CHAPTER ELEVEN
hen Daphne woke the next day, she found the bed beside her empty. The sun streaming through the windows stung her eyes, its brightness telling her it must be at least an hour past noon. Her sleep had been restful, though Adam had awakened her twice during what remained of the night. The first time, she had come to with his cock slipping into her, the hem of her nightgown snatched up to her waist. He had entered her while she laid upon her side, his large body curled around hers, one hand possessively holding her hip. She had splintered within seconds, muffling her screams in the pillow as he’d pounded her from behind, his pelvis colliding with her buttocks in a rhythm matching her beating heart. He’d pulled away from her and spent with a low groan, turning away from her to spill his seed upon the sheets.
The second time, she’d been roused by his tongue between her thighs and the orange glow of dawn appearing outside her window. She had opened her eyes to find him lying between her spread legs, hair spilling over his shoulders, eyes closed. He’d lapped at her with a slow thoroughness completely at odds with his earlier claiming. He’d taken his time exploring her with languid tongue strokes and soft pulls of his lips, thrusting his hands beneath her nightgown to find her breasts so he could toy with them. He’d made her spend more times than she could count, his gentleness eventually giving way to urgency until he’d devoured her as if starving, his breath racing against her wet, tender flesh.
Then, without preamble, he’d sat back on his haunches and flipped her onto her belly. She’d hardly found her breath before he’d been straddling her, plunging inside her to the hilt. The ministrations of his tongue had made her so wet, the sting of his invasion had only lasted a moment. As he’d fisted her hair in one strong hand and pulled, forcing her back into a deep arch, she had closed her eyes and surrendered. He would have her whether she allowed herself to enjoy it or not … at least, this was what she’d told herself while screaming her pleasure, gripping the bedclothes in her fists as he’d hurtled her toward another powerful climax. It was what she’d told herself as he’d pulled free of her sheath and stained her back with his seed … when she’d collapsed onto the bed so he could wipe her clean before pulling her back against his chest and urging her to sleep a bit longer.
Now, as she sat up in bed, an emptiness yawned inside of her, opening in the pit of her gut. She should be glad to find herself alone, to be free of him for even a short time. Yet, she was forced to confront the fact that she’d just gotten her most restful night of sleep since arriving at Dunnottar, despite being awakened twice to slake Adam’s lust. Or, perhaps even because of it.
Groaning, she ran her fingers through her tousled hair and lowered her head. What the devil was wrong with her? She should not miss his presence, nor should she allow herself to feel anything toward him except antipathy. The man had treated her cruelly from the beginning, never ceasing to remind her she was no more than a means to an end.
But then, his haunted gaze flitted through her mind, reminding of her of the reason for it all. Why he hated her … why she was nothing more than a channel through which he could hurt Bertram … why he could never care about her in any way. The things he’d revealed to her in the darkest hours of the night—his pain, his grief—made her pity him as much as she abhorred him.
“Oh, my lady, you’re awake!” Maeve exclaimed.
Daphne glanced up to find the maid approaching the bed, carrying a tray laden with food and tea.
“The Master wanted me to ensure you had a proper meal,” she continued, waiting for Daphne to sit up straight so she could lay the tray in her lap. “He was called away on urgent business to Kincardineshire, but should return in a few days.”
Taking up a triangle of buttered toast, she bit into it and nearly swooned with pleasure. She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was until she’d tasted the first bite.
“Why should I care where he has gone or when he will return?” she retorted, annoyed with herself for the sinking feeling in her gut as she digested the news.
She told herself it was only because Adam’s absence meant she would grow bored. Without someone to fence with, how was she to occupy herself each morning? As well, she could hardly ferret out the other answers to her questions concerning Bertram and Olivia if he was not here.
Maeve did not reply, simply casting her a smug, knowing look before going about her duties. While Daphne ate, she selected riding attire, suggesting an afternoon ride while the weather was still so fair, then prepared another basin of rosewater.
After she’d eaten her fill, the maid set the tray aside then began her toilette. Once she had been bathed with the rosewater and wore a simple white blouse and skirt for riding, Daphne sat to endure having her hair combed, brushed, and arranged into a simple chignon.
Her spirits lifted a bit as she stepped out onto the front steps of the palace, turning her face up to the sun. She had not spent nearly as much time out of doors as she was accustomed to, and with the Scottish countryside stretching out for miles before her, she became filled with the urge to ride as far and fast as her mount would allow.
A stable groom quickly prepared her horse, and before long, she descended the escarpment, putting Dunnottar behind her. She rode for what felt like hours, her face breaking out into a smile as the soft breeze stroked its fingers through her hair and the sun caressed her face. Even the lingering soreness between her legs could not steal her enjoyment of the ride, the exercise going a long way to ease the tension in her tight muscles.
Her good mood lasted for the rest of the afternoon, which she spent reading in the garden.
It was there that Olivia happened upon her, seeming to have wandered away from her wing of the house.
Daphne gasped at the sight of her, frozen in place upon the bench she occupied with an open tome in her lap. She held perfectly still, not wanting to startle the girl, but captivated by the sight of her.
She wore a demure morning gown of spring green muslin, her dark hair unbound and hanging down her back. She walked through the courtyard barefoot, her steps slow and fluid. She moved with the same grace Daphne had noticed in Adam, though with her slender form and dainty feet, the motions appeared more dreamlike—as if Olivia floated instead of walking.
Approaching a rosebush bursting with open blossoms, she smiled, reaching out to touch one. She must be the reason Adam kept the garden so well-maintained. The girl looked at home here—as much a part of the scenery as the flowers blooming around her.
She appeared far more peaceful than she had the night she had attacked Daphne. As Olivia plucked a blossom and turned to face her, she realized why. Her eyes glistened with an unfocused sheen that told her she had recently come out of the haze induced by laudanum. The effects still lingered, keeping her passive.
A soft smile curved Olivia’s mouth when their gazes met, and she brought the rose up to her nostrils to inhale.
“Hello,” she murmured, her voice soft and lyrical when not strained from screaming. It carried the same soft Scottish brogue as Adam’s. “I do not believe we’ve met.”
Daphne closed her book and set it aside, trying not to move too quickly lest she startle the girl.
“I am Daphne Fa-”
She paused, clearing her throat, realizing the error she’d almost committed. Telling Olivia her last name would only set her off again.
“Just Daphne,” she amended. “I am here as a guest of your brother.”
With a giggle, Olivia came closer, twirling the stem of the rose between her fingers. “Hart always did have good taste in women. You’re absolutely beautiful.”
Daphne’s smile was genuine this time. “Thank you. I find you to be quite lovely, as well.”
But Olivia paid no heed to her compliment. Instead, she kept the rose in one hand while reaching out to Daphne with the other.
She held as still as possible and let the girl touch her hair, pulling the long rope of her braid from over one shoulder to trail it between her slender fingers. They were the hands of a harpist—dainty and feminine, with long, slender fingers she imagined would glide over the strings with ease.
“Such a lovely shade of red,” Olivia murmured. “Just like—”
“Livvie!” a man’s voice boomed from across the courtyard.
Both women turned to find Niall approaching them from the door leading to the main hall. His black coat strained at the seams, his shoulders and arms rippling with power as he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He did not appear pleased, his dark eyes narrowing when they landed on Daphne, his mouth turning down.
Yet, Olivia seemed unaware of his displeasure, giggling as she shot to her feet and dashed toward him. “Niall!”
The butler turned his attention to the young woman, his expression softening considerably when their gazes met. Daphne looked on in shock as the girl threw herself at him, laughing as he caught her up against his body. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, bringing her up to meet his gaze. Her diminutive size made her feet dangle off the ground, her small hand cupping his face.
“Such a grumpy thing you are,” she teased. “Careful, Niall … so much frowning brings wrinkles.”
He grunted as she began kissing him, her lips brushing his forehead and the bridge of his nose, then his lips. “Ye’ll give me wrinkles on yer own, wanderin’ off like that. And with no shoes, to boot. Hart’ll kill me if ye injure yerself.”
Daphne’s mouth fell open at the clear evidence of affection between them. Despite Olivia not being in her right state of mind, there existed a familiarity here that could not be denied. She cared for Niall, and by the way the large butler handled her, he obviously returned the sentiment. Daphne would never have thought him capable of such gentleness; yet, he held Olivia as if she were made of glass, as if she were more precious to him than a handful of priceless gems.
“Come on, then,” he murmured, turning to walk back toward the open door with her still in his arms. “Let’s get ye back to yer room and into a pair of slippers.”
Olivia clung to him, her arms wrapped tight around his neck as he carried her away.
“Good-bye, Daphne,” she called out cheerily. “It was lovely to have met you!”
As if he’d forgotten about her presence, Niall turned to glare at her over his shoulder. “You … stay there. We’ll speak when I return.”
She watched them go with a slack jaw. Niall had seemed like a different person in Olivia’s presence, his careful handling of the girl baffling. Especially considering the man looked fit to kill her anytime she was in the room with him.
She sat quietly in the garden and waited—not because Niall had all but ordered her to, but because she needed to connect another thread in this convoluted tapestry. She needed to know what else Adam was keeping from her. It would seem there was more than met the eye … so many facets of this situation she remained ignorant to.
When the butler returned, he once again wore his disdainful expression, his dark eyes searing her like burning, hot coals. Daphne stood to face him, placing her book upon the bench and clasping her hands demurely before her.
“Niall, I—”
“Lady Olivia is not well,” he interjected, fury lending a shaky quality to his voice. “Days like this one—when she’s more like her normal self—are rare. I won’t have ye ruinin’ that.”
She reared back as if he’d struck her, taken aback by the venom in his words. “Ruin it? I did not even know she was here. In fact, I had no idea she was Adam’s stepsister until after she had attacked me. He told me what happened to her … what my brother did.”
“Then you ken why even the sight of ye is enough to send her spiralin’ into madness again,” he retorted. “Keep yer distance, or I’ll make the rest of yer stay at Dunnottar a livin’ hell. The Master might have become obsessed with your cunt, but I haven’t forgotten who ye are and what ye Fairchilds did to her.”
Her mouth fell open, and she struggled to find words to defend herself, to remind him she’d had nothing to do with Olivia’s condition, and the Fairchild name did not mark her as a monster.
Before she could, he was gone, spinning on his heel and striding away with his hands balled into fists at his sides. Snapping her mouth shut, she thought better of it. The sight of her near Olivia had been enough to rile him, and she did not wish to provoke him further.
As she sank back onto the bench, her book forgotten, she stared off across the garden with unseeing eyes. There were many things she still had yet to discover, but one thing had been made exceedingly clear … Niall was in love with Olivia. Whether she returned the sentiment or not, the butler cared for her in a way that went beyond the relationship of a servant and the lady of the house. She had read the devotion in his eyes when he’d gazed upon her, had heard the tenderness in his voice when he’d spoken to her.
Knowing this only made her guilt increase, the number of people her brother had affected with his poor decision-making growing by the day. Olivia. Adam. Niall. All three of them irreparably damaged by the Fairchild family.
“Bertram, you fool,” she whispered. “What have you done?”
Adam remained away from Dunnottar for several more days, during which Daphne nearly went mad from boredom. Her days continued with the same monotony as before, with morning rides and afternoons spent in the music room, library, or garden. She kept her distance from Niall and did not encounter Olivia again. Perhaps the butler had become more vigilant in keeping her out of sight in Adam’s absence, determined to keep her away from Daphne. Maeve continued to treat her with kindness, though went back to being tight-lipped when it came to the subject of Adam or Olivia.
Daphne did not want to admit to herself that she missed Adam’s imposing presence in the castle—that without the fear he inspired, she was bored to tears, that her body remained in a state of heightened arousal, craving his touch. Most of all, she bemoaned the loss of the music he could create, the haunting notes of the pianoforte filling the music room and tugging on something nestled deep inside of her. She found herself visiting the music room for no other reason than to sit before the pianoforte, her fingers lightly stroking over the keys, the pads of her fingers tracing the same places his had been. That inevitably led to remembering the times he’d taken her in this room—on the rug, on top of the piano.
There must be something terribly wrong with her—some defect making her crave depravity. How else could one explain that Adam had been right about her all along—that she longed for brute force and pleasure with pain, complete oblivion over simple gratification? She would never give him the satisfaction of admitting it aloud, but she could no longer fool herself. She had always known there was something setting her apart, a reason no man had ever seemed like the right one.
Lord Hartmoor is the furthest thing from being the right man as could be, she told herself, appalled she might even consider such a notion.
While his cruelty toward her might be justified in light of Bertram’s transgressions, it did not negate the fact that he possessed the capacity for destruction. Despite her body seeming to want him with a madness that could not be explained, her logical mind realized how bad for her this man truly was. If she let him, he would devour her, then use her bones to pick his teeth. That could never happen. She must endure what remained of her time here with her heart and soul intact. And when she left, she would not give in to the urge to look back.
On the fourth day of Adam’s absence, Daphne decided to explore more of the castle on her own, having grown bored of the garden and music room. The mystery and gothic beauty of Dunnottar held her entranced as winding stairways led to various wings she had yet to discover. She found doors leading out into small courtyards—some planted with flowers or arranged with furniture for lounging, others crumbling and overrun with climbing vines and foliage. She liked these places best and loved running her hands over thick vines and ancient stone, wondering what sorts of assignations might have taken place there.
But it was the discovery of secret passageways that truly enthralled her. Pushing aside the fear that she might lose herself in the dark tunnels built into the walls, she had gone in search of a lamp and entered the labyrinth. Swallowed by darkness, she entered in one place and emerged somewhere else, only to discover another passage, another secret, another hidden route from one wing to another.
Before long, she pushed aside a large panel and found herself confronted with a tapestry. Frowning at the heavy thing, she inclined her head, the sound of feminine voices coming at her through the curtain. One of them sounded familiar, even muffled by the thick fabric separating her from whoever stood on the other side. The other was low and sweet, high-pitched.
A child.
Her breath caught in her throat, her lungs burning as she reached one hand out to touch the tapestry. The surface of her skin prickled, gooseflesh rippling over her arms, a tingle traveling down her spine. Not once had she come across any evidence indicating the presence of a child in Dunnottar. Yet, the cheerful giggle carrying through the tapestry was clearly not that of a servant, or even Olivia. There was a distinctive, childlike warmth to it … a lightness unburdened by the cares of someone who had reached maturity.
Her hands shook, the light in her lamp flickering and beginning to sputter out. She’d wandered for so long, the wick had nearly burnt to ash. Some part of her warned that no good could come from entering the room, her instincts telling her to turn back, to go the way she’d come and forget she’d heard the sound of a child’s laughter. Yet, another part of her would not allow her to turn away without investigating the sound, without seeing for herself the final secret Adam had withheld from her.
She slowly peeled the tapestry aside, her throat growing tight as it revealed what appeared to be a nursery. Cheery yellow paper adorned the walls while an ornate chandelier overhead flooded the chamber with light. It had clearly been decorated for a girl—with white lace etching the curtains and pink and white damask upholstery covering miniature pieces of furniture. Skipping ropes, dolls, and other children’s toys littered the carpet while a white rocking horse rested in one corner. A massive doll’s house took up an entire corner of the room, its insides filled with opulent replicas of Chippendale and Hepplewhite furniture. The room was fit for a princess, as opulent a nursery as any that existed in London.
Movement in the center of the room drew her eye, and she found Olivia sitting on a small, child’s chair, her back turned to the open passageway. Daphne recognized the tumble of dark, lustrous hair, as well as the voice speaking in cheerful tones to a person she could not see. A low, round table sat laden with what appeared to be a tea set, and when Olivia fell silent, the child’s voice came again. The girl sat on the other side of the table, blocked from her view by Olivia, who laughed at something the child said. Daphne did not discern a word, the pounding of her heart filling her ears and blotting out all sound.
Her feet moved of their own accord, drawing her deeper into the room, closer to the table. If she ventured close enough, she could lay eyes upon the child. She could see for herself that things could not be as they seemed.
Olivia remained oblivious to Daphne’s presence, lifting a child-sized teapot and pretending to pour tea into a matching cup. However, the child seated across from her glanced up just when Daphne drew close enough to see her over Olivia’s shoulder.
Her footsteps faltered, and the lamp fell from her hand with a thud, the meager flame sputtering out, the odor of kerosene stinging her nostrils as it spread a stain upon the carpet. It became forgotten as she brought that shaking hand over her mouth, choking on a gasp as she stared into the eyes of a child who could not be older than five years of age.
She had the face of an angel, with a tiny button nose, a sweet moue of a mouth, and soft, round cheeks. Her eyes, wide and round, were the same velvety brown as Olivia’s, innocent, and full of mischief. But it was her hair that commanded Daphne’s attention. Long, fat spirals tied back from her face with a pink ribbon … gleaming auburn in the light of the chandelier. The glossy strands bore the unmistakable mark of Fairchild lineage, the decadent red shining with faint gold highlights that would shimmer in the sun.
Daphne drank the girl in, marking off every bit of evidence portraying a truth too shocking to bear. The freckles on the bridge of her nose, the bowed upper lip, the tiny beauty spot just beneath one eye, the evidence of high cheekbones that would become more apparent as she grew older.
That face was her face.
No, not her face … Bertram’s face.
“Hello,” the girl said with a wary smile, breaking Daphne out of her reverie.
Olivia turned to gaze at her over one shoulder, the gleam in her eyes putting Daphne at ease a bit. She seemed to have been recently dosed with laudanum, her cheeks flushed and a light sheen of sweat dampening her brow. However, she remained docile, unlikely to attack.
“Good evening,” Daphne croaked, her voice hoarse from the lump lodged in her throat.
She could hardly make sense of what she was seeing, though she faintly registered that she stared at a child of her own family … Bertram’s child. There could be no denying the resemblance.
“I am Lady Serena Grace Goodall,” the little girl said when the room fell silent again.
Her heart warmed at the polite severity of the girl’s tone, as if she’d been taught how to introduce herself and the importance of including ‘lady’ before her name.
“It is lovely to meet you, Lady Serena,” she managed, coming closer to the little table and kneeling to the left of the table. “I am Daphne.”
“I have never met another person with hair like mine,” Serena declared.
Your father’s family is overrun with redheads, she thought.
“It is unusual,” she replied aloud. “But you carry it quite nicely. What a pretty girl you are, Serena. How many years are you?”
“Four,” the child replied. “But it is nearly my birthday. Mama says I may have a puppy when I have turned five … but only if Uncle Adam allows it.”
“He frowns and argues when we try to browbeat him,” Olivia chimed in with a girlish giggle. “But he will come around. He dotes on Serena … gives her anything her little heart desires.”
“How wonderful,” Daphne murmured, for lack of anything better to say.
She’d grown dizzy, her stomach roiling as she attempted to digest this final revelation, the evidence of Bertram’s sins sitting right before her.
Before she could part her lips to form more words, a dark shadow fell over her, making her blood run cold. Her entire body stiffened, her spine tensing and her mouth going dry. Serena came to her feet, her expression one of pure joy.
“Uncle Adam!” she squealed, dashing around Daphne and disappearing from sight.
A man’s deep laugh sent a cold stone of dread hurtling into her gut, the heavy weight making her feel as if she would be violently ill. She remained where she sat, head lowered, breath coming in short, panicked spurts as she tried to remain composed while Olivia rose to greet the man who had entered the room. From the corner of her eye, she spied the nursery door, which stood on the side of the room opposite the passage she had come through.
“What have we here? Who is this bonny lass throwing herself into my arms?”
Adam’s deep voice resounded through the room, carrying with it a tenderness Daphne had only witnessed when he spoke to Olivia.
Serena giggled. “It’s me, silly! Serena.”
“Truly?” he said with an exaggerated gasp. “My, how you’ve grown in my absence. You’re practically a young woman!”
The little girl laughed again, the sound turning into the exuberant glee that almost always accompanied being tickled. Daphne dared a glance over her shoulder to find him holding her beneath one arm, his fingers teasing her ribs while she kicked and flailed, screaming with delight.
He had eyes only for Serena, his affection for the girl clear as he lifted her upright and ceased his assault in order to embrace her. The girl wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and held fast, closing her eyes and sighing happily.
“I missed you,” he murmured, his eyes closed as he nuzzled the top of her head. “Have you been a good girl in my absence?”
“Did you bring me a present?” she countered, sitting up to look him in the eye.
Adam chuckled. “That all depends on whether you have behaved yourself.”
“Oh, I have,” the girl declared. “Haven’t I, Mama?”
Olivia smiled and nodded, her words a bit slurred from laudanum when she spoke. “She’s been an angel.”
Adam nodded as if satisfied, then set the girl on her feet. Daphne twisted her fingers together, hands shaking in her lap as she waited for him to look at her, to acknowledge her presence in the room and act accordingly. She knew without being told that she was not welcome here.
“Very well,” he replied, reaching out to ruffle Serena’s neat curls. “Nanny is looking for you. Go find her, and I will come give you your present shortly.”
“Can Daphne come?” the girl asked, oblivious to the tension tightening her uncle’s jaw and darkening his eyes. “She has red hair, just like me!”
“Aye. That, she does,” Adam said, his tone becoming harsh and biting as he swiveled his gaze in her direction. “But Lady Daphne will be going now. Her visit at Dunnottar has now come to an end. You will not be seeing her again.”
Serena looked as if she wanted to protest, but Olivia stepped in, taking the child’s hand.
“Come along,” she urged her daughter. “I shall try to talk Niall into bringing us a pot of chocolate from the kitchen. Would that not be lovely?”
The girl forgot Daphne at the news of hot chocolate and skipped from the room beside her mother.
She watched them go, desperation making her heart pound. It lay on the tip of her tongue to call out to them, to beg them not to leave her alone in the room with Adam. But her tongue had turned into some unwieldy, useless thing taking up space inside her mouth. Words failed her. She could only sit there, locked in Adam’s gaze and shaking like a tree battered by a raging storm.
His face hardened once they were alone, nostrils flaring and eyes blazing with green and gold tongues of fire. His hair had been pulled back, but a few strands hung around his travel-weary face. Dust clung to his boots, his clothes wrinkled. He must have just arrived home, coming straight to the nursery to greet his niece.
Her chin trembled, the realization of what would happen next slamming into her with all the force of a battering ram.
“Adam,” she squeaked, managing to find her voice. “I can explain …”
“Get up,” he growled, narrowing his eyes at her.
Her limbs moved on their own accord, as if responding to his command. She shot to her feet, her legs tingling as blood rushed back into them, her head spinning from the sudden movement.
His arm shot out through the space between them, his hand clenching around her upper arm in a bruising grip. Without a word, he was hauling her toward the door, not bothering to shorten his long strides for her. She stumbled along, forced to practically run to keep up due to his bruising grip on her arm. The limb throbbed, her fingers tingling and going numb from lack of blood. Turning down a bend in the hallway, they now traversed the one leading to the front of the palace … the one holding her guest chamber.
The concealed nursery had sat in the corridor Adam had forbidden her to go into. Her heart dropped into the pit of her gut and remained there, his intent clear as he continued dragging her, blowing past the open door of her chamber.
“Adam, wait,” she pleaded, digging her heels into the floor to try to impede their progress. “Please …”
He merely tightened his grip and kept walking, ignoring the wide-eyed stares of servants who ventured past them, some pausing in their tasks to look on with slack jaws. Maeve appeared, trotting toward them with horror written on her features.
“Master—”
“Gather the clothing Lady Daphne arrived with,” he barked without so much as a glance in her direction. “She is leaving.”
Tears sprung to Daphne’s eyes as she tore at the hand wrapped around her arm, desperate to explain, to free herself from his hold.
“Please, I beg you,” she tried again. “It was an accident, Adam. I did not mean—”
Her words broke off on a cry when he abruptly stopped, swinging her around to face him. The wrath contorting his features frightened her to her core, the bite of his fingers around her arm nothing compared to the heat of his searing glare.
“I warned you,” he ground out, his voice shaking with barely contained fury. “I believe I was quite clear about what would happen if you disobeyed my directive.”
“Then you never intended to tell me about her? A child born of my family … my own blood?” she accused.
Taking her other arm in his free hand, he shook her as if she weighed no more than a rag doll. “Serena might look like a Fairchild, but she is a Callahan. You have no claim to her, and now that you are leaving, will never have contact with her again.”
“Do you think you need to protect her from me?” she sobbed, hot tears splashing her face. “She is my niece … I would never—”
“No,” he spat, his upper lip curling in disgust. “You will never … because you are leaving this instant. Our agreement became null and void the second you stepped foot inside the nursery.”
The sound of footsteps drew Daphne’s gaze to Maeve, who had come dashing down the corridor, a rough burlap sack slung over her shoulder. She handed the sack reluctantly to Adam, who released one of Daphne’s arms to take it.
“Master, perhaps you should—”
“Finish that sentence, and I will throw you out beside her,” he roared, leveling a heated glare at the maid.
She shrank away from them, casting an apologetic glance at Daphne before turning to walk away.
“Do not do this,” she begged, turning her tear-filled eyes to Adam. “I will be good … I will do whatever you want … Let you do whatever you want to me. I cannot return to London with nothing.”
“Why not?” he taunted with a rough, humorless chuckle. “You came with nothing.”
That was not true. She’d come with her virtue … the one thing she’d had to barter with. Now, she would leave without it, possessing nothing else with which to bargain.
Before she could attempt begging again, he had dragged her to the front doors. A footman rushed to pull one of them open, and without preamble, Adam hurled her over the threshold, tossing the sack out behind her. Stumbling onto the landing of the front steps, she whirled to face him, tremors rocking her from head to toe as she struggled for composure. Tears soaked her flushed face, her heart thundered wildly, and hot, bitter bile rose up in the back of her throat.
“Go to the stables to retrieve your horse,” Adam commanded, one hand braced upon the open door. “Go home.”
The heavy panel slammed shut between them. Seconds later, she heard the ominous sound of the bolt being slid into place, barring her from the inside. She rushed toward the imposing oak door on shaking legs and fell against it. Pounding her fists against it, she sobbed, raising her voice to be heard through the wood.
“Let me in! Adam, please … I’ll be good. I promise! I’ll do anything!”
She pounded the door until pain reverberated up her arms, her knuckles scraped and bleeding. She screamed and called out to him, desperation driving her mad, stealing away every ounce of her pride. He could not send her away—not without the thirty thousand pounds she had sold her body for. Without it, she would ride back down the mountain penniless as well as in disgrace. Her family home would be lost, and she could not even be certain where her next meal might come from.
Dunnottar and the lord who lived inside might prove intimidating and downright frightening, but nothing terrified her like a future without the thirty-thousand pounds she’d stood to gain. Her entire outlook rested upon securing those funds. She shuddered to think what she’d be reduced to without them.
“Please,” she whispered hoarsely, sinking to her knees and leaning her weary body against the door. “I’ll do anything.”
Yet, no answer came from the other side of the door. He did not hear her soft whispers any more than he had her shrill cries. She did not doubt he’d put her out of his mind as he easily as he had his home.
This could not be the end. There must be some way to earn her way back into his good graces. With such a short time left of the agreed-upon thirty days, she could not face what going back to London empty-handed might mean.
Determined to wait him out, to force him to confront her, she curled up against the door. Drawing her knees to her chest and holding fast, she lowered her head. Dusk had arrived, bringing with it a chill in the air. Before long, night would fall, causing it to become downright frigid.
Reaching for her sack, she found the coat she’d worn while traveling from London. It would only offer so much warmth when she wore a thin day gown without undergarments. However, it would be better than nothing and might keep her from catching her death.
She did not intend to leave until Adam decided to come out and carry her down the escarpment himself. As she fished her hat from among her other belongings and pulled it down over her ears, she steeled herself for the cold night ahead.