Eternal Hunter (30 page)

Good. She liked the beast and loved the man.

Life wouldn’t be perfect for them, she knew that.

But screw perfect. She’d take her tiger and she’d take her wild ride.

And she’d take the love she’d found,
forever
.

“Fucking beautiful, sweetheart, fucking beautiful.” His mouth pressed against her neck.

Her head fell back and the hunger rose.
Jude
.

She let her claws out and got ready to take her lover.

A man with more than a bit of the animal inside.

The perfect man for her.

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S
he knew it now without a doubt.

She wasn’t alone.

Fighting the sudden lump of fear in her throat, Cassandra pressed herself against the granite slab. Not for protection, but to better see whoever,
whatever,
prowled in the darkness. She held her breath, waited.

There, again. A justified chill of fear scraped down her neck. Someone was sliding from shadow to shadow, movements so swift, so silent, anyone who wasn’t trained to spot such subtlety would have missed it. Who could it be? Another Heir of Albion, like Broadwell? It couldn’t be a Blade, for Cassandra had been unable to send a telegram to let them know Broadwell’s whereabouts. Someone else, then.

Something else
. The shadows gathered, shaping themselves into the form of a man gliding from darkness to darkness—tall, long-limbed, powerfully built. Twenty feet away. At a slight sound, he turned to investigate. His eyes literally glowed. Hollow and white, unearthly.

Cassandra stifled a gasp. Oh, it was one thing to read about and study magic. Entirely different to sense it,
see
it.

Whatever this…man…was, he moved with unearthly speed and stealth. She could not see his face as he shifted back into the shadows, more subtle and elusive than any human or animal.
What was he?
Before she could study him further, he melted into darkness, disappearing.

For several moments, Cassandra peered into the night, straining for another sense of him. Yet he was gone, absorbed into the fabric of shadow like a half-remembered dream. Cassandra, trying to refocus, turned back to keep her vigil on the tavern.

The unknown man stood right in front of her.

They both started, neither expecting the other.

Her pistol came up immediately.

Ambient light from the tavern revealed his face, the glow of his eyes vanished, and her fingers around the trigger slackened in shock. The tall man also started again, as shocked as Cassandra.

It could not be. Yet it was. She took a step forward, lowering her weapon, hardly daring to believe what she saw.

“Sam?” Her voice was a stunned whisper. “Samuel Reed?”

“Cassie.”

Oh, God, she knew that voice. Knew it as well as she knew the deepest recesses of her own heart. A low, masculine rumble, much deeper now than it had been ten years ago, but it was him. Sam.

“Cassandra now,” she said automatically as she grappled with understanding. Nothing made sense. It could not be that Sam was the creature she had just witnessed prowling through the darkness. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

Sam emerged slightly from the darkness, wariness evident in the guarded movement of his long, lean body. He’d been only eighteen the last time Cassandra saw him, verging into adulthood. Now there was no debate. Sam had grown up. He was, positively, a man. She noted it in the breadth of his shoulders, his broad chest, and powerful limbs. Even in shadow, even dressed in clean but slightly threadbare clothing, she could see it. Sam had left boyhood long ago. This man radiated potent strength, barely restrained.

Cassandra stared up at his face and felt another jolt of shock. The softness of youth had vanished entirely. Sam’s face…there was no other way for her to describe it…it was
hard
, a collection of sharply chiseled planes that made no allowance for leniency. Bold jaw, tight-pressed lips, sharp nose, and forbidding, dark brow. Too severe to be handsome, but undeniably striking. Such a change from the boy he’d been.

“I should ask you the same damned question,” he growled. “You shouldn’t be out. Alone.” He moved, as if to reach for her, but his hand stopped, curling into itself and falling to his side instead.

Fear suddenly danced along her neck. His voice was rough, almost menacing. But that was ridiculous. This was
Sam,
her brother Charlie’s best friend, the boy she’d known—and adored—almost her whole life. Ten years ago, he and Charlie both bought commissions, joining the army and serving in the same unit together, as they had done everything together. Including—

“For a lady,” Sam growled, “you’re pretty damned free with that gun.”

She glanced down at the weapon in her hand, then tucked it into her skirts. Proper young women did not carry pistols. Certainly not during the day, and most assuredly not in the middle of the night while lurking in deserted stonemason yards.

“Pistols are all the rage this season,” she said. She could not tell Sam anything about her mission, bound by a code of silence, as well as for his own protection.

Although, she amended, gazing at Sam, he seemed perfectly capable of protecting himself. If forced to use only one word to describe this man, the word she must choose would be lethal. She’d never met a man who held such dangerous intent in his body, including the most seasoned Blade field agents. He did not even offer a veneer of a smile at her attempt at humor.

“Nothing good brings a woman out at night,” he rumbled. “Some kind of assignation, then. A husband? Lover?” He raised a brow.

Cassandra wondered what kind of lover necessitated having a gun. “I might not be the same girl who collected spiders in jars,” she said, “but I’m not the sort of woman who arranges moonlight trysts.” However, she wasn’t a maiden any more. She’d seen to that a few years ago, though she wasn’t about to tell Sam.

Truthfully, she did not know what to say to Sam. She’d so often dreamt of this moment, how she would greet him upon his return. She had even contemplated something as frivolous as the dress she would wear. It would show him she was no longer a girl with dirt under her fingernails, but a grown woman, with a grown woman’s desires. And he would see her as if for the first time, a slow smile of wonder illuminating his face, and realize that what he had been searching for had been at home all along. Her nails, too, would be clean. She curbed the impulse to check them now—for often, after touring factories and inspecting conditions, her fingernails did get dirty. But that was a minor detail compared to seeing Sam again.

Her dream of their reunion had ended two years ago, but she remembered it vividly, an imprint of abandoned hope burned into an afterimage on her heart.

Yet this…fierce, dangerous man…was entirely unlike the Sam she’d longed for, resembling him only in the most superficial way. He burned with a deep, profound coldness that seeped into her own bones.

She realized that it
had
been Sam, stalking the darkness. Moving with an eerie fluidity. More at home within the realm of unnatural shadow than light and life. But how could that be possible?

“I’ve no idea who you are anymore.” Sam’s voice glinted like a knife in the darkness.

“That feeling,” she said, “is mutual.”

Truthfully, she had no idea who he was. Or, her mind whispered,
what
he was. She tried to push that thought away, but it would not be staved off.

Unfamiliar, this terror. Something clammy and frightened uncoiled in her stomach as she stared up at his impassive face. The changes wrought in Sam went beyond the shift from youth to maturity, from civilian to veteran soldier. Yet she did not know what, exactly, was different, was deeply, profoundly not right.

A burst of noise careened out of the tavern. Both Cassandra and Sam shot alert glances toward it, but no one exited the building. As Sam continued to rake the tavern with his gaze, Cassandra could feel the waves of anger and purpose emanating from him, palpable as frost. The gentling of his expression was gone. Nothing gentle in him now.

Sam had been a soldier, a major, the last she’d heard, and still held himself with a soldier’s vigilant, capable presence. He wore civilian clothes, yet carried, she saw at that moment, an officer’s sword and wore tall military boots. The war in the Crimea ended two years ago. What had become of him since then?

“This makes no sense,” she said. “I was told….” Her words dried as he swung his gaze back to her. Even in the weak light from the tavern’s windows, she saw his eyes were the same palest blue, edged in indigo, only now his eyes did not dance with humor or mischief. They were…
haunted.

“I was told,” she began again, “that you were dead.”

He stared at her with those anguished, cold eyes. And said, “I am.”

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T
he dining room was nearly bursting at the seams. There was only one unoccupied table by the time Sarah and Whitman arrived to eat. Unfortunately, it was in a corner and made for two.

“Told you to hurry,” Whitman grumbled under his breath.

Sarah couldn’t stop a very unladylike snort, again. “Next time I’ll run up the stairs and you stand at the bottom then.”

He didn’t respond, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, as if he was holding in a laugh. Perhaps the serious Yankee did have a sense of humor after all.

When they sat down, Sarah realized it was the first time they were face-to-face. On the train and even walking to the hotel, they’d been beside each other. Facing Whitman was an entirely different experience.

He wasn’t classically handsome, but damn, he was exactly the kind of man Sarah was attracted to. His face was angular, the late-day whiskers only added to his appeal, his nose was slightly crooked, and a few scars were scattered here and there as if he’d been wounded by small pieces of something.

But it was his eyes that captured her attention. Deep, green, and framed by those long eyelashes, Whitman had the sexiest gaze she’d ever seen. Fortunately or unfortunately, she felt a tug of sensual awareness just looking at the tousled chocolate locks above those eyes.

Hell and crackers.

He frowned. “Why are you scowling at me?”

“I’m not scowling.” She fiddled with the fork and knife on the table while hoping the missing waitress would appear to save her from the awkward situation.

Damn Mavis Ledbetter. The woman was over by the window with that same gentleman, completely ignoring the fact she’d been paid to take care of Sarah. Whit had been right—she was going to fire Mavis and leave her in whatever town this was.

“She looks to be a spinster.” Whit followed Sarah’s gaze. “Looks as if she hasn’t given up the quest for a husband, though.”

“She spent so much time declaring she was a spinster, she kept most men away from her.” Sarah frowned at Mavis. “Nobody in town wanted anything to do with her because of her reputation.”

“You’re from the same town then?”

His question was one anyone in polite company would ask, but Sarah found herself unwilling to answer any personal questions. So she decided to insult him to keep him disliking her. “You’re nosy.”

“You’re rude.”

“You’re pushy.”

He barked a laugh. “And you’re refreshingly honest.”

Sarah found herself holding back a chuckle. What was it about this annoying Yankee that set her on her head? Aside from being handsome, there wasn’t anything else remarkable about him. She needed to figure out his appeal so she could combat it and keep her distance, at least as much as she could, considering they were going to be stuck in a train compartment together for fifteen hundred miles.

“Then you won’t mind if I continue being honest.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”

Why in the hell did that make Sarah’s heart thump like a bass drum? Back home, when she ate a meal, it was with her friends, a group where everyone chatted and relaxed. Sitting with Whit made her feel jumpy and awkward—a condition Sarah was definitely not used to.

“You make me uncomfortable,” she blurted.

His eyebrows went up. “I do?”

Now that she’d gone down that path, she had to finish her thought. “I’m sure you’ve heard the song before, Mr. Kendrick, but Yankees aren’t high on my list of favorite folks, much less one I have to rely on. It’s going to take some time for me to ah, adjust, so if you can, be patient with me.”

Whit nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

She didn’t want to demand anything from the man. After all, there was no reason for him to help her. His actions told her more than anything that he was a gentleman. “When life kicks you once, you get back up and move on. When life kicks you a dozen times, you’re less willing to forgive and trust.” That was as far as she planned on going with that train of thought. He seemed like a sharp guy and could likely understand why she felt uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry. I won’t give you any cause to kick me back. I promise.” The sincerity in his gaze made her want to believe him.

Ridiculous, of course. Why should she trust a stranger? She had to rely on him to be her companion, however that would turn out. Yet expecting him to carry her bags was a far cry from trusting him with her life. Sarah could take care of herself, for the most part anyway, and she regretted the fact she couldn’t do it all the time.

“Good, because I bite when I kick.” She fought back a grin.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me in the least.” He smiled at the waitress as she approached the table.

The young blond thing sparkled like a new penny when she caught sight of Whitman. Sarah wanted to trip her with the cane.

“Good evening, sir. Can I fetch you something to drink? Or an order of meatloaf? It’s the best in the county.” The young woman smiled while her face flushed.

Sarah harrumphed at the obvious tactics the girl used. “I’d like some of that meatloaf and hot coffee.”

The girl looked surprised to see Sarah sitting there.

“I’m sure Mr. Kendrick here will have the same thing.” Sarah shot Whitman a challenging look, daring him to contradict her.

“Meatloaf and coffee would be lovely. Thank you, miss.” He graced the girl with another smile, sending her scurrying to the kitchen.

At least the food would arrive quickly considering the girl was already enamored of Whitman.

“Are you always this honest?” Whit picked up the spoon in front of him.

“Yes, I am. Does it bother you?” Sarah was ready to show him just how forceful she could be with her words.

“Not at all.” He breathed on the spoon and stuck it on the end of his nose. Sarah almost choked on her spit as she watched a grown man play at a child’s trick. What the hell was he doing?

When he smiled, the force of it snatched Sarah’s breath. She could do nothing but look at the grin behind the spoon and wonder if she’d stepped into a dream of her own twisted mind. He was beautiful, a Yankee, and charming as all hell.

Sarah was afraid she’d lose more than her spoon to Whitman Kendrick.