After breakfast, her worry for Daisy drove her out to the barn yard. She knew a moment of relief when she saw themare in the corral. She stopped in mid-stride when she spied Hawkins repairing a harness. Maybe he could help her get home. He stood as she approached.
“Hawkins, do you know how to get to River North?”
Frowning, he scratched his head. “No, Miss, I’m sorry. Never heard of the place.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I was born here, at the manor. I’ve never been anywhere else.”
“Do you think James would know?”
Hawkins shrugged. “Perhaps, Miss. Most of the help was born here. Lord Stefan would know,” he said, smiling. “You should ask him.”
Bryony nodded. “Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you.”
Shoulders slumped, she turned and walked toward the corral. After last night, she dismissed the thought of riding off on her own. She had no idea which way to go, no inkling of how far away her home might be, or what obstacles or dangers she might encounter along the way.
Daisy trotted up to her when she neared the corral. “Hey, girl. How did you find your way back here?” Had she ridden Daisy home without knowing it? She patted the mare’s neck for a time, promising to return later with an apple.
Back at the house, she went into her sewing room, grabbed a canvas and placed it on the easel. She put on the smock Stefan had bought her, mixed her colors, then stood there a moment, undecided on what to paint. Nothing came to mind and then, abruptly, she began to sketch, her brush strokes quick and sure, as if her hand had a mind of its own.
Hours later, she stood back and stared at the canvas. Stefan stared back at her, his dark hair ruffed by the wind, his eyes blazing red, his lips peeled back, revealing sharp white fangs stained with blood.
He wasn’t a witch or a warlock or a magician, she thought, her heart pounding erratically.
He was a vampire.
Chapter Sixteen
Days passed. Each night, Bryony expected Stefan to return. And each night she was disappointed, though she refused to admit it. Where was he? She didn’t understand how she could miss him so much when the thought of being alone with him terrified her. Just because he hadn’t hurt her in the past didn’t mean she was safe with him now. Just days ago, he had bitten her and taken her blood. What if he wanted more? What if he wanted it all?
Sometimes, in the evening, she was sure she could feel him watching her, would have sworn he was in the room with her, but when she looked, there was no one there. But the feeling persisted, whether she was at the dinner table, in her bedchamber, reading, or in her sewing room doing needlepoint. Sometimes she imagined she felt his hand moving in her hair, his lips brushing hers. Once, she was sure she heard his voice, filled with regret and longing as he whispered her name.
It wasn’t just her blood he wanted. She knew that. He had made it blatantly obvious on more than one occasion. She wrapped her arms around her middle. What if he grew tired of waiting? What if he forced himself on her one night?
The thought sent a shiver down her spine. He was inhuman. A monster. How could she trust him? How couldshe miss him so much? Knowing what he was, how could she yearn for his kisses?
If he never returned, how would she ever find her way back home?
And if he returned, what then? It was a thought that kept her awake far into the night.
Stefan stayed away from her for two weeks. Not completely, of course. Dissolving into mist, he hovered near her each evening, needing to see her face and hear her voice as much as he needed blood to survive. He had been shocked when she painted him as a vampire. It was an amazing piece of work, stark, ugly, and yet strangely beautiful.
At night, when she was asleep, he sat in her bedchamber, watching her, inhaling her scent, listening to the slow, quiet beating of her heart, occasionally taking a small taste of her blood.
Tomorrow night, he thought. Tomorrow night he would approach her. Hopefully, the passage of time had dulled her memory of the last time they had been together.
Hopefully, she wouldn’t run screaming from his presence.
Bryony froze, her paintbrush in mid-air, a startled cry trapped in her throat when Stefan materialized in the sewing room beside her. As always, he was dressed in black from his shirt to his boots. It seemed appropriate now. Black was the color of death.
For stretched seconds they stared at each other, her eyes wide with fear and indecision, his patient and hopeful.
The paintbrush dropped from her hand, unnoticed.
Stefan took a step away from her. “Do you want me to leave?”
She swallowed hard. “It’s…it’s your house.”
His gaze bored into hers. “That does not answer my question.”
“What are you?” she asked, her voice so shaky she wasn’t sure he would understand her. “And don’t tell me you’re a witch or a warlock.”
