CHAPTER THREE
aphne awakened a few hours later with a pounding headache. After breakfast with Adam, she’d been unable to do anything other than retreat to her guest chamber and crawl into the bed, leaving her clothing in a pile on the floor. Pulling the blankets up over her head, she’d curled into a ball, hiding from the world … from the man who had so easily controlled her body before waging war on her mind.
Your father, your uncle, your precious brother … they are not the men you think they are.
The words had haunted her dreams, and now, they reverberated from the walls of her chamber. She needed to escape them, as well as this room, for a time. She located the garments she had discarded that morning and quickly put them back on. The blue ribbon she’d worn as a choker remained on the floor. She made sure to step on it as she walked toward the door, giving her heel a little twist. If she never saw the scrap of satin again, it would be too soon.
Planting her hand on the doorknob, she yelped and backpedaled as it moved against her fingers. The knob turned, and the heavy panel swung open to reveal Adam. Inclining his head, he smirked at her—as if he knew he’d frightened her out of her wits, appearing on the other side of the door just as she was about to open it.
Sweeping into the room, he paused just before her. He smelled of horse, leather, and the outdoors. His hair had been pulled back and tied with a scrap of ribbon, but stray tendrils framed his face as if tugged free by the wind.
He’d just come back from riding, if Daphne hadn’t missed her guess.
“How fares my little dove?” he teased, folding his hands behind his back and giving her a once-over with his eyes.
“Tired of staring at these four walls,” she confessed.
He nodded. “I assumed as much. I’ve come to give you a tour of Dunnottar, should you be amenable.”
“Yes,” she agreed quickly, choosing to be grateful for the chance to walk freely instead of annoyed by the company she’d be forced to keep.
She could not avoid him for the entirety of her stay if she wished to earn the promised thirty thousand pounds, so she might as well accept the fact that she’d be forced to cater to his whims. Perhaps acquiescing instead of fighting would earn her better treatment.
“Excellent,” he said, standing aside and gesturing toward the open door. “Shall we?”
She moved past him as swiftly as she could, her shoulder brushing against the door frame as she tried to avoid walking too close to him. After his unpredictable behavior this morning, she half expected to be pounced upon, dragged to the bed, and ravished.
But no. He had assured her he had no interest in taking her maidenhead quickly. He would prolong the act, leaving her wondering exactly when she could expect him to ruin her.
It was far more frightening than the prospect of being pounced upon, dragged to the bed, and ravished. At least if he did those things, it could be done with swiftly. This game would wear on her before long, the wait becoming unbearable. She would need to steel herself for the days to come. Thus far, he had managed to disarm her in a matter of minutes, and it was only the first day.
“Come,” he commanded, turning left to guide her down the corridor.
The directive bristled along her spine, stirring her ire at him. Yet, she said nothing about the way he’d barked the order at her as if she were a dog. Desperate for some exercise—even if it was only a walk through the massive castle—she pressed her lips together and fell in line.
“Are you familiar with the history of Dunnottar?” he asked as they neared the main hall.
“I’m afraid not,” she replied, turning in a slow circle to take in the light streaming through large stained-glass windows.
The colored glass sent rainbow prisms dancing across the stone floor while the rich tapestries adorning the walls filled what might have otherwise been a dreary room with rich bursts of color. It looked like the sort of place where a king might hold court, and she could imagine a large throne against the far wall.
Adam stood beside her, hands folded behind his back, seeming content to let her take it all in. “In the beginning, there was only a chapel here upon the rocky headland. St. Ninian founded it sometime in the fifth century. No one is quite sure when it became a fortified keep, but over time, walls went up and additions to the property came and went, some eventually torn down to create better ones.”
“That would explain the assortment of outbuildings I passed on my way in last night,” she replied.
“Quite right,” he said. “One thing that never changed … Dunnottar has always been one of the most impregnable fortresses in all of Scotland. The sheer cliffs and the flatlands around it ensured no one could approach unseen, and they would have a steep climb to the gates. There are only two ways in or out—the front gate, which would make raiders vulnerable to attack from all sides, and an underground tunnel on the northern side.”
Her eyes widened at the thought of being able to explore the underground entrance. She’d always read of places like Dunnottar in her novels—dark, gothic castles filled with mysterious secret passages. Adam’s home seemed like a place from a dream.
“How utterly fascinating,” she said.
Feeling his stare on the side of her face, she turned to meet his gaze. He studied her in silence, his face inscrutable, his eyes betraying none of his thoughts. Almost as if he wondered whether her interest could be real, or feigned in order to gain his good favor.
“I think I’d like to see the tunnel,” she added sincerely.
He gave a curt nod. “Perhaps another time. There’s more for me to show you. Come.”
This time, she was happy to follow as he led her toward another corridor stretching in the opposite direction.
“Dunnottar has changed hands many times over the years,” he continued as they walked. “During King William the Lion’s reign, it was the administrative center of Kincardineshire. It fell to King Edward I at one time, only for it to be snatched away from him a year later by Sir William Wallace.”
“Sir William Wallace,” she repeated. “The knight who led the rebellions during the war for Scottish independence?”
Pausing near a closed door, Adam turned to her and smiled. “The lady knows her history. Aye, the very same Sir Wallace. Dunnottar would not fall back into the possession of the English until 1336. Sometime in the sixteenth century, it was granted to the Keith family—the Earls Marischal—by King James the fifth. It remained the seat of the Marischal for over one hundred years. During that time, the keep was transformed into the lavish palace you stand in now. I’ve had a bit of work done to refurnish much of the place, but have kept it mostly the way I found it.”
He opened the first door to reveal a large library, each wall covered in shelves upon shelves of books. A hearth remained cold, but she could imagine the space becoming quite cozy with a crackling fire casting light and warmth into the room.
“So many books,” she murmured as she glanced about the large space. “Our library at Fairchild House could fit inside this one several times over.”
“If you ever wish to visit and read, inform Maeve … she will see to it that the hearth is lit,” he said.
Following him back into the corridor, she smiled. “That is generous of you, Adam. Thank you.”
He waved her off as if it were of no consequence and led her on, opening doors as they continued down the long hall. There were several drawing rooms, all decorated in an intriguing mixture of old and new. In the midst of the corridor lay the study she’d been ushered into—Adam’s domain.
“How did Dunnottar fall to you?” she asked as they reached the end of the corridor and a winding set of stone steps leading upward.
“In 1715, the Earl Marischal was found guilty of treason and stripped of his titles and lands—including this castle. It was acquired by the York Building Company, and remained in their possession until I purchased it five years ago. A lavish expense, some might think, but as a direct descendant of William the Lion, on my mother’s side, I thought it a necessary one. A piece of my heritage, I suppose.”
“I had wondered which of your parents was the Scottish one,” she mused as they came to the landing of the second floor.
He raised an eyebrow at her and smirked. “Was it the burr that gave me away?”
Despite what he’d done to her this morning, she could not help but smile back at him. It seemed a genuine grin, unlike the flash of teeth and snarl he’d flashed at her previously, reminding her of a predator preparing to attack its prey.
“It isn’t strong,” she assured him. “Just pronounced enough to be noticeably Scottish.”
“I can make it stronger when I’m of a mind to, lass,” he said, the accent becoming more pronounced with every word. “Most cannae tell when I dinnae want ’em to.”
Daphne suppressed a giggle, reminding herself who this man was. This was no courtship—he was not a suitor flirting with her while giving her a tour of his home. He was a lecher who had stripped her naked in front of his butler before throwing her onto a table to do wicked things to her. He was the man who had ruined her family.
Adam’s demeanor shifted as if he’d had the same thought at the exact same time. His expression hardened, his jaw clenching as the humor fled his eyes. Jerking his gaze away, he inclined his head down the corridor.
“Shall we?”
Holding her head high, she kept pace with him as he led her down a corridor which opened into a long gallery at the end. They paused there so she could inspect the paintings hanging on the wall, with stained glass windows appearing here and there along the stone. Instead of the family portraits she had been expecting, the gallery had been filled with art—expensive paintings commissioned by some of the most famous artists in London. In some places, she found stone sculptures and busts. Aside from those things, the gallery remained mostly empty—except for the weapons rack she found at the very end of the hall.
She gasped in delight when her gaze fell upon the fencing rapiers hanging there, along with a selection of face masks. A trunk lay on the floor beneath them, and she would be willing to wager it contained the necessary padding needed for the sport of fencing.
“You fence?” she asked.
“Aye,” he replied, opening the trunk and revealing that it did, in fact, contain fencing attire. “Do not tell me you have taken up the sport of fencing, little dove? Do ladies of your social standing not indulge in the typical pursuits of sewing, singing, and the pianoforte?”
Daphne huffed. “I become all thumbs with a sewing needle, am an abominable singer, and find the pianoforte to be a tedious instrument. I’ll have you know, I’ve been fencing since the age of twelve.”
The mocking smirk that set her teeth on edge returned, and he advanced on her, his eyelids drooping seductively.
“Naughty little dove. Engaging in a man’s sport when no one is looking. What else do you indulge in when no one is watching, I wonder?”
A lump lodged itself in her throat, and she backed away from him, unable to help the instinct for self-preservation warning her away from him. The memory of what had occurred over breakfast was not far from her mind, reminding her of how easily an encounter with him could change on the whim of his mood.
He followed, pressing her against the wall with his body, stunning her into submission with the raw power emanating from his hard muscles.
She stiffened against him, sucking in a sharp breath, causing him to smile—a feral display of teeth that sent a shiver down her spine.
“N-nothing, really,” she demurred, turning her head to avoid his gaze.
It was too probing, too knowing.
His breath huffed against her neck, his nose sliding along her jaw as he moved his mouth toward her ear.
“Oh, come now, little dove. There must be something. Tell me something naughty, a secret you would never dare utter aloud.”
Her face flushed as she thought of days spent hidden in the woods, grass staining her gowns as she lifted them to allow a pair of hands beneath. Pulse quickening, she closed her eyes and recalled the feel of his lips on her neck and breasts, his groans in her ear as he taught her how to touch him the way he touched her.
No. Those summers spent in bliss, roaming the lands between her parents’ estate and his were too precious to speak of.
“Truly, there is nothing,” she whispered as he went on nuzzling her neck, his arms a menacing cage trapping her against the wall.
“Liar,” he growled, his teeth scraping against her earlobe. “Come now, Daphne … tell me one of your secrets, and I will tell you one of mine.”
Her heart stuttered as she realized what he must mean, and she forced herself to meet his gaze and not look away. “A secret about my family … about why you ruined us.”
He laughed, his chest rumbling against her breasts and causing her nipples to pebble. She shuddered, but held his gaze, determined not to back down from a direct challenge.
“A fair exchange,” he relented. “You first, little dove. Tell me something wicked.”
She tried to think of something—anything that would placate him enough to earn the promised secret. She’d come here for answers, and thus far had only been told that the men responsible for protecting her were not who she’d made them out to be in her mind. How could that be when her father had always doted on her—even when her willful nature had frustrated him? How could that be when Bertram had always been the man she trusted more than any other in the world? Her uncle had had his faults, but he certainly hadn’t deserved to be coerced into murdering himself.
She must think of something, but would not betray the memories of those summers spent in the country with the man she had once hoped to marry. There were some parts of her Adam would never touch.
Reaching for the first memory she could fathom—one of the few which could be considered naughty—she blurted it out without thinking.
“I once stole an erotic novel from my brother.”
Adam drew back slightly, his lips quivering with amusement. “Is that all?”
Shock dropped her jaw. “Well, of course that is all. You needn’t sound as if I’ve confessed to pilfering a biscuit from a bakery, as if what I did was of no consequence. The novel was quite explicit in detail and rather shocking to read. Not to mention the scandal that would have ensued had anyone known I’d read it. My reputation—”
“It has always amused me how easily a woman’s reputation can be ruined,” he interjected. “How adorable you are, little dove … so pure and sweet, your white wings untouched and pristine. I am going to enjoy sullying them.”
A shiver shot through her at what his words implied, and the promises he’d made over breakfast of the different ways he would go about ruining her.
“Did you blush as you read the erotic novel?” he teased. “Did the words cause your cunt to grow wet?”
Her neck grew hot as she remembered reading page after page of filth—of being both titillated and intrigued by it.
“Of course not,” she lied.
He chuckled again, the sound a grating reminder that he was laughing at her. “How easily you lie, little dove. I know they taught you it is safer to pretend—to lie to yourself about the things you think about when you are alone at night in your bed … to be ashamed of the things you desire. No one is here. You can admit it to me.”
Shame fell on her like a crushing force, but she forced her chin up and speared him with a defiant glare. She would never confess to being wanton, to have come close on quite a few occasions to becoming the whore he now tried to make of her.
“There is nothing to tell,” she insisted. “I stole the book, read it, and put it back before Bertie was the wiser.”
He scowled, moving away from her with a heavy sigh. “You disappoint me, Daphne. Our time together will become so much more enjoyable once you cease playing the lamb to my lion. You called me a villain last night; yet, I have never been dishonest about the sort of man I am. I told you what I want from you, and the price I am willing to pay for it. But you insist upon playing the coquette, lying both to me and yourself about who you are and what you desire.”
How did he see through her so easily when he had barely known her an entire day? She’d spent her life hiding behind a carefully cultivated mask of innocence, holding her tongue when she’d rather speak, spurning kisses when all she’d ever wanted was to be kissed, pretending to be embarrassed by the reaction of her body to certain stimuli when she’d wished to revel in it. What good was her pretense if a man like Adam could see straight through it?
“I do not know what you expect from me,” she replied, injecting as much coolness into her voice as she could muster. “But I will never play your whore.”
“My whore,” he murmured, reaching up to cup her face, his thumb tracing over her lower lip—still tender from his earlier assault. “Perhaps not, but you will be mine, Daphne. I will have you whether you play the innocent or the wanton.”
He stroked her lip with the pad of this thumb, pressing down enough to pull her mouth open. Her breath quickened, and the response he’d coaxed from her this morning roared to life once more, leaving her feeling off-balance and dizzy.
God, why can’t I fight him? What is it about him that makes me feel so weak?
“You promised me a secret,” she reminded him—because she needed him to talk, to return to their original conversation before she lost her head again.
He gave her a slow smile, lowering his hand and allowing it to brush against her breast on its way down. “So I did. You wish to know about how your uncle met his demise.”
“At your hands,” she snapped, taking the opening his lowered arms offered and slipping out from between him and the wall.
He fell in step beside her, and they walked back the way they’d come. “Are you sure? I feel certain I’d heard he killed himself.”
“Because of you!” she bellowed, turning to face him with her hands balled up at her sides.
Unruffled by her outburst, he paused and leaned against a closed door they had not yet explored beyond.
“No,” he retorted, grinding the words out from between clenched teeth. “Allow me to let you in on a little secret about your uncle. The man was a known gambler, a habit only exacerbated once he began over-imbibing … something he did much more frequently toward the end of his life. Haven’t you ever wondered why he’d taken to drinking so heavily, drowning himself in spirits from sunup to sundown?”
Daphne wrinkled her brow, her ire cooling as confusion pushed to the forefront of her mind. It was true, Uncle William had always had a bit of a gambling habit, though he’d never lost so heavily until … well, she was not entirely certain. Five years ago, perhaps. That was when he’d begun a swift descent into near poverty, taking her father with him.
“Of course I wondered,” she whispered, wracking her brain for some clue as to the reason for her uncle’s drinking. For the life of her, she could conjure nothing.
“The reason was hidden from you, naturally,” he replied, folding his arms over his chest and causing his coat to strain at the seams along his shoulders. “Poor, sweet Daphne, too innocent to know the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes at him. “What did you do to my uncle to drive him into the bottom of the bottle?”
Adam laughed, the rough sound lacking humor. “When a man drinks like that, there is only one cause … the demons he runs from. I did nothing to your uncle to cause him to drink himself half to death. Guilt drove him to drink, which drove him to gamble, making it easy for me to take everything he ever owned.”
Her chest tightened, gripping her heart in a vise as she studied the cold-hearted man before her. Jaw clenched tight, eyes dark and lifeless, mouth a cruel snarl. Despite his rugged beauty, the disdain he felt for her family overshadowed it all.
“You purposely pushed him to gamble away his livelihood,” she accused.
He shrugged as if they spoke of the weather instead of his methodical destruction of Lord William Fairchild. “Was he not a man with a mind of his own, capable of standing up from the table and leaving?”
“Yes, but—”
“Your uncle was irresponsible with his property, gambling it away as carelessly as a child tosses a toy across his nursery,” he interjected. “If I am to blame for anything, it would be simply reminding him that after the pain he had inflicted upon others, he no longer had any reason to live.”
Shock rippled through her, swiftly giving way to outrage. Her spine snapped straight, her fists tightening until her fingernails bit into her palms.
“You bastard,” she rasped, her voice tortured from the grief tearing her up inside. “You … you …”
“Murderer?” he offered, remaining as stone-faced as he had since beginning this conversation. “No court would convict me. Perhaps your uncle knew I was right … he took his own life because his sins had made his existence worthless. The pain he felt the moment that bullet tore through his skull was nothing compared to the pain he’d inflicted upon someone else.”
Someone else? Could the person Uncle William had hurt be Adam? The man seemed a force of nature, like a mighty oak tree, unable to be bent by even the strongest winds. How on Earth could her uncle have hurt him? And if William had committed some wrong against Adam, what role had her father and brother played?
“Whatever he did, I am certain he regretted it,” she managed, her head beginning to pound again from the effort it took to understand what was happening. “He did not have to pay for it with his life.”
Coming close again—near enough that she could see the molten gold and green flecks swirling within his brown irises—he dropped his arms to his sides. She stiffened, but he only came closer, so close his lips brushed her cheek, his breath tickling her skin when he spoke.
“A life for a life,” he murmured. “His final debt … repaid in blood.”
She gasped, her eyes going wide. “A life for a life? He killed someone?”
Backing away from her, he turned and began walking back down the gallery. “Come.”
She flinched as if he’d doused her with a bucket of frigid water, but quickly recovered, trotting to catch up with him as they went back the way they’d come. “Will you not answer me?”
“That is the extent of what I wish to divulge to you at the moment,” he replied, his tone dry as if he’d grown bored with both the conversation and her.
“But you cannot leave it there,” she argued. “You cannot accuse my uncle of murder and then refuse to speak more on the matter.”
His eyes darted toward her, and he smirked. “The weight of my secret was a match for yours. Perhaps, if you wish to know more, you will not hold back when I ask you for something. You will get from me as much as you give, little dove. Remember that next time you wish to make demands of me.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but then swiftly snapped it shut. Arguing would clearly get her nowhere with him. He’d given her a piece of the puzzle, one she could think over further once she returned to her chamber. Perhaps some hint of her uncle’s misdeeds stared her in the face—she only needed to think harder. She did not want to believe any of the men in her family were capable of the sort of thing Adam had implied, but something told her there must be some truth here. From the moment she’d met Adam, he’d been forthright, even when he’d been cruel. He had looked her in the eye and admitted to purposely setting out to ruin her father, uncle, and brother. Why would he then lie about the reasons?
Whatever the case, she would know the entire truth by the end of her thirty days here. She had come all this way and put her virtue on the line—leaving without answers would not be an option.
She followed him in silence, numbly inspecting the contents of each room—her glance sliding unseeingly over opulent sitting rooms, a sun room, more guest chambers than she could count, and a small dining room meant for intimate meals. Another, much larger dining area could be found off the main hall, with a table long enough to seat fifty.
“That will conclude our tour for today,” he announced once they’d come back to the corridor where her room was located. “There is still more to explore, but Dunnottar is too massive for you to see all in one day. I will see you back to your room.”
Nodding, she trailed him back down the hallway toward her chamber. As they paused before the door, she gazed further down the corridor and frowned. Now that it was more brightly lit, she noticed the hallway curved to the left, likely leading deeper into the palace.
“What’s down there?” she asked.
Adam followed her gaze, his expression growing even more shuttered as he shook his head. “That part of the palace is forbidden to you, Daphne. Do you understand? You may venture to any other place I have shown you except that wing of the castle. The moment you step foot in that corridor, I will eject you from the premises with nothing more than the clothing on your back and the horse you arrived on. Our agreement will become null and void, and you’ll receive nothing from me.”
The sudden harshness of his tone took her aback, and as she gazed toward the forbidden wing, a shiver rolled down her spine. What could possibly be down there that he did not wish for her to see? His private chambers? Something more nefarious?
Get a hold of yourself. Your imagination will run away with you and ruin everything.
Knowing what lay in that corridor was of no consequence while learning the truth Adam would reveal to her was imperative. She could not leave Dunnottar without answers.
“Daphne,” he barked, drawing her attention back to him. “I asked you a question. Do you understand what I’ve just said?”
She nodded quickly and found her voice. “Yes, of course. I understand.”
With a curt nod, he opened her door for her. “Maeve should bring you the afternoon meal shortly. Tonight, you will dine with me in the room adjoining yours—where we shared breakfast.”
Nodding again, she moved past him as swiftly as she could—the instinct to avoid his reach as strong as ever. He grinned at her, as if very much aware of how he set her on edge.
“Until dinner, little dove,” he purred before leaving the room and pulling the door closed behind him.
Daphne exhaled, the breath she’d been holding coming out in a rush. His threat of dragging out the inevitable breaching of her maidenhead proved more frightening than anything else she might endure while here. Not knowing when he might strike—when he might strip her naked and use her body for his own pleasure—would keep her constantly on edge. Which, she supposed, must be his aim.
“Well, you are alone now,” she muttered to herself. “No need to fear that when he isn’t even in the room.”
Instead, she would turn her thoughts to the things Adam had revealed a moment ago. Wandering aimlessly around the room, she found an old but polished and well-preserved writing desk with a rough wooden chair pushed beneath it. Pulling out the chair, she sank down and opened the drawer. Inside, she found a stack of stationary, along with a quill pen and full inkwell.
Intriguing.
Had these items been placed here for her use? Perhaps Maeve had thought she’d want to write to her family while living at Dunnottar.
For now, she had nothing to say to her father that Adam had not already revealed in the missive he’d sent to London. What else could she tell him, other than ‘I’m doing it for you, Papa, and Bertie, and Uncle William.’ Her father would know without her needing to divulge it in a letter, and writing it would only bring her to tears. He would likely write back pleading with her to come home, crumbling her resolve. It was best if she did not make contact until she was ready to return, thirty thousand pounds richer.
Pulling out a sheet of the stationary, she unstopped the inkwell and wet the tip of the quill. In the haphazard scrawl that had always vexed her governess, she quickly recorded her thoughts on Adam’s revelations.
Uncle William, drinking led to gambling.
Coerced into gambling away his fortune and property by Adam. Why?
A life for a life. Uncle William, a murderer?
Pausing for a moment, she absently toyed with the quill while staring at what she’d written so far. Adam had implied her uncle had caused someone pain—that it had not compared to the pain of the bullet wound he’d inflicted upon himself. Who could he have hurt so badly that Adam felt William no longer deserved to live?
In her experience, the male sex only reacted this strongly to the pain of another when it was inflicted upon a female in their care, or a child from their loins.
Furrowing her brow, she added another note.
A woman or child?
Had Adam ever been married or sired a babe? She could not think of a single bit of gossip she had overheard about Lord Hartmoor’s family life. Being of both English and Scottish heritage, and owning property in London as well as in Scotland, he divided his time between the two places. Though, she could not recall hearing of him visiting London in quite some time. She had certainly never encountered him in town.
Five years ago. Adam’s return to London coincides with Uncle William’s sudden drinking?
She stared at the note after she’d jotted it down, and she fixated upon it. Daphne did not believe in coincidence. He had returned to London just before her family’s troubles had begun. But, had his dastardly plan run its course? Or would her father and brother suffer even more of his wrath?
Rubbing her tired eyes, she decided it all required closer investigation. She would be prepared to give Adam whatever he asked in return for another piece of the puzzle.
She corked the inkwell and ensured her writing had dried upon the stationary before storing everything back inside the drawer. Shortly after, Maeve arrived with a lunch tray. After the events of the long morning and afternoon, Daphne was positively famished. The maid left the tray and retreated, apparently to see to some pressing task—which left her alone with her thoughts.
Thoughts that, despite her best attempts at avoidance, continued straying to Adam—his hands undressing her, touching her body, his lips claiming hers in a way she would be hard-pressed to forget.
Lord Adam Callahan had destroyed her family and purchased her body as he would a brothel whore … yet, these things seemed minor in comparison to the way he’d set her body on fire, causing her to crave his touch when she should have found it repugnant.
That, Daphne realized, made him far more dangerous than she could have ever imagined.