A Dark Heart (8 page)

He’d had his own true children before he’d been transformed by Da Vinci’s
operation, children who had long-since passed on, along with countless
generations of his descendants. She wondered why Rowan hadn’t Bonded any of
them, especially his wife, as she knew other Elders had done, but Rowan never
spoke of his human past, or the intervening centuries, when he’d gone his own
way from both his Llewellyn descendants and the Elder Council.

From what she’d gathered over the years, he’d not come back from his
self-imposed exile until the old Earl had found him and begged him to save her.
But any attempt to bring up the past on her part was always shot down. He
remained a benevolent but frustrating conundrum, unwilling to see her as an
equal.

She was certain that he didn’t even realize how patronizing he was to
her, and, even more pathetic, she hadn’t the courage to tell him, or to demand
that he change.

He finally caught her glare and quirked a brow in question, oblivious to
all of the terribly disloyal thoughts pounding through her head. She shook her
head, dismissing his silent query, and continued to pick at her dessert, only
half listening to them, waiting for a polite moment to leave them to their
gentlemanly port and cigars and put a period to the whole depressing day.

For the one thing she'd been unable to rid herself of was her
pathological need to be polite. All the bloody time.

But then she heard the Duke speak Elijah's name, and her ears
automatically pricked to attention, though she kept her eyes trained on her
dessert.

She wasn't interested, she told herself. She tried to make herself not
listen, she really did. But that was impossible, when what Brightlingsea said
was so provocative.

"... a shame about Drexler," she heard Brightlingsea say, in
response to something Rowan said. "A bit insolent and entirely abrasive,
but he's got brass balls, that one, and decency. A rare thing in a leech."

Rowan murmured something in response and gave Christiana a strange,
almost nervous glance before developing a sudden interest in his own dessert.

She couldn't help herself, even though she knew she should. She
knew
she should follow Rowan’s lead and turn the subject.  But she hated it
when Brightlingsea called Elijah a leech. Calling him a vampire was hardly an
improvement, but it seemed better to her, somehow, than a leech. The slur just
seemed to take away Elijah’s humanity completely, reduce him to a black,
soulless creature, and it infuriated her, made her blood boil enough to make
her do horribly stupid things. Like ask questions. "Why do you say that?
What is a shame about the Inspector?"

Brightlingsea settled back in his chair at the head of the table and
fixed her with his impenetrable amber eyes, a brow arched.

"Why, that he is a leech, my lady. A leech whose maker is dead."

The Duke
really
didn't curb his tongue around her. And it was as
if he knew how much that word bothered her. She tried not to wince, tried to
hold her tongue. She had walked into a mire already. She could feel Rowan's
warning glare burning a hole through her forehead.

"But the Inspector has been a surprising asset," Brightlingsea
continued. "I will not rejoice when he dies, even if he is a leech."

She went very still, her spine stiffening, her fingers gripping her dessertspoon
so tight she could feel a cramp coming on. "Dies?"

"Inevitable, my lady. Without a maker's blood, a leech cannot
survive much longer than a decade," he said, as if it were common
knowledge and not a horrible revelation that had just upended her entire world.

No
. She couldn't have heard that right.

"I don't understand," she murmured. Though she didn't know how
she managed to get the words out through the giant boulder suddenly lodged in
her throat. And she didn't know how she managed to raise her head and meet the
Duke's penetrating stare as calmly as if they were discussing the weather.

Brightlingsea's eyes practically singed her, though his expression was as
equally impassive as her own – at least she prayed hers was impassive, for
inside she was slowly breaking apart.

It was as if Brightlingsea
knew
.

"When a leech is turned, its blood is inextricably bound to its
maker's,” he said. “One could say it is a corrupted form of the bond an Elder
shares with a Bonded companion. Without regular feedings from the maker, the
only one who can control the leech, the leech will eventually turn feral and
die."

He studied her in the silence that followed, gauging her reaction.
He
knew
. Or at least he suspected.

She turned back to her dessert and stared at the flaccid pear swimming in
cinnamon butter until her eyes burned. But there were no tears. There was no
reaction for him to judge. She was too stunned. Too destroyed.

Then Brightlingsea continued speaking, ripping the ruins of her soul into
even smaller portions. "But the Inspector shall be spared the feral part,
at least, with the morphine."

Finally Rowan spoke up. "For the love of God, Gabriel," he said
gruffly. "Is it necessary to bring up the morphine in front of a
lady?"

Why, yes
, she thought to herself. It was
necessary
. More
necessary than her next breath.

"Oh, I think it is, cousin," the Duke said, echoing her
thoughts, still scrutinizing her with his terrible eyes. "I think we've
dispensed with the niceties the moment we started discussing leeches and
regular feedings. Don't you?"

Rowan cursed openly and gave her a worried glance. But she couldn't
acknowledge him right now. She was afraid she'd scream or throw something at
him.

"This is why leeches are so dangerous,” Brightlingsea said, ignoring
Rowan’s growing agitation. “Deprived of a maker’s blood for even a few days,
and they slowly start to unravel. They seek human blood to quell the craving, but
it never fully satiates them. They drink and drink, unable to stop until their
victims are dead. Think how soul-killing this is. Most leeches begin to enjoy
their disgusting predations. But some, like the Inspector, never stop hating
what they are, what their blood forces them to do.”

“He is a good man,” she managed with just the tiniest quiver in her
voice.

“Yes,” the Duke said quietly, almost gently. “So Drexler feeds on
criminals and shoots himself full of morphine to assuage his conscience. It is
the only thing other than a maker’s blood that can quell the bloodlust, but it
is killing him faster. He has a few months left, if that.”

"Damn it, Gabriel," Rowan bit out. "Do you have to be so
bloody heartless all of the time? Tia has known the Inspector since they were
children. She didn't need to hear it like this!"

“Did she not?” Brightlingsea murmured doubtfully, one of his sardonic
brows arching.

She finally found the wherewithal to raise her eyes to Rowan. He couldn't
meet her glance at all now. It just confirmed her suspicion. He'd never meant
for her to hear any of this at all. He'd kept the awful truth from her, and
he'd planned to do so forever ... at least until Elijah was dead.

"It's quite all right, Your Grace," she said in a surprisingly steady
voice. "I don't think you're heartless for telling me the truth. I think
quite the opposite. No one else has ever bothered to explain things quite so …
honestly
to me before."

She locked stares with Brightlingsea one final time, and she barely held
back a frisson of shock. Oh, he knew all right. It was as if he’d been waiting
all night for just this moment, to tell her these horrible, horrible things
about Elijah. But somehow she didn’t think he meant to hurt her, either with
his revelation, or with his sword. Perhaps Aline was right and the man
was
full of bluster, but Christiana suspected it was more than that. She was fairly
sure that Brightlingsea had his own hidden agenda, and telling her the truth
about Elijah was somehow a part of it.

For a moment, she even thought she saw something
compassionate
flicker deep in his frightening eyes.

Or it could have just been a trick of the light.

Whatever it was, the moment of accord didn't last. He just grunted,
dismissing the whole conversation, and reached for his wine.

She took the cue, placing her spoon down on the table and patting her
lips with the edge of her napkin before rising to her feet. Despite her
suspicions about the Duke, she wasn’t about to press her luck. So she remained
calm, cool. She wasn't sure how she was managing it.

But when she glanced Rowan’s way once more, she knew very well
how.

Anger. Anger was how she managed it. She was so angry there was no room
for anything else. No one in her life but the petrifying, callous, and unfathomable
Duke of bloody Brightlingsea thought she deserved to know the truth. And it was
just too much.

"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'll let you enjoy the rest of your
evening,” she said, clenching her fists at her sides to contain her inner turmoil.

They rose to their feet, bidding her a good evening, and she walked out
of the room. She could feel Rowan's worried glance on her back the whole time.

She only just resisted the urge to turn back to him and slap him soundly
across the face.

SHE didn't
sleep that night. And at dawn, she summoned half of the house staff to her
apartments to start packing her things. They pulled the giant wooden steamer
trunks they’d just unloaded from Paris down from the attic and began the
arduous process of filling all of her wardrobe, books, and portable possessions
inside them. She ignored the maids' curious stares and whispered speculations
over her abrupt change of plans and prepared a smaller leather portmanteau of
essential items for the next few days herself.

For one thing was glaringly clear to her. She could no longer stay at
Llewellyn House. Her life under Rowan’s care was over.

Rowan finally appeared in the doorway a few hours later, as she knew he
would, and stared at all of the activity with the same worried glance he'd worn
last night.

"What's going on here?" he finally demanded.

She continued to fold a gown into her suitcase, ignoring him. She
couldn't even bring herself to look at him. Even the sound of his voice made
her skin crawl with betrayal.

Eventually, he entered the room, gripping her by the elbow to get her
attention. "Tia, talk to me," he said.

She jerked away from him. "Don't touch me," she cried, loud
enough to attract the eye of every servant in the room.

Rowan dropped his hand in surprise, and after an awkward pause, ordered
all of the servants out.

"Tia," he said again, when they were alone, "tell me what
you're doing. What you're thinking."

"I'm thinking I would like claw your eyes out, so what I'm doing is
leaving before it comes to that,” she said with what she thought was surprising
calm.

"You're angry."

She laughed bitterly at his ridiculous understatement and shut her
suitcase, snapping the clasps into place. "I'm past anger. I'm past
betrayal, even. I just want out, Rowan."

"What do you mean
out
? Where are you going?"

She shrugged. "I will stay with Aline for now. But after that, I
don't know. Not yet. But even when I do, I won't tell you."

He looked exasperated. "Tia, don't be like this!"

"Like what? Feel betrayed? Lied to?
Devastated
?”

"It was for your..."

She held up her hand to forestall him. "Oh, no. Don’t you bloody
dare,” she breathed. “If you say it was for my own good, I
will
claw your
eyes out, see if I don't.

He crossed his arms, looking stubbornly unrepentant. “I learned the truth
about his need for your blood only a few months ago. I’d no idea vampires even
existed
.
I’d lived …
away
from all of this for centuries. But when I found out, Elijah
didn't want you to know, and I eventually agreed with him. I'm sorry if you think
I betrayed you, but I didn't know what else to do. I just wanted to protect
you."

"I am nearly forty-five years old, Rowan. Most of the girls I grew
up with are
grandmothers
. How can you possibly think you have the right
to keep me from the truth?"

"Because the truth is awful, Tia. Elijah doesn't want your
help," he said quietly. “He’s never wanted your help. Even when he was a
boy. You don’t know what he suffered.”

Her heart was indeed capable of breaking again, for it did at Rowan's words.
Cruel, honest words. She’d felt the truth of them even when she’d been
seventeen, caring for that broken little boy with dark shadows already obscuring
his heart. “And you do!” she lashed out.

“I was the one who found him, Tia, when he was a boy. How do you think he
came to be at Llewellyn House?”

“What are you talking about?” she cried.

Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, as he did whenever he
was reluctant to speak. Which was too often to count. “That’s not important
right now. Not even Elijah knows I found him back then. And no matter what you
do or say to me right now, what happened to Elijah before he came to us is not
my story to tell. It is Elijah’s,” he muttered. “I will not speculate, for that
would be all it is. Speculation.”

Her instinct was indeed to rail at him, exactly as he expected. Her
urgency and dread only deepened with the mention of Elijah’s mysterious
origins. Somehow she suspected that it was the key to everything. But she had
only so much strength to fight, and her current battle was exhausting enough. "All
right. But you still should have told me about Elijah’s condition. Because it
is not just Elijah’s story this time. It’s mine as well. And
nothing
to
do with you.”

"It has everything to do with me, Tia,” he snapped. “If Gabriel
should discover the truth, I don't know that I could protect you."