Dead After Dark (Companion #6.5)(64)

“No. Expect I wouldn’t,” Henley said. “ ’Ard to believe an old fool knows ’ow to ’old ’is tongue, Carlowe, but I do.” He stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe. “Just ye ’ope ye don’t get what ye think ye want right now. Bad business, that. Rots a man’s soul.”

Drew managed a sneer. It was a good defense against his hollow feeling. “I haven’t got a soul, old man. Remember that.” He turned and stumbled down the hill, hardly knowing where he was. Everything had changed. Emily was dead.

He collected Darley from in front of the tavern and galloped back toward Ashland, anger churning in his belly. All those years he’d dreamed, not knowing she was dead. Not fair. And now he’d have to find another way to exact his revenge on Melaphont. Because those years were Melaphont’s fault.

So the first thing to do was to eject his beautiful squatter. He was going to be spending some time at Ashland while he evolved a new plan to take his revenge and carried it out. He had no desire to spend another sleepless night, or to lose any more blood.





3


Unbelievable! Carlowe hadn’t run away last night and now after Freya was sure she was rid of him, he was back, banging around the house, poking in every room. No one could get a good day’s sleep with that going on. He hadn’t come into the ruined wing yet. But she had to keep a wary ear out.

The sounds subsided. This day had been difficult in many ways. When she thought he had gone, she should have been glad. But she found herself thinking about what had happened last night between them. It had kept her in a state of semiarousal all day.

Boot heels sounded on the servants’ stairs. Thank goodness for her vampire hearing. Where was he going? Outside? She slipped over to the heavy draperies and pulled one out from the window just enough to see. The late afternoon light cut at her eyes and she squinted. She was very old, and could withstand some sunlight, but it certainly wasn’t comfortable. Yes, there he was, in shirtsleeves and breeches, fists on his hips, looking up at the ruined wing, examining each set of windows. That was not good.

He started off at a run. Her window was the only one with draperies intact. Where could she go? This was ridiculous, on the run in her own house. She needed someplace she could darken to protect against the sunlight.

Footsteps thudded in the hall. He was counting doorways. No time to think! She called her power and imagined the room across the hall. The familiar moment of pain washed over her.



Drew pushed into the room. It was dark. Only the channel of light made by the open door revealed the features of the room. He didn’t have to wonder whether it was hers. He could smell her marvelous scent and feel the electric energy hanging around him as if she had disappeared into thin air a moment ago. And actually, in view of her performance last night, that might just be what had happened.

He was being ridiculous.

He stared around the room. The furniture was still shrouded in Holland covers. But the bed was freshly made, the sheets crisp. Ashes stood in the fireplace. And there had definitely been a path where the dust had been disturbed in the carpets in the hall outside. There was no dust on the carpets here. And no leaks apparently. Someone could live here.

He pulled open the drawers of the highboy, and stood, transfixed. These were like no woman’s underthings he had seen before. And he had seen his share. No chemises, no stockings. There were only filmy, lacy . . . somethings that would hardly cover anything. His loins tightened. He couldn’t help but remember the sensuous feeling he had experienced last night when she had . . .

He strode to the wardrobe and swept open the doors. Dresses, if one could call them that, like she had worn last night, all sheer layers, and all white. A traveling cloak of black wool lined with white satin and edged with ermine, delicate slippers, and even little heeled, white leather boots. There could be no doubt to whom the room belonged.

But she wasn’t here. How could he throw her out if he couldn’t find her? Rage boiled up inside him, because he couldn’t find his lovely trespasser, because Emily was dead and he was fourteen years too late to mourn and because all his dreams of getting back the eager and optimistic boy he had been by claiming her were dashed.

It was all Melaphont’s fault. The bastard had taken Drew’s innocence, his love, his very life from him. Drew pulled the clothes from the wardrobe and flung them around the room. He snatched drawers from the highboy and dashed them against the bedposts until they splintered and strewed their contents across the carpet. He wanted to stop. But he couldn’t. He wanted destruction more. He pulled the pocketknife from his breeches pocket, flipped it open, and slashed the pillows on the bed. Feathers floated everywhere, uncontrolled, just as he was. The coil of hatred in his belly controlled him. He threw himself on the mattress, stabbing it over and over until he was left gasping as feathers floated to the floor around him like drifting snow.

His shoulders sagged. How could he lose control like that? Emptiness ate at him. He turned and lay in the ruined bed, dry-eyed and exhausted. The room was dark, its heavy draperies totally shut out the light. The open door cast little light into the room any more as the windows in the hallway dimmed with sunset.

He felt the hum of energy at the edge of his consciousness.

He sat up. How long had she been here?

“You can come out now.” Had she seen his reckless display? But no one emerged from the dressing room. He pushed off the bed and flung open the dressing room door, but there was no one there.