CHAPTER TEN
aphne slept for what remained of the morning, waking hours after Maeve had tucked her into bed. The maid had flitted about the chamber as she’d soaked in the steaming tub, washing her hair and combing out the snarls, soothing her face with a warm, damp cloth, tending to her wounded neck again once she’d left the water.
“You must forgive the Master for his ill temper,” Maeve had insisted while slathering the gouge marks with more of the ointment. “It’s just … Livvie’s condition torments him, you see. He thinks it's all his fault.”
She’d surfaced from the muddled haze submerging her mind at that, turning to glance at the maid over her shoulder. “He does?”
And here she’d thought he cast all the blame upon Bertram.
“He does,” Maeve replied, closing the ointment jar and wiping her hands clean on her apron. “He and Niall … they take care of her in hopes she’ll find her way back to them someday.”
As the woman had begun pulling her hair into a single braid, Daphne had stared into the vanity mirror, studying the reflection of the maid. Her eyes had been downcast, her hands trembling as she worked Daphne’s damp hair.
“Who is she to him?” she’d prodded, hoping the maid would pity her enough to tell her something … anything. “He told me he loved her.”
“We all love her,” Maeve had whispered, her voice low and hoarse as if she fought back tears.
Then, glancing up to meet her reflection in the mirror, she had paused, her hands tangled in Daphne’s hair.
“Please, ask me no more,” she’d pleaded. “I’ve already said too much. The Master will not be pleased to know I’ve spoken of her to you at all.”
Nodding in understanding, Daphne had let the matter drop, not wanting to invite Adam’s wrath onto the innocent maid. Recognition niggled the back of her mind every time she thought of the mysterious Livvie, and she felt certain if she thought on it long enough, she might remember where she’d seen her before. Things had happened so suddenly last night, she’d hardly gotten a good look at the woman’s face.
She stared silently at her reflection while Maeve finished her hair, the picture that confronted her one she hardly recognized. Her skin had gone pale, causing her eyes to look larger and darker and the red lines from where she’d been scratched to appear meaner. Turning her head slightly, she cringed at the evidence of Adam’s sensual assault, purple bruises beginning to form along her throat where he’d suckled and bitten. Maeve had changed her into a new nightgown—this one an apricot silk with a low-cut bodice that displayed more of the marks along her collarbone and the swell of one breast.
Her cunt contracted, the liquid heat of desire combining with soreness to make her head spin and her stomach lurch. How could seeing the evidence of what had just transpired in the music room affect her this way? She should be sobbing with regret over her lost maidenhead, over the painful invasion that had stolen her innocence, the callous words he’d spewed at her once he’d finished with her. Instead, she found herself clenching her thighs together to stifle the feeling, to smother the longing opening in the pit of her womb.
She’d lain in bed for countless minutes trying to forget, closing her eyes and searching for the sleep that had eluded her the night before. Exhaustion had finally dragged her under, and she’d slept deeply for hours—though her rest had hardly been peaceful. Adam haunted her dreams; the feral glint of his eyes, the flash of white teeth, the sting of his bite, and the searing burn of his cock entering her for the first time.
She came awake gasping and panting, her nightgown clinging to her body, her limbs trembling uncontrollably.
Easing herself from the bed, she opted to freshen up on her own, not wanting to ring for Maeve and have the maid see her in such a state. Approaching the washstand, she peeled the damp nightgown from her body and quickly dipped a scrap of linen into the bowl of fresh rosewater that had been left there. It had long gone cold, but it brought her relief as she bathed the sweat from her skin. She winced when the cloth touched her mons, the tender flesh still swollen and aching. There was no more blood, however, so she supposed she ought to be grateful for that. Despite having bathed the bloodstains from her thighs, she scrubbed them again, certain she might never feel completely clean, as if those stains had sunk in deep, becoming a part of her, a permanent scar that would brand itself indelibly upon her soul.
Crossing to the armoire where her clothing had been hung, she caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. Her throat looked worse now—the purple stains already beginning to take on a yellowish hue. Tearing her gaze away, she swiftly selected a simple white muslin morning gown, a pair of stockings, and garters. As she slid her feet into a pair of slippers, her stomach growled, hunger beginning to gnaw upon her insides.
She left the room and headed straight for the dining room, knowing an afternoon meal would be available on the sideboard this time of day. Relieved to find the corridors empty save for a few chambermaids dusting the wall sconces, she ducked into the large, airy room, happy to find an array of cold foods that appeared to have been recently laid out. Filling a plate and taking a seat, she thanked the footman who appeared at her elbow with a glass of lemonade.
As she ate, staring out at the picturesque view framed by the dining room’s parted drapes, she could almost pretend to be somewhere else. A beautiful, tranquil place far removed from London, her family, and the other things she would rather outrun than confront.
For instance, the truth that Adam had unearthed concerning the reason for her state of spinsterhood, of the countless marriage offers she had refused. She had wanted love, she’d told herself, and would not settle for anything less.
Yet, she’d loved the boy from the estate neighboring her family’s, had dreamed of becoming his wife more times than she could count. She’d almost surrendered her virtue to him and had come close to letting him compromise her the last time they’d seen each other. At the time, she’d told herself fear had driven her to refuse him, to pull her skirts down over her legs and run from him, whispering a tortured ‘I’m so sorry’ before retreating. She’d been young, afraid, inexperienced. At least, this was what she had told herself.
Could the truth be something far more unpalatable? That she had been waiting for someone who did not handle her like a delicate porcelain doll? Someone who challenged her, frightened her, excited her?
Shaking her head, she clenched her jaw, setting her fork onto her half-empty plate with a loud ‘clang’. No … he was wrong about her, had been from the moment they’d met. She was not some fragile thing he could easily break, nor was she the whore he had accused her of being, just because he’d managed to coax her body to climax with his rough handling. She was a woman who had fallen down on her luck for the time being and had found a way to set it all right. When her time had ended here, she would return home thirty thousand pounds richer … and perhaps wiser for having learned the truth about her family.
That decided, she took up her napkin and folded it, laying it beside her plate before quitting the room. She had grown far too restless to return to her chamber or to practice the harp. Nor did she believe she would find Adam in the gallery so they could spar together. So, she set off on a walk, hoping to explore parts of the castle she had not yet seen.
Adam had never told her she could not explore it on her own—only that she was forbidden to tread into the corridor adjacent to the one her room sat in. Of course, she realized it was because that wing of the palace was where Livvie had been ensconced. Now that she had made her presence known to Daphne, would Adam still want her to stay away?
Deciding to err on the side of caution, she went in the opposite direction. Passing Adam’s study, the library, music room, and other sitting rooms she had already seen, she moved deeper into the third arm of the quadrangle. In it, she found more sitting rooms, and several sets of double doors which led into a massive ballroom. She entered the space, finding it dusty and shuttered, meager light streaming through stained glass windows. The colorful beams illuminated white pillars and large, iron chandeliers which would give the room a gothic yet ethereal feel once lowered and lit. Smooth, veined tiles lined the floors, and a raised dais for an orchestra was flanked by more of the statuesque pillars.
Had soirées ever been hosted at Dunnottar? She would imagine that if this manor had a lady, she would throw open these doors and host extravagant balls. She would be able to see the potential in the cavernous space, perhaps even hosting gothic masquerades or Grecian-themed balls. A sudden image of herself seated in the center of the dais, draped in white silk and strumming the harp before a captive audience, sprung forth in her mind. Uncertain where such a thought had come from, she turned away from the ballroom, swiftly closing the doors she had thrown open to access the room. It had been a preposterous thought, one with no basis in reality. This place was her prison and would continue to be for another twenty days. No matter how beautiful, it would always be the lair of a monster.
Continuing to the end of the corridor, she found stairs winding up a tower that would give her access to the second level. She climbed them and entered another corridor, this one seemingly lined with more bedrooms. She opened the doors to discover her assumption had been right. The rooms were as beautifully decorated as her own, filled with heavy, old furniture that had been remarkably preserved, as well as modern finishes that blended in seamlessly.
The fifth room on the right struck her as being different from the others. Instead of heavy drapes, sheer white curtains covered the windows, allowing in far more light than the other chambers. A large canopy bed flaunted more of the same curtains, though these had been embroidered with delicate pink rosettes. A matching bedspread of pink damask was etched with white flowers while a bench resting at the foot of the bed had been upholstered in a matching fabric. An oak writing desk faced one of the windows, covered in scraps of paper that appeared to have been written on. As she drew closer, she realized they were actually charcoal drawings—of flowers, birds, people. They were quite good, better than anything she’d ever attempted.
“Livvie,” she whispered, reaching out to touch a drawing of a hummingbird drinking from the pistil of a flower.
Some instinct told Daphne this room belonged to her, that she had once filled this chamber with warmth, laughter, and creativity. An artist … and likely the person who had so loved the garden Adam had taken her to.
Glancing up from the drawing, she spotted a large shape in the corner, covered with a white sheet. She looked over her shoulder to ensure no one might be coming who would see her, then approached it. Dropping to her knees on the thick rug, she reached out to move the sheet aside—revealing the large object to be a cluster of paintings that had been stacked together against the wall.
The first one took her breath away—an incredible likeness of Adam. The gilded frame contained a portrait depicting him in sporty riding attire, a crop held over one shoulder. Though he did not smile, humor curved his lips and alit his eyes—which the painter had captured as being mostly green. If she did not know better, she might have thought it must be someone else—someone younger, and happier. Yet, the artist had gotten his hair right, and the slope of his brow and the ridge of his nose, the soft pillow of his mouth. Even the stubble that grew along his jaw had been perfectly translated to the canvas, adding a dangerous allure to the powerful body encased in an athlete’s riding wear.
She stared at the portrait for a long while, wondering what the younger, happier Adam had been like. A charmer, who the women of Scotland and London tripped over themselves trying to impress? A humorous fellow who could have rooms full of men in stitches with nothing but a well-timed joke? It was difficult to imagine; yet, the portrait proved a truth she could not deny. Adam had been irrevocably changed by the circumstances entangling her family with his.
Moving the heavy painting aside, she studied the next one—the image of a man who must surely be Adam’s father. The resemblance was really quite striking. The two men possessed the same dark hair and peculiar eyes. He wore an expression similar to the one she typically found upon Adam’s face—hard and implacable. An undeniable severity solidified his jaw and pinched his mouth into a tight line. Clearly a man of constant ill humor.
She pushed that one aside to reveal a woman, with golden hair and cheer dancing in her blue eyes. A beautiful young lady she did not recognize. Based upon the style of the portrait, it must be decades old—perhaps a likeness of Adam’s mother in her youth. Adam possessed none of her features, having inherited the whole of his aspect from his sire.
Daphne moved the painting aside, unveiling one that sent her heart spiraling up into her throat. The woman staring back at her possessed a flawless alabaster complexion, complemented by glossy black hair and innocent, brown doe eyes. She recognized the pert nose, lightly freckled cheeks, and rosebud mouth. Dressed in finery and portraying the flawless image of a young debutante, she called to mind a girl Daphne had met several Seasons ago.
“Lady Olivia Goodall,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the painting.
“Aye,” said Adam’s voice from the behind her, frightening her half out of her wits.
She gasped, leaping to her feet and spinning to find him lingering in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. His expression indicated neither anger nor disapproval; yet, she shivered beneath his stare all the same. Her skin prickled as if recalling what it felt like to be touched by him, her pulse racing as she fought the urge to run.
“She is a member of your family?” she asked, her mind spinning as she tried to recall what little she knew of the lady.
Daphne had been introduced to her at Almack’s—which she had attended on the arm of a man. A cousin, perhaps. The man had been forgettable … certainly not Adam.
“My sister,” he confirmed, nodding toward the painting. “Well … stepsister, to be precise.”
That would explain why the two shared no resemblance. It began to make sense—why Adam had taken Olivia’s ruination so personally, what Maeve had meant when she’d claimed all the residents of Dunnottar loved her.
“I remember her,” she whispered, the things she had forgotten now coming back to her in a rush. “We were introduced at Almack’s … she was a lovely young lady. All the men wanted to dance with her. Her dance card had been filled within an hour of arriving.”
“I know,” he replied, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “She wrote me countless letters detailing the events of her first Season. After having spent all her life here in Scotland, she found London to be quite exciting.”
Why had Adam remained behind while his young sister went off to enjoy the Season? One would think he’d chaperone her instead of a cousin. Where had their father been?
“I was away on the Continent,” he continued, as if having read her mind. “For my Grand Tour. My father thought it a frivolous waste of time. He thought anything not directly related to the earldom a waste of time. You see, he insisted the Callahan named carried with it bad luck. Countesses who die young, Earls who languish in their absence … a family line dwindled to almost nothing. After my mother’s death, he married Lady Edith, a young widow with a daughter just out of nappies. His second wife did not last half as long as my mother did, and before long, he found himself a widower saddled with two children.”
“I am so sorry,” she whispered, uncertain what else to say.
Adam snorted. “So was I … for Olivia’s sake, at least. I often think he was cold as a way to guard his heart from any more pain or loss. No matter what Livvie or I did, it was never enough to make him smile … never enough to make him love us.”
“Which was why your cousin chaperoned her for her first Season,” she supplied.
“Her cousin … he was a relative of Edith,” he amended. “But yes, that is why. He could hardly be bothered with her, so he sent her off to London in the company of her cousin and his wife, who would sponsor her coming out and see to it she made a good match.”
“Then, she met Bertram.”
“Aye, little dove,” he replied, inclining his head at her. “Then, she met Bertram.”
She lowered her gaze to the rug, her shoulders sagging as she recalled an evening soirée, watching Bertram bow over the girl’s hand and brush a kiss across the knuckles. Bertram dancing with her twice in one night. Bertram leading her toward the terrace for air, not returning with Lady Olivia for near an hour. Bertram leaning a bit too close as he whispered in her ear.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Daphne held on tight, feeling as if she might fall apart. The evidence had been in front of her the entire time, and she’d never realized it, never understood what Bertram had been up to. Or, perhaps a part of her had realized? Could she be as fragile as Adam had claimed, looking away so she did not have to acknowledge the truth?
“I saw them together,” she admitted. “Bertram and Olivia. But, I never knew …”
“No one did,” Adam said when she trailed off.
She glanced up at him, wondering if that could be pity she detected in his tone. Pity for her. As if he felt sorry for her, knowing she had been misled for so long, going about ignorant to the truth.
“Your brother is very good at what he does,” he added with a sneer, all the compassion melting from his tone. “How do you think he’s gone this long without being outed?”
Thinking over the things he had revealed to her just now, she understood where he was leading her. “My father. There is no way Bertram could have ruined so many without an angry papa or two turning up on our doorstep. I can only assume my father did what was necessary to bury the secrets and avoid scandal.”
Adam grunted in response, his expression hardening. Her eyes widened in realization, her stomach lurching as the various threads he had fed her began to intertwine, creating a tapestry of deceit and pain that clearly displayed her brother’s guilt.
“He turned her away,” she whispered, bringing a hand up to her roiling stomach. “When she came to him to tell him what Bertram had done … my father turned her away.”
His jaw ticked with fury barely held in check, his voice coming out strained and clipped when he answered her. “Does that shock you?”
Thinking of her father—of the staunch viscount with the white hair and haughty demeanor—she shook her head. It would have felt like betrayal ten days ago … when she’d thought him above reproach. Perhaps a bit snobby, but not a malicious person. Now, she was beginning to realize nothing was what she’d thought.
“No, actually,” she replied. “He was not a cruel man, not to me, but he was a bit … cold. Much like your father, I suppose. He never took much of an interest in me, though he was quite invested in Bertram’s future. He would become the viscount someday, and the Fairchild bloodline is an old one.”
“One of the bluest in all of England,” he agreed. “Which was why Fairchild did not wish to sully it by marrying his precious heir off to a Scottish chit whose mother had come from new money.”
Reaching up to press her fingers against her throbbing temples, she shook her head. “If I had known—”
She quickly clamped her lips together, recalling his words that morning as he’d dumped her into her bed. He did not want her apologies or platitudes. Yet, she could not help but think of what she might have done if she’d known about Olivia. Take Bertram to task, and demand he do the right thing. Yet, what would it have accomplished? Lady Olivia had simply been one in a string of conquests, all of whom Bertram had cast aside.
“When did you find out?” she asked, remembering he’d been on the Continent, and Maeve’s claim that he blamed himself.
Perhaps much of his anger lay with himself for being in another country while his little sister was being preyed upon by her brother.
“Not until it was too late,” he declared, before turning to leave the room.
Despite the sense of self-preservation telling her not to follow, her feet moved of their own accord, and she chased him out into the corridor, watching as his long legs carried him toward the stairs.
“Adam,” she called out, halting him in his tracks.
Why did she call out to him? What did she want?
To console him? To seek comfort from the man who had been tormenting her from the moment she’d first laid eyes upon him?
He paused at the top of the stairs, his shoulders tensing as his hands clenched into fists. However, he did not turn back to gaze at her when he responded.
“Where was your father during all of this?”
Adam scowled. “Dying. Some disease of the heart, the physicians said. The Callahan misfortune claimed him, as he always knew it would.”
Silence passed between them for another long moment, during which Daphne fiddled with the lace edging her gown.
“Have a care, little dove,” he warned suddenly. “I might have been drunk last night, but that does not mean I was not well aware of what I was doing or who I was doing it to. I hardly think you would relish being thrown on your hands and knees on this staircase and ravaged. Or … perhaps you would. Provoke me, and perhaps I will forget your body needs a reprieve and put that to the test.”
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she backed away from him, clasping her skirts in shaking hands. Fear lanced through her at the image he conjured, and she could practically feel the cold, hard steps digging into her knees and the palms of her hands as he took her from behind as mindlessly and brutally as he had when taking her maidenhead.
Yet, her core clenched in longing, the tips of her breasts pebbling and insides melting into molten fire. God help her, he had awakened something she was not certain she could ever put back to sleep. Some filthy thing in the depths of her soul that craved depravity … sex … oblivion.
She wanted to test him, to take a step toward him and see what it earned her, see what challenging him would result in. Instead, she retreated a few paces, which seemed to free him from the thrall. He disappeared swiftly down the staircase, leaving her in the hollow corridor alone.
Another sleepless night drove Daphne back to the music room, where she hovered in the doorway, staring listlessly at the pianoforte. Her heart sank when she entered to find it empty, though she did not know why she cared. It should be a relief to return to this place she’d begun to think of as a haven and find solitude. She most certainly did not care that Adam did not occupy the space, or that the evocative composition he’d played in the early hours before dawn no longer reverberated from these walls.
She approached the harp, reaching out to caress its strings, stroke her fingers over the golden angels. As she sank onto the low stool, her gaze flitted to the spot on the floor where Adam had ravaged her. Despite the rug remaining pristine, she imagined it carried a mark from their encounter, a stain that could never be washed clean. It confronted her accusingly, reminding her of the dark things that had happened here, of the twisted desires he had pulled from deep inside her, forcing her to confront and accept them.
Closing her eyes, she embraced the harp, seeking succor in the music. Louis Sphor’s Fantasia in C Minor flew from her fingers without a second thought, despite it having been years since she’d laid eyes upon the sheet music. She didn’t need it to remember each note, to let them carry her away. She kept her eyes closed and ignored the invisible stain upon the rug and the ache it caused in her chest. Her mind became lighter than air, and she floated away with the music.
She moved into another composition, one she had long forgotten the name of. It had been one of her first, though, and she played it as effortlessly as she had Fantasia. It was not until she neared the end that she realized she was not alone, that her music was no longer the only sound filling the confined space.
Opening her eyes, she found Adam seated at the pianoforte, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal his strong forearms. The muscles stretched with fluid grace as his hands moved over the keys, playing in accompaniment to her composition. The two sounds melded and became one—strings and keys intertwining into harmonious notes flitting about on the air around them.
He sat with his profile presented to her, his gaze cast someplace she could not see. So, she openly watched him, traced the angle of his sharp, stubble-roughened jaw, roamed the undulating strands of his hair, soaked in the bunch and roll of his shoulders beneath the pristine white shirt.
Like last night, his expression had melted into one of stillness and peace as he played, the cares of the day washing away until he existed as one with the music … and, in a way, with her. They played together naturally, Adam guiding her wordlessly into another composition, then another. After what felt like hours, they finally finished, reaching the end of their fifth composition without him flowing into another.
Daphne rested her instrument on the carpet, releasing a deep sigh as her body began registering the strain of playing for so long. Her fingers had grown tired, her shoulders and back aching from sitting so perfectly erect.
Adam had hunched on the bench, hands in his lap as he stared down at his keys. From where she sat, he appeared despondent … grieved. She wondered if he had just come from Livvie, if the young woman had suffered another episode. Pity she did not wish to feel settled in her gut, causing her heart to twist violently in her chest. Without the anger he wore like a mantle, he appeared a pitiful creature … a lion licking at the thorn in his paw. If she thought he would not maul her to death for drawing too close, she might have wished to help him remove it, to soothe the ache that obviously plagued him.
Folding her hands in her lap, she cleared her throat. “Where did you learn to play?”
He did not spare her a glance, reaching up to press his first finger to one of the keys. The long note rang out, quickly fading away without another on its heels to lend it strength.
“My mother,” he replied, his voice low as if he were as loath to disturb the peace they had found together as she was. “Not a pastime typically taught to sons, but I was all she had. This was her instrument … an extravagant wedding gift from my father. I spent hours in here sitting on this bench beside her, watching her play, matching the notes to the keys she struck. One day, I snuck in here alone and played an entire composition on my own. I was only five years of age.”
She gasped, awed by the revelation that Adam was a bit of a musical savant. She’d heard of such people, but had never met one in person.
“You do not read sheet music,” she observed aloud.
He shook his head. “I never needed to. There was something in me that seemed to understand the music without it. My father did not like it, but Mother saw what I had and nurtured it. While I am also adequate with the violin, harp, and cello, I never excelled at any instrument like I did the pianoforte.”
She smiled at the thought of a young Adam sharing the piano bench with his mother, his little legs swinging inches off the floor, his hair tousled by affectionate hands.
“What of Olivia? Did you teach her the pianoforte?”
At last, he turned to gaze at her, the troubled expression on his face deepening and causing her chest to tighten painfully.
“No,” he replied. “Olivia loved the harp and played it better than anyone I’d ever heard … until you. It is why I took to calling her butterfly, for the way her hands would flit over those strings, so light and swift.”
Staring at the golden instrument resting in front of her, she sighed, sadness slumping her shoulders. The beautiful harp had belonged to Livvie, no doubt—yet another thing Bertram had stolen from her, ensuring she could never enjoy it again.
“I purchased that harp for her on her birthday,” he added. “When she reached seven and ten … just before setting off on my Grand Tour. She loved the bloody thing. When I returned from the Continent to assume my place as the earl, I purchased Dunnottar and created this music room. I thought playing again might heal her … make her feel more like herself.”
He did not have to say the words that hung on the air between them—did not have to tell her he could hardly get her to look at the harp now, let alone touch her fingers to the strings.
She parted her lips, but then snapped them shut. She had been on the verge of apologizing, of uttering the words she knew would only infuriate him. Because her apologies meant nothing … because expressing her regret would not give him his sister back or assuage her guilt.
“Come here.”
His words turned her blood to ice water in her veins, a shiver of dread rolling down her spine. He did not look at her, did not seem impatient for her to obey his command. Perhaps because he knew she would obey, if for no other reason than to make it easy on herself.
Clenching and opening her hands, she slowly rose from the stool and forced her limbs into motion. She became aware of her cunt, still aching from their first joining, and her breasts, her nipples which had turned into hard points at just the sound of his voice and what his command suggested. Would he use her again, tear her clothes from her body and throw her to the floor?
He reached for her when she came near, his hold on her wrist so alarmingly gentle that she hardly knew what to make of it. Shifting back on the bench, he slammed the pianoforte shut, covering the keys before hauling her toward him. He pulled her down onto his knee, wedging her between it and the instrument.
Before she could blink, he had the bodice of her nightgown torn down, freeing her breasts. He released a heavy sigh before latching onto one like a starving man, suckling at her as if he’d never tasted anything sweeter than her nipple. She cried out, the pleasure of his lips and lashing tongue spiraling straight between her legs. Squirming in his lap, she ground her cunt against his hard thigh, seeking pressure and friction, relief from the desperation he’d created in her with nothing more than the touch of his mouth to her breast.
He released one and moved on to the other, cupping both orbs in his large hands and kneading them, squeezing and caressing as he tasted his fill of her.
Gazing up at her, he teased each nipple with little flicks of his thumbs, smirking when he drew a sharp gasp from her, then a yearning moan. He dragged his tongue slowly over one while pinching the other, and she gritted her teeth, hissing at the muddle the dual sensations made of her senses.
“Such a bonny little thing,” he remarked, still steadily stroking her nipples with the pads of his thumbs. “Especially with my fingerprints all over your skin. Those other men who coveted you … they valued you in your state of pristine goodness … your white muslin and frills, your smooth hair, and your perfect posture. But not me, little dove. I much prefer you like this … your hair mussed, your neck bruised from my lips, your back arched to its breaking point as I wrap my hands in your hair and pull.”
She gasped when he scraped a fingernail over the tight bud of one breast, easing the sharp sting by drawing it into his mouth.
“No one else has seen you like this, have they?” he demanded, staring back up at her with fire in his eyes, turning the inner prisms into molten gold. “Have they, Daphne?”
She shook her head, and he reached around to grab one of her buttocks, giving it a tight squeeze and then a slap. It stung through the layers of her robe and nightgown, its warmth radiating at her core and further inflaming her.
“Answer me,” he growled, nuzzling her breasts and treating them to little nibbles and soft, teasing bites. “Who has seen you like this?”
“N-no one,” she gasped. “Only you.”
“That’s right,” he crooned before taking one of her breasts deep into the cavern of his mouth, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh.
She groaned and thrashed in his lap, her channel pulsating with need, liquid heat gathering there and slicking the path into her body.
It did not matter if he hurt her when he entered her … she would invite the pain just as she would the bliss that would follow, leading her to the rapture waiting for her on the other side.
“Say my name,” he commanded, grasping her waist to lift her onto the pianoforte. “Tell me, who is the only man to see you like this, little dove?”
“Adam,” she moaned when he swiftly parted her legs and hauled her down onto the enclosure over the keys, poising her at the perfect angle to enter her.
She grasped the edge of the instrument for purchase, her mouth practically watering as he began opening his fall, revealing the hard root of his cock. She whimpered when he stroked himself, pointing the thick tip toward her opening. Her inner thighs were smeared with the evidence of her need, but even as he slid his head into her cunt, she knew her wetness would not be enough. She was still so swollen, too tender from his first assault to accept him.
Yet, accept him she did, when he hooked his arms beneath her knees and yanked her to him while simultaneously thrusting his hips. She threw her head back and screamed at the invasion—equal parts ecstasy and agony. Her swollen channel gave way to let him in, sheathing him to the hilt, wrapping him in throbbing flesh.
“Again,” he rasped, tightening his hold on her as he pulled back and prepared to drive into her once more. “Let me hear it again.”
“Adam!”
He grunted as he impaled her over and over, sending waves of pleasure surging through her, resounding to the far reaches of her body. She chanted his name as he fucked her, mindless from the ecstasy, her body creating music at his hands as he played her as masterfully as he did the thing she lay upon.
“Adam … Adam … Adam!”
He took her slower than he had the night before, but his presence inside her had no less impact, driving her to climax so swiftly, she could hardly catch her breath before she went spiraling. She collapsed back onto the pianoforte, the edge biting into her back as he used its hardness for leverage and quickened his strokes, seeming to reach for his own end.
Pulling out of her with a rough groan, he spent, his liquid essence spilling over her belly and thighs, marking her, staining her. Her cheeks flushed while deep inside, a part of her practically purred with contentment. The part of her that craved Adam’s depravity stretched and sighed happily, thrilled at being taken and sullied.
Closing her eyes, she fought to catch her breath, but also to avoid Adam’s gaze. Her limited experience with him had prepared her for what would come next. If he did not spew his venom, punishing her with words, then he would leave her there, stunned and thrown off-balance, her body still throbbing from his invasion.
She was unprepared for the touch of linen against her skin. Opening her eyes, she found him cleaning her with his own handkerchief, the snowy white material soft against her thighs. The flush in her cheeks deepened, her face flaming hot as he took his time, painstakingly removing his seed from her stomach, then folding the cloth and using it between her legs. His face gave nothing away, his eyes shuttered and his lips a firm line as he completed his task and replaced the handkerchief in his coat pocket.
Then, he swiftly buttoned his fall before grasping her waist and putting her on her feet. Her nightgown and robe fell to cover her; yet, when he gazed into her eyes, she felt utterly exposed. He studied her in silence for a long moment before moving again, taking hold of her hand and pulling her along, leading her to the door.
She stumbled, her legs having not quite regained their strength. Grasping the hem of her robe, she followed him, uncertainty making her heart pound and her mouth go dry.
Where was he taking her … and what would he do with her once they got there?
They reached her chamber a moment later, and he threw open the door and pulled her inside. She found it empty, but prepared for her—a fire still blazing in the hearth, the bedclothes neatly turned down, a clean nightgown laid out beside the washstand where a fresh basin of rosewater sat waiting for her.
As if Maeve had known she would need to clean herself up when she returned. She wondered if the maid had waited up, somehow discerning Adam would use her again tonight. Or, perhaps Adam himself had ordered all this done.
He gave her a little push toward the washstand, which she took as a silent command to make use of it. Her hands shook as she walked to it, peering back at him over her shoulder. He had begun disrobing, his coat slung carelessly over the bench settled at the foot of her bed, his cravat thrown on top of it. She swiftly turned her back before he could remove his shirt, her throat constricting so tightly, she could hardly breathe.
Did he mean to have her again … in her bed this time?
She trembled with equal parts fear and anticipation as she removed her robe, then the nightgown—which had not survived the encounter in the music room unscathed. Droplets of Adam’s seed had begun to dry on the fabric. Letting it slide off her shoulders, she took up the soap and scrap of linen waiting beside the washstand. She found the rosewater still warm, its scent mingling pleasantly with the floral-scented soap.
Making quick work of cleaning herself more thoroughly, she dried and then donned the clean nightgown. Like the other items Adam had ordered for her, this gown seemed more like something a courtesan would wear than a demure young lady, the black silk clinging to her breasts and waist, a high slit allowing easy access.
But, as she approached the bed, she supposed the title of ‘courtesan’ did not lay far from where she found herself.
Paid to be a man’s plaything.
He stood on the other side of the bed in nothing but his breeches, his unbound hair falling down his back. His naked upper body was shown to its advantage, the moonlight illuminating the hard bulges and sinewy ridges. She idly wondered how he would feel if she pressed her hands against his chest. Would that part of him be hot to the touch, much like the velvety skin blanketing his cock? Would the coarse hairs tickle her fingers … would it be soft to the touch like the hair on his head?
“Get in,” he snapped, his voice breaking her out of her reverie.
Despite the strain in his voice, he did not appear to be vexed with her … merely a bit impatient. She scrambled into the bed, swiftly covering herself with the blankets. He followed suit, climbing in beside her and turning onto his side. One long arm came around her, dragging her across the space between them until she rested against him. A gasp burned in her throat, a visceral reaction to the hot, male body pressed against her. He gave off a heat that seemed to sink through her skin and settle as deep as her bones.
“Relax,” he growled against her ear. “I am not going to take you again … not right now. That isn’t to say I might not want to later. I’d rather keep you within reach if I wake up and decide I want you than have to cross the palace to wake you in the middle of the night.”
Nodding her understanding, she swallowed past the anxiety lodged in her throat. His words hardly eased her mind. In truth, she would rather have endured him again right away as opposed to being awakened when she least expected. While she was clearheaded, she could brace herself for whatever he might do to her. In a state of half-sleep, she would be defenseless.
She lay silently for a while, staring at the ceiling overhead. Her body slowly relaxed against his, fatigue beginning to drag her under. The change in his breathing told her he had fallen asleep, which served to ease her anxiety a bit more. She turned to look at him, finding him no less intimidating in sleep than when he was awake. Even with his eyes closed, his lips parted, his breathing deep and slow, he reminded her of a wild cat—the strength in his muscles and the threat of the large hand splayed over her lower belly putting her on edge.
Despite that, she eventually drifted off to sleep beneath the heavy—yet somehow pleasant—weight of his arm, his warm breath softly fanning the side of her neck.