In short order, Cain found himself welcomed to Breckenridge via the connected conservatory, and ushered to well-appointed guest quarters featuring both a crackling fire and a large bath.
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 a single mind. The real Cain just wanted to return home 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 considered dumping himself back into the oversize tub, dinner clothes and all, and settled on simply petting the puppy. 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. Besides, she was unlikely to be present tonight. Given that he was apparently the only one to have registered her presence at the Wedgeworth rout, she must not be friends of the high-nosed Breckenridge set.
Cain 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 of the door. Or he would have, had Moch-éirigh 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.
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 suspected him of wishing to celebrate by ravishing 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-éirigh took that moment to ram into the other side of the bedchamber door. Cain whirled about to verify the security of the latch that, for the moment, appeared to hold. The puppy’s plaintive cries, however, were far from muffled. Nor were the unmistakable scratching noises of her tiny claws rending against the antique wood.
Damn it.
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-éirigh 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?
“A cursed puppy,” he admitted with another bow. “You have found me out.”
Miss Breckenridge stared at him openmouthed, apparently content to stand there gaping at him until the small flame melted her taper to a nub.
“May I escort you to dinner?” he asked.
Suspicion returned to her features full-force, but Miss Breckenridge was astute enough to realize she had but two options: Give an invited guest the cut direct en route to the planned festivities, or place her palm on his proffered arm.
A well-timed whine by Moch-éirigh decided the matter.
She relinquished the taper to Cain’s free hand and settled the barest tip of her fingers on the crook of his evening jacket.
When they reached the intersection leading to the opposite wing, Cain’s muscles tensed. There had been no telltale sound, no scent, no flicker of flame or shadow, no hint that they were not alone—yet his every sense was prickling. He jerked his head around just in time to glimpse a slender woman at the far end of the corridor slip into the furthest chamber and disappear. For a moment, he’d thought it might be Miss Ramsay, but the movement had been too quick, too soundless. The only audible heartbeat had been that of the young lady on his arm.
And most damning of all: He’d recognized her.
“What is it?” Miss Breckenridge stammered, alarmed. “Did you see something?”
“A woman,” Cain answered. “Do you know her? Medium height, golden hair, very beautiful...”
“Of course I know her.” Miss Breckenridge’s lips pursed, as if she interpreted his interest to be of the licentious variety. “She is not to be disturbed. She’s a guest, just like yourself, and the reason I was in this wing to begin with. She has a megrim and shall not be attending dinner, but I assured her anything she desired from the kitchens was hers for the asking, should she be hungry later.”
