Blood Red. Sharon PageЧитать онлайн книгу.
Ashamed at the relief bubbling through her like champagne, Althea stepped in. The room given to Yannick was not the inn’s best, but it was much larger than hers, though the big bed and bulky furniture made it just as cramped. No coffin could be seen, and it could hardly be hidden. The bed was untouched. Father even checked beneath the bed, lifting the worn coverings as he dipped a knee and groaned. She jumped forward to do it instead, but stopped. It was obvious nothing was beneath the bed but dust.
Oh, thank heavens. For a while longer, she didn’t have to choose between the man she desired and the career she was determined to have.
“Blast.” Father sank down on to the edge of the bed. “I’ve tried to coax, bribe, or trick his whereabouts out of the servants. Thought he might try the obvious. Where better to hide than the room in which he’s supposed to be?”
He tapped his walking stick on the plank floor. “So I wonder where his lordship’s hidden his coffin?”
Sunlight reflected from his spectacles as he gazed at her. Althea shook her head. “I’ve no idea. The stables, possibly?”
“I expect he’s using a box and not a coffin, since I do believe his servants have no clue as to what he truly is. Though no one seems to have seen a box large enough to fit a body, and he’s not a small man.”
Oh, no, he definitely wasn’t small.
“What about the churchyard?” He wouldn’t steal a coffin, would he? The thought, a brutal reminder of what he was, made her shudder.
“Clever idea, lass. We’ll try that.”
From her window, Althea spotted the procession of lanterns as O’Leary, Father, and the workmen fanned out across the stretch of meadow.
She pushed up the sash, letting in the scent of rain and mud. Rain had swept in on the heels of the sunset. A torrent at first, now a drizzling mist, it was enough to soak her hair, face, and hands as she leaned out to watch. The lanterns dipped out of sight in a small valley, then flickered as the men passed between dark trees.
She dropped back into her room, brushing at the droplets on her hair. Moistened by the rain, her nightrail clung to her breasts, almost transparent over her hard nipples. Her bed was turned down, inviting her to crawl in and grow warm again. And beneath the bedcovers, the second controlling collar waited.
She sank down on the bed and laid her hand over the bump under the sheets. Would Yannick come to her tonight? He must know she’d betrayed him. If he came at all, it would be likely to feed from her. To destroy her in cold, vicious vampire rage.
If she snapped the collar around his neck, she would be saving herself. If she staked him, it would only be because he was going to kill her.
She could justify betrayal in the name of self-preservation.
She flopped back on the bed, sinking into the lumpy mattress.
In all likelihood, the collar would do nothing to control Yannick at all. Bastien was free and it was her fault, all because she was no longer completely pure. All because she’d been too much of a coward to admit her sins.
She swallowed hard, her throat tight with guilt, remembered O’Leary’s shocked cry. “Christ Jesus! ’E’s gone!”
In the middle of buttoning her pelisse, Althea had jerked up. Who was gone? What was O’Leary shouting about?
Her feet had flown over the rough planking and she reached the door at the exact instant O’Leary and Father emerged from Bastien’s room. Father carried the thick shroud used to cover Bastien and protect him from light. The sun had just set.
“How in hell did he do it?” O’Leary roared.
Father’s left hand strayed to the corner of his spectacles and he adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. He frowned down at the shroud. “My first guess would be that the twin helped him. But it makes no sense. How could the twin remove the collar? Unless—” Father shook his head. “No, it’s impossible. It’s only now dark.”
In one mortifying instant, she’d guessed the probable answer. Bastien had escaped because she wasn’t an innocent. That was the reason the collar must not have worked. She must tell them. But her tongue had moved uselessly and she couldn’t utter a word. What difference would it make to confess? The damage was done.
It had been so easy to justify silence. It was so easy to justify betrayal.
“There’s no need to go up to the crypt then, tonight.” Father had raked his hand over his jaw. His shoulders had slumped with his failure.
Admit what you did, she’d urged herself. But instead, she’d bitten her lip.
Father had turned to O’Leary, his back to her. “They’ll have to hunt. The newly resurrected one will need blood desperately. So, we’ll need more men to hunt them. Blast, it means letting the entire bloody village know who we are.”
Althea had walked around to be a part of the conversation, finishing the last buttons on her pelisse. “I will get the crossbow.” But could she use it? On Yannick? O’Leary would without a second thought, but she couldn’t. What was she going to do?
Father had held up his hand, the shroud balanced over the other. “Oh no, lassie, you are to stay here. In your room.”
Now she understood. He’d deliberately excluded her from the plan. And she was forbidden to leave her room? “That is ridiculous. I am perfectly capable of protecting myself while we hunt.” This was her mistake. She needed the chance to set things to rights.
“I want you in your room where you will be safe.”
“I must go! These village men have no experience and most of them will be drunk. And what about the collars?” She took an unsteady breath. Very likely she couldn’t put the collars on. She should suggest they find a truly good and innocent woman.
“Well, one wasn’t successful, was it, lass?”
She hoped neither man noticed her blush of shame. “How else will you subdue them?”
“Arrows tipped with a mild curare mixture. Even on vampires, it acts to paralyze. We need them controlled before you attempt to put on the collars. I’m not taking any risks—not now we know they don’t behave as I expected.”
Curare? On Yannick? She had launched forward and caught Father’s arm. “No, it could kill him!” The heart continued to beat even after poisoning, but the paralysis caused breathing to stop, and that meant death. She’d read papers from the Royal Society on it. It was damned risky.
He had stared down at her, his gaze surprised, and she prayed her heart wasn’t showing on her sleeve. But dear God, she couldn’t let them risk destroying Yannick.
Father had frowned. “Not to worry, lass. I am the expert here. Experiment shows that curare does not kill vampires—in the right amounts—due to their slower breathing rate and the enhanced strength of their muscles.” He had patted her hand. “I don’t intend to kill him, lovey, not even by mistake. I need him.”
Now, alone in her room, Althea stared up at her dark ceiling. Don’t come, Yannick.
Though what was worse? If he stayed away and risked being poisoned? But if he came to her, he would force her to choose.
She shouldn’t have any doubts at all. As a slayer—a hunter—she should disable him without even a qualm. A hunter couldn’t afford to dwell in emotion and doubt.
What was that? The beat of wings? A whisper of sound different from that of rain striking leaves.
Neck arched, ears straining, she waited. For long moments. Long enough that her back grew stiff and her shoulders twitched from the tension in them.
She should be relieved he wasn’t coming, but instead, she felt sick deep inside. She dropped back on the bed and closed her eyes.
Angel…