Chapter Twenty-Four
Winifred all but skipped down the hall, her cheeks aching from grinning.
Marcus was everything she’d ever desired in a husband; intelligent, kind, and attentive to her needs.
As it turned out, she had many needs. Her appetite in one area was voracious, but he had proven more than capable of satisfying it.
After their vigorous activity, she felt as if she had been using muscles she didn’t know she possessed.
They had yet to truly consummate their union, but that milestone seemed within reach.
She wasn’t sure why that one act mattered so much, but Marcus’s reluctance made her oddly determined.
When she arrived at the library, she picked up the first of the books her husband had once again left on her table. To no surprise, it was another occult manuscript. She’d meant to ask him about his choice of material, but every time they were alone, she found herself consumed by other matters.
She opened the book. The first chapter gave a history of vampirism as far as the author was aware, starting in the sixteenth century.
It also included what amounted to a vampire family tree, with many branching paths.
The most prolific of the vampires described had made more than a hundred fledglings, as the book called them.
The author did not elaborate on how these vampires were born but alluded to a sharing of blood.
She jotted that down for a topic of future research.
The people listed, she guessed, were like suspected witches in Salem.
Poor souls who’d been persecuted likely for matters beyond their control.
If Marcus had been alive and suffering his attacks during the same era, he would likely have been branded a witch or a vampire, too.
She found it tremendously ironic that her species had invented monstrous creatures to explain things they did not understand when it was humanity that possessed unfathomable depths of cruelty.
Vampires might drink the blood of innocents, but she’d yet to find stories of any who’d branded children the way her uncle had.
She flipped the pages until one name caught her attention.
Lucius Sorrow.
Her maternal great-grandfather.
A distant whine, like a kettle, drowned out the crackling of the fire. She might have dismissed it as a coincidence except for the small symbol of a sun next to his name.
She rubbed her sore neck with one hand. There was no reason to be alarmed.
Seeing one of her ancestors in an ancient text meant nothing.
Then she noticed the writing at the top of the page and stiffened.
She’d apparently passed the chapter on suspected vampires and moved onto something quite different: vampire hunters.
If she was reading correctly, Lucius Sorrow was credited with taking dozens of lives.
But that was impossible. The stories her mother had told her as a young girl were just that—stories.
She slammed the book shut as if it had bitten her and shoved it aside.
After the night her uncle had burned the sun into her and Felicity’s flesh, she had turned her back on her family lore.
The manuscript in front of her had to be a forgery because the only other possibility was that the tales she had been told as a girl were true and she was the product of a line of murderers that went back centuries.
She closed her eyes but could not chase the memory of the pages from her mind.
Hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent people slaughtered because of a misguided belief in creatures that did not exist.
She wandered out of the library in a haze and returned to her room. When she arrived, there was a letter waiting. The exact distraction she required. She snatched it and cracked the seal.
Winifred,
I must see you at once. As I am uncertain if this letter will be intercepted, I cannot say more, but please understand that I would not ask you to do this if it were not urgent.
Our uncle is accompanying me to the Glasgow museum, where several Sorrow family artifacts are to be placed on display in a temporary exhibit.
Please write back as soon as you can and let me know if you could join me for a few days.
I am certain we can create a sufficient distraction to keep him away for a few hours.
We will be staying at the following hotel…
The tone of the letter was alarming. Winifred found a blank sheet of paper and composed a response that she would, of course, meet her cousin at the specified hotel.
She would have to broach the subject with Marcus, given that he couldn’t join her on the journey, but surely, he wouldn’t refuse her request. When she finished the letter, she sealed it and set it aside.
Even if it didn’t reach Felicity in time, she knew her cousin would assume she would join her by any means necessary.
The knowledge that she would soon see Felicity again lifted her spirits.
They had so much to talk about. She stood from her desk and busied herself with rifling through her wardrobe to select outfits for her trip.
It was the job of her lady’s maid, but she didn’t care.
Anything was better than thinking about that manuscript and what it meant that Marcus had left it for her.
Had he wanted her to see Lucius’s name?
She would not be staying in Glasgow long, but her red corduroy walking suit would be perfect for the crowded city streets.
Maybe Marcus had known her family’s shameful history all along, and this was his way of telling her.
Her silver, velvet dress was tempting, but the weather was too warm, and it was unlikely she would have the opportunity to attend social events. She heaved it out of the closet, anyway, and was in the process of shoving it in a trunk when she heard a knock.
“Come in,” she said, without looking up.
The door creaked open, and Winifred heard a soft gasp. “My lady, you must allow me to do that!”
Winifred looked down at the half-full trunk and straightened. Keenan was correct. She’d become so desperate to forget what she’d seen that she’d engrossed herself in the task as a distraction.
Keenan bustled over to the wardrobe as Winifred perched on the chair in front of her dressing mirror.
“Do you ken which activities you might partake in?” Keenan asked as she folded a blue silk day dress.
“I will not be staying in Glasgow long. Perhaps a day or two.”
Her new marriage was too important to remain away for much longer. She’d left Toronto prepared to accept a life focused on scientific and academic pursuit. Instead, she’d found a relationship that was more fulfilling than publishing any number of papers.
Keenan pulled open a thin drawer, selected several pairs of gloves, and tucked them into the trunk. “Will my lord be joining you?”
Winifred straightened. Keenan’s careful tone suggested there was more to the question than initially appeared. Every servant Marcus employed knew he’d remained trapped inside its walls for a decade.
“The earl will remain here,” Winifred said.
Keenan did not reply but uttered a soft sigh. That was not a surprise. In the short time she’d spent at the castle, she had quickly realized how much the staff were concerned about their master. She could not blame them. It was not healthy for anyone to spend so much time alone.
She fiddled with the fabric of her dress. She had been raised to believe that a lady did not converse with their servants about casual matters, but talking pushed back her growing unease that there was something very important she was forgetting. “What was the earl like before I arrived?”
Keenan was quiet for several seconds before she lifted her chin and met Winifred’s gaze. “We were quite anxious, if I am honest, my lady.”
“How long have you worked here?” Winifred asked. Now that she had started the line of questions, she felt compelled to continue. Other than the few stories he’d told through their letters, she knew so little about him.
“Four years, my lady,” Keenan said. “I was a housemaid prior to your arrival.”
Winifred turned to the window. The last rays of sunlight had turned the sky into a lovely canvas of pinks and blues.
Marcus would soon awaken, and she needed to tell him about Glasgow.
She left Keenan to pack and made her way through the halls to his room until her feet suddenly stopped in the same place she’d seen Marcus embracing his valet.
Her husband had claimed Smith had been helping him recover from weakness, but her memory supplied something different, an image of Marcus with protruding fangs and a blood-stained mouth.
No. That was impossible. Despite her parents’ stories, vampires were nothing more than a folktale spread by superstitious villagers who interpreted anomalies in the natural world by inventing impossible creatures.
Even her occult-obsessed cousin would likely find the idea of Marcus being a vampire preposterous.
But the more she resisted the idea, the more she remembered things she’d tried to forget.
Her uncle showing her how to sharpen a wooden stake.
Marcus cringing away from a beam of sunlight.
Felicity whispering warnings on the day of the wedding.
Vincent Sorrow sneering as he’d called Marcus a “monster.” Her husband moaning as he’d licked blood from her cut and from between her legs.
The way his eyes had glowed bright blue as he’d bared his fangs from behind Smith.
Oh, God. She’d known at some level for days but had refused to acknowledge it.
The tales her mother had told her were true.
Vampires were real, and her husband was one of them.
She’d taken his kindness as evidence that he differed from the men she’d considered as potential husbands in Toronto, but this difference was far worse than she’d imagined.
“So, you figured it out.”
Winifred stumbled back against a wall, but it was only Marcus’s brother Cordon leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
The tightness of his features and his posture were so familiar that she was overwhelmed with the sense she’d lived this moment before.
Then she realized she had. After she’d seen Marcus with Smith and collapsed, she’d found him outside her room, looking precisely as stern as he did now.
He held out an envelope.
She accepted it. “Is this…?”
“The letter I took from you?” His lips quirked. “Yes.”
Her pulse pounded in her head as she tore it open.
Winifred,
I can only express my most sincere apology and assure you that no harm will come to you while you remain in this castle. Nor is my valet injured, and he has assured me he is prepared to speak to you to confirm that fact.
You deserve the truth. I have lied to you, my dearest. My human life ended many years ago. What remains in this body is a creature of darkness.
Her knees buckled. She thumped to the floor and touched her chest, where the burn rested beneath all those layers of fabric. Even though she had rejected her ancestors, they remained with her, their blood pumping through her body, as unchangeable as the mark emblazoned on her skin.
Marcus was a vampire, and she was a descendent of vampire hunters. Her uncle had only claimed there was a feud between their families because he’d known she would not have believed the truth.
A hysterical giggle traveled up her throat. No wonder her uncle had been furious at her marriage. They were like Romeo and Juliet, although she hoped their fates weren’t heading in the same direction as Shakespeare’s lovers.
Lucius Sorrow had killed dozens of vampires. How many had her uncle killed? Did Felicity know? Was that why she’d acted so strangely before their uncle had taken her away?
Winifred leaned so that her head rested against the cold, stone wall. Dwelling on what might happen next would not help her. If she was to become a scholar, she must approach this new information rationally.
If vampires were real, then they must be a different species.
Perhaps, like Darwin’s finches, humans had evolved to adapt to different environments.
The pounding in her head faded. Yes, that was much better.
Thinking of Marcus in scientific terms took him out of the realm of mythology and into something much more logical.
After all, society often feared that which it could not adequately explain, and there were still things being discussed regarding electricity that defied explanation.
She cracked her stiff shoulders and returned to the letter.
What I have not lied about is how much I care about you.
From the moment I received your first letter, I felt a strong connection between us.
That is the reason I now write. If what you now know about me means you can no longer abide my presence, then I will do as I have done several times in my long existence and arrange my own “death.” The title, granted to me by Queen Victoria, will pass to one of my siblings, but you will have a generous widow’s portion.
You will be free to do as you wish and shall have the means to support yourself for the rest of your life.
Her eyes burned. The words could not have been penned by a monster. She could practically feel the sadness radiating from the page. She skimmed through the last of what he’d written before she lost her courage.
But if you choose to stay, I will agree to any terms you set. Consider, for example, that the journals I provided were not written by my grandfather, but are my own words, and there are many more. You may have them all, and as much of my time as you wish to devote to research.
Do not fear me, Winifred. I would gouge out my heart before I would allow any harm to come to you.
Yours,
Marcus
The tears she’d successfully forced back dripped down her cheeks.
The emotion in his writing tugged at her heart, even as she acknowledged the bait he’d set on the hook.
If she understood him correctly, Marcus had lived for hundreds of years.
That meant he possessed firsthand knowledge of significant historical events and might share that knowledge with her.
It was an opportunity that would have made any scholar salivate, and she was no exception.
All she had to do was continue to live with a vampire.