Wolfsgate Read online

  Wolfsgate

  Copyright © 2014 by Cat Porter

  Cover Design

  Najla Qamber

  https://www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Editor

  Jennifer Roberts-Hall

  Formatting & Interior Design

  Jovana Shirley

  Unforeseen Editing

  http://www.unforeseenediting.com

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  For

  R & D

  and

  Eugenia & Stella

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with Cat Online

  HE WAITED FOR IT. It was coming now.

  His skin was icy cold from the inside out. His eyes rolled back in his head. That prickle fizzled down his spine once more, and the familiar gentleness seeped over every inch of his flesh.

  And finally…

  Oh yes.

  He floated, swathed in a gentle blur, wafting on a thick cloud.

  That’s it…marvelous.

  Fingers slid through his hair, and tingles spread across his scalp and needled his neck. His blood backed up in his veins for a painful split second.

  A touch? Who’s touching me?

  “Brandon,” a soft voice whispered like a warm breeze over his face. The shadow inside him shifted, and he turned towards that sudden promise radiating over him.

  My name?

  “Dearest Brandon.” The sweet voice poured over him like warm honey easing the fizzle in his veins. A hand settled on his shoulder and slid down his arm, then squeezed once. He gasped, his insides flinched.

  Muffled voices then choked breathing lingered over him like smoke.

  Come back…please, more.

  He forced his eyes open, pleading with his lids to function just this once. He had to see the voice, the touch. Had to…

  “I told you. This is all that’s left of him. If you were hoping on his return, you were hoping in vain,” came a sharp male voice. A voice he knew.

  “But we thought he was dead—”

  “He’s as good as dead. You call this being alive?” the man cut her off.

  “Mightn’t we take him home?” she asked.

  Home?

  “Are you mad? He’s dying for God’s sake. Best to leave him here for however long he lasts under the doctor’s care.”

  “This is care?”

  “Shut up, Justine.”

  Justine.

  The name vibrated in his brain, and a bittersweet emotion he could not name shimmered against the hollow walls of his chest. Images flickered through him: desolate brown eyes desperately holding back tears, innocent laughter ringing out, an outstretched hand in a dark corner, an anxious girl sitting in a big saddle on a large horse…his horse? Now, there on his chest where this peculiar sensation ached there came a light caress, a pressing in of a hand.

  Oh yes…just there.

  “For Christ’s sake, stop touching him!”

  He tilted his head and managed to open one eye, and the breath sucked out of his lungs.

  Velvet. Chocolate. Silken earth.

  Those same beautiful, large brown eyes from his memory beckoned him.

  “Brandon?”

  “Come away,” said the man.

  That voice. I know that harsh tone.

  The man gripped the woman’s arm. She tried to pull away, but stumbled back against him. “Do you understand now?” He scowled, shaking her arm slightly. The young woman only nodded, her chin trembling. “Come now, don’t make this more difficult. He won’t last long. Do it, and we’ll be done with this.”

  The man let go of her and moved away. She leaned closer, and a scent of lavender drifted over him. His lips parted on a whimper pleading to inhale that magic.

  “I promise you, Brandon,” came her voice, steady this time. The muscles of her face were tight, her brow furrowed over those velvet eyes. “I won’t leave it like this. By everything I am, everything I have left, I swear I won’t leave you here all alone, I won’t let them destroy you.”

  The velvet gleamed now, and a shining heat radiated right through him as his lungs contracted painfully. A drop of wet fell onto the skin at the base of his throat, and then another fell on the torn grooves of skin on his face. The drops of warm liquid trickled over his flesh, stinging his skin, and a moan escaped his chest. He wanted to see her, to feel her touch on him again.

  He reached for her, but it was too much of a struggle. His arms wouldn’t listen to his commands, and his eyelids sank with the effort. Muffled voices and footsteps thudded around him as his eyeballs swam in his head.

  He was adrift once more.

  “THERE IS YOUR HUSBAND, MADAM.”

  The doctor’s lips settled in a firm line. Justine’s gaze followed his outstretched hand pointing towards one of the many ill, diseased, and infirm lying in unclean beds. She fought the wave of nausea rising in her throat, holding her breath against the stench of sickness and desolation in this large hospital room full of forgotten patients.

  Her heart skipped a beat. There he was, Brandon Treharne, Baron of Graven. She moved towards his cot. His thin frame lay twisted on the dirty linens, his bearded face gaunt, his eyes seeing something far from reality, his mind engaged in the clouds.

  “Brandon?”

  His straggly black hair and beard made him a fierce-looking creature, even though he was incapacitated in a hospital bed, mumbling to himself quietly like a helpless child, his eyes glazed. Justine’s heart dropped. He was not the Brandon she remembered of her youth—that Brandon was a fine young gentleman, bursting with vitality and searing good looks. This was a scarred shell of a man, clinging to a half-life, not the dashing older step-cousin who had once wiped her tears and lied to their nanny on her behalf when she had fallen and ripped yet another hole in her dress. Nor was he the energetic creature who roared with laughter as he would chase her and her stepsister like a tiger through the great hall of Wolfsgate until they could no longer breathe nor laugh any harder.

  Justine turned on her heel and leveled her eyes at the Doctor. “We are taking him home.”

  His eyes bulged and his mouth fell open. “Are you quite sure, ma’am?”

  “
Quite.” Justine cast him a quick glance as she squared her shoulders. “I have made all the necessary arrangements. Indeed, my doctor is waiting to see him.” She raised an eyebrow at the medico in his old powdered wig.

  The doctor’s eyes pinched together. “I mean no disrespect, ma’am, but I have my instructions from his uncle.”

  “His care is my responsibility now.”

  Davidson, the beefy estate manager who had accompanied Justine on this quest to London leaned forward at her side and glowered at the man.

  The doctor frowned. “This is most irregular.”

  Justine tilted her head at him. “My coach is waiting.”

  “Very well. As you wish,” the doctor muttered. He motioned to two of his lackeys to unchain the patient from his bed and escort him out to his wife’s hired coach.

  Davidson surged ahead of her to assist the men with their charge who now groaned and grunted at the sudden, sharp movements his body was being forced to make. Brandon twisted and shrugged away at the contact forced upon him.

  “You will have to sign for him, Lady Graven,” the doctor said as he directed her to his office.

  Justine’s breath caught at the sound of the title. She desperately needed fresh air, itched to get out of this building as soon as possible. However, the thought that Brandon had languished here for two long years and would finally be free fueled her restraint. The doctor placed a document in front of her. She quickly perused the discharge form with a show of cool irritation and signed her name where he indicated. Dropping the quill on his desk, she swept out of the room.

  Davidson reached into the coach and grabbed one of the blankets they had brought, wrapping his young master with it. He shook his head as he took in the young man’s haunted eyes and haggard face. The men shoved Brandon into the carriage, and he howled softly, curling himself up into the corner. Davidson tipped them with a few coins each. He helped Justine into the coach, threw himself in, slammed the door shut, then banged on the roof. The coach jolted forward, and they were off.

  It was finally done—the planning, the deceptions, the posturing for the doctor—and now here was the stark reality before her in the coach.

  “Dear God, he’s a sight,” Justine said, trying to ignore the sting in the back of her throat and the pitch of her stomach.

  “Caw, he stinks!” Davidson’s face twisted.

  “Yes, he does.” Justine leaned towards the beleaguered Brandon and touched the blanket over his arm. His eyes jumped, and he flinched back from her like a trapped, frightened animal. “If only that were his sole problem.” She squeezed his knee. “Brandon, it’s Justine. We’re going home to Wolfsgate. Do you understand? Mr. Davidson is here with us, you remember him? Your father’s steward.”

  She searched his eyes for a response, but there was none. “Brandon?” He only retreated from her, staring aimlessly out the window, his head rocking with the movement of the coach. She sank back in her seat, biting her lip.

  “It will take time, ma’am. This will be difficult, but you’ll see, he’ll get better. May not be the same man ever again, but—”

  “Anything would be better than this.”

  “This next bit will be the hard part. Are you ready?”

  “Absolutely, Davidson.” Her steady gaze slid back to Brandon. “Absolutely.”

  Hours later the carriage exchanged horses at a coaching inn where they took a room, washed Brandon, changed his clothes, clipped his hair and nails, and shaved his beard. Brandon had moaned like a child. He was quite thin, his bones jutting out, his sinewy muscles visible. They were gentle and very careful while handling him so as not to upset him too much. Luckily he did not fight them. In fact he only stared up at Justine, his grey-green eyes soft. She could look for hours into those eyes, eyes the color of seawater just before it pools on the shore.

  “Velvet,” he murmured over and over again. A shiver swept the back of her neck. By the time they were finished Justine began to recognize Brandon Treharne once again. Still a shell of his former self, but it was he.

  Davidson had a quick meal while Justine stayed with Brandon, then they got on the next coach and continued on towards Gloucestershire. She supposed Brandon had been given a heavy dose first thing in the morning at the hospital for he was very quiet and still the entire journey, which was lucky, but nevertheless, disturbing. The rocking motion of the coach lulled him to sleep right away. They would have at least ten days alone at Wolfsgate before her stepbrother and stepfather returned from Edinburgh, and they desperately needed that time to get Brandon strong and back on his feet.

  They disembarked in the village before theirs where a friend of Davidson’s awaited them with a carriage to take them the rest of the way home without the possibility of recognition. Finally, very late into the night, the rolling hills of Wolfsgate began. She took in a deep breath as the carriage at long last drove through the high black iron gate.

  The ancient stone manor rose before her against a star-filled, inky sky. When she had first lain eyes on the historical residence as a child many years ago, it had impressed her greatly and eventually became a glorious retreat to her. But later as a young woman, it had become more like a prison.

  Tonight as Justine stepped down from the carriage and glanced up at the manor’s high central tower and across the flowering vines that climbed the massive stone walls of the renovated Tudor house, her every muscle tightened; she felt taller, bigger, stronger, like she was a part of the very stones of this house. A fullness rose through her chest. She had kept her promise. She had done the right thing. The planets and stars would realign once again for Wolfsgate. They must.

  Davidson helped Brandon out of the carriage who only moaned in protest. Justine pushed opened the great front door. Molly, the elderly housekeeper, waited for them with a huge lit candelabrum on the polished chest in the entryway. The thick flames flickered in the rush of cold air, and the ends of the Flemish tapestries flapped against the stone walls of the hall. The old woman’s eyes were round under her bonnet, her hands clutched together.

  “You’ve brought him home,” Molly whispered. “Bless you, child. Bless you!”

  Davidson held the rope between his big, stocky hands.

  “When he awakens it will be rough. We don’t know yet how his body will react to not having that poison,” he said. Justine’s lips set in a stiff line. He tied Brandon’s wrists to the sides of the bed while her fingers twisted in the folds of her skirt. She felt a twinge inside her at the sight of Brandon so helpless, so vulnerable, his large frame filling her bed. She took in a deep breath. Brandon would stay in her bedchamber for the time being as there hadn’t been time to prepare one for him before they’d left for London lest she arouse suspicion in her stepfather.

  Davidson loosened his necktie, flung off his frock coat, and slumped on the armchair rubbing his eyes. Justine kicked off her shoes and sank back into the chaise opposite the bed, curling her legs under her skirts. She let out a heavy exhale, and her eyes fluttered closed.

  Someone was barking orders, a deep voice, argumentative and mean. She unstuck her eyelids and bolted upright. Davidson stood at the end of the bed, his arms crossed. Brandon was pulling at the ropes, growling out every obscenity known to mankind, his legs kicking, his torso twisting. He stopped at the sight of her, his eyes bulging, his arms still tugging at the rope, his chest heaving for air. He suddenly collapsed back onto the bed and let out a wail. A wild creature shackled, trapped against his will.

  And so it went for days. Davidson would either respond to Brandon’s irritated exclamations or make no attempt at all to reason with him. Brandon would quiet down, and then it would begin all over again for hours at a time, the quiet then the restless and loud behavior.

  Brandon slept fitfully, his legs convulsing now and again. She wiped the cold sweat from his brow and decided to change his nightshirt which was drenched in perspiration. His eyes flew open, and he stretched out a restrained hand to touch her. “Velvet,” he groaned.
r />   “Brandon? It’s me—”

  “No, no, no.” Confusion swept his clouded eyes, and he fell back against the pillows again, the side of his mouth twitched, his hands pulled on the restraints.

  Once Davidson awoke, he helped her change Brandon out of his wet nightshirt, wash him with a cloth, and dress him in a fresh gown. She changed the soiled sheets turning his body to either side as she worked, placed a clean bucket at his side for his bouts of nausea, and made sure a chamber pot was at the ready.

  Justine knew he wouldn’t eat, but she could try and offer him some bread at least. Maybe today he would take it, but she was wrong. Today, he threw the dish and the cup which shattered against the cabinet, then shouted a string of curses at her, cursed himself, and tried to rip the rope off his hands.

  “Stay away from me! Damn you, I don’t know who the hell you are! A demon? A pretty devil in disguise? A siren sent to torture me?”

  Davidson stormed into the room with a cup of whiskey and put it to his lips. Brandon smelled the liquor and drank it greedily like a thirst-crazed animal after an interminable trek. His glassy eyes were a deeper hue of green now, and they pierced hers making her insides squirm. He turned to Davidson and spit a shower of whiskey at him. Justine flinched and stumbled back a few steps. Davidson only grabbed a folded square of linen on the side table and mopped his face. Brandon threw his head back on the pillow suddenly and wept.

  “Davidson, are you all right?”

  “I am, he’s not.” Davidson wiped off his hands, dropped the linen on the washstand, and quit the room.

  Brandon’s extreme moods continued for days. He would carry on about everything and nothing, then he would stop suddenly and look right through her and Davidson, sink back onto the bed and mutter to himself. Justine would sit with him, giving Davidson a much-deserved break from the confines of that room. Now, over a week later, he was calmer and seemed to have turned a corner.

  Who could possibly know the dark recesses Brandon now travelled through in his overtaxed brain or the thousand different pains his body was experiencing? She stroked his hair as he slept to try to chase some part of his misery away. He hissed and moaned in his sleep at the contact. She took his cold hand in hers, the hand that used to hold her small one years ago, lifetimes ago.