by Колин Глисон
But that was three years ago…what was wrong with her tonight?
Hadn’t she learned her lesson?
Yet, while she knew part of the reason for her capriciousness was due to perhaps too much champagne punch, there was the fact that she’d been so rigid, so perfectly proper and in control for these past years that it was no wonder it had fizzled behind her cloak of anonymity tonight. If Angelica had any idea what really went on in her thoughts… She hoped that Angelica had had enough sense not to sample the fizzy punch, as well.
Wishing she could take off her mask to relieve the warmth, Maia strolled along the edge of the room in the opposite direction of the knave. She didn’t want to dance again—she wasn’t certain she trusted herself—and did her best to stay out of sight of anyone who might accost her for his partner.
The only person she should want to dance with right now was Alexander—and he was far away. And he’d been gone for so long. She ought to focus on his kisses, and where his warm hands had gone, slipping along the bodice of her gown during one of their late-afternoon rides.
And so that was what she did. Centered her thoughts on that. She would not worry about whether he’d forgotten her—and their interludes in the closed carriage. Or whether he’d changed his mind.
And she certainly would not remember the way the knave’s simple kiss had made her whole body hot and alive. Weak and trembly.
The sight of Angelica with a man wearing a curious square-shaped hat was a welcome distraction, for her sisterly annoyance sprang back to the forefront. Unlike most every one else, the lower half of his face was masked and he looked like some sort of Far Eastern brigand, like one that might have attacked the Crusaders.
Angelica was waltzing, Maia noted, pressing her lips together and resisting the urge to stalk out there and drag her off the floor. That would just draw attention and recognition to both of them. Which, if Angelica was paying any attention to her elder sister’s eagle eye, she would know—and would use to her advantage.
Maia would have a word with her later. Just because Chas wasn’t around to ride herd on them didn’t mean her sister could be so careless. Wondering where Aunt Iliana was, Maia scanned the room and noticed an angel across the way.
The angel looked as if she was having difficulty with her celestial wings, and a quick glance showed still no sign of their chaperone, so Maia tsked and started over to help Mirabella.
“Oh, thank goodness,” the young girl said when she saw Maia. “I’ve lost one of my wings, and the back of my gown caught upon the staff of a shepherd I was dancing with, and I believe it’s been torn.”
Maia only needed a quick glance to see that repair was definitely needed. Delighted with an excuse to leave the ball, as well as yet another distraction from all of her other worries, she took Mirabella’s arm and led her toward the sweeping staircase that led to the third floor of the Sterlinghouse residence. Up there, they would find a tiring room, or at least a private place to set Mirabella to rights.
As they reached the first landing of the stairs, Maia noticed a group of four men, dressed all in black, properly masked, entering through the front door. “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” announced the butler as the quartet moved into the foyer.
She paused for a moment, that uncomfortable prickle of intuition lifting the hair on her arms, and looked down at them. There was something about the four she didn’t like. Something off.
They walked into the foyer as if they knew where they were going—with purpose and speed, and without pausing to greet anyone. Suddenly nervous and not certain why—but she never ignored her instincts—she gripped Mirabella’s arm, silently directing her to climb the stairs more quickly. They were already mostly out of sight from below due to a curve in the staircase, but for some reason, Maia felt compelled to get away before one of them chanced to look up.
Once at the third floor, she felt marginally less unsettled and wondered at her odd reaction to the men. Perhaps it had simply been the fact that their costumes had seemed so men acing. Mirabella hadn’t noticed her haste, and Maia wasn’t about to mention it. Instead she peeked inside one of the rooms, knowing from her previous visits that the Sterlinghouses had several parlors and a library on this stretch of the corridor, and that the ladies’ tiring room was near the end.
The room was empty and a full moon shone through French doors, casting silvery light over several chairs and a table with a decidedly masculine feel. Not one of the ladies’ parlors, but it would do for a moment for her to see to Mirabella’s gown.
Maia didn’t expend much energy trying to find a lamp, for there was one on the desk, turned to a bare glow. She turned it up and was just kneeling behind the angel to see to the back of her gown when the door behind them burst open.
Muffling a shriek of surprise, she bolted to her feet, tangled in the frothy fabric of her gown, and went down in a heap.
When she opened her eyes, a dark figure in a white shirt loomed over her and for a moment she thought it was one of the eerie men who’d caught her attention. But at the same time as she recognized her new guardian’s features, Mirabella exclaimed, “Corvindale!”
“You,” Maia muttered as the earl literally yanked her to her feet, disregarding the fragility of her gown. “What do you mean by—”
But she never finished, for the next thing she knew, strong arms swooped around her and he lifted her bodily from the ground.
Maia was so shocked and horrified that at first she couldn’t speak. She struggled, trying to pull free, and heard Corvindale snap a command at his sister, “Outside. Now, Bella.”
“Put me—” she started, but her own direction was cut off along with her breath when he did just that, fairly tossing her onto one of the chairs. She drew in a furious gasp to lash into him, but suddenly a heavy, dark cloth wafted down over her.
Confused, incensed and more than a little frightened at this sudden, un-earlish wildness, Maia kicked and struggled as he wrapped the covering closely around her. It had the effect of muffling her shouts and dulling her kicking and hitting, and when he tucked it tightly around her, tying it with something she could only imagine was a curtain cord, she began to lose her breath under the thick cloth.
He’s mad! The Earl of Corvindale is mad!
He lifted her again and carried her somewhere…outside. She felt the subtle change in the air through the fabric, and remembered him ordering his sister outside. Through the French doors, onto the balcony, she guessed, based on the short distance. He deposited her none too gently onto some hard surface, and she heard more short, sharp commands to Mirabella.
“Keep her quiet. Stay here behind this planter until Iliana or I come for you. Both of you.” This last was loud enough for her to hear clearly, and she understood that it was intended that way.
She strained her ears, and although she couldn’t hear footsteps, she did distinguish the soft click of what had to be the French doors, closing behind him.
“Are you all right, Maia?”
The soft voice was close, and she felt a little nudge as Mirabella knelt next to her. “Get me out of here,” she snarled, and then inhaled a bit of lint and began to cough inside what must be curtains. Providence knew when the fabric had last been beaten.
“Corvindale said to stay here,” Mirabella said. “I think something’s wrong in there, Maia.”
Gritting her teeth to keep from coughing and launching into an obviously vain tirade, Maia closed her eyes. The chit was so cowed by her brother that not only did she not even call him by his Christian name, but she also blindly followed his every order. “I can’t breathe,” she managed to say, although it wasn’t strictly true. Now that she wasn’t struggling so much, she found that air did make its way through the fabric.
“I’ll try to loosen it,” Mirabella said, and Maia felt her beginning to tug at the fabric. But then she stopped abruptly. “Oh!” Her voice was a shocked whisper. “Someone—no, two men—just came into the— Oh!”
�
�What is it?”
“They’re fighting. In the room. There are two of them attacking—”
“Who is?” Maia demanded, stilling for a moment, straining to hear.
“My heavens.” Mirabella made an odd sound. “They have burning eyes. Red eyes. And they’re attacking the earl!”
Red eyes?
A chill rushed over her. Red eyes? She’d heard about people with red eyes. Demons, and the vampirs of legend. But of course such creatures didn’t exist, despite how real the stories might seem. “It must be part of the masquerade,” she whispered back, trying not to think about the four men in black. “Somehow they have reflective pieces that make their eyes glow.”
But even as she spoke, she remembered Granny Grapes spinning her tales of horror and suspense. She’d made it sound as if vampirs actually existed, and even that she’d encountered them. They were dark, powerful men who’d sold their soul to the devil in exchange for immortality and other superhuman abilities.
They could be killed by a wooden stake to the heart. She remembered that part of the legend because Chas had been unaccountably fascinated, as boys tended to be, by the possibility of blood and violence. He had pressed Granny Grapes over and over for stories about the hunting of the humanlike immortals, counting among his heroes a vampir slayer named Andreas.
The vampirs were sensitive to sunlight, too, and drank blood to live. Human blood.
Maia shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. It was because she remembered the last vestiges of a dream she’d had the night before. A dream that she’d tried to submerge, because it had been dark and hot and red. And there’d been a vampir in it, with his gleaming eyes that scored into her like fire…and his sleek fangs.
The dream had left her breathless and sweaty, her heart racing, and with a sort of expectant throbbing through her body. Even now, remembering the essence of it made her skin flush with heat.
“They’re attacking him!” Mirabella said again, her voice still low. “Two of them. They’re so…fast. Corvindale’s thrown one across the room, but the other is on top of him—”
“Two of them? Do they have guns or weapons?”
“They’re fighting with their hands and—kicking, and throwing things. It’s…amazing,” she whispered. “My brother…he’s so fast, they’re all so fast…but he’s… I can hardly see him move. And…he just lifted that big desk and threw it at one of them,” she said. Her voice was half shocked, half terrified. “Oh! He punched one, and oh! Oh, dear! Oh. There. He’s back up and slammed the other one into the wall, and then he flipped over a sofa and landed on his feet—”
“Who?” Maia demanded again.
“The earl. He’s fighting them off. Both of them. He’s—but he’s bleeding…and there goes a chair on the head and oh!”
The next thing Maia knew, the girl was dragging, or pushing and pulling, her somewhere. “We’ve got to hide. Behind this…potted tree,” she managed, breathless with effort. “They might see us!”
But by then, Mirabella had ceased to pull and tug at her bound body, and Maia got the impression she was no longer near her. Where did she go? Surely she hadn’t left her here alone, bound up like a loaf of bread?
And then…Angelica! Fear seized her, and with a flood of panic she remembered the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the malevolent aura about them. Now she began to struggle anew, but Corvindale had been much too efficient with the curtain cord. She couldn’t loosen it, and Mirabella didn’t seem to be inclined to do much to assist.
“Mirabella?” she said, a bit more loudly now.
A shifting in the air, and then the presence of someone next to her indicated the younger woman’s return. Maia felt her bump against her in haste. “It’s Corvindale! A third man came in, and then something happened—he just stopped. Corvindale just…stopped. He’s down on the ground, or dead, or something!”
“Did they shoot him?” Maia demanded. “Do you see a lot of blood?”
“I didn’t see anything, and surely I would have heard a gunshot.”
“Let me out of here,” Maia said, struggling harder. She had to see. She had to find a way to take care of this. The earl couldn’t be dead. “Do you see any blood?”
“He’s looking around the room—there’s only one man now,” Mirabella hissed, her mouth close to the spot she must assume was Maia’s head, but was really her shoulder. “Another one came in. He just kicked my brother…and he didn’t move. Oh, dear God, I hope he isn’t dead!”
“Unwrap me!” Maia said. Torn between disbelief that the implacable earl could actually be prone—not to mention that he’d allowed himself to be kicked—and the terror of what could be happening to Angelica, she found herself flopping about like a netted fish. Were there really vampirs here?
“No, I’d better not. Not until—oh, the man left. He’s gone. I’m going to wait a minute to make sure he’s gone for good. Then I’ll sneak in and see to the earl.”
Mirabella moved and Maia heard her shifting away, and then, after a long moment, the soft rattle of the French doors. And then a marginally louder rattle, and the gentle bump as Mirabella came back.
“Someone else came in! He nearly saw me. I don’t know who he is, but I thought I should—”
“What about Corvindale? Did you see blood? Did you get in there?”
“He’s not moving, but his eyes seem to be open. And his shirt is all torn, and there is a necklace of rubies across his neck that he wasn’t wearing earlier. It’s very peculiar. But I didn’t get close enough because the door opened and I ran back outside.”
Maia could hear the distress in her friend’s voice, and she supposed she couldn’t blame the girl for running after the door opened again. But how could she have left her brother there? Maia would never have—
Mirabella gasped. “The man is taking the necklace of rubies! Is he a thief—oh! Corvindale!”
And then the sound of the French doors crashing open and heavy footsteps had Maia tensing.
“Are you hurt?” Mirabella was asking, and then suddenly Maia was being scooped up and untangled from her bindings. Unfortunately she recognized the strong, efficient handling of Corvindale as he toted her away once more.
By the time the fabric fell away from her face, and she saw that the earl was, apparently, no worse for wear, he’d deposited her on the floor in the very same room she’d been in some time earlier. It was in shambles.
“Angelica!” was the first thing that came out of her mouth, just as she noticed Lord Dewhurst leaving the chamber. He was carrying a necklace of rubies.
The curtains had fallen in a thick heap around her feet, tangling with her high shoes and the multitude of folds from her gown. She tried to kick it away, frantic to get to her sister, but Corvindale stopped her with a strong grip around her arm. “Take your hands off me,” she snapped. “I have to find Angelica.”
Ignoring her, Corvindale lifted her from the pile of fabric as the door closed behind Dewhurst, and she noticed that his shirt was indeed torn, sagging over his uncovered shoulder, leaving his muscular arms bare. “Dewhurst will see to her,” the earl said.
“Dewhurst?” Maia said, staring at the door. And wasn’t the viscount supposed to be in Romania? “With my sister?”
“I’ll deal with him later,” Corvindale said grimly, grasping her by the arm and towing her toward the door. “Iliana’s waiting in the carriage. You’ve got to get out of here,” he said, and gestured sharply for Mirabella to follow.
“I’m not leaving without my sister,” Maia said, digging in her heels.
The earl’s response was simple, and it infuriated her further: he picked her up bodily and carried her out of the room and down the hall to the servants’ stairs.
The next thing she knew, Maia was shoved into a carriage along with Mirabella and their chaperone. No fewer than three footmen were to accompany them, which gave her a modicum of security. The door closed and clicked locked before she could speak, and the coach started off with a viole
nt lurch.
She could barely catch her breath, she was so incensed. But before she could gather her thoughts to speak, she looked over at her two companions. Mirabella’s eyes were wide in her fair face, her fiery-red hair hanging in straggles around her cheekbones, her red lips parted.
But Aunt Iliana had a more composed, but intense, expression on her face. And for the first time, Maia noticed that the woman was holding a sharp wooden stake.
Maia had just finished opening the parlor drapes at Blackmont Hall again—for someone kept closing them and keeping the rooms so dark and dreary—when she heard the front entrance open. Her heart leaped, and she rushed to the parlor door to see if it was Angelica returning at last. But the low, sharp tones as the new arrival spoke to his butler indicated that it was the earl who had come home.
Determined to at least have some answers from him, she flew from the parlor and met him in the hall.
“Lord Corvindale,” she said, positioning herself in the center of the passageway so that he couldn’t walk to his study—where it appeared he was headed—without brushing past her.
“What is it, Miss Woodmore?” he demanded. His voice was flat and hard, and belied the disheveled, weary man in front of her. He’d either come home and changed into a new shirt (although she was certain he hadn’t been in the house since she returned from the masquerade last night; for she’d been waiting to accost him), or had somehow acquired a different one, for this shirt, though wrinkled and loose, seemed relatively pristine as compared to the one in shreds last night.
But his features were etched even more sharply than usual. His heavy dark brows lowered in a scowl, his mouth in a flat line, his thick, dark hair springing in erratic waves from his head and around his neck. He was well overdue for a shave, as well, she noted with a sniff. His coat was smudged with dirt and his hands were ungloved and one had a line of dried blood on the back of it.
Although Maia had filled her sleepless night by attempting to rest, then read, and then later when neither served to ease her mind, to bathe away the lingering bit of lint and dust from the curtains in which she’d been wrapped, she felt very little sympathy for the man in front of her…despite the fact that he seemed exhausted. Tension emanated from him like heat radiating from a fire, but Maia didn’t care. She needed answers, she needed to prepare, to take care of things and to address this situation—and she’d waited much too long for him. Aunt Iliana, who seemed to know much more than she let on, had merely assured her that they’d received word that Angelica was safe and that Dewhurst would be returning her shortly.
