IN THE WORKS
ALWAYS BY NIGHT
Chapter 1
Hands fisted on her hips, her green eyes flashing fire, Bryony Barrett stamped her foot on the white marble floor. "I will not marry Lord Timothy Bloodworth and you cannot make me!"
"You think not?" Her father glared at her, his face mottled with fury at her stubbornness. "You will marry him when I say, where I say, or I will send you to the convent until you change your mind."
Bryony glared right back. "Do it! I would rather be a cloistered nun than the wife of that fat, old, ugly, bald, addle-pated penny-pincher."
Her father's eyes narrowed ominously. "Go. To. Your. Room," he said, his voice whisper-quiet.
Bryony bit down on her lower lip. She knew that look. She'd gone too far this time. But she would not back down. She would not marry Lord Bloodworth. Mouth set in a grim line, shoulders back, she marched up the winding staircase to her room and slammed the door.
A moment later, she heard the key turn in the lock. It sounded like a death knell in her ears. For a fleeting second, she was tempted to call her father and tell him she had changed her mind. But then she imagined herself as Lady Bloodworth, forced to share her husband's bed, bear his children. It was a future too horrible to contemplate. Better to die a chaste virgin than surrender her virtue to a man she despised. A man who was twice her age and possibly the most boring, unattractive man she had ever met.
Firm in her resolve, she threw herself face down on her bed and dissolved into tears.
When her tears were spent, she sat up. Her father thought there were only two choices – marriage or the convent. But there was a third choice, and she took it that night. Clad in a long, black dress, cloak, and black boots, Bryony climbed out her bedroom window, took a deep breath, and shinnied down the ancient oak that overshadowed her room window. Her legs and arms were covered with dozens of scratches by the time she reached the ground, but she paid them no mind.
Running to the barn, Bryony threw a bridle on her favorite mare, swung onto Daisy's back, and fled her father's estate. A silent prayer rose in her throat a short time later when the heavens opened and unleashed a torrent of rain that would quickly wash away her tracks.
Huddling deeper into her cloak, she rode until the mare slowed and stopped on her own accord. Lifting her head, Bryony glanced around. She had never been this far from home before and she had no idea where she was. Peering through the heavy rain, she saw a large edifice in the distance. Perhaps she could find shelter there for the night.
Bryony was shivering now. Clucking softly to the mare, she rode on, hoping to find a kindly soul who would provide her with lodging and warmth for the night.
Gradually, as she drew closer to the building, she saw that it was a large, two-story house hewn from stone. Reining Daisy to a halt, Bryony slid to the ground, stumbled through the thick mud to the door, and rang the bell. She waited a moment and when there was no answer, she knocked on the door. Again, no one came.
Shivering violently, the rain pummeling her head and shoulders, she lifted the latch and called, "Hello?"
No answer. Unable to stand the chill any longer, she stepped cautiously inside and closed the door behind her. Moving cautiously, she made her way further into the house, cried out when she hit her knee on a piece of furniture, which turned out to be a high-backed couch. Sinking down on it, she huddled in a corner, her arms wrapped around her waist, her knees drawn up to her chest.
Gradually, weariness overcame her and she drifted off to sleep, wondering if she would ever be warm and dry again.
#
He moved through the night, a part of the impenetrable darkness that shrouded the land. A soulless monster, hated and hunted by humanity. A creature with no hope of redemption or forgiveness in this life or the next, destined to be always and forever alone.
He paused as he entered his lair, his nostrils filling with the scent of woman, the tantalizing aroma of blood. He followed the scent, came to an abrupt halt when he saw the female asleep on his couch. She had a wealth of honey-colored hair, tawny skin kissed by the sun, lips that were pink and perfect. Her lashes lay like dark fans against her rosy cheeks. She had been crying, her cheeks still damp from her tears.
He rocked back on his heels, wondering what twist of Fate had brought an angel to his door even as he felt his fangs lengthen in response to the slow, steady beat of her heart.
Kneeling beside the sofa, he brushed her hair aside and gave in to the sweet temptation of her life's blood.
#
Bryony woke with a start. Bolting upright, she glanced wildly around the room. Where was she? Someone had removed her muddy boots and her stockings and spread her cloak on the floor to dry.
She frowned at her surroundings Aside from the four-poster bed she occupied, the room held a large wardrobe, a wash stand with a white porcelain basin and bowl, and a fireplace that looked as though it hadn't been used in decades. An overstuffed chair stood in the corner by the window. She didn't remember climbing the stairs. How had she gotten here?
She wrapped her arms around her waist. The house was eerily silent. Cold as the grave.
Suddenly overcome by a nameless fear, she threw back the covers and ran out of the room and down the stairs, her only thought to flee. But when she lifted the latch, nothing happened. No matter how she tried, the heavy, wooden door remained stubbornly closed.
She stared at the windows, covered with curtains made of heavy, black material, but they were too high for her to reach and there was nothing to stand on. There was a leaded window beside the door, but it had no latch. And even if she could open it, it was too narrow for her to climb through.
There had to be a way out. She glanced around the room. The walls were stone, the floor tiled in an intricate pattern. A large wrought-iron candelabra held six fat candles. An enormous fireplace was located across from the brown leather sofa where she had fallen asleep. The only other furniture in the room was a large overstuffed chair and a low table made of rough-hewn wood. The walls were bare There were no rugs on the floor.
She worried her lower lip between her teeth. Did anyone live here? Or had the place been abandoned long since? It certainly felt empty.
More curious now than afraid, she moved tentatively across the floor toward an arched doorway that led to a long hallway. Turning left, she found a small kitchen, a pantry, and another, smaller room that held a dry sink, a large wooden tub, and a cupboard.
At the other end of the hall, she found a large room furnished with a desk, a chair, a grandfather clock. And a bookcase. She knew a brief moment of excitement as she went to peruse the titles, followed by a sense of disappointment at finding all the books were in foreign languages, none of which she recognized.
Sighing, she returned to the main room and walked tentatively toward the staircase that led to the bedroom upstairs. She put one hand on the banister, then paused. What was up there besides the room where she woke up this morning? Dare she look? What if the master of the house was asleep up there in one of the other rooms? But if anyone lived here, surely they would be awake by now.
Unable to stifle her curiosity, she made her way up the narrow, stone staircase, her footsteps echoing eerily off the walls. Reaching the second floor, she stared at the four doors that lined the hallway, three on the left side, the room where she had spent the night on the right. That room took up far more space than the others. Obviously the master's chamber.
She tiptoed down the corridor, cautiously opening one door after another on the left side. All were empty. Entering the master bedroom, she tiptoed across the floor and opened the doors to the wardrobe, a gasp escaping her lips when she saw that it was filled with men's clothing – shirts of fine lawn, trousers, jackets, boots, shoes, traveling cloaks, cravats.
Someone did indeed live here!
As if the devil himself were chasing her, she ran out of the room and down the stairs, her only thought to flee. She came to an abrupt halt in front of the door. Closing her eyes, she said a quick prayer as she put her hand on the latch, but the door remained stubbornly closed.
Her panic growing with every second, she suddenly remembered seeing a door in the kitchen. Perhaps it led outside. She hurried toward it, but it, too, refused to open. How could that be possible? Did none of the doors open?
Why hadn't she stayed home where she belonged?
Heart pounding, she returned again to the main room where she paced the floor in front of the hearth, only then noticing an alcove beside the fireplace, and a small wooden door. A way out, perhaps?
She felt a wave of relief when the door opened, relief that was quickly replaced by trepidation when she saw the staircase leading down to what was likely a wine cellar.
Lifting a taper from the candelabra, she lit it with a match she found on the mantel, and returned to the small, wooden door. Clinging to the hope that she might find a way out, she made her way down the staircase. It ended in a small, square room.
Holding the candle high, she made a slow turn, let out a harsh gasp when she saw the dusty black coffin in the corner. For a moment, she couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Could only stand there, staring, her body shaking from head to foot. She told herself to run, but she seemed incapable of movement. Surely it was empty! Only a ghoul would keep a corpse in their home.
She took a deep, calming breath, turned on her heels, bolted for the stairs and slammed the door behind her, then stood there, panting, her back against the wood, waiting for her heart to stop hammering.
Suddenly thirsty, she went into the kitchen, only then noticing the water jug on the counter. She opened one of the cupboards, searching for a glass, her eyes widening when she saw a loaf of bread wrapped in a linen towel, a pot of jam, a small square of yellow cheese, a bowl of apples. Her stomach growled loudly as she searched for a knife. She found one in a drawer. Clumsy in her haste, she cut two slices of bread, slathered them with jam, cut a fat slice of cheese. She found a glass and filled it with water, then carried everything into the main room.
Sitting on the sofa, she forced herself to eat slowly, all the while darting glances at the small wooden door that led to the cellar.
And that dusty black casket.
#
Stefan rose with the setting of the sun. He grimaced as he stepped out of the coffin. He hadn't slept in it in hundreds of years, but he had given the woman his bed, leaving him no choice. Who was she? And what was she doing here, in his lair?
The bigger question was, why was he keeping her here? He smiled inwardly. Why, indeed? He'd been thirsty, she had been available. Still, he could have let her go. Keeping a mortal was a lot of trouble. They needed to be fed and clothed and entertained. And from the cut of her clothes, wet and muddy as they'd been, he could see that she was accustomed to the finer things in life.
A thought took him upstairs to his bedroom. A bit of magic summoned a basin filled with hot water. He washed quickly, donned a clean shirt and trousers, and combed his hair, all the while wondering what to do with the girl. Keep her, or let her go?
He had his answer as soon as he went downstairs to the main room of the house. She was asleep on the couch, her head pillowed on her hand. One whiff of her blood and he knew why he couldn't let her go. Just as he knew she had explored the house, and been badly frightened by that dusty, old coffin in the cellar.
#
Bryony woke slowly. She'd had the most horrible nightmare last night. And realized, as soon as she opened her eyes, that it had been all too real. She was really here, in the spooky old house with the coffin in the cellar. And doors that refused to open.
Feeling groggy, she sat up, wondering what time it was. The house was so dark inside, it was hard to tell. It felt like late afternoon.
Rising, she found a match and quickly lit the candles. The flames cast dancing shadows on the high stone walls. She glanced at her travel-stained dress and wished she had something clean to wear.
Never in her life had she worn anything so dirty. Her half-boots were covered with mud. But there was no help for it.
She stared at the door and then, unable to resist, walked purposefully toward it, praying that by some miracle it would open this time and she could hurry back home where she belonged, even if it meant marrying Lord Bloodworth the bald.
Once again, the door refused to open. Shoulders slumped, she turned around. And let out a scream when she saw the man standing by the fireplace. Tall and forbidding and obviously the master of the house, he regarded her through fathomless black eyes.
He bowed from the waist. "I am Stefan." His voice was as deep and dark as his eyes. "And you would be?"
"Bry...Bryony Barrett." She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, hoping he wouldn't see how afraid she was. Hoping the Barrett name would mean something to him.
He nodded as his probing gaze swept over her, making her feel as if he could see into her very soul.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I got lost in the storm and...and saw your house...and...." Her voice trailed off. It was hard to think when he was looking at her as if he were a starving man and she was his next meal.
"I tried to leave but the door wouldn't open."
"Indeed."
"If you would be good enough to unlock it, I'll be on my way."
"It isn't locked."
She frowned at him. "But it won't open."
A faint grin touched his lips. "I know."
His smile sent a shiver down her spine and she took a step backward as every instinct she possessed told her to run. But there was nowhere to go.
Silence stretched between them. Bryony couldn't stop staring at him. His hair – a dark, dark brown – fell past his broad shoulders. His arms were long and well-muscled beneath the lawn shirt he wore. Black leather trousers encased his legs, his feet were shod with knee-high black boots. Formidable was the word that came to mind. She had never seen a man who appeared to be so self-assured, or one who exuded such power. She imagined she could see his strength surrounding him, making him impervious to the rest of the world.
Amused by her thoughts, a faint grin twitched his lips. "What am I do to with you?" he murmured.
Bryony swallowed hard. Do with her? She didn't like the sound of that. Or the answer that immediately came to mind. Hands fisted at her sides, she said, "I should very much like to go home."
"Yes. I'm sure you would. Perhaps later."
Later? She shivered. "I'd like to go now."
Rocking back on his heels, he said, "I've not had company in a very long time. You would not mind staying for a few days, would you?"
Something in his eyes, in the tone of his voice, told her not to refuse. "No, my lord."
His smile was devasting. It changed his whole face, his whole persona, making him seem...human, she mused. And wondered where that thought had come from. Of course, he was human.
"I shall have to summon help," he remarked, thinking aloud. "Someone to cook and clean and do the marketing. Someone to look after you during the day." His gaze trapped hers. "You will not leave the house."
"No, my lord."
"Consider my home yours," he said. "If you have need of anything, you have only to let me know."
My freedom, she thought, but dared not say it aloud.
He bowed from the waist. "I will see you tomorrow night, fair Bryony."
She nodded, her stomach in knots as she watched him ascend the narrow stairway to the second floor. When he was out of sight, she sank down on the couch, her whole body trembling as she wondered if she would survive the next few days.
* * * *
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