As if the devil himself was chasing her, she ran out of the room and down the stairs, her only thought to flee. She came to an abrupt halt in front of the door. Closing her eyes, she said a quick prayer as she put her hand on the latch, but the door remained stubbornly closed. Bryony frowned as she wondered if Daisy had returned home during the night. Assuming she could find a way out of this creepy old house, she would have a long walk ahead of her if the mare had run off.
Her panic growing with every passing second, she suddenly remembered seeing a door in the kitchen. Perhaps it led outside. She hurried toward it, but it, too, refused to open. How was that even possible? Why did none of the doors open when they weren’t locked?
Why hadn’t she stayed home where she belonged? Why hadn’t she packed some extra clothes?
Heart pounding, she returned again to the main room where she paced the floor in front of the hearth, only then noticing an alcove beside the fireplace, and a small wooden door. A way out, perhaps?
She felt a wave of relief when the door opened, relief that was quickly replaced by trepidation when she saw the narrow, wooden staircase leading down to what was likely a wine cellar.
Lifting a taper from the candelabra, she lit it with a match she found on the mantel, and returned to the small, wooden door. Clinging to the hope that she might find a way out, she made her way down the rickety staircase. It ended in a small, square room.
Holding the candle high, she made a slow turn, let out a startled gasp when she saw the dusty black coffin in the far corner. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Could only stand there, staring, her body shaking from head to foot. She told herself to run, but she seemed incapable of movement. Surely the casket was empty! Only a ghoul would keep a corpse in their home.
She took a deep, calming breath, turned on her heels, bolted up the stairs and slammed the door shut behind her, then stood there, panting, her back against the wood, waiting for her heart to stop hammering.
With a sigh, she blew out the candle and set it aside, then walked through the house again, determined to find a way out, but there was none. The doors and windows might as well have been non-existent. One and all, they refused to open.
She finished her search in the kitchen, only then noticing the water jug on the counter. Searching for a glass, she opened one of the cupboards, her eyes widening when she saw a loaf of brown bread wrapped in a linen cloth, a pot of strawberry jam, a small square of yellow cheese, a bowl of apples. Herstomach growled loudly as she searched for a knife. She found one in a drawer. Clumsy in her haste, she cut two slices of bread, slathered them with jam, cut a fat slice of cheese. She found a glass and filled it with water, then carried everything into the main room.
Sitting cross-legged on the couch, she forced herself to eat slowly, all the while darting glances at the small wooden door that led down to the cellar.
And that dusty black casket.
Stefan rose with the setting of the sun. He grimaced as he stepped out of the coffin. He hadn’t slept in it in hundreds of years, but he had given the woman his bed, leaving him no other choice. Who was she? And what was she doing here, in his lair? He had warded the house against intruders, mainly against the Hunter’s Guild, but then, she posed no threat to him. Still, it was odd that she had sailed past his wards. And with that thought in mind, he set them again, strengthening them with a splash of dark magic.
But the bigger question was, why was he keeping her here? He smiled inwardly. Why, indeed? He had been thirsty, and she had been available. Still, he could have let her go. Keeping a mortal was a lot of trouble. They needed to be fed regularly, clothed and entertained. And from the cut of her attire, wet and muddy as her clothes and boots had been, he could see that she was accustomed to the finer things in life.
A thought took him upstairs to his bedchamber. A bit of magic summoned a basin filled with hot water. He washed quickly, donned a clean shirt and trousers, and combed his hair, all the while wondering what to do with the girl. Keep her, or let her go?
He had his answer as soon as he went downstairs to the main room of the house. She was asleep on the couch again, her head pillowed on her hand. One whiff of her blood and he knew why he couldn’t let her go. Just as he knew she had explored the house, and been badly frightened by that dusty, old coffin in the cellar.
Bryony woke slowly. She’d had the most horrible nightmare last night. And realized, as soon as she opened her eyes, that it had been all too real. She was really here, in this spooky old stone house with the coffin in the cellar. And doors and windows that refused to open.
Feeling groggy, she sat up, wondering what time it was. It felt like late afternoon, but the house was so dark inside, it was hard to tell.
Rising, she found a match and quickly lit the candles. The flames cast dancing shadows on the high stone walls. She glanced at her travel-stained dress and wished she had something clean to wear. Never in all her life had she worn anything so dirty.
She stared at the door and then, unable to resist, she walked purposefully toward it, praying that by some miracle it would open this time and she could hurry back home where she belonged, even if it meant marrying Lord Bloodworth the Bald.
Once again, the portal refused to open. Shoulders slumped, she turned around. And let out a shriek when she saw the man standing by the fireplace. Tall and forbidding and obviously the master of the house, he regarded her through fathomless black eyes.
He bowed from the waist. “I am Stefan Renaldo.” His voice was as deep and dark as his eyes. “And you would be?”
“Bry…Bryony Barrett.” She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, hoping he wouldn’t see how afraid she was. Hoping the Barrett name would mean something to him.
He nodded as his probing gaze swept over her, making her feel as if he could see into her very soul.
“Why have you come here?” he asked, crossing his arms over his impressive chest.
“I got lost in the storm and…and I saw your house…and…” Her voice trailed off. It was hard to think when he was looking at her as if he were a starving man and she was his next meal.
“I tried to leave but none of the doors would open.”
“Indeed.”
“If you would be good enough to unlock the front door, I’ll be on my way.”
“It is not locked.”
