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Authors: Ronda Thompson

BOOK: The Cursed One
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When no one had answered Gabriel's summons earlier at the door, he'd resigned himself that he might indeed be forced to take one of Robert's horses and explain later. Then he'd heard screams. He'd tried the
door again, but it was firmly bolted against him. Recalling a tree that he and his brothers had often scrambled down from Robert's room, when they would swim naked late at night in a pond not far from the house, Gabriel had climbed the tree to gain access to the house.
Once he'd slipped inside, the screams had led him to this room, where he realized they were actually coming from the adjoining suite. The lady moaned and he glanced back down at her. Her gown was torn open, and although he tried not to notice, her pale breasts were partly exposed to his eyes. He glanced away.
“Tend to her,” he told the girl, placing the bloodied cloth aside. “Find something to cover her.”
He rose, took the candle, and went into the next room. Gabriel half-expected Robert to come at him again, even though he was fairly certain a shot from a pistol at close range had killed the man. He still couldn't quite believe he had killed Robert or that his boyhood friend had stabbed him. The Robert he had known was a shy, frail boy.
Their friendship had ended years ago. All of Gabriel's prior friendships had ended once it was discovered that the Wulf family was cursed.
Moving the candle closer to the floor, although he had no need for the added light, Gabriel searched the area. He saw quite well in the darkness, but what he saw confused him. It was not Robert Collingsworth who lay dead on the floor from a bullet wound.
“Girl,” he called. “Come here.”
Quiet as a mouse, she appeared beside him.
“Who is this man?” Gabriel asked her.
The servant sucked in her breath sharply. “'Tis Vincent. Stable help—the only one left who hadn't run away. What is he doing in the lord's bedchamber?”
A question Gabriel wanted answered, as well. What the man had been doing, or trying to do, was obvious. He was naked. Where was Robert? How had he let something like this happen?
“See to the lady,” Gabriel said to the girl. “I will search for Lord Collingsworth.”
“Don't go outside,” she warned. “You may not come back.”
Gabriel suspected the girl's imagination had gotten away with her, yet he knew such things existed as men who could shift their shapes. Years earlier, Gabriel's father had killed himself over just such a transformation. Gabriel's mother had followed his father shortly to the grave, a result of shock or madness. All of society believed the Wulfs were cursed by insanity, and they were therefore excluded from the social set. Gabriel had always thought the joke was on them. If only it were a mere case of madness.
Gabriel walked toward the door leading into the hallway. “Close that door.” He indicated the adjoining one, although it hung precariously from its hinges. A result of Gabriel's foot.
“What about … about him?” The girl nodded toward the body on the floor.
“I'll deal with him later,” he assured her.
After exiting Lord Collingsworth's bedchamber, Gabriel snuffed out the candle he held. He had unusually good eyesight in the dark. He had unusually good hearing. He had a good deal of unusual things about
him. He decided to check the upstairs rooms first.
Nothing looked out of place upstairs. It was upon the stairs going down to the lower level that he again became aware of his injuries. For months he'd been searching for his younger brother Jackson. The fool had gone missing in London, and Gabriel had promised his older brother, Armond, that he would find Jackson. It hadn't been easy, tracking him.
Finally, Gabriel had trailed Jackson to a little village called Whit Hurch. Gabriel had ridden into the village to inquire as to whether or not anyone knew the whereabouts of his brother, only to be set upon by angry villagers carrying pitchforks and muskets. The villagers had obviously mistaken him for Jackson. Gabriel took a ball to the thigh before he'd been able to get his horse turned around and charge his way through the mob.
They'd given chase. He'd spent the better part of a week trying to lose them. He'd spent the better part of another making his way back to Wulfglen. For all he knew, his idiot younger brother had returned home. Now this.
The parlors downstairs were empty. The study, as well. In the kitchen, a pot of stew simmered on the stove. Gabriel limped toward the pantry. Not well stocked, and empty of anything save necessary staples. He found a door leading down to the root cellar.
The stairs creaked beneath his weight. His thigh throbbed. It was blacker than pitch, but still, he made out shapes. A scurrying mouse—supplies that needed the cooler temperature to keep from spoiling. The cellar smelled like damp dirt and … he stopped. Gabriel closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled. Death.
Gabriel moved farther into the cellar, already sure of what he would find. Robert lay upon the damp dirt floor, staring sightlessly upward, his face a mask of horror, one hand clutched to his heart. He was dead.
That awful smell. Amelia came up from the darkness in
a rush. She fought to remove the foul-smelling odor from beneath her nose.
“There now, my lady. It's only the smelling salts to bring you back.”
Amelia coughed. She glanced around the room, confused. It was not her room in London. The nightmare came rushing back. Chill bumps rose on her flesh. Was she still dreaming? God, she hoped so.
“Pinch me,” she whispered to the serving girl. “Pinch me so I can wake up.”
The girl's large eyes softened. “You are not dreaming, my lady. You've had a terrible fright.”
Amelia glanced toward the door joining her room with her bridegroom's. It was closed but hung oddly upon the hinges. Gabriel Wulf had kicked the door open. Or she thought it was Gabriel Wulf.
“There was a man … .”
“I know, my lady,” the girl said. “From the stable, and I don't know how he got into the house, or into the young lord's room. He's dead now. The other man killed him.”
Amelia's head began to reel again. “What? What man from the stable are you talking about?”
“Vincent,” the girl answered. “He's the one dead in the next room. Don't know the other man. Tall as an oak and nearly as broad in the shoulders. Have no idea how either man came to be in the house. I bolted the doors myself.”
“But.” Amelia rubbed her pounding temples. “But it was Lord Collingsworth in the next room. I saw him in the candlelight when he rapped upon the door and bade me to join him.”
The girl frowned. She shook her head again. “Not your husband in there. Vincent, from the stable. That's who tried to hurt you. The other man has gone in search of the lord.”
Lying back against the pillows, Amelia tried to digest what the girl had told her. It had been Robert who bade Amelia to join him in their marriage bed. How could what the servant said possibly be true? But why would she lie to Amelia? And if this was not a nightmare, was it really Gabriel Wulf who'd gone in search of Robert? And if it was, whatever was Gabriel doing at Collingsworth Manor?
The door to her room opened. A blond giant of a man stepped inside. Lord Gabriel Wulf. He glanced at Amelia, then at the girl. “Will you fetch us something to drink? Something strong?”
The girl nodded. She moved toward the door but hesitated, her eyes round and frightened. “Are you sure it's safe?”
“It's all right,” Wulf said. “There's no one else in the house. I made certain.”
Reluctantly, the girl continued toward the door.
“Bring up some of that stew cooking on the stove,” Wulf called to her. “The lady could probably use sustenance.”
Amelia eyed Gabriel Wulf warily. It was a night to be wary, if she was not in fact dreaming. “What are you doing here?”
He swayed a bit on his feet and glanced around the room. “One of those dainty chairs would break beneath me.” He indicated two Queen Anne chairs arranged before Amelia's hearth. “May I sit upon the bed? It's my leg.”
She noticed a dark stain covered the thigh of his buckskin breeches. “Are you injured?”
Without waiting for her permission, he limped forward and settled his weight against the soft down of her mattress. “It's the reason I stopped. That and because my horse is lame. I planned to ask Lord Collingsworth to borrow one of his and push on to Wulfglen but …”
Still dazed, Amelia whispered, “The girl said the man in the next room is not Robert. I tell you it must be. It was he who knocked upon my door and bade me to join him.”
Dark, thick lashes veiled Wulf's gaze until he glanced up at her. His eyes were vividly green, not hazel, no hint of brown—green, like springtime. Dark whiskers shadowed his strong jawline. His hair was dark blond with streaks so light they almost appeared silver in the candlelight. For a big man, his features were refined. Short, straight nose, dark brows, high
cheekbones, and a mouth sculpted perfectly to fit the rest of his features. He was breathtaking.
“Lord Collingsworth is dead,” Wulf said bluntly. “I found him in the root cellar.”
Amelia stared blankly at him. She feared she was in shock and his words could not penetrate her mind. The events leading up to now could not penetrate. She hadn't loved Robert. She'd married him because he was a good match and her parents had approved of him. Amelia might have tried to fool herself into believing she would one day come to love him, but she did not believe in love. “Love” was a pretty word people used instead of “lust” or “duty.”
“Dead,” she repeated, stunned, although not a moment past she had thought he was dead in the next room. “Dead from what?”
Wulf ran a hand over his cheeks. “Near as I can tell, his heart. I didn't find a scratch on him.”
Tears stung her eyes. Amelia blinked them back. It didn't matter whether she loved Robert or not; he was her husband. She wouldn't wish him dead. Spoiled and coddled all of her life, Amelia had expected her young husband to continue in that vein. Now he was supposedly dead. And the man in the next room supposedly was not her husband at all. It didn't make sense.
“This can't be happening,” she whispered. “I swear to you, it was Robert in the next room with me earlier. There wasn't time for a switch to take place.”
Wulf scooted closer to a basin that rested on the night table, grabbed a cloth, and wrung it out. “Your neck,” he said. “It's bleeding again.”
She still felt the sting of the scratches. He dabbed gently at the area. Amelia did have the presence of mind to glance down at herself, relieved to discover she'd been draped by a thin blanket. Her robe lay beside her on the bed.
Her nightgown was thin and a bit daring for a new bride, but Amelia had always been a bit daring. The gauze material had ripped easily beneath Robert's … claws. She shuddered.
“I'll light a fire.” Lord Gabriel obviously mistook her reaction for one of being chilled. He put the cloth he'd used to wipe blood from her neck in the washbasin, rose, and limped toward the hearth.
The girl entered a moment later. A heavenly aroma wafted from two steaming bowls on the tray the servant carried. Amelia swore she could not eat at a time like this, but her stomach disagreed with a soft grumble.
“I've brought the stew,” the girl called to Wulf. “And a bottle of brandy. Thought it might help warm the lady.”
For all her youth, the girl seemed mature for her age. Amelia, however, knew she was on the verge of hysteria. The night's events seemed unreal. Like a dream or, rather, a nightmare. Collingsworth Manor had given her an uneasy feeling from the moment she and Robert first arrived.
The house wasn't as large as she had expected. It was constructed of crumbling white stone. Thorny, bare bushes surrounded the house. Dead. All the greenery that surrounded the house was dead and ill kept. There was a nice archway that led into the yard, but what ivy had managed to survive was sparse and unattractive.
The shutters all needed paint. The house looked as if it was falling down. The condition of Robert's country home had surprised her. Surprised and distressed her.
Robert had assured Amelia's father that he would take proper care of her. That she would have the finest of everything, as she was accustomed to. Her bridegroom had laughed upon seeing her expression when they'd arrived at Collingsworth Manor. Robert told her she would have a free hand in making it presentable again.
As a bachelor, Robert admitted he had no flair for such things or any interest in them. His horses were what interested him most at Collingsworth Manor. The horses and the rich farmland … but the fields had looked neglected when they'd driven past them. Robert had said nothing, but she knew he'd been brooding about the matter for the remainder of their journey. To arrive and learn most of his servants had fled had only added to his bad humor.
“The coachman,” Amelia suddenly recalled. “And a footman. They accompanied us from London. They should have been in the stable.”
Now that a fire blazed behind him, Wulf limped back toward the bed. “There was no one in the stable,” he assured her. “I called out so as not to be mistaken for a horse thief.”
“Maybe they've run away like everyone else,” the girl said softly.
By speaking, the servant drew Wulf's attention. “Put the tray over there,” he instructed, pointing to a chest with a mirror. He winced and rubbed his shoulder.
Blood stained his shirt as well as his dusty trousers.
Amelia recalled that Robert, or, rather, whoever had been in the next room with her, had stabbed Lord Gabriel. Here he was, fussing over a couple of scratches to her neck, and the man might be bleeding to death.
“Lord Gabriel,” Amelia called. “Please come and sit. You need your own injuries seen to.”
Instead of obeying, he walked to the chest, lifted a decanter of brandy, filled two glasses, downed the contents of one, and brought the other to her.
“Time enough for that later,” he said, extending the glass toward her. “Drink this. It will burn at first, but it will strengthen you.”
He didn't have to ask her twice. Amelia took the glass, brought it to her lips, and drank the contents without stopping. When she finished, she noted Wulf's raised brow. “I've had brandy before,” she explained. “In fact, it was your sister-in-law Lady Wulf who introduced me to it.”
“Rosalind?”
She nodded. “We are the best of friends.”
Wulf did sit then, and upon the edge of her bed. “How do you know my name?”
How foolish Amelia now felt for all the hours she'd spent thinking of Gabriel Wulf when she should have been thinking of Robert, who'd at least paid her court. She'd only seen Lord Gabriel once, and yet he'd stayed in her thoughts. Even this morning, as she'd said her vows, his image had popped into her head.
“I saw you once in London. Later, I recognized you
from the portrait that hangs in your family town home. Rosalind told me your name.” She lifted her empty glass. “Could I have another?”
Wulf glanced at the girl, who quickly fetched the decanter. While the servant poured, Amelia tried to gather her strength. Feeling Gabriel's eyes upon her, she forced herself to at least sip the liquor this time. “Would you look away while I slip into my robe? I wish to rise, and my gown is torn.”
For the briefest of seconds, Wulf's eyes moved down her body and up again. “I noticed.”
It was an odd thing to say in the face of everything else going on. He'd noticed her gown had been ripped, her breasts no doubt spilling forth. Odd as it was, it made her tingle a little that he'd noticed. Amelia wasn't by half the prude her young husband had been. She'd shocked Robert often during their courtship. Then he'd shocked her. Only, supposedly, it had not been Robert who attacked her.
“You should stay in bed,” Wulf said. “I'm certain a lady of your sensibilities would only faint again, and truth be told, my shoulder stings to the point I'm not certain I could lift you a second time.”
His response somewhat shocked her. It wasn't a very gentlemanly thing to say, but then, Amelia knew that Gabriel Wulf was no gentleman. It was, she supposed, part of his dark appeal to her. “I will not faint,” she said evenly, and prayed that was true. “If you won't look away, I will simply bare my breasts to you.”
His brows shot up. Now she had managed to shock him. Amelia might have smiled if circumstances hadn't robbed her of the ability.
“Perhaps you should go out for a moment, my lord, while I help the lady into her robe.”
Amelia had almost forgotten the girl's presence.
“He can barely stand without swaying on his feet,” Amelia dismissed the suggestion. “If he faints, I doubt the both of us together could lift him.”
The corner of Gabriel's mouth turned up, just a hint of a smile. “I believe we have both been put in our place,” he said to the girl.
The servant didn't smile, but she came forward to help Amelia into her robe.
“What is your name again?” Amelia asked her.
“Mora, my lady,” she answered.
“Mora says there are beasts surrounding the house. Wolves that turn into men, and vice versa. Do you believe in such things, Lady Collingsworth?”
Wulf kept his gaze trained straight ahead while Mora helped Amelia into her thin robe. It felt odd to be addressed as “Lady Collingsworth.” A bride for a day and now a widow. Amelia could hardly grasp her circumstance … but she wasn't insane.
“Of course not,” she answered. “No offense to the girl, but such things are only folklore. Stories made up to frighten young village children so that they don't wander off into the woods and become lost.”
Tying the ribbons of her robe, Amelia regarded the girl, hoping to display an emotion that said she didn't blame her for believing in things that did not exist. They came from very different backgrounds.

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