Secret Worlds (597 page)

Formulating a plan, Isobel drifted to sleep.

***

At first, the dream was sensual. She was standing in a darkened room with Matteo, who held her in a passionate embrace. Her body was pressed against his while his long-fingered patrician hands moved over her body. In her fantasy, Matteo was well and whole—and she was enjoying the touch of his gloved hands with an indecent amount of enthusiasm.

But soon the soft caress became hard and threatening. The air in her lungs expelled violently as her chest was compressed with an arm tightening around her like a vise. Gasping for breath, she flailed wildly. Something was shoved into her mouth and covered with something rough.

Certain she was being smothered to death, her eyes flew open as she clutched at the hand on her face. In the darkness of her room, she couldn’t make out anything but a large hulking form bent over her.

Terror flooded her body like mercury coursing through her veins. Panicked, she clawed at the hand covering her mouth in order to plead with Matteo for her life.

The realization it was not him came as movement from the shadows caught her attention. The massive hand over her mouth was strong and calloused, the hand of a laborer or a servant.

She tried to scream, but it was muffled by the gag that had been shoved into her mouth as she was hauled out of bed. Lashing out with all her strength, she kicked and screamed anyway, trying to get her assailant to release her.

“Help me. This one’s a hellcat,” her attacker hissed, and she nearly froze in surprise.

The man had spoken in Italian.

More muffled noises came as the second man stepped from the shadows to join the first, crossing a shaft of moonlight as he did so. He was shorter and thinner than the first and she recognized him as the older servant that served Matteo in his illness. Which meant that the one holding her was the muscular, blunt-featured one.

She doubled her efforts, a terrified whimper escaping her as she fought with all her strength, but it was useless. The second man took hold of her legs while the first held her arms and tied them together. They dragged her to the door and spirited her down the steps of the servant’s staircase.

They moved with practiced speed and stealth—a realization that made her heart sink. She doubted anyone had heard her muffled cries for help. Despite her struggles, she was soon out of doors, the cold night air seeping through her thin lawn nightgown with icy fingers. Tears welled in her eyes as she was unceremoniously dumped into the count’s waiting carriage and locked inside. The two men climbed onto the driver’s box, and the conveyance sped away.

The carriage lantern was unlit and the curtains were drawn. In the dim interior, she could only make out the faint outline of the benches though the moonlight filtering through the covered windows. Isobel tried to sit up, but the violent rocking of the interior and her bound hands made it nearly impossible. Twisting she wormed and crawled until she was sitting up, using her legs to brace herself against the bench. With her hands tied in front of her, she lifted stiff fingers to her mouth to pull at the hastily tied gag.

It took some effort to pull the cloth binding off. Coughing and spitting, she yanked at the gag until it came off in her hands. She couldn’t be sure in the darkness, but the object in her hands resembled a man’s cravat.

Oh, God.

Was this what had happened to the others? Had they been snatched from their very beds to feed the beast?

In spite of what she knew, it was hard to acknowledge that she was referring to Matteo. Unable to process what was happening, her thoughts skittered over what had transpired to bring her to this point, kidnapped and being taken to him in the dead of night. And her mind threatened to freeze and go dark over what would happen next.

Sweat beading on her lip, she tried to force her hands apart to loosen the rope tying them together. The coarsely woven line bit into the flesh, burning her skin as she desperately attempted to work herself free.

The carriage rumbled to a sudden stop. Isobel was thrown to the floor as the door flew open. The larger of the count’s two servants climbed inside and hauled her up with both hands. His fingers dug into her flesh as he dragged her from the carriage.

Taking a deep breath she prepared to scream as loudly as she could, but it died in her throat as she took in the sight before her. The
Conte
and his other servant were waiting in front of a thatched tenant cottage at the far edge of the Montgomery property.

She had passed it in the early days of her employment when she made it her purpose to familiarize herself with the area around her. Back then it had been in a bad state of disrepair, but she knew from the other servants that repairs had commenced hurriedly earlier this month in order to finish before winter truly set in.

But it wasn’t the sight of the
Conte
or the cottage that froze her in stupefied shock. No, it was Clarence Montgomery pacing at the edge of the lantern light.

“Sir Clarence!” she gasped as she was hauled in front of the men in her thin nightgown, the large servant holding her in front of him.

Her employer turned to her, anger and a little disgust clearly etched on his face.

“She was supposed to be blindfolded and gagged!” he hissed at the count, his breath steaming in the cold night air.

The
Conte
shot his servants an angry glance before schooling his features. He turned to Sir Clarence. “It hardly matters,” he said coldly in his coarsely accented English.

Another blast of icy fear blew through her as the count gestured imperiously and the hulking servant began to drag her to the door.

“No, you can’t do this!” she screamed. “I can’t just disappear like the others! Everyone is talking about those missing girls. But I’m not an unreliable housemaid or a poor baker’s daughter! My father was a gentleman just like you! If
I
disappear in the middle of the night out of my bed, everyone will suspect you!”

Sir Clarence covered his face with his hands before dropping them to glare at the count. “She already knows!” he said nervously. “And if she does then the whole staff does, or will soon.”

“It has to be her. He’s fixated. Now stop dragging your feet. It’s already too late,” the
Conte
said, his eyes flat and cold as he looked down at Sir Clarence.

The servant resumed dragging her to the closed door of the cottage. She tried to dig in her heels, but her bare feet grazed the ground as she was hauled unceremoniously to the entrance.

“My lord, think of the children!” she yelled back over her shoulder as the other servant threw open the door.

The dimly lit interior of the cottage seemed more ominous than the mouth of hell. Struggling with what remained of her strength, she twisted her head back in time to see Sir Clarence turning his back on her.

The count, however, followed them inside.

The servant behind the
Conte
entered with the lantern. He hurried inside and set the lantern on a rough wooden table to her left. The light cast the interior of the single room in stark relief.

Little furniture occupied the space. In addition to the table, there was a chair and a fireplace in the process of being retiled. Against the far wall, a mattress lay on the floor. A large and terribly still figure slumped down over it.

It was Matteo, unconscious, with his hands bound behind him.

Isobel was too surprised to move, even as she was forced to sit in the lone chair in the room. The man began to tie her wrists to the chair’s arms while the other servant faced Matteo and hesitated.

“What is happening?” Isobel asked in a horrified whisper.

This wasn’t what she had been expecting at all. Why would Matteo be tied up as well?

The
Conte
ignored her. “Don’t dawdle. Untie him,” he ordered, before turning to the other guard. “No one opens this door till morning.”

Both servants nodded before the shorter one rushed to the bound man. He loosened the ropes until he was able to slip them off. Hurriedly, he adjusted Matteo’s arms to a more comfortable position. The movement disturbed the unconscious man and he began to stir.

The sound that came from Matteo as he regained consciousness chilled her to the bone. It was somewhere between a growl and something similar to a cat’s purr—an extremely large and dangerous cat like the lion she had heard once at the Edinburgh zoo with her father.

The noise he made sent a shudder through her. And she wasn’t alone. The smaller servant straightened up as if Matteo really were a predatory cat that had snapped at him. He backed away quickly. Behind her, the larger servant snickered. Then Matteo opened his eyes and he stopped abruptly.

Isobel took one look at those black soulless orbs and knew she was going to die. Time slowed down for an endless moment, then he blinked and his vision seemed to clear. He looked at her, and for the first time really saw her, bound to the chair not more than ten paces from him.

His face contorted. “No!” His voice was broken—guttural and coarse. “No, not her!”

There was a rush of movement behind her. She didn’t have to turn around to know the other men were fleeing. The door slammed shut with the heavy sound a wood thudding against the jamb. It had been barred from the outside, no doubt one of the new “improvements.”

“No,” Matteo whispered, struggling to his feet.

Isobel closed her eyes and cringed in her seat as he ran toward her. But there was only the whipping of air across her face and then nothing. Opening her eyes she craned her neck to look behind her. He was at the door, banging on it with closed fists. He was crying out, the sound animalistic and desperate. His words were clear enough.

In between repeated shouts of ’Not her!’ he was begging his father to kill him.

***

Matteo quieted down after a few minutes, but Isobel couldn’t see him. The door was directly behind her and try as she might, she was unable to twist her neck back far enough. He hadn’t moved, but his hard breathing grated in her ears until it evened out and deepened. She wondered if he had fallen asleep. If he had, maybe she could get free.

The servant who had tied her to the chair had rushed through the business, no doubt in an effort to be done before Matteo woke. She didn’t want to dwell on that. If the servants, both large and strong men, feared him then what chance did she have?

Trying desperately not to think of what he was going to do to her, she tested her bonds. Even if Matteo was awake, she was going to have to risk it. She couldn’t just sit there waiting for the darkness to consume him.

Struggling not to breath too loudly, she started to tug and slide her arms down and back up. Her already scraped arms burned like someone was setting fire to them, but she didn’t stop. She would surely be raw and bleeding by the time she was free. If she got free.

Nearly an hour later, her prediction proved true. The raw skin seemed to burn in contact with the air and a little blood stained the ropes binding her to the chair. Ignoring the pain she prayed the smell of the blood wouldn’t remind Matteo of her presence, she worked her right hand free and loosened the left. Grateful her legs weren’t tied, she held her breath and stood up as quietly as possible before turning around.

He wasn’t asleep. He was sitting on the floor, his back to the door. He stared straight ahead, his face impassive, nearly expressionless. The darkness that stained his aura had grown, almost as if a halo of black smoke surrounded him.

Oh, my God.

Isobel trembled as she instinctively stepped back. A floorboard underneath her creaked loudly and she bit her tongue to keep from swearing aloud. The noise seemed to fill the world, and to her terror Matteo moved his head slightly to look at her. His eyes bored into hers, freezing her to the spot.

Then he smiled—a beautiful and terrible smile.

For one horrifying second, Isobel felt as if she was falling into a dark well as her sanity start to slip away. Catching herself, she jerked abruptly and flew to the other side of the room, as far from Matteo as she could get.

Isobel scrambled into the corner, her arm stinging from something she struck on the way. Turning to face the room, she was dismayed to see the lantern she’d knocked to the ground lying a few feet away.

“No!” she gasped as the light flickered and began to dim.

The glass hadn’t broken, but the oil in the bottom had spilled all over the floor. She didn’t want to be locked in here with Matteo in the dark. Throat tight, she scrambled forward before all of the lamp’s fuel leaked out.

Her hand had just touched the overturned lamp when a larger darker one took hold of it and lifted it off the ground. Moving like lightning, Isobel crawled back and pressed herself against the wall. Matteo, or the thing that was living inside him, lifted the lamp and turned it down to a low flame.

The light dimmed to a faint glow. Unable to look away, she raised her eyes. His head wreathed in shadows, Matteo loomed over her.

A strange grating and rhythmic sound filled the air. It was her lungs fighting to draw air in short labored pants. But her effort failed as soon as he moved.

It was like a snake striking. One second she was curled in a ball against the wall, and the next she had been hauled off her feet and suspended inches off the ground.

The shadows ceased to matter. His face was just inches away, allowing her to see him clearly. Except it wasn’t his face anymore. It was a beautiful shell, one made terrible in its absence of a human soul.

However, it wasn’t an empty shell. Something was there looking back at her through his eyes—a dark and demonic force. A tremor ran through her entire body as she took in the expression in those eyes. There was an intelligence there and...hunger.

Isobel recognized that look. Other men had watched her with something similar in their expression. But those were normal human appetites, much paler and weaker than this. She
wasn’t
going to die right away.

“Please don’t,” she whispered.

Matteo didn’t respond. She couldn’t even tell if he was breathing or not. By rights, his respiration should have been as labored as hers. She wasn’t a large woman, but no normal man should have been able to hold her like this without showing signs of strain. But he didn’t. He just cocked his head at her, the movement eerily reminiscent of a praying mantis.