Madeline Baker

ALWAYS BY NIGHT

 

Chapter 1

 

Hands fisted on her hips, her green eyes flashing fire, Bryony Barrett stamped her foot on the white marble floor. "I will not marry Lord Timothy Bloodworth and you cannot make me!"

 

"You think not?" Her father glared at her, his face mottled with fury at her stubbornness.

 

"You will marry him when I say, where I say, or I will send you to the convent until you change your mind."

 

Bryony glared right back. "Do it! I would rather be a cloistered nun for the rest of my life than be the wife of that fat, old, ugly, bald, addle-pated penny-pincher."

 

Her father's eyes narrowed ominously. "Go. To. Your. Room," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "And don't come out until I send for you."

 

Bryony bit down on her lower lip. She knew that look. She'd gone too far this time. But she would not back down. She would not marry the odious Lord Bloodworth. Mouth set in a grim line, shoulders back, head high, she marched up the winding staircase to her bedchamber and slammed the door.

 

A moment later, she heard the key turn in the lock. It sounded like a death knell in her ears. For a fleeting second, she was tempted to call her father and tell him she had changed her mind. But then she imagined herself as Lady Bloodworth, forced to share her husband's bed, and bear his children. It was a future too horrible to contemplate. Better to die a chaste virgin than surrender her virtue to a man she despised. A man who was twice her age and possibly the most boring, unattractive man she had ever met.

 

Firm in her resolve, she threw herself face down on her bed and dissolved into tears.

 

When her tears were spent, she sat up and dried her eyes on the edge of the bedspread. Her father thought there were only two choices – marriage or the convent. But there was a third choice, and she took it that night. Clad in a long, black dress, hooded cloak, and black boots, Bryony climbed out her bedroom window, took a deep breath, and shinnied down the ancient oak that overshadowed her bedroom window. Her legs and arms were covered with dozens of scratches by the time she reached the ground, but she paid them no mind.

 

Keeping to the shadows, she ran to the barn, threw a bridle on her favorite mare, swung onto Daisy's back, and fled her father's estate. A silent prayer of thanks rose in her throat a short time later when the heavens opened and unleashed a torrent of rain that would quickly wash away her tracks.

 

Huddling deeper into her cloak, she rode for what seemed like hours until the mare slowed and stopped of her own accord. Lifting her head, Bryony glanced around. She had never been this far from home before and she had no idea where she was. Peering through the heavy rain, she saw a large edifice in the shallow valley below. Perhaps she could find shelter there for the night.

 

Bryony was shivering now. Refusing to think of her warm room and soft mattress, she clucked softly to the mare and rode on. Gradually, as she drew closer to the building, she saw that it was a large, two-story house hewn from gray stone. Reining Daisy to a halt, Bryony slid to the ground, stumbled through the thick mud to the door, and rang the bell, hoping to find a kindly soul who might provide her with lodging and a bed for the night. She waited a moment and when there was no answer, she knocked on the door. Again, no one came.

 

Chilled to the bone, the rain pummeling her head and shoulders, she lifted the latch and called, "Hello?"

 

No answer. Unable to stand the icy cold any longer, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Moving cautiously, she made her way further into the house, cried out when she hit her knee on a piece of furniture, which turned out to be a high-backed couch. Sinking down on it, she huddled in a corner, her arms wrapped around her waist, her knees drawn up to her chest.

 

Overcome with weariness, she drifted off to sleep, wondering if she would ever be warm and dry again.

 

#

 

He moved through the deep shadows of the night, a part of the impenetrable darkness that shrouded the land. A soulless monster, hated and hunted by humanity. A creature with no hope of redemption or forgiveness in this life or the next, destined to be always and forever alone.

 

He paused as he entered his lair, his nostrils filling with the scent of woman, the tantalizing promise of fresh blood. He followed the scent and came to an abrupt halt when he saw the female asleep on his couch. She had a wealth of honey-colored hair, tawny skin kissed by the sun, lips that were pink and perfect. Her lashes lay like dark fans against her rosy cheeks. She had been crying, her cheeks still damp from her tears.

 

He rocked back on his heels, wondering what twist of Fate had brought an angel to his door even as he felt his fangs lengthen in response to the slow, steady beat of her heart.

 

Kneeling beside the sofa, he brushed her hair aside and gave in to the sweet temptation of her life's blood.

 

#

 

Bryony woke with a start. Bolting upright, she glanced wildly around the room. Where was she? Someone had removed her muddy boots and her stockings and spread her cloak on the floor to dry.

 

She frowned at her surroundings. Aside from the four-poster bed she occupied, the room

 

held a large wardrobe, a washstand with a white porcelain basin and bowl, and a fireplace that looked as though it hadn't been used in decades. An overstuffed chair stood in the corner by the window. She didn't remember climbing the stairs. How had she gotten here?

 

She wrapped her arms around her waist. The house was eerily silent. Cold as the grave.

 

Suddenly overcome by a nameless fear, she threw back the covers. She tugged on her boots, not taking time to pull on her stockings, and ran out of the room and down the stairs, her only thought to flee. But when she lifted the latch, nothing happened. No matter how she tried, the heavy, wooden door remained stubbornly closed.

 

She stared at the windows, covered with curtains made of heavy, black material, but they were too high for her to reach and there was nothing on which to stand. There was a leaded window beside the door, but it had no latch. And even if she could open it, it was too narrow for her to climb through.

 

There had to be a way out. She glanced frantically around the room. The walls were stone, the floor tiled in an intricate pattern. A large wrought-iron candelabra held six fat candles. An enormous fireplace was located across from the brown leather couch where she had fallen asleep the night before. The only other furniture in the room was a large, overstuffed chair and a low table made of rough-hewn wood. The walls were bare There were no rugs on the floor.

 

She worried her lower lip between her teeth. Did anyone live here? Or had the place been abandoned long since? It certainly felt empty.

More curious now than afraid, she moved tentatively across the floor toward an arched doorway that led to a long hallway. Turning left, she found a small kitchen, a pantry, and another, smaller room that held a dry sink, a large wooden tub, and a cupboard.

 

At the other end of the hall, she found a large room furnished with a desk, a chair, a grandfather clock. And a bookcase. She knew a brief moment of excitement as she went to peruse the titles, followed by a sense of disappointment at finding all the books were in a variety of foreign languages, none of which she recognized.

 

Sighing, she returned to the main room and walked tentatively toward the staircase that led to the bedroom upstairs. She put one hand on the banister, then paused. What was up there besides the chamber where she had awakened this morning? Dare she look? What if the master of the house was asleep up there in one of the other rooms? But if anyone lived here, surely they would be up and about by now.

 

Unable to stifle her curiosity, she made her way up the narrow, stone staircase, her footsteps echoing eerily off the walls. Reaching the second floor, she stared at the four doors that lined the hallway, three on the left side, the room where she had spent the night on the right. That room took up far more space than the others. Obviously the master's chamber.

 

She tiptoed down the corridor, cautiously opening one door after another on the left side. All were empty. Entering the master bedroom, she tiptoed across the floor and opened the doors to the wardrobe, a gasp escaping her lips when she saw that it was filled with men's clothing – shirts of fine lawn, trousers, leather jackets, boots, shoes, traveling cloaks lined velvet, silk cravats.

 

Someone did indeed live here!

 

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.

 

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 could that be possible? Why did none of the doors open?

 

Why hadn't she stayed home where she belonged?

 

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 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 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 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.

 

Taking a deep breath, she moved 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. Her stomach 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 on the sofa, she forced herself to eat slowly, all the while darting glances at the small wooden door that led to the cellar.

 

And that dusty black casket.