farmer facing a wolf, his hands clutching an ancient Brown Bess. He looked up as Donal came to a stop.
“Don’t fire,” Donal said. “Please.”
The farmer shifted his grip on the rifle, his face white as chalk. “My sheep,” he croaked.
“These animals belong to Mrs. Hardcastle, at Edgecott,” Donal said quickly. “Let me capture them and take them back.”
The farmer’s throat worked. “How…how can you…”
“Let me try. If I fail, you still have the gun.”
Licking his lips, the farmer nodded. Donal approached the wolf with great care, crouching low. The animal turned to face him, growled with hackles raised, and spun away.
Donal followed, clinging to the traces of awareness that had not yet deserted him. Grass whipped about his boots. His breath sawed in his throat. He climbed the wold, straining to hear beyond the pounding
of his heart.
The wolves had come to rest on a cluster of rocks overlooking the pasture, moonlight gleaming on their silver coats. They stared at Donal, contemptuous of the two-legs who thought to run them down.
Donal fell to his knees. He could never compete with the wolves in either strength or speed; their even, steady pace could carry them many miles away in a matter of hours.
You will die, he told them. The two-legs will kill you. Come with me.
Ears twitched and tongues lolled, but the wolves gave no answer. He knew that the deepest part of their natures commanded them to pursue freedom at any price. Donal’s only hope was to seek that most fundamental instinct and counter it.
As he done before when Othello had threatened Cordelia, Donal reached inside himself for the flickering light of his power. It came back to him with aching slowness, with pain that seemed to tear at muscle and bone like barbed iron hooks. He let the pain consume him, and out of the agony he gathered the fragile fragments of his gift.
With a groan he plunged into the wolves’ memories, those he had shared each time he entered their shelter, and deliberately shed his humanity as a snake sheds its outgrown skin. The world changed before his eyes. He sat back on his haunches, raised his head and howled.
The wolves raised their heads. They leaped from the rocks and came to him, circled him with ears flat and tails held low. The male growled a challenge. Donal answered, green eyes meeting gold. The battle was silent and arduous; blackness whirled in Donal’s head, threatening to pull him under. But he held fast, and when the war of wills was done the wolves ran at his heels all the way back to Edgecott.
Donal dropped onto the bench, his body aching as if he had been beaten to within an inch of his life. The effort to hold on to his power pounded through him like some lethal disease, blurring his vision and scorching his skin. But it was not yet time to rest. He must find Othello.
Heaving himself to his feet, Donal trudged away from the cages. He was certain that Othello had not wandered far from the place he had left him, so he returned to the wood and worked his way outward, examining the terrain with all his senses.
Lord of the Beasts Page 36
