“However,” Mr. Sorrow continued, “I cannot allow my niece to remain here unless I know you are taking proper care of her.”
Marcus resisted the urge to snort. He’d already suspected Mr. Sorrow was holding Winifred hostage, but now he was certain. If her uncle had cared about her wellbeing, he would have attended the wedding ceremony. Instead, he’d appeared only long enough to upset Winifred with his fictional claim of a ‘feud.’
“Tell me what you want,” Marcus said.
Mr. Sorrow leaned forward. “I propose a truce. If you give me your word she will not become a vampire, I will withdraw my hunters and guarantee we will not pursue your nest.”
Some of the tension drained from Marcus’s body. Was that all the hunters wanted? “I assure you, she is happy, and I have no intention of making her a vampire.”
“I am glad to hear that.” Mr. Sorrow said. He picked up a treat from the tray. “Candied turnip. How creative.”
Turnips again. He’d been seeing them all over his property. “I believe we have a surplus.”
“Interesting.” Mr. Sorrow turned the treat around with his fingers. “Do you know what happens to livestock that eat too many vegetables from theBrassicafamily?”
Marcus shook his head. He relied on his groundkeeper for such knowledge.
“They weaken until the farmer has to put them out of their misery.” He put the dessert down. “And now that I have stalled long enough to ensure none of your staff will come running to your rescue, I can confirm it is precisely what we intend to do to you, my lord.”
Marcus felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over hishead. Turnips. Countless hours spent in his workshop trying to find the source of the contamination and the answer was so simple. It was almost as embarrassing as having a hunter be the one to tell him.
But before he could decide how to respond to the threat, the window shattered, and an enormous silver wolf leaped into the room.
Chapter Thirty-One
Two hours intothe carriage ride, Winifred’s pulse pounded in the back of her neck. Keenan snored gently, having slept through most of the journey. Winifred wished she could have done the same, but she hadn’t been the one who had frantically packed the trunks after Winifred had returned from the museum in a panic. Keenan had been curious, of course, but Winifred had been too upset to provide an explanation beyond a strong desire to return home.
She put her head in her hands. She couldn’t lose Marcus. It would be like tearing out a piece of heart she hadn’t realized she’d been missing until she’d met him. Never had she thought Felicity could be so cruel. It was as if her cousin had carved an image of Marcus in her mind that was centuries old and refused to recognize that he might have changed, which was absurd. Before Winifred had forced him to confess, he’d admitted that he hadn’t even drunk from humans in centuries. It made her wonder what other vampires were like to make her family so determined to eradicate them.
She recalled the book of names Felicity had shown her. Once, she would have said that written history was unchangeable, albeit subject to the interpretation of the reader. That belief had been naïve. She’d been so focused on the past, she’d failed to see her own biases. Humanity changed and evolved. She could never truly understand who Marcus had been because that person no longer existed. The best she could do was rewrite the narrative to better reflect who he had become.
She peered out the window and spotted billowing smoke in the distance. As they ascended a hill, she saw a line of people passing buckets of water toward a burning building. Several of the figures worked in the castle. She was briefly tempted to tell the driver to stop—there had to be some way she could help, even by tearing sheets into bandages—but then she realized what the fire meant.
The castle would be nearly empty, perfect for an ambush.
Her stomach gurgled as a horrifying image swam to life in her mind. Her uncle would find Marcus sleeping and stab a dagger into his chest. It would be over in seconds, and Marcus would never know how much she loved him. She gritted her teeth and tried to banish the premonition by staring at the tiny shape of the castle in the distance. The full moon sat high above it, faintly visible through the clouds.
When that failed to eradicate the awful vision, she imagined herself stepping between her husband and uncle with her arms spread. The cold metal would cut through her twill walking suit as if it were gossamer, then slide between her ribs and pierce her heart.
She clutched her sides and gasped. She could almost feel her lungs crackling as they filled with blood. There would be nothing left of her but a writhing, gurgling shape at her uncle’s feet.
The carriage hit a rut, making her bottom leave the seat and thrusting her back into the present. No matter how vivid her thoughts were, they were nothing more than a product of her terrified mind. She braced herself against the walls and remembered what she’d told Marcus before she’d left for Glasgow. She had been, and still was, prepared to become a vampire. They could remain together forever, and she could experience history rather than reading about it in dusty tomes. It would mean giving up the sun, her mortal life, and her uncaring family, but those were trifles compared to the thought of losing him. Even thinking such dire things made her feel like she’d already taken her uncle’s dagger through her ribs.
The carriage slowed to a stop. Keenan joltedawake and yawned. “Have we arrived?”
“Yes,” Winifred said. Then before Keenan or anyone else could open the door, she gathered her skirts and raced up the stone path. The exterior entrance to the castle was devoid of footmen, but she did not let that stop her. She grasped a brass ring and heaved until there was enough space to squeeze inside. When she popped through, she yanked the hem of her dress free from where it had caught and looked around.
The foyer was silent. There should have been servants bustling about, but she couldn’t hear footfalls upstairs or smell the garlic cheddar scones Mrs. Grange baked every morning. They must have all left to help with the fire.
She inhaled deeply, then shouted. “Marcus!”
Her own voice came back to her in a mocking refrain.
Marcus, Marcus, Marcus…
She didn’t have time to search. Her uncle was likely already preparing to execute her husband. As it was past sunrise, the most logical place for him to be was in his bedchamber. She was about to ascend the stairs when she felt an odd sensation in her head, like someone had wrapped a string around her brain and tugged.
The red receiving room.
