CHAPTER TWELVE
aphne passed the night and a good portion of the following day on the front steps of the palace. As night had fallen, she’d huddled in the doorway and hugged her knees to her chest. Shivering and clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, she had almost given up. She’d been so cold, her breath turning into mist on the night air, the tips of her fingers going as pale as the moon.
A groom had come from the stable, attempting to coerce her into leaving. He’d told her that her horse had been prepared and ‘the Master’ would expect her to be gone by morning. She had waved him off, declaring she would not leave of her own accord. The groom had seemed flabbergasted, unable to believe his ears. Yet, she had merely turned her head and ignored him, determination winning out against her need to find someplace to warm herself.
She’d slept fitfully, awakening when powerful shudders wracked her body, her teeth clattering so hard, she was afraid they might shatter.
Morning seemed to take ages to arrive, the overcast sky allowing only a bit of the sun’s warmth. The door had swung open sometime later to reveal Maeve, who’d looked at her as if she were a dog who had been kicked.
“The Master doesn’t know I’ve come,” she murmured before setting a tray on the ground beside her. “You must hurry and finish before he rises and discovers I’ve been here. If it means anything to you, he spent most of the night pacing in his study. He even came back to the door after night had fallen, but seemed to think better of opening it.”
Reaching out to grab the warm china cup filled with tea, she gave the maid a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
She did not wish to acknowledge Maeve’s claims concerning Adam … did not want to let herself believe he might care about her in the slightest. The maid was simply trying to make her feel better. If Adam gave a bloody damn about her freezing to death on his front steps, he would come outside himself to retrieve her.
As she gulped the hot tea, heedless to the way it burned her tongue, Daphne told herself the feeling was mutual. She did not care for him any more than he cared for her. She merely needed him to let her back inside so she could earn her thirty thousand pounds. If she could convince him to allow her to finish out her time here, she would return to London with what remained of her dignity.
She’d made quick work of her breakfast, scarfing down the cakes Maeve had brought her and polishing off the tea. The maid had returned to take her empty tray, then disappeared quickly into the large house. Daphne had huddled inside her coat as best she could, shivering and counting the minutes. She realized most of the day had passed her by once her stomach began rumbling again, hunger gnawing upon her insides.
Relief flooded her in a euphoric rush when the door swung open to reveal Niall. His staunch, emotionless expression became the most welcome sight in the world as he reached out to extend a hand to her. She placed hers in his, releasing a sigh of relief when he hauled her to her feet. Though, he did quickly release her, as if touching her had burned him.
“Come along, then,” he said wearily.
She studied him as they entered the palace, searching his face for any hint of what she might expect. They moved in the direction of Adam’s study, so she assumed he had decided to speak with her. Niall gave nothing away, though the tightness of his mouth and flash of his eyes told her he likely disapproved of his master’s decision. She couldn’t help a smug smirk as he opened the door of the study and inclined his head to indicate she should go in.
“Thank you, Niall,” she said imperiously before sweeping through the opening with her head held high.
He grunted something in response, then slammed the panel behind her, enclosing her in the cavernous room. The warmth of the large hearths reached out to her, bringing the feeling back to her fingers and toes. Her numb face began to thaw, the heat of the fire almost painful after her skin had been so thoroughly drained of warmth.
She found Adam seated behind his desk, his appearance not at all what she expected. He looked haggard, his hair tousled as if he’d raked his fingers through it a hundred times. He wore no coat or waistcoat, and the buttons of his wrinkled shirt hung open. But his face shocked her most of all—the dark circles beneath his eyes, the downward curve of his lips. He looked as ghastly as she supposed she did.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she murmured once she’d come to rest just before his desk.
Casting her gaze downward, she felt the weight of his stare, the way his gaze seemed to trace every visible inch of her. She shivered, feeling as if he’d peeled the clothing from her body with his eyes.
“I did not wish to, but you are as stubborn as you are reckless, little dove,” he replied. “I had thought to come out there myself, throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the stable, then throw you into the saddle of your horse. But then …”
She glanced up at him and wrinkled her brow when he fell silent. “Then?”
He met her stare boldly, a smirk curving his lips. The expression lacked all humor, the catlike motion more akin to a predator that had cornered its next meal. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and resisted the urge to run. He had allowed her back into the palace, and now, she must do whatever it took to get back into his good graces.
“Then I decided to let you convince me,” he said, inclining his head.
The lump in her throat expanded, the realization of what he was saying making it difficult to breathe. “H-how am I to do that?”
He made a little sound—a short huff of laughter—as if her ignorance amused him. Bracing his large hands against the edge of the desk, he pushed his chair away from it. Then, leaning back casually, he braced his hands behind his head and raised his eyebrows at her.
“Please me, and I will let you stay,” he declared.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her gut clenching at what his words implied. Please him? In almost every sexual encounter they’d shared, he had been the one in control. She had been a vessel for his use, and he had done with her what he pleased. Only once had she acted of her own volition. That day in the garden, when she’d knelt and taken him into her mouth.
Raising her chin, she reminded herself of the power she’d felt in that moment. Despite being upon her knees, she had drawn the sounds of pleasure from the back of his throat, had made him weak with nothing more than the touch of her lips. If she could do that, then she could certainly do this. Her livelihood depended upon it.
“I am waiting,” he added when she did not reply or move.
The impatience edging his tone was not encouraging. He was already in a dudgeon and angry with her for disobeying his commands. This would be an uphill battle.
Clenching and then releasing her hands, she began moving toward him. Forcing her hands to work, she reached up to begin unbuttoning her coat while rounding the desk. Still regaining their feeling, her digits were clumsy and unwieldy as she worked to remove the garment. He stared up at her with a blank expression, his eyes a deep, dark brown that betrayed nothing as she edged into the space between him and the desk.
He slouched and spread his legs, inclining his head and watching her expectantly. Taking another fortifying breath, she sank to her knees on the carpet. Reaching up with both hands, she braced them on the strong thighs trapping her between them, smoothing her palms over the fabric. He was hot to the touch, as always, his hard body humming with barely concealed power. She stroked up toward his pelvis, edging her way to the noticeable ridge pressing against his fall. He was at least half-hard, the imprint of his cock through the fabric making her mouth water.
She reveled in the sensations caused by looking at him like this, not bothering to fight the lust he inspired. Now was not the time for maidenly reticence or resistance. She needed to please him, and while he claimed to like it when she fought him, just now, it would not be enough. With him sitting passively, watching her every move, she must act like the whore he’d often accused her of being.
Laying one hand over the bulge, she tested him, skimming her hand over him from base to tip, then back down again. She fondled him through his breeches, squeezing with light pressure now and then. With each squeeze of her fingers, his cock surged, growing and filling with blood in response to her touch. By the time she began unbuttoning him, it had become fully engorged. It fell free of the confining garment as if it had fought its way out, straining toward her with a mind of its own.
Wrapping her fingers around him, she gave him another stroke, using her thumb to caress his tip. He remained silent, staring blankly down at her while she worked him, smearing him in the wetness she coaxed from his slit. His stillness unnerved her, so unlike the other times they’d been together. She had become accustomed to his roughness—his hands fisting her hair, the brute force of his body relentlessly battering her.
Determination drove her closer, emboldening her to take him into her mouth. She detected the slight hitch of his breath as she took him in as far as she could, sucking her way back up to his tip. His cock twitched in her mouth, the thick vein running along the bottom pulsating against her tongue. The primal scent of his musk flooded her senses, making her cunt clench and the tips of her breasts tingle. Squeezing her thighs together, she took him in again, then again, fucking him with her mouth.
She grew bolder, flicking her tongue against his head with each pass, lightly scraping him with her teeth, joining her mouth with a hand to pump him. Before long, he began to move, his hips undulating beneath her, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. His breath quickened, becoming noisier and harsher the longer she sucked him. He seemed determined to fight her, to make it difficult for her, but she fought back, giving him everything she had. She took him in her fist and stroked him, lapping at his head and dipping her tongue into his slit. She gave him both her hands, still using one to stroke him, the other gently kneading the heavy sac below the thick root of his cock. After a while, he began bucking his hips at her, creating more friction between her hands and his cock. She relaxed her jaw, opening her mouth to take his tip in with each stroke.
Before long, she glanced up to find him watching her from beneath heavy eyelids, his lips parted as he sucked in ragged breaths, his chest heaving. The urge to take him into her body overwhelmed her, the pulsations of her inner channel having now become painful. Her face flushed at the licentious images flitting through her mind, fantasies of sitting upon his cock making her feel like the most wanton creature who ever lived. But, he was paying her to be a wanton, to act like a whore.
She ignored the rough sound of annoyance he made when she released his cock, gripping the arms of his chair and coming to her feet. His entire body had gone tense, his fists curled on the chair arms, fairly trembling as if he held himself in check. Yet, he remained as still as ever while she snatched up her skirts, then climbed onto him. Wedging her knees into the spaces between his body and the arms of the chair, she positioned herself so her naked quim rested just over his cock. She shuddered at the feel of him against her, his flared head brushing her inner folds. Rotating her hips, she enveloped his head just within her opening, then let her skirts fall.
His eyes burned green and gold, the prisms of his irises flickering with lust and depravity in equal measure. She held his gaze, her mouth falling open on a soft sigh of relief as she lowered herself onto his lap. Gasping, she let her head fall back as he filled her, her channel giving way to let him in, stretching and then clenching to hold him deep. She braced her hands against his chest and tested the motion of her hips. She rocked against him first, then swiveled her hips in a slow circle, one direction and then the other. Each movement sent a burst of pleasure through her, the grinding of her clit against his pelvis hurtling her toward her own end so quickly, it left her breathless.
Holding on to his shoulders, she found a rhythm she liked, her soft pants turning into moans that echoed from the room’s high ceiling. Beneath her, he was moving again, his hips matching her rhythm, his hands leaving the arms of the chair to touch her. He palmed her hips, squeezing and kneading her buttocks through the fabric of her gown before moving upward to cup her breasts.
“God, yes,” she cried, arching her back to fit herself into his palms, her nipples growing even harder in response to his touch.
He snatched down her bodice and plucked at them with his fingers, sending lightning strikes of pure ecstasy into her core. Her movements became wilder, less precise, and she rode him toward climax. Forgetting about pleasing him, she focused on what she wanted for a change, gritting her teeth and straining toward an explosive ending.
Swifter than she could prepare for, his hand came up to her throat. His palm covered her, his fingers digging into the veins supplying her pulse. Fear gripped her when he tightened his hold, his gaze burning hotly while he went on bucking up beneath her, drilling his cock into her while cutting off her air supply. Her blood roared in her ears, and the fear in her gut melted into liquid heat, making her even wetter, her cunt clenching around him in the beginnings of a climax.
She made a choked sound and closed her eyes, surrendering to his hold. Would he strangle the life out of her now, as he’d threatened to before? Was this how she would die—with his cock inside her and his hand wrapped around her throat?
“Breathe,” he commanded.
The pressure eased, and precious air filled her lungs, the blood rushing swiftly back to her head. She splintered, her lips parting on a silent cry as a powerful climax tore through her, exacerbated by the sensation of flying that washed over her at the exact moment he released her throat. The orgasm slammed into her with the force of a hailstorm, twisting her insides violently, then releasing in a heavy rush that stole the strength from her limbs.
She fell against him, too weak to do anything but ride the raging tide of her rapture while he stroked in her a few more times before following. Taking her waist into his hands, he swiftly lifted her off him just before he spent, the hot spurts of his seed staining them both. The warm, sticky liquid spewed against her belly, staining her gown, a gush of it splashing against her bodice.
Resting on his thighs, she found her limbs too weak to support her. She fell against him, cringing at the feel of her wet clothes clinging to her skin, but unable to do anything about it. Adam sat beneath her for a moment in silence, his ragged breaths harmonizing with her soft pants.
After a while, he shifted beneath her, pushing her to sit up. Her face flushed as she gazed down at the mess staining his shirt and her gown, the reality of her position once again making itself apparent. She must look like a Haymarket strumpet—legs spread over his thighs, gown bunched up around her hips, hair mussed, and her bodice pulled down to expose her breasts.
Yet, the heat in his stare made triumph rise in her chest. He did not need to speak the words aloud for her to know she had won.
Half an hour later, Daphne sat immersed in a large tub in the washroom off Adam’s bedchamber, her mind still reeling from all that had happened since the day before.
After they had gathered their bearings following the explosive encounter in his study, Adam had risen to his feet and taken her hand, swiftly propelling her from the room. She’d hardly had time to think about the mess staining the front of her gown or the weakened state of her limbs as she’d struggled to keep up with him.
“Where are we going?” she’d huffed, out of breath by the time they’d reached the top of a winding staircase.
It had not taken her long to realize they stood in the same corridor where she’d discovered Olivia’s bedchamber. Or rather, what had once been Olivia’s bedchamber. Now, she was hidden away in the forbidden corridor along with her daughter. Daphne’s niece.
“My bedroom,” he’d said, his tone still brusque and clipped despite the fact that she’d just made him spend.
He’d seemed as tense as ever, his shoulders squared, back erect, steps ringing out a swift cadence on the tiles.
“Henceforth, you will go wherever I go,” he’d added, pausing before a closed door and reaching for the nob. “I do not trust you out of my sight.”
Her heart had sunk at his declaration, but she had not protested. He had not thrown her back out on her arse, so she had no reason to complain. Besides, she had less than a fortnight left; she could endure being under his thumb for such a short time.
He had ushered her into a room as dark and masculine as the man who dwelt there, summoning servants to order a fire stoked in the hearth as well as a bath. While they had waited, she’d studied the room with unabashed curiosity, drinking in the black and gold decor. Dark wood panels covered the walls, polished until they gleamed. Black damask curtains had been pulled away from large windows, allowing in the light of the afternoon and framing the Scottish countryside beyond. The heavy furniture was ornate and well made—antique like most of the house’s other rooms. A black and gold counterpane lay flat upon the mattress, several pillows arranged neatly against the headboard.
The scents she had begun to associate with Adam proved even stronger here, flooding her senses with cedar, cigar smoke, and a pure masculine aroma that seemed uniquely his own.
An open door led the way into a washroom equipped with the latest in plumbing technology. Metal pipes descended from the ceiling, pulling cool water in from the cistern to mix with the piping hot water the footmen toted from the kitchen. A contraption Adam referred to as a ‘shower bath’ sat in another corner of the room—appearing like a large basin with wooden rods reaching upward, holding a curtain which enclosed its inside. While undressing and preparing to get into her own bath, she’d watched Adam undress, then open the curtain, revealing that the big basin had what looked like a pump built into its side. The wooden poles held an upper basin, which would hang over Adam’s head once he stepped inside.
Peering over the edge of the massive copper tub, the heat of the water soothing her body, she had watched Adam continue disrobing. Unable to look away, she had drunk in every detail, having realized that he never fully undressed when they were intimate. Her mouth had gone dry at the sight of him, rippling with power and strength—bulky cords of muscle flexing and bunching beneath supple skin. Dark coils of mahogany brown hair covered his chest, then trailed down his abdomen, turning into the coarse nest at his groin. He was chiseled like a statue, deep grooves carved out between the bulges, his legs all taut sinews. His hair hung down his back in soft waves, past his shoulder blades in length. In London, that hair might be considered indecent, the mark of an ill-bred man, not a titled earl. Yet, it suited him, made him seem so much a part of the wild and untamed lands surrounding his castle.
He met her gaze, but said nothing, seeming unruffled by her unguarded perusal of his nude body. Leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, he approached the shower bath and stepped into the basin, his height forcing him to hunch a bit to keep from hitting his head. Bending down to grasp the pump, he worked it with one hand, the slender pipes attached to the wooden poles rattling a bit.
“How does it work?” she’d asked, wrinkling her brow.
She had been too curious to worry that he might not wish her to speak at the moment.
“The footmen fill it with water, and I use the pump to move it up these pipes and into the upper basin,” he said as he straightened. “Then, I simply pull this cord.”
She watched as he reached up to pull a rope attached to the upper basin. The action produced a shower of water from overhead, which doused him from head to toe. Then, he took up a cake of soap and used it to lather himself, scrubbing his skin, then his hair before working the pump again to refill the upper basin. Pulling the cord once more, he drenched himself with more water, rinsing clean.
It was a marvelous invention, one she had heard very little about. She felt certain these were being installed in the homes of the peerage who were not as financially bankrupt as her family.
He’d left the room then, wrapping a length of linen around his waist, his hair curling and dripping water all over the tiles.
Maids had come into the room to clean up behind him, ignoring her altogether. Not long after they’d left, Adam returned, dressed in breeches and a shirt, his feet bare and his damp hair pulled back from his face. Seeing him this way proved oddly intimate—his shirt hanging open and his feet bare as they sat in his private washroom. He dragged a footstool toward the tub and sank onto it.
Producing a hairbrush, he took hold of her hair, which she’d let hang over the lip of the tub after washing it, so it could dry. Without a word, be began dragging the bristles over her hair, his grip surprisingly light, his ministrations gentle. Closing her eyes, she sighed, surrendering to the warmth of the water and the soothing glide of the brush over her hair.
He did not allow her peace to last for long … though he did continue brushing her hair while he spoke.
“I will tell you the rest now,” he stated. “Everything you need to know about Serena. But, I warn you, Daphne … after this day, you will not ask me about her again. You will not try to interfere in her life, and you will never again attempt to go into her wing of the house.”
She opened her mouth to protest, to remind him that Serena was her niece, and he had no right to separate them. She wanted to insist that her stumbling upon the nursery had been an accident, not a purposeful defiance of his orders.
Instead, she merely nodded her acquiescence.
“As I told you before, your father turned Olivia away when she tried to inform him of Bertram’s indiscretion,” he continued, his voice eerily calm as he wove the rest of his tale. “She tried to contact both of them several times throughout the rest of the Season, insisting Bertram do the right thing. Her greatest fear had become having a man offer for her and eventually needing to explain her lack of virginity. She was ignored … until she realized she had become pregnant. Olivia tried once more to approach Bertram, thinking he would surely do the right thing now that a child had been sired. Your brother insisted the child surely could not be his … he accused her of trying to trap him into marriage and insisted she must have lain with other men after being with him, and he had no way of knowing who had actually fathered the child.”
Anger burned the surface of her skin, her eyes filling with tears that she dashed away with a shaking hand. Damn Bertram, he had turned out to be the worst sort of cur. She could not even find the words to defend him, having seen the child for herself and witnessing Olivia’s horror at being in the presence of a Fairchild.
“So, because Bertram and your father could not be counted upon, she went to the only other man in London who might take pity upon her,” Adam said.
“Uncle William,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “What did he do to her?”
“He went to your father, of course, who brought him into the fold,” Adam spat, his hand stilling with the brush as his voice quivered with fury. “Together, the two decided Olivia must be dealt with before she could bring public shame upon the Fairchild family. She could not simply be bought off the way the other ladies had been, that much was clear. William took the lead, insisting he had things well in hand. He called upon Olivia and told her Bertram was young and foolish and might need some time to come to his senses. In the meantime, her condition would need to be hidden from the public. He told her he would send for her … have her taken to some estate owned by your family where she could hide in peace and await Bertram’s arrival. William insisted he would bring your brother to heel, and all would be well. Olivia has always been a gentle soul, and far too trusting. She believed him.”
Daphne gripped the edge of the tub so tight, her fingers began to ache. She didn’t dare move, or speak, or even breathe, needing to hear what her mind had already guessed at … needing him to say it aloud.
“He tricked her,” Adam whispered, his voice lowered and raspy with rage. “He met her and spirited her away under the cover of darkness … but it was no estate he took her to. Instead, he drove her clear across England to an asylum for unwed mothers.”
The acrid taste of vomit lingered in the back of her throat, and she feared she would become violently ill. Asylums for unwed mothers were little more than prisons run by old crones who spent more time chastising the poor women for being wantons than they did actually caring for them. Some of them were known for conditions little better than Newgate, with many of the women wasting away while waiting to give birth, or dying while in labor. The children then became orphans, handed off to the woman’s family or placed in orphanages or convents. To think of Olivia—a sweet young lady who had loved flowers and music—in such a place made her want to wretch.
“Oh, Adam …”
He did not reply, but continued with his tale, the words coming faster now, as if he needed to get them out.
“I did not discover her location for several months. Her cousin wrote to tell me she had disappeared, assuming she’d run off with Bertram, whose company she’d been seen in several times. I immediately traveled to London and sought Bertram out. He insisted he had not seen her in quite some time and had no idea where she’d gone. It wasn’t until I discovered her in that asylum, where she had already given birth to Serena—and nearly died in the process—that I realized that he’d lied to me. The child resembled him too strongly for anyone else to have sired her.”
She craned her neck to look at him, which was made difficult with his hand fisting her hair. He had tightened his grip, causing her scalp to sting as she tried to look at him, to see the emotion he hid beneath a flat tone. Just as they had that night in the music room, his eyes appeared haunted, swirling with pain and grief.
“I cannot imagine what she went through,” she whispered, the only words she could say as Adam would have scoffed at any apology she offered.
“A cold room with no hearth,” he growled, lifting his gaze to meet hers. “Meager food, and hours of chores forced upon her … a penance for her sin, they said. The midwives who cared for her … they told her the pain was her burden to bear. They did nothing to help her, even when she nearly bled to death. God was judging her … she must suffer his wrath. And if she lived, it meant she had atoned and He had accepted her repentance.”
She sniffled and choked back a sob, unable to stifle her tears any longer. Her heart ached for Olivia, who had done nothing to deserve her fate. Just as Daphne had done nothing to deserve hers … and yet, an overwhelming guilt caused her to question her own innocence. How could she have walked about so oblivious to all of this? It had happened under her nose, but she’d been so self-absorbed and concerned with her own affairs, she hadn’t recognized the plight of another woman. A woman she might have helped if she’d known.
“I brought her home and called for the best doctor in Kincardineshire … put her in her bedroom just down the corridor from this one and hoped being surrounded by her own things would cheer her up. Niall … damn the fool … he’d been in love with her since we were children and he was a mere stable boy. He’d been her first kiss, he’d taught her to ride, he … he thought perhaps he could help. But it was too late. Her mind had fractured from the distress … she went mad. In the midst of all her rambling and ranting, we discerned that the midwives had mentioned sending for William to come retrieve the child.”
She gasped, remembering the first time she’d ever encountered Olivia. She had screamed and clawed at Daphne, declaring she would not take ‘her’ away. The ‘her’ had been Serena, she felt certain. Olivia had feared a Fairchild would come and take away her daughter. As the pieces of this crumbled mosaic began to form a clear picture, Daphne despised what she saw … disdain welled up deep in her gut for the man who had raised her and the brother who had fooled her into believing him the good sort. The best man there was, she’d often called him. It made her ill to realize he was the complete opposite of everything she’d ever believed.
“You accused Uncle William of murder,” she reminded him.
He shook his head. “You assumed that, but I never actually said he murdered her … I said he paid for her life with his. You saw her, Daphne … she did not die, but she is trapped inside her fractured mind. It is as if all the things that made her who she was died. Sometimes, I believe she wishes she had.”
“You must know, I would never …” she trailed off with a hiccup, trying to rein in her turbulent emotions. “I would never try to hurt Serena, or take her away from her family.”
“No,” he agreed, releasing her hair and cupping her face. “I do not believe you would, little dove. But Bertram or your father might, if they knew she had survived. As far as they are concerned, she died at birth … and that is how it will remain.”
She nodded, flinching when he gripped her jaw, his fingers tightening almost painfully. “I promise … I will say nothing.”
“I do not think you want to know what the consequences will be if you forget yourself and let it slip,” he murmured, a clear threat in his lowered voice. “I think we understand each other, Daphne. Do we not?”
She took a shaky breath and nodded again, fear ramping up her pulse and making her cunt clench with longing. How could this man make her respond to fear and degradation with lust? Just now, she found herself wishing he’d lower his hand, tighten his fingers around her throat again and give her more of the oblivion he had subjected her to in his study. She wanted him to blot out the entire world, where only the two of them remained in sharp focus, and claim her body in a way no one else had. She doubted anyone else ever would.
“And you understand now why you must pay,” he added, inclining his head and studying her pensively. “Why the only way to truly ruin Bertram is to ruin you?”
Again, she nodded. Because she understood better than he imagined … she even agreed with him that it must be her. Bertram would not care about anyone else, but his sister … he would take her ruination as a personal affront.
“I understand,” she whispered, lowering her eyes. “Do what you must, Adam. Whatever you think you need to do to me … I can endure it.”
Nodding slowly, he stroked his thumb over her lips. “Aye, I know you can. Perhaps that is why I’ve enjoyed this far more than I ought to … because you endure and submit so beautifully. If you were not who you were, and I was not who I am …”
Her breath hitched when he fell silent, her gaze searching his as he looked away and shook his head.
What? She wanted to ask him. What would happen if I was someone else—if you were someone else?
But he did not continue. He simply shook his head and released her, rising from the stool.
“Bathe, dress, and join me in the bedroom. We will take dinner here.”
With that, he turned and left the washroom, closing the door behind her.
Heaving a sigh, she laid her head against the edge of the tub and tried to make sense of the things he had not said.
Another tear slid down her cheek, this one for Adam. For a man who seemed emotionless, but who felt things far more deeply than she’d realized. She did not want to endure the things he’d made her feel, nor did she want to pity him. Yet, she did. He made her want to soothe him, to make right everything her father, William, and Bertram had done.
How she would go about that, she was not sure. All she had to offer him was her body, and while he seemed to take pleasure in it, she realized it did not account for much. In truth, she had nothing, and when this had all ended, she would be nothing … no more than a tool he had used to exact his final revenge.