One With the Night by Susan Squires Page B

answered questions about how she was made vampire. But had he? He had not. And what of the scars on his body? He kept himself a mystery. All she had wanted yesterday were the facts related to being a vampire. But there were more than facts involved, weren’t there now? There might be suffering and doubt. Suddenly she thought she might want to know about Mr. Kilkenny’s feelings and experience as much as she wanted the bare facts about vampirism.
    In truth, she was going about this all the wrong way. Instead of antagonizing him, she should draw him out about himself; let him get to know her in return. Then he’d feel comfortable enough to tell her anything she wanted to know.
    “That wasn’t kind of me.” She took a breath. “I learned housekeeping from books.”
    “From books?”
    She glanced up and saw she’d caught his interest. “Those books.” She gestured with the knife to the bookshelf that looked so out of place in the kitchen. He rose and bent to peer at the titles. She knew what he’d see: Economical Housewife: A Treatise on the Homely Arts, Cuisine de Campagne and all her books on midwifery, as well. “One can learn almost everything from books.”
    “Not everythin’.” His voice was bleak.
    She continued on lightly. “I already knew how to sew. One of the few practical things out of the so-called education they give to women today. Speaking of which, we should stop in the village and see if we can procure you a shirt. Old Mrs. Dulnan’s son was killed last November. She might sell you his clothes.” She thought about his threadbare coat. “I can buy them for you, if … if money is a temporary problem.”
    “Our kind always has money.”
    “Really? How? Why?” Oh, dear! Where was her vow not to press him too soon? She’d let curiosity overcome good sense. He’d never answer her. Indeed, his expression closed, and then … to her surprise he consciously gathered himself to answer.
    “I’m lucky. And I invested in th’ funds. David Hern gave me a tip.”
    “You knew the Chancellor of the Exchequer?” He had died in a spectacularly grisly way.
    Those gray-green eyes measured her. “He was one o’ us. A member of a lost cause.”
    That took her aback. She wanted to ask what the lost cause was. His eyes said that was not allowed. But she had to keep him talking “You believe in lost causes, then?”
    “No’ anymore.”
    Now that was a bleak tone. She smiled. “Of course you do. You’re here, aren’t you?”
    “Point taken.” Were there crinkles around his eyes? They certainly had a gleam in them. She liked provoking that gleam.
    She laid the potatoes in a large pot with a little of the bacon grease from her father’s breakfast yesterday, rolled them about in it and put the pot into the coals. Half an hour until they were done. That meant half an hour with Mr. Kilkenny and nothing to distract her …
    “Ye dinnae ha’ a dog whistle, do ye?”
    “I have no idea,” she said, raising her brows. “There aren’t any dogs here now.”
    “Ah,” he said, disappointed.
    “Oh, you mean to give that to Papa! Will … will you be able to hear it?”
    “I should think sa.”
    “Well, we have the original furniture. The drawers are filled with all sorts of things. And a farm like this ought to have had dogs once, should it not?”
    “D’ye mind if I’ve a look round?”
    “Of course not.” He got up. How could she ask him questions if he was leaving?

 
    CHAPTER
Seven
    Callan found himself in the front of the house. He puffed out a breath. It was easier when he wasn’t so close to her. Glen Urquhart was settling into the long gloaming. This far north, there would be less and less night as the year drove on to the summer solstice. He’d be trapped in the house, with her, for long hours if he hadn’t moved on. He’d better have moved on. By then they must have a cure. Would the doctor try some terrible new concoction on him every day? Could he survive that for long