Page 35 of Kept 3
“I’ll try,” I sigh, handing him back his knife and wincing at the pain in my arm. “But if I can’t get access to them within a fortnight, all bets are off – I want you to extract me or whatever the hell the army term is for pulling out a soldier. I’ll help you in another way, but I can’t live there any longer.”
“Agreed,” he smiles, letting out a deep breath I wasn’t aware he had been holding, “in the meantime I’ll meet you here next Friday and see how you are going. It will have to be night, I had a hell of a time getting in here today unnoticed, and I don’t fancy my chances of getting away with it too often.”
“I have dinner with Nicholas from 9pm until around 11pm each night,” I frown, “shall we say midnight?”
“See you then.”
I nod and leave without a backward glance. Today was not as I had expected, and I am disappointed that I have to return, or most of me is, a very small part is glad. I decide on the spur of the moment to make a detour before I go back to the manor, I want to enjoy some late afternoon sunshine, or at the very least, fresh air. Winter is almost upon us, and the rain is intermittent most days. Today is cold and overcast, but dry, like the last gasp of Autumn, and I make my way to the small cemetery and sit beside Constance’s grave. Absent-mindedly, I pick a handful of the season’s last forget-me-nots and place them near her headstone, as I had so many months ago when I first visited Ereston.
“I see why you loved him,” I say quietly to her, “he has a gentle side, a thoughtful side, that is hard to resist. I don’t know how you didn’t screw him on your wedding night though, whoa, I mean, let’s face it, Constance, he is pretty irresistible.”
I smirk and straighten up, but as I do, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I spin to look at the nearby dark woods. I feel as though I am being watched, and some primal, basic part of me knows I am in danger. I wonder, vaguely, if there is anything dangerous in English woods, but decide since I’d never heard of a bear or wolf attack in this country the most dangerous thing is probably man, or, I snigger, vampire. I narrow my eyes and wonder if that is exactly what is watching me.
“Nicholas, if that is you, cut it out. Come out. You can see I’m not running anywhere.”
I hear a crackle in the underbrush and strain my eyes, but see nothing.
“OK, if that’s how you want to play it. Psycho.”
Frowning at the waning light, I turn and make my way towards Ereston Manor the long way round, so I’m not anywhere near the trees. All the way back I rehearse ripping him a new arsehole when I see him tonight for trying to frighten me and succeeding, and for spying on me.
Finally, around 5pm, just as twilight is setting, I stomp up the front stairs and into the entry foyer and come face to face with my captor.
“Did you have a nice walk?” he asks, lounging on the bottom step as though he has been waiting for me all along.
“As if you didn’t know,” I spit, “You don’t need to spy on me. I can hardly run anywhere when you’ve got your fucking gamekeeper ready and willing to blow my brains out.”
I can barely keep the venom from my voice, the memory of the night before, of his teasing and ultimately rejection still fresh in my mind.
“What are you talking about?” he frowns.
“You, watching me from the woods. Don’t try and deny it, I sensed you.”
“Josephine,” he growls, “I have not left the house this day.”
“Sure,” I sneer, turning from him.
“Wait.”
I pause but don’t turn back.
“It might be best if you don’t venture out on twilight into my grounds. I am not the only vampire in the world, Josephine.”
“Are you saying another blood-sucking freak might be lurking on your estate? Trespassing on your precious Ereston?”
“I doubt it very much,” he muses, his voice deep, worried, “but if you are serious in your feeling that someone was watching you, I need to investigate.”
“You just don’t want me leaving this fucking haunted house,” I turn now, angry and gesture around us at the portraits on the walls.
“Josephine,” he says, his voice deep, authoritative, “that is not true. Stop.”
I stop in my tracks and turn, staring at him.
“I am sorry I didn’t get clothes for you, the clothes you asked for when I was in London. I will redress that matter immediately,” he waves at my scratched legs, frowning. “Why do I smell blood on you?”
I shrug as I watch him scrutinise me from top to toe, glossing over my scratched legs but pausing and catching his breath when he sees the fabric wrapped around my forearm. He is beside me before I can blink, lifting my arm and removing the makeshift bandage.
“Ouch, careful,” I try to pull my arm from his grip, but it is vice like.
