Come the Night
“He was…intrigued,” Gillian said carefully. “A boy of his age is incessantly curious about everything, especially himself. It was only natural that he should wish to know more about you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I had little chance to discuss the matter with him before he ran away.”
“And you didn’t notice he was gone until he’d gotten all the way to the ship?”
Gillian felt a prickle of heat rushing over her skin. “He’s run away before, but never went farther than the neighboring estate.”
“Sounds like he didn’t have everything he needed at Snowfell after all.”
“Boys of his age are naturally restless.”
He offered no contradiction. “You never considered letting him meet his real father, even in secret?”
Another question filled with pitfalls. “It would hardly have been fair to him—or to you,” she said. “My…writings did not continue beyond the first few years. I knew nothing of your present life. You might have had a wife, children of your own. I could not anticipate that you would wish…to be…burdened with the knowledge.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Mighty considerate of you,” he said, lapsing into that peculiar Western dialect she remembered from London. “But you were wrong on all counts, Mrs. Delvaux. No wife. No kids. Never had much use for the idea.”
“Then I see no real difficulty in our…in the situation. Toby has met you. His curiosity has been satisfied.”
“Has it?”
She remembered what Toby had said to her in the bedroom. “Toby is a boy of intelligence and ability beyond his years,” she said. “He is affectionate with those who have earned his trust. But he can also be rash and stubborn. He has done a very dangerous thing by traveling alone to America. Such behavior must not be rewarded.”
“So he should be punished for wanting to know the truth?”
Her stomach began to knot. “I have answered your questions,” she said. “What more do you want of us?”
Ross looked at her and then down at the carpet between his feet, and she recognized something she hadn’t expected to see: uncertainty. She might almost have called it vulnerability. But the moment passed quickly, and when he spoke again, it was without any trace of hesitation.
“I want to see more of my son,” he said.
CHAPTER THREE
PANIC SWELLED in Gillian’s throat, but she fought it down. She needed to use reason now, not emotion. Unless Ross had lost the basic decency that had been such a fundamental part of the boy she had known, he would listen to a sensible argument.
“Please be seated,” she asked.
He regarded her as warily as if she’d asked him to jump out the window, but he acceded to her request. He selected one of the deep armchairs, and she took a seat on the sofa, holding herself still and erect.
“I understand,” she began, “that you are curious about Toby. That’s only to be expected. I can see that you are also concerned about his welfare.” She paused, trying to collect her thoughts. “Since you lack experience with children, you may not realize…how impressionable a young boy can be.”
“Impressionable.” Ross got up abruptly, went to the illegally stocked sideboard where Hugh had left his bottle of brandy and poured himself a glass. “You mean he might be susceptible to bad influences.”
How easily he twisted her words. “He may be entering the transition at any time. Additional distractions will only serve to confuse him and make him unhappy at such a crucial juncture in his life.”
Ross emptied the glass. “You think I’ll confuse him?” he asked. “You think he’ll lose his ability to Change just by being around me?”
Gillian flinched. “I implied no such thing,” she said stiffly.
“But you’re worried about it, aren’t you? He’s my son, and that means…” He paused to pour himself another glass and inspected it critically. “What else are you worried about, Mrs. Delvaux? Afraid I’ll give Toby a yen to be a cop like his old dad?”
Gillian pushed her anger back into the little hollow deep inside her chest. “You can only hurt him if you give him reason to believe…if you allow him to form an attachment to you which cannot last.”
“Hurt him?” Ross quickly swallowed the second drink and set it down so hard that Gillian expected the glass to shatter. “Is that what you think I’m trying to do?”
“No, of course not. But Toby’s future is in England, and you surely would not wish him to be torn—”
“Between you and me?” He pushed the half-empty brandy bottle aside with a sweep of his hand. “Do you think I could take him away from you?”
Ice water rolled through Gillian’s veins. “Is that what you intend to do?”
Ross dragged his palm over his face and returned to the chair. “No.” He met her gaze with an earnestness that battered at her defenses more surely than a barrage of curses. “I don’t steal kids from their mothers. But he’s blood of my blood. You can’t make that fact disappear, no matter how much you want to.”
“I have no wish to deny it.”
He gave her cynical smile. “Yeah. I guess it’s a little too late for that.” He sobered. “All I’m asking is a few days. Just a few days, Jill.”
Gillian swallowed and looked away. “Jill” had been Ross’s pet name for her; she still remembered when he’d told her, with a teasing sort of tenderness in his eyes, that “Gillian” was too “highfalutin” for everyday use. She’d thought that it was his way of bridging the gap of wealth and class that lay between them, differences she had been just as ready to set aside.
Until he’d tried to make their affair more than it could ever be.
She rested her hands in her lap, deliberately relaxing her fingers and letting all emotion drain away. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” she said, “but I must ask you to believe that I know what is best for our…for Toby. He has romantic notions that may perhaps have led him to believe that he will find something—something mysterious and wonderful—here with you that he hasn’t found at home. He has an idealized image of the father he never knew.”
Ross dropped his hands between his knees. “I never claimed to be anyone’s ideal. I won’t lie to the kid.” His voice grew husky. “Am I asking so much, Jill? A few days out of a lifetime?”
His question hung between them, so saturated with unspoken feeling that Gillian felt worse than if he’d shouted and raged. The gentleness of his voice didn’t change the circumstances in the least, but her mouth simply refused to speak the words that necessity should have made so simple.
He was asking her to trust him. Trust him with the most important thing in her life, when he had every reason to resent her. She had known from childhood that emotions could change in an instant, that one could never rely on anyone else’s behavior, only one’s own. His motives were still a mystery to her; it wasn’t as if he knew more than a trifle about Toby or could even begin to understand him.
But what other purpose could he have? If he were planning some sort of retaliation for the assaults on his pride, surely he wouldn’t be here in her hotel room bargaining with her.
The brash young doughboy she’d known in London would never have sought revenge. Such dark emotions had been alien to him, even after he’d faced death on the battlefield. That was only one reason she’d found it so easy to believe, however briefly, that she loved him.
“I shall consider everything you’ve suggested,” she said. “Will it be acceptable if I telephone you tomorrow?”
He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, a gesture she remembered all too well. “I guess it’ll have to be.” He glanced toward the door to the bedrooms. “Do you mind if I look in on him before I go?”
The wolf in Gillian wanted nothing more than to rush across the room and block the door with her body. The woman was nearly paralyzed and hated herself for it.
“Of course,” she said. “But please don’t wake him.”
“He won’t even know I’m there.” Ross picked up his hat and headed unerringly for the room where Toby was sleeping. He made no sound at all when he stepped into the bedroom. Gillian paused in the doorway as he went to the bed and looked down at the boy sprawled beneath the covers.
There should have been nothing remarkable in the sight of a father watching his son while he slept. It happened all over the world every day. But Gillian could hardly breathe as Ross knelt beside the bed, reached out with one big hand and touched Toby’s hair with such gentleness that Toby didn’t so much as stir the tip of one little finger.
The moment lasted for a dozen heartbeats, and then Ross withdrew. He met Gillian’s gaze, and the gentle wonder that lingered in his face warmed her like a fire in winter.
“Thanks,” he said simply, and slipped out of the room. Her skin hummed beneath the sleeve of the blouse he had brushed in passing. She compelled her feet to follow him to the outer door, astonished at how difficult it was to regain control of her own body.
Ross opened the door to the hall and turned to face her, his expression unreadable once again. “I’ll be expecting your call,” he said.
“Ross—”
“Good night, Gillian.” He placed his hat on his head, nodded briefly and walked away.
Gillian leaned heavily against the doorjamb, watching him until he reached the elevator and stepped inside. She felt nervous, a little sick to her stomach and oddly exhilarated.
The first two symptoms she understood well enough. But the third…that one made no sense at all. Physical yearning was a thing of the body alone, easily governed by the mind. It was only a ghost, a dream, a memory with no validity in the present.
She backed away from the door, closed it firmly and returned to Toby’s bedroom. He was sitting up, his chin resting on his bent knees.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” he asked.
“Yes.” Gillian sat in the chair nearest the bed and folded her hands in her lap. “Did we wake you?”
He shook his head. “I had a dream that Father was teaching me how to fish.”
“How to fish?”
“Mmm-hmm. Except I was very small. And Father was living with us at Snowfell.”
Gillian’s nails pressed tiny crescents into her palms. “Toby…it would be wise…it would be better if you didn’t call Mr. Kavanagh ‘Father.’”
His bright, direct gaze focused on her. “Why not? He is my father.”
“In a literal sense, yes. But once we return to England, it’s likely that you’ll never see him again. You will find it easier to adjust if you—”
“If I pretend I never met him?” Toby leaned back against the pillows and folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t forget, even if you can.”
It was surprising, Gillian thought, how much a child’s thoughtless words could sting. “Tell me,” she said, “why you’re so fond of Mr. Kavanagh when you’ve spent scarcely any time with him.”
Toby considered her question with a lightning shift to that precocious maturity that still had the power to surprise her. “Isn’t one supposed to like one’s father?” he asked.
If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought he was testing her. But she’d been careful, so very careful, to keep him away from Sir Averil and his volatile moods.
“That isn’t an answer, Toby.”
“I just like him. He doesn’t treat me like a child.”
“But you are a child. There are many things you don’t understand.”
“I understand that you wrote that you didn’t think Ross was good enough to be my father because he wasn’t like you and Hugh and Grandfather.”
Gillian felt light-headed. He’d read just enough to confuse him, and now she had to set it right.
“Do you remember when we talked about how rare werewolves are in the world?” she asked.
He tangled his fingers in the sheets, his expression turning sullen. “Yes,” he muttered.
“Wise men realized that the only way to save our kind was to marry those of loup-garou blood to each other, to preserve our abilities and our way of life. That is the purpose of the Convocation. That is why we must sometimes set aside the things we…might think we want in order to help all our people.”
“And Mr. Delvaux was the right kind of werewolf.”
Oh, how she had tried to keep this from him. How she had danced around the subject, knowing that one day Toby might discover his mixed heritage and what it could mean.
How much had he read in those damning notations?
“Mr. Delvaux,” she said, “was from a family that could trace its bloodlines back to the fourteenth century and beyond. No one questioned that he had all the qualities necessary to strengthen our people.”
“You didn’t even love him.”
“You can hardly make such judgments, Toby, when he died before you were born.”
He gave her a hard, direct look. “I know you didn’t love him, but you still thought he was better than my real father.” His jaw set in a way that reminded Gillian far too much of Ross. “There isn’t anything wrong with Father, whatever you say.”
Dangerous, dangerous waters. “You’re right, Toby,” Gillian said gently. “There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Kavanagh. I’ve no doubt that he is very competent in everything he does. I’m certain he has a full life here, with his work as a police officer.”
Toby wasn’t to be distracted. “He wasn’t a police officer when you met,” Toby said. “He was a soldier, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did you know, then, that he was only part werewolf?”
Dear God. “I…it isn’t always possible to tell.”
“But you liked him anyway, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I liked him, Toby.”
“I know the facts of life, Mother.” His cheeks colored, raising a spattering of freckles. “You decided to have a baby with him, didn’t you?”
The facts of life. Toby had only the weakest grasp on the nature of relationships between men and women, but he knew enough.
“Sometimes,” she said, “we don’t always expect what’s going to happen.”
“You didn’t want me to be born?”
“Oh, Toby.” She moved quickly toward the bed and sat down, her arms trembling with the need to embrace him. “You were a miracle. A wonderful gift.”
“But I’m part human.”
He knew, and there was no going back. “Yes. But your werewolf blood is of the very strongest. You don’t have anything to—”
Be afraid of. But he wasn’t afraid. Not…yet. She had almost slipped, almost revealed too much.
“Even if Father isn’t like Mr. Delvaux, he’s still a werewolf,” Toby said, speaking into her sudden silence. “I’ll bet he could thrash anyone coming to the Convocation.” He bit his lower lip. “Maybe you don’t have to Change to be a real loup-garou.”
Gillian began to shake. He was talking as much about himself as Ross. Either he’d seen through her private fears or he’d drawn the natural conclusions from what he’d read.
She couldn’t lie. But she wouldn’t tell the whole truth.
“You’re very real,” she said, cupping his face between her hands. “And there are many admirable things about humans. Think of Uncle Ethan. Haven’t we been good friends?”
“Would you marry him if he asked you?”
For a few seconds she was too stunned to answer. “Ethan? Where did you get such an idea, Toby?”
“It wouldn’t matter whom you married if you weren’t going to have any more babies, would it? You could even marry Father.”
If he really believed that, she had succeeded in one thing, at least: she had kept him busy enough at Snowfell—and isolated enough, when the occasion required it—that he hadn’t grasped how little her life was her own, or how hard she’d striven not to let him feel the weight of burdens he was too young to bear.
But he would have to be told about what awaited them both at the Convocation. And soon.
“No,” she said gently. “That is quite out of the question. Our lives have become too different. We are too different.”
He frowned at the counterpane. “What if Father wants me to stay in America?”
“He knows that is impossible, Toby. A boy belongs with his mother.”
“What if he asks you to stay, too?”
That icy river sluiced anew through Gillian’s veins. “He will not. You must put any notion of our remaining in America out of your mind.”
She could see right away how little impact that command had on Toby. She should have found a better way to control him, to raise him with enough discipline to have prevented him from considering such a mad course as running away from England. But each time she’d considered treating him more strictly, she’d thought of Sir Averil, and all such resolutions had deserted her.
There was only one way of getting through to him now. And it would mean sacrifice…and faith that her bargain would be enough.
“You would like to see your father again,” she said.
Toby sat up. “Oh, yes!”
“Then I propose a compromise.”
“He’ll come to visit England with us!”
Oh, Lord. He had no idea. None whatever.
“No,” she said. “You know the Convocation is soon to begin, and there won’t be room for more visitors. I propose that we remain in New York for a few days, and you may see Mr. Kavanagh, if he is agreeable. But at the end of that time, you must promise to return with me to the ship without protest.”
Toby cocked his head. “Two weeks.”
“A few days, no more.”
His chest rose and fell in a great sigh. “Agreed,” he said. “May I ring him now?”
“Tomorrow morning is soon enough.” She rose, letting him see nothing of her apprehension. “Back to sleep, young man.”
He plunged back under the sheets with the energy of any ordinary eleven-year-old boy. Gillian was almost out the door when his voice brought her to a halt.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said.
Unable to trust her own voice, Gillian left the room. She almost went straight to the sideboard and the half-empty bottle of brandy, but she didn’t. Alcohol was a refuge of which she had no need.
Ross had. But he wasn’t the one who’d lost the skirmish between them. An hour or two was all the time it had taken him to win Toby over. He had never held a wailing infant in his arms, changed a nappy or soothed a little boy’s hurt, but Toby was already halfway his.
Was that how it happened to me?
The front door clicked. Hugh stuck his head into the room and glanced about warily.
“Is it safe?” he asked.
“Mr. Kavanagh is gone.” Gillian pulled the pins out of her hair and let it tumble down around her shoulders. “Did you enjoy your walk?”
Hugh snorted. “Enjoy it? I was worried sick about you.”
“There was no need.” She sat on the sofa. “Mr. Kavanagh was quite civil.”
Hugh eyed the brandy as he sat in one of the armchairs. “What now? Do I buy a gun or start packing my bags?”
The idea of Hugh wielding a gun was as ludicrous as the notion of Ross among the delegates at the Convocation.
“I have decided that Toby will visit with Mr. Kavanagh over the course of the next few days,” she said.
Hugh hummed through his teeth. “That is civilized,” he said. “I have to say, I’m a little surprised you trust him so much.”
“I trust him because I will be with him and Toby every moment they are together.”
“Won’t that be a trifle…awkward?”
“I assure you that I will survive his company.”
“No doubt. It’s Kavanagh I’m worried about.”
Gillian began to be irritated. “What do you mean?”
But Hugh had fallen into a rare contemplative mood, and he rose and wandered aimlessly around the room until he reached the window. “I should be able to find something to do for a few days,” he murmured. “Yes, it ought to be rather interesting.”
Gillian didn’t ask him what he meant. She got up, went into the WC and drew herself a bath, grateful that there were no servants to deceive with a smile and a few hollow words. She sank into the hot water with a sigh. The liquid ran exploratory fingers over her thighs and arms and breasts, soothing her into a state of nearly complete relaxation…
Ross pushed her hair away from her face, letting her short curls run through his fingers.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Is this what you want, Jill?”
She pressed her hands into his back, feeling the flex of muscle and the strong beat of his heart. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure, Ross.”
“I haven’t…” He flushed beneath his tan. “I haven’t got any protection with me. If you want, I can find something to…”
“No.” She lifted her head to kiss the ridge of his collarbone. “I don’t want to wait. Nothing will happen.”
A slight frown crossed his face, but it lasted no longer than it took for her to pull him down. His hands were eager and a little rough as he touched her hips and breasts. She briefly wondered if he’d ever had a woman before. In a way, she wished he hadn’t. Then they would be the same, if only for this short while.
All thoughts fled as he began to caress that very private place between her legs. She hadn’t known there could be such a feeling in the world.
Ross was no longer awkward. He took one of her nipples into his mouth and began to suckle, while his fingers continued to work their magic below. Gillian began to get very hot and very wet, and her breath grew short.
“Now, Jill?” Ross whispered, his lips brushing her ear.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes. Now, Ross. Now…”
Gillian sat bolt upright in the bathtub, splashing lukewarm water over its porcelain sides. She pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks, fighting her way out of the dream.
She was alone. No one had touched her; no one had brought her to the brink only to abandon her, gasping and unfulfilled. Her memory had turned traitor, reaching up out of the past with cruel, grasping fingers.
Gillian got out of the bathtub and found a thick towel, wrapping herself tightly in the soft white cloth. At least she was alone; no one had witnessed her lapse.
And tomorrow? Would Ross look at her and surmise what had been going through her mind?
She went to the mirror and relaxed all the muscles of her face until there was no further sign of agitation. Not even full-blooded werewolves could read thoughts. And unless she were an utter fool, she wouldn’t betray by a single word or action that she even remembered their lovemaking.
The face in the mirror gazed serenely back at her. The lines about her eyes and mouth could scarcely be detected; no one would guess that she was thirty years old. Ross would have no reason to believe that she’d enjoyed anything less than a life of perfect contentment.
And hadn’t she? Hadn’t she found her place and purpose? Hadn’t she been given the most wonderful son in the world?
And who gave you that son?
Gillian spun away from the mirror and rushed to her bedroom, where she slipped into the luxurious silk-and-velvet dressing gown provided by the hotel. It felt decadent against her skin, and she almost took it off again.
Sir Averil’s wealth had paid for this expensive suite. There had never been any fine silk dressing gowns at Snowfell, but SirAveril was a proud man. His daughter must have the best accommodations on those rare occasions when she appeared in public, even though he had heartily disapproved of her coming to America.
Gillian rubbed her cheek against the velvet collar. There was no harm in the dressing gown. Just as there would be no harm in seeing Ross again. Both would soon be far out of reach.
She sat down at the dressing table and began to brush out her hair with long, rhythmic strokes. Tonight her sleep would be empty of dreams.
CHAPTER FOUR
CONEY ISLAND, Ross mused, was a place most werewolves would go out of their way to avoid, especially on a Sunday in May. And that suited him just fine.