Page 64 of Wynter's Bite

Chapter Twenty-Five

Bethany jerked the reins, cursing the mule who’d stopped yet again to nibble on the grass. Irritation and anger roared through her being, and it took every vestige of her will not to take it out on the animal. But if the beast kept at this rate, it would be dark before she arrived at Ridley house. Sweat poured down her back. The homespun gown she wore was too thick for the May sun, though perfect for the cool nights. Her whole body ached from her trek to find Justus and her dash back to the inn. Her eyes burned with lack of sleep, and there was an odd burning sensation in the back of her throat. But her jaw clenched with determination. She would save Justus as he’d saved her— or die trying.

She reached into the satchel beside her and withdrew a roll to nibble on. It taken all the coins in Justus’s purse as well as her nicest gown to purchase the rickety cart and cantankerous mule who’d likely been put out to pasture a year or more ago. But there was no help for it. She needed this cart, along with the battered trunk inside that she’d recovered from an alley.

Eventually, Ridley House came into view, much smaller than it had seemed in the darkness last night. It sat almost hunched and aloof from its neighbors, like a child wanting to sit at the dining room table with its elders. Such was often the case with squires, to hear her father talk of them.

The lowest ranking of the peerage, squires were often either kowtowing sycophants or stuffy prigs who hid their insecurities about their status with snobbery. Looking at the hideous gilded architecture, Bethany expected the latter, especially since this particular squire was the Lord Vampire of an entire county. What power he lacked among humans, he likely wielded like a club amongst his own kind.

She urged the mule around the back to the servants’ entrance, securing the cart as close to the door as possible. Her foolhardy plan depended on so many unconcluded variables, the main being that like Justus said most vampires tended to do, Ridley likely had few servants to lessen the chances of humans learning his secret.

The mule cropped at a clump of overgrown weeds, lending hope to her supposition. A decent gardener would have cleared those out. Swinging Justus’s satchel over her shoulder, she dropped down from her perch on the wagon and strode to the door.

Keeping one hand on the satchel, she pounded on the door. A stooped, elderly cook answered and blinked at her myopically.

“I ’ave a delivery for Squire Ridley,” Bethany said, trying to fake a Cockney accent.

“What is it?”

“Mead,” she said, and gestured to the trunk. “If you or a footman can help me carry it down to the wine cellar, I’d be most obliged.”

The cook pursed her lips. “I didn’t receive any word that the Squire was expecting any mead.”

“Ah, that is because he won it at cards the other night,” Bethany recited her prepared excuse. “Do tell him that my master apologizes for the delay.”

“And who is your master?”

Bethany bit back a groan of impatience. If this woman refused to get out of the way, she just might have to box her ears. “Mr. Bingley, the owner of the Duck and Barrel.” If anyone was likely to play cards and gamble mead, it would be the proprietor of the inn she’d stayed at. She’d been certain to gather up all the local gossip about who was whom in the area before setting out on her mission.

For a tense moment, the cook remained silent before she finally nodded. “I’ll get Ames to help you unload that thing. You’ll have to take a handle, though. He has bad knees and cannot manage on his own.”

Bethany blinked and suppressed a wry smile at how different women in the lower classes were treated compared to her idle, sheltered upbringing. They were expected to do actual work, be useful for more than overseeing households, hosting parties, and birthing heirs. And though her aching muscles protested the prospect of bearing more weight, a giddy delight teased her senses. She would handle Justus’s rescue with her own hands and the strength of her back.

Though if the servants grew hostile... She shook away the impending dread and remorse. It was too late to go back now.

When the footman emerged and helped her unload the trunk, Bethany saw that poor old Ames had more than bad knees. His hands shook with palsy, making her writhe with guilt for what she may have to do even more unbearable.

They carried the trunk down into the wine cellar. Bethany’s shoulders ached with the strain and her own hands shook. She’d filled the trunk with stones to give it weight, but it would be even heavier on her way out. Once down in the cellar, she strode toward a thick door reinforced with iron.

A trembling hand fell on her shoulder. “We’re never supposed to go in there,” Ames said.

Bethany sighed and pulled the blunderbuss from the satchel. “I’m very sorry, but I must. Now, please open the door. I truly do not wish to hurt you.”

Ames jerked away from her like she’d burned him, his jaw gaping like a fish’s. His hands shaking like windblown leaves, he fumbled with the locks and catches on the door. Once it swung open, he unbelievably scurried back to Bethany’s side, as if she would protect him from what lay ahead. And perhaps she would.

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