Anne Stuart (28 page)

The hair, for one thing. The color was too even, too brassy, clearly not her natural shade at all. Her eyes were blue, and faintly stupid, as she looked at him assessingly. Her mouth was a rouged Cupid’s bow, not Emma’s generous smile, and she smelled of musk, not of lavender and roses.

And she was too damned short.

In fact, she wasn’t Emma. And he looked down at her, at this luscious offering on the Altar of Venus, and felt nothing but anger and regret.

He hadn’t any more time to waste on what was clearly a lost cause. Emma had bewitched him—how, he wasn’t quite certain. No other woman had managed to disrupt his life, his plans, so completely. She’d sunk into his brain like a hot knife into wax, and he could think of no way of dislodging her short of burning down the night.

He had found Willie sound asleep, snoring loudly on his pallet in the stables. For some reason, Killoran hadn’t wakened him, unsaddling his horse himself and brushing him down. There was something soothing about the feel of horseflesh beneath one’s hands, something calming in the steady strokes of the curry brush. He’d forgotten that simple pleasure.

Once again the memory of home, lost so long ago, came crashing back over him. His love for horses, shared with his father, the long hours spent training the swift, beautiful Connemara ponies. Life had once been so very simple, so very right.

But not anymore. And not ever again.

He slapped Satanas’s rump and moved away from him. Killoran could imagine Sanderson’s reaction if he knew his friend had left the pleasures of a debauched party for the joy of grooming a horse. He’d think him mad. Maybe he was.

The moon had set when he went in search of Emma. He hadn’t stopped to think why—he’d simply gone, with unerring instinct. The brandy still thrummed in his veins; the whore still teased at his memory. He needed to look at Emma, to find out why he’d left a talented courtesan for her. But when he’d finally come across her, sound asleep in that uncomfortable-looking chair, he’d known the answer.

Her scent filled the room—lavender and roses. He leaned against the wall, watching her, and then he knew. Whether he liked it or not, he wasn’t going to let Darnley put his hands on her again. She wasn’t going to be despoiled by a sick brute like Jasper Darnley, and she certainly wasn’t going to have that harridan who claimed to be her cousin get near her again.

He needed to marry her off, to someone strong and decent and kind. Someone without the imagination to wound her and hurt her, someone who’d protect her and take her far away from London and the Jasper Darnleys of this world. And the Killorans of this world as well.

Nathaniel immediately sprang to mind. He was young, strong, stupidly idealistic. In fact, a noble hero, bent upon rescuing a damsel in distress. Lady Barbara was his chosen damsel, but she was already a lost cause, unwilling to be saved. She was better suited for people like Killoran, another lost soul.

Besides, Nathaniel seemed very fond of Emma. He was always warning Killoran, looking at him suspiciously, as if he suspected him of the foulest possible designs. Of course, he’d been right.

Emma would be happy in Northumberland. She’d give Nathaniel babies, and it would be a simple matter for the two of them to imagine themselves in love. If they proved recalcitrant, he could always arrange for Nathaniel to ruin her. Such things were child’s play when you had a mind like his. Once Nathaniel took her maidenhead, he’d have no choice but to marry her.

It all made perfect, logical sense. Killoran would get rid of the two of them, so damnably distracting. He’d take Barbara into his bed, and perhaps even teach her to like the sport, though he doubted he’d want to exert himself that much. And then he’d find Sanderson’s whore and use her as bait with Jasper.

All very sensible. Unfortunately, the plot hinged on one minor contingency. That he’d be willing to let another man take Emma.

He lifted his head to stare at her, running his hands through his thick hair. What was it about her that caught at his soul, when he no longer had one? What was it that fascinated him, weakened him, made him start believing in things that didn’t exist? She was just a girl. A young woman, who’d lived a sheltered life with a religious fanatic and a lecher. A woman of courage, determination, and astonishing sangfroid, who could skewer a man without fainting, who could stand up to Killoran himself—who had terrified far braver creatures. She was just a girl. And he wanted her.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Was it the brandy that was sapping the last of his vaunted self-control? Or merely the amount of time he’d been around her? This moment had been there, just out of reach, since he’d walked into that room at the inn and found her standing, bloodstained, over the fresh corpse of her uncle. He’d fought it for as long as he could. He wasn’t going to fight it any longer.

He must have intruded on her very dreams. Though he made no sound at all, eventually her eyes opened, myopic, sleepy. She didn’t see him at first, crouched against the wall, and he allowed himself the furtive pleasure of watching her slow, delicious stretch.

And then she knew she wasn’t alone. Her eyes flew to his, wary, squinting in the darkness.

“
You’re back,” she said, her low voice faintly breathless with surprise. “But why? Was the orgy too tame for you?”

He rose slowly, lazily, watching the wariness in her eyes increase. “Now what, pray tell, do you know of orgies?”

“
I read a lot.”

“
Books about orgies? You surprise me. You don’t strike me as a female full of prurient interests. In fact, there was no orgy at Sanderson’s. Merely a group of underdressed whores of all stations of life, some indifferent games of cards, and a fully adequate meal. Are you hungry?” His question was almost an afterthought.

“
No,” she said. “But I
am
curious about something.”

He glanced over at the bed. It was a large one, and someone, presumably Emma, had brought in the fur throw from the carriage. He wondered how she would look, lying naked against it, her flaming hair spread out around her. Around him.

“
Ask me anything,” he murmured.

“
Are you going to take me back to my cousin Miriam?”

He hesitated for only a moment. He heard the well-disguised panic in her voice, the first real fear he’d ever noticed in his otherwise stalwart companion. Remembering the formidable Miss DeWinter, he wasn’t sure he blamed her.

“
Willie has been indiscreet,” he said in the casual voice that was his most dangerous.

“
You didn’t warn him not to say anything,” she protested.

“
Servants in my employ shouldn’t have to be warned to keep their mouths shut. What did he tell you? That Miss Skin-and-Bones and I were as thick as thieves? That I tumbled her in her front hallway?”

“
Don’t,” she said faintly.

“
As a matter of fact, I learned of Miriam DeWinter from your admirer. Lord Darnley. Apparently he and Miss DeWinter have some sort of scheme in mind. I wondered why Jasper seemed willing to let his henchmen murder you before he had a chance to take you. Obviously it was your cousin who possessed the murderous tendencies. They must run in the family.”

“
Don’t mock me.”

“
My dear one, I’m not,” he protested lazily. “Merely pointing out a fact.”

“
Did you tell her where I was?”

“
I didn’t need to. She was already fully apprised of your whereabouts. Or was, up until this morning, when I decided it might be politic for us to absent ourselves from London for a while.”

She looked at him in disbelief, clearly doubting any noble motive on his part. She was wise to do so. “Are you going to give me back to her?”

“
I hadn’t realized you were mine to give.”

A faint flush mantled her pale cheeks. “You’ve told me as much on any number of occasions.”

“
I’ve yet to act on it.” The silence in the room was a palpable thing. She stared up at him, and he could read her soul in her honey-brown eyes. The fear, the wariness, the bravery. And the shy, irrational longing as well.

She longed for him. He knew it, much as it astounded him. Not that he was unused to being sought after by women. He’d been blessed with a certain combination of form and face which seemed to draw both women and men to him, even as they fought against the pull.

But Emma wasn’t like other women. She was too determined, too sensible to fall for his clever ploys. But she looked at him with her heart in her eyes, and he knew that he’d found the one thing he couldn’t resist. A taste of innocence, after a lifetime of jaded pleasures.

He would take her. He knew it—the time had passed for him to resist. He would debauch her. Strip off her clothes, lay her on the bed, and bring her down to his level. Make her pant and quiver and shatter in his arms. Take her, and debase her. And then let her go.

And in doing so, he’d free himself from the insidious effect she had on him. By bringing her down to his level, he’d be released from his unwelcome bondage. And there’d be no more nagging weakness, or foolish sentiment, or absurd desires.

“
Do you need some help with your clothes, Emma?” he asked in a deceptively cool voice.

Her flush darkened. “No, thank you. I intend to sleep in them.”

“
No,” he said, very gently. “You will not.”

The wariness dissolved into full-fledged panic for a moment, and then she pulled herself together once more. “I will not be your whore, Killoran,” she said fiercely. “If you’re in need, then go back to the party and partake of the women there. I won’t share your bed.”

“
A bed isn’t necessary. If need be, I can take you on the floor. Or on the kitchen table.”

Her eyes widened at the notion. “You can’t make me.”

He laughed then, a faint, bitter sound, full of regret. “Ah, but my precious, I can.”

“
By brute force, perhaps,” she said, backing away from him. “And I’ll fight you every inch of the way.”

He advanced upon her. Slowly, silently, taking care to frighten her just so much and no more. “Not by force,” he said, “and you won’t fight.”

He reached out for her. She slapped him, and the force of her blow whipped his head around. He paused, gazing down at her, perversely pleased to see she looked completely horrified. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I shouldn’t have... I warned you...”

“
You shouldn’t waste your regrets over a slap. As a means of defense, it’s fairly paltry. Save your apologies for the time you skewer me.” And he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him fully prepared for worse than a slap.

But she was silent, mesmerized, holding utterly still as he brought her body up against his. She was shivering in the hot room, and he could feel the battle raging within her. He tucked her face against his shoulder, smiling into the darkness. A faint, bitter smile of triumph and anticipation. She would be his.

And he would be free.

Chapter 16

There was no escape. In the firelit room, she knew that there was no escape at all.

In truth, if she could bring herself to fight him, she knew he would let her go. If she were steadfast and strong, she could run away from him.

Ah, but she was far from strong when it came to Killoran, and she was steadfast only in her self-destruction. Even if she ran, she’d never be free of him.

She might as well submit, since it was what her secret, shameful heart had wanted from the first moment she saw him. Cousin Miriam was right after all—she was possessed of the devil, of evil, licentious desires. And she would give herself to the devil, here and now.

She forced herself to go limp in his arms. If she couldn’t bring herself to stop him, at least she could do her best not to prolong matters. If she simply lay there and let him do what he wanted to her body, it would be over soon. And then he would want her no more. Cousin Miriam and even Gertie had made that more than clear. Once a man has his way with you, your value is lost. In submitting to Killoran, she was doing the wisest possible thing, given her circumstances.

He slid his hand through her thick hair, cupping the back of her head, turning her face up to his. He looked dangerous in the firelight, brutal and satanic, and she kept very still, waiting.

“
A virgin sacrifice, Emma?” he murmured. “I would have thought you’d have more pride.”

“
I won’t fight you,” she said, her voice low and faint. “I’m sorry if that’s what you prefer, but I can’t battle any longer. You’ll win in the end, you always do, whether it’s cards or dice or other people’s lives.”

His thumb traced the edge of her jaw. “I have the devil’s own luck,” he said softly. His body was very hard and fiery against hers. She was reminded again of how very powerful he was. Physically powerful. Emotionally powerful. She tried to withdraw further, into some dark, quiet place inside herself, as fear began to take over.

But he wasn’t about to let her. And she knew full well that it wasn’t he whom she feared. It was she herself.

The touch of his mouth against her eyelid was the first warning. His lips feathered against her skin, and her eyes fluttered closed. She could feel her heart beating, a desperate tattoo, and she tried to will herself into a calm resignation.

She had never been held so closely by a man. Never felt the strength and heat of him.

It was no wonder she was unable to dismiss him from her mind. Even as she tried to shut off her brain, her senses were playing havoc with her vain effort at self-control.

He kissed her other eyelid, and he was not a man she would have thought would be much for kissing. He kissed her temple, her cheekbone, her angular nose. And then in the shadowy night his mouth sought hers.

It was light and darkness, sin and forgiveness, hell and redemption. She put her arms around his waist, pulling him closer, closer still. She could feel the warmth of his strong back through the fine linen shirt; she could taste brandy on his mouth. His hand was between them, against her breast, and she hated the layers of cloth that separated them.