by Anne Stuart
“She was attacked by ruffians, Mrs. Rumson,” he said wearily. “In fact, I presume I saved her life.” He forbore to mention that he was the one who’d put her in danger in the first place. He had no conscience, and the uncomfortable twinges that were assailing him must have more to do with an inferior lobster sauce than with guilt.
“The poor dear. I’ll see to her.” Mrs. Rumson started for the stairs, and Killoran almost stopped her. He controlled the urge, once more wondering that he felt it at all.
“Do that,” he said lightly. “And where is young Nathaniel?”
“Lady Barbara came by, sniffing after you,” she informed him in stern tones. “I can only presume she decided to make do with young Mr. Hepburn.”
“You sound disapproving.”
“It’s not my place to pass judgment on my betters.”
“Remember that,” he said pleasantly.
Mrs. Rumson sniffed.
There were candles burning in the library, and a crackling fire lent a specious warmth to the room. He stood in front of the grate, staring into the flames, and wondered whether Nathaniel was enjoying himself. It was a fairly certain thing that Barbara, despite her noisy groans of pleasure, would not be. He could have warned Nathaniel. Warned him that her sultry glances, her touches, her provocative smiles and indecent clothing were nothing but an act. That no matter how many times she gave her body, at heart she was as cold as he was.
But Nathaniel was young enough that he might not even notice. He could take quick pleasure in Barbara’s flesh and not realize he’d been duped. Few of Barbara’s lovers were so perspicacious. It was unlikely that a twenty-three-year-old country bumpkin would prove more discerning.
Killoran closed his eyes, leaning against the marble mantel. He’d had no qualms about sending Emma out alone. John Coachman had been warned, though his attempts to protect her had been worthless. And he himself had been right behind, fully armed. She’d come to no harm, and a little blood and gore wouldn’t send her into a state of shock. Emma was made of sterner stuff than that.
Still, it had been a close call. They’d attacked the carriage sooner than he would have expected, and by the time he’d arrived on the scene, Emma was lying beneath that burly villain, cursing and kicking and struggling. To no avail.
He didn’t like remembering how he had felt. The surge of white-hot rage, the guilt that was so foreign to his nature that he almost didn’t recognize it. And the murder in his soul.
He’d blown the back of the man’s head off, without hesitation, and it had taken all his remarkable self-control not to leap from his horse and beat the corpse into the cobbled street.
Even now he could see Emma, her dress torn, her face pale in the moonlight, her eyes wide and dark with shock. He’d stared at her, and thanked fate for the darkness of the night that covered his own, unfathomable reaction.
He opened his eyes and stared down into the fire. He would drink. He would drink a very great deal, and by morning his temporary aberration would have vanished. By morning he would warn her, calmly, determinedly, that Darnley meant to have her. And that Darnley would do anything to get her.
There was just one thing about tonight’s adventures that didn’t ring true. The man struggling with Emma hadn’t been trying to kidnap her. For some reason, he’d been more than ready to kill her.
“She won’t let me in her room,” Mrs. Rumson announced abruptly, appearing in the doorway. “She’s locked it, and she told me to go away. She doesn’t want to see anyone. Are you certain she’s not been hurt?”
“Certain,” Killoran said, lifting his hand. And then he noticed the dark stain of blood.
“But—”
“I’ll see to her,” he said quickly, shrugging out of his jacket, wiping his bloody hand on one thigh. “You may go to bed now.”
“I’d prefer to make certain she’s all right. Women need other women around at times like these.”
“You will go to bed,” he said in his most menacing voice. “She has no need of anyone but me.” The moment the words were out, unbidden, he felt a strain of shock. Not that he’d said such a thing, but how right it felt.
Mrs. Rumson was wise enough not to argue. Few people ever dared argue with him when he used that tone of voice, and even fewer were still alive today. She vanished, and he mounted the stairs slowly, leisurely, as if the blood on his palm weren’t burning into his flesh.
Emma’s rooms were far removed from his. He’d put her in the green suite on purpose. In this huge house most rooms remained empty, and she stayed at the end of one hallway. The master suite was in the middle—no one would have any excuse to pass his door unless on the way to see Emma. And no one would make the mistake of going after Emma and survive.
Someone, presumably Mrs. Rumson, had left a lamp burning on the table at the far end of the hall, and the shadows it cast were decidedly eerie. Killoran strolled into the darkness, paused before her locked door, and casually considered his alternatives. He could knock. He could leave her alone. The sanest course would be to dismiss her from his mind, leave her alone for the night. But he’d never prided himself on his sanity. It was a vastly overrated commodity.
And then he kicked the door open, splintering the wood with the force of his blow.
He filled the doorway to her bedroom. The broken doorway, Emma amended, staring at him. She kept forgetting how very tall he was. How intimidating. Despite his not being the slightest bit bulky, there was a lean and deadly power to his body, one that disturbed her far more than brute mass.
And then, belatedly, she realized how little she was wearing. She’d torn off the ruined black dress and now stood in only her petticoats. The bowl of water on the dresser in front of her was dark with the blood she’d been washing from her skin. The water had soaked through the fine lawn underclothing, molding it to her flesh, and she felt half naked.
But he wasn’t looking at her breasts. He was looking at the bloody water, and the expression on his face was terrifying. Except that there was no expression on his face. None at all. It was that very stillness that was so disturbing.
“You’ve been hurt,” he said, his voice flat. He moved into the room so quickly, with such lethal grace, that she hadn’t time to move, to cover herself, to do more than stare at him, mouth agape, as he pulled her into his arms, against the snowy whiteness of his linen shirt. “You’re bleeding.”
He was warm. He was strong, and large, and his heart was beating against her breasts. For a moment all she wanted to do was close her eyes, sink her head against his shoulder, and give over.
But that was the greatest danger of all. Instead she pushed at him, her hand still holding the damp, blood-soaked rag. “I’m not,” she said in a reasonably cross tone. “That man bled all over me. Apart from being black-and-blue and angry, I’m fine.”
He released her with unflattering haste. She’d dampened his shirt as well, and she hoped he caught a cold. “You’re always angry, my pet,” he said. “What enraged you this time? The fact that you were attacked? Or that you didn’t get the chance to kill him yourself?”
“Must you always make a joke out of things like life and death?” she shot back furiously.
“Yes.”
He turned away from her, ignoring her dishabille, ignoring the broken door, wandering over to the far window to look out into the night. “Why would anyone want to kill you, Emma?” he asked in a meditative tone.
He almost lulled her into telling him the truth. “No one wants to kill me,” she said. “I thought you decided it was Darnley, looking for a bit of sport. I wouldn’t provide much sport if I were dead.” Her white lawn powdering robe lay across the high bed, and she grabbed for it, pulling it around her body. “Besides, what makes you think you weren’t their intended victim? I can easily imagine any number of people who’d like to see you dead.”
“You included, my precious?” he murmured. “Feeling a bit waspish tonight, aren’t you? They knew I wasn’t in the carriage. If they
thought I was, they would have shot first and asked questions later; my reputation guarantees that. Who wants you dead, Emma?”
“No one.”
“Then why did you kill your so-called uncle?”
“He was my uncle!” she snapped. “And I didn’t mean to. He was trying to kill me...” Her voice trailed off.
“You told me it was a case of attempted rape. That, of course, would be unremarkable.” He paused for a moment. “Why would he want to kill you?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“And since you were competent enough to dispose of him, who would be trying to finish what he started? Perhaps a jealous wife?”
“Aunt Tilda died before my father did.”
“Aunt Tilda,” Killoran echoed, turning from the window to look at her. “And Uncle Horace. We’re beginning to make some progress, my pet. The last name.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an order, not to be refused. “I won’t tell you.”
Killoran sighed wearily. “Of course you will, my angel,” he said in a deceptively pleasant voice. “I have any number of ways of discovering that which I desire to know. I can do it nicely.” He’d come closer, too close, and his hand caught hers, his long fingers stroking her palm, slowly, insistently, cleverly. “I can touch you in ways that you can’t even imagine.” His voice was low, heated, and she felt a disturbing, answering shimmer deep inside. “I can take your darkest secrets, I can take anything I want from you, and you’d be willing, eager, to give to me. Everything.”
For a moment she was unable to speak. Her pulse leapt in her throat, and she knew he could feel it, pounding beneath her pale skin. “You underestimate me,” she said in a hushed voice, struggling against the hypnotic effect he had on her.
His smile was small, cynical, and heartbreaking. “No, my love. I know you very well indeed. Better, perhaps, than you know yourself. You want me to let go of your hand, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said hoarsely.
“You want me to go away and leave you alone?”
“Yes.”
His other arm slid around her waist as he bent over her. “You want me to kiss you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered, helpless, angry. Angry at herself, for making no effort to escape. Angry at him, for making her want him.
“You’re safe from me, you know,” he said, still in that low, enticing voice. “I won’t bed you. If I did, you’d lose half your appeal for Darnley, and I can’t have that. So you’re entirely protected from my random lusts.”
“Random lusts?”
“I usually have more control in these matters. You do seem to have a habit of affecting me strangely.” His cool tone was entirely deceptive. His body was hot and hard against hers, and she could feel the tension running through him. Odd, to realize that it was somehow she who had made him tense.
“I’m sorry,” she said, staring up at him.
“Oh, don’t be.” He moved his head toward hers, and she had the strange notion that he was going to kiss her. “At least it breaks my boredom.”
She jerked away, furious, and he let her go. He’d done it on purpose, but that knowledge didn’t assuage her anger. “I’m delighted to hear you’re able to resist my abundant charms,” she said in an icy voice. “I wouldn’t want to spoil your plans. I assume you’ll be wanting me to sleep with Lord Darnley?”
“You would be unwise to assume anything.”
“Unfortunately, my education in such matters is sadly lacking. Perhaps I should go back and see Mrs. Withersedge, and she could instruct me in the duties of a whore.”
“Lady Barbara could doubtless tell you more,” he said, moving away from her. “She’s an exceptional actress.”
“Did you love her very much?”
He turned his head to stare at her in unvarnished amazement. In the dim light of the bedroom he looked dark and saturnine, almost satanic. “Lady Barbara? Don’t be ridiculous, child.”
“No. Darnley’s sister. The woman you’re so intent on avenging.”
She’d hoped to goad him into anger. Into some show of emotion. Instead he merely smiled at her. “I thought I’d already explained it to you, my love. I have no heart. Darnley took something I wanted and broke it. My pride demands suitable punishment. Maude is long dead—it could hardly matter to her what I do with her despicable brother.”
“Does she haunt you?”
This time it worked. And she was very sorry that it had. His face whitened, his green eyes blazed, and he was very angry indeed. She wondered, quite suddenly, whether he could hurt her.
A moment later he had himself under control once more. “You’re right,” he said casually. “I did underestimate you.” He started toward her. “But I imagine it will be a simple matter to teach you a salient lesson. It would be wise not to provoke a sleeping lion, my pet. You will always come off the worse for it.”
She backed away from him, against the table, and the water in the basin sloshed noisily. She wasn’t afraid of pain, she told herself. She’d been hit and hurt before. She closed her eyes and steeled herself.
It was far, far worse than she had imagined. He pulled her up against him, his hands not the slightest bit gentle, and his body was hard and strong against her softness. “Let me give you a little demonstration of what I’m sparing you,” he whispered against her mouth.
She’d been kissed before.
She’d fought Frederick Varienne’s assaults, and her uncle’s too fond salutes, and she had always thought she didn’t like kissing.
She was wrong.
He put one hand behind her neck, his long fingers holding her head still, while his other arm encircled her waist. He lowered his mouth to hers, leisurely, brushing his lips against hers, back and forth, slowly, oh, so slowly. She wanted to push him away, she wanted to draw him closer, so instead she simply let her hands rest at her sides. As long as she didn’t respond, didn’t participate, there could surely be no harm in it. Besides, she didn’t have much choice in the matter. If Killoran decided to kiss her, for whatever dark reasons, then kiss her he would.
His thumb was stroking the side of her face. He was pressing his hand against the small of her back, so that her hips were thrust up against his, and she let her eyelids flutter closed as he just touched the surface of her lips, his brandy-flavored breath warming her.
The sensation was disturbing and enchanting, and she wanted more of it. He started to withdraw, a mere fraction of an inch, and her mouth followed, clinging to his.
The faint sound of his laughter made her eyelids fly open in sudden dismay. “You’re too easy, child,” he murmured. “I need more of a challenge. You’re supposed to despise me, remember?”
She couldn’t trample on his foot; she wasn’t wearing shoes. She couldn’t slap him; her hands were trapped by her sides. She considered using her knee, a tactic that had served her well in the past, but some latent sense of self-preservation stopped her.
She could only use her mouth. “I do despise you,” she said furiously. “You’re a bully and a coward, a mean, nasty man who’s not grateful for the advantages he’s been given, but instead—”
“Advantages?” he interrupted calmly, untouched by her rage. “What advantages do I have? I wasn’t one of your English lordlings, born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I’m Irish, child. That ranks slightly higher than a Gypsy, but not much. It didn’t give me a particularly sanguine view of the world. Anything I have today I earned.”
“You’ve the devil’s own luck at the gaming tables,” she countered. “Nathaniel told me so.”
“Nathaniel’s been busy,” he observed. “What about Lady Seldane? Did she bore you with similar tales of my misspent youth?”
Emma wasn’t about to tell him, or to let herself be distracted. She glared at him. “You’re sinfully handsome, women everywhere fall at your feet, you have a beautiful house, friends, companions, anything you might desire. Surely you could be happy…?”
For a moment the
re was real humor in his dark green eyes. “Sinfully handsome, Emma? Women fall at my feet? Then why, pray tell, aren’t you there?”
“I’m not interested in being one of your conquests.”
“I don’t conquer women, Emma,” he said in a low, sinuous voice. “I seduce them. Charm them into doing exactly what I want them to do. Does that surprise you, that I would hold that much charm?”
She looked up at him. Indeed, she had no choice—he was still holding her close against his body, and she could either look at him or close her eyes. She wasn’t sure which was more dangerous.
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t surprise me.”
“Then why haven’t you succumbed yet?”
“I’m stronger than most women.”
“So you are,” he agreed. “But you’re no match for me.”
She hadn’t realized he’d been moving her slowly, carefully, backward, until her body came up against the side of the high bed. She halted in sudden panic, but it was too late. He carried her down onto it, his body covering hers, his weight warm and solid.
She fought him, but it was useless. Within moments she was on her back, staring up at him, breathless with fury and frustration. His hips trapped hers, pressing her body into the soft feather bed, and his hands held her wrists firmly against the white damask sheets.
“And now, dear Emma, I’ll show you just what you have to be wary of,” he said, and his head moved down, blotting out the light.
This was no slow, sensuous caress of mouth and lip. This was no chaste salute, nor was it the wet awkwardness of an untried boy or a randy old man. He opened his mouth over hers and kissed her, using his tongue, his teeth, and all the clever weapons he had in his arsenal.
She told herself she was being kissed by a practiced rake. She told herself it meant nothing, it was a trick, an act, a small skill that anyone could acquire. She told herself that as her body trembled and melted beneath him, as her mouth opened to his skillful insistence.
She told herself it meant absolutely nothing as his tongue pushed into her mouth, and the moan that came from deep inside her had to be one of displeasure, didn’t it?