A dray loomed before him, plodding along with its load of coal. He leaped, arcing over it, to land on quick feet and run onward. It was more populated here, throngs of idle humans mixing with street traffic. He wove around them without care, his feet splashing through some unholy muck and kicking up the scent of rot.
His shoulder brushed past a coffee monger pushing his cart along. What would he see? A man in leather moccasins brought back from the American West? The loose gray trousers and cotton shirt of a laborer? Items Ian Ranulf, newly titled Marquis of Northrup, would not be caught dead wearing. Surely not that trussed-up dandy. Lord Northrup would never be confused with this wild man running amok.
All at once, the strength left him, and he slowed. His breath puffed even and steady. The beat of his heart was as strong as ever in his chest. Unstoppable. Unending. The thought nearly brought him to his knees. Around him, the chatter of men and women enjoying the clear night scraped against his nerves.
Slowing to a stroll, Ian wandered down a twisted street where the press of bodies thinned out to lighter foot traffic. To his left, yellow light poured in wide blocks from the windows of an older town home, still beautiful but shabby in this unfashionable neighborhood. The strains of a reel and feminine laughter rose above the din of London nightlife.
Ian moved away from it, into the shadowy mouth of an alley, when through the thick mash of human sweat, rotting water, and sewage came the distinctive tang of blood. Human blood. Just below that, a finer note, that of wolf.
It was that scent, the wild, rangy stamp of wolf that had his hackles rising and a growl rumbling deep within his throat. Seventy years of doggedly keeping away from his kind was almost lost as he instinctively turned toward the scent, ready to tear into whoever dared to encroach upon his territory. He came to an abrupt halt. It wasn’t his territory. Not anymore.
Fight or flight, it warred within him until his chest felt ready to rip in two. A trickle of sweat rolled down his neck. He nearly moved away when a sharp feminine scream rent the air, followed by a snarl of rage. A man bellowed in pure terror. The snarls grew and then came the distinctive sound of tearing flesh, a man gurgling as though drowning. Blood, the perfume of it washed over Ian, making his knees buckle.
“Bugger!” He ran toward the scent without another thought.
Men were already spilling into the alley as Ian charged headlong into the fray. Someone shouted in shock. A woman fainted. A ripple of terror went through the throng of onlookers, heightening the sharp smell of fear. Men both retreated in horror and shoved forward in fascination. Women were quickly ushered away.
Ian shouldered a rotund man aside. The scent of wolf overpowered his senses. Wolf and blood. Jesus.
When yet another gentleman stepped in his way, Ian found his voice and said words he hadn’t uttered in years. “Move aside! I’m a doctor.” Though from the overwhelming amount of blood he smelled, he rather thought his rusty services would not be needed.
The crowd parted, and Ian took in the scene. Bile surged up his throat. Blood was everywhere, coating the walls of the town house, pooling upon the ground, and running along the cracks between the cobbles. A man—what was left of him—lay in a tangled heap against the wall, his face an unrecognizable hash of claw marks, his torso eviscerated. Just beyond, a woman suffered the same fate, though her face was unmarred. She’d died first. He’d bet his best walking stick on it. Already the stench of decay crept over her, and the body was stiff and white in the moon’s glow.
Ian crouched low and inhaled. Scents assaulted him. He let them come and sorted through the mix. Beneath the rot, terror, and blood was the rangy scent of wolf imbued with something off, bittersweet yet sulfuric. Sickness. What sort, he couldn’t tell, but it was well-developed. An odd fact indeed, given that werewolves weren’t susceptible to disease.
“He’s past help,” said the man beside him. Ian held up a staying hand and inhaled deeper.
Beyond the filth came a fainter scent—rose, jasmine, vanilla, and sunshine. Those notes held him for one tense moment, pulling the muscles in his solar plexus tight and filling them with warmth. It was a fresh, ephemeral scent that made the beast inside him sit up and take notice.
A small groan broke the spell. Someone shouted in alarm. The dead man moved, rolling a bit, and the crowd jumped back as if one. Ian’s pulse kicked before he noticed the soft drape of blue silk beneath the man’s twisted legs.
“Bloody hell.” He wrenched the body aside. It pitched over with a thud to reveal the crumpled form of a woman covered in blood and, oddly, vines, thick and deep green as they flowed down from the town house wall to envelop her.
“Step back,” he said sharply as one wayward man tromped forward.
“Lud! Is she alive?”
Ian made quick work of the vines, extending only the very tips of his claws to rake through them, but his hands were gentle as he touched the woman’s wrist to check her pulse. Slow, steady, and strong. It was from her that the scent of flowers and vanilla arose. Her features were lost under a macabre mask of crimson blood. Ian cursed beneath his breath and ran his hands over her form in search of injuries. Despite the blood, she appeared untouched. It was the man’s blood, not hers. She’d seen the attack, however. Of that, he was certain. She’d been the one to scream. Then the man.
He glanced about the alley and imagined the events unfolding. This couple had seen the first victim. They shouted, and then they were attacked. Ian brought his attention back to the woman.
She was a handful, lush curves, neat waist. He gathered her up in his arms, ignoring the protests of those around. Her head lolled against his shoulder, releasing another faint puff of sweet scent. A curling lock of hair, red with blood, fell over his chest as he hefted her higher and stood.
“She needs medical attention.” He moved to go when a gentleman stepped in his way.
“Here now.” The gentleman’s waxed mustache twitched. “You don’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen.”
The crowd of men stirred, apparently taking in Ian’s odd attire for the first time.
Ian tightened his grip on the female, and she gave a little moan of distress. The sound went straight to his core. Women were to be protected and cherished. Always. He stared down the gathering crowd. “Nor a marquis, I gather. However, I am both.” He took a step, shouldering aside the man with ease. “I am Northrup. And it would do you well to get out of my way.”
Another murmur rippled among the men, but they eased away; not many wanted to risk tangling with Lord Ian Ranulf, Marquis of Northrup. Those who weren’t as convinced, he pushed past. He’d fight them all if he had to. This woman wasn’t getting out of his sight. Not until he’d questioned her. And he certainly wasn’t letting her tell the whole of London that she’d just survived an attack by a werewolf.
Chapter Two
There now, that’s a good lass. Wake up, dear.”
Daisy was warm. Warm and heavy of limb. It felt wonderful. The thought formed, and then confusion chased it away. Beyond her dark cocoon came the comforting sound of tinkling water, like that of a bath being drawn. Where was she? Who was that crooning? And what had happened… Her eyes flew open on a gasp. The flickering light of gas lamps wavered above her. She caught a glimpse of mahogany paneling before a woman’s face came into view, wrinkled and kind, a gray halo of hair about her head.
“Easy, lass.” The woman clasped Daisy’s shoulder.
Daisy blinked down at her shoulder and realized that she was naked. Swaddled in eider down, but naked. “Where…” She swallowed. “What…” Her throat closed.
The elder woman gave her a little pat and then turned to adjust the taps on the enormous copper tub sitting in the center of the room. A man’s bathing room, with velvet brocades and a silver shaving kit gleaming on a nearby table. A masculine fragrance of wool, linen, and vetiver lingered in the warm air.
“You’ve had a terrible fright, I suspect.” The woman closed the taps and dipped a hand in the water to test it. Neither plump nor thin, the woman’s frame was sturdy. “Just right.”
The woman looked Daisy over. “You’re in the Marquis of Northrup’s home. His Lordship found ye and brought ye here.” She moved to Daisy’s side and gave her a kindly smile. “I was of a mind to wake ye before I got you in the bath. Bit of a nasty shock to be awakened by a bath, eh?” The woman’s eyes went soft. “Ye need cleaning up, lass.”
Daisy followed the direction of the woman’s gaze and saw her hair cascading around her na**d shoulders in a red tangle of dried blood. So red it reminded her of her sister Poppy’s hair, and then she remembered. “Oh, God…” Her breath came in dry pants, the urge to gag, to scream making her shake. “That thing… my… friend…”
Her pants became rasps, and the woman wrapped a strong arm about her. “Hush, child, hush. You’re safe.” Work-worn palms soothed her arms. “Ease yerself before you become ill.”
Like a child, Daisy let herself be led to the bath. The water was blessedly hot, smelling of lavender and chamomile, and Daisy let out a sigh. The woman smiled in satisfaction before reaching for a pitcher and a bar of soap. “Let’s get ye clean, then.” Her movements were brisk, and Daisy relaxed under the efficiency until the woman hit a spot at the back of her neck. She hissed at the sting and reached up to feel a row of punctures in her skin. A violent shudder wracked her body.
“It bit me,” she whispered. She did not want to remember what it was. Her insides lurched and swayed, and she swallowed convulsively.
“Let me have a look.” Gentle fingers probed the wounds. “ ’Tis not very deep,” the woman said soothingly as she washed it clean. “ ’Twill heal in a tic, to be sure.” Even so, the woman got up and came back with a jar of ointment. Her fingers were strong and sure as she smeared the pungent stuff on Daisy’s neck.
The sting receded, and Daisy relaxed a bit more. “What is that?” she asked.
“An old recipe. Helps speed the healing.” She sat back down behind Daisy and took up washing her hair. “I’m Mrs. Tuttle,” the woman said. “You may call me Tuttle if ye like.” She let out a short laugh. “I havena been called anything else in an age.”
Daisy stared at the small coal fire glowing at the other end of the room. “I’m Daisy.”
The sound of her own name felt wrong. She felt wrong. Numb.
“Would you send word to my sister?” The sudden need to see one of her sisters was almost painful. Poppy, however, would ask too many questions and make her feel like a goose for recklessly attending a party with the fast crowd. No, she needed Miranda, who would offer comfort without judgment. Her voice cracked when she spoke again. “She is Lady Archer.”
“Of course, dear. I’ll send a messenger out directly.”
Strong fingers massaged Daisy’s scalp, and creamy cascades of foam slid over her br**sts and arms, the foam pink with old blood. In the dim of the elegant dressing room, she could almost believe the blood to be a trick of light. Only it wasn’t. Bile rose in her throat. She drew her knees up and closed her eyes to the sight.
“Tuttle? The…” She licked her dry lips. “The man?”
Tuttle’s movement stilled for only a moment. “Passed on.” She crossed herself and then picked up the pitcher.
Warm water eased over Daisy’s head as she squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t even remember his name.” Her mouth trembled. She’d only been looking for a bit of amusement, harmless pleasure. She felt sick to her soul.
Tuttle made a soft sound. “ ’Tis a terrible business, ma’am. Bless the Lord that yer unharmed.”
Daisy curled into herself as another round of water flowed over her, taking the gore away. “And Alex.” She swallowed down bile. “Alex was my friend.”
Tuttle washed her with neat economy and then gently helped her to her feet to wrap a thick towel about her. The quiet movements were oddly comforting, and when Daisy was settled again on the green-velvet settee, she felt a bit more clearheaded. Unfortunately, it also led her to realize that she’d let Tuttle see her unclothed. Unease tightened the muscles on her back. She glanced at Tuttle. The light was dim here, and Tuttle hadn’t remarked on anything. So perhaps she hadn’t seen.
Daisy adjusted the towel higher up her back as Tuttle handed her a glass of brandy. “The master sent this for you. It ought to be whiskey, but he thought that might be too strong for ye.”
Daisy took a sip of brandy as Tuttle bustled about. Liquid fire melted the ice in her belly, and her thoughts turned to her kind host. She couldn’t recall meeting Lord Northrup. Then again, it had been a year since she’d been out in society, and she hadn’t run in such lofty circles. Names, titles, and faces filtered through her mind, and she finally remember that the Marquis of Northrup was an old title belonging to some lord in Scotland for at least sixty years now. The man must be ancient.
Tuttle came near, holding up a rather flashy dressing gown of celadon green satin. The color would suit her sisters but most likely make Daisy look peaked. However, as it was that or go around swathed in a towel, Daisy slipped it on. Unfortunately, the garment, which smelled of cheap violet water perfume, puddled on the floor, the arms of it flopping far past Daisy’s hands. Made for a woman of Miranda’s stature too, Daisy thought grimly as Tuttle helped her hook up the front. The hooks strained over her br**sts, and Daisy grimaced at the ill fit. Lord Northrup, the randy old goat, apparently favored tall redheads who wore harlot’s perfume.
Ian fiddled about with the decanters on his drinks table. He’d already poured himself a measure of scotch and had no real purpose for pulling out the random crystal stopper only to put it back in. With a sound of disgust, he pushed away from the sideboard.
His shoulder brushed past a coffee monger pushing his cart along. What would he see? A man in leather moccasins brought back from the American West? The loose gray trousers and cotton shirt of a laborer? Items Ian Ranulf, newly titled Marquis of Northrup, would not be caught dead wearing. Surely not that trussed-up dandy. Lord Northrup would never be confused with this wild man running amok.
All at once, the strength left him, and he slowed. His breath puffed even and steady. The beat of his heart was as strong as ever in his chest. Unstoppable. Unending. The thought nearly brought him to his knees. Around him, the chatter of men and women enjoying the clear night scraped against his nerves.
Slowing to a stroll, Ian wandered down a twisted street where the press of bodies thinned out to lighter foot traffic. To his left, yellow light poured in wide blocks from the windows of an older town home, still beautiful but shabby in this unfashionable neighborhood. The strains of a reel and feminine laughter rose above the din of London nightlife.
Ian moved away from it, into the shadowy mouth of an alley, when through the thick mash of human sweat, rotting water, and sewage came the distinctive tang of blood. Human blood. Just below that, a finer note, that of wolf.
It was that scent, the wild, rangy stamp of wolf that had his hackles rising and a growl rumbling deep within his throat. Seventy years of doggedly keeping away from his kind was almost lost as he instinctively turned toward the scent, ready to tear into whoever dared to encroach upon his territory. He came to an abrupt halt. It wasn’t his territory. Not anymore.
Fight or flight, it warred within him until his chest felt ready to rip in two. A trickle of sweat rolled down his neck. He nearly moved away when a sharp feminine scream rent the air, followed by a snarl of rage. A man bellowed in pure terror. The snarls grew and then came the distinctive sound of tearing flesh, a man gurgling as though drowning. Blood, the perfume of it washed over Ian, making his knees buckle.
“Bugger!” He ran toward the scent without another thought.
Men were already spilling into the alley as Ian charged headlong into the fray. Someone shouted in shock. A woman fainted. A ripple of terror went through the throng of onlookers, heightening the sharp smell of fear. Men both retreated in horror and shoved forward in fascination. Women were quickly ushered away.
Ian shouldered a rotund man aside. The scent of wolf overpowered his senses. Wolf and blood. Jesus.
When yet another gentleman stepped in his way, Ian found his voice and said words he hadn’t uttered in years. “Move aside! I’m a doctor.” Though from the overwhelming amount of blood he smelled, he rather thought his rusty services would not be needed.
The crowd parted, and Ian took in the scene. Bile surged up his throat. Blood was everywhere, coating the walls of the town house, pooling upon the ground, and running along the cracks between the cobbles. A man—what was left of him—lay in a tangled heap against the wall, his face an unrecognizable hash of claw marks, his torso eviscerated. Just beyond, a woman suffered the same fate, though her face was unmarred. She’d died first. He’d bet his best walking stick on it. Already the stench of decay crept over her, and the body was stiff and white in the moon’s glow.
Ian crouched low and inhaled. Scents assaulted him. He let them come and sorted through the mix. Beneath the rot, terror, and blood was the rangy scent of wolf imbued with something off, bittersweet yet sulfuric. Sickness. What sort, he couldn’t tell, but it was well-developed. An odd fact indeed, given that werewolves weren’t susceptible to disease.
“He’s past help,” said the man beside him. Ian held up a staying hand and inhaled deeper.
Beyond the filth came a fainter scent—rose, jasmine, vanilla, and sunshine. Those notes held him for one tense moment, pulling the muscles in his solar plexus tight and filling them with warmth. It was a fresh, ephemeral scent that made the beast inside him sit up and take notice.
A small groan broke the spell. Someone shouted in alarm. The dead man moved, rolling a bit, and the crowd jumped back as if one. Ian’s pulse kicked before he noticed the soft drape of blue silk beneath the man’s twisted legs.
“Bloody hell.” He wrenched the body aside. It pitched over with a thud to reveal the crumpled form of a woman covered in blood and, oddly, vines, thick and deep green as they flowed down from the town house wall to envelop her.
“Step back,” he said sharply as one wayward man tromped forward.
“Lud! Is she alive?”
Ian made quick work of the vines, extending only the very tips of his claws to rake through them, but his hands were gentle as he touched the woman’s wrist to check her pulse. Slow, steady, and strong. It was from her that the scent of flowers and vanilla arose. Her features were lost under a macabre mask of crimson blood. Ian cursed beneath his breath and ran his hands over her form in search of injuries. Despite the blood, she appeared untouched. It was the man’s blood, not hers. She’d seen the attack, however. Of that, he was certain. She’d been the one to scream. Then the man.
He glanced about the alley and imagined the events unfolding. This couple had seen the first victim. They shouted, and then they were attacked. Ian brought his attention back to the woman.
She was a handful, lush curves, neat waist. He gathered her up in his arms, ignoring the protests of those around. Her head lolled against his shoulder, releasing another faint puff of sweet scent. A curling lock of hair, red with blood, fell over his chest as he hefted her higher and stood.
“She needs medical attention.” He moved to go when a gentleman stepped in his way.
“Here now.” The gentleman’s waxed mustache twitched. “You don’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen.”
The crowd of men stirred, apparently taking in Ian’s odd attire for the first time.
Ian tightened his grip on the female, and she gave a little moan of distress. The sound went straight to his core. Women were to be protected and cherished. Always. He stared down the gathering crowd. “Nor a marquis, I gather. However, I am both.” He took a step, shouldering aside the man with ease. “I am Northrup. And it would do you well to get out of my way.”
Another murmur rippled among the men, but they eased away; not many wanted to risk tangling with Lord Ian Ranulf, Marquis of Northrup. Those who weren’t as convinced, he pushed past. He’d fight them all if he had to. This woman wasn’t getting out of his sight. Not until he’d questioned her. And he certainly wasn’t letting her tell the whole of London that she’d just survived an attack by a werewolf.
Chapter Two
There now, that’s a good lass. Wake up, dear.”
Daisy was warm. Warm and heavy of limb. It felt wonderful. The thought formed, and then confusion chased it away. Beyond her dark cocoon came the comforting sound of tinkling water, like that of a bath being drawn. Where was she? Who was that crooning? And what had happened… Her eyes flew open on a gasp. The flickering light of gas lamps wavered above her. She caught a glimpse of mahogany paneling before a woman’s face came into view, wrinkled and kind, a gray halo of hair about her head.
“Easy, lass.” The woman clasped Daisy’s shoulder.
Daisy blinked down at her shoulder and realized that she was naked. Swaddled in eider down, but naked. “Where…” She swallowed. “What…” Her throat closed.
The elder woman gave her a little pat and then turned to adjust the taps on the enormous copper tub sitting in the center of the room. A man’s bathing room, with velvet brocades and a silver shaving kit gleaming on a nearby table. A masculine fragrance of wool, linen, and vetiver lingered in the warm air.
“You’ve had a terrible fright, I suspect.” The woman closed the taps and dipped a hand in the water to test it. Neither plump nor thin, the woman’s frame was sturdy. “Just right.”
The woman looked Daisy over. “You’re in the Marquis of Northrup’s home. His Lordship found ye and brought ye here.” She moved to Daisy’s side and gave her a kindly smile. “I was of a mind to wake ye before I got you in the bath. Bit of a nasty shock to be awakened by a bath, eh?” The woman’s eyes went soft. “Ye need cleaning up, lass.”
Daisy followed the direction of the woman’s gaze and saw her hair cascading around her na**d shoulders in a red tangle of dried blood. So red it reminded her of her sister Poppy’s hair, and then she remembered. “Oh, God…” Her breath came in dry pants, the urge to gag, to scream making her shake. “That thing… my… friend…”
Her pants became rasps, and the woman wrapped a strong arm about her. “Hush, child, hush. You’re safe.” Work-worn palms soothed her arms. “Ease yerself before you become ill.”
Like a child, Daisy let herself be led to the bath. The water was blessedly hot, smelling of lavender and chamomile, and Daisy let out a sigh. The woman smiled in satisfaction before reaching for a pitcher and a bar of soap. “Let’s get ye clean, then.” Her movements were brisk, and Daisy relaxed under the efficiency until the woman hit a spot at the back of her neck. She hissed at the sting and reached up to feel a row of punctures in her skin. A violent shudder wracked her body.
“It bit me,” she whispered. She did not want to remember what it was. Her insides lurched and swayed, and she swallowed convulsively.
“Let me have a look.” Gentle fingers probed the wounds. “ ’Tis not very deep,” the woman said soothingly as she washed it clean. “ ’Twill heal in a tic, to be sure.” Even so, the woman got up and came back with a jar of ointment. Her fingers were strong and sure as she smeared the pungent stuff on Daisy’s neck.
The sting receded, and Daisy relaxed a bit more. “What is that?” she asked.
“An old recipe. Helps speed the healing.” She sat back down behind Daisy and took up washing her hair. “I’m Mrs. Tuttle,” the woman said. “You may call me Tuttle if ye like.” She let out a short laugh. “I havena been called anything else in an age.”
Daisy stared at the small coal fire glowing at the other end of the room. “I’m Daisy.”
The sound of her own name felt wrong. She felt wrong. Numb.
“Would you send word to my sister?” The sudden need to see one of her sisters was almost painful. Poppy, however, would ask too many questions and make her feel like a goose for recklessly attending a party with the fast crowd. No, she needed Miranda, who would offer comfort without judgment. Her voice cracked when she spoke again. “She is Lady Archer.”
“Of course, dear. I’ll send a messenger out directly.”
Strong fingers massaged Daisy’s scalp, and creamy cascades of foam slid over her br**sts and arms, the foam pink with old blood. In the dim of the elegant dressing room, she could almost believe the blood to be a trick of light. Only it wasn’t. Bile rose in her throat. She drew her knees up and closed her eyes to the sight.
“Tuttle? The…” She licked her dry lips. “The man?”
Tuttle’s movement stilled for only a moment. “Passed on.” She crossed herself and then picked up the pitcher.
Warm water eased over Daisy’s head as she squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t even remember his name.” Her mouth trembled. She’d only been looking for a bit of amusement, harmless pleasure. She felt sick to her soul.
Tuttle made a soft sound. “ ’Tis a terrible business, ma’am. Bless the Lord that yer unharmed.”
Daisy curled into herself as another round of water flowed over her, taking the gore away. “And Alex.” She swallowed down bile. “Alex was my friend.”
Tuttle washed her with neat economy and then gently helped her to her feet to wrap a thick towel about her. The quiet movements were oddly comforting, and when Daisy was settled again on the green-velvet settee, she felt a bit more clearheaded. Unfortunately, it also led her to realize that she’d let Tuttle see her unclothed. Unease tightened the muscles on her back. She glanced at Tuttle. The light was dim here, and Tuttle hadn’t remarked on anything. So perhaps she hadn’t seen.
Daisy adjusted the towel higher up her back as Tuttle handed her a glass of brandy. “The master sent this for you. It ought to be whiskey, but he thought that might be too strong for ye.”
Daisy took a sip of brandy as Tuttle bustled about. Liquid fire melted the ice in her belly, and her thoughts turned to her kind host. She couldn’t recall meeting Lord Northrup. Then again, it had been a year since she’d been out in society, and she hadn’t run in such lofty circles. Names, titles, and faces filtered through her mind, and she finally remember that the Marquis of Northrup was an old title belonging to some lord in Scotland for at least sixty years now. The man must be ancient.
Tuttle came near, holding up a rather flashy dressing gown of celadon green satin. The color would suit her sisters but most likely make Daisy look peaked. However, as it was that or go around swathed in a towel, Daisy slipped it on. Unfortunately, the garment, which smelled of cheap violet water perfume, puddled on the floor, the arms of it flopping far past Daisy’s hands. Made for a woman of Miranda’s stature too, Daisy thought grimly as Tuttle helped her hook up the front. The hooks strained over her br**sts, and Daisy grimaced at the ill fit. Lord Northrup, the randy old goat, apparently favored tall redheads who wore harlot’s perfume.
Ian fiddled about with the decanters on his drinks table. He’d already poured himself a measure of scotch and had no real purpose for pulling out the random crystal stopper only to put it back in. With a sound of disgust, he pushed away from the sideboard.
