Tempted By the Night (24 page)

Oh, he was lost. So very lost.

It wasn’t long before the chill of the night curbed the heat rising between them. Rockhurst came to his senses in a blinding bolt.

Christ, what had he done?

I’m going to fuck you.

And he had. Taking her without any regard for anything but pleasure.

He scrambled across the wet tiles of the walkway that encircled the top of the cupola and backed away from her.

As much as he wanted her to hate him, to run from him like a bad case of consumption, a very deep thread inside his chest mourned for something else.

For the woman who loved him. For the woman who understood him. All too well.

“I’m…I’m…” he stammered.

“Sorry?” she replied. “I hope not.” There was a purr to her words. “While it certainly wasn’t as comfortable as your bed…it was exciting.” Her clothes rustled as she gathered them up. “Did you really toss my pelisse over the wall?
Harrumph.
Well, I suppose I never liked that one overmuch, but still, Rockhurst, you’ve quite run my wardrobe ragged. Now where are my shoes? Oh, yes, there’s one of them.”

She came closer and tugged the boot out from beneath him. Her fingers cupped his chin, and she laid a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Now that you’ve gotten done with that, are you coming down? There is much to be done before the sun rises.”

He closed his eyes and tried to gain his equilibrium, for inside of him, the darkness of the Paratus struggled to wrench away his weakened control. “What do you mean?”

“The hole. We need to find it and close it.”

We?! Was she mad?
That very ancient Paratus part of him stirred with renewed anger.

Who was she to order him around? “That is none of your concern.”

“Of course it is,” she shot back. “Now are you coming or not?”

He rose to his feet, stretching his muscles and feeling his strength returning. “You are not a part of this—”

She began to sputter, but he staved her off with a flash of his eyes. “Besides, what do you think you can do?”

“Help.” She had that tone in her voice that Aunt Routledge used when she had a particular debutante in mind for him. Oh, yes, he could almost see the fisted hands on her hips and a determined thrust to her chin.

“You? What do you know of these things?”

She huffed a sigh. “Quite a bit, because while you’ve been up here, I’ve been reading the rest of Mr. Podmore, and he is quite clear that to close—”

“Podmore!” he exploded. “Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said? Have you forgotten what happened to Rowan? You will cease this meddling and go home.”

“Oh, really, Rockhurst—”

He stalked right up to her. “Do you know what happened to your precious Mr. Podmore?”

“He perished, but he didn’t have you with him, and I will.”

Her confidence in him, instead of rallying his spirits, only served to anger him more.

Fool. Little stubborn fool,
he wanted to shout. But he had a better way to make his point. “Let me tell you how Podmore died.” He caught hold of her by both arms. “His limbs were torn off.”

She said nothing.

“His eyes gouged out.”

Again, silence.

He leaned over and whispered to her in a dark and threatening voice. “And his ears were removed. Bitten off, from the looks of it.” When still she didn’t say anything, he finished. “And despite all that, he was still alive when I found him. Before I ended his misery.”

She shivered. Good. She was finally seeing the folly of “helping.”

There was more, words he’d never told anyone, but suddenly they came tumbling out. “It was all my fault. He’d come to me, asking questions, nosing around. And in my foolish youth, I answered them. Shared my family history. Bragged about our exploits, our role in history. I lent him maps, journals, books so old I know not what is written in them. Everything. But I never thought such a mouse of a man would ever…” He let go of her and backed away.

“Seek to see it for himself?” she whispered.

All Rockhurst could do was nod. When he finally spoke, the words choked in his throat. “I found him. I’d never seen anything so horrible, and it was all my fault. He’d never been to London before, had spent most of his life holed up in the libraries of Oxford. What could he have been thinking?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, seeking him out, her hands smoothing over his sleeve.

“There was nothing I could do when I found him. Nothing left to do but to draw out Carpio and finish him.” He tried to breathe, but his throat constricted at the memory, his heart pounding with the same fear that had gripped him that night.

“You ended his suffering—”

“I took a human life.”

“He made his choice, he had to have known—” she argued.

“I should never have let him in. I should have sent him packing back to Oxford the moment he dared knock at my door. And I vowed that night I would never make that mistake again.”

But her courage—nay, her stubborn foolishness—astounded him. “Someone must close that hole,” she persisted, returning to her original argument. “And we can do it together, if you would but read what Mr. Podmore—”

He shook her. “We? There is no ‘we.’ You are nothing to me but a hindrance and a distraction. The very reason that—” He stopped, right there and then, catching hold of the darkness threatening him, but it was too late.

For she knew exactly what he meant.

“That Rowan is dead,” she whispered. Now it was his turn to stand there in stubborn silence. “Don’t you think I know that?”

He took a deep breath. For the wolfhound’s death wasn’t her fault. It was his.

As her death would be if she continued persisting in following him.

“Go home,” he told her. “Go home now.”

“I will not. Not until you tell me that we are going to close that hole. Together.”

Blinding rage filled his ears, tore his reason in half. “Demmit, woman, I order you to leave this be!” he thundered.

But his outburst was met with only silence.

“Shadow?” he barked out, crossing the distance that had separated them, his hands waving wildly before him, in search of her. “Shadow! Don’t be a fool. Leave this be. Do you hear me?”

But she didn’t. For she was gone, and he might as well shout his impotent orders into the wind.

His fists crashed down on the ledge and he let loose with a string of curses.

Then, as if to aggravate him just that much more, a hint of her perfume tickled at his nose. His eyes snapped open, and he looked around, half-expecting to see her standing before him.

His wild, mad little Shadow.

But there was nothing before him but the sleeping city of London, spreading out all around him for as far as the eye could see.

His city. His domain. His responsibility.

“Demmit.” The little idiot was going to end up as lost as Rowan, or, God help him, Podmore.

He sucked in a deep breath, the images of that horrific night sending a spike of terror through him.

“Shadow,” he whispered, taking a step toward the doorway, but found his legs failing him as he wavered back and forth. He turned and looked over the city. He wasn’t ready to leave this haven in the sky just yet. But he must.

The shadows in the night demanded it.

Hermione fell to her knees outside the steps of St. Paul’s and began to sob. Oh, everything had gone so terribly wrong.

“There now, there now,” came Quince’s familiar voice. The lady’s hand caught hold of hers and pulled her up to her feet.

“Quince, you must end all this. I’ve made a terrible muddle of all this. I killed Rowan, I’ve made a mess of everything, and he despises me. He’ll never…can never…”

Forgive me…love me.

Quince heaved a sigh and dug a handkerchief out of her reticule. “There now, there now. It cannot be as bad as all that.”

“He insists on closing the hole himself. He’ll be lost if he tries. Without me, without Rowan at his back, he will be lost.”

Quince pressed her lips together and glanced up at the top of St. Paul’s. “Then he must have help.”

“If only Rowan hadn’t died,” Hermione sobbed. “It was all my fault.”

Leading her away from the great cathedral, Quince handed her a handkerchief. “A Paratus without his wolfhound. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing. You have every right to be worried.”

Hermione glanced up at the towering cathedral. “Then if he won’t accept my assistance, I’ll find someone’s help he will take.”

Rockhurst spent the better part of the next week searching for the hole—and tamping down any thought of
her.
Horrible reports reached his ears of killings so foul, they could only be the work of derga. So as each day drew closer and closer to sunset, a deep fear settled into his chest.

Of the night when the horrors of that other realm would overrun his world…and he would be helpless to stop it.

Worse yet, each report brought the creeping chill of darkness inside him, its cold fingers threatening to overtake his soul. He could unleash it, and with it, he suspected he’d find the hole and close it, banishing the derga and Melaphor forever.

But however would he find his way back out of that abyss?

He’d be lost forever, and there would be no one else
to battle the evil that constantly threatened London.

For they always found a new way through the fabric that separated them.

Rockhurst paced up and down his armory, Carpio in hand. What the hell was he going to do?

Cappon had Tibbets out searching, but so far the little man had found no clues. Even Mary, who had helped him countless times before with her scholarly prowess, refused him support. Of course, it didn’t help that he’d demanded she tell him who his Shadow was and that she’d refused. He’d stormed and raged about her library, threatened to burn every one of her books if she didn’t reveal the secret she held fast.

Not that Mary believed a word of his bluster. And when he’d become unreasonable, she’d sent him packing as only she could and told him not to set foot in her house again.

And to add insult to injury, she’d given him a copy of Podmore on his way out the door and advised him to read it.

Read Podmore! As if he had time for such idle pursuits. The man had ended up scattered across the four corners of Seven Dials, and Rockhurst had no intention of sharing his hideous fate.

He’d even sent a note to the man who’d sold him Rowan, looking for another wolfhound, for the dogs were rare and hard to find. But the man had written back that he had no more such hounds.

It seemed the breed was all but lost, and Rockhurst understood their plight, for he felt sure he was about to share it.

And his Shadow? She’d disappeared as well. After his raging behavior atop St. Paul’s, he wondered if she’d ever come near him again. Oh, he’d been an idiot. In so many ways.

He paced back and forth through the armory that made up what was once probably intended as a ballroom, eating up the length of the cavernous room in great, impatient strides, racking his brain for any memory or legend of how to defeat this enemy.

Unaided and alone.

“My lord,” Stogdon called out from the doorway. “There is someone to see you.”

“Is it Cappon?”

Stogdon’s nose pinched. Rockhurst’s butler had a deep-seated aversion for the flamboyant brothel owner. “No, my lord. It is a young lady.”

Without even hesitating, Rockhurst glanced at the window, where the sun was just about to set, the last twinkling of light still holding fast to the day. A shock of disappointment ran though him.

For he still hadn’t given up one small bit of hope that she would…might…

“My lord—” Stogdon nudged ever-so-patiently.

He wrenched his gaze from the window. No, this visitor couldn’t be his Shadow, for she’d never come to the door. The wretched minx would come strolling in, bold as brass, and without any invitation.

“Send her away,” Rockhurst said. “I’ll not be subject to some marriage-mad matron’s plan to trap me.”

Instead of leaving, Stogdon stood his ground. “My lord, I think you should see
this
young lady.”

He was about to argue when a deep “
woof
” rang through the house. A bark as familiar and beloved as the house itself.

Rowan?

Rockhurst stormed past his butler and went tearing down the hall. Even as he skidded to a stop, he found himself being happily mauled by a wolfhound.

At first he thought by some miracle Rowan was alive, but this dog was larger, more muscular, but just as energetic and active as Rowan had ever been.

“Sit,” he ordered, and the dog did, looking up at him with those big, brown eyes, eager to please and ready for any command.

A wolfhound! He couldn’t believe it. And one, which from the looks of his sharp gaze, held all the intelligence and intuition that Rowan had claimed.

“Teague,” a familiar voice said to him.

“What?” he said, glancing up, noticing for the first time the young lady across the way. She stood with her back to him, her lofty bonnet concealing her features.

She might have her back to him, but he knew who she was.

“Shadow?” He rubbed his arms, for they were now covered in goose-flesh. He couldn’t quite believe she’d come to him.

“The dog’s name is Teague,” she repeated, without turning around. She reached out and straightened a bowl on the curio table. “He’s Rowan’s brother. I apologize for taking so long to bring him here, but it took some work to find him. Mary gave me the name and directions of the man who sold you Rowan, so I sought him out.”

“But he has no more dogs,” Rockhurst said, staring still at Teague.

“True enough, so I asked him if there were other dogs from the same litter. And with some persuasion, he told me so I could seek those dogs out.”

He gaped at her. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Of course, he’d only sent a note, an order. His Shadow had made it her mission.

She continued her story. “I believe he’ll be perfect for the challenges ahead. The farmer I bought him from was all too glad to be rid of him. Claimed the dog spent most of his nights barking at shadows.”

Rockhurst looked down at the dog and grinned. Just like Rowan. “Welcome, Teague, to the League of the Paratus.”

The dog wagged its tail and looked as happy and contented as Rowan used to when he would spy a derga on the loose.

Or a good beef bone for the taking.

He glanced up and found Stogdon dashing back tears and furiously wiping his nose lest any of the staff see him in such a state. But no matter, word of the dog’s arrival had spread, and from every door and crack peeked members of the earl’s household, all there to welcome the newest member.

“Come along with ye, ye bunch of lazy good-for-nothings,” Mrs. Grant said, as gruff and formidable as always. She hustled her help back down toward the kitchen, but then stopped and glanced at Teague. “Well, what are you waiting for you mud-dragging, eat-us-clean-from-the-cellar-to-the attic hound! I’ve got just
the bone for you. Come along now,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes with her apron.

Teague took one glance at Rockhurst, who nodded for him to go, and the dog dashed past the cook straight for the kitchen.

“Oh, aye,” Mrs. Grant said, shaking her finger at Rockhurst as if he were still a lad in short coats, “this one will make the butcher rich and happy, that he will.”

And then she shooed her staff along, while Stogdon, following her lead, sent the footman and maids scattering.

And then he and his Shadow were alone.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“I thought I explained it. You wouldn’t believe the state of my boots from tramping about to one farm after another—”

“I’ll buy you a shopful,” he offered.

“You shall. I had a devil of a time finding a dog for you.” She shifted again, this time turning slightly, but then stopped as she must have realized what she was about to do. “People quite gape at you when you explain you want a mad wolfhound. Rather like mixing capucine silk with primrose ribbons.”

He laughed, for she was still his minx. “Shadow, turn around for me.” He held his breath, but he might as well have been whistling at the moon.

“Still think you can order me around?” It was her turn to laugh, but worse, she shook her head and refused him.

From his vantage point, he could see her chin, just as he’d imagined it, determined and set.

“When will you learn that you may command London, my lord, but not me?”

The earl took a deep breath. “Please.” God, he’d never wanted anything more than to see her face. The night atop St. Paul’s, the vision of her that he had seen was like a hazy dream he couldn’t quite trust.

“I can’t,” she said, taking a step toward the door.

He caught her before she could slip through it. He’d nearly lost her the other night, he wasn’t about to repeat that mistake.

“Please, let me see you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to see the disappointment in your eyes. The other night…well, that was enough. Believe me, you don’t want to know who I am.”

But he did, and he didn’t care what she mistakenly thought or feared. Be disappointed in her? How could he be?

He knew exactly who she was.

The woman who had stolen his heart.

His fingers tightened around her wrist, the warmth of her skin flowing through him, stealing at the chill that had descended over him since the night he’d…Rockhurst closed his eyes.

Since the night he’d lost Rowan.

“Let me go,” she whispered. “Please. I must—”

She trembled beneath his grasp, and he opened his eyes to find himself looking into an empty space. His gaze shot to the open door, where the deep red fingers of a glorious sunset stretched high in the sky.

He might still be holding her, but she’d disappeared.

“Demmit,” he cursed, unwilling to release her, for fear she’d be gone before he could…

He could what? Beg her forgiveness? Ask her to stay with him?

Nothing had changed. The hole remained open, and she was still in danger.

Hell, everyone was until he…until he did what he’d been ordained to do since birth.

And he was about to tell her so, when a hackney pulled up in front of his house. Cappon climbed out, the carriage swaying back and forth with his great girth. Dressed in a flamboyant bottle green gown and hat, the driver nearly fell out of his perch when Cappon began cursing him like a sailor for taking so long to get to Mayfair.

“Bugger!” the brothel owner muttered as he stalked up the stairs toward the front door. “Oh, there you are, my lord. My apologies for coming directly to you and not sending word, but Tibbets is missing, and I fear the worst.”

Rockhurst let go of Hermione the moment Cappon shared his bad news, and she took advantage of his unwitting (or intentional) lapse to shrink away into the corner.

Little Tibbets lost?

Hermione trembled, for she knew what this news meant. She’d lied to Rockhurst before. She hadn’t been away the entire time. In fact, she’d spent just last night watching him from the confines of the high-backed armchair in the armory. She was all too aware that Cappon’s rattish assistant was their last hope for finding the hole.

Now their talented spy was missing, and there was no one else. No one save…

Hermione backed straight into the wall and let out a little, “Oh my.”

Both men turned, Cappon staring at the space with a surprised look on his face, but Rockhurst’s sharp gaze missed nothing.

“Wait here,” he told Cappon. He strode over to the door that led down to the kitchens and whistled loudly. Almost immediately there was a great
woof
and the hard patter of large paws against the wooden steps.

Teague arrived in a flurry of anxious power.

Cappon’s jaw dropped. “That ain’t—” he gasped, pointing at Teague. “But I thought—”

“This is Teague,” Rockhurst told him, giving the big beastie a ruffle on his head. “A gift from a friend.”

“And I thought that other wretched beastie of yours was big. That one is a monster.”

“Let’s hope so,” Rockhurst said, glancing down at the dog. “Stogdon!” he bellowed for his butler.

“Yes, my lord?” the good man called out, reappearing, as he always did, with sudden alacrity.

“Tell Tunstall to get off his arse and fetch my carriage. The phaeton! And bring it with the grays.” He winked at the corner where she stood, before he strode off toward the armory, most likely to fetch his bag of wares.

The phaeton?
Hermione fumed. There would only be room for the earl and Cappon. Then Teague would take up the rest of the space, leaving her…well, behind.

Oh, no he wasn’t! She went marching after him, but when she turned the corner into the armory, he caught her, his arm snaking around her waist and catching hold of her in his vise-like grasp.

“Let go of me,” she sputtered.

“Not until I have you safely locked away,” he told her.

Hermione twisted and turned in his grasp, fighting him with every step he took. “You bugger!” she said, having not the least bit of shame quoting Cappon.

“That is exactly why you are not coming with me,” he said. “Such language! Such manners you’ve picked up. Your
maman
would be shocked.”

“Ooooh, Thomas, let me go,” she said, as she tried to pry his fingers off her as she realized his intent.

He’d opened the hidden closet where he kept his best weapons. Pulling out the great black bag with his free hand, he then shoved her inside.

“Don’t do this!” she cried out, rushing toward the door, but it was too late, he slammed it shut in her face. She beat against the door. “You need my help. Without Mr. Tibbets, you cannot think to do this alone. You must take me.”

“You are right, Shadow,” he said through the keyhole. “I do need you. But I won’t release you. Not now. Not until the morning.”

“But then it could be too late,” she cried, sinking to her knees, the hot sting of tears leaving a trail down her cheeks.

“Have faith, little Shadow,” he whispered. “You know who I am.”

She did. And how she wished she didn’t.

Rockhurst was nearly down the front steps when, to his dismay, he found his cousin Mary and Cricks blocking his path. “Mary, I haven’t time for this,” he told her as he tossed his bag into the tiger’s seat. Teague followed,
taking his place, just as Rowan always had, and for a moment, a light of hope warmed in his chest.

Perhaps he could…

“Rockhurst, you will listen to me,” she managed, after taking an astonished glance at the hound. “I came across something important, and Cricks agrees with me.” She leaned closer, and whispered, “Is
she
here?”