It frightened her, the way she felt—the strength of the emotions roiling inside her—because… she feared, deep inside, that perhaps Max was right after all.
Perhaps she'd made a mistake.
Max sat like stone for the remainder of the carriage ride to Vauxhall Gardens.
When they arrived he gave instructions to his driver, paid the four shillings for himself and Victoria to enter the gardens, and, with the barest of glances at her, started along the winding pathway.
Lamps of orange, blue, yellow, and red hung throughout the gardens, casting brightly colored circles on the stone path and the booths that offered ham slices, biscuits, and punch. Although she'd never been in the gardens before, she knew there were hidden alcoves and mysterious grottoes throughout the park—the perfect places for an assignation, or for a vampire attack. People strolled about—couples, clusters of young people with their chaperones, and groups of young men looking for adventure. The fireworks display had finished thirty minutes earlier, and the patrons were beginning to head back to their carriages.
It wasn't far into the gardens before Victoria's neck iced over. Definitely at least ten vampires in the vicinity, she guessed. She had dressed in trousers and a man's shirt tonight, needing the freedom of movement.
Max led the way, and just about the time Victoria thought her neck must surely be white with frost, they came upon a group of four undead toying with a septet of young men.
Perhaps both Victoria and Max had an equal amount of temper to vent, for the battle was brief and fairly onesided… all four vampires were staked barely before their intended victims could run for safety.
Since only a few fangs had been bared, and the seven young men were quite in their cups, Max did not feel they needed to be hypnotized out of their memories. Instead he urged Victoria to follow him down a darker path.
As they rounded the corner of a tall, thick bush, three vampires leaped out at them. One of them was carrying a knife, and before she could react Victoria felt a hot, sharp pain down her left arm.
With a cry of fury she raised her right arm and plunged the stake into his chest. She heard two soft pops as Max dispatched the others, and she turned to continue along the path without another word.
Her arm burned, and when she reached over to touch it, the jacket sleeve was damp. The only good thing about the wound was that the scent of blood would attract any other vampires, making it much easier for her and Max to finish their job and get back to the carriage.
And for Victoria to get back into bed with her husband, who slept peacefully and dreamlessly, thanks to his unscrupulous wife.
Anger with herself helped propel her striking arm during the other two short-lived incidents; she and Max were efficient and silent as they finished off the cluster of vampires that had dared to invade Vauxhall Gardens on a night that they patrolled.
On the way back to Max's carriage, Victoria held her wounded arm, which throbbed and stung, radiating pain up into her shoulder. She walked behind Max, who did not bother to shorten his long strides in deference to her shorter ones.
It wasn't until they got in the carriage, each in their own. corners, that he saw her holding her arm. He rapped on the ceiling, and as the carriage jolted into motion he said, "What's wrong with your arm?"
Before she could reply, he sniffed the air, then reached across and pulled her hand away. "You're bloody bleeding through your coat!"
"It worked quite well to attract the vampires. We finished up rather more quickly than I'd thought we would."
"Take off your coat. You're bleeding all over yourself, and probably on my seat as well."
Victoria glared at him, but she did shrug out of her jacket. It hurt like blazes when she tugged the tight sleeve over her arm, and when she bent her elbow to pull the other side off. The white sleeve of her shirt was dark with blood from shoulder to past her elbow. Max took one look in the low light and swore. "Bloody hell, Victoria, why didn't you say something? How did that happen?"
"One of those three who jumped from the trees had a knife, and he caught me by surprise."
Max was cursing under his breath as he rummaged in a small drawer under his seat. He sat back up holding a mass of white cloth, a small jar, and a knife.
With brief, angry movements, he sliced the clean blade down her shirtsleeve, cutting the fabric from her shoulder to her wrist and pulling it away to bare her arm. "Hold still." He sopped at the blood with some of the cloth and, holding it tightly, told her, "Keep this here for a minute. It's starting to slow."
She held the cloth there while he opened the small jar. The smell of rosemary and something else that she couldn't identify filled the carriage, and when Max pulled the cloth away, she allowed her free hand to fall into her lap. "Hold this," he said, slamming the jar into her open palm. He scooped roughly into the jar and slapped some of the cool, thick salve all along the cut, then wrapped white strips of cloth none too gently around her arm. Victoria felt her fingers begin to tingle as the blood was cut off, but she said nothing.
At last, when they were nearly back to St. Heath's Row, Max stuffed the unused cloth and the jar back into the drawer and settled into his seat. "You'd better start thinking of a good story, Victoria, because you're going to have a bloody time of it trying to explain that to your husband."
Chapter Twenty-two
Incident at Bridge and Stokes
Phillip found his wife already sitting down to breakfast when he came downstairs the morning after their visit to the theater. He felt muzzy-headed and sluggish, though he had slept later than usual after a satisfactory bout of lovemaking."Good morning, my dear," he said, breathing in the scent of crisp bacon and coddled eggs. They were alone in the dining room, so he bent to press a kiss to her bare neck and said quietly, "I was greatly disappointed to find my bed bereft of you. Why so early to rise?"
"I woke early and did not wish to disturb you," she replied. But the dark circles under her eyes told a different story.
"I must have slept like a stone not to hear you get up," he commented, filling his plate, wondering why her expression seemed so guarded. "I cannot recall even moving after resting my head on the pillow; indeed, I believe I woke in the exact same position in which I lay down. That is quite unusual for me. It must be your fault." He said it lightly, with a teasing smile, but Victoria did not seem to find it amusing.
She took a sip of tea and appeared to have difficulty swallowing a small bite of toast. Phillip shook his head; he still felt cloudy-minded. Perhaps his little joke hadn't been as funny as he'd thought.