Part 22 (1/2)

Ellie, however, knew better than to a.s.sume capitulation on her mother's behalf. Until the word ”yes” audibly crossed her mother's lips, the battle had not been won.

”A lovely girl, isn't she, Mama?”

”Don't try my patience, Elspeth.”

”Just let me do this one last thing. Let me have a small taste of freedom, of friends.h.i.+p. Of belonging. Then I'll go wherever you wish.”

Ellie stepped forward until she was but an arm's length from her mother. Miss Breckenridge's birthday party had become the most imperative engagement of her life.

They desperately needed the money-now more than ever, if another infernal cross-country trip loomed scant days hence. But even more than that, Ellie wanted to go. She wanted to see the estate so smothered with messy riches, to hear the music of an orchestra swell around her. And, if she was being honest, she really wanted to lay eyes on Mr. Macane once more. Not because she gave Miss Breckenridge's fear of Lord Lovenip any credence, but because Ellie rather liked him.

He'd danced with her. Perhaps he'd do so again.

”Please, Mama.” Following her mother's example, Ellie kept her voice calm and reasonable. ”I don't wish to fight. I would just like to spend a few days with a friend before we run off yet again to some remote place where we won't know a single soul.”

Mama's eyes narrowed. ”A girls' weekend, she said. Just the two of you and a kitten?”

”And her parents, of course,” Ellie put in quickly, lest her mother denounce the plan due to a lack of proper supervision.

”Very well,” her mother said with an appraising once-over and a sigh. ”But do not make me regret this.”

”Truly?” Ellie's stomach dipped in a swirl of glee and apprehension. ”I can go?”

”We can go,” Mama corrected with a sharp nod. ”I'm coming with you.”

Chapter Five.

Cain cursed whatever demon had incited him to descend upon the Breckenridge country estate perched atop a whip of a curricle.

Vampires might be immortal, but immortality did not exempt one from the discomfort of foul weather. Thunderclouds enshrouded the sky, echoing Cain's darkening mood. Where he had once been hopeful that tonight was the night he would encounter his elusive prey, now he was simply hopeful he'd encounter a roof, and with luck, a fire. He was s.h.i.+vering and soaking wet and miserable.

So were his horses.

The beasts no longer believed him when he promised their destination must be around the next bend. The ragged lightning coursing across the sky terrified the grays as much as the roaring thunder that followed. Yet the intermittent flashes of bright white shooting across the thick woods were the only source of light along the serpentine trail. His favorite mount had thrown a shoe over one of the many patches of fist-sized rocks atop unstable mud. But the smartest choice was to continue on. His lodgings were already an hour past, and his home a forgotten memory until he, as hunter, returned with the prize.

Rain-blurred lights flickered around the next bend. In his excitement, he scarce discerned a small, dark shape huddled directly in the path. His horses reared. Cain barely wrangled them under control in time to avert their course. He might have missed the trembling ball of mange altogether, had it not whined plaintively upon the realization it was about to be trampled to death.

Cain leaped from his rain-soaked perch, barely vaulting over his skittish horses. He landed hard on his left shoulder, but did his best to ignore the sickening snap and the sharp flash of pain. There was no time. He scooped up the s.h.i.+vering pile of wet fur and rolled out of the way seconds ere they both would've had the full weight of a pair-and-carriage squelching them into the mud.

If his horses had been alarmed before, now they were altogether panicked. They shot off along the pitch-black trail at a suicidal pace, the phaeton clattering perilously behind. Unsteadily, Cain hauled himself to his feet. He tipped his face into the driving rain and let the pelting drops clear the dirt from his eyes before bending his head to inspect the bundle quaking in his arms.

A puppy.

It licked his face, and Cain laughed despite himself. He'd lost his curricle, lost his horses, and broken his collarbone, but he'd managed to save the life of a half-drowned puppy.

”Stupid creature,” he scolded under his breath, but scratched its ears anyway.

He knew better than to stop for animals. He definitely knew better than to pick them up and cuddle them to his chest. But he loved animals and couldn't resist rubbing the puppy's belly and scratching behind its ears.

Wincing, Cain set off after his horses, puppy in hand and mud dripping from his face. When he'd accepted the Breckenridge invitation, he had wished to make an Appearance-and d.a.m.n his arrogance, now he certainly would.

His clothes were ruined, his hair a fright, and his shoulder ... Och, at least the snapped bone wasn't protruding from his skin.

Had he been in Scotland, he would've already procured the sustenance necessary for rapid healing. But he was in G.o.dforsaken England trying to pa.s.s for human. Regardless, no maiden in her right mind would offer a nip to a mud-stained rogue in such abominable condition. He would simply have to give his best careless-rake smile and feign nothing was amiss. The usual.

”Well,” he murmured to the s.h.i.+vering puppy. ”If we're to be stuck with each other, we might as well introduce ourselves. You can call me Cain. And I'll call you ...” He studied the puppy in his arms. Light brown fur, dark brown eyes, a quick, wet tongue, and a whip of a tail that managed to slap Cain's tender shoulder and spray dog-scented rainwater into his eyes with every swipe. ”The more I think on it, the more I come to believe you're the one who should be called Cain,” he informed the recalcitrant puppy, and was rewarded with exuberant face-licking. ”As that's already taken, you'll have to settle for ... Moch-eirigh.”

Closing his eyes, Cain shook his head in self-disgust. He'd lost his mind and named the d.a.m.n thing. Hadn't he sworn to himself a thousand times over that his puppy-adopting days were done? And hadn't he triply sworn that he was done torturing himself by giving animals names that reminded him of home, and of things he could never, would never, see again? He'd named his grays Sunrise and Sunset, and now he'd gone and named the puppy Early Riser. As he had been, once. Back when it was a joy to greet the dawn and spend the day awash in suns.h.i.+ne.

A regular glutton for punishment, he was. He deserved the bittersweet reminder of who and what he was.

He took a deep breath-which only served to unbalance both dog and collarbone, and was unnecessary for survival in any case-and tramped forward into the night, his eyes squinting against the onslaught of rain. The puppy snuggled tight against his unbeating heart. They both desperately needed a bite to eat, so the sooner they descended upon the festivities, the better.

After what felt like miles but was likely no more than ten minutes of cursing and stumbling, Cain could fully make out the Breckenridge estate looming up from the darkness. Unlike Cain, his horses were apparently in no rush to make themselves known. Instead, the grays stood perpendicular on the muddy path, their faces buried in a thatch of rain-battered gra.s.s.

He managed to fetch the ribbons without dropping the puppy and hauled himself back onto his perch. With a tug, his horses abandoned their meal and resumed the miserable trudge to the Breckenridge stables. The ceaseless rain managed to cleanse nearly all the mud from both Cain and puppy, but had no ameliorating effect whatever on tangled fur or ripped linen.

The swarm of liverymen who rushed to greet the carriage had enough breeding to hide any shock at Cain's appearance-or perhaps he was not the only guest to have arrived worse for wear from the vicious downpour. A stroke of fortune, since he was scarcely in any condition to Compel the minds of a dozen servants at once.

Nonetheless, brown and bedraggled was not at all the impression Cain hoped to make upon the weekend revelers, and his sole request of the obsequious footmen was to be granted admittance through a side door, so as not to cause a stir. This pet.i.tion caused startled blinks all around, but in short order Cain found himself welcomed to Breckenridge via the connected conservatory, and ushered to sumptuous guest quarters featuring both a crackling fire and a large bath.

Heaven, Cain decided the instant he sank into clean, warm water. h.e.l.l, he amended, upon the unexpected accompaniment of his new puppy.

By the time the dinner bell sounded, Cain felt ... well, if not like a new man, then at least like a reinvigorated Scottish warrior disguised as a harmless-and shameless-Society flirt. He had played this role for so long that sometimes he almost forgot he was acting. Both personas were men of single mind. The real Cain just wanted to return to his homeland with the missing vampire securely in hand. The false Cain just wanted the mysterious Miss Ramsay in hand. Rather, his hands on her bonny face, the fragile curve of her neck, the ample swell of her- He groaned and considered dumping himself back into the oversize tub, dinner clothes and all. He meant the false Cain just wanted women. All women. Any women. The sillier the better, so as to afford greater access to the sweet nectar flowing hot beneath their perfect skin.

Why, then, had Miss Ramsay sprung to mind? She was far from silly, more warrior-like than waiflike, and she had no business whatever strong-arming his thought processes. Given that he was apparently the only one to have registered her presence at the Wedgeworth rout, they were unlikely to cross paths amongst the high-nosed Breckenridge set. And he was unlikely to cross paths with anyone at all, if the only thing he intended to do all weekend was kneel on the floor getting dog hair all over his gloves and breeches.

With a final pat for the puppy, Cain pushed to his feet and slipped out the door. Or he would have, had Moch-eirigh not been of a mind to follow along between her new master's boots. Thus began a ten-minute farce wherein Cain and the puppy chased each other in and out of the doorway as they attempted to settle their difference of opinion. Cain won the battle, but only just. After securing the door, he leaned against the thick mahogany to pluck one-handedly at the stubborn puppy hairs clinging to his lawn and buckskin. He was thus engaged-though he pretended to be merely catching his breath-when the youngest daughter of his hosts entered the corridor bearing a lit candle.

”Miss Breckenridge.” He bent in a deep bow. ”Felicitations on your birthday.”

The girl in question nearly jumped out of her skin. She apparently had not noticed his presence in the sunken shadows of his closed doorway. Now that he had made himself known, the horror in her visage seemed to indicate she rather suspected him of wis.h.i.+ng to celebrate by ravis.h.i.+ng her right there in the hallway. He wasn't sure whether it was good manners or panicked indecision that held her frozen stiff, just ten paces away.

Presumably having decided between abandoning whatever mission set her in this direction and continuing on her path, she inched forward, albeit keeping comically close to the far wall.

”How do you do, Mr. Macane.” She inclined her head, but did not offer her hand. Instead, she lifted a gloved finger to her neckline and tugged a slender chain into view. A moment later, the chain's pendant was revealed to be a delicate silver cross.

Cain cut his sharp gaze to her face, where Miss Breckenridge's previous panic had been replaced by a highly suspect expression of wide-eyed innocence. She knew! No-how could she know? Besides, if she knew, she would hardly have admitted him for a weekend house party. And yet, his hunter instincts reminded him that nothing was ever coincidence. Particularly as his hostess continued to finger the silver cross and search his face for clues as to his reaction.

Moch-eirigh took that moment to ram into the other side of the bedchamber door. Cain whirled around to verify the security of the latch that, for the moment, appeared to hold. The puppy's plaintive cries, however, were far from m.u.f.fled. Nor were the unmistakable scratching noises of her tiny claws rending against the antique wood. Blast. Cain was not so foolish as to open the door and risk whatever wild behavior his new puppy longed to enact. Nor was he so foolish as to imagine his hostess would be remotely pleased at what were bound to be permanent scratch marks marring the interior panel of the door.

But when he turned around, to his surprise Moch-eirigh had succeeded where Cain had not-Miss Breckenridge was disarmed completely.

The silver cross was still visible, but lay forgotten against the lace fichu of her gown. Her candle listed precariously in her outstretched hand, and she was goggling at him with nothing short of wonder. Incredulous wonder, perhaps, but wonder nonetheless.

”You have a dog?” she demanded, her voice pitched high with the same level of shock in which another person might have asked, You have fangs?