Midnight Pleasures Page 17

  During the next week, Castle Rayven enjoyed more company that it had known in over four hundred years. Rhianna's mother and sisters came often to help with sewing Rhianna's wedding gown and to plan the wedding dinner.

  It should have been a happy occasion, Rhianna mused. There should have been smiles and laughter as they sat in the solarium working on her gown, but anyone looking at her mother's face would have thought they were preparing for a wake. Ada muttered repeatedly that no good would come from this marriage, that there was something amiss within the castle, that Lord Rayven was not the nobleman he seemed. Rhianna did her best to ignore her mother's dire warnings, though sometimes, when she was alone, she wondered what good could come of marrying a vampyre.

  Her sisters thought it romantic that she was marrying the mysterious dark lord of the castle. They oohed and aahed as she showed them around, marveling at the tapestries that hung on ancient walls, at the huge fireplaces in the main hall, at the heavy swords crossed over the hearth. They ran through the gardens; they were enchanted by the maze.

  Bevins, on the other hand, was enchanted with Rhianna's mother. He made any number of excuses to enter the solarium when Ada was there, pausing in the doorway whenever he passed by, stopping to inquire if they wished refreshments. Ada pretended to be unaware of Bevins's interest, but Rhianna noticed the way her mother's eyes sparkled when Bevins was near, the way her cheeks flushed when their hands accidentally touched.

  Bridgitte was the first to mention it aloud. They were in the solarium, turning the hem on Rhianna's wedding dress, when Bevins entered the room with a tray of tea and biscuits. He served them each in turn, smiled at Ada, and left the room.

  "I think he likes you, Mama," Bridgitte remarked. "He always gives you the biggest biscuit, and his eyes smile when he looks at you."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Ada retorted.

  "It's true." Brenna grinned at her younger sister. "Maybe we'll have a new father soon."

  "Hush, Brenna," Ada admonished.

  "He's nice looking, mama," Lanna added. "And his eyes do smile when he looks at you."

  "Nonsense!"

  "It isn't nonsense, Mama," Rhianna said. "He told me he thought you were a fine-looking woman."

  "When?" Ada asked, her cheeks flaming. "When did he tell you such a thing?"

  "The first time he brought me home."

  Flustered and flattered, Ada bent her head over her sewing so her daughters couldn't see her flushed cheeks. It had been years since a man had looked at her in such a way. More years than she cared to remember. She might have found Bevins's interest flattering if it had been anyone else, but she wanted nothing to do with anyone in Rayven's employ. It was hard enough to stand by and watch her daughter make what Ada thought was the biggest mistake of her life. She jabbed the needle through the material, silently berating her husband. But for Vincent, Rhianna and Rayven would never have met.

  At dusk, Rhianna's mother and sisters took their leave. Rhianna had invited them to stay for dinner each night, but Ada had always refused. She had made any number of excuses, but Rhianna knew the truth, knew that her mother was afraid to be in the castle after dark. There were too many stories of strange goings on at Castle Rayven, too many rumors of ghosts and ghouls prowling the grounds. Each night before she left, Ada made the sign of the cross on Rhianna's brow and admonished her to say her prayers and keep her rosary close at hand.

  Tonight was no different. Rhianna stood at the door, the touch of her mother's calloused thumb lingering on her brow as she watched her mother's carriage drive away.

  With a sigh, Rhianna closed the door and made her way into the dining room. She sat down at her usual place, smiling at Bevins as he set a plate before her.

  Moments later, Rayven entered the room. He kissed her on the forehead, then took his customary seat across from her. A moment later, Bevins placed a decanter and goblet in front of him.

  Rhianna glanced at the decanter, at the dark red liquid that shimmered within the crystal. She looked away as Bevins filled the goblet and handed it to Rayven.

  Sheep's blood and wine. How had he existed on such a thing for over four hundred years?

  She stared at her plate, at the mutton and potatoes and freshly baked bread, and tried to imagine what it would be like if she could never eat solid food again, if she were forced to drink the blood of people or animals to survive.

  She thought of all the things she loved—bread and cheese and chocolate. Sunshine, and grass wet with dew. Swimming in the lake on a hot summer day. Working in the gardens with the sun on her back and the scent of freshly dug earth filling her nostrils. Watching children at play… things forever lost to the man sitting across from her.

  This was how it would be when they were married, she thought. They would never share a meal, or walk hand in hand in the gardens in the morning when the dew sparkled on the ground. She would never know the wonder of motherhood. She would change her life to conform to his. The moon would become her sun, the night her day.

  She was suddenly aware of the silence in the room. She could feel his gaze burning into her. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to meet his eyes.

  Pain. Stark, unrelenting pain. And beneath it all, the loneliness of four hundred years. How did he bear it?

  He said nothing, only stared at her, and she knew that he had divined her every thought, that he had felt her revulsion, her pity. She could feel the rage that bubbled beneath the surface, his anger, his bitterness.

  She felt her heart skip a beat as he lurched to his feet. For a moment, he stared down at her, and then, his cloak whipping around his ankles, he left the room. A moment later, she heard the slam of a door and knew he had left the castle to prowl the gardens, knew that, sooner or later, he would go to the maze. He would sit in the shadow of the wolf and the raven and stare into the darkness that was a part of him. How did anyone survive centuries of darkness?

  She sat there a moment and then, slowly, rose to her feet to follow him.

  "I wouldn't, miss."

  "Bevins, I didn't see you."

  "Let him be, Miss Rhianna."

  "I can't. He's hurting…"

  Bevins nodded. "Aye, miss, but he's used to it long since."

  She stared at Bevins as if seeing him for the first time. "All this time, you've known what he is and never told me." And then a new thought occurred to her. "Are you one, too?"

  Even as she asked the question, she knew it was impossible. "Does he…" She tried to find a way to phrase it delicately, and found none.

  "He has drunk from me in the past, miss, when there was no one and nothing else available."

  "Your loyalty runs very deep."

  "He saved my life, miss. Could I do less?"

  Rhianna glanced at the window. She could see nothing but darkness beyond. Rayven was out there, alone and lonely, and it was her fault. She had driven him away, into the night.

  "I must go to him." She was heading for the door as she spoke. "Is he in the maze?"

  "No, miss."

  "No?" She stopped and turned around. "Has he left the grounds?"

  "No, miss."

  "Bevins!"

  "I'm sorry, Miss Rhianna."

  "Then I'll find him on my own," she exclaimed, and stormed out of the castle.

  Outside, she stood shivering in the darkness. And then, suddenly, she knew where he was.

  It took her twenty minutes to find her way to the gate in the north wall. She was shivering from the cold by then, but she had come too far to go back for a wrap. A chill mist dampened her hair.

  The gate opened on well-oiled hinges, and she closed it carefully behind her. The damp grass muffled her footsteps and soaked her shoes. And then she saw them, a small flock of sheep huddled against a rock. They didn't spare her a glance as she approached. She peered into the darkness, trying to see what held their attention.

  At first she saw nothing, and then she saw a bit of white against the dew-damp grass, and above th
e body of the sheep she saw a pair of eyes. Dark eyes that glittered with an unearthly red glow.

  And then a dark shape rose up from behind the carcass.

  The wolf had black hair. Blood dripped from its fangs. A low growl rumbled deep in its throat, sending a frisson of terror running down her spine.

  Go away! Rayven's voice echoed in her mind. Go!

  Slowly, she took a step backward, and then another, and another until, driven by a nameless horror, she turned and ran for the safety of the castle.

  Bevins was waiting for her at the door. He asked no questions, simply wrapped a warm woolen blanket around her shoulders and led her up to her room. As if she were a child, he helped her out of her clothes and into her nightgown. He brought her a cup of hot tea and sat beside her while she drank it. When the cup was empty, he took it from her hands, then tucked her into bed. Rising, he extinguished all the candles save one, and then, sitting down in the chair beside the bed, Bevins took her hand in his and settled back to wait out the night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rayven stood at the window in the east tower, staring at the sky. He could sense the dawn approaching, feel the deathlike sleep waiting to overtake him, feel the encroaching darkness that would soon envelop him like a shroud.

  He ran his hands over his cloak, felt the material curl more tightly around him, enfolding him like a cocoon spun of silk and velvet.

  Rhianna had seen him in wolf form in the field, his hackles raised, his fangs bared and bloody. The image of her horror, her revulsion, had branded itself in his mind so that he saw it every time he closed his eyes.

  Well, he mused, turning away from the window, that was that. She would not want to marry him now. No doubt she would leave the castle as soon as she woke, and he would not stop her.

  Knowing he would never see her again, he left the tower and made his way to her chamber.

  Bevins rose to his feet as his master stepped into the room.

  "How is she?" Rayven asked.

  "Sleeping peacefully, my lord."

  Rayven nodded. "When she asks to leave here today, I want you to help her pack her things, then take her home, back where she belongs."

  "My lord?"

  "I was a fool to think there could be anything between us."

  "She loves you, my lord, I'm sure of it."

  Rayven shook his head. "She has a tender heart. I fear it is only pity she feels for me, and I cannot live with that. I would not have her marry me because she feels sorry for me, because she's afraid of hurting me." He shook his head again. "It's time to move on. I'm leaving here next week."

  "Leaving?"

  "I've been here too long already. Start packing your things, and mine, too."

  "As you wish, my lord, but…"

  Rayven's head jerked up, his gaze darting toward the window. " 'Tis dawn," he said, his voice tight. "We will discuss it later."

  Bevins sighed as he watched his master leave the room. It was a pity that one so horribly cursed should be denied the one thing he yearned for, the one thing that might bring him happiness. And yet, there had been no happiness for his master or himself. Nor, he mused ruefully, were they likely to find any.

  "I didn't mean to hurt him."

  Bevins whirled around. "I thought you were asleep, miss."

  "I felt his presence and I woke up. Why did he… The wolf, it was him, wasn't it? He told me he could change into a wolf, but I didn't really believe it."

  "Aye, miss, 'tis true enough."

  Rhianna sat up and tucked the covers under her arms. "Why did he do it? Kill that sheep, I mean?"

  "It's his way when what he is becomes too painful to endure. There was a time when he took his anger out on mortals, but he's not killed anyone since I've been with him."

  "I didn't mean to hurt him," Rhianna said again. "I'd forgotten he could read my mind."

  "It's natural for you to be repulsed by what he is."

  "I suppose so."

  "Will you be leaving this morning?"

  "I don't know." She stared out the window. The curtains were open, and she could see the beginning of a new day. The sky was pale blue, splashed with vivid hues of gold and pink and crimson.

  He hadn't seen the sun in over four hundred years…

  "Bevins, I want you to go into town for me. I need some new brushes."

  He woke as he always did, coming instantly awake, his senses reaching out to explore the castle. Bevins was in the kitchen preparing dinner. A stew of some kind, heavily flavored with onions and thyme.

  Was she gone? Sitting up, he probed for her presence. Her life force beckoned him like a candle shining in the darkness. For a moment, he closed his eyes, his relief at knowing she was still there almost painful in its intensity. Perversely, he wondered why she hadn't left when she'd had the chance.

  Rising, he dressed quickly, then hurried down the winding staircase, his passing no more than a blur of movement on the darkened stairway.

  When he reached the bottom landing, he paused and took a deep breath.

  She was in the dining room.

  He took hold of his cloak, rubbing the soft velvet between his thumb and forefinger, wondering how he could face her after last night. She had not yet seen him at his worst, when the blood lust was on him, when his eyes were sunken and burning with need. She had not seen him then, when he looked more monster than man, when his skin was stretched paper thin and the hunger clawed at his vitals, demanding to be fed.

  But what she had seen last night was bad enough. With his emotions raw with hurt and longing, he had taken on the wolf form and killed one of the sheep. He had ripped out the animal's throat, hoping to alleviate his frustration in a burst of violence and bloodshed. Until last night, no one, save Bevins, had ever seen him like that.

  He took a deep breath, chiding himself for his cowardice. He had to face her sometime.

  She looked up as he entered the room. Her smile was forced, and her eyes reflected a myriad of emotions: fear, pity, compassion, anxiety.

  "Good evening, my lord," Bevins said, breaking the heavy silence.

  Rayven nodded curtly, and Bevins left the room. He returned a few moments later bearing a heavy silver decanter and a crystal goblet.

  Rhianna's gaze was drawn to the thick red liquid as Bevins filled the goblet and placed it in front of his master.

  Rayven met Rhianna's gaze as he lifted the glass. Slowly, deliberately, he took a long swallow, savoring the thick, slightly salty taste of the warm liquid.

  Try as she might, Rhianna could not suppress a shudder of revulsion as he drained the goblet, then placed the glass on the table.

  Wordlessly, Bevins lifted the decanter and refilled the goblet.

  Rayven lifted his glass, his gaze capturing Rhianna's as he stared at her over the finely cut crystal. "Why are you still here?" he demanded brusquely.

  "Because I wish to be here, my lord," she replied, her voice barely audible. "Because you need me."

  "I don't need you, or your pity," he said, his voice razor sharp. "I don't need anyone."

  "Don't you?"

  He lifted the goblet and consumed the contents in one long swallow. "Get out," he said brusquely. "Out of my sight. Out of my house!"

  Rhianna stared at him a moment, stunned by the harshness in his voice, by the barely suppressed rage blazing in the ebony depths of his eyes. She didn't stop to wonder if his anger was directed at her or himself. Frightened and confused, she lurched to her feet and ran out of the room.

  The sound of her footsteps flying up the stone stairs echoed like thunder in his ears.

  "What have I done?" he whispered brokenly. "What have I done?"

  "My lord, the wedding is to take place tomorrow night."

  Rayven stared into his empty goblet. A few bright drops of liquid clung to the crystal, reminding him of crimson tears. "I cannot marry her," he said heavily. "I cannot let her marry me."

  "Her family is coming this evening."

  "See that she lea
ves with them."

  "As you wish, my lord."

  Slowly, Rayven rose to his feet and walked to the window. Pushing the heavy drapes aside, he peered into the darkness beyond. Never had the night seemed so dark, so empty.

  "I cannot go on without her." In response to the grief in his voice, his cloak wrapped more tightly around him, but, for once, the garment's gentle caress failed to soothe him. "Bevins, what am I to do?"

  "Survive, my lord, as always."

  Slowly, Rayven shook his head. "I cannot." The memory of the one day she had slept at his side rose up to torment him. He remembered how he had awakened, how her face, beautiful in repose, had been the first thing he had seen. He could not abide the thought of never knowing such happiness again.

  He whirled around. His cloak swirled around him, then pressed against him once more.

  "I cannot," he whispered hoarsely, and fled the room.

  Blending into the shadows, he sought shelter in the darkness of the night, and knew he would never find refuge in the shadows again.

  Traveling with preternatural speed, he left Millbrae Valley far behind, his destination the city. He prowled the darkness for hours. Wandering through the fog-shrouded streets of London, he tortured himself by watching the couples strolling by. He listened to their laughter, stopped outside a cozy home to watch a mother nurse her babe, watched a father comfort a sobbing child.

  Moving on, he saw a young couple embrace in the moonlight. The scent of their blood, their rising passion, teased his senses.

  He moved down a quiet residential street, pausing in front of house after house to listen to the conversations of the inhabitants. He listened to children laughing, a husband arguing with his wife about the cost of a new bonnet, heard a mother crooning a lullaby to her newborn daughter.

  Mundane sounds.

  Ordinary sounds.

  Human sounds.

  And over all and through all, he saw Rhianna's face, heard the soft music of her voice.

  Never before had he yearned for mortality as he did that night. Never had his existence seemed so empty.

  He stalked the streets of the East End, his nostrils filling with the scent of humankind—the cloying perfume of a harlot, the stink of unwashed bodies near the wharf, the fragrance of powder and soap and fine tobacco as he returned to the wealthy part of the city.