CHAPTER ONE
Scotland, 1819
ady Daphne Fairchild lowered her head against the rain and spurred her mount toward her destination. Looming against a backdrop of angry, storm-cloud-riddled sky, a huge black shape thrust up from the summit of a steep cliff. A flash of lightning illuminated it briefly, a menacing roar of thunder seeming to warn her away.
Turn back, it cautioned.
I cannot, she replied.
Not after she had hastily fled London in the dead of night, with only the clothes on her back and the meager provisions she could carry. She’d braved ruin and scandal to come here—and now that winds and torrential rain had lent themselves to the frigid cold, she also risked catching her death.
Yet, nothing would stop her from reaching the summit, from striding right up to the front door of the imposing Scottish castle and demanding an audience with its owner. Even if it was the middle of the night, when no decent young woman would dare pay a call upon an unattached man. Even if she felt more than certain he would throw her out upon her arse the moment she opened her mouth to proclaim herself a Fairchild. Even if she had risked everything, with no certainty that she would find what she’d come for.
Squinting to see through the unrelenting sheet of rain seeming to actively fight her horse’s every step, she spotted the only path leading up the steep escarpment. Winding up what might be a grassy slope in the light of day, it would lead her straight into the maw of the very devil.
“Courage, Daphne,” she whispered to herself as she approached the lane. “Have courage.”
She craned her neck to better see her destination, but could make out no more than the enormous black silhouettes making up the famed Scottish keep.
Lightning flickered again—once, twice—followed by a roar of thunder. In the brief moment that the sky had crackled with jagged light, the devil’s lair had revealed itself.
A jumbled collection of outbuildings sitting behind a stone curtain wall, and, somewhere outside her view, the palace itself.
Castle Dunnottar.
Once a well-fortified place of defense and center of political intrigue; now a legendary relic, restored to become the home of a man who lived like a king. However, the ruler of this castle was no monarch. Nor could he be likened to some gothic novel hero—despite residing in a place that would serve as the perfect backdrop for such a story.
No, this man was the thing nightmares were made of. The whisper of his name caused her heart to pound and tears to well up in her eyes.
He was a rogue. A thief. A blight upon the Earth.
A villain.
Rounding a bend in the path, she approached the curtain wall and the looming gatehouse built into it. An old iron portcullis barred anyone from entering, but as she drew near, she spied a lone man just within the stone structure.
Dismounting and grasping the reigns of her horse, she peered through the metal bars. A wooden door stood open to the gatehouse, revealing a man seated near a glowing hearth inside. She envied him the warmth of even so small a fire while her fingers had grown so stiff from the cold, she feared they would break away from her hands.
“Pardon me,” she called out to be heard over the rain.
Lifting his head, the gate keeper spotted her, his eyes going wide. Daphne clung to the bars of the portcullis, tightening her grip to still her shaking hands.
“What on Earth are ya doin’ out here in the dead ‘o night—and in a storm, no less?” he bellowed in a rough, Scottish burr as he approached the gate.
“I’ve come to see Lord Hartmoor,” she replied, doing her best to deepen her voice.
With her disguise of breeches, boots, and a man’s coat, she hoped to pass as a male until she could obtain an audience with the master of the house.
The man wrinkled his brow, looking at her as if he thought her an escapee from Bedlam. Not altogether impossible, as only madness could have prompted her to do such a foolhardy thing. Now, here she stood with no intention of leaving until she’d gotten what she’d come for.
“Are ye daft?” he exclaimed. “’Tis the middle o’ the night, and the master cannae be expectin’ ye!”
“I have traveled all the way from London on horseback in this ghastly weather,” she argued. “I will not be turned back now. Please … my business with the earl is most urgent.”
With a shake of his head, the man waved her off as if she were some bothersome fly buzzing about his head. “Your urgent business can wait ’til tomorrow. Back down the mountain with ye.”
Desperation clogged her throat as he turned away, heading back toward his little nook in the gatehouse. That was it? After she’d come all this way, some stodgy old gatekeeper would turn her away at the gate?
No … she could not be turned away.
“Tell him Fairchild wishes a word with him!” she cried out, not bothering to deepen her voice as she attempted to be heard over the rain.
He paused, his shoulders going rigid. Turning back to the gate, he watched her with a pensive intensity that left her shivering. As if her name had angered him somehow … and yet, he did not shoo her away as he had before. Inclining his head, he narrowed his eyes at her.
“Fairchild, ye say?” he muttered.
Raising her chin and squaring her shoulders, she nodded. “That is correct.”
Rubbing his bearded chin, the old man nodded. Without another word, he backed away from her and toward the crank that operated the portcullis. The ancient gate creaked and groaned as the chain pulled it up its shaft.
“Oh, thank you,” she said as she dashed into the courtyard, pulling her mount along behind her. “Thank you so much.”
“Present yerself at the front door o’ the palace,” he grumbled, jerking his thumb toward the large, dark building looming in the back corner of the curtain wall. “Be sure you tell ’em ye’re Fairchild afore ye ask for your audience. You’ll be taken right to him.”
Daphne gave him a quizzical glance, a question burning on the tip of her tongue. Had Lord Hartmoor been expecting her? No, of course he could not have been. Perhaps he anticipated her brother, Bertram. It had been smart, then, using only her surname.
Reaching out to take her reins, the gatekeeper inclined his head toward one of the outbuildings—a stable, Daphne realized.
“I’ll tend yer horse,” he said.
She nodded her thanks and followed the wide path winding through the small buildings spotting the massive courtyard, her head tipped back so she could stare at the dwelling known simply as the ‘palace’ of Dunnottar. With rain sluicing down her face and her hands clenched into fists at her sides, she approached with sure strides, determination clenching her teeth.
A set of smooth stone steps led up to carved wooden doors which loomed up several feet taller than her. Taking them two at a time, she approached the door with her fist raised, pounding on it as hard as she could. The impact rattled along her arm, stinging her frozen, stiff hands. Yet, she persisted, pounding and pounding until, at last, one of the heavy doors swung open.
She was met by a man as large and imposing as the palace; who, despite his obvious status as the butler, appeared to have been born for a less refined position. A jagged scar ran the length of one side of his face, the rough planes as terrifying as his cold, dark eyes. His bulky body strained the seams of his black coat, and his cravat could hardly contain his thick neck.
“Whadye want?” he grumbled in a Scottish burr as thick as the gatekeeper’s.
Daphne’s mouth fell open, shock momentarily robbing her of words. Such an unconventional butler, this man; yet, she remained aware of the oddness of this entire situation. When he raised his eyebrows and stared at her as if she were mad, she cleared her throat.
Affecting her deep voice, she squared her shoulders. “Fairchild, here to see Lord Hartmoor.”
The butler’s expression morphed from one of disinterest and apathy to one of disgust. “Fairchild, is it?”
She flinched at the way he said her surname, as if uttering a foul epithet. “Yes. I must speak with His Lordship at once.”
Raking her from head to toe with his hawkish gaze, he gave a curt nod and stepped aside to clear the path through the doorway. He said nothing, but she accepted the silent invitation and swept through the entrance.
The door scraped close behind her, the audible echo of it slamming into the frame resounding through her with an odd sort of finality. Her blood ran cold as she gazed about the large main hall—the stone walls hung with rich tapestries, iron candelabras holding dripping tapers, thick rugs guiding a path forward.
Here she stood, poised just within the jaws of the beast, the keep known as Dunnottar and the monster who lived in its depths. One more step, and she might find herself devoured whole, swallowed into its belly and left to languish until it had digested her with excruciating slowness. But she’d come here willingly and could only pray that she’d emerge as whole as she’d entered.
“Follow me,” the butler said, his tone clipped as he breezed past her and through the main hall.
Daphne struggled to keep up with his long strides as he led her down an endless corridor with no thought to her shorter legs. Her gaze barely registered her surroundings as she followed him, her feet falling silently on the thick runners carpeting the hallway, the flicking flames of candles in sconces making shadows dance across pieces of art in gilded frames. The evidence of Hartmoor’s wealth made itself apparent in every object her gaze fell upon—the expensive Aubusson rugs, the paintings commissioned by well-known artists, the wood paneling covering walls that had once been made of stone. The elements of the old medieval keep that had been allowed to remain melded well with the new, creating an intriguing medley of past and present.
Despite the urgency of her mission and the anger simmering in her belly at the man who owned it all, she could not help but grudgingly admit the parts of Dunnottar she’d seen left her intrigued. Laid out in a quadrangle, the palace boasted large wings filled with rooms, the contents of which she could only guess at. Rumors of secret passages and underground tunnels always came with stories of the place where battles had been fought and monarchs had hidden in the midst of rebellion. Were it not for her urgent business, she might allow herself to imagine what she would find if allowed to wander at will.
“Wait here,” the butler said abruptly, coming to a stop before one of many doors.
Opening it, he allowed her only a brief glimpse of what appeared to be a study before slamming the panel unceremoniously in her face. The low rumble of male voices filtered into the corridor beneath the crack in the door, but she could not distinguish one from the other. She stood staring at the heavy wood for what felt like an eternity before it opened again, and the butler reappeared, filling the entire frame with his bulk.
“The Master will see you now,” he rumbled in his ominous voice.
The Master. Not ‘His Lordship,’ or ‘Lord Hartmoor,’ but ‘The Master.’ Yes, she could imagine that a man who owned one of the country’s most treasured castles would wish to be referred to as the master of said domain. And in Scotland, she did believe that lords were often referred to in this way. Still, the reference sent another shiver through her. Lord Hartmoor was the master of this palace, of everything within the stone curtain wall she’d just passed through, and of everyone who lived within these premises. Now that she had passed through that portcullis and entered the jaws of the palace, did that make him her master, too?
Brushing past her, the butler jolted her out of her thoughts, retreating back the way they’d come, the dark shadows of the corridor eventually swallowing him out of sight.
Daphne stared through the open doorway, finding more thick rugs laid upon the floor and the flicker of flames cast against the walls. The crackling of a fire invited her inside with the promise of warmth; yet, fear kept her poised in the corridor. She remained standing in the open doorway for what felt like hours, and still, no one appeared within her field of vision, and no voice called out to beckon her inside.
“Courage, Daphne,” she whispered, repeating the words she’d been saying to herself throughout the long journey. “Have courage.”
She had come this far and could not turn back now. The fate of her family depended upon her walking into that study to confront the man who had ruined them. Cruelly. Methodically. Purposely.
The first step proved the hardest. Once she’d crossed the threshold, she could move more easily, taking slow steps to enter the study. Turning left, she discovered a long room stretching away from her, lit and warmed by two large, yawning hearths cut in the left and right walls. The space was bare of any furniture except for a large mahogany desk before which stood a man who looked as large as the butler. Turned away from her, hands clasped behind his back, he seemed not to realize she had entered the room. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a white linen shirt, and he went without a coat or waistcoat. Fawn breeches clung to his lower body, showcasing powerful legs. Gleaming black boots adhered lovingly to his calves, the muscled limbs filling out the supple leather in a way most London men would envy.
Long, waving strands of dark brown hair fell past his shoulder blades in wild disarray. The deep sable hue of those locks was interrupted by haphazard strands of gold, which caught the light of the fire here and there.
Pausing halfway into the room, she swallowed past the lump in her throat while the warmth of the two fires sank through her soaked clothes and offered a bit of relief. What she wouldn’t give for a hot cup of tea and her warm bed.
The man before her suddenly moved, turning slowly to face her, as if possessing all the time in the world. As if he bent time to his will instead of the other way around.
Her mouth fell open, shock rippling through her as she was confronted with the rest of him. The rough-hewn muscles of his form became even more imposing, the evidence of strength in the bulges of his arms showing through the fabric of his shirt, along with the swell of his wide chest. Her mouth went dry when her gaze fell to the patch of skin revealed by his loose buttons, a peppering of dark hair showing in the gap.
She paused there, terrified to look any further, for reasons she did not comprehend. But she sensed his gaze on her, and even without meeting that stare, could feel him studying her, assessing her, stripping the clothes from her body and the flesh from her bones.
Finally, she forced herself to continue, lifting her eyes and taking in the thick cylinder of his neck, and up, up toward a face that looked as if it had been carved from granite. Harsh lines and planes mingled with solid angles, a square jaw set off by a slightly crooked nose that appeared as if it might have once been broken. A mouth that might have been full and lush set in a firm line, pulled tight at the corners. The rough stubble of whiskers sprouted along his jaw, as if he hadn’t taken a razor to it in days.
At last, her gaze clashed with his, and the dread in her belly solidified into a solid, frigid mass of outright terror. In the light of the fire, they appeared golden in color, with a rim of dark brown along the outer edges. The longer Daphne stared into them, she began to detect flecks of green near the irises—creating a convoluted jumble of colors that likely transformed depending on the lighting of a room or position of the sun. That long, wild hair framed his face, though it did nothing to soften the features. She imagined the effect would be twice as intimidating with it pulled back.
He began to move toward her, and the urge to backpedal as fast as her legs would carry her caused the hairs on the nape of her neck to stand on end. Yet, she held her ground, remaining rooted to the spot as he advanced on her with an almost feline sort of grace, the muscles that once appeared hard now liquid with fluidity, rippling and rolling beneath his clothes.
He paused when they stood but a few inches apart, and his scent reached out to her, striking her as decidedly masculine. Cedar, the smoke of a cigar, brandy, and … and something else. Some primitive scent she could only describe as ‘male.’ His eyes gave not a hint of what he thought as he searched out her features beneath her hat. It hid her hair, the long, auburn braid tucked into the collar of her jacket while only a few wispy strands fell around her face.
“You are not Bertram Fairchild,” he said, his voice hard and clipped.
The low, rumbling tones reminded her of a cat’s purr—a very large cat. A lion. She had never heard or seen one, but she imagined his rough-sounding voice and its underlying purr would be exactly what the big cat would sound like. His cultured tones held a slight Scottish burr—though not as strong as that of his butler and gatekeeper.
Removing her hat, she lifted her chin and revealed herself. “No, my lord, I am not. But your staff would not have allowed me entrance had I not used his name.”
“Lady Daphne, I presume,” he stated.
Not a question, but a mere statement of fact.
Of course he knew who she was. Considering the way he’d gone about tearing apart everything even remotely connected to the Fairchild name, it stood to reason that he would know quite a bit about their family.
“You know who I am,” she said with a resolute nod. “Good. Then we may dispense with pleasantries.”
He quirked one eyebrow up at her, his expression clearly stating he hadn’t been inclined to offer any. “You braved the journey from London and the wilds of Scotland alone to come here. Why?”
Folding her arms across her chest, she narrowed her eyes at him. “You, Lord Hartmoor, are a despicable lecher … a villain of the worst order.”
He grinned, the blinding flash of white teeth startling her momentarily. God in Heaven, even when the man smiled, he looked like some wild beast ready to devour its prey. The smile was mocking and lacked humor, causing annoyance to ripple along her spine.
“You came all the way here just to tell me that?”
She clenched her jaw so tight, her teeth began to ache. “I have come to demand an explanation for your vendetta against my family. You have relentlessly pursued our downfall, and I wish to know why. Do not do me the disservice of thinking me daft—I know it was you manipulating events so they would ruin my father, my brother, and my uncle. We are now destitute, my father’s title and lands meaningless without the clout to back them, my brother’s engagement ruined with but a word from your lips, my uncle …”
Her throat constricted as she thought of Uncle William.
“A sad state of affairs when a man is driven to put his own pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger,” Lord Hartmoor replied drolly.
Daphne gasped at the callous way the words fell from his mouth, lashing against her like the crack of a whip. “Have you no couth? No sense of decency? You drove a man to murder himself without cause!”
That eyebrow of his twitched, lifting upward as he pursed his lips at her. “Who says I did not have cause?”
Determined not to be swayed by his avoidance, she braced her hands upon her hips and took another step toward him, feigning a boldness she did not feel. “We have nothing, and my father and brother have become shells of the men they once were. I demand to know why. What on Earth have the Fairchilds ever done to you to deserve such cruelty?”
Folding his arms across his chest, he inclined his head. “What, indeed?”
Vexation finally overcame the fear he’d inspired in her, and she reached out to jab him in the chest with her index finger. “Now, see here! I did not brave ruin and illness in this horrific weather to come here and be mocked. I am owed an explanation, and I will have it, my lord … the sooner, the better so I might take my leave.”
Turning his back on her, he rounded the desk toward the large seat behind it. He seemed content to take his time sitting—pulling the chair out and lowering himself into it. Then, tipping it back on two legs, he lifted first one foot, then the other, carefully balancing them on the desk. He seemed completely at ease in the precarious position, only frustrating her further. The urge to rush the desk and push him over seized her hard and fast. However, she was angry, not suicidal.
“I warn you now, my lady … your queries will not bring you peace,” he said, avoiding her gaze and staring off somewhere across the study. “Young ladies like you are sheltered for a reason—going straight from the schoolroom and out to secure a husband who will pamper and cosset you just as your father has. You, with your lily-white skin protected by bonnets and parasols, your hands as soft as the day you were born … like a little dove in a cage to be admired by the men who protect you.”
She opened her mouth to deny his claims, to insist he was wrong about her. However, his words struck her as being annoyingly true, and the words died on her tongue. Like any other young, unwed lady, she had been sheltered and protected, kept from seeing any of the world’s ugliness. However, the destruction of everything her family held dear had prompted her to seek the truth—to purposely unearth the things that had been hidden from her.
It had frustrated her to no end the way her father and brother had passively accepted the blows this man had dealt them … refusing to fight back, to do anything to stop him. Her mother had never been a strong woman, seeming content to follow her husband’s dictates always.
That left her, the only person who had possessed the courage to confront the person responsible for their ruin. She would not be put off.
Drawing herself up to her full height, she took a deep breath and tried again.
“I am no schoolroom chit,” she insisted. “I am four and twenty years of age, and know far more about the world than you might think. For instance, I know there are men like you who delight in hurting others, in taking what does not belong to you, pilfering things like some great dragon gathering treasure in his dark cave.”
He smirked at that, bringing the thumb of his left hand against his fingers. Rubbing the thumb against the pad of each digit, he eyed her boldly, assessing. The motion repeating over and over, he issued a silent challenge. She tore her gaze from his, only to find it falling to that hand, to the thumb caressing each finger in what felt like a calculated gesture.
“I would pilfer you, little dove. I’d drag your cage into my lair and hang you from the ceiling, admiring you whenever I wish. Is that why you’ve come?”
A bitter taste filled her mouth at his insinuation, her face heating at what his words implied. “How dare you—”
“No, my lady, how dare you,” he snapped, suddenly straightening and allowing his feet to fall to the floor, the boots echoing with a loud thud. “You come here—in the middle of the night, no less—and demand answers of me. Answers to questions which you are not ready for, may never be fully prepared to hear. I warn you again to turn around and walk back through that door. Leave this place, now, and take the last shred of your dignity with you. This is the last time I will make such an offer.”
The weight of his words hung heavy on the air between them, the threat in them clear. What would he do if she refused to leave? Would he hurt her physically? Tear her down with cruel words? Perhaps he spoke true—turning around and leaving now might be best. If she rode hard and fast, she could be back in London before any lasting damage had been done to her reputation. Her family would cover her disappearance as well as they were able until she returned. It was not too late to go back.
But no … she could not go back. Not now. Not when she’d already lost so much.
“I would have the answers to my questions, and damn your notions of what I can or cannot handle!” she cried, her voice quivering with the force of her frustration.
She’d asked her brother why such bad blood existed between them and Lord Hartmoor, but Bertram had simply shrugged and given her a baffled look.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea, Daff,” he had replied. “I’d never met the man in my life before he set about ruining me.”
Which could only mean Hartmoor had his own motives—something driving him that she must uncover if she had any hope of making things right.
Not that she possessed any idea how to go about doing so.
Slowly rising from his chair, he curled his hands into fists and braced them upon the surface of the desk. He leaned forward a bit, the powerful muscles in his shoulders bunching beneath his shirt. He stared up at her, and the firelight turned his eyes to liquid gold.
“Very well,” he said, his voice ominously low. “Have it your way. I shall reveal the reason behind my actions to you … over the span of thirty days, and thirty nights.”
Daphne frowned, bemused. “I do not understand.”
“No,” he murmured, coming upright and circling the desk to approach her again. “But I will explain. I am aware of your family’s … desperate situation.”
“Naturally,” she growled from between clenched teeth. “You caused it.”
He shrugged as if they were discussing the weather and continued. “I am prepared to write you a bank draft for thirty thousand pounds.”
Her eyes widened at the absurd sum. It was three times the amount of her dowry, which her father had used to pay his debts. And even then, it hadn’t been enough. The debts had continued to pile up, threatening their livelihood more and more by the day.
Thirty thousand pounds … it would be enough to set everything right, though it might never repair Bertram’s broken engagement. No matter. Her brother was a handsome man, sharing her auburn hair and blue eyes—Fairchild traits passed down through the generations. He was known among the members of the ton for his quick smile and easy charm. There would be other women, other chances for Bertram to make a good match.
But, the money … there would never be another opportunity like this one. A chance to earn enough to pull the Fairchilds back from the brink of poverty.
“And in return?” she prodded, certain this man—this monster—would not simply offer her the money for nothing.
“In return, you will remain here at Dunnottar for thirty days and nights, with me,” he murmured, reaching up to grasp the plait running down into the collar of her jacket. He yanked it free—not gently—and fisted it in his massive hand, studying it as if it fascinated him to no end.
She stiffened, offended at what he suggested. “I am a lady, not a whore.”
He glanced up to meet her gaze once more and smiled, a slow, lazy curving of lips and flash of teeth. Was it her imagination, or were his canines a bit longer than any she’d ever seen?
Dear God, she was going mad.
“You will be one when I’m done with you, Daphne,” he stated, running her braid through his fingers and releasing it once he’d reached its end. “Give yourself to me for thirty days, and not only will I reveal to you—in my own time—the answers you seek, but I will restore what I took from your family by giving you the funds to set things right.”
Her neck heated as he perused her body from head to toe with an undoubtedly lascivious glance. Despite the heavy, damp wool coat concealing her form, she remained aware of how indecent her attire was; breeches clinging to her hips and legs, and a man’s shirt with nothing underneath. It left her feeling disarmed, when she usually had her corset and petticoats to don beneath her gowns like a form of armor.
She opened her mouth to rebuke him, but one heavy, blunt finger fell against her lips, silencing her.
“Before you take me to task for being indecent, allow me to enlighten you,” he said, his eyes appearing darker when he stood so close—like polished brass. “I do not care for your maidenly sensibilities. I know you are a virgin like most unwed chits, and I do not care. I will take your maidenhead with relish, with no concern to what state you go to your future husband in. I will debase you and own you for every single one of the thirty days and nights I require. You will submit to my will and obey, or there will be consequences. If you are strong enough to endure, in the end, you shall have your reward—the truth you seek, plus the grand sum of thirty thousand pounds.”
A stinging retort died on her lips. His promises of debasement and the loss of her virtue should have frightened her. They should have sent her running through that door and back out into the stormy night. However, her mind chose to latch on to the only words he could have said to make her consider going through with it.
If you are strong enough to endure …
Her spine straightened, and her nostrils flared as a rebelliousness her mother had been trying to squelch her entire life rose to the surface. If Lady Fairchild were here, she might warn her against impulsiveness, a trait that had gotten her into trouble on more than one occasion. A cautious woman is a safe one, she had said before Daphne’s first Season, hoping to keep her from putting herself in a situation that might lead to public ruination.
Her father would scoff and insist that her mother might as well give her warning to a wall made of stone, as rising to a dare seemed to be part of Daphne’s very nature. Bertram would simply laugh and remind them how many times he himself had gotten a rise out of her by insisting she could not do something as well as him.
She could not stand for anyone to tell her she could not do something, and she’d had enough being coddled.
As much as she loathed this man, she could not deny the truth of his earlier words comparing her to a dove. White, pristine, unsullied. Protected, indulged, sheltered.
Look away, Daphne, her mother would say to keep her from witnessing anything that might upset her.
It is no concern of a gently bred lady, her father would say whenever she pried into matters of import.
Someday, your husband will teach you about what goes on in the marriage bed, every married lady she knew would tell her, as if revealing the coveted secrets of the bedchamber would cause her to swoon in a dead faint.
She was tired of being sheltered, of being told that matters concerning her well-being were ‘none of her affair.’ Of allowing her parents to rule her life, passively accepting their every decision. In the past five years, they’d sunk deeper and deeper into destitution, and neither of them had been able to set matters right.
But, she could.
And all it would cost was her maidenhead and a short time allowing him access to her body.
No, she realized as she met his challenging gaze. If this man had his way, it would cost her soul. He had destroyed her family and way of life … what guarantee did she have that he wouldn’t destroy her, too?
“Would I have your promise not to … to ill-treat me?” she stammered, lowering her eyes.
Embarrassment filled her as she was reminded just how out of her depth she swam. How was she to know what to do in such situations? Nevertheless, this was her body they were negotiating over—she could not afford to put it on the line without certain assurances.
He chuckled, the sound making her belly grow warm. That heat suffused out through her, leaving behind an odd sensation she did not understand.
“How naive you are, little dove,” he teased, reaching out to grasp her face with one large hand. His hold did not hurt, but neither would it allow her to move or pull away. His thumb caressed her lower lip, causing her mouth to fall open. “It will hurt, and not just the first time. There will be times when I will make it hurt. But, Daphne … you will like it. Not only can I promise you will like it—by the end, you’ll be begging me for it.”
She wanted to scoff and tell him it wasn’t bloody likely. She wanted to slap his arrogant face and tell him to sod off; she wasn’t some Haymarket strumpet, and her body was not for sale. Yet, the promise veiled as a threat did not frighten her the way he’d likely thought it would.
If you are strong enough to endure …
There was nothing she hated more than being baited … except, perhaps being taunted by the person doing the baiting.
Lifting her chin, she met his gaze, refusing to flinch away as he traced the inside of her lower lip with his thumb. “I want the bank draft written out in advance. I want to see you sign it, and I want to be assured that it will be placed in my hand in thirty days.”
He inclined his head, but gave no indication of whether her acquiescence surprised him. “Am I to believe you are accepting my offer?”
“First I see the bank draft,” she said. “Then, I shall accept.”
With a smile, he nodded, lowering his hand until it circled her throat. Her eyes went wide, fear creeping back in as the threat of his thumb pressing against her pulse made her want to flee. But she held still, sucking in deep breaths as he caressed the throbbing vein in her throat in a slow circle.
“I am so going to enjoy this,” he said before releasing her and moving back behind his desk.
Unlocking a drawer, he retrieved a stack of bank drafts, pulling one free and laying it flat upon the desk. He glanced up at her as he retrieved a pen and unplugged his inkwell. Then, lowering his head, he filled in the draft. Straightening, he lifted the paper and blew upon it to dry the ink before extending it to her. She could not reach it from where she stood, and he seemed content to wait for her to come to him.
She edged toward him slowly, watching for any sign of duplicity or ill-intent. Once she stood within arm’s reach, would he maul her—drag her into a dark corner of the study and deliver the pain he’d promised?
No, she decided. He was simply trying to frighten her. Yes, Lord Hartmoor had ruined her family; yet, he had never done them physical harm. This was why Daphne had come on this errand alone, knowing no court in England would find him guilty. He had simply manipulated circumstances until reaching his desired outcome. While he might have maneuvered her into this agreement, she saw this as the opportunity it was. She would protect herself from this man—giving him only her body while protecting her heart and soul.
He had destroyed the Fairchild men, but she had always believed women to be made of sterner stuff than their male counterparts. After all, what man could boast surviving the horrors of childbirth again and again? Or suffer the monthly ailments of a woman without languishing until death? Bertram became an infant when attacked by something as minor as a cold.
She could do this.
She would do this.
Approaching the desk, she glanced down at the bank draft. Sure enough, in his precise, neat scrawl, the promised thirty-thousand pounds was written in, along with his signature. She had never known his given name, but saw it now upon the draft.
Lord Adam Callahan.
“My family …” she began.
“I care not for your family,” he stated.
“They do not know where I have gone,” she insisted. “I should send word—”
“I will see to it they are informed of your well-being,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “You will remain the entire thirty days, or receive nothing. Nor will you learn the entire truth of my vendetta against the men of your family. Do we have an agreement?”
She stared down at the draft and the promise it offered. The possibility of financial security, and of eventually learning the truth. What was the nuisance of her maidenhead in comparison to that? No man would wed her if word spread that she’d dashed off to Scotland alone—not that her family’s troubles hadn’t already left a stain upon her, branding her as desperate and not quite the diamond of the first water she’d been in her initial Season.
Inclining her head, she met his stare without wavering. And with a handful of words, poised herself within the jaws of the beast.
“We have an agreement … Adam.”