Anne Stuart (16 page)

Chapter 9

Dawn was breaking over the city of London. Snow lay melting on the ground, and spring was approaching, but there was no sense of joy or anticipation in the air. Not that Killoran would be likely to notice merriment. He sat by the fire, legs stretched out in front of him, a snifter of brandy cradled in his hand. Irish crystal. For some odd, sentimental reason, he preferred it.

He could see the gray light through the window, and it suited the bleakness of his mood. Somewhere above him, Emma lay sleeping, her curtain of red hair spread around her. He told himself he was unmoved by the thought, but he knew he lied.

He never needed much sleep and, in truth, didn’t care for it. Dreams come when he slept, memories, events he’d banished from his life. He hated letting them sneak up on him while he dozed.

Things had gone extremely well tonight, he thought, wondering why he wasn’t feeling more triumphant. Jasper Darnley had reacted even more strongly than he’d hoped. In truth,
Emma’s appearance was nothing less than a gift from fate, and Killoran would have been foolhardy in the extreme to ignore it. The instrument of his revenge, dropped so conveniently into his life, lay upstairs in bed, her red hair spread out around her. He had every intention of using her.

He thought with fleeting fondness of the feel of Darnley’s drunken body beneath his strong fingers. He could have broken the man’s neck with little difficulty, and it had taken a portion of his legendary self-control to keep from giving in to the impulse. Particularly when the cold, killing rage that had sustained him for ten long years had suddenly burned white-hot at the sight of his enemy mauling Emma.

Perhaps that was what was troubling him. He’d ruthlessly stripped himself of all weakness, all emotion, anticipating little from this life except a passably entertaining evening and the bloody death of Jasper Darnley. And yet, suddenly, desires were churning inside him, stronger than he’d felt in years. He didn’t like it.

Emma didn’t like it either, he thought absently. He had felt her animosity, hot, intense, almost sexual, radiating out at him during the ride home. It had been very… arousing. That, and the memory of her face at the opera, eyes shining with delight. He’d wanted to reach for her, put his hands on her, and pull her against him, to touch her and wipe out the touch of Darnley’s fat-fingered hands. She’d have fought him, of course, and he had yet
to find the struggles of an unwilling woman to be the slightest bit entertaining.

But the interest lay in how long it would take him to make her cease struggling. What kind of sounds would she make when he pulled the black silk down to her waist and freed her breasts from the soft chemise he’d bought her? What kind of sounds would she make when he pushed her down on the bed upstairs and drove into her? Would she be easy to pleasure? Or would she be shy, wary, making him seduce her oh, so carefully?

He had no doubt whatsoever that he could do so. She was fascinated by him. She didn’t like him much, which was to be expected, but like most women, she made the mistake of thinking there was still a spark of decency in him. If she allowed herself to fantasize, she’d probably deceive herself into thinking she could save him.

He was past saving. When he’d finished with Darnley and was ready to let Emma go, he would show her just how far gone he was. He would take her then, and no sooner, and he would teach her a profound lesson about just how black a soul could be. He would show her the delights of the flesh, both the common and the more sophisticated pleasures. He would turn her into a creature who lived only for him, and for his touch. And then he would release her. Knowing she would never be able to find a man who could make her come alive as he could.

He tipped his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. It was far from a worthy motive, but worthiness had little to do with his powerful needs, most of which centered dangerously on the young woman upstairs. He’d tossed his coat across a chair, discarded his diamond studs and his peruke. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, and the heat from the fire added to the heat of the brandy, warming him. He listened to the faint hiss and pop of the dry wood, and then another, quiet sound intruded. The soft sound of bare feet on the stairs. His eyes opened again.

Was she attempting to run off once more? He was getting mortally tired of chasing after her. To be sure, she was important to his convoluted plans. But if she proved more trouble than she was worth, he might simply give in and skewer Darnley and to hell with Machiavellian justice. And then there would be no need to deny himself any longer, and he could finish with Emma as well.

He was in the library, the door open to the hallway. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she could head straight out the front, without passing his door. And then he’d have to bestir himself, when he didn’t want to.

She paused at the bottom. For some odd reason, he held his breath, waiting to see what she would do. And then the footsteps moved closer, toward him, away from the front door.

She stood silhouetted in the entrance, her hair a cloud around her pale face. She was dressed in
a thick white nightgown that revealed absolutely nothing of her luscious curves, and he cursed himself for not having paid proper attention to that particular detail when he’d ordered her clothes. Not that he planned to touch her. But it wouldn’t have done him any harm to observe.

She paused there, a startled expression on her face. And then she squinted, staring at him. “You’re still awake?”

“
Obviously.” He wondered idly whether she’d come to seduce him. It seemed unlikely, given his estimation of her character, but there was always the remote possibility that he was wrong about her. “Why are you here?”

“
I have something for you.”

His instantaneous response would have amused him under other circumstances. He wasn’t a randy boy, and he’d certainly bedded enough women to know there was nothing new under the sun, and certainly not from an awkward virgin. He only knew that this barefoot, night-railed girl who approached him now, offering God knows what, was the most arousing sight he had seen in years.

It was her resemblance to Maude, he told himself with a trace of totally uncharacteristic panic. It brought him back to a time when he had been marginally more vulnerable.

And yet he knew it wasn’t true. Emma Brown was nothing at all like Maude. Maude had been a victim, sweet, helpless, with a touch of treachery that had proved her downfall. He had been oddly fond of her, though he’d never made the
mistake of thinking he loved her. He’d met her soon after he came to England, with the death of his parents still burning a black hole in his mind. Maude was pretty, silly, and innocent, a perfect distraction. And far too easy to dismiss when she’d come to him in desperation.

Emma was no victim. Had Maude possessed one-tenth of Emma’s strength, she’d be alive today.

To be sure, they had the same cloud of hair. But Emma’s was more fiery, her body more voluptuous, her eyes more innocent. Despite a superficial resemblance, there was no connection between Emma Brown and Maude Darnley. Except for Killoran’s plans. And Jasper Darnley’s perverted lust.

She came right up to him, bravely enough, he thought, and as her eyes focused on him in the murky glow of dawn and firelight, a faint color rose to her cheeks. So it wasn’t seduction she had in mind. He accepted that fact with only a trace of disappointment.

He was beginning to realize she was quite shortsighted. One of the few weaknesses this flame-haired virago seemed to have. He glanced up at her, lazily, making no effort to rise.

She held out her hand and dropped something into his lap. It glittered as it fell through the air, and when he caught it, he realized it was a section of the diamond collar. He’d thrust the other piece in his pocket, not bothering to examine it closely.

“
I was going to keep it,” she said in a stiff voice that signaled confession. “I was going to use it to run away from here, and I’ve been lying upstairs, trying to decide how I could manage it. But I can’t. You’ve been too good to me, too kind, and I can’t betray your generosity by stealing from you.”

He wanted to hit her. He doubted he’d ever hit a woman in his life—he received little pleasure in physical cruelty, particularly on those smaller and weaker, but he found he wanted to hurt her.

“
I have no kindness, no goodness, and no generosity,” he said through gritted teeth. “Are you slow-witted? How many times must I tell you?”

Oh, God, she was sinking to her knees beside him, capturing one of his hands between hers. “I don’t know why you’re so determined to convince me that you’re a villain,” she said. “The world may believe that of you, but I know there’s a decent man beneath the… the…”

“
Magpie?” he suggested. He turned his hand within hers, capturing one, holding it, his fingers caressing her deliberately. “You’re a child, Emma. A child and a fool. There’s no decency in me whatsoever. I saved you at the Pear and Partridge because it amused me. I saved you from Mrs. Varienne because I remembered an old score I had yet to settle. Had you had mousy brown hair, I would have left you to your just deserts.”

“
I
don’t believe you.”

“
Come now child, you can’t believe I spend my time doing good deeds, rescuing damsels in distress?” he drawled, observing the whiteness of her face, the hurt and denial in her eyes, and not giving a damn. “You can enable me to take care of some unfinished business. That is your worth to me, and that alone.” He put the diamonds back in her hand, curling her fingers around them. “Keep them. In the end, you’ll find you have more than earned them.”

Oh, sweet Jesus, she looked like a hurt puppy. “What is it you want me to do for you? Whore for you? Sleep with that puce-colored creature? Kill him for you? I thought you said you didn’t need a paid assassin.”

“
You have a good memory, child,” he murmured.

“
Don’t call me child!”

“
Then don’t behave like one. The puce creature, as you so aptly term him, already knows what you’re here for. You’re a trap. One he’s helpless to resist. You will draw him to his doom, and I will administer the coup de grace. And then, my dear, we will be blessedly free of each other.”

She looked at him. Somehow she’d managed to banish that hurt expression, but the quiet, assessing gaze was almost more unnerving. “I wonder,” she said softly, and started to rise.

The dawn sent a shaft of early morning light through the window, illuminating her as she pulled away from him, illuminating the high neck of her night rail. He swore suddenly, savagely, and rose, catching her before she could back away, clasping her arm tightly as he reached for the neckline with his other hand.

“
Don’t,” she said, but she wasted her breath. He ripped open the chaste white gown, scattering buttons on the floor, ripped it without considering the body beneath, only the bruised neck.

She tried to run, but he caught her, holding her immobile by the simple expedient of wrapping one arm around her body and capturing her against his, while his other hand tipped her head back so that he could survey the damage.

“
Darnley did this,” he said, his voice flat.

She didn’t make the mistake of underestimating his reaction. “He wasn’t trying to hurt me, Killoran. It was the necklace.”

“
It doesn’t matter, my pet,” he murmured. “I’m going to kill him anyway. I’ll simply make it hurt more.” He ran his fingertip lightly across the abraded skin.

She shivered in his arms, though her voice was deceptively prosaic. “It looks far worse than it feels. As a matter of fact, I thought it looked as if I’d been hanged. Fitting, don’t you think, for a murderess?”

If she’d hoped to goad him, she failed. “Very fitting,” he agreed. Her skin was warm beneath his hand, and he could feel the ripe curves beneath the lawn nightdress. The material might be opaque, but it did little to disguise the feel of her.

He was not a man who resisted temptation. Nor was he a man who prided himself on honor, decency, or fair play. He thought of her eyes as she had listened to the opera, and he tilted his head and pressed his mouth against the base of her throat, beneath the ring of bruises.

The pulse leapt beneath his mouth, hammering wildly. In panic or in longing? Or perhaps both? He didn’t care. He turned her in his arms, so that her front pressed up against his. She was a tall woman, taller than those he was used to, and he found she fit him quite nicely, her hips cradling his, her breasts against his chest, her neck within easy reach of his mouth as he traced his way along the abraded flesh. She shivered again, and he liked it. Releasing her face, he slid his hand down between their bodies, into the ripped-open front of her nightdress, and encountered soft female flesh, gently rounded, tantalizing, enchanting, mesmerizing. She was trembling in his arms, with fear, with longing, and the shiver that ran over her warm, scented flesh was irresistible.

He wanted her. Wanted to lose himself in her sweet body, wanted to kiss her mouth, her breasts. He wanted oblivion, hot and dark, but oblivion with her, and the hell with his plans, with waiting. He was going to swing her up in his arms and carry her over to the sofa, he was going to drag her upstairs to his bed and strip off her clothes, slowly, and then make love to her, making it last, over and over again, until they were both wet and shaking, and he wouldn’t let her escape for days. He would do her with agonizing slowness, he would do her hard and fast, he would take her and take her and never let her go...

The realization rang in his head like a death knell. He released her, suddenly, keeping a hand on her arm so she wouldn’t fall as she stumbled away from him. If she’d seemed shocked and vulnerable before, it was nothing compared to the expression on her face now. Her breasts were rising and falling rapidly beneath the ripped V of her gown, and her mouth was pale and trembling. He hadn’t kissed her mouth, he thought, almost in surprise. Thank God.