Chapter Ten
For the second time in her life, Bryony woke up in a strange bed in a strange place with no recollection of how she had arrived there.
Sitting up, she glanced around. This bedchamber was far different from the one in the Stone House.
It was large and square, the walls papered in a muted blue-and-white stripe.
White lace curtains fluttered at the two large windows on either side of the bed, plush carpets covered the floor.
A low fire burned in the marble hearth. A dressing table that held her brush, comb, and mirror stood in one corner.
A large wardrobe took up most of one wall.
Throwing back the covers, she saw that she was in her nightgown. Had Stefan undressed her again? She felt herself blush at the thought.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sat up. Where was she? And where was he? She had a sudden memory of the night before. Never, in her life, had she been so frightened. If not for Stefan, she might have become a harlot…
Stefan. She bit down on her lip, remembering how his eyes had seemed to take on a red glow. Surely a trick of the light, she thought.
Padding to one of the windows, she parted the curtains.
And gasped at what she saw. Hills covered in grass and timber, horses and cattle roaming free, a big red barn.
Daisy munched on a flake of hay in one of the corrals.
Two men were cutting wood, a young boy was scattering feed to a dozen or so chickens.
She whirled around as the bedchamber door opened. A young woman stood there, a bucket of steaming water in each hand. “Good morning, mistress,” she said, cheerfully. “I’ve come to prepare your bath.”
“Oh. Oh, thank you.”
With a smile, the girl opened the door next to the wardrobe. Stepping into the room, she emptied the buckets into a bathing tub. As she turned to leave the room, another woman brought in two more buckets and added them to the first.
“Breakfast will be ready when you are,” the first girl said. They curtsied in unison and left the bedchamber, closing the door behind them.
With a shake of her head, Bryony went into the other room.
Fluffy towels and a bar of lavender-scented soap waited on a small marble-topped table beside the bathing tub.
Removing her nightgown, she stepped into the deliciously warm water.
For a moment, she lay back and closed her eyes.
Almost, she could pretend she was home, in her own chambers.
Home. Would she ever see it or her family again?
Huffing a sigh, she reached for the soap, suddenly curious to see the rest of the house, to ask one of the young women where she was.
Where Stefan was. Last night, he had rescued her from a horrible fate.
She owed him a debt of gratitude she could never repay, she thought.
And then she frowned. If he had taken her home as she’d asked so often, she would never have been in danger in the first place.
To be fair, she wouldn’t have been in danger if she had stayed in the carriage.
She washed quickly, dried with one of the towels, and returned to the bedchamber.
While she had been bathing, someone had made the bed and laid out her clothing for the day.
She dressed quickly, then sat in the padded chair in front of the dressing table to brush her hair.
She left it loose around her shoulders, knowing Stefan preferred it that way, though she refused to admit she wanted to please him.
Rising, she took a deep breath and left the room.
A long, curved staircase led down to the first floor.
The main room was three times as big as that of the Stone House.
Furniture covered in a muted print was arranged around a large, white marble fireplace.
Low tables were placed intermittently. Large paintings adorned the walls.
A glass-fronted cabinet held a collection of knives and daggers of varying shapes and sizes.
Several doors opened off the main room. Curious, she tiptoed toward them.
The first was a library lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the second a den paneled in dark wood.
Her eyes widened when she stepped into the third room, surprised to find her books on a shelf, her easels and painting supplies in one corner, her yarn in a basket beside a comfortable chair in front of a large window.
A small fireplace laid with wood occupied one corner.
Next came the dining room, and beyond that, the kitchen.
Her stomach rumbled at the rich scents emanating from the large pots on the stove.
A middle-aged woman in a long, brown dress covered by a crisp, white apron urged her to take a seat at the dining table. The woman left the room, returning a few minutes later bearing a plate heaped with bacon, eggs, potatoes, a hot biscuit smothered in butter and honey, and a cup of cocoa.
“Will there be anything else, Miss?” the maid asked.
“No,” Bryony murmured, staring at the bounty before her. “Thank you.”
With a smile and a nod, the maid left the room.
Muttering, “I hope I’m not dreaming,” Bryony reached for her fork, thinking how wonderful it was to be waited on again.
Bryony sighed as she put her needlepoint aside.
She loved this room which held all of her favorite things.
It was warm and cozy, the walls a lovely shade of peach, the curtains white.
She wished she dared frame the painting of Stefan and hang it on the wall, but for some reason she was reluctant for him to see it.
She had tucked it under her bed and asked one of the hired men to hang Daisy’s picture instead.
Her first day in the new house had been a busy one. She had met Cook, a middle-aged man with a ready smile, a trim mustache, and a double chin; Mrs. Mulgrew, the housekeeper, a stern-looking women in her late forties; as well as the two housemaids, Constance and Claudia, who were sisters.
Mrs. Mulgrew had informed Bryony that Lord Stefan would be arriving that evening.
She had also informed her that the help did not reside in the house but lived in their own quarters in adjacent apartments behind the main house.
Bryony would be on her own after dinner and was advised that any needs or requests be addressed before the help retired for the night.
It reminded Bryony that Leanora had also gone home at sunset. Strange, she mused, as she made her way into the main room. Why was Stefan opposed to having the help reside in the house? Didn’t he trust them? But that was silly. Why would he keep them on if he didn’t trust them?
Settling on the couch in front of the hearth, she stared at the fire, mesmerized by the flames and the dancing shadows they cast on the walls.
In the old house, Stefan had used magic to start a fire in the hearth.
Stefan. What a mystery he was. Thinking of him made her heart beat a little faster.
He would be here soon. The help had already gone to their own homes. She was alone in the house.
She glanced at the window. Night was fast approaching. And so was he. She sensed his presence even before he entered the room.
“Good evening, fair Bryony.”
“Stefan.”
“How do you like your new home?”
“I prefer my old one at River North.”
A wry grin twitched his lips as he took the chair that faced the couch. “Always singing the same old song. How was your day? Did you meet everyone?”
“I think so.”
“If you are not happy with any of the servants, let me know.”
Would he dismiss them on her say-so? “What is this place? I mean, is it yours?” It was much newer than the Stone House, with many modern conveniences, like a bathing room with a sink and a cast iron tub. The furniture was more plush, the paintings exquisite.
“It belonged to someone I knew long ago.” He glanced around the room. “I have made many changes to it over the years. Do you like it?”
“It’s lovely.”
“Your bedchamber is to your liking?”
“Yes.” She wondered where he slept. She hadn’t seen any sign of a master bedchamber other than the one she was using.
“Promise me something,” he said, his hands braced on his knees. “Promise me you will never again put your life in danger as you did last night.”
“I promise,” she said fervently. A quick glance at his eyes showed no trace of red. “Those men could have killed you.”
“And you, as well,” he reminded her. “Or worse.”
She nodded. “Thank you for saving me.”
Stefan’s gaze moved over her. How lovely she was.
The deep blue of her dress emphasized the blue of her eyes.
The glow of the fire cast red-gold highlights in her hair.
His perusal made her uncomfortable and she licked her lips nervously.
His desire quickly made itself known and he shifted in the chair, sorely tempted to take her in his arms, carry her down to his lair, and make slow, sweet love to her until sunrise.
As if sensing his thoughts, she leaned back and folded her arms over her breasts.
“Bryony.” Just her name, but it held a wealth of longing.
She stared at him, frozen in place like a doe facing a mountain lion. And, like the doe, she was helpless.
The monster within him urged him to take her, to satisfy his desire for her body and ease his hellish thirst for her blood. It would be so easy to bend her will to his, to bury himself deep within the warmth of her womanhood, taste the sweet nectar of her life’s blood on his tongue.
Refusing to succumb to the darkness within him, he rose and stood in front of the hearth, his back toward her, his hands jammed into his trousers’ pockets as he took several slow, deep breaths.
Bryony stared at him, afraid to move. She had seen the desire in his eyes and it frightened her.
He was so big, so strong. She had no defense against him.
Fear slashed through her when, in one fluid motion, he turned and moved toward her.
“Bryony.” Her name was a groan, a plea on his lips, as he gathered her into his arms.
She stared up at him, lost in the midnight depths of his eyes. Eyes that seemed to probe the very depths of her heart, revealing her innermost secrets, her darkest fears.
Lowering his head, he brushed his lips across hers, the touch feather-light, yet she felt it in every fiber of her being, felt the aching loneliness of his soul, his need for someone to love. Someone to love him.
Stefan lifted his head, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her.
She had seen inside his mind, felt the emptiness in his soul, his need for her.
How was that possible? There was no blood link between them.
He had the sudden, inexplicable feeling that if he asked for what he wanted, she would give it to him.
But he dared not take the risk. She wasn’t frightened by the thought of his being a warlock.
She would not be so accepting if she knew the rest.
His gaze moved over her face. He knew it as well as he knew his own.
How many nights had he stood by her bed, just looking at her?
How many times had he forced himself to turn away before he crawled into bed beside her and satisfied the awful ache that burned through him?
How long before he gave in to the almost overpowering temptation to possess her?
To drink more than a few drops of her life’s blood?
To steal her will and replace it with his own?
Closing his eyes, he pulled her body closer, inhaling the warm, womanly fragrance of her hair and skin, the intoxicating scent of her blood.
He smelled her desire, as well. Would she hate him if he swept her up into his arms and carried her down to his lair and made love to her until the sun came up? Would she say yes if he asked her?
He cursed himself for being a fool. Angels did not consort with demons, he thought bitterly. He had to remember that. He could compel her to love him, to do anything he wished, but he wanted her to come to him, warm and willing.
He cupped her cheeks in his palms and kissed her again, gently, tenderly.
And then he vanished from her sight.
Bryony gasped as Stefan disappeared. Then smiled faintly as she reminded herself that he was a witch. What other magical tricks was he capable of doing? Would he show her if she asked?
She pressed her fingertips to her lips. She could still feel the heat of his kisses, taste the longing he couldn’t hide. He was a handsome man, well-formed, well-muscled. What would it be like to lie beside him, to feel his hands caressing her, to caress him in return?
She shook her head, stunned by the wicked turn of her thoughts. Thoughts she had never entertained before. But, like Pandora’s box, once the lid had been lifted, the damage was done.
Hoping to distract herself, she went into the room that held her paints, lit the lamp, and put a new canvas on the easel, and began to sketch.
She had meant to create a landscape but the image that unfolded on the canvas was Stefan’s face, his brow high and proud, his eyes dark and filled with secrets, his nose aristocratic, his jaw strong and unyielding, his hair framing his face like a dark cloud.
His lips were full, sensual, curved in a mysterious smile.
When the sketch was completed, she turned it toward the wall.
It would take a few days to complete. When it was finished, she would hide it under the bed where she had hidden the other painting.
She remained reluctant to let Stefan see them.
Afraid he would look at them and know she was beginning to care for him.
And that was something he must never know.
If he knew, if he suspected, she feared he would never let her go.
Stefan smiled faintly as he prowled the edges of the estate late that night.
She was thinking of him. The knowledge pleased him greatly.
Perhaps there was hope for him after all.
He had seen the painting she kept hidden under the bed.
It had touched him as nothing else ever had.
It had been painted with affection, if not love.
And for now, that was enough. With time and patience, he might yet win her heart.