They started down the steps and the Constable froze, his gaze jumping from Grayson to her. Mary Ellen’s shoulder’s slumped in defeat and Meg could read the despair in her wide eyes.
“Miss James,” the Constable said, his eyes gleaming with triumph. His boots tapped against the marble floor as he rushed across the foyer to meet her. “Where have you been?”
She fluttered her lashes rapidly, praying she looked innocent. “Excuse me?”
“Where have you been this eve?”
“Here, of course,” she replied.
He smirked. “Yes, I see that. Where were you last night?”
“Home,” she said.
“Sometime between last night and now, you must have left.”
“Excuse me?”
“Miss James, answer me truthfully and I will go easy on you. Where is Lady Brockwell?”
Meg tilted her chin, praying to God they could read nothing from her gaze. “Beth? I haven’ the slightest idea.”
His beady, dark eyes narrowed. “That’s how it will be, will it?”
She didn’t respond.
The Constable turned slowly, clasping his claw-like hands behind his back and began to pace in front of her. “I’ve just had word Lady Brockwell is missing. But I have a feeling you knew that.” He stopped in front of her and before she could read his intentions, he reached out and latched onto her arm. She was so shocked, she couldn’t quite contain her gasp. Beside her, Grayson shifted, but he offered no protest or outrage.
“Until you tell me where she is,” the Constable said, jerking her forward, his vile breath brushing across her forehead, “I think it best if you spend some time in the gaol.”
He was trying to frighten her into a confession. It was working.
“You...you can’t do that,” Mary Ellen said, attempting to elbow her way between the Constable and Meg. “You have no warrant.”
“I highly doubt anyone will object. Shall I call the visitors forward, Miss James, to argue your case, or will you go willingly?”
She couldn’t stop her gaze from slipping to Grayson. Had he nothing to say? His face was stoic, but in his eyes she saw his anger, his lividness not at the situation, but toward her. She should have known he would not intervene, but she had thought, perhaps he would at least be a gentleman, at the very least protest her treatment. But apparently he wouldn’t save her. Not Mathew. Not her father. And certainly not this man she’d only known for a short while. Against her wishes, Meg’s lower lip trembled.
The Constable gave her a little shake. “Well, what will it be, the gaol, or shall I call forth your neighbors?”
She would not humiliate her family further. “The gaol,” Meg whispered.
The Constable jerked her forward. Meg didn’t dare look back at Grayson for fear she’d see a smile of satisfaction upon his ruthless face.
Chapter 8
Grayson paced his bed chamber, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The house lay silent, but for the soft thud of his booted feet hitting the carpet. He stilled at the window and gazed out across the dark fields. A soft light twinkled on the horizon. The James’ household.
Were they crying? Praying? Or possibly strategizing how to break Meg from her cell? He released a humorless laugh and entwined his fingers, clasping the back of his head. He could picture them, an old man nearly blind and three young chits trying to break their older sister from the gaol.
His smile fell. Why was the picture not as ridiculous as it sounded? Dear God, surely they wouldn’t try something so mad. He slammed his hands on the window ledge, the wood breaking free and tumbling to the ground. With a sigh of disgust, he turned and paced to the door. Guilt ate at his gut, combined with something else...something more acute, something disgustingly human ... worry. He spun around and went to the fireplace. Flames danced in the earth, mocking, leering and hissing. With an exasperated sigh, he collapsed into the chair.
He’d gladly welcome the nightmares that usually haunted his nights, if the dreams would banish Meg’s face from his mind’s eye. Her startled, blue gaze danced before him, piercing his soul, looking for only God knew what. And when she’d not found what she was looking for, that same face of hers had collapsed into defeat and disappointment. Didn’t she understand? He wasn’t a human to fall for her wiles and charm. He wouldn’t get involved with their lives.
But he’d been so angry, so incredibly anger when he’d found her snooping in his room. She’d betrayed him, betrayed his trust. Even worse, she’d proven to him she wasn’t the innocent he thought. He’d reacted with the worst punishment he could imagine, tossing her into the Constable’s arms. But now, alone, he had to wonder if he was angrier with himself for trusting her, rather than with Meg. Angry with himself for tasting her blood. Angry at himself for needing more of her.
That little nip to her lower lip. Only a spot of crimson blood, but it had been enough to make him addicted like many injured soldiers with opium. He closed his eyes, his body growing hard at the memory. Her blood had tasted as sweet as he’d imagined. The taste had swept through his body, awaking the hungry beast inside, a beast that could not be tamed. If her sister hadn’t arrived when she had… he didn’t want to think about what he would have done. Who the hell was he kidding? He’d sent Meg to the goal to protect her from him.
Grayson leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, staring into the flames. Had she truly believed he would come to her assistance? He’d welcomed her into his home and she’d had the audacity to search his room. Perhaps it was arrogant of him, but he couldn’t deny he was shocked she didn’t trust him. He’d tried to browbeat the answers from her. He’d tried to charm her, but she couldn’t be charmed. Or perhaps, she couldn’t be charmed by him. That thought left a sour taste in his mouth. Had he lost his touch with women? The only thing that seemed to work with Meg was seduction. But when he kissed her, he wasn’t sure who was seducing whom.
He leaned back, slowing rubbing his knuckles over his jaw. How had she done it? How had she helped Lady Brockwell escape? And he knew without a doubt she had helped. He knew in his gut, his every instinct told him the woman had blatantly lied when she’d told the Constable with that innocent face of hers that she had no clue as to where Lady Brockwell hid.
His gaze traveled his bedchamber, empty and cold. Odd to think she’d been here only a few hours ago. He swore he could still sense her, smell her scent, a fragrant flower mixed with the sweetness of ripe apples. Damn her, she’d branded his room with her presence. He’d vowed to stop his insane attraction to the woman, instead, it seemed to get worse every day. Truth was, he was growing to respect her loyalty and that only added to her appeal.
Could a woman who would go to prison for a friend, truly be a murderer? A woman who had spent much of her life helping the poor and nursing the sick back to health? Perhaps she hadn’t murdered Emma. Perhaps Hanna wasn’t his niece. One thing was sure, with Meg in prison, the answers would remain buried.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
“What is it?”
The door opened and Nelson stood there, looking prim and proper even at the late hour. “My lord, there is a woman here. A Lady Millicent Duluth.”
Grayson blinked in surprise. “Millie?” Damn, he forgot he’d invited her to today’s festivities, hoping she could help uncover any information. The woman’s instincts were never wrong. Well, hardly ever. Of course she would arrive at night. She’d always been overly sensitive to the sun.
“Yes, my lord,” the butler said. “I’ve placed her in the parlor.”
Grayson sighed. As if she had an uncanny knack for knowing when he needed her, Millie always appeared at the time he was most confused. He made his way down the steps. Yet once outside the parlor doors, he hesitated. What would he tell her? That he had a sudden fascination with a woman who may have killed Emma and stolen Collette? Taking in a deep breath, he pushed the doors wide.
Millie turned from her position near the fireplace, the fi
relight making her golden hair glisten. A wide smile lit her pale face, her hazel eyes sparkling. She looked so damn vulnerable that one would have a difficult time believing she knew how to kill a person with her bare hands, and had.
“Gray!” She moved forward in a rustle of dark green skirts and wrapped her arms around his neck, her embrace warm, indicating she’d fed within the last fortnight. “How are you?” She leaned back, her French perfume hovering in the air around him. He’d always thought her the epitome of elegance, so why now did he find her perfume overly cloying?
“Fine. Well.” He hadn’t seen her in two years, a blink of an eye in their world, and she hadn’t aged a bit.
She drew back, frowning. “You’re cold and pale. When was the last time you fed?”
“We’re always pale.” He sighed and paced across the room. He hadn’t even thought about feeding since he’d arrived. There were more important things to worry about.
“But you’re more so than normal. What is it? You’re avoiding my gaze.”
He looked directly into her eyes, annoyed with her astute nature, but more annoyed that she could read him. “I’m not avoiding your gaze. Nothing’s wrong, nothing at all.” Merde, he wasn’t even sure what was wrong, how could he explain?
She frowned, and stepped back. “Don’t give me that. You males may get away with playing coy with your fiancés and wives, but not with me.” She settled in a chair near the fireplace and removed her pristine white gloves. Meg rarely wore gloves, yet her hands were long and slim, delicate. Hands that had moved down his back when he’d kissed her, hands he’d dreamt about feeling on his...
“What is it? Have you uncovered information?”
Grayson sighed and raked his hands through his hair. Considering they weren’t related, the woman was rather prying. But she had known him for over a hundred years and deserved the truth. “A lead, a very good lead.”
“But that’s wonderful! Why so melancholy?”
“Because...because...”
Her finely arched brows drew together. “Because you aren’t sure, or because you don’t want the lead to be who he is?”
“She,” he admitted.
Her full lips parted in surprise. “A she? Oh Gray, have you fallen for the suspect? A human?” She said the word human with disgust. To Millie, humans were like cows. To be petted and humored, but when the time was right…to be used as nourishment.
He stiffened. “No, no of course I haven’t fallen. Just because you did, doesn’t mean I would.” Her eyes flashed with pain and he immediately felt contrite. It was a rare show of emotion from the woman. “She…she just doesn’t seem capable, is all and now she’s in the gaol.”
“In prison?” Her unreadable face was back, showing no emotion.
He paced the room, a warm, comfortable room with a roaring fire. Was Meg cold? Most likely. Humans couldn’t take the chill weather for long. He doubted the Constable provided blankets and if he did, they’d be invested with lice and fleas. “For murder.”
She stiffened. “For murder?”
He waved his hand through the air, dismissing her comment. “Yes, yes, but not Emma’s, another.”
Millie stood, smoothing down her skirts. “Gray, the woman is a suspect of two murders, yet you don’t think she is capable? One, I could understand, but two?”
“I know, I know. It’s just that, well, she’s the daughter of a Vicar. For all intents and purposes, supposed to be a good girl.”
Her face grew soft and she tilted her head to the side. “Oh Grayson, you know as well as I what a human can hide.”
“I know,” he said, stopping next to the windows and staring out into the black night.
“Humans are complicated, they like to hide things. They’re not like us…accepting, open, honest.”
Honest and accepting with each other, perhaps, but not with humans. But they kept their secrets for a reason; humans would never understand. He barely heard her words, lost in his own thoughts. Was Meg frightened? Merde! He didn’t bloody well care. He slammed his fist into the wall, the plaster cracking.
“Well, that’s settled then,” Millie drawled out, coming to stand next to him. She rested her hand on his upper arm. “I’m worried about you.”
He laughed, a forced joviality he did not feel. “Why?”
“When are you going to accept the fact that your father is right? You’re not a monster Gray. If you want to have a normal life, you can. If you want to marry a human, then do it.” She shrugged. “Although I don’t know why you’d bother.”
But she was wrong. So wrong. They could never have a normal life, they couldn’t interact with Humans. Humans were weak, complicated. They’d be destroyed so easily. A woman like Meg wouldn’t last in his life. He’d do better to be like Millie and think of humans as food…if only he could.
“Yes, because my sister had such a normal life,” he couldn’t help but murmur.
Her school marm face was back in place. “We have no idea what happened to Emma, Gray. You can’t base your life on what happened to her.”
“You don’t think it odd that she should be murdered only four years after my parents? Murdered when it’s supposed to be near impossible to kill our kind? You don’t think it odd that so many of our kind are disappearing? Until I know what happened, I can’t possibly have any sort of normalcy, no matter how much I wish it.”
Millie sighed and walked away from him, pausing near the fireplace, although the flames would give her no heat. Nothing but feeding could warm their bodies. “I sensed two of our kind when we entered town.”
He stiffened. Blood suckers? In this small town? But why? They tended to stay near cities where they’d draw less notice. “They’ll find no one here and move on.” He hoped they were not stupid enough to feed off of a townsperson. The uproar would be immediate. The fear would cause panic.
He hadn’t sensed them when he’d arrived, but perhaps he’d been too focused on finding Collette. More likely too focused on Meg. Had he missed something? Had Lord Brockwell’s death been more than human?
Millie drew her fingers along the top of the mantel. “Yes, they’ll move on, but they might feed first.”
Annoyed, Grayson crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you getting at?”
She faced him, her head tilted to the side in an innocent manner. He didn’t fall for it in the least. “They feed on those who will bring the least notice. When drunkards and prostitutes aren’t available, where do vampires find their food?”
Realization hit like a punch to the gut. “The gaols,” he whispered.
******************************************************
A crisp breeze brushed through the small window, ruffling Meg’s skirt and sending shivers over her skin like the caress of a ghostly prisoner. She sniffled and drew her knees closer to her body. The plank bed creaked with the movement and she wondered if it would break from the stone wall from which it was chained. Dear God, she could not sit on the floor, would not sit on the floor.
Resting her forehead on her knees she bit her lower lip, that same lip Grayson had nipped the other day. There was no injury, no indication of what he’d done. But she remembered all the same. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could keep the tears from falling. Damn Grayson Bellamont! He could have stopped this nonsense; he could have reasoned with the Constable, instead, he’d stood by doing nothing. He probably took glee in the fact that she’d been detained.
“Miserable, wretched man!” She sniffed, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes to keep the tears from falling. It didn’t help, nothing helped. For the first time in years, she gave into her misery.
A squeak interrupted her quiet sobs. Meg stiffened, her eyes wide as she gazed around the dark enclosure. The shuffle of tiny feet scampered across the stone floor. Meg’s skin crawled.
“Oh dear God,” she whispered, drawing her legs tighter to her chest. She couldn’t take much more. They might have been poor, but their home had always been cl
ean.
She held her breath, waiting for the rats to attack, to claw at her face and skin, to become their next meal. There was another squeak, a scamper of tiny nails fading and then silence. Instead of relief, she felt oddly bereft. Alone. She almost wished the mouse would return. Back home, she’d prayed for peace and quiet, now she wanted nothing more than to hear the annoying chatter of her family.
Her stomach rumbled, and she pressed her hand to her abdomen. Her mind went automatically to food. Why hadn’t she spent her time eating at the gathering, rather than doing something as pointless as searching Bellamont’s room? Now it was too late and she’d probably starve to death and it was all Grayson’s fault.
A soft murmur of voices rumbled down the corridor. Meg jumped to the ground. The quick movement sent the blood straight to her feet and she swerved, unused to standing. Frantic for information, she stumbled forward and clutched at the bars at the front of her cell, peering down that dark corridor.
In the deep recesses of her mind she was sure they were coming to hang her. The urge to curl into a ball and hide in the corner overwhelmed her. Rationally she knew there was nowhere to hide. No, what she needed was answers. Perhaps somehow her family had found a way to gain her release. Or perhaps Vicar Young had heard and was demanding her…
A tall, thin shadow morphed from the darkness, an unfamiliar human form. His boots thumped against the stone floor beating in time to her heart. He held no lantern and Meg was left to wonder over the man’s identity. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her waist and stepped back until her shoulder blades hit the cold, stone wall of her tiny cell. Condensation soaked through her back, chilling her skin, yet she didn’t dare move. Something was wrong…so terribly wrong.
“I smell something good,” the man’s words sounded harsh in the silent prison.
A deep chuckle rumbled from behind him. Another man? Two men? Meg narrowed her eyes, attempting to decipher their faces from the darkness. This was no rescue party. Her hands fisted, her fear escalating.