Wicked - Shannon Drake Mills & Boon M&B

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road was to the east. The road to London, to civilization, to sanity, was to the east. There had to be a coach upon it, bringing visitors back to the city. If she could just make it to the road before…the killer came upon her.

      She was certain this game had been played long enough, certain he was coming to destroy her, to make sure that she never told what she knew. To make sure she never gave away the secrets of Carlyle Castle.

      In the darkness and the mist that swirled with the growing fury of the coming wind, she heard the eerie sound of the howling. Wolves, restless as she, were crying out to the heavens. Yet, at this moment, she hadn’t the least fear of the wolves of Carlyle. Because she knew the real danger. Call it a beast, but it came in the form of a man.

      A rustle in the foliage warned her that someone was near. She straightened, praying that instinct would give her a hint, a way in which to run…. But the rustling was near, too near.

      Run!

      The command screamed in her mind. But even as she gathered her strength, it was too late. From the brush, he burst upon her.

      “Camille!”

      She knew the voice, all too well. She froze where she stood, breath caught in her throat, along with her heart. And she stared at the face of the man—the face beneath the mask!

      Once she had known him only by touch, seen him only in fleeting moments of abandon. His was a striking face, rugged but aesthetic, with a strong chin, the nose fine and straight. And the eyes…

      She had seen the eyes clearly, always. They had challenged, disdained and assessed her. They had fallen upon her with a startling blue tenderness.

      For long moments, it was as if time—the forest, the wind itself—became still. She stared, seeing his face now. Which, then, was the mask? The bizarre leather, which was crafted in the form of a beast? Or this, the face of humanity, far more shocking than she had ever imagined, with its ruggedly hewn, arresting features, so classic in form they might have belonged to a distant god.

      What was real? The predatory menace of the beast or the righteous strength of the man?

      “Camille, please, for the love of God. Come with me. Come with me now.”

      Even as he spoke, she heard the footsteps coming from behind her. Someone else? A savior? Or someone with a far more classic and customary facade? One of the others who purported to be her champions, yet all of them entangled in the mysteries and riches of the past? Lord Wimbly himself, Hunter, Aubrey, Alex…oh, God, Sir John.

      She spun quickly, staring as the other man burst from an overgrown trail through trees and brush.

      “Camille! Thank God!”

      He came toward her.

      “Touch her and you’re a dead man,” growled the man she had known as “the beast.”

      “He’s going to kill you, Camille,” the other said softly.

      “Never,” the beast intoned softly.

      “You know he’s a murderer!” the other charged.

      “You know that one of us is a murderer,” the beast said calmly.

      “For the love of God, Camille, the man is a monster. It’s been proven!”

      She looked from one man to the other, unable to hide the torment that stormed within her. Yes, one of them was a murderer.

      And the other one was her salvation. But which one was which?

      “Camille, quickly, carefully…come to me,” said the one.

      The man she had known as the beast caught her eyes. “Think carefully, my love. Think of all that you have seen and learned…and felt. Think back, Camille, and ask yourself which man here is the monster.”

      Think back? To when? Rumor and lies? Or to the day when she had first come to this forest, first heard the howling and…the sound of his voice.

      The day she had met the beast.

      CHAPTER ONE

      “GOOD LORD, what has he done now?” Camille asked with dismay, looking at Ralph, Tristan’s valet, man’s man and—unfortunately, most often—his cohort in crime.

      “Nothing!” Ralph said indignantly.

      “Nothing? I am left to wonder why you are standing in front of me, breathless, looking as if I’m about to be called to once again come to the aid of my guardian and rescue him from some jail cell, brothel or other place of ill repute!”

      She knew that she sounded indignant and angry. Tristan was incapable of staying out of trouble. She also sounded as if she would let him stew in his pot of problems, which she would not. Ralph knew it, and she knew it.

      Tristan Montgomery was not much of a respectable figure as far as guardians went, despite the fact that fate had provided him with a certain status, this being a time when a man’s title meant far more than his true situation or character.

      But twelve years ago he had rescued her from a workhouse or a worse fate. She shivered, thinking of other penniless orphans who had been left to fend for themselves. Tristan’s means of support had never been what one would call acceptable, but from the day he had first seen her, alone with her mother’s still-warm body, he had given his heart and his means—whatever they might be—to her. And she would never give him less.

      However, she had been striving valiantly for several years now to give him more—stability! An honest place in society. A home. A far more decent life….

      Luckily, Ralph had met her discreetly at the corner, rather than coming into the British Museum, where his disheveled appearance and anxious whispers might have cost her the job she had at long last acquired. She knew more about ancient Egypt than most of the men who had been on excavations, but even Sir John Matthews had hemmed and hawed about the idea of bringing in a woman. And with Sir Hunter MacDonald in on the decision, it had certainly not been an easy road. Hunter actually liked her very much, but the fact that he admired her might well have worked against her. He thought himself something of a seasoned explorer and adventurer—one who apparently gave no credence to the new breed of women suffragettes and sincerely thought that the fairer breed belonged at home. At least Alex Mittleman, Aubrey Sizemore and even Lord Wimbly seemed to accept her presence without much ado. Thankfully, Lord Wimbly and Sir John mattered the most.

      Yet the trials and tribulations of her work could not be of much import at this moment. Tristan was in trouble. But on Monday evening! Just at the start of the workweek.

      “I swear, Tristan did nothing.” Ralph flushed. He was a little man, no more than five feet five inches, but he was spry. He could move with the speed of a lynx, and just as supplely and secretively, as well.

      Camille was aware that although Tristan might not have done anything, he had certainly been planning something illegal when he arrived in whatever his current—and dire—situation might be.

      Camille turned, looking back. The scholarly curators of the museum were now exiting the grand and beautiful building, and might stumble upon her at any second. Suddenly Alex Mittleman, Sir John’s next in command, appeared. If he saw her, he’d want to talk, to escort her to the trains. She had to move, and fast.

      She caught Ralph’s elbow, hurrying him down the street. As she did so, the wind expelled a mighty breath, making the nip in the air more like a true bite of ice. Maybe it wasn’t just the wind. Perhaps it was a premonition of fear that snaked so cruelly along her spine.

      “Come along, speak to me and speak quickly!” Camille warned. She was already worried, very worried. Tristan was smart, incredibly well-read, with a street education to match that he had procured at the hands of a multitude of tutors when a young man. He had taught her so very much—language, reading, art, history, theater…And also the fact that perception was nine tenths of the law—the social law. If she spoke like an impoverished

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