Читать книгу An Enigmatic Man - Кэрол Мортимер, Carole Mortimer - Страница 6

DRACULA’S castle!

No…on second thoughts, Crys decided, that was perhaps being a little unkind to Dracula!

She had been driving for hours, had stopped the car at the top of the driveway in the hopes of somehow getting her bearings in the rapidly deepening fog. But all such thoughts had fled as she saw the name of the house grooved into one of the stone pillars that flanked the broken-down gateway. Her startled gaze moved to the monstrosity of a house just visible at the end of the driveway. Victorian Gothic architecture—and every era since, if the numerous extensions were anything to go by.

The whole thing jarred on Crys’s heightened sense of line and design.

This couldn’t possibly be her destination—couldn’t be the Yorkshire home of the elder brother of her good friend Molly. Molly was slightly eccentric, yes—a little unorthodox, too—but that was no reason to suppose it ran in the family!

Crys frowned up at the pillar closest to her. Despite the covering of moss, the name ‘Falcon House’ was still readable. She picked up the letter she had received from Molly several days ago, quickly scanning its contents until she came to the directions for finding Sam Barton’s home. The name ‘Falcon House’ clearly stood out from Molly’s otherwise hurried scrawl.

But this place wasn’t really a house at all. It was a castle, with high turrets and towers, and even what looked like a defunct moat encircling the outer walls.

Perhaps Sam’s home was at the back of this monstrosity? Hadn’t Molly mentioned at some time that her brother was caretaking the place for an absent friend?

Having now seen Falcon House, Crys wasn’t at all surprised the owner was absent most of the time—it would give anyone nightmares to actually have to live in this dilapidated old pile.

Yes, she decided, that had to be the answer. If she drove down the driveway and over the rickety-looking drawbridge, there was sure to be a smaller—more comfortable!—house situated somewhere at the back.

Except, as Crys discovered a few minutes later, having driven slowly down the rutted and holed road and into the forecourt to a castle encircled by a moat—albeit an empty, smelly old moat full of indescribable rubbish—there was virtually nothing behind the building. Just a small piece of land that probably should have been a garden but was so overgrown with bushes and trees it resembled a jungle!

Crys parked her car, climbing out onto moss-covered gravel and stretching her tired limbs even as she gazed up and up at the tumbledown castle before her, taking in the pipes that hung loose on the walls, the several tiles that had slid off the roof to lie shattered on the ground below.

Even through the damp fog Crys could see that most of the lower windows were either boarded up completely or had curtains drawn against prying eyes. The windows on the upper floors, although virtually all intact, seemed to look blankly out on the rest of the world.

Not exactly welcoming, and the whole place had such a neglected air that Crys was sure no one could actually be living in it. It—

She had heard something!

It was an undistinguishable, muted sound, but nevertheless she had heard a noise of some sort. It seemed to be coming from the side of the house.

She swallowed hard, hesitating. Should she go and investigate, and risk goodness knows what? Or should she simply get back in her car and drive quickly away?

The second choice definitely had its own appeal. But hadn’t she spent the last year running away from one situation or another? Wasn’t it time to stand her ground and face whatever it was that needed facing? Wasn’t this exactly what her acceptance of Molly’s invitation to spend some days in Yorkshire with her at the home of her brother had all been about?

There again, was this really the right occasion for her to start facing up to the world once again?

Crys almost laughed out loud at the ludicrousness of the situation she found herself in. Almost…

It had been a big step for her to accept Molly’s invitation at all—to make the long and tiring journey from London to Yorkshire. Only to be confronted with—this.

But what was ‘this’, really? She’d turned into the drive of a dilapidated old castle, and the blinding fog was adding to its air of mystery and so increasing her unease, despite the fact that the property gave every indication of being uninhabited.

Except for a rhythmically grating sound coming from the side of the house…

Easily sorted, Crys told herself briskly. She would just have to go and investigate. If it was just the brisk wind blowing a branch against one of those sightless windows, fine. If the sound was a human being, she would simply ask for directions to Sam Barton’s home and be on her way.

But her resolve was shaken somewhat when she passed under the archway that led onto the forecourt and found herself face to face with the largest dog she had ever seen in her life!

Crys gasped, coming to an abrupt halt as the dog bared its teeth and growled low in its throat, huge shoulders bunched in readiness as it prepared to leap at her.

Her mouth felt suddenly dry, every bone and muscle in her body tense with the shock of confrontation, wide gaze held in the hypnotic effect of those steely canine eyes.

And all the time the gigantic beast kept up that low growl that closely resembled the threat of thunder.

‘What is it, Merlin?’ prompted a disembodied voice.

If Crys had been rigid with shock before, she suddenly felt icy tentacles of fear gliding down her back. She had always wondered what was meant by a ‘cold sweat’—now she knew!

Where had that voice come from? There was no one else here in this swirling fog but herself and this ferocious-looking dog, and yet she had definitely heard a voice. Male, she thought. Although it had been slightly muffled, so it was difficult to be sure.

What did it matter whether the voice had belonged to a male or female—as long as it had been a voice! At the moment she felt very much in need of the presence of another human being.

If it had been human…

Get a grip, Crys, she instantly instructed herself impatiently. Okay, so it was creepy here, with the swirling fog surrounding her and that towering monstrosity behind her, and the Hound of the Baskervilles standing in front of her, barring her way, but that was no reason to simply give in to the panic and turn and run!

Yes, it was!

Any minute now this huge beast might tire of just growling and launch itself at her, huge jaws slavering as it ripped and tore at the delicate skin of her throat. She—

‘I’m warning you now, Merlin, that if you follow any more rabbits down their holes I’m not coming after you and digging you out again.’ The disembodied voice came hollowly through the fog a second time.

It was a man! He was somewhere close at hand too, Crys was sure. Close enough to save her from this wild dog, she hoped.

‘Help!’

Wonderful—her lips were so numbed that the cry barely came out as a squeak! Although it was enough to turn that low rumbling growl into a full-throated warning of intent. The dog was clearly preparing to leap for her unprotected throat!

‘Help!’ Her second cry was louder. Loud enough to be heard, she prayed silently—because she really didn’t hold out much hope for the dog’s continued stillness!

‘Damn it, Merlin, I— What on earth—? Down, Merlin,’ the man called impatiently, and the dog’s snarl instantly changed to a muted growl.

Crys’s scream had cut across the man’s initial remark as a head suddenly appeared out of the ground about ten feet away from her: a dark, shaggy head, with a beard of several days’ growth covering the lower half of a face only alleviated by the fierceness of dark green eyes glittering brightly through the gloom of the fog.

But at least the dog had taken heed of his master, falling back on his haunches now, even its growling having come to a stop—although its gaze remained fixed on Crys’s slightest move. Waiting, no doubt, for his master to give the order to attack!

But she had no intention of moving. She hadn’t been able to do more than stare since that body had appeared out of the ground!

Maybe this was Dracula’s castle, after all. Maybe—

Her eyes widened apprehensively as the man used a spade to lever himself easily out of what appeared to be a hole in the ground. A hole about six feet long, three feet wide, and she had no idea how deep…!

Her vision moved to the man’s feet as he straightened, then travelled up the long length of his legs, in what appeared to be black denims, and over a broad chest and muscular arms in a thick black jumper. He had darkly waving hair growing long onto his shoulders, and of course the dark growth of beard that concealed his face. Except for those piercing green eyes.

The man seemed huge, several inches over six feet, the powerful force of his muscled body as tensed for action as his dog’s had been seconds ago.

In fact, now that Crys could clearly see him, she wasn’t sure if the dog wasn’t a safer bet!

She moistened dry lips, willing herself to remain calm. ‘Hello,’ she managed huskily.

The hard mouth tilted sideways, hinting at the scorn with which the man welcomed her greeting. “‘Hello”?’ he returned scathingly.

Crys was still badly shaken, first from the encounter with the dog, and then the sudden appearance of this man almost as if from nowhere. But that didn’t mean she was a complete quivering wreck!

‘What were you doing in there?’ She indicated the hole. It was January, so too late for digging the garden over, and also too early for planting out. Besides, from the size and depth of the hole…!

Dark brows rose over his glittering green eyes. ‘What do you think I was doing?’

Despite his dishevelled state, the untidiness of his hair and growth of beard, the man had an educated voice. In fact under other circumstances it might have been quite a pleasant voice.

Under other circumstances…

Crys gave a slight shiver as she glanced over at the hole he appeared to have been digging. ‘I have no idea,’ she answered guardedly.

The man didn’t actually appear to have moved, and yet somehow he suddenly looked tenser than ever, the spade in his hand slightly threatening. ‘Take a guess,’ he challenged hardly.

Crys swallowed hard. This was ridiculous. She simply wanted directions to Sam Barton’s house, not to indulge in verbal games with a complete stranger. A dangerous-looking one, at that.

‘Look, I’m really sorry to have bothered you—’

‘You bother Merlin more than you do me,’ the man dismissed coldly.

‘Merlin…? Oh, you mean the dog,’ she realised belatedly. The huge beast was sitting at its master’s feet now, but still watching her every move. At the mention of his name he began that low growling once again…

The man gave a humourless smile. ‘He isn’t too keen on being called that.’

Crys blinked. ‘But I thought you said Merlin was his name?’ She frowned her puzzlement.

‘It is.’ The man nodded tersely. ‘I was referring to your reference to his species.’

‘But—’

‘You and I both know what he is,’ the man cut in impatiently. ‘Merlin is the one who has doubts, and I think it better if we humour him—don’t you?’

Crys glanced down at the slavering animal. ‘Exactly what sort of…what breed is he?’ she amended, opting on the side of caution. After all, Merlin had only just stopped growling again.

‘Irish Wolfhound,’ the man supplied. ‘Now, I’m sure it’s been very pleasant passing the time of day with you—’ his tone implied otherwise ‘—but, as you can no doubt see, I have a grave to finish digging. So if you wouldn’t mind—’

‘It really is a grave?’ she gasped, her grey gaze once again wide with apprehension. The damp of the fog seemed to have seeped into her very bones and she gave a slight shiver.

Good heavens, perhaps she really had stumbled on Dracula’s castle, after all? Although she’d thought vampires only came out at night. Well, the heaviness of the damp fog hardly made it daylight, did it? She had been driving with her headlights on for the last two hours!

‘Who—er, I mean, what—?’ Crys began to take small steps backwards even as she formulated the question, positive that if she attempted to run the dog would have her down on the ground in seconds. The hound was obviously completely obedient to his master. A master who seemed more menacing by the second…

Not that he had looked particularly inviting in the first place. How to make a dignified exit? That was the problem.

Forget dignified—she just wanted out of here!

‘You’re right, Mr—er—I have taken up enough of your time.’ She tried to smile as she spoke, but her cheeks refused to comply with the instruction, her lips twisting into a grimace rather than a smile. ‘I’ll just be on my way—’

‘Where?’

She blinked at the abruptness of his question. ‘I’m sorry…?’

The man scowled darkly. ‘Not too many people come down this lane, let alone down the driveway; I asked where you were going,’ he snapped.

Were going…!

This was obviously the cue for Crys to ask for directions to Sam Barton’s house and be on her way. But now that it had come to the crunch she found she didn’t want to tell this man exactly where she was going. Or why. But she had to say something!

She shrugged, shivering again as the damp fog penetrated her woollen jacket. ‘I’m on my way to stay with friends.’

That was it; make sure that he knew she was expected somewhere, that someone would notice and call the police when she didn’t arrive at her destination. Not that she was altogether sure Molly would go to that extreme; her friend would probably just assume Crys had changed her mind about coming to Yorkshire, after all. But this man didn’t have to know that!

‘I must have just taken a wrong turning in the fog,’ she tried to dismiss lightly. ‘I won’t trouble you any further—’

‘As I’ve already pointed out, Merlin is more troubled by your presence than I am,’ the man drawled.

‘He seems—calm enough now,’ Crys attempted pleasantly. She remembered reading somewhere—she had no idea where!—that it was harder for someone to harm you if you established some sort of rapport with them, that an attacker was caught off-guard if the victim—

She was not a victim, damn it! She was merely a lost traveller who had stumbled upon—well, she wasn’t sure what she had stumbled upon. But it was unnerving enough for her to know she wanted to leave. Now.

‘Looks can be deceptive,’ the man told her. ‘Irish Wolfhounds, as a breed, are born hunters,’ he continued almost conversationally. ‘Instinctively trained to—’

‘Are you deliberately trying to frighten me?’ From somewhere—probably that same article that had advised building up a rapport!—she recalled that it was always better to attack rather than let oneself be attacked.

The man’s mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile. ‘Do I need to try?’ he taunted.

Her cheeks coloured fiery-red at his obvious mockery. ‘I’m not scared of you—’

‘Aren’t you?’ He grimaced. ‘Then you’re giving a very good imitation of it!’

She gasped at the deliberate cruelty of his jibe. ‘I am not—’

‘There’s a vein pulsing erratically at your left temple,’ he cut in. ‘Your pupils are dilated, the muscles in your face refuse to obey your commands, your body is tensed to rigidity, your hands are clenched so tightly into fists that you’ve probably made puncture marks in your palms with those nicely painted nails—’ his gaze returned to her face ‘—and, unless I’m mistaken, despite the fact that you’re obviously shivering with the cold, there’s a very unbecoming bead of perspiration on your top lip.’

Everything he had said was true, Crys knew. But the fact that he was so aware of them too only served to make her angry at his unnecessary taunting.

‘Women don’t perspire—they glow!’ she bit back, two bright wings of colour in her cheeks now, annoyed that, despite all her efforts, he seemed to have so easily gauged her emotions. ‘This place is like something out of a Gothic horror story, guarded by the Hound of the Baskervilles. You step out of a grave to greet me, looking every inch as wild and savage as your—your hound—’ she amended her words in an effort to stop the dog from growling once again ‘—and you expect me to look calm and collected!’ She was breathing hard in her agitation, her fists clenched in frustrated anger now.

The man shrugged, apparently completely unperturbed by her outburst. ‘I don’t expect you to be anything,’ he replied scathingly. ‘I didn’t invite you here. I have no idea who you are. Nor do I have any interest in knowing,’ he finished insultingly.

‘And you have a grave to finish digging!’ Crys inserted disgustedly.

‘For a relation of Merlin’s,’ he explained. ‘An Alsatian. We found him in the woods this morning.’ He nodded tersely in the direction of a tarpaulin that lay on the ground several feet away, unnoticed by Crys until that moment.

A tarpaulin that obviously covered the body of a dead dog…

She swallowed hard. ‘Doesn’t he, or she, have an owner? Someone who—who needs to know about—? They might want to bury their pet themselves.’ She couldn’t take her gaze off the tarpaulin, her knees shaking in reaction, that shaking moving up the whole of her body as she spoke, even her voice beginning to quiver over the last few words.

‘It probably did have an owner at one stage, but to my knowledge it’s been living wild in the woods the last few months. The local farmers have been trying to capture it for weeks, because its been bothering sheep that are in lamb.’ His mouth thinned. ‘I guess one of them must have caught up with it.’

Crys’s startled eyes searched the hardness of that partly obscured face. ‘You mean—is that legal?’ she choked as the full realisation of the dog’s death began to hit her.

‘Probably not. But proving it would be a problem,’ he replied grimly.

Crys knew she had gone very pale—could feel the blood draining from her cheeks even as her fascinated gaze returned to the tarpaulin. ‘I—do you think it was—quick?’

The man frowned his irritation. ‘How should I know? Although, I doubt it. Poison is usually slow and insidious.’

‘Poison?’ Crys echoed faintly, eyes now huge in the paleness of her face, the band of freckles across the bridge of her nose standing out in stark relief.

He nodded abruptly. ‘There are no wounds, no sign of any injury, in fact; poison is as good a guess as any for the cause of death.’

Death, death, and more death. Everywhere she looked—everywhere she went!—there was death!

It was Crys’s last agonising thought before blackness engulfed her and she crumpled down onto the damp earth…