“What a hearty lass, out so late on her own.” The voice rasped like old parchment, the tut-tutting tone belied by tenebrous amusement. It was the figure from the park! A gypsy of some sort! A creature of considerable height and long, lethal-looking fingers.
“Let go!” She tried again and again to twist her arm free.
She felt the creature smiling even before it pushed back the hood to reveal its face. The fog swallowed her screams as the man seized her in his hideous gaze, violating her with unspeakable intention. Later, she would not recall the shape of the face or the features that had filled it, only that leering emptiness; only those lifeless, bloodless eyes that had somehow rolled back in their sockets; only the sense of nothingness that threatened to consume her. And black teeth—such long, black teeth! She would also not recall how she had freed herself. All that was certain was the fact that it had not been her own strength that had gained her release.
In the midst of her struggles, those long cold fingers unexpectedly released her and she fell backwards, stumbling into the street, arms flailing. She tripped and landed in the road with unceremonious swiftness just as a carriage came racing out of the night fog like an eight-legged steed. The sound of hooves pounding against the stones was like thunder rushing towards her, threatening to devour her beneath dust and iron. Her lungs seized with renewed horror as the carriage bore down on her, the driver shouting a panicked alarm as he spotted her. Too late!
This time, when a pair of hands snatched her up, there was no thought of screaming. She was plucked so swiftly from the causeway that her neck jerked with unexpected violence. The entire incident was a surreal blur like the harrowing sting of horse hair whipping across her brow, her skull passing inches from an iron hoof.
The world only resumed its natural tempo once she was standing on the walkway, gasping in distress and gaping at the retreating coach. Its wake disturbed and curled the fog that hugged the glistening road. The driver waved his fist furiously at her, but she was too aware, suddenly, of the man at her side—her rescuer—to pay the coachman any heed. Not the gypsy, thank heaven.
He released his hold on her and moved away to place a respectful distance between them.
“You…you saved my life, sir!” she stammered, glancing down at her stinging palms where shallow cuts were glistening red.
“Now that is something I have not yet been accused of,” the stranger replied. His voice was as dark and low as a growl, the effect not a little sinister despite his silky grin.
Just like that, Emma’s relief curdled in her belly.
Chapter Four
The Witching Hour
Emma’s rescuer was dressed in black, only the crisp white of his cravat contrasted with his heavy greatcoat and dark top boots. She caught herself staring at the shadowed lineaments of his face, almost completely veiled from the gaslights by the brim of his black beaver hat. Only the lower half of his face was visible as he retrieved the cane that he had ostensibly dropped when he’d flung himself into the road to save her.
She watched the leather of his dark gloves tighten around it with an audible rasp. “Thank you,” she said, still hoping that he would prove himself her savior and not her murderer.
But he dashed that hope the very next instant. “Do not thank me yet.”
Warily, she backed away. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“You may thank me when you are safely home.”
She offered a feeble smile and then, to distract herself from imagining all the nefarious things he might do to her, she scoured the road for her spectacles. But she was none too pleased when she finally discovered them. “Quite ruined!” She shook her head as he drew up beside her to examine the spectacles cradled in her palms.
“Quite,” he agreed with a desultory air. “Well, never mind, spectacles are far less costly—and more easily replaced—than your life.”
She nodded, trembling with shock.
“Do you always take late night strolls in the middle of the street?”
The question was repeated again before Emma blinked her shock away enough to answer. “No, I…” It was then that the events that preceded her fateful fall came rushing back. “The gypsy! He attacked me and I fell!” Dear God, she would never forget those eyes!
“I wonder that you saw anything in this infernal fog.”
Emma did not let his unsympathetic response give her pause too long. “It…it was an old man, I believe—unaccountably strong and tall. I don’t remember what he said…well, he didn’t say much…that is to say, he didn’t have to say anything. He smiled and lifted his hood away and I saw…” She shuddered to think what he might have done to her. Those deathly pools had glistened like white, watery graves. “His eyes were monstrous!”
Her rescuer’s lips tightened beneath the shadow of his brim. “It is very dark tonight, and it seems you took a fearful tumble, Miss…”
“Oh! Emma Rose.” She’d never had to introduce herself to a stranger before. This night was turning out to be the oddest of her life. And now he likely thought her a maundering twit! Not that she cared what he thought of her.
“Well, Miss Rose, I do not doubt you’ve had a terrible fright and the fog can play such wicked tricks on the eyes, but wheresoever your gypsy is now, I assure you he is far from here—of that you may be sure.” Out came the smile again. “I am rather a fearsome creature myself when I wish to be. I frighten even gypsies.”
As imposing as his figure was, she did not doubt it. “Did I scream?” She thought she had—she must have! Surely her screams would have penetrated even her uncle’s impaired hearing.
“The Bow Bells, madam,” said he. “Your screams were overcome by the tolling of the hour and the thundering of hooves.” He drew out his pocket watch. “It is getting very late, you know; on nights like these the witching hour comes early. And witches are vicious creatures.” His smile became feral, almost defying her not to believe him. “You must allow me the honor of escorting you home.”
She studied what little of his features she could make out and wondered again if she ought to be scared and run away. Doubtless he would catch her easily. At any rate, why would he offer assistance if he only meant to exsanguinate her later? Besides, he was well dressed and the lower half of his face was very handsome, very unlike a mad butcher.
She released a long steady breath. “I do not fear witches, or vampyres, or any such impossible nonsense. Only wicked monks are to be feared.” Had she lost her senses somewhere in the fog? Why else was she standing in a deserted street, shrouded from reality, alluding to The Monk with a complete stranger whose face was all but shadowed?
“Nothing worse than wicked monks,” he said. “I avoid their society at all costs.”
“I confess I did fear you might be one, but as you have risked your life to rescue me and are not wearing a cassock, I must consider that you might be something else entirely.”
His teeth flashed behind his smile. “Miss Rose, you have quite piqued my curiosity. What is it you think I am? Surely I am not a vampyre, for you have just told me that such things are impossible.”
“No, not something as fatuous as that.” As she watched his impenetrable smile curl a little higher, her flesh rippled in response.