They reached the cottage an hour later. In the brilliant light of early morning, the dwelling looked peaceful enough. It was obviously deserted, Sara thought, and had been for a long while by the look of it. The vines had gone wild, climbing over the trellis and spreading around the house. The windows were dirty; the chimney was in disrepair.
"Maybe we shouldn't go any closer," Maurice said.
"Don't be silly. We've come this far. I'm going inside."
Resolutely, she approached the cottage, then walked around to the back until she came to the window Maurice had broken. She could see several dark brown stains on the sill, and she shuddered, knowing it was from the cut on Maurice's hand.
Picking up a rock, she broke away the last shards of glass from the frame. Then, lifting her skirts, she started to climb over the sill.
"Wait." Maurice laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. "You'll ruin your skirts. I'll go through the window and open the front door."
"Very well," Sara agreed.
Moments later, the front door opened with a loud creak and Sara stepped into the cottage. The room she found herself in was empty, but she thought it might have once been rather nice.
Holding her skirts away from the floor to keep them clean, she walked toward the next room. She could hear Maurice following her, his footsteps hesitant.
She walked through each room, and then turned to confront Maurice. "There's nothing here. I don't think anyone's lived here for years."
"Don't you feel it?"
"Feel what?"
With a shake of his head, Maurice grabbed Sara's hand and led her down the cellar stairs. As soon as they reached the door, he felt the short hairs rise along the back of his neck.
"Don't tell me you can't feel
that
?" he exclaimed.
"I'll tell you what I feel," Sara retorted. "I feel silly for listening to you."
"He's behind that door," Maurice said. "I know it."
"That's ridiculous. Gabriel's a wealthy man. What would he be doing here, in this old place?"
Yet even as she spoke the words, she remembered the deserted abbey in London.
"Put your hand on the door and tell me what you feel."
Filled with a sudden sense of unease, Sara placed her hand on the door. And in that instant, she knew Maurice was right. Gabriel was behind that portal. She could feel his presence as strongly as she felt Maurice's hand on her shoulder.
But it wasn't a sense of evil that assailed her, but rather a sense of confusion and doubt. Why was he here?
"Gabriel?"
Be gone!
It
was his voice, loud and clear in her mind. And in that moment, she didn't want to know why he was there, didn't want to know what secrets he was hiding.
"Do you feel it?" Maurice asked.
"No. Let's go."
"What's wrong?" Maurice asked. His fingers closed around the crucifix in his jacket pocket. It was large and costly, made of solid silver. "Why are you in such a hurry to leave?"
"We have a rehearsal this afternoon. I want to have time to eat lunch first. Come along, Maurice, there's nothing scary here."
He followed her because he was eager to be away from the place, but he didn't believe her words for a minute. She had felt something, and whatever it was had drained the color from her face.
He rose as soon as the sun had set. After drawing water from the well behind the cottage, he bathed, then changed his clothes and packed a few of his belongings.
With preternatural speed, he made his way into town and secured lodgings at the best hotel Paris had to offer. After unpacking his clothing, he ordered a bouquet of flowers and a midnight supper for two, and then he left the hotel.
For an hour, he walked the streets. For Sara, he would reenter the mainstream of humanity. He would take her to parties; he would take her dining and dancing, though he would have to be careful to avoid mirrors and other reflective surfaces. If she wished, he would accompany her to London when the company left Paris.
He sat in his usual box during her performance, mesmerized, as always, by her beauty. She moved with an inherent grace that was enchanting. Each step, each movement of her hand, each facial expression, was perfection.
And Maurice… Gabriel let his gaze rest upon the young man. What was he going to do about Maurice? The man didn't know anything, and yet he suspected far too much. Gabriel's first instinct was to kill Delacroix, but that he could not do. Sara liked the young man. But for her affection, Maurice would be dead even now.
Muttering an oath, Gabriel dismissed Maurice from his mind and lost himself once again in the magic that was Sara Jayne.
As always, she flew into his arms when the show was over, her eyes shining with happiness and the knowledge that she had danced beautifully.
"Where shall we go tonight?" she asked, slipping her arm through his.
"My hotel?" he answered casually.
"Your hotel?" She hesitated only a moment. "Yes, I'd like that."
She was surprised when he summoned a carriage, and even more surprised when they arrived at the Hotel de Paris.
"Is this where you stay?" she asked, her eyes growing wide as they stepped into the lobby of the hotel.
Never in all her life had she seen anything so grand. The carpets, the tapestries, the long, winding staircase. A chandelier to rival the one at the Opera hung from the intricately carved and painted ceiling.
His room was equally grand. Heavy velvet draperies covered the windows. A matching spread covered the enormous brass bed. The furniture was rich red mahogany, the settee of fine damask.
She made a slow circle, taking everything in, frowning when she noticed there was no looking glass.
Before she could comment on the lack, there was a knock at the door and a young man entered the room pushing a tea cart with one hand and carrying a huge bouquet of flowers in the other.
Gabriel took the flowers. Bowing low, he handed them to Sara. "For you,
cara
."
"They're beautiful, Gabriel," she murmured, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Thank you."
"Shall I serve you,
monsieur
?" the young man asked.
"That won't be necessary."
The young man's eyes widened as Gabriel pressed several coins into his hand. "Thank you,
monsieur
. And if you have need of anything else, please let me know." With a bow, he left the room.
"Enjoy your meal,
cara
," Gabriel said. He placed the tray on the small table near the window and lifted the cover. "I hope the pheasant is to your liking." He held her chair for her, then took the opposite seat.
"It looks delicious," Sara said. She cocked her head to one side and smiled. "I suppose you've already eaten?"
Gabriel nodded. "But don't let that spoil your dinner."
"I'm used to it," she said with a sigh. "Are you sure you won't share it with me?"
He glanced at her plate briefly, his stomach churning at the mere idea of digesting such a conglomeration of meat and vegetables. "I'm sure."
He filled their glasses with wine, then handed one to her. "To you, my sweet Sara," he said, touching his glass to hers. "May life bring you all the happiness you deserve."
She looked at him over the rim of her glass as she took a drink, felt the heat that arced between them as their gazes met.
"To us, my angel," she said, lifting her glass to his. "May we share all our tomorrows."
"It is my fondest wish," Gabriel replied ardently.
The fervor of his words and the refulgent look in his eyes enveloped her in a warm haze. Lost in the promise of his hooded gray eyes, she began to eat, though she hardly tasted a thing.
She couldn't stop watching him. He sipped his wine while she ate, and she yearned to lick the drops from his lips. He placed his empty glass on the table, his fingers making lazy patterns on the stem, and she yearned to feel his hand caress her skin.
He smiled, as if he knew her thoughts, and she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but she couldn't stop staring at him, couldn't keep from admiring the width of his shoulders, the sheer masculine beauty of his face.
He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, dark brown trousers, and brown leather boots, and she thought how perfect he would be to play the part of the prince in
Sleeping Beauty
, for his kiss had surely awakened her, to life, to love. To passion.
"What did you do today?" Gabriel asked as she pushed her plate away.
"Do?" She was filled with a sudden sense of unease as she recalled going to the cottage with Maurice. In the excitement of performing and then coming to Gabriel's hotel, she had all but forgotten Maurice's ramblings.
A slight frown drew Gabriel's brows together. "Is something wrong,
cara
?"
"Wrong? No, nothing's wrong. Why do you ask?"
"You're a poor liar, Sara."
"What do you mean?"
"Something is troubling you. What is it?"
"Nothing!"
He didn't believe her. She felt her mouth go dry as his gaze pierced hers. She could almost feel those deep gray eyes probing her heart, her soul. Her mind.
"Nothing's wrong," she said again. "Maurice and I went for a drive this morning."
"Indeed?" Gabriel said, his voice silky smooth. "Tell me, how is your young man?"
"He's not
my
young man," Sara retorted, glad for the apparent change of subject. "We're just friends."
"He seems to have injured his hand."
Sara bit down on her lip. "Yes, he… he cut it on a piece of glass."
"How unfortunate."
"Yes. We stopped at a small cottage. That's where Maurice cut his hand."
"I hope you looked after it for him. Cuts can be nasty things. Deadly, should infection occur."
Sara nodded. They weren't talking about anything as mundane as a minor cut, she thought, her mind racing. Gabriel was warning her to be careful. But to be careful of what?
"It was a quaint little cottage just outside of town. No one was living there. We climbed in through a broken window in the back."
Why was she telling him this? She had the oddest feeling that he already knew, that he was somehow drawing the words from her mind.
"And what did you see there,
cara
?"
"Nothing…" She tried to draw her gaze from his and failed. She hadn't
seen
anything, but she
had
heard his voice. All day, she had tried to tell herself it had only been her imagination, but she knew now that it had indeed been Gabriel's voice. "You were there, weren't you?"
"No questions,
cara
."
"You were there," she said again, with more conviction this time. "Why? Are you engaged in something illegal?"
"No questions!" His fist came down on the table with such force her silverware skittered across the surface, knocking over her empty wine glass.
"Maurice said…" Abruptly, she pressed her lips together, fear for Maurice's life making her suddenly cautious. For the first time since she had known Gabriel, she was truly afraid of him.
"I should like to go home now." She clasped her hands in her lap to still their shaking, but she could not stay the tremor in her voice. "Please."
Gabriel rose stiffly to his feet and pulled out her chair. "As you wish,
cara
," he said quietly.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye while she drew on her evening cape and gloves, fearing he would try to detain her, but he remained by the table, his hands clenched at his sides, his deep gray eyes filled with pain and self-reproach.
"Good night." She was trembling so badly she could scarcely speak the words.
A sad smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Goodbye, Sara Jayne."
The next two weeks were the most miserable of Sara's life. She filled her mornings with long rehearsals, and her afternoons with Maurice. He took her shopping, to lunch, on long walks, on
a
picnic. She refused to discuss Gabriel or the cottage, refused to relate what had happened between herself and Gabriel at the hotel.
She took a nap late each afternoon, then went to the theater. She tried to lose herself in her dancing, but she found no joy in it. Her feet felt like lead; her heart seemed to be made of wood. The ballet mistress scolded her nightly, admonishing her to pay attention, to listen to the music, but to no avail. There was no joy in her heart, no music in her head, nothing but the sound of Gabriel's voice bidding her good-bye.
If her days were long, and her dancing less than perfect, her nights could only be described as hellish.
She was tormented by nightmares—dark dreams filled with phantoms and fiends, ghouls with eyes that glowed, demons with fangs dripping with blood. Her blood.
Night after night, she woke in a cold sweat. On several occasions, she slipped out of bed and lit the lamp, checking in the mirror to make certain there were no bites on her neck.
As bad as those dreams were, there were others that were worse—horrible nightmares in which the fiends that chased her had Gabriel's voice, Gabriel's eyes.
These dreams started innocently enough. They would be walking in the park, or they would be dancing while he sang to her, and then, gradually, she would be overcome with a sense of dread. A shroud of darkness would overcome her, stealing the strength from her legs so that she couldn't run, and then he would be there, bending over her, enveloping her in the folds of his cloak until she was aware of nothing but the blood-red glow in his eyes and the smell of her own fear. And then he would smile, exposing his teeth, the canines long and sharp.
And then the true terror began, flooding through her with each wild beat of her heart as he bent over her. Horror would clog her throat, trapping her scream inside, so that she could only stare up at him, as helpless as a kitten caught in the jaws of a wolf. She would feel his lips on hers, his hands caressing her back. And then, just as she had convinced herself there was nothing to be afraid of, she would feel the sharp sting of his teeth at her neck.
Taut with fear, she would close her eyes, waiting for the pain, but there was no pain, only a gradual awareness of sensual pleasure that started deep within her and vibrated outward. To her horror, she would tilt her head to the side, exposing more of her neck to the ravages of his teeth. Heat would pulse through her, its warmth hypnotic, so that, when he finally drew away, she cried out in protest, begging him to take more, to take it all. At her words, he would laugh softly and then plunge his fangs into her neck again, a low growl of demonic ecstasy rumbling in his throat as he drained the blood from her body.