Damned fool. He should have at least kicked the dirt off first.
He coughed and choked, but coughing hurt his ribs, and choking pained his raw throat. His stomach lurched and the room swayed as his vision dimmed. Brody reached out blindly into the dark, his fingers finally finding their mark—he shouted in agony, and then got sick into a vase of dead flowers.
CHAPTER THREE
She heard the commotion coming from the drawing room upstairs. This wasn’t the first time someone had broken in, though past intruders had typically been looking for private, disused places to make love with their sweethearts, not to burgle or vandalize her home. But, from the noise this one was making, Angelica feared the worst.
Usually, she kept to the kitchens, and the young lovers kept to the rooms upstairs. In all the years she’d been alone in the house—to her knowledge—no one had ever discovered her. She felt certain that, if they had, someone would have come for her by now.
Thankfully, no one ever came.
Angelica had become a master of keeping to the shadows, and, ironically, remaining out of sight. She knew exactly which stair creaked. She knew precisely where to tread so the carpets muffled her footsteps on the old, worn floorboards. She kept the drapes drawn, and never burned the lamps. Darkness was her world, and whoever wandered the rooms upstairs surely stumbled in the absence of light.
Darkness would hide her from the intruder upstairs. Most likely, he merely sought refuge from the storm. He would be gone by daylight, or sooner, if the weather cleared. Until then, she prayed that he wouldn’t come down to the kitchens in search of food. There was precious little of that anyway, but it was harder for her to hide with someone opening cupboards and rummaging through the larders. If he were to switch on the lights, then there would be nothing to save her.
The shadows were both her friends and her enemies—her one advantage, as well as her greatest weakness.
Angelica tried to block out the sounds coming from upstairs. In her world of quiet darkness, a whisper might as well have been a scream. Listening to some strange man—she knew it was a man by the weight of his footsteps—overturning furniture and getting sick in her mother’s favorite room was torture on her already raw nerves. There would be no sleep tonight.
She tossed and turned on her pallet by the stove. It was the only warm place in the house because she dared not light a fire.
Fire was something she feared more than anything—even more than the asylum. If her house went up in flames, she would not make it out alive. There would be no one to save her.
Pushing that fear from her mind, Angelica tried in vain to sleep. The man upstairs was so angry and loud. He’d begun to shout and curse—not at anyone in particular; she knew he was alone, but it was still so frightening. He was obviously troubled. Possibly dangerous.
Really, she should bar the kitchen door. But, even then, a powerful man could easily break it down and strangle her where she lay. The only way to save herself was to keep him from coming downstairs at all.
Angelica hadn’t known many men in her life, but she remembered Freddie had been perpetually hungry. He could eat three plates of Sunday roast and still have room for dessert. If this man was anything like her elder brother, he would soon come looking for a meal.
Rising off her pallet, she fumbled around for something worth eating, for something she could part with, if only to prolong her life for a few hours more. She gathered some fruit, and went to the basin to wash it. She took a cup from the drying rack, and then filled it with fresh, cold water—it was easy to keep things cold in this frigid place. Most mornings, she had to break the ice in the pitcher just to wash her face.
Hopefully, this clutch of apples would be enough to sustain the stranger. Angelica climbed the stairs from the kitchens to the servants’ corridor. The servants were long gone, of course, but she could pass through these areas without suspicion. Even in a derelict old house, trespassers preferred to keep to the family areas. She felt comfortable enough to walk quickly toward the baize door separating her world from his.
Stopping at the panel, she paused to listen. He was mumbling to himself, talking nonsense. Obviously, this man was distressed. He was injured—she could smell blood on him. But that wasn’t all. He was sick and rotten. He stank of general decay.
She pulled back from the door. Whatever it was that plagued him frightened her. She’d never encountered anything like it before. Honestly, Angelica doubted if this man could physically consume the meager fare she’d brought him. He needed a doctor rather than food.
“Aghh!” His screams echoed through the hallway. “Christ Jesus!”