Come the Night

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kavanagh,” she said. She lifted her head, and her nostrils flared to take in the cacophony of smells that even the least sensitive werewolf would find overwhelming. A large, laughing family bearing baskets stuffed with bread and sausages careened by, trailing the scents of garlic, perspiration and smoke. Gillian watched them recede into the crowd, her face expressionless.

“Hallo, Father!” Toby popped up beside them, nearly bursting out of his blue serge suit. His face was scrubbed pink, his hair was neatly groomed and his shoes had been shined to a mirror finish; he looked as if he ought to have been in church instead of on the boardwalk.

“Hello, Toby,” Ross said, taken aback by the sudden tightness in his throat. “Glad you could make it.”

“So am I.” Toby’s gaze swept over the street, the vividly painted buildings and the people hurrying from one attraction to the next. “It’s even better than I imagined.”

Ross tried to remember when he’d last felt as excited as Toby was now. “Are those the clothes you usually wear when you go to an amusement park?” he asked.

Toby looked down at himself in surprise. “I’ve never been to one before. Mother always insists that I dress like a gentleman when we are away from Snowfell.” He grinned. “But I don’t see any gentlemen around here.”

Ross glanced at Gillian, who didn’t seem to be listening. “Does that bother you, Toby?” he asked. “Would you rather go someplace where your clothes won’t get dirty?”

Toby raised his fair brows in exaggerated disbelief. “You must be joking. I’d much rather wear dungarees like a cowboy, or a jumper and plus-fours like Uncle Hugh.”

“Maybe that can be arranged, once we’re back in the city.”

“Capital!” Toby tapped the leather bag dangling from a strap over his shoulder. “Mother did let me bring my bathing costume,” he said, lifting the bag for Ross’s inspection.

Ross hid his astonishment. Obviously Gillian had no conception of what the beaches would be like, swarming with uncouth human bathers competing for their small patches of sand. His treacherous thoughts shifted, constructing a detailed picture of Gillian in one of those revealing one-piece jersey swimming suits, her curves no longer hidden by a shapeless, low-waisted frock.

“Did your mother bring hers?” he blurted.

This time Gillian was paying attention. Her fair skin went pink. “I do not own a bathing costume,” she said. “We purchased Toby’s at a shop near the hotel.” She looked from side to side as if she were seeking escape. “If you will excuse me, I need to speak to the chauffeur.”

“You don’t have to keep him here,” Ross said. “I’ll make sure you get home safe and sound.”

She hesitated, probably wondering just how far she should trust him. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.” She turned to address the driver, who touched the brim of his cap and returned to the car.

Toby had spent the brief interlude bouncing in place, ready to bolt for the park entrance as soon the adults finished their boring conversation. Gillian moved to take his hand. He shook himself free as unconsciously as a dog shakes water from its back.

Gillian dropped her hands to her sides. “Where do we begin?” she asked.

Her voice was brisk, but there was uncertainty in it. She was as out of place here as Ross had been in the Roosevelt Hotel. Her wealth and perfect breeding bought her nothing in this egalitarian human world. She was lost, and that was exactly how Ross wanted her to feel.

But she hadn’t been that way in London. She’d worked among soldiers of all classes and had treated them equally, as had the other upper-class women who’d joined in the war effort. She’d never shown any outward sign of discomfort in her role as a common nurse. Even when she’d been faced with devastating injuries and suffering, she’d never faltered. And she’d given herself to a guy she’d assumed was human, a man not even from her own country.

Ross cursed under his breath. What the hell was he thinking? This was the real Gillian Maitland, the one who’d returned to her old life without a backward glance. That other Gillian had been a mask she’d temporarily worn, the way a little girl tries on her mother’s clothes and oversized shoes. And this Gillian—Mrs. Delvaux—had thrown away whatever spirit of rebellion and adventure had led her to volunteer in the first place.

Just like she’d thrown away his love.

Toby tugged at Ross’s arm. “May we go now, Father?”

“Toby!” Gillian said, inserting herself between him and Ross. “I doubt Mr. Kavanagh wishes his arm to be pulled from its socket.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account, Mrs. Delvaux,” Ross said. “I think I can handle my own son.”

She blanched and stepped back as if he’d struck her. Ross pretended he didn’t care. He ruffled Toby’s hair.

“What first?” he asked. “The Aerial Swing or the Dragon’s Gorge?”

“Which one is least frightening?” Toby asked in a low voice.

“Being scared is part of the fun, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I’m not worried about myself. But Mother is with us.”

“Do you think she’d be afraid?”

“I don’t know. She’s never been to a place like this before, either. I think she’s a little nervous.”

So even Toby saw it, though he wouldn’t realize that Gillian’s unease had nothing to do with the amusements themselves. He was capable of a child’s unthinking callousness, but he also wanted to protect his mother. Would he feel that way if he resented her, if he hadn’t already forgiven her those years of deception?

Ross cleared his throat. “Let’s start her off easy with the Dragon’s Gorge,” he suggested. “Mrs. Delvaux?”

“Yes, Mr. Kavanagh?”

“We’re off to see the Dragon’s Gorge,” Toby said. “You needn’t worry, Mother. You have two men to protect you.”

Gillian met Ross’s gaze. He could have sworn there was sadness in her eyes.

Because Toby wasn’t her little boy anymore. He was growing up. She was bound to lose him eventually, just like any mother. But for her, it was a hundred times worse. She might lose him to his humanity.

A sense of chivalry Ross had given up years ago compelled him to offer Gillian his arm. She ignored him and started toward the park entrance. Toby lingered to make sure Ross was following, and then he darted ahead. They waited in line to purchase their tickets and joined the stream of people sweeping into the concourse.

The Dragon’s Gorge was one of Luna Park’s primary attractions, and the crowd was considerable. Miniature railroad cars moved one by one along a winding track into the open maw of a vast cave, guarded on either side by snarling winged dragons. Toby walked at a rapid clip to the end of the line, trying to peer over the heads of the people ahead of him.

Gillian joined Toby, and Ross fell in behind them. The top of Gillian’s head was just level with Ross’s mouth; the smell of her skin and her hair, unsullied by the heavy perfumes so many women used, was far more intoxicating than the whiskey to which he’d become so attached since the hearing and its aftermath.

Both the whiskey and the woman were a kind of poison. Both confused his brain and his senses, made it all too easy to deny the hard facts of life. Ross backed away, bumping into the man behind him. He muttered an apology and deliberately closed off his senses until he, Gillian and Toby had reached the head of the line.

He wasn’t sure quite how it happened, but suddenly Toby was sprawled across the last seat of the waiting railroad car, leaving Ross and Gillian to take the first seat in the car behind it. The attendant gestured impatiently; Ross stepped into the car and helped Gillian in after him.

She sat just as stiffly as she had in her hotel room, her gloved hands tucked in her lap and her gaze fixed on the car ahead. Toby twisted in his seat and waved happily as the car lurched into motion.

“Is it quite safe for him to ride alone?” Gillian asked, speaking as if the words had been pried out of her by red-hot pokers.

“He isn’t a baby,” Ross said. “You can’t keep him in high chairs and diapers for the rest of his life.”

She glared at him, her eyes glowing as the shadows of the cave closed in around them. “You think me overprotective,” she said. “You think that Toby is as…worldly as any boy his age. He is not. He has lived all his life—”

“Around people just like him, where he’s safe from anything that could challenge what he’s been taught.”

“You know nothing of how he’s been raised.”

“I can guess.” He leaned back on the hard wooden seat, careful to keep from touching her. “The lessons don’t seem to have taken, though. He’s not a stuck-up little prig.”

Her breath came fast. “No,” she said, “he is not. But you, Mr. Kavanagh, are certainly not lacking in arrogance.”