Chapter Nineteen
Marcus awoke feeling as if he’d been thrown off a mountain and tumbled all the way down.
Every muscle in his body ached, and his mouth tasted like he’d swallowed a handful of sand.
He’d dreamed of Winifred, that he’d swept her in his arms and kissed her instead of letting his fear push her away.
For more than three weeks, she’d found ways to avoid him, by sleeping through most of the night and taking her meals in her room.
He’d tried to ask what was wrong, but the words never came out right.
The problem was he’d spent so many years keeping his siblings at a distance to maintain the hierarchy in the nest that he didn’t know how to manage the intensity of emotion Winifred elicited in him.
The easiest thing to do was bury it deep in his mind, so that was what he did.
He ran his hand through his hair and felt something wet.
When he looked at his fingers, they were bloody.
He flipped the blankets off his nude body and gasped.
From his nipples to his knees, he was covered in angry, red welts.
He struggled out of bed and tugged the rope to summon his valet.
When Smith showed up five agonizing minutes later, he carried a tray holding a silver flask, which he placed on the floor before backing up several steps.
It was the right thing to do. Despite Marcus’s vow not to bite him, his mouth watered as he imagined the pulsing veins in Smith’s throat.
It would be so easy to overpower him. Then Marcus could sink his fangs deep and drink until his strength returned.
Biting anywhere would do, although the most pleasurable way to drain a victim was the femoral artery.
His gaze dropped to his valet’s trouser-clad thighs before he closed his eyes and forced the unwanted thoughts away.
“My lord?” Smith asked as he edged toward the exit.
“Leave,” Marcus said. “I cannot… My control is not what it should be.”
Smith quickly obeyed.
Marcus grabbed the flask, unscrewed the lid, and sipped the lukewarm liquid inside.
The pungent flavor told him it was deer, but the slightly spicy aftertaste stopped him from drinking further.
He didn’t know how, but it was tainted. The hunters had bested him again.
He’d intended to spend the night investigating how they had gained access to his aviary, but now the thought of getting out of bed was almost too much to bear.
Nor could he risk seeing Winifred. It was far too dangerous.
He wasn’t strong enough to resist the allure of her smile, her kindness, her intoxicating scent.
He buried his head in his pillow. Winifred seemed convinced that his problem was in his mind, but his new symptoms disproved that theory.
The fact that he’d yet to determine the cause of the contamination in his animals did not help.
That brought him back to his invention. The only difference between the blood he’d pulled several weeks ago versus recently was the topmost section he’d observed after agitation.
If it contained the toxin, perhaps all he had to do was remove it.
That would require adjustments to his machine to reach higher speeds and create cleaner divisions.
Otherwise, the toxin might leech into the other components and render his effort futile.
He struggled to his feet and over to the secret door that led to a corridor he could use to reach his workshop with no one seeing him. Cordon would be furious if he discovered he’d worked while in such poor shape, but he could not give up.
The following few hours passed in a haze of frustration as he disassembled his invention, adjusted the gears, then slotted it back together.
When the machine was finally ready to operate, his joints popped and crackled with every movement and the wounds on his arms oozed a foul-smelling liquid.
They healed quickly enough, only to form new welts, as if his flesh were a simmering pot of water.
He carefully divided the rest of the blood from the flask Smith had brought him into vials, slotted them into the block of wood, then clasped the handle and turned.
It was tremendously difficult, but he continued for as long as he was able, then waited for the machine to stop and opened the lid with trembling fingers.
A crimson mess awaited him. He’d spun too fast, and the fragile vials had cracked. He fell to his knees and buried his head in his hands. Another failure. He would have to ask Smith to draw from his cattle, even if it would make his condition worse.
He shoved his mechanism over, sending it crashing to the ground. Liquid oozed out of the top and pooled on the floor. He didn’t care. He lurched his shaking body out of his workshop and down the steps. When he reached the third floor, he ran face-first into his valet.
“You should not be out of bed,” Smith said.
Blood. Fresh human blood inches away from his face. He rasped his tongue along Smith’s neck before the fog in his mind cleared. Then he shoved his valet away and braced himself against the wall. “Get away.”
The idiotic man did not flee. He tugged off his cravat and exposed his neck. “Drink.”
Marcus’s fangs throbbed. He leaned closer and brought his lips to Smith’s warm flesh but stopped short of biting. He’d made a vow to not consume human blood.
A vow he’d already broken by tasting Winifred the night of their wedding.
And he was so thirsty.
“Drink, my lord,” Smith said. “I rather enjoy this position and would prefer you do not perish.”
The last of Marcus’s resistance vanished.
He plunged his teeth into Smith’s neck and let his mouth fill with the achingly familiar taste.
With each swallow, the sharp edges of his thoughts smoothed.
It was like he was a powder-dry sponge uncurling from a twisted and malformed shape as he absorbed precious fluid.
He would owe Smith a significant debt, which he would repay with a generous bonus and a letter of recommendation if he wished to leave the castle after having such an awkward encounter with his employer.
A soft gasp made him look up.
Winifred was standing in the hall with her hands over her mouth.
He licked the blood from his lips and teeth before lifting his head from Smith’s neck.
She stumbled backward, slipped on her skirt, then tumbled to the ground.
“Winifred!” He ran to her, fell to his knees, and placed her head on his lap. His valet was calling out his title, but he didn’t care. She’d seen his true nature and had reacted exactly as he’d feared. When she awoke, she would surely flee the castle, leaving him alone again.
“My lord!”
Marcus looked up. The wound on his valet’s neck was gone, healed by Marcus’s saliva. Smith was slightly paler but showed none of the fear Marcus had seen in Winifred’s expression.
“What shall I do with the countess?” Smith asked.
Marcus stared for several seconds before realizing Smith meant Winifred.
The Countess of Kingsberry. His wife. Who had seen him biting his valet.
It wasn’t as if he’d intended to keep his nature a secret forever—he’d selected books intended to introduce her to vampirism—but for her to find out in such a way…
A vise formed around his chest. If she fled, she might attract the attention of the hunters.
He couldn’t allow it. But the idea of locking her up like a prisoner made him sick to his stomach.
“Shall I return her to her room?” Smith asked. “I could speak to her. Explain that you did me no harm.”
Marcus ran a hand through his hair. “Ah…no. Leave it to me.”
Smith rubbed his hands together and shifted on his feet.
“Stop fretting.” Marcus gathered Winifred in his arms. Rising proved a greater challenge, but he pushed through the lingering ache in his thighs until he was back on his feet. Only then did Smith depart.
Marcus proceeded slowly toward Winifred’s room, not wanting her to awaken in his arms after her shock. His strength should have been completely restored after consuming so much human blood, but his right knee made an unpleasant clicking sound with each step.
At least the hunger that had churned in his gut was gone and he could think clearly once again. He had to offer Winifred answers, but first he had to give her a reason to stay. As he would not force himself into her presence, that meant finding some other way to communicate.
They had started with letters, so that was how he’d proceed.
When he arrived at her room, he laid her gently atop the bed.
She looked so peaceful in slumber that he dared to touch his lips to her temple.
Then he grabbed a sheet of paper from a drawer in her desk and hurriedly scrawled out the words that poured from his heart, not bothering to correct any mistakes or clean smudges when he accidentally drew his thumb across freshly written ink.
She did not stir once, although he paused several times to anxiously confirm she was still breathing easily. He told himself he did this out of concern for her welfare, but it was also a stalling tactic. After he left, he might never see her again.
It was likely she would not understand what she’d seen.
She would be confused and frightened and would expect him to act like a monster.
What he needed to do was remind her he was the same man she’d traveled across the ocean to marry.
Once she understood that, and the importance of not revealing his secret, he would offer her freedom.
It would shatter what was left of his heart, but he had orchestrated his death before and would do so again if necessary.
He placed the finished letter on her desk, then checked on his beautiful, brave Winifred once more.
She’d drooled on her pillow and there was a faint scent of blood, likely from an abrasion acquired during her fall, but her pulse was steady.
He longed to remain at her side, but she deserved a chance to recover from what she’d seen in privacy.
Her spectacles had tumbled to the floor. He placed them atop her commode, then forced himself to exit the room. As the door closed, he leaned his forehead against it and sighed.
“Quite a mess,” Cordon said.
Marcus faced his brother. “How long have you been watching?”
Cordon narrowed his eyes. “You do me a disservice, brother. I arrived mere moments ago. Smith told me what occurred.”
Marcus was torn between relief and embarrassment.
The former because he had never felt so alone and the latter because he hated Cordon knowing that his brother had lost control.
At least Smith’s donation had strengthened him, although he didn’t feel nearly as powerful as he had after consuming a single drop of Winifred’s blood.
Yet another way she was different. That was a mystery he would attempt to solve after the crisis ended.
“What will you do if she runs?” Cordon asked.
“She will not.”
Cordon put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “You threaten our existence.”
“Did you not do the same when you told Katherine?”
Cordon scowled. “Kitty knew what I was before we married. Had she balked when I told her I was a vampire, I could have asked Seraphina to erase her memories and there would have been no record of our relationship. You cannot say the same for you and Winifred.” He ran a hand through his hair.
“You are behaving recklessly, brother. It is not like you.”
“Do not test me,” Marcus said. He’d given his younger brother more chances than he would have allowed from any of his other siblings out of guilt for not joining Cordon when his brother had thought he’d been dying. But the disrespect could not continue.
Cordon tightened his grip. “You aren’t thinking clearly.”
Marcus’s patience snapped. He forced his blood through his palm until it formed a scarlet dagger, then spun around and pressed the blade against Cordon’s throat. He might regret fighting his brother later, but the turmoil raging inside him made it easy to set those concerns aside.
Cordon’s eyes turned a vibrant blue but dipped his head. “I apologize. I overstepped.”
“Allow me until sunrise to speak to her,” Marcus said as the dagger melted back into his palm. “If, after that, you still believe she is a threat, then I will summon Seraphina.”
Neither he nor his brother could erase so many of Winifred’s memories, but their eldest sister possessed that skill. Marcus had not called upon her to use her talent for decades, but he would not hesitate to do so if Winifred threatened his family.
“She will fear you,” Cordon said.
Marcus strolled past his brother and descended the steps. “I know.”