But he couldn’t keep her safe forever. Miriam would wait years if she must.
However, patience had never been her forte. And there was a sizable sum of money—a fortune, in fact—that was out of her reach as long as Emma was alive and missing.
No, patience wasn’t called for right now. Action was. And Miriam rose from her attitude of angry prayer and went in search of a hearty breakfast.
Emma was not ready to face the world. She’d slept very badly indeed. Her body ached from her tussle on the frozen cobblestones; her head ached with confusion, people going round and round in it in a circle, talking at her, warning her. Lady Seldane danced through her dreams, small, dark eyes accusing. “You love him,” she said, but the voice that came from her pursed, painted mouth was Miriam’s.
The dead man was there as well. Emma hadn’t taken a close look at him after Killoran had shot him, but there’d been no doubt that he hadn’t survived. He haunted her dreams. Blood and lust and anger, and just when she thought she might escape, he turned into Miriam, too.
Killoran stood in the shadows, watching. She couldn’t see his face, only his hands, the long, slender fingers; the fall of lace from his extravagant cuffs, his long, black-clad legs. He was watching, and judging, and she knew she had to fight the three specters to get to him. He wouldn’t come to her.
Someone else stood in the way. She reached out her hands, to shove, when she came face-to-face with her own pale reflection. Her double stood there, dressed in black, stopping her from going to Killoran. Stopping her from going to her doom. And all she could feel was fury and despair.
“Lord, I thought you weren’t ever going to wake.” Mrs. Rumson’s hearty tone didn’t cover her concern. “It’s past noon, and his lordship will be wanting to get on the road as soon as you’re ready. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a bath, and Dora’s already packed your new clothes...”
“On the road?” Emma said, dazed. She sat up, staring around the room. Her door hung open, the broken latch and splintered wood painfully obvious. “Where am I going?”
“His lordship has taken it into his head to rusticate. A house party in the country, I believe, near Oxfordshire. You’re to accompany him.”
“You don’t sound as if you approve,” Emma said shrewdly.
Mrs. Rumson shrugged her massive shoulders. “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove. I have no very high opinion of his lordship’s acquaintances—one can scarce call them friends.”
“Perhaps I should remain in London.”
“You have no choice, miss,” Mrs. Rumson said. “Mr. Hepburn will remain behind. You’re to accompany his lordship, and to be right quick about it. He says to tell you if you’re not ready within the hour, he’ll have Jeffries carry you out to the carriage.”
Outrage and amusement fought for control in Emma’s weary brain—amusement won. “I doubt a frail creature like Jeffries would get very far,” she murmured.
“Better to risk being dropped by him than carried by his lordship.”
“True enough,” Emma said, throwing back her covers. Arguing would be a waste of time, that much was more than clear. She was just as happy to get away from London, away from the danger of Cousin Miriam, of hired ruffians and the lecherous Lord Darnley. She would be perfectly safe at a house party. There would be chaperons, company, safety.
Her one concern was being immured in a carriage with Killoran after last night’s devastating encounter. Hour upon hour, rocking back and forth in his elegant coach would be its own kind of hell, and she anticipated it with both longing and panic. He would doubtless be cool and mocking, and she would have nothing to fear. Nothing to hope for.
By the time she raced down the stairs, long hair flowing behind her, skirts trailing, she was within minutes of the hour he’d allotted her. Only to find that her alarms had been useless. Killoran was mounted on the huge black gelding he’d ridden the night before, and he barely glanced in her direction as Jeffries handed her up inside the empty coach. A moment later they were off.
Emma had spent a great deal of her life alone. Ever since the death of her father, when she’d been thrown upon the mercies of her cousin Miriam, Emma had accustomed herself to spending by herself whatever hours weren’t devoted to improving works. Reading. Playing the clavichord. Dreaming.
There’d been a certain peace in solitude. A peace that had vanished from her life completely. Not with the death of her uncle, not with her abrupt change of life. But with the simple advent of Killoran.
When he was around, she was obsessed by him. When he was distant, he haunted her. There was no reason that she should love such a man. He was malicious, immoral, unfeeling, and licentious. He was everything that could destroy her, and she needed to call upon all of Cousin Miriam’s most rigid moral strictures to keep herself aloof from his decadent lure.
But even that was not enough. For whatever reason, he had become the very center of her life, and she couldn’t free herself of his powerful effect no matter how much she fought it.
She must have dozed. Mrs. Rumson had packed her a lunch of cold chicken and cheese and French bread, along with a bottle of claret. Emma ate every scrap, drank most of the bottle of wine, and promptly fell into a slightly drunken stupor. She was unused to spirits, but there was little else to occupy her mind during the endless journey. Only memories of Killoran’s body, pressed hard against hers. His mouth, hot and wet and demanding; his hands, deft, arousing. His touch, his kiss, his need and hers, all tied up together in a mass of aching confusion that made her want to cry out in pain and yearning.
When she awoke, the night was dark, the carriage had come to a halt, and her head ached abominably. She heard voices. Killoran’s slow, lazy drawl, mixed with other, drunken greetings.
“I thought you weren’t coming, old man!” That voice was very slurred and not the slightest bit familiar. “Thought you weren’t going to leave that sister of yours for a bit of hired sport.”
“Don’t know if that’s quite the thing, Killoran” another voice chimed in. “Granted, she’s only a by-blow, but there are rules. Not that I’m against having it on with your sister, but society frowns on such things. You need to keep such dealings private.”
“I appreciate the advice, Sanderson.” Killoran sounded cool. “But I rather think you know that I do exactly as I please in these matters.”
“More power to you, I say,” the first drunken voice trumpeted. “Bugger them all, that’s what I say. Come on in, Killoran. There’s a prime bit of muslin that might tempt even you. She has the most extraordinary pair of tits you’ve ever seen.”
“Really?” Killoran sounded simply bored.
“Even you might get excited,” Sanderson chimed in. “Why in God’s name were you riding on such a cold night?”
“I brought a guest.”
Emma heard him draw closer, and she shrank back into the carriage. A waste of time, of course, when the door opened.
Two men were standing on either side of Killoran. They were both shorter, younger, and drunk, and they stared in at her with almost comical expressions on their faces.
“Brought your own, did you, Killoran?” the older one said, leering at her. Sanderson, by the sound of his voice. “Can’t leave the doxy be, can you? Well, they say when you develop a taste for the naughty, it’s hard to go back to ordinary pudding.”
“I have an idea,” the other man said, shouldering his way forward. “We’ll share her. Sanderson and me. We watched Barkley and Howard do it last night with one of the whores, and I’ve been itching to try it. You can give us advice, Killoran.”
Killoran was silent, gazing at her. There was no expression on his face, his eyes were hooded; and beyond the door of the carriage, Emma could see the brightly lit mansion, hear the shrieks of laughter.
“What makes you think Killoran knows how to do it, idiot?” Sanderson demanded with drunken dignity.
“Killoran knows everything, don’t you, lad? You know how horny these
Irish boys are. In fact, the three of us could probably share her. After all, she has a mouth and two tits, a cunny and an arse—”
“Get away from the door, Sanderson,” Killoran said in a pleasant voice.
“Come now, old chap. Don’t go all possessive on us. You wouldn’t have brought her to a bachelor’s establishment unless you were willing to share her. Granted, she’s got that innocent look to her, but I’m willing to bet she’s a wild thing once you get Jack in the orchard.” He reached for her, his hand grabbing hers and hauling her toward the door.
She told herself she wouldn’t fight. If this was truly what Killoran had brought her for, then nothing mattered. Her innocence was something to be tossed to a pair of hungry jackals, and he would doubtless watch, as his friend had suggested, and be greatly amused.
She was almost through the door when the rough hand on her wrist suddenly loosed, and she fell back among the squabs. She heard a squeal of pain, high-pitched, almost that of a pig. She struggled to sit up, but the door was slammed behind her, and a moment later the coach took off at a punishing pace.
She held on to the door handle as she was tossed back and forth. She had no idea what had startled the horses, whether the new coachman had deemed it necessary to rescue her, whether Killoran had suddenly developed a conscience. That last possibility seemed the least likely, but she was weary, frightened, and beyond rational thought. All she could do was struggle to retain her balance on the seat as the carriage raced on into the night.
It was a losing battle. She ended on the floor, the white fur throw on top of her. She had banged her head against the seat, she had to use the necessary, and for all she knew, she was trapped in a runaway coach. So be it. She only hoped, if she was going to go over a cliff and die, that fate would be quick about it.
The wine was making its presence felt most unpleasantly. She put her face on the carpeted floor of the coach and moaned as her stomach began to perform somersaults. Maybe death wouldn’t be that horrid, after all. It was survival that was getting to be a major annoyance.
The coach began to slow, imperceptibly at first. The wicked rocking lessened, and while Emma decided not to risk climbing back up onto the seat again, it seemed likely that she wouldn’t cast up her accounts. It was dark in the carriage, chilly, and between the rumbling of the wheels and the pounding of the horses hooves, she found herself drifting into a drugged stupor. If Sanderson or his disgusting friend had commandeered the carriage, at least she might manage to sleep through it. That, or throw up on them.
The coach lurched to a sudden stop. A moment later Killoran stood in the open doorway, his face hidden in shadows, his voice lifeless. “Are you all right?”
She stirred, shocked, staring at him in momentary bemusement. “Where are we?”
“At a small hunting box I won several years ago from one of my many helpless victims. Since I don’t hunt I haven’t much used it, but I imagine it’s still basically sound. Young Willie will see to your comfort.”
“And where will you be?” she asked stupidly, brazenly.
His smile was as wintry as the night air. “I’m going back to the party. I decided you would put too much of a damper on the festivities. You are, after all, merely an untried virgin, and gentlemen such as my friends expect someone with a bit more talent and experience. You would be a sore disappointment to them, and they would hold me responsible. My evil reputation could never withstand the blow.”
“I imagine not.” He was holding out his hand to her, impatient, waiting for her to alight. She had no choice. She stepped into the cold night air, and her legs promptly collapsed underneath her.
He was there to catch her, damn him. His body was warm beneath his winter-chilled cloak, and his leather-gloved hands were both hard and gentle on her as he held her for what surely was a minute longer than necessary while she regained her balance.
Then he released her. “Willie will see that you’re well taken care of. He won’t let anyone bother you.”
She looked past him, to the darkened, shuttered house. The trees and shrubbery had grown close around it, she could see that much in the moonlight, but the place looked trim and snug, if not luxurious. Anything, however, was preferable to that den of iniquity they’d stopped at earlier.
“Are you really going back there?” she asked foolishly.
“Indeed. It’s only a few miles, and my friends will wonder what became of me. I’m not known for passing up the occasion for sport, even if I have no taste for shooting defenseless creatures. There’s a bevy of beautiful, inventive bed-partners, a host of men eager to game who are no match for me, and the food and wine will doubtless be superior to whatever young Willie can scrounge up here. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t go back?”
She stepped away from him, pulling her black cloak around her. Her hair was blowing in the strong breeze, obscuring her face, which in itself was a blessing.
“No reason, my lord,” she said in a low voice.
He persisted. “You weren’t, by any chance, thinking of offering me your own myriad charms as a distraction? Granted, the women at Sanderson’s party have a great deal more experience in these matters. They know how to provide a man with exquisite pleasure. But there’s something to be said for the clumsy enthusiasms of youth. Shall I stay?”
“Stay?” she repeated stupidly.
“And share your bed?” he said bluntly.
It was unlike him. He wasn’t a blunt man; he seldom said what he meant. For a moment she wondered what he might do if she said yes. It would almost be worth it, to see that cool, distant expression transformed by shock.
Almost, but not quite. “No, thank you,” she said with spurious calm. “I am tired from all this traveling. I’m certain Willie and I will dispose ourselves quite comfortably.”
There was a flicker of something in his eyes, surprise, perhaps even a grudging respect, but it was gone as soon as she saw it. “Not too comfortably, I trust,” he muttered, half to himself. “I’m not surprised you’re tired. You were up late last night, fighting off ruffians, were you not? I won’t offer our dubious hospitality to any of my acquaintances, then. The lodge is rather small, and I’m not convinced they’ll appreciate my noble motives in keeping you away from them. They might decide to sample you themselves and see how disappointing you are. I couldn’t have that.”
She lifted her head, looking at him squarely. “Why not?” she asked.
His smile was icy. “Because I’m saving your maidenhead for Darnley,” he said. “Pleasant dreams, my pet.”
Chapter 15
It was fortunate the hunting lodge was small. While apparently sound enough, it had the musty, unused air of a place long closed up. It took Willie a good deal of effort even to unlock the front door, and the dark, icy interior was far from welcoming.
But Killoran had already ridden off, without a backward glance, and there was no choice but to try to make the place comfortable. Emma did her best not to think of the bizarre household they’d stopped at earlier. If Killoran chose debauchery, she was hardly the one to argue with him. As long as he didn’t drag her with him.
Her body was stiff and aching from the long carriage ride, and also from her tussle on the London streets the night before, and for a moment all she wanted to do was sink into one of the chairs and weep with hunger and weariness and something else she didn’t dare to define.
She didn’t. She leaned her head against the stiff chair, blinking back her tears, and by the time Willie had returned with an armload of dry wood and the food hamper, she’d managed to light several candles. She moved through the place with brisk efficiency while Willie tended to the fires.
The lodge was small and neat, a gentleman’s toy house, though fallen into disuse. Mice had gotten in at some point during the past few years, making themselves a comfortable little nest out of one of the beds, but the other three rooms seemed relatively unscathed. She couldn’t begin to guess which was the master bedroom—all four were small and simp
le, so she took the least inconspicuous of them, and the one with the sturdiest bed. The one with the unshuttered window near the peak of the roof, through which she could see the moon shining down brightly.
Within an hour the fires were laid and crackling merrily, dispelling the gloom as well as the cold. Emma made a cheerful meal of bread and cheese and hard cider, and Willie managed to pry some of the shutters off the lower windows before retiring to the small stable to sleep with the horses, after quickly refusing her suggestion that he sleep in the warm house.
“Master wouldn’t like it,” he muttered. “Besides, I’d rather be with the horses, if you don’t mind, miss.”
“I don’t mind.”
Willie yawned hugely. “Dunno how he can keep going on so little sleep, miss. I’m tired to the bone, I am. I’m not used to being up all night, wandering the streets of Crouch End at the crack of dawn.”
“Crouch End?” She heard her voice say the words from a distance. “Whyever was his lordship in Crouch End?”
Willie shook his head. “Wanted to see old Skin-and-Bones, he did, though I have no idea why.”
Emma felt the coldness descend, hardening her insides into a solid chunk of ice. She knew who old Skin-and-Bones was. She’d heard some street urchins shout it at her cousin Miriam. “And did he see her?” Her voice was remarkably cool.
“Stood on her front step, arguing with her at the crack of dawn. I couldn’t hear a word they were saying,” he added, sounding mournful. “In the end she slammed the door in his face. But when he came back to the carriage, he was smiling. You know that smile he has, miss. The kind that could charm a dragon while he cut its throat.”
“I know that smile,” Emma said.
Her small room was toasty warm from the fire Willie had laid for her. She glanced at the bed. The hunting lodge didn’t seem possessed of bed linens, and Willie had brought the white fur throw from the carriage and set it on the mattress. If she had any sense at all, she’d curl up in it and force herself to sleep.