A Night of Secrets (28 page)

Meg blinked up at her, confused with the change of topics.

She placed the clothes across the bed. “Gray and I. We aren’t seeing each other. We are merely friends. Have been for a very long time now.” She smiled a sad, distant smile. “When he went into the war, I followed.”

“You were in the war?”

Millie laughed. “Not fighting, but helping in other ways. I was a spy, as was Gray. I thought to join in order to help him. But Grayson rarely needs help.”

Meg wasn’t shocked in the least. Not only was Millie beautiful, but she’d been helping England win a war. How very… noble of her. “Why are you telling me this?”

Her knowing gaze met Meg’s. “Because I see the way you look at him.”

Meg opened her mouth to protest but Millie held up her hand. “And I see the way he looks at you.”

Meg released a harsh laugh, cursing the tears that slipped from her eyes. There was a small part of her, deep down that wanted him to look at her the way Millie claimed. But apparently, she was so bloody awful, no man could love her. “Whatever you think you saw, you misjudged. He hates me.”

“No. He likes you. Too much. It frightens him.”

The door opened and the servant rushed inside with a silver tray. The scent of chicken and broth made her stomach clench. Meg turned her back to Millie. “I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

Meg was about to protest when a footman entered, a copper tub in hand. Another quickly followed, carrying buckets of steaming water.

Her knees buckled and she sank onto the bed, pulling her cover close. Millie went about getting her soup ready and pouring wine in a glass while the tub was prepared. Meg merely watched them all, a swirl of movement that made her head ache. Blast it, why couldn’t they leave her to her fate?

“I’m fine,” Meg snapped as she surged to her feet, having had enough. “Please, everyone leave.” She swayed and grabbed onto the bedpost.

Millie nodded and the footmen scurried from the room. The maid hovered by the closed door, waiting for a command.

Millie strolled toward her as if everything were completely normal. “You are not fine. The past two days you’ve had little sleep, been in the cold twice, barely eaten. And after what Grayson did to you, you need rest.” She took Meg’s hands and pulled her toward the tub. “Tell me you do not want a bath?”

Meg released a frustrated groan and tossed her shift into a pile on the floor. Without a word, she slipped into the warm water. Her body trembled, the heat biting lovingly into her muscles.

With but a nod of her regal head, Millie commanded the maid to the tub. The young servant knelt and began to wash Meg’s hair. Meg wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the entire situation. Being waited on by maids and footmen and at the same time, being accused of murder. Really, it was worse than the gothic novels Mary Ellen loved to read.

She drew her knees to her chest as the maid poured water over her head, rinsing the suds from the strands. She couldn’t deny that it felt wonderful to be clean again and to merely sit while others did your work. But then she thought of Grayson and any pleasure vanished.

“He’ll not let me stay,” Meg whispered.

Millie tilted her head in a sympathetic manner. “He won’t kick you out. Do not fret my dear. Hurry, Sarah, before she is chilled.”

“Yes, mum,” Sarah said.

The young maid helped her stand, the child barely old enough to be working. Meg’s legs trembled as she stepped over the tub’s edge. Ever the efficient servant, the maid immediately wrapped her in a large cloth that did little to warm her body. It was strange really, a child taking care of her.

“Come, sit.” Millie took her hands and led her toward a chair by the fireplace.

Sarah stoked the flames, curtsied and then left them alone. Meg didn’t bother to object when Millie began to brush her hair. Exhausted, Meg closed her eyes, the soft pulls dragging her into a relaxed state.

“Here, drink this.” Millie’s voice broke into her muddled mind. “You will need plenty of rest and food.” She clucked her tongue. “He almost took too much. I suppose that’s why he’s so upset. He realizes he could have harmed you and Grayson likes to think of himself as very noble.”

Meg opened her eyes, prepared to defend the man just as the woman pushed a bowl of broth into her hands. She wanted to shove the food back, but the porcelain warmed her chilled fingers, providing comfort to her aching body. Hesitantly, she brought the bowl to her lips. The smooth liquid burned a trail down her throat, melting her insides. Meg didn’t take a breath until the bowl was empty. Perhaps she had been hungrier than she’d realized.

“How do you know so much?” Meg whispered, setting the bowl on the small table. “What are you?”

Millie smiled. “You know, don’t you?” She was silent for a moment, the crackling fire the only sound in the room. “Some call us blood suckers, some vampires.”

Meg trembled and stumbled to her feet. No! It couldn’t be. Vampires were something invented to frighten children.

Millie quirked a brow, looking amused. “You’re afraid of me, but not Grayson?”

Meg didn’t answer. Of course she was afraid of Millie. She had been the moment she’d met her. Carefully, she inched her way toward the door. Instinct told her to run, yet where would she go? How far would she make it before she collapsed?

Millie set the brush on the side table. “Good, you should be leery. In many instances, we’re not to be trusted around humans.”

Meg couldn’t seem to catch her breath. She stepped back, hitting a table and clutching the edge. “You’re saying I shouldn’t trust Grayson?”

“No, he’s the one blood sucker you should trust. The only.”

“Bloodsucker?”

“Because we feed…”

“On blood,” Meg finished. Before she thought better, her hand went to her neck where Grayson had pierced her flesh. She hadn’t imagined it. He had fed off her blood. She should have been repulsed. Afraid. She should have felt anything other than the aching heat that was currently twirling within her like ribbons on a maypole.

“We are born this way. Both of Grayson’s parents were vampires as well. But they tried to live a normal life.” She strolled to the windows, gazing out into the bright day. “They attempted to blend into the human way of living. They taught Grayson that if he wanted to be normal, he could.”

But he wasn’t normal and never would be. “Will I…turn into one of you?”

Millie laughed. “No, no of course not.” She turned toward her, amusement flashing in her hazel eyes. “You’re either born a vampire or not. No matter what the myth says, no one can turn you.”

She wasn’t sure how she felt. Confused. Upset. Somewhat frightened. “I need to know more, there’s so much I don’t understand and—”

“What?”

“Do you live forever?”

“No. We eventually age and die, although it usually takes centuries and centuries.”

Meg stared at the flames, her mind spinning. “He’s fast, so very quick. Strong. Those glowing eyes….”

“It all comes with being a Vampire.” Millie strolled toward the windows. “As well as hating the sunlight.”

Hating the sunlight.
Startled, Meg jumped. The room spun, her heart hammering so loudly she could hear it in her ears. Hanna hated the sunlight. Hanna’s mother had obviously been a vampire. Which meant Hanna…. sweet, lovely Hanna….

*****************************************************

Scotch was good.

Damn good. Scotch never lied to you, never wanted more from you, never made you believe impossible dreams. Grayson frowned. Well, he supposed that wasn’t true. Lieutenant Miller had certainly sworn he could fly when he’d been off his knocker with the drink and look how
that
had ended.

Still, there had to be something wonderful about an alcohol that could numb your feelings, make you forget beautiful blue eyes. Grayson swirled the glass around and around, watching the amber liquid catch the lamp light. Eyes that seemed to pierce one’s very soul.

“Rather purty,” he muttered.

Yes, he should most assuredly drink more scotch. He tipped the glass back and the warm liquid burned a path down his throat. He closed his eyes, wallowing in the numbness, welcoming the fuzziness to his head. He rarely drank alcohol. He didn’t need to, for blood could make him feel more than any other drink or food. And Meg’s blood…
Merde,
Meg’s blood had been better than any aphrodisiac. But he had hoped scotch could numb the memories tormenting him. Memories of Meg. Memories of War. Memories of his family. But the alcohol wasn’t enough. Never enough.

Emma’s face flashed to mind and his heart squeezed. He’d been so hell bent on escaping the pain produced by his parent’s murder, that he’d abandoned his sister and joined a human’s foolish war. And while he was helping those ridiculous humans with their asinine problems, his sister had been murdered. Silly him, he’d thought his sister was protected in that home of hers. Protected by her husband. But he had forgotten than her husband was only human. As useless as a babe.

And now, since meeting Meg, there were times when he’d forgotten his mission, forgotten Emma and his promise to protect her child.

“
Merde,
” he whispered, pressing his hand to his head. Would the ghosts of his past never leave him in peace? He tossed his glass into the hearth, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction when it shattered against the brick back. The flames burst to life. Suddenly, the memories he tried to keep at bay ran free and he was back on the continent.

Sweat trailed down the lieutenant’s face, dripping into his eyes. He swiped the dampness from his forehead. “Sir, a letter. Most urgent.”

Grayson lowered his rifle and opened the paper. Although the writing was shaky, he recognized the elegant scrawl as his sister’s. “Gray, please come home. I fear something is greatly wrong. I fear for my family.

Promise me, Gray, promise you’ll return and if it’s too late…promise you’ll take care of Collette.

Yours,

Emma

The wind rattled the glass panes jerking him from his past. He’d left as soon as he’d gotten the letter, but it had been too late.

His clothing felt suddenly too tight. Stumbling to his feet, Grayson tore open his shirt, the buttons clattering to the floor. The garment hung loose, open. He moved to the windows and pushed the panes wide. A crisp breeze swept inside, cooling his fevered skin. He raked his hands through his hair, his fingers trembling.

Her blood pounded through his veins, bringing with warmth and sunshine…desire, need. He wanted to rip the skin from his body, to drain his own blood to be rid of her once and for all. Grayson stumbled to his desk and leaned his palms on the flat surface, intent on thinking of anything other than Meg. He could have killed her. Drained her dead. The thought sickened and horrified him. He needed to stay away from the woman, yet couldn’t. Leaving her would be like leaving behind a vital part of himself.

A soft knock rang through the room. He spun around, and swayed when the walls continued to twirl. “
Ce qui
?” He shook his head, realizing he’d spoken French. “What?”

The door opened and Millie peeked inside. She looked clean, smooth, perfect. “I sensed you were awake.”

“
Va-t'en
.”

Millie sighed and swept further into the room. “I will not go away, as you so elegantly put it. You’re still obsessing over Meg? Obsessing about being a monster? Obsessing over the fact that you’ll never be normal? Really, this brooding Gothic hero act is getting old.”

“Go to hell.”

Millie strolled to his small desk and trailed her finger over Emma’s letter. “She’s gone, Gray. You’re not. You can have a life.”

He hissed, his lips lifting. “A life? As what?”

Millie picked up his glass and sniffed. “Ridiculous. It’s practically impossible to kill us, yet we can get foxed. You’re drunk.”

“Course not. I’m never drunk.” He slumped into the chair and covered his eyes with his hand. Her shrill voice was giving him a pounding headache. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Or perhaps the blood…yes, too much of Meg’s sweet blood thrumming seductively through his body.

“How is she?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“She’s fine. As they always are. You know as well as I that often when they are first fed upon, they develop a reaction, a fever. She’ll be well in the morning.”

He’d done this to her. Made her sick. He could have done so much worse.

Millie sighed, a long drawn out sound that raked his nerves. “Go to her. Explain.”

He clutched the arms of his chair until the wood cracked under his strength.
“Merde,
let me be, you blasted woman.”

“Truly, it’s shocking you haven’t married yet. Such a gentleman, you are.”

He didn’t respond, merely stared into the flames, hoping she’d give up and leave. What did she know? How could he bring a family into this world when he couldn’t even protect the one he’d been born into? He was a monster. He didn’t deserve a normal life.