A Whisper of Eternity Read online

  She had been appalled when he asked her to dance. She was a married woman. He was a stranger. Warren had started to protest but she had waved off his objections, saying they must make the newcomer welcome in their midst.

  They danced together as though they had done it for years, fit together as though they had been molded one for the other.

  They had said little but there was no need for words. When the music ended he had escorted her back to her husband, bowed over her hand, and bid her good evening. They had both known they would meet again. And they had. He seemed always to know when Warren was away from the plantation. He came to her always in the dark of night, appearing out of the shadows as if he were a part of the darkness itself. He spoke to her of faraway places, read poetry to her, brought her gifts—a hat from Paris, a bit of silk from the Orient, a pair of tortoiseshell combs for her hair, a book of Shakespeare's plays, a silver-backed comb and brush, a gold heart on a fine gold chain. She felt guilty for accepting his gifts, yet she could not refuse.

  He was there to comfort her when her mother passed away from a fever. He was there to hold her when Warren was swept away while trying to save one of the Negro children from drowning in the river.

  And he was here tonight, when she needed him most.

  "I'll never see Jacob again."

  "Libby, you cannot know that. Even I cannot foretell the future."

  "I know." She lifted a hand to her heart, a heart that was slowly breaking. "In here."

  "Then come away with me, my best beloved one. Now. Tonight. Charles can run the plantation. There is no need for you to stay."

  She looked up at him, tears stinging her eyes once again. "Don't you understand? I have to be here for… for Jacob when he… when he comes home. Later, when he doesn't need me anymore, then …" She looked up at Dominic and dissolved into tears.

  "As you wish," he said, drawing her body close to his. "I will not force you, or rush you." He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. "I will wait as long as it takes, my best beloved one, should it take a year or an eternity."

  They had neither. The war grew more intense. Times grew hard, but not for Libby or those she was responsible for. Dominic managed to find food and fuel and clothing. More than once, he was there to defend them against the enemy.

  But he wasn't there the afternoon the raiders came. They stormed through the house, carrying away the silver, Warren's rifle, and whatever else caught their fancy.

  Libby drew back in horror as one of the raiders burst into her bedroom, his intent clear in his eyes. She had fought him with all her strength but it had not been enough and when she knew he meant to defile her, she made a frantic grab for the gun holstered at his side. They struggled over the weapon and somehow the gun went off.

  The pain was like being hit by a sledge hammer. It drove her backward, knocking the breath from her lungs. At first, she hadn't known what it meant. And then she had seen the horror in the raider's eyes as he scuttled off the bed and stared down at her.

  "I'm sorry," he mumbled drunkenly. "I never… I didn't mean to…" Face pale, he had run out of the room and left her there.

  Staring at the blood slowly spreading over her bodice, she had called for Charles, for Pansy, for Bedelia, but no one answered her call. Murmuring Jacob's name, she slid into oblivion.

  When she woke, Dominic was holding her in his arms. In her weakened state, she had imagined that his eyes were red. She tried to say his name, but she was too weak.

  "Libby. Can you hear me? Libby!"

  She wanted to comfort him. His voice was filled with such pain, such grief but she was too weak to lift her hand, too weak even to say his name.

  "Come to me," he said.

  She stared at him, not comprehending.

  With a low growl, his lips drew back.

  She stared at him in helpless horror as he ripped open his wrist and held it toward her.

  "Drink," he said. "It will preserve your life until I can bring you across."

  "No." She mouthed the word but no sound emerged from her lips.

  "Drink. "It was a command now. "Drink, Libby. I cannot lose you again!"

  Somehow, she found the strength to murmur, "What are you?"

  "I will explain it all to you later," he said urgently. "Now you must drink before it is too late!"

  But she had lost too much blood. "It wasn't Jacob's death I saw," she said, her voice tinged with wonder. "It was my own. …"

  She stared up at Dominic, no longer frightened by his dark mien, no longer frightened of anything. His image paled, the room faded as she stared toward a light that grew brighter, brighter.

  His voice, crying her name, was the last thing she heard... .

  She woke to the echo of her own voice crying his name. She shivered, and not just because the water had grown cold.

  Stepping out of the tub, she dried off quickly, pulled on her nightgown, and crawled into bed, only to lie there awake, afraid to close her eyes, afraid to sleep, afraid to dream.

  What if it was true? Oh lord, what if it was all true?

  Chapter 10

  He knew she wasn't at home as soon as he woke from the dark sleep. He could feel the house's emptiness, the lack of life. Where was she?

  Fueled by anger and jealousy, Dominic surged to his feet. If she had defied him, if she had dared to go out with that boy again… what would he do? Much as it might please him to do so, killing the young upstart would not win Tracy's affection.

  After changing his clothes, he went into the city to satisfy his thirst. It wouldn't do to approach Tracy when the urge to feed was clawing at him.

  It was Friday night and the streets were crowded with tourists taking in the sights, young lovers holding hands, teenagers with spiked hair and trendy clothes. Dominic shook his head. How times and fashions had changed!

  He took a deep breath, his senses quickening when he scented his prey, a pretty young girl hurrying down the street, a bag from a popular clothing store swinging from her arm.

  He moved up beside her, measuring his steps to hers.

  She glanced at him, her eyes widening in alarm.

  "Do not be afraid," he said, his voice low and hypnotic. "I am not going to hurt you."

  "You're not?"

  "No." He put his hand on her arm and guided her down a dimly lit side street.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Right here," he said. "There is nothing for you to be afraid of."

  "Nothing to be afraid of," she repeated dully.

  He tightened his grip on her arm, bringing her to a stop. "Close your eyes."

  Mesmerized by his voice and the look in his eyes, she did as she was told.

  Taking the bag from her arm, he placed it on the ground, then drew her into his arms, his embrace gentle. Humans were so very fragile, one had to be careful not to crush them, not to bruise them.

  He drew a deep breath, breathing in her scent, letting it flow through him. An appetizer, so to speak. With his preternatural sense of smell, he caught every nuance—the lavender soap she had washed with, peppermint toothpaste, a slight hint of starch in her clothes mingled with a faint odor of cologne from the man she had been with earlier.

  His fangs lengthened in response to her nearness, the pounding of her heart, the whisper of blood moving through her veins. Gently, he brushed her hair away from her neck.

  And then he drank.

  It was a pleasure like no other.

  Warmth suffused him, spreading through him like liquid sunshine, filling him with strength and power.

  Even after all these centuries, the urge to take it all was strong but he was no longer a slave to his hunger, no longer helpless to resist the beast within. He took only what he needed, what he required to survive.

  Five minutes later, the woman was back on the street with no memory of what had happened.

  With preternatural speed, Dominic returned to Nightingale House.

  The boy was standing on the front porch, a box of candy in on
e hand, the other raised to knock on the door, when Dominic arrived.

  Slowing, Dominic walked up the driveway toward him.

  The boy—Bryan—turned at his approach. "I don't think she's home."

  "Did you have an appointment?"

  "No." Bryan shook his head. "I was just hoping to see her." His eyes widened. "Damn, did you two have a date for tonight?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Well, I've been knocking for five minutes," Bryan said. "If she's here, she's not answering the door. Maybe she just doesn't want to see me."

  Dominic closed his eyes, let his preternatural senses explore the house. A fine anger rose within him when he opened his eyes to find the boy still there. "Go home. She is not here."

  "Oh. Well." The boy cleared his throat. "I guess I'll go then. If you see her, tell her I'll call her tomorrow."

  "I will see her," Dominic said, and there was no room for doubt in his tone.

  "Yeah. Well." The boy cleared his throat again, then rushed down the stairs.

  Dominic watched him toss the box of candy into the back seat, then climb into an old Chevy convertible and drive away far faster than was safe. But he had no thought for the boy's welfare. His every thought was for Tracy.

  Where was she?

  Chapter 11

  Tracy rose after a restless night. If she dreamed, she didn't remember doing so. Dressing quickly, she checked out of the motel, then stopped at a nearby cafe for breakfast.

  She felt more relaxed this morning. Fears were always less scary in the light of day; there was comfort in the presence of other people. And, if Dominic was really a vampire, he wouldn't come out during the day. She blew out a sigh. There was no if. She'd seen too much to deny the truth any longer.

  She ate a leisurely breakfast—hot cakes smothered in butter and syrup, bacon and scrambled eggs. She didn't often indulge in such things but this morning, it seemed right.

  After leaving the cafe, she stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few snacks and sodas for the road, filled up the gas tank, then turned onto the freeway, heading north. She turned the radio on to her favorite country station and settled back for a day of driving. Perhaps she'd go to Canada, she thought. Maybe she would meet one of those sexy Mounties and settle down and raise a family in the great northwest.

  Dominic rose the instant the sun slid behind the horizon. Dressing quickly, he materialized in the house above.

  Standing in the center of the living room floor, he let his senses sweep through the house. She wasn't home. He sniffed the air. She had not come home last night.

  Where was she? He cursed softly. Had he not respected her wishes all these centuries, had he taken her blood as he so longed to do, there would now be a bond between them, a connection that would lead him to her with no more than a thought.

  Going upstairs, he went into her bedroom. Her closet door was open. Most of her clothing was gone.

  Jaw clenched, he went to her studio. If he needed further proof that she was gone, he found it here. Though several canvases remained, including the painting she had done of him, her painting supplies were missing.

  She had run away. Run away from him. Anger burned through him as he flew down the stairs and out of the house.

  Standing in the driveway, he unleashed his senses. It was easy to pluck her scent from the air, to follow the near invisible tracks of her car's tires.

  "You will not escape me so easily," he murmured.

  And dissolving into a fine gray mist, he followed her trail.

  To the freeway.

  To the motel where she had spent the night.

  To the cafe where she had eaten breakfast.

  To the grocery store, the gas station, and back to the freeway.

  And, at last, to the motel where she slept, unaware that he watched her.

  Tracy woke slowly. Eyes closed, she stretched her arms and legs; then, with a yawn, she sat up. Time to hit the road again. She had covered several hundred miles before she stopped for the night. At this rate, she'd soon be crossing the Canadian border.

  She frowned as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Something wasn't right.

  The room wasn't right.

  Rising, she padded across the floor and opened the drapes.

  And looked out over a huge yard surrounded by an enormous wall.

  Was she dreaming again? It was a silly question, and she knew it, but she pinched herself anyway. Ouch! She was definitely awake.

  Fear was a cold, hard knot in her belly as she slowly turned and glanced around the room. It was large and square. There were tall, narrow windows set in three of the walls; the bed she had slept in took up most of the fourth. Several thick rugs covered the hardwood floor. There was an armoire in one corner, a small cherrywood dressing table and matching chair stood between one pair of windows. Her suitcase sat on the floor near the door.

  Where was she?

  And how had she gotten here?

  She didn't like the answer that quickly came to mind.

  She put on a pair of jeans and a sweater over her nightgown, then went to the door and tried the latch, surprised when it opened. Stepping through the doorway, she found herself in a long, dark corridor. Her bare feet made no sound on the dark red runner as she tiptoed toward the head of the stairs and peered over the railing. She listened for a moment and then, convinced there was no one there, she tiptoed down the winding staircase and hurried toward the front door.

  It didn't appear to be locked, but it wouldn't open.

  Frowning, she wandered from room to room, opening the draperies as she went.

  The house was bigger than any she had ever seen, including her own. There was a living room with a big stone fireplace, a huge dining room, a library whose walls were lined with shelves filled with books, a large room with a polished oak floor—a ballroom, perhaps? She wandered through the kitchen and pantry, noting they were both stocked with food. There was a music room that held a very old piano, a violin, and a harp. There was another room she thought might be the solarium.

  She tried every door, every window—they refused to open. Were they locked from the outside?

  Was this place some sort of Twilight Zone bed and breakfast?

  Going back upstairs, she poked her head into the rooms that lined the corridor. They were all bedrooms or sitting rooms furnished with antique oak furniture. She was glad to see that the house seemed to have all the modern conveniences, except a telephone. And mirrors, she thought, frowning. She didn't recall seeing a single mirror in the whole place.

  The last room she looked into seemed very much like her studio at home. It contained a long table, a half-dozen empty jars and cans, a small box of rags, a couple of easels, and several blank canvases in a variety of sizes. The case that held her paints and brushes sat just inside the door, along with the blank canvases and the easel she had brought from home.

  Returning to the room she had awakened in, she sat on the edge of the bed. How was she going to get out of here? She hit her head with the heel of her hand. Her cell phone! Why hadn't she thought of it sooner?

  Grabbing her bag, she rummaged inside, only it wasn't there. Whoever had brought her here must have taken it.

  With a sigh, she tossed her bag aside and glanced at her surroundings. It was a pretty room. The walls were covered in old-fashioned paper with pink cabbage roses. The ceiling was high; painted angels and nymphs smiled down at her. There were wrought-iron candelabras on the walls, a small Tiffany lamp on the cherrywood table beside the bed. The bedspread was a deep, dusky rose, as were the heavy draperies at the windows.

  Hunger drove her downstairs once again. In the kitchen, she went through the cupboards. They were fully stocked with canned goods, bread, crackers, Jell-O, cake mix, a dozen brands of cereal, hot fudge, marshmallows, flour, sugar, salt and pepper, spices and condiments, a wide variety of candy bars, and practically anything else she could possibly want, including the items she'd had in her car.

  The refr
igerator held milk, cream, butter, sodas, lunch meat, and several kinds of cheese; the freezer was filled with meat, frozen vegetables, and three kinds of ice cream.

  At least she wouldn't starve to death.

  But where the devil was she?

  And who had brought her here?

  She couldn't believe that someone could have taken her out of the motel room and transported her here without waking her. Nevertheless, here she was. Which brought her back to her original question.

  Where was she?

  After eating a bowl of cereal and sliced peaches, she went through the house once again, trying every door and window, but to no avail. In the living room, she picked up an iron poker, turned her face away, and swung the poker at the window. The glass should have shattered, but nothing happened.

  She stood there for several minutes and then, resigned to the fact that there was no way out, she went into the library, found a copy of Wuthering Heights, and curled up in a chair. She spent the rest of the morning reading the bittersweet love story of Cathy and Heathcliff.

  After lunch, she went upstairs, laid out her paint brushes, set up a canvas, and spent the rest of the afternoon painting the view out her bedroom window.

  It was only when the sun began to set that fear once again began to make itself known.

  She wasn't surprised when Dominic appeared in the doorway. He wore a long black cloak over a black shirt and black trousers. His feet were encased in soft black leather boots. Though she had refused to admit it, she had known, on some deep level of awareness, that this was his house.

  He inclined his head in her direction. "Good evening. I trust you found everything you needed."

  "Yes." Her fingers clenched around the brush. It was hard to speak past the lump of fear in her throat. "Thank you." Though why she should thank him was beyond her. He had brought her here without her consent, after all.