As Vital as Blood (Victorian Vampires Book 1)

by Amanda DeWees

  Chapter II

  The lantern was held by a woman, a solid shape dressed in the traditional costume with a kerchief over her hair. The coachman opened the door of the coach and Michael stepped down, observing as much as she could of the building before her, whose size and shape she could only infer from the sight of so many stars blotted out, for the woman’s lantern was the only source of light besides the moon, now cloaked in cloud.

  She addressed Michael in what sounded like a hostile tone, but since her words were incomprehensible, that was only a guess. The coachman’s voice floated into the darkness, perhaps explaining, but the woman made a dismissive gesture.

  Michael knew she had to take the initiative. “I am expected by Baron Dalca,” she said clearly, approaching the steps to the door.

  The woman set the lantern down and folded her arms. “Not Cargrave,” she said, sounding so much like the coachman that Michael had to wonder if they were related.

  She held the letter before her as she started up the stair. “The baron sent for me. This is his signature, do you see?”

  Glaring, the woman stood firm. She showed no signs of making way for Michael to enter.

  “Please, just let me speak to the baron. I can explain it to him.” At least, she hoped she could. “Will you take me to see him?”

  Then a man stepped into the doorframe, putting the woman aside, and she fell silent.

  She could tell little about him as he stood silhouetted against the lantern light, a figure all of shadow. He was tall, and since she had not reached the top of the stairs his height was exaggerated further, giving him all the more authority. Though his eyes were cast in shadow since the lantern light did not reach them, she knew he was watching her, and now he held one hand up to halt her. Even in darkness she could see how pale his hand was—pale and long and slender, a true aristocrat’s hand.

  “You are not Michael Cargrave,” he said, and the deep voice was cold.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord baron, but I am,” she said, speaking quickly for fear he would step back inside and close the door against her. “My full name is Michael Catherine Cargrave. My father is the Michael Cargrave to whom you wrote, but I have come in his place.”

  “Why?” The voice was still wary. “Why has he not come himself?”

  “He—he has died.” She paused, partly to collect herself and partly to give him the opportunity to offer condolences, but he remained silent. Nonplussed, she went on. “In your letter you said that you wanted to hire him to catalogue your library and prepare it to be shipped to your new home in England. I can do that for you—if you will have me.”

  Still he said nothing, but at least he wasn’t objecting. Somewhat heartened, she continued. “My father trained me in his profession. I worked closely with him in all matters connected to research, collecting, cataloguing, and archiving. Next to him, I am the person best equipped to carry out this task for you.”

  The man in the doorway rubbed his hand over his bearded chin. She was beginning to see him better as her eyes adjusted, and he was so fair that his face and hands almost glowed in the dim light. “I deduce that your father’s death left you in desperate straits, or you would not have traveled to such a wild and lonely place as this and gambled your future on a technicality of nomenclature—not even if you are as passionate about your work as your father was reputed to be.”

  There was a slight accent to his words, and that foreign quality gave them a menacing tone that she told herself was unintended. His mastery of English, even to the point of employing sarcasm, told her that this was not a man she could hope to deceive or wheedle.

  “Yes, sir,” she said simply. “I am indeed desperate.”

  For a moment that lasted an eternity he was still and silent. She could only guess whether he was searching her face for signs of her character or assessing the marks of genteel poverty in her clothing. Or perhaps he was weighing the wisdom of permitting a potentially mad foreign woman into his home on such a pretext.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was still guarded, but the lash of sarcasm was gone.

  “I see,” he said. “You had better come in, then, Miss Cargrave, and we shall talk more about the matter. Whether I am to hire you or no, you cannot spend the night on my doorstep.”

  She realized she had been holding her breath and released it in a gust. The tension in her shoulders eased. “Indeed, I would rather not,” she said, hardly knowing what she was saying in her relief. “Not with women going missing as they are.”

  His posture did not change, but she sensed a sharpening of his interest. “Are they?”

  “So I am told. One, at least.” She mounted the last few steps, clutching her satchel as if it were a shield, and he stood aside to make way for her. Although she was tall for a woman, he was considerably taller than she, and she suspected that her attempt to look up into his eyes to gauge his mood was conspicuous. It gained her nothing, in any case, for his face was still in shadow as he drew the door closed behind them. It was a massive affair with iron bands, and the sound of its closing echoed down the stone passage Michael found herself standing in.

  The woman, who had been silent ever since her master had appeared, went ahead with the lantern, and when the baron indicated that she should precede him, Michael hurried lest she fall too far behind the friendly pool of light.

  They arrived at a set of double doors, and the serving woman opened one with a long creak. Michael could not help staring at what lay beyond. This must be the great hall of the castle, with its ceiling lost in shadow despite the blazing fire burning on the hearth. The cold of the stone floor seeped through the soles of her shoes, and she made her way to the hearth as swiftly as she could without seeming undignified. As she stripped off her gloves and warmed her hands, as well as the rest of herself, she took in the room.

  There was a great deal to take in. High narrow windows would surely offer the illumination of sunlight during the day, but now the main source of light was the fire, which was laid on so massive a hearth that one might have roasted a whole ox upon it. Faint movements in the shadows overhead might have been banners or tapestries stirring in currents of air. A long table before the hearth was set at the near end with a single plate and goblet, and an armchair carved in a dark wood and upholstered in faded red fabric was drawn up to it. Dinner for the baron? Or for the expected guest?

  She was delaying looking at the baron himself because, coward-like, she wanted to postpone as long as possible the certain knowledge of what this man was like. So much depended upon his character—whether he was stupid and arrogant, sly and deceptive, kind but weak, or, best of all, and what she hardly dared to hope for, both intelligent and honorable. There were men who would take full advantage of a young woman without a protector depositing herself upon their doorstep, and still more who assumed women were all foolish creatures and refused to take them seriously, and as she turned to regard her host she hoped fervently that he would not be one of these.

  Back in England and over the course of her journey, she had been so preoccupied with what the baron’s temperament and moral character would be like that she had scarcely given a thought to his appearance. Certainly she had never anticipated that he would be so young and so…well…beautiful, came the involuntary thought, but that was not the right word for someone so masculine.

  Vasile, Baron Dalca, was dressed like an English gentleman in a well-tailored dark blue frock coat and gray trousers, but rich velvets and brocade would have suited him better. She thought of princes of the Renaissance, of Tudor lords in doublets. He had dark, wavy hair and a short beard sculpted close to his face, summoning thoughts of the Borgias—though she hoped he shared none of that charismatic family’s failings. His eyes were brown flecked with amber beneath bold dark eyebrows, and they held her spellbound in the instant that they met hers. She had a confused sense of a depth of time and emotion like nothing she had encountered before, of an intensity of experience. Far too old for a young man’s face,
they were the eyes of a prophet or a sage. Surely Baron Dalca could not be much past thirty, yet his eyes were generations older.

  Flustered, she broke his gaze and found herself looking at his hands. Slender, fine-boned, they gave him something of the quality of a poet. They were not hands she could imagine doing anything as plebeian as steering a plow. Belatedly remembering her manners, she extended her own hand to shake and forced herself to meet his eyes again. The shock they gave her was nearly as strong as before.

  “Baron Dalca,” she said, doing her best to sound businesslike. “I’m pleased to meet you at last.”

  He made no move to take her hand. Instead he bowed, and her cheeks smarted with the dread that she had offended him with her gesture. “Miss Cargrave,” he said, his accent transforming her name into something intriguing and exotic. “You must be in need of refreshment after your journey.”

  The polite negative died unspoken on her lips when the serving woman entered, carrying a covered dish. From it a savory fragrance wafted toward her, and she realized how hungry she was. The baron gestured toward the single place laid at the table, and she acceded, noting the old-fashioned pewter cutlery and fine linen serviette.

  “Are you not joining me?” she asked.

  Something between a smile and a grimace touched his lips. “I am unfortunate in having a sensitive digestion. My meals are sporadic and unappetizing for others to witness. I shall leave you to your supper and see that a room is made ready for you.”

  The thought of his leaving her without having made a decision was dismaying. “Was a room not already prepared?” she asked, for no better reason than to delay him.

  This time it was definitely a smile, albeit a wry one. “The room that I had prepared for your father would scarcely be appropriate for you, Miss Cargrave.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is scarcely more than a…cubbyhole, is I think the English word for it.” The prosaic word sounded almost poetic in his resonant voice and fluid accent. “Men do not care about such things, but it isn’t fit for a lady.”

  “I’m sure it’s perfectly suitable. I’m not accustomed to luxury.”

  “Nevertheless.” Polite though it was, the word was final. This was not a man who was prone to indecision or easily swayed. She felt the swell of agitation again in her breast. He would send her away. Not tonight, he was too courteous to send a lady out into the darkness, but tomorrow for certain—unless she found a way to win him over.

  “Before you go,” she said, “perhaps you’d like to take a look at what I brought you.” From her leather satchel she drew three books and set them before the baron, willing her hands not to tremble. But she had already confessed to him her desperation; there was little use now in trying to salve her pride.

  In addition to her need for work, she was now aware of an additional spur: the desire for his approval. She had known him less than five minutes, yet she already wanted to see his remarkable eyes look at her with pleasure at something she had done. Why should it matter so much to her?

  Confused, she seated herself, and the woman servant filled her plate with a portion of roast chicken and pungent-smelling sauce. Michael covertly watched her host as he drew up a chair, seated himself, and lined up the three books before him on the table.

  “Malgram’s On the Nature of Superstition,” he said, regarding the first.

  “You requested it in your letter to my father.”

  “I did.” He lifted the cover and examined the first few pages, his long fingers delicate as they touched the fragile paper. “At the risk of seeming ungracious, however, I must point out that I asked for the 1795 edition, and this is the 1815. I assume the earlier edition was unavailable.”

  The serving woman had filled her goblet with wine, and Michael took a sip, glad to find it not very strong. “Not at all,” she said with more confidence. “The 1815 contains the full text of the earlier printing completely intact. It has the advantage over the earlier edition of containing an errata page, as well as additional material in a new appendix, which I thought might pique your interest.”

  One eyebrow arched, and she thought she might have impressed him. “Very considerate,” he said, “if you could be certain that it was the text that interested me, rather than the aesthetic qualities of the earlier printing, or its rarity.”

  She shook her head. This was territory where she felt at home. “The earlier edition is a slapdash affair,” she said. “No one with an eye for a well-made book could prefer it unless he was unaware of the later edition. Besides, from your letter it was clear that you are at least as interested in the contents of a book as in the beauty of its printing and binding. I could also tell that you care little about rarity for its own sake. You want the meat of a book.”

  He regarded her with narrowed eyes. “You seem to have plumbed all my secrets already, Miss Cargrave,” he said. “It is enough to make a man uneasy, this perception on your part.”

  “Only if you have something to hide,” she said thoughtlessly, and regretted it at once. What a rude thing to say. He did not even bother to reply.

  The intentness of his gaze made her confidence waver, and she dropped her eyes to her meal. So much for impressing him.

  Her cheeks were burning, as much from the steadiness with which he looked at her as from the heat of the fire, and she belatedly untied her bonnet and set it aside. She felt at sixes and sevens, completely out of her element. Rosamond would have been right at home at this banquet table, serenely confident that she belonged in such grand surroundings.

  But then, Michael suspected she would not be there long enough to worry about such things. Especially now that she had been so impertinent, he would probably send her away at first light, and she would never see the baron again.

  Chapter III

  The sight of Miss Michael Catherine Cargrave at his door had shaken Vasile more deeply than he wanted to admit. If only he could have prepared himself—but he had never dreamed of finding a woman on his doorstep. He wished she had written to him of her intention so that he could have forbidden her to come.

  He had little enough to do with women as it was. How long had it been since his household had contained any woman other than the stolid, interchangeable servants he hired? There was Bianca, to be sure, but she didn’t count. Now to be faced with this girl…

  The first thing that had struck him, that broke over him like a thunderclap the moment he first saw her in her shabby dress and mourning veil, was how heartbreakingly young she was. She could be scarcely a quarter century old. Her youth was like a vibrant aura wrapped about her so that she almost glowed with it. She was so vulnerable, with her head poised so delicately on her slender neck, her strikingly angled chin borne aloft like a flag flying in defiance. Her body was slender, almost fragile looking except that every supple motion revealed her strength of will. How fiercely she clung to her courage and determination, and how sweetly appealing it made her. She had no idea of her power.

  Even as he looked at her now across the books she had presented to him he could imagine how she would look as an old woman, with the glow vanished from her complexion and dimmed in her gray eyes, her glossy dark upswept hair turned white, her slenderness bowed over in a dowager’s hunch. And she would still be strong and brave and beautiful, with the transparency of her soul shining through. He felt a strange, sudden pang that he would never see her in her old age.

  It was out of the question that she should stay here. How could he possibly keep his secrets around her? It was different with men. The male booksellers and antiquarians he had welcomed under his roof had eyes only for books. Women noticed other things. He had already seen it with her. The penetration with which she observed her surroundings, as if decoding them; the way she looked into his eyes, as if she saw how much he was hiding from her.

  He brought his mind back to the books, for he realized that they were her ambassadors. “This edition of Earle’s Complete Essays is scarce,” he said. “So scarce that I d
id not even think to request it.”

  Looking pleased, she nodded. Her cheeks were flushed, probably not from the fire’s warmth as much as discomfort at this interview, but the color became her. “That was my father’s personal copy. It has his own notes and marginalia.” She hesitated, then added in a softer tone, “I gambled that you wouldn’t be disappointed not to have a pristine copy. My father was a learned man, and to my mind his notes only enhance the book. I thought that you would appreciate his notations.”

  The faintest tremor in her voice told him how difficult it was for her to part from this possession, and he realized that in losing her father she must have lost her closest companion. “Have you no other family?” he asked, and only when she blinked at him in startlement did he realize what a non sequitur it was.

  But she answered anyway, eager as she was to make a positive impression on him. “Only my sister, Rosamond,” she said. “She is a full ten years younger than I, just eighteen. She is the beauty of the family.”

  “It would surprise me greatly if she is more beautiful than you.” The words were out before he could think better of them, and the sudden stiffening of her posture told him how unwise a remark it had been. Inwardly he chided himself. He was so unaccustomed to speaking to ladies, to navigating the careful path of propriety. And for this woman, alone and without any protector in the house of a strange man, he needed to put all the more strict a guard on his tongue.

  Unless he wished to scare her away. That was certainly a solution that was open to him. A cowardly, despicable solution, however, and he flinched away from it.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Out of the world as I am, my conversational skills grow rusty. Where I mean to pay a courtesy, I sometimes blunder and become too personal in my remarks.”

  “Not at all, Baron Dalca.” Polite, but closed off. Her eyes evaded his, and he could not tell whether his words had relaxed her wariness. Best to change the subject. He picked up the third book.

  “A Treatise on the Folklore of the Slavs and Romani,” he read. “I’ve not heard of this. Is it new?”