One With the Night (30 page)

He looked up at her, suspicious.

“It will help you remember.” A tenuous smile was the best she could do. “Trust me.”

His expression softened. “Sorry. Trust is a little hard ta come by these days.” His eyes gave that familiar gleam that was almost a smile before he closed his eyes.

“Excellent. Now think back to the time you took the potion. We were all up in the laboratory. And everything was bubbling away. You mended my pen. And then my father put that green mixture into the clear, thick liquid and it turned that strange purple-blue.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “And th’ stuff smelled like … like damp leaves … in th’ winter, after they’d been there for a while.”

“Yes.” She tried not to let excitement into her voice. He was good at this. She remembered the smell vividly now that he described it. “What of its taste?”

“I was feeling woozy from th’ opium. But it seemed … thick. It slid down yer throat like … like aspic.” She scribbled frantically. “It was bitter, too. I chewed some raw nettle leaves when I was a lad because some young ruffian said they made yer tongue go numb. They tasted a bit like th’ potion.”

“Anything else about the taste?”

“It seems strange, but it was kind o’ chalky, too. All at th’ same time. Bitter and chalky.”

“Hmm. And when did you first feel the symptoms?”

“At once. My gut burned. I thought I’d bring it up and ruin th’ whole. But it seemed ta get inta my veins and just … burn there.”

“And what else?”

“I dinnae remember anythin’ more, Miss Blundell.”

It seemed odd that he called her that. Hadn’t he … hadn’t he called her Jane last night after her father died? For God’s sake, she’d been intimate with him! But he still called her Miss Blundell. And she still called him Mr. Kilkenny. She shook herself.
Focus!
“Very well,” she said, dipping her pen. “What can we conclude?” What could she conclude? Panic scuttled around inside her head and she slapped it away. “Well. The earthy smell. That’s
Amanita
.”

He lifted his brows.

“The mushrooms from the falls. But they wouldn’t produce the viscous texture.” She began writing. “One beaker was a virulent green.” She tapped the pen against the page. “Could be anything herbal.” She ran the feather of her quill along her jawline. “We gathered nightshade leaves. But I thought he’d given that over after your reaction. Valerian? But that’s a soporific and he had the opium for that. Feverfew—is that so bitter? What else? What else?”

“What about tha hemlock we got from th’ little loch up th’ glen?”

“Yes! That’s very bitter. I always wondered how Socrates got it down.” She bent over her notebook. She could feel how his body occupied space, the scent of soap and wet hair. Wait … Did she smell … blood? She peered up at him. He glanced away. “Are … are you hurt?”

He shot her a startled glance. “Nae,” he said quickly.

Hmm. She could swear … She examined him. Perhaps he had cut himself shaving? But no, she saw no cuts about his person. Well, it was none of her business anyway. The whole problem was that her Companion was hungry. Even now she could see his pulse throbbing in the hollow of his throat. Why did he have to wear his collar open today of all days? She cleared her throat. “Now, chalky … What plant provides a chalky taste?” She forcibly drew her thoughts away from blood and Kilkenny’s body and racked her brain.

“Uh…” He chewed his lip. “Apples past their prime … nae, that’s more mealy.”

They sat in silence, frowning in concentration. At last Jane threw up her hands. “I can’t think. Well, we’ll leave that until later. There is always the problem of the clear liquid and the reaction between the two potions that generated such a change in color.” She sighed.

“Th’ clear liquid was th’ thick one. Mayhap that was th’ aspic. What
is
aspic?”

“You may never eat it again if I tell you,” she warned, smiling.

“I dinnae frighten easily, lass,” he said, “havin’ been a vampire and all.” The creases at the corners of his eyes and the gleam were the only things that betrayed a smile.

“Very well, then, brace yourself.” She drew herself up. “One boils animal bones until they dissolve, leaving only a gelatinous substance.”

He grimaced. “An’ ye use that for jams, as well?”

“No, one uses pectin for that. It comes from apples and such.”

“A relief, certain. Still, ye’ve ruined aspic for me forever.” His eyes gleamed.

That was his smile. She made her mouth prim, but her smile would not be suppressed. It was so courageous of him to smile in spite of all that had happened to him.

“It’s good ta see ye smile,” he said, and his eyes definitely softened.

How could I smile?
It was a complete betrayal of her father! Tears clogged her throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, covering her hand with his. “I should no’ ha’ said anythin’.”

“It’s all right. I must grow accustomed to missing him sooner or later.” She blinked and tried to focus on the spidery crawl of ink across the page of the notebook. But all she could think about was Kilkenny’s hand covering hers, how warm it was, how … comforting. Comforting, but still exciting. How could she feel like this even as she fought back tears? But she did. She wondered how long he would keep his hand there. She could feel him wondering why he had touched her, and how he could take it away. There was no way around the awkwardness, and he didn’t seem to be doing anything except sitting there, staring at their hands just as she was. So she sat back and slid her hand from under his. She felt the loss of its comfort immediately.

He’s a traitor. A killer.
She shouldn’t feel so comfortable around him. Or so uncomfortable for the wrong reasons. But she did.

A thought jumped into her mind unbidden, as though it had been pushed down for too long. She sat forward again and frowned. “But there is a problem with our theory. Gelatin isn’t clear. It’s brownish to varying degrees depending upon the kind of bones one uses.” She tapped her pen on her notebook, leaving a distinct blot. “However, that would explain some of the vile smells up in the laboratory when Papa began his work here. And there is another issue. What point gelatin? It isn’t really an active ingredient like nightshade or hemlock.”

“Maybe as a stabilizer?” he asked. “It keeps whatever ye put in aspic from spoilin’.”

“You’re right.” She started scribbling. “By suspending the active ingredients of either nightshade or hemlock it would reduce their volatility for a more predictable result.” Jane heard the rattle of cartwheels. “Flavio!” She darted to the kitchen door, opened it and waited.

Kilkenny came to stand behind her. “Ye hear th’ cart?”

She nodded, looking up at him. Was he … wistful? At last the cart heaved into view, pulled by two sturdy cart horses with their tails bobbed, the feathers on their fetlocks caked with mud. Faust pranced at the end of a lead rope tied to the cart. He neighed to Kilkenny.

“Did you get everything?” Jane called, stepping out onto the flagstone steps.

Kilkenny went to the horses’ heads and held their reins as Flavio swung down.

“I think so, Miss Blundell. I bought the town out. When there weren’t enough proper beakers at the three chemists, I visited the china shop and bought part of a table service, too. Mr. Kilkenny, can you stable these animals?” Flavio began handing Jane wooden crates.

“Aye.” Kilkenny unbuckled their traces. “Stable is gettin’ a mite crowded.”

“It will take us hours to reassemble a laboratory.” Excitement beat in Jane’s throat. Hope warred with fear. Could she replicate the formula? There was only one way to find out.

CHAPTER
Eighteen

Callan led the second phlegmatic cart horse into a stall and forked some hay into his manger. The barn was lit by one lantern hung on a hook by the door and another by the tack room. They cast a soft glow over the old wood of the stalls. Faust and the other cart horse had joined Missy, the cow, and the two carriage horses in the loose boxes. The sound of grinding teeth could be heard up and down the barn aisle. There was an air of contentment about the animals Callan didn’t share. Indeed, his stomach churned.

Could Jane reconstruct the formula? She seemed hopeful, but he was worried. The clues they had seemed so tenuous. Elyta wouldn’t be forgiving if Jane failed repeatedly. His submission might prolong Elyta’s patience, but not forever. Elyta wouldn’t dare kill Jane if there was even a remote possibility that Jane could produce the formula. But what if she punished Jane to motivate her? He couldn’t protect Jane, not really. Even when he had been vampire, he was no match for Elyta, and now …

Now he couldn’t hear the things Jane heard, and couldn’t see in the dark as she could. He wasn’t strong like she was. She had carried those immense wooden crates as if they were sewing baskets. And he couldn’t translocate, or compel, or … A chasm had opened between them.

Jane was hungry. He knew the signs well enough; a certain restlessness, the way she stared at his throat. She’d smelled his blood. He’d have to cut his forearm somewhere and roll up the sleeves of his shirt, so he could account for the scent. He didn’t want her to know about the jagged wound on his chest, carefully concealed under a bandage. He didn’t want her to imagine Elyta licking at it.

He felt a thrill of excitement in the air. He did not turn. He took a breath and gathered himself. “Mistress.”

She chuckled. “I am eager for your services again tonight, Kilkenny.”

He turned, and knelt, knees wide. The kilt left him feeling vulnerable to her.

“Too many clothes,” she admonished.

He worked at stripping himself. The feeling of despair in his gut was not so bad tonight. He knew what she would do. He could bear it. He’d borne it last night. And he hadn’t enjoyed his torment, thank God. Had he? He didn’t know anymore. He felt his cock rise. It would be hard until morning now or until she had done with him.

“Up to the loft,” she said. As he climbed the ladder into the dimness above, he saw her browsing among the leather traces and bridles hung on pegs at the end of the barn. She fingered a thick strap made to cross the draft horses’ chests, and took up the long dressage whip Jane used to tap her mare. She flexed the supple, four-foot length. It had a small knotted leather strip at the end. She’d used that one last night. He pulled himself up over the edge of the loft into the piles of straw that smelled of summer sunshine. It scratched at his welts. Darkness whirled around her and she appeared beside him.

She tossed her implements into the hay, bent, and ripped the bandage tied diagonally across his chest. “You should know I want you entirely naked.”

“Forgive me, mistress,” he murmured. “I beg you ta punish me for my lapse.”

“I will. First, I want to examine you. On your hands and knees.”

He complied, his head hanging. He spread his knees. She ran her hands over his back. Her nails raked his welts lightly. Then with both palms she pushed apart his buttocks.

“Such pale flesh shows the bruising nicely,” she remarked. “Asharti was right about men from the north countries.”

She squeezed his balls from behind and thumbed his anus. As she pulled on his sac, his hips changed angle. It was enough to madden him, but not enough to quench the need she raised in him. This need wasn’t for abasement. He wasn’t excited by pain and subjugation. He thought of making love to Jane in the castle. He hadn’t wanted Jane to mistreat him. He’d wanted only to share the joy of passion with her. It hadn’t been like this. So the erection that hung so stiffly into the straw was not of his doing but Elyta’s. He was almost certain. It wasn’t because of the submission. It wasn’t.

She selected the dressage whip and laid it sharply over his buttocks. He flinched and gasped. That would leave blood. Her vibrations ramped up. It had left blood, all right. That was her Companion cycling up at the smell of it.

“Excellent,” she breathed.

She rose and braced herself, feet apart, against the wall of the loft, still holding the whip. She parted her wrapper to reveal the dark mound of hair with which he was only too familiar. He crawled forward. She pulled her flesh apart with two fingers and he lifted his head to her slick folds. “Lick me,” she hissed, and punctuated the command with the snap of the whip across his lower back. He grunted, and obeyed. “More assiduously.” Again the whip snapped. He sucked on her nub, alternately thrusting his tongue deep inside her, anything to keep her from using the whip. But she used it anyway. He counted to distract himself. Ten stripes before her moans of pleasure cycled up into orgasm. He sucked her harder, trying to prolong it. She couldn’t whip him when she was coming. The waves washed over her. He paused, and then began again. Again she yipped, and slid down the wall until she was on her back in the hay, moaning and writhing under his mouth as she pressed his head to her crotch. “Enough,” she finally gasped.

He hung over her, braced on his elbows, his eyes squeezed shut against the humiliation and the need that still coursed through his loins.

“Oh, that was good,” she murmured. She seemed to drowse.

He caught his breath and tried to press down thought. He’d done it. He’d submitted twice. And in some strange way it wasn’t like what he had done with Asharti. Elyta hadn’t compelled him. It had been his choice. The result was the same; humiliation, degradation—but different. It was his choice. For Jane. Now if only he was absolutely certain he didn’t enjoy it.

Soon enough Elyta stirred, and rose, fingering the new welts she had made. “These will mark your shirt with blood tomorrow. Wear a waistcoat to conceal it.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“I would use your cock.” She gestured languidly to a jar of oil Callan had used to keep his tack supple. She’d brought it up with her leather and whips. “Oil yourself.”

He couldn’t remember Asharti ever asking him to rub his own cock. In fact, he was expressly forbidden to touch himself. He swallowed and reached over to pour some oil into his palms. This was going to be exquisite torture. He spread his knees wider and cupped his balls with one hand, smoothing the oil over them. They were tight and high with need. With his other hand he grasped his cock and slid the oil over the shaft.