| "Please, sir, I beg
you, have the driver slow the coach!" Sara cried. "We shall tip over
at this pace." Clinging to the hand strap, she held the bonnet on
her head as the carriage sped toward the summit with horses at full gallop
in the darkness. They’d been traveling at breakneck speed since they
passed through the spiked iron gates at the bottom of the approach to Ravencliff,
as though the hounds of hell were nipping at the horses’ hooves.
"We need to maintain
such a pace on this steep incline," the man replied. "Take ease, my dear,
the coachman knows what he’s about."
Peering out of the
window at the sheer-faced drop to the rocky shoreline below, Sara doubted
that. The road—if one could call it that—didn’t appear wide enough
for another coach to pass. There was no shoulder. All that
separated them from the edge of the bluff was the remains of a low, stacked
stone fence on the sea side, while a high wall of granite looming over
the road on the other seemed to nudge them toward impending calamity.
The sound of loose
pebbles and crumbling earth raining down over the rocks as they streaked
along all but stopped her heart. Below, towering, white-capped combers
pounded the strand, the echo of their thunder amplified by a cottony fog
ghosting in off the water with the turn of the tide. Chased by the
risen wind, it climbed the cliff and crept across the road obscuring Sara’s
view through gaps in the broken fence. She shuddered. If she
couldn’t see how could the coachman?
The wheel struck a
rut, and the coach listed, hesitating. The road was pockmarked with
them. The crack of the driver’s whip, and guttural shouts to the
horses soon set it in motion again, every spring and seam in the dilapidated
equipage groaning under the strain.
Sara sank back against
the cold leather squabs, and shut her eyes, certain that any moment the
post chaise would topple over the edge—coachman, groom, horses, and all.
As if he’d read her thoughts her gentleman, traveling companion passed
a guttural chuckle.
"We are almost there,
Baroness Walraven," he said. "But for the fog, you’d be able to see Ravencliff
once we round the next bend. Have no fear, I shall deliver you to
your bridegroom all of a piece, you have my word."
Baroness Walraven.
Her heart leapt at the sound of it. She must be mad. Marrying a man
she hadn’t even met.
"You aren’t having
second thoughts?" he said. "It’s a bit too late for that now, my dear."
"I’ve been having ‘second
thoughts’ since you came to me with this bizarre proposal, Mr. Mallory."
Again he chuckled.
"In that case, you should have voiced them before accompanying me all the
way to Scotland to finalize it," he said. "There’s nothing to be
done about it now."
"That is what puzzles
me," Sara returned. "If the baron was so anxious to marry me, ‘to our mutual
betterment’, I believe it was you said, how is it that he couldn’t come
in person? Why did he send you, his steward, as proxy? That’s
insulting. Even under these peculiar circumstances."
"I’m crushed," he said,
feigning heartbreak, "And we made such a handsome couple, too."
"What if I don’t suit
the baron?" Sara said, ignoring his flirtations wink. Wasn’t the
man full of himself, though? He was handsome, and he knew it, fair-haired
and fashionable, impeccably dressed, and cultured, the second son of a
baronet, to hear him tell it. She wasn’t impressed.
"Oh, I wouldn’t worry
about that," he replied, sliding familiar eyes then length of her.
They were the color
of steel, and just as cold. "But if, by some unlikely happenstance such
should be the case," he went on, "I’ll be only too happy to oblige
you. I thoroughly enjoyed our…nuptials."
Sara wasn’t about to
distinguish that remark with an answer, but he was right. What was
done was done, and there was no doubt that he looked down upon her for
consenting to such an arrangement. Had the nodcock forgotten where
he’d come to make the baron’s offer?
After six months in
the Fleet Debtor’s Prison, she’d have considered a marriage proposal from
the devil himself to buy herself free. Would her bridegroom look
down upon her for it, too? She shuddered to wonder.
How the mysterious
baron had heard of her predicament puzzled her, although she’d been told
that oftentimes benefactors would offer for the inmates of such places
as the Fleet. That hers was an offer of marriage, and not something
more indelicate should have been a comfort, she supposed, but it wasn’t.
The plain fact was she had consented to wed a man she’d never even seen—by
proxy, mind—and let a total stranger deliver her to him in this inhospitable
place in exchange for payment of her debt. The exact details of the
arrangement were yet to be disclosed. Aside from Mallory’s insistence
that all proprieties would be strictly observed, and a well-written proposal
from the baron that was too good to resist, she had no idea what lay in
store. It couldn’t be worse than the hellish nightmare she’d just
come from…could it?
"Will the baron be
in residence to greet us, at least, Mr. Mallory?" she said.
"Why don’t you call
me ‘Alex’, my dear," he replied. "We shall be seeing quite a bit of each
other, you know. I’m often at the manor. I keep rooms there…for
when I’m not abroad on estate business." He popped another chuckle.
"You’ll likely see more of me than you will of your husband, truth to tell.
He keeps to himself, does Nicholas."
"Then, why—"
"You will have to take
the whys and wherefores up with him, my dear," he interrupted. "I
am not at liberty to disclose his objectives."
"You haven’t answered
my first question, Mr. Mallory," she said, making sure he didn’t miss her
rejection of his offer to put them on a first name basis. "Is his lordship
in residence now?"
He consulted his pocket
watch. "Oh, he’s in residence," he replied. "Whether he’s available or
not, I really couldn’t say—" he tucked the watch away again inside his
waistcoat "—but I shan’t be. Once I’ve delivered you to the manor,
I’m off to London for a sennight to collect his houseguest, and give you
two some time to yourselves."
Sara hadn’t missed
the seductive implications in his tone, and said no more, the less discourse
with this individual the better. She’d seen too many like him in
the Fleet. She tugged her spencer into shape, and ordered her traveling
dress of dove-gray twill. It had gone limp in the bone-chilling dampness
that had run her through like a javelin since they sighted the sea.
Though the coach windows were closed, she tasted the salt on her lips.
The fog still blocked her view, but that was no hardship. It spared her
the sight of the restless sea rolling up the coast below, creaming over
the rocky shingle, and filling the tide pools that lived in the coves.
It would have been a breathtaking sight by day. In the dark, it was
a fearsome thing.
"Look," Mallory said,
pointing, as the chaise careened around yet another turn. "Ravencliff.
You see? We have arrived."
Sara’s breath caught.
The sight knit the bones rigid in her spine. The house was in darkness,
a huge, rambling, structure steeped in the fog to its turrets, looming
three stories high above the courtyard. It was crowned with a pair
of carved stone ravens, set like gargoyles in the eves. It looked
deserted. All at once, the dissipating mist drifted inland, as though
the carriage had dispersed it tooling into the drive, and she gasped again.
Rising from the sheer-faced sea wall, Ravencliff Manor looked as though
it had been hewn from the rockbound cliff it crouched upon.
The coachman reined
the horses in, locked the brake, and climbed down to set the steps. The
mist had soaked him through from his wide-brimmed hat to the red traveling
shawl he wore beneath his coat—the only splotch of color in the vicinity—glistening
in the light of the coach lamps. Meanwhile, the groom, likewise drenched,
hopped off the dickey behind, and began unloading luggage from the boot.
"Not those," Mallory
spoke up, exiting the chaise, as the man began to un-strap the two portmanteaux
on top. "They are mine. I’m not staying." He offered Sara his
hand, and she stepped down into swirling mist that all but hid the Welsh
blue stone crunching underfoot.
"Come along, my dear,"
he said. "Unless I miss my guess that’s a flaw brewing, and I want to be
on level ground again before it hits."
"A flaw?" she
questioned.
"That’s what the locals
call the wicked storms that plague this coast, especially now, in spring.
You’ll not want to venture out in one.
The winds will blow
you right over the cliff, a mere wisp of a girl like yourself. You’d
best keep away from the edge even in fair weather."
They had reached the
entrance, and Mallory banged the brass knocker. After a moment the
door opened, and they were greeted by an aging butler and two wigged footmen
dressed in blue and gold livery. Mallory ushered her over the threshold,
and raised her gloved hand to his lips.
"Forgive my want of
conduct running off like this," he said, returning her hand to her dutifully
kissed, "but all good things must come to an end. You’re quite safe
in the custody of Smythe here, Baroness Walraven. He will see to
your every need. It has indeed been my pleasure, but now I must away."
Sketching a bow, he
bounded down the steps and disappeared inside the coach, whose wheels were
rolling over the blue stone drive before he’d settled back against the
squabs.
The footmen rushed
past to fetch Sara’s luggage. There wasn’t much, one portmanteau and a
small valise containing necessities bought in London. The rest was
to be provided at Ravencliff. Once they’d brought them inside, the butler
shut the door, and slid the bolt.
"Take Baroness Walraven’s
bags up to the tapestry suite," he charged them. He turned to Sara.
"If you will follow me, madam," he said, "Baron Walraven awaits you in
the study."
So he was in residence.
She almost wished he wasn’t. What would he think of her in her damp,
clinging traveling costume? She tried to tuck the wet tendrils plastered
to her cheeks underneath her bonnet, but it was no use. There were
just too many. To her surprise, since it had seemed so dark from
outside, candles set in branches on marble tables, and in wall sconces
lit the Great Hall, and the corridors they traveled. They did little
to chase the gloom. There was a palpable presence of sorrow in the
house, in the stale, musty air, and the melancholy echo of their footfalls
on the terrazzo floors.
Just for a second,
Sara thought she heard the patter of dog’s feet padding along behind.
She turned, but there was nothing there, and after a moment, she turned
back to find the butler watching.
"Is something amiss,
madam?" he queried.
"I thought I heard
a dog," she said, feeling foolish now that the corridor behind as far as
she could see was vacant.
"The house groans with
age now and again," he said, resuming his pace. "You’ll hear all sorts
of peculiar noises, especially when the wind picks up. It’s naught to worry
over."
When they reached the
study door, Smythe knocked, but there was no response at first. It wasn’t
until he paused a moment and knocked a second time that the Baron bade
them enter, and the butler ushered her into a large room, walled in books.
Dark draperies were drawn at the windows. But for a branch of candles
on a stand beside the wing chair Nicholas Walraven occupied, and a feeble
fire burning in the hearth, the room was steeped in shadow.
Sara flinched as the door snapped shut behind her in the butler’s hand.
The baron set the tome he’d been perusing aside and surged to his feet,
taking her measure.
Alexander Mallory had
provided her with a description of her bridegroom, but he hadn’t prepared
her for the reality of the man. She assessed him to be in his mid-thirties,
a striking figure, tall and slender, though well muscled. The Egyptian
cotton shirt he wore tucked into skin-tight black pantaloons was open at
the neck, giving a glimpse of chest hair beneath. It matched the
hair—as black as his namesake, the raven—waving about his earlobes, and
falling in a rakish manner across his broad brow. The deep-set eyes
beneath, dilated in the darkness, shone like obsidian. They had the
power to hypnotize.
"Please be seated,"
he said, gesturing toward a Chippendale chair on the opposite side of the
Aubusson carpet. "This needn’t be awkward unless you make it so."
"Forgive me for staring,"
she said, sinking into the offered chair. "I didn’t expect, I mean to say…Mr.
Mallory didn’t exactly prepare me for…all this." What had really
tied her tongue was why such a man as he needed to resort to these outrageous
lengths to get a wife.
"Have you eaten?" he
asked. His deep voice resonated through her body, striking chords
in places hitherto untouched in such a manner, and she shifted uneasily
in the chair.
"I have, sir," she
replied, "at the coaching station inn on Bodmin Moor."
"Would you like a glass
of sherry, or perhaps something…stronger, to warm you?"
"No, thank you," she
said. "I do not take strong spirits."
Walraven did not resume
his seat. Instead, he strolled to the desk, and leaned against it
half-sitting on the edge with one well-turned thigh draped over the side
in a casual pose. His polished Hessians shone in the candle glow,
and the flickering firelight cast shadows that played about the deep cleft
in his chin. No. Alexander Mallory did not do the man justice
at all.
"Naturally, you have
questions," he said in that throaty baritone voice that had such a shocking
effect upon her. "To save time, how much has Alex told you?"
"Only that your offer
was an honorable one, that all proprieties would be strictly observed,
that the arrangement was to our…mutual betterment, and that you would provide
the details once I arrived."
"Did he give you my
missive?"
"Yes," she said, studying
the folded hands in her lap. Her heart skipped its rhythm.
His eyes had picked up red glints from the fire. They were burning toward
her like live coals. She couldn’t meet them. "A most gracious invitation,
Baron Walraven," she murmured.
"That won’t do," he
said. "You shall call me Nicholas, and I shall call you Sara—when we are
alone, commencing now. You shall need to get used to doing so. You
are Sara Ponsonby no longer. We are husband and wife, and you must
present that image. The private familiarity will help you adjust
to that. On State occasions, you are Baroness Walraven, of course,
more informally, Sara Walraven, which is how you will sign your documents.
Is this clear to you?"
"Y-yes, Bar—Nicholas."
His name did not roll off her tongue. It was all too new.
"Very well," he said.
"Would you remove your bonnet, please?"
Sara was hoping he
wouldn’t ask her to do that, not until she’d had time to order herself.
Hot blood rushed to her temples. Blushing was her most grievous fault,
the curse of her fair-skinned heritage. She didn’t need a mirror
to tell her she was blushing now. Her cheeks were on fire. The heat
rising from them narrowed her eyes.
"Please," he repeated,
prompting her with a hand gesture. Sara removed the bonnet, and he
arched his brow. "I see you are no slave to fashion," he observed."
"Sir?"
"Your hair," he said.
"You haven’t cropped it after the current craze."
"With so much upon
me of late, I’ve hardly had time to think of fashion," she returned. Was
her reply too snappish? She feared so, but it was too late now.
"I shall be brief,"
he said, shifting position, and the conversation along with it. "I am in
need of a companion—only that—someone to preside over my gatherings, and
appear with me in public…on occasion, in order to deter predatory females,
and keep the ton from continually trying to snare me into the marriage
mart. If I have a wife…well, I think you get the point."
"Is that why you don’t
come to Town for the Seasons?" she couldn’t help inquiring. It didn’t
ring true. If all he wanted was a hostess, he could have taken a
mistress.
He hesitated. "That
is…one of the reasons," he said. "My motives need not concern you—only
my needs. Suffice it to say that I couldn’t hire someone for the
position, and have her reside here under the same roof with me without
a breech of propriety. Since the woman of my choice would have to
live here, she would have to become my wife. She had to be attractive,
cultured, and above reproach. You possess all of those qualities.
She also had to agree to the arrangement, as you have done on the strength
of my missive alone, without full knowledge of the…conditions. That
was paramount. It proves trust, and trust is vital. When I
was made aware of your…situation, it seemed to me that we might strike
a mutually beneficial bargain. I am glad that you have chosen to accept
it. You will want for nothing. There are a few simple house
rules that I must ask you to follow, but I shall come back to that."
Sara stared into those
all-seeing obsidian eyes that seemed to penetrate her soul. The firelight
still shone red in them. It was an odd business, and though he’d
answered many of her questions, there was still one that needed to be addressed,
and she didn’t know how to ask it.
"Is something unclear?"
he said, as though he’d read her thoughts. "Oh, yes, of course," he hastened
to add convincing her that he did indeed possess such powers. "Your duties
do not include sharing my bed. I have no desire to perpetuate my
line. I hope that shan’t be…a problem? I thought, under the circumstances,
it might be somewhat of a relief."
"N-no, not a problem,"
she said. She hadn’t considered the possibility of children, or the lack
of them. His bluntness shocked her, and she avoided the issue. "There
is one other thing that has puzzled me from the start, though" she said,
with as much aplomb as she could muster. "Why did you send Mr. Mallory
to London to fetch me, and why a proxy wedding? Why didn’t you come
yourself?"
"That is not ‘one thing’,
Sara, it is three things," he said, "and all three encroach upon motive.
However, I will allow it this once. Let us just say that…pre-existing
situations here on the coast prevented me from leaving it—even to marry."
Striding to the bell pull, he yanked it, and turned back to her. "I’ve
rung for Mrs. Bromley, my housekeeper. She will show you to your
rooms, and introduce you to Nell, your abigail. Her quarters adjoin
your suite."
"Thank you, Nicholas,"
she murmured.
"You will join me for
meals," he continued. "Breakfast, and nuncheon are served in the breakfast
room. The evening meal is served in the dining hall. The servants
will direct you."
"You said something
earlier about…house rules," Sara reminded him.
"Yes" he said, "I was
just coming to that. You will be given a complete tour of Ravencliff
tomorrow. Please do not go off exploring on your own. The house
is very old. Much of it is in disrepair, and you could do yourself
a mischief. Please do not go out to the sea wall unescorted.
The Cornish winds are notorious. They have been known to blow strapping
men off cliffs, and gales come up suddenly. We are on the verge of
one right now. Though there are stairs hewn in the rock, do not go down
to the strand. They were carved there centuries ago. Smugglers used them.
This coast is rife with cairns and caves and passageways. None are safe.
Riptides are common here, and you could be cut off in seconds. Finally,
what occurs within these walls stays within these walls. I expect
you to be discrete. Do not carry tales. If you have a question,
or a concern, do not burden the servants, or Alex. Come directly
to me. Do we have an understanding?"
"Yes, Nicholas," Sara
replied, rising as he came closer.
"Good," he said. "I
want this to be a pleasant association…for the both of us."
How he towered over
her. Those riveting eyes, wreathed with dark lashes any woman would
envy, were even more alarming in close proximity. They were hooded now,
devouring her in the candlelight, making her heart race. He smelled
clean, of the sea, with traces of tobacco, and brandy drunk recently.
Combined with his own—almost feral—essence, the effect was intoxicating.
She drank him in deeply, extending her hand.
He took a step back
from her, breaking the spell. "Forgive me," he murmured, "I do not like
to be touched."
A light knock at the
study door made an end to the awkward situation, but not to her embarrassment,
and she dropped the hand to her side.
"Come!" he called.
The door came open,
and a plump, rosy-cheeked, woman entered wearing crisp black twill, and
a starched lawn cap and apron.
"Please see Baroness
Walraven to her apartments, Mrs. Bromley," he said, "and have Nell attend
her. See that all her needs are met."
"Yes, sir," the housekeeper
responded, sketching a curtsy.
He turned to Sara.
"It’s late," he said. "You must be exhausted. I will expect
you at breakfast. If you have further questions, I will address them
then. Goodnight, Sara."
He dismissed her with
a cursory bow, turned, and strolled to the hearth, his obsidian gaze fixed
on the sparks shooting up from a fallen log in the grate. She had
questions—so many questions, but there would be no answers then.
The strange interview was over, and she followed the housekeeper into the
corridor.
He’d made it clear
that their marriage would be in name only. He’d addressed that head
on, and she’d received it with mixed emotions.
While she had been
worried about sharing a bed for the first time with a virtual stranger,
she was more disappointed than relieved that this wasn’t to be part of
the arrangement. Why would the man not want an heir?
Come to that, why didn’t he even want to be touched?
Alexander Mallory had
seized her hand earlier, and pressed it to his lips before it was offered.
Albeit technically, Nicholas was her husband, he’d stressed that she was
to present a wifely image, yet he’d refused such an innocent gesture of
good will as taking a lady’s hand to seal their bargain.
Perhaps she’d been
too hasty. Nicholas Walraven was a mystery, but there was nothing
hidden in her situation. It was common knowledge that her father, wounded
in battle, and knighted for valor after serving under Wellington on the
Peninsular, had died heavily in debt leaving her encumbered. Nicholas
had paid a staggering sum to free her—far more than he would have had to
settle on the daughter of one of his peers. Why, with so many well
to pass prospects to choose from, he had made her the subject of his quest
escaped her.
She didn’t believe
his feeble explanation for marriage. He did infer that there was
more to it. Why didn’t he explain? Why did it have to be a
proxy wedding? Why didn’t he choose to get to know her before making
his offer? What had seemed an answer to her prayers in the beginning
was now taking on darker dimensions. The worst of it was the way
this strange, enigmatic man had impacted her in the physical sense.
That was most frightening of all.
"The tapestry suite,
my lady," Mrs. Bromley said, jarring her back to the moment.
The windows rattled
in their lead casings when the housekeeper threw the door open, and she
waddled through the foyer that separated the rooms to draw the bedchamber
draperies. Still, drafts snaked their way over the floor ruffling
the hem of Sara’s damp traveling costume. Outside, the flaw was in
full swing. Rain pelted the panes, driven by gusts that moaned like
human voices, and the roar of the sea rolling up the cliff chilled her
to the marrow. She had scarcely crossed the threshold, when another
sound bled into the rest and gave her heart a tumble, the plaintiff howl
of a dog echoing along the corridor. It rooted her to the spot.
"I knew there was a
dog!" she cried.
"The wind, my lady,
only the wind," said the housekeeper, shutting the door behind her. "It
howls through these old halls in a flaw somethin’ terrible."
"That was no wind,"
Sara insisted. "I ought to know a dog’s howl when I hear one. We
had kennels once, fine hunting hounds…and horses." She spoke haltingly,
remembering. She’d had to sell them all, and still it wasn’t enough to
satisfy the debt.
A maid burst through
the door of the adjoining sitting room, her face as white milk.
"Ah! There ya’
are," Mrs. Bromley said. "Have ya’ readied my lady’s hip bath?"
"Y-yes, mum," the girl
replied, sketching a curtsy.
A stern look from the
housekeeper softened the maid’s expression, and she offered a feeble smile
in Sara’s direction, though her owlish eyes were still riveted to the door
as though she expected someone to come crashing through it.
"Good," said the housekeeper,
turning to Sara. "This is Nell, my lady, your abigail. She’s feared
o’ storms, but she serves this house well, and she’ll serve you likewise."
She glanced at the maid. "Well? Set out madam’s nightdress,
then help her bathe and make ready for bed. It’s nearly half-past
eleven, and mornin’ comes quick in this house."
"Y-yes, mum," the girl
mewed.
"The clothes the master
ordered sent are all hung in the armoire," the housekeeper explained, "your
unmentionables are in the chiffonier. Whatever’s lackin’ will be
brought from Truro, you’ve only to make a list so’s I can go myself, or
send one o’ the maids."
"I’m sure everything
is more than acceptable," Sara responded. Compared to the state Mallory
had found her in at the Fleet, anything would be an improvement.
Glancing around at the tapestries hung on the walls, it was easy to see
how the suite got its name. She wasn’t doing them justice.
She was straining her ears in anticipation of another howl from the dog
no one seemed to want to acknowledge. There was no sound now but
the legitimate wind driving the rain, slamming against the mullioned panes,
and moaning about the pilasters.
Sara shuddered, moving
on toward the dressing room, where her bath awaited. Having set an
ecru gown and wrapper on the bed, Nell turned to follow, when Mrs. Bromley
caught her arm, drew her aside, and whispered something to her. It
was obvious that whatever was being said was not for Sara’s ears, and she
left them to it, anxious to take advantage of the bath before it grew cold
in the drafts.
The water was strewn
with crushed rosemary and mint, and Sara let it envelop her, while Nell
sprinkled a few drops of rose oil into the mix. The effect was rapturous,
and she groaned as the mingled scents threaded through her nostrils, and
the precious oil silkened her skin.
"We’ll have real rose
petals soon now," the maid said. "They’re late this year, too many flaws.
You’ll know when they’re bloomin’. The wind spreads the scent all
through the house."
"That wasn’t the wind
before was it, Nell?" Sara said. "It was a dog wasn’t it, and you heard
it too, didn’t you?"
"I don’t know what
ya’ mean, my lady," she said. "All I heard was the wind. I’m
scared o’ it—ever since it took the north turret roof clean off, and blew
it over that cliff out there. The master had it fixed, but that don’t
matter. It’ll only go again. Your fortunate he didn’t put you
in one o’ the turret suites. You’d be wakin’ up in the ocean."
Sara would have no
answers from the mousy little maid, and she was too tired to argue.
The heavenly bath had relaxed her enough to sleep, and she let Nell help
her into the gown, and brush out her hair.
"Such a fine color,
my lady," the girl observed. "It shines like spun gold in the candlelight.
Most o’ the ladies are cuttin’ their hair off these days."
"Do you think I should?"
Sara queried, recalling Nicholas’s remark earlier. She still wasn’t
sure if he’d meant it as a compliment or a criticism.
"Oh, I wouldn’t venture
ta say, my lady," she returned. "That’ll be up ta you."
That decision would
have to wait. The turned down four-poster looked inviting, and she
dismissed Nell, snuffed out the candles, and climbed beneath the counterpane
and crisp linen sheets. The chamber faced the sea, and the westerly
wind blowing off the water slammed full bent against that section of the
house. The draperies—heavy though they were—trembled against the
panes, and drafts teased the fire in the hearth, throwing tall auburn shadows
against the tapestries on the wall. Sara shut her eyes. Lulled
by the rhythm of the breakers rolling up the coast, she’d just begun to
doze, when a strange noise rose above the voice of the storm, a scratching
sound at the door.
She swung her feet
over the side of the bed, but hesitated before she stepped down.
Rats! Of course there would be rats this close to the sea.
She shuddered. There were rats in the Fleet—big, ugly, hairy black
creatures, with long, skinny tails. More times than she cared to
recall, she’d awakened to one crawling over her legs in the night…in the
dark. Gooseflesh puckered her scalp, and she sucked in her breath,
remembering.
The noise came again,
and a crippling chill gripped her spine. It wasn’t coming from inside
the chamber. Something was scratching at the door, and she tiptoed
closer, listening. She held her breath. This was no rat scratching
at the paneling. It was something…larger.
For a moment there
was silence. "Who’s there?" she said, waiting. There was no reply,
but then she didn’t expect there to be. This was not a human sound.
It came again. This time there was a whimper, and her clenched posture
relaxed. The dog. Of course!
Sliding the bolt, she
eased the door open, and froze on the threshold. She gasped again,
come face to face with what looked like a large black wolf. Surely
not! It was a dog that looked like a wolf. It had to be.
There were no more wolves in England.
For a moment, the creature
stood gazing at her, its eyes glowing blood red in the firelight, before
it turned and padded away, disappearing in the shadows that collected about
the second floor landing. |
First
Place Winner GOTHROM "Haunted Hearts" contest 2004