Chapter Six
Bryony couldn’t sleep that night. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw Stefan materializing out of the darkness as if he were the darkness itself.
How had he moved fast enough to catch her before she tumbled to the ground?
Why hadn’t they gotten wet the evening it rained?
Who had lit the candles and the fire in the hearth in the house that night?
A shiver ran down her spine. So many questions without answers—except the obvious one.
He had to be a witch or a warlock. Magic was the only logical explanation.
Was he really keeping her here because he was lonely? The memory of his kisses, of being in his arms, came quickly to mind. Surely a man as handsome as was he could have any woman he wanted. All she wanted was to go home.
Home. With Leonora gone, things would surely change and not for the better.
She had never cooked in her life, but now she would either have to learn or starve.
At home, there had been food in abundance and cooks to prepare it.
She had never cleaned the house, made her bed, or done any kind of chores at all.
Always, there had been servants at her beck and call, maids to draw her bath, brush her hair, light a fire in her room to turn away the chill of the night.
A groom to saddle and curry Daisy. Now, she would have to do all the household chores herself. Not a pleasant prospect.
Her thoughts turned again to Stefan. Where was he? Where did he spend his days? Where did he spend the nights now that she slept in his bed? Where was he now?
And why did she care? she wondered, as sleep finally carried her away.
She woke to the sound of thunder. For a time, she lay there, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof.
She had lost track of the days. How long had she been here?
A week? Two? An eternity? She sighed when her stomach growled.
For a moment, she wished Leanora was there to bring her a cup of cocoa and a biscuit while she lay abed.
With a huff, she threw back the covers, pulled on her robe, stepped into her slippers, and headed for the stairs, only to pause and tiptoe down the corridor, peeking into the empty rooms. But there was no sign of Stefan.
She wondered yet again where he spent the night.
Did he lodge somewhere in the city? Surely he didn’t sleep in the barn!
With a shake of her head, she scuffed down the stairs to the kitchen to make breakfast.
She found a certain sense of satisfaction in looking after herself.
Cooking wasn’t as easy as she’d thought, and she felt an odd sense of gratification as she sat down to eat, even though the eggs were overcooked and the bacon a little too crisp.
Later, she knew a sense of pride when she went upstairs and made her bed and picked up her discarded clothing.
By chance, she learned that sweeping and dusting were less odious if she hummed while she worked.
It rained all morning and into the afternoon. She was trying to decide if she wanted to paint or begin a new book when someone rang the bell. Eager to see anyone, she hurried to open the door.
“Package for you, Miss,” a young man said, offering her a large box wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
“For me?”
“You are Miss Barrett?”
“Yes.”
He thrust the box into her hands. “Good day, Miss.”
She stood there a moment, staring at the cloudy skies, the puddles, the raindrops dripping from the trees. Freedom lay beyond the door. Knowing it was useless, she took a step forward, only to be brought up short by the same invisible barrier.
With a shake of her head, she closed the door and carried the package into the main room, her fingers tearing at the string, ripping off the wrapping. Inside, she found yarn and thread in all the colors of the rainbow and a dozen needlepoint patterns.
Stunned, she dropped down on the couch. She remembered the night Stefan had asked her if there was anything she wanted and she had said no, even though she had wished for the very things she now held in her hands. How had he known?
She sat there for a long time, staring into the distance, as the word warlock repeated itself over and over in her mind.
Though she would have died rather than admit it, Bryony was happy to see him that evening.
He regarded her through narrowed eyes and then a slow smile spread over his face. “I am happy to see you, too.”
She glared at him from the couch. “How do you know what I’m thinking?”
He shrugged one broad shoulder. “A good guess?”
“No.” She made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the whole room. “The painting over the fireplace, the rug, the drapes, the mirror in the bedchamber. I thought the house needed all those things shortly after I stumbled into this place and the next day they were here.”
“As you have no doubt surmised, I can read your mind.”
“How? How can you do that?” She stared at him, eyes wide. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re a warlock.”
Settling in the easy chair, he stretched his legs out in front of him. Elbows resting on the arms of the chair, he regarded her over his folded hands. “My mother was a witch. She taught me the Dark Arts.”
Bryony opened her mouth and closed it again, too stunned to speak.
Even though she had suspected as much, deep down she hadn’t really believed it was true.
Of course, he hadn’t actually said he was a warlock, but there was no other explanation.
It certainly explained why the doors wouldn’t open.
No doubt he had cast some kind of magical spell on them and on the windows, too.
“You are not going to faint, are you?” he asked. “You look a trifle pale.” A wave of his hand produced a glass of red wine. Leaning forward, he handed it to her.
Bryony stared at the drink as though it might bite her. What other proof did she need?
Stefan laughed softly. “It is not poisoned, I assure you.”
Feeling suddenly light-headed, she took a sip, and then another. It was quite good and she drank it all. When the glass was empty, it disappeared from her hand. It was the last straw. A black void opened before her and carried her away.
He caught her before she slipped off the couch. Cradling her in his arms, he lightly stroked her hair, traced her lower lip with the tip of his finger, ran his tongue along the side of her neck. The scent of her skin tickled his nostrils, the warm, coppery scent of her blood aroused his hunger.
He ran his tongue over her tender flesh.
Closed his eyes.
And bit her ever so gently.
Later than night, he stood out in the rain, letting it wash over him, wishing it could wash away his sins.
He had no right to keep Bryony here, especially after what he had done to Leanora.
He tried to rationalize his actions, but he could not.
Weak and badly wounded after his battle with the hunters, he had dragged himself home.
Desperate to replace the blood he had lost, he had called the girl to him.
He swore under his breath. He hadn’t meant to take it all.
But the excruciating pain of his injuries, his overpowering need for blood to heal his wounds, had been stronger than his self-control.
Horrified by his lack of control, he had transported her to a distant cemetery and buried her.
Monster! His mind screamed the word and he could not deny it.
What would Bryony think if she knew Leanora had been the only thing standing between herself and death that day?
He shook his head, hating himself for what he’d done.
Hating what he was. Bryony would despise him if she knew.
There was no way to make her understand the terrible pain that clawed relentlessly at his vitals when he was wounded and in need of blood to heal.
No mortal could begin to understand the anguish.
No human could endure it, let alone survive.
He clenched his hands at his sides. Tomorrow night, he vowed. Tomorrow night he would let her go before he lost control again. Before it was eternally too late.