were open, as she had left them. They lay still now, hanging against the rough-hewn trim. Garlic flowers lay along the sash. Another bundle of the pungent flowers sat by the base of the door and some were clustered on the rickety table beside her bed.
Accustomed to them, she barely noticed their smell, but she’d seen the maid’s nose crinkle in disgust. The first night she’d gone to bed and found all the flowers stripped away. Small bouquets of field flowers replaced them—yellow daffodils, mainly. Firmly, she had instructed the maid not to touch any of her belongings again.
The flowers, the cross, all were to keep her safe from Zayan, but there was something half-hearted in Father’s admonishments about protection this time. And she feared that none of these measures would do any good.
In truth, she was afraid to open that crypt. That was probably why she had the dream.
Althea swung her legs around the side of the bed—really more of a cot—until her bare feet brushed the small carpet thrown over the splintery floor.
Her journal sat by her bed, beside a gutted candle in a beaten brass holder. She didn’t dare record her dreams. There was almost enough moonlight to read by, but she felt far too restless to do that.
She wanted to…to do something. Plucking up her spectacles, Althea slid off the bed and winced as her feet sank into the cool carpet. She padded across the worn, faded wool to her window. A glance told her the catch was still fastened, though she touched it with her fingers to make sure.
She knew to be wary of unexplained urges to walk about in the dark. Knew to resist the call, the lure. But no, whatever it was she wanted, it wasn’t to go out of doors.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she refused to accept that what she wanted was to make her dream come true.
A flicker of flame outside caught her attention. Leaning forward until her forehead brushed the cool panes of glass, she could just make out the flurry of activity in front of the inn.
What she had spotted was an elegant carriage drawn by four coal-black horses, almost invisible in the dark but for its burning lamps and the reflections on the gleaming traces. The carriage rattled slowly over cobblestones and came to a halt before the door. Male voices rose in hale greetings and terse orders. A dog set up a howl, answered by others, which sparked a whinnying frenzy as the horses shied. Skittish animals. It took the coachman minutes to settle them. Surprising for animals reaching the end of their travel.
Intrigued, Althea pushed the garlic flowers to the side. She sat on the deep windowsill and curled her legs beneath her to warm her chilled feet. Cold whistled around her and she rubbed her arms through the long, tight sleeves of her nightdress. Cold was supposed to subdue improper arousal, wasn’t it?
The gleaming black door of the coach sported a crest, which meant the newest guest was a member of the nobility.
How would a peer feel about sharing quarters with vampire hunters? The lord in question would never know, of course. Sir Edmund Yates was known only as a famous antiquarian. And no one ever suspected Miss Yates, his plain slip of a daughter, was anything more than a glorified secretary. Even Mick O’Leary had scoffed when she told him she was adept with a crossbow and knew exactly how and where to plunge in a stake.
Movement in the yard. His lordship’s footmen in livery—silver and pale blue, startling against the dark.
The coach door swung open. In a blur of motion, a male figure jumped down and straightened—a man dressed in head-to-toe black. Althea could barely see him, but the way he moved suggested he was young, strong, athletic.
Heat unfurled deep inside. Goodness, she was incurable. But she wanted a glimpse. To see if his face proved as promising as his form. A tall beaver hat covered his head, but she saw pale blond hair curling into his collar.
Led by servants with lanterns, he strode away from his carriage.
Tudor in vintage, the inn sat right beside the road, with barely a step up to the threshold. To her surprise, the lord paused at the door, then stepped back.
A servant lifted a lantern by his master’s side and golden light slanted over austere features, hinting at a strong jaw line, sharp cheekbones, a broad forehead, a straight nose.
Rendered in shadow and light, he made her think of the man from her dream. The mysterious one who stood behind her. He was the one who came to her in all her dreams. Althea knew the sound of his voice, the scent of his skin, the way he kissed, even the way he braced himself on his powerful arms as he made love, but she had never really seen his face…
She gave herself a shake. Of course this gentleman was not in her dreams!
The nobleman abruptly pushed the lantern aside and, as though he sensed her stare, he looked up to her window. His eyes reflected a sliver of moonlight, pure silver disks in the velvety dark. Gleaming, mirror-like eyes. Like those of a wolf or a fox.
The eyes of a vampire.
Althea blinked. She looked again, but he had disappeared from her view. She got up on her knees to try to see him, strained to see him. She couldn’t.
A vampire lord. Was it possible? Had it just been a trick of the light? Just her imagination playing havoc?
Shocked, she sat back, and thumped hard against the wall of the window alcove.
She slid off the sill to her feet. Her rumpled bed beckoned, but she’d never sleep now. No, she would sneak out to the top of the stairs and have another look at the mysterious lord. Shrugging on her wool wrapper over her shoulders, she caught the sides around her and cinched the belt tight. The trailing hem covered her bare feet and jammed in her slippers as she hurriedly shoved her feet in.
She didn’t dare go out unarmed. By her bed, she dropped to her knees, drew out her case and flipped open the lid. Instead of gowns and slippers and hats, her case contained stakes, a crossbow, a small, lethal sword, and crosses. She tucked a thin, pointed stake between her wrap and her nightgown, secured in place by her snug belt.
A thrill of excitement shivered down Althea’s spine. Not that she planned to be foolhardy. She knew to be cautious and careful. If he truly were a vampire, he would possess incredible strength and power. But she had a few tricks of her own. And she knew exactly what to expect.
At the head of the stairs, she saw the lord and the innkeeper in discussion. She stayed in the shadows to watch.
His lordship stood with his face away from her but she had a perfect view of the florid features of Mr. Crenshaw. Alarm flashed in the innkeeper’s small eyes and he was punctuating his apologies with wild motions of his hands. The gentleman wore a cloak, she noted, which surprised her. Most men favored greatcoats.
The lord brushed his cloak back from his shoulders, giving a glimpse of the lining, black silk embroidered with gold. From the window, she’d created an impression of him—tall, lean, elegant. Now she saw he was taller than she’d guessed. He towered over Crenshaw by at least a foot. His hat brushed the plaster ceiling. And he possessed a broader, more powerful body than she’d first thought. Shoulders as wide as Mr. O’Leary’s, Althea noted.
But was he a vampire?
Her breathing quickened and not from fear. Her breasts tingled and her nipples eagerly stood up against her bodice. Already wet between her thighs from her dream, she flushed as more hot moisture bubbled there.
He was facing away from Crenshaw’s lamp, his hat worn low, at an angle that shielded his eyes—and that prevented them reflecting the light.
Perhaps that wasn’t his intent. She knew nothing of male fashion to know if all men wore their hats in that way.
The lord snapped a question at Crenshaw, his voice deep and low. Fancifully, she imagined his voice sounded like black silk, dark and smooth. But did he sound like the man from her dream?
He wasn’t the man from her dream, she told herself sternly.
If only he’d speak louder.
“…Yates…”