every consideration. The best doctors . . . I’ll give her a recommendation to Dr. Derwin . . . and . . . a female companion! Someone cheerful—that’s what she needs. And of course, the support of her brother.”
“I . . .” Symington seemed for once at a loss for words. “I . . .”
“Draw a draft on Drummond’s for whatever you need.”
The old man drew himself up. “You are too good, my lady, to bestir yourself like this.”
“What nonsense! You are the one who will bestir yourself. And you must run up and accompany her to town. Take the barouche. I shall make do with the phaeton.”
Symington turned quickly away. “Thank you, my lady,” he murmured with a full throat as he closed the door. How dear that he hesitated to ask for something so easily accomplished. He liked to be depended on, not to be dependent.
Left alone, her thoughts returned to Langley. Now, how to see him? Tonight she was promised to the prime minister. The Prince Regent would be there. They were trying to get on together. If the old king died everyone knew the prince would replace all the ministers posthaste, but they must appear to be on good terms in case the king recovered. She would probably be the only woman there except for Mrs. Fitzherbert. It might be good sport but for the fact that one person would not be there.
Beatrix forced herself to lie down. Monday was soon enough to send him a card for her next soiree. He must think he was an afterthought. Where did he go for a month at a time? He was not as bad as he put about. Why did he encourage the world’s misconceptions? She had seen his core of steadiness. She did not think she could be mistaken about that.
But she had been mistaken about people before. Stephan for instance. Asharti . . .
AMSTERDAM , 1101
Beatrix pushed the lout off her with a growl that sounded more animal than human. He thought to take advantage of her. They all did, to their cost . I shall surprise you, bastard whoreson, she thought. He stumbled back. She plunged into the dark of the alleyway after him, into the mud and the night soil. Her ragged shawl drooped over one arm. The oaf must outweigh her by six stone. Before he could right himself, she shoved him up against the wall, his jowls heaving, codpiece dangling, surprise making his dull eyes widen. His head thunked against the wood covered with wattle. Power surged in her veins as the hunger welled inside her. She pulled his head down. He struggled but it was no use, of course. Her vision dimmed with the familiar red film. The smell of him, acrid with sweat and fear, filled her nostrils as she ripped at his neck. His high-pitched keening sounded over her low growl. The thick life flowed over her lips and tongue from his torn throat, on and on. He went quiet, sagging against her .
A strong hand pulled her away. She whirled, growling as the lump of flesh behind her slumped and fell. Who dared to interrupt her feeding?
A man grasped her shoulders. A well-made man, clean, tall, dressed in a rich hauberk and the chain mail of a warrior. That was all she noticed. She curled to shrug him off .
“Easy,” he whispered. His voice echoed in her mind. She struggled, but his arms were steel. No one was stronger than she was! To her surprise, his eyes went red in the darkness .
She stilled. “Are you . . .?” She couldn’t say it .
He nodded. “I am as you are.” He glanced to the carcass behind her. “And you have much to learn, my pretty feral kitten.”
She searched his face. Cheekbones. Eyes near black now that the red had faded. High forehead, nose straight, jawline strong. Lips. Had she ever seen lips like that? His hair was dark and curling around his shoulders. He was . . . handsome. She knew she would never forget his face. She was afraid. And yet, to find someone like her, someone who knew . . . Her eyes filled .
He gathered her into his arms and cradled her head against his chest. He smelled like her mother, spicy, yet different —
“I . . .” Symington seemed for once at a loss for words. “I . . .”
“Draw a draft on Drummond’s for whatever you need.”
The old man drew himself up. “You are too good, my lady, to bestir yourself like this.”
“What nonsense! You are the one who will bestir yourself. And you must run up and accompany her to town. Take the barouche. I shall make do with the phaeton.”
Symington turned quickly away. “Thank you, my lady,” he murmured with a full throat as he closed the door. How dear that he hesitated to ask for something so easily accomplished. He liked to be depended on, not to be dependent.
Left alone, her thoughts returned to Langley. Now, how to see him? Tonight she was promised to the prime minister. The Prince Regent would be there. They were trying to get on together. If the old king died everyone knew the prince would replace all the ministers posthaste, but they must appear to be on good terms in case the king recovered. She would probably be the only woman there except for Mrs. Fitzherbert. It might be good sport but for the fact that one person would not be there.
Beatrix forced herself to lie down. Monday was soon enough to send him a card for her next soiree. He must think he was an afterthought. Where did he go for a month at a time? He was not as bad as he put about. Why did he encourage the world’s misconceptions? She had seen his core of steadiness. She did not think she could be mistaken about that.
But she had been mistaken about people before. Stephan for instance. Asharti . . .
AMSTERDAM , 1101
Beatrix pushed the lout off her with a growl that sounded more animal than human. He thought to take advantage of her. They all did, to their cost . I shall surprise you, bastard whoreson, she thought. He stumbled back. She plunged into the dark of the alleyway after him, into the mud and the night soil. Her ragged shawl drooped over one arm. The oaf must outweigh her by six stone. Before he could right himself, she shoved him up against the wall, his jowls heaving, codpiece dangling, surprise making his dull eyes widen. His head thunked against the wood covered with wattle. Power surged in her veins as the hunger welled inside her. She pulled his head down. He struggled but it was no use, of course. Her vision dimmed with the familiar red film. The smell of him, acrid with sweat and fear, filled her nostrils as she ripped at his neck. His high-pitched keening sounded over her low growl. The thick life flowed over her lips and tongue from his torn throat, on and on. He went quiet, sagging against her .
A strong hand pulled her away. She whirled, growling as the lump of flesh behind her slumped and fell. Who dared to interrupt her feeding?
A man grasped her shoulders. A well-made man, clean, tall, dressed in a rich hauberk and the chain mail of a warrior. That was all she noticed. She curled to shrug him off .
“Easy,” he whispered. His voice echoed in her mind. She struggled, but his arms were steel. No one was stronger than she was! To her surprise, his eyes went red in the darkness .
She stilled. “Are you . . .?” She couldn’t say it .
He nodded. “I am as you are.” He glanced to the carcass behind her. “And you have much to learn, my pretty feral kitten.”
She searched his face. Cheekbones. Eyes near black now that the red had faded. High forehead, nose straight, jawline strong. Lips. Had she ever seen lips like that? His hair was dark and curling around his shoulders. He was . . . handsome. She knew she would never forget his face. She was afraid. And yet, to find someone like her, someone who knew . . . Her eyes filled .
He gathered her into his arms and cradled her head against his chest. He smelled like her mother, spicy, yet different —
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