CHAPTER SEVEN
nce she had recovered from her encounter with Adam in the meadow, Daphne returned to Dunnottar alone. Leaping astride her horse, she’d ridden back to the castle as fast as the beast would carry her—so fast, the lash of the wind dried the tears upon her face. She’d galloped as if the hounds of Hell nipped at her heels—and in truth, she’d felt as if they did. The ugly accusation Adam had hurled at her feet had chased her relentlessly, echoing through her mind, reverberating like the voice of a phantom through a darkened corridor. No matter how she tried to outrun it, the realization that her brother might be a debauchee followed her, calling to mind memories long forgotten.
Bertram signing dance card after dance card at Almack’s … disappearing for hours on end during various soirées … pouring attention upon a different woman every fortnight.
What had, at first, seemed like nothing more than a young man enjoying his days as a bachelor and engaging in light courtship had now been cast in a nefarious light. She could not help but imagine Bertram signing those dance cards in order to ease young chits into a false sense of comfort, or slipping into darkened gardens with unknowing women in order to have his way with them where no one could see and then moving on to the next victim once he had finished with her.
As she’d entered the courtyard and approached the stables, her mind had whirled, her stomach lurching so violently, it was a wonder she had not cast up her accounts. Handing her reins off to a groom, she’d pressed a hand against her middle, choking down bile and telling herself it could not be true. This was Bertram, her brother, the kindest man she knew. The sort of man every man wanted to be friends with and every young woman wished to wed. Why would he need to force a woman into his bed when he could have his pick of any chit in London?
No, Adam must be mistaken … someone had given him false information. It did not make sense.
However, as she entered her chamber and ambled toward the little writing desk, her certainty began to waver. The things she’d learned about her uncle had held the ring of accuracy to them, and she’d been forced to admit they might be true. She must put aside her love for Bertram and think objectively. Adam had warned her his version of the truth would be difficult to fathom, which meant she must examine this new piece of information from every possible angle.
When Maeve entered the room to offer tea and a light afternoon meal, Daphne dismissed her. She could not even think of trying to eat. Instead, she retrieved the stationary, inkwell, and quill pen she had stored inside the desk, spreading them out upon the surface. Setting her notes concerning Uncle William aside, she reached for a fresh sheet. Her other notes had indicated that Adam’s return to London five years ago after a long absence seemed to align with her uncle’s swift descent into poverty and despair before his death. At that time, she’d just begun her second Season, right before their financial difficulties had begun.
Bertram had danced attention upon several young debutantes, whose names Daphne jotted down as they came to mind.
Lady Cassandra Lane. Miss Caroline Redgrave. Lady Avis Urswick.
As her list grew, she tried to recall whether Bertram had expressed interest in marriage to any of them. The more names she added, the more frustrated she became, realizing he’d never paid attention to any of them for longer than a few weeks. In truth, her brother had never seriously courted any woman.
“I’ll marry when it becomes necessary, Daff,” he would say whenever she teased him that he would die a bachelor. “Father is still in good health, so it seems unlikely I will inherit the title in the near future. You don’t want just any chit to become the next viscountess, do you?”
Having arrived at the age of four and twenty without choosing a husband, Daphne had never found Bertram’s desire to remain unattached odd. After all, she had yet to find a man she would wish to spend the rest of her life with and did not intend to wed until she had. Was it so odd for her brother to hold out for love … or at least, passion?
Yet, staring at her list of names, her heart sank. The sheer number of them did not indicate the predilections of a man holding out for love. They seemed the mark of a predator … a rake … a scoundrel who preyed upon the innocent.
Setting the quill aside, she buried her face in her hands with a heavy sigh. If Adam’s claims proved true, then perhaps the man’s vendetta against her family had something to do with one of the women on her list. A woman Bertram had ruined … one who was important to Lord Hartmoor in some way.
During her short time at Dunnottar, she had yet to encounter anyone other than Adam and the servants who catered to him. However, the palace was massive, with plenty of floors and wings unexplored by her—plenty of places the debauched woman could be hiding. There were also the unexplained women’s clothing; both the items she had worn during her first day here and those within the laundry she’d spotted in the basket of a maid.
The more she thought on it, the more it all began to make sense. If her brother had ruined someone Adam cared about, then he might feel obligated to defend her honor. Yet, the actions of the man who’d paid a grand sum for access to her body didn’t seem in line with that notion. When a woman was found to be ruined, her father or guardian typically sought restitution from the man—usually ending in a hasty marriage in order to salvage the lady’s reputation. Why, then, had Adam not visited her father, demanding something be done about the situation? Why set about the systematic destruction of her entire family? He had told her he did no more than take an eye for an eye, but he had chosen to target three men for the alleged sins of one.
For that matter, who could this faceless woman be? Despite being several years her senior, Adam was not old enough to have a daughter who might encounter Bertram. Had it been someone he’d wanted for his own? A woman he had courted, loved, and hoped to marry? A sister, a cousin, a ward?
Issuing a grunt of frustration, she lifted her head. She must ferret out Adam’s secret, learn more about his family and his past … it was the only way she could untangle this convoluted web of secrets and lies.
Resolved, she swiftly returned her notes to the desk drawer, then stood. Not long ago, she had been desperate to get away from him, to escape the truth he wielded against her like a weapon. Now, she must purposely put herself in harm’s way, endangering both her body and soul in order to bring more of his torment upon herself.
She steeled herself for what was to come, prepared herself to be awakened by his wicked touch … to retreat with a mantle of shame draped over her shoulders and her logical mind doing battle with her undiscerning body.
Leaving the room, she set off to find him, wrestling with the right words in her mind. She could not simply approach him and demand answers; he would laugh in her face before doing something to remind her she was subject to his whims. She hadn’t wanted to play his games, but had been left with no other choice. She needed to know the entire truth—to put to bed the voices in her mind telling her she was sacrificing herself for nothing, that she would allow this monster to tear her apart and send her back to her family in tattered shreds.
Pausing outside of the door Niall had led her to her first night here, she raised her fist and knocked before she could change her mind. When no answer was forthcoming, she knocked again, pressing her ear to the heavy panel to listen for the deep, rumbling tones of his voice.
After a while, restlessness prompted her to reach for the knob. She pushed the door open just wide enough to peer through the crack, searching for his large, imposing frame in the dimly lit room. When she did not find him, she pushed the door open wider, quickly realizing he did not occupy the study. His presence seemed to fill any space he occupied—some elemental thing that never failed to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
That feeling was distinctly absent; yet, she continued into the cavernous room, curiosity drawing her toward the massive desk resting on its other end. Both hearths had been lit, the crackling fires surrounding her in a comforting warmth. Despite the size of the study, it felt oddly intimate, a scent that was distinctly Adam’s permeating the space—cedar, spice, and musk—intertwined with leather and the lemon oil his desk and bookcases had been polished with. Drawing closer to the desk, she spied a crystal ashtray upon the surface, the stub of a cigar lying amid a pile of ashes. Its aroma lingered in the air, mingling with the other scents.
The strength of his fragrance and that of the cigar told her he had been here recently. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure he, or a servant, did not approach, she quickly rounded the desk. Curiosity drove her now, the need to learn something—anything—about Adam making her reckless. She did not allow herself to think of what he might do if he found her here. It could not possibly be any worse than the things he’d already done—or the things he’d promised he would.
Sitting in his chair, she sank into the worn, comfortable leather, the masculine scent even stronger here. The surface of his desk was immaculate, free of the sort of clutter and disarray she had expected. A large, leather-bound book rested in the center, turning out to be a financial ledger of some sort once she opened it. His handwriting proved even neater than hers, the pleasing lines and slopes of his letters and numbers coming as an odd surprise. Picturing him sitting at this desk, his long hair spilling down his back, face fixed into that expression of disdain, she found it difficult to imagine him executing such flawless penmanship—as opposed to stabbing at the pages while huffing smoke and snorting fire.
She chuckled at the image she had conjured and closed the book, observing the other contents of the desk. An inkwell and quill sat perpendicular to the book while an open, wooden box displayed several sticks of red wax and a large, ornate seal fob. Taking up the fob, she turned it over in her hands, noting that the warmth still clinging to its gilded surface meant he’d just used it. Its bottom had been etched to create the imprint of a castle upon the wax, the word ‘Dunnottar’ scrawled elegantly beneath it.
Replacing the fob, she sat back in the chair, reaching for the long, slender drawer built in just beneath the top of the desk. Inside rested several stacks of neatly placed stationary, several beautiful, filigreed quill pens, an extra inkwell, and a collection of other odds and ends. Among it all, a handful of square envelopes rested, stamped with the wax and seal she’d just inspected.
She furrowed her brow, retrieving one of the envelopes from the drawer and turning it over in her hands. Its shape and size left no question that she held an invitation in her hand. The other identical envelopes numbered few, leading her to believe they must be for a dinner party. Invitations would likely number in the hundreds for a ball hosted at a home the size of Dunnottar. No names had been scrawled on the front of them, so she could not know who he would be inviting to the keep. With a sigh, she placed the envelope carefully back in its place before closing the drawer.
In a typical household, invitations of this sort would be chosen by the lady, sent off with her seal. Bachelors might rely on a man of business or even their mothers to see the job done. Yet, in the absence of either, it seemed Adam took the task on himself. Who had he invited to Dunnottar, and for what purpose? Would they arrive while she resided here?
Shaking her head, she decided it had no bearing upon her quest for the truth. Unless her father or Bertram were among his guests—a highly improbable possibility—it was none of her concern.
She made quick work of exploring the rest of the desk, opening two larger drawers to the left of his chair to reveal a humidor filled with cigars and a cedar chest holding a pair of revolvers.
Having now grown bored with the desk and study, she stood and made a hasty exit, pausing at the door to peer into the corridor and ensure no servants happened past. Slipping out into the hallway, she continued on her way, uncertain where to go now. Adam had not divulged which rooms in the castle might be his favorites, nor had she seen him anywhere except this study, the drawing room where they had taken breakfast, and the music room.
The gallery, she recalled suddenly, spinning on her heel and heading in the opposite direction.
Her steps quickened as she neared the great hall and the corridor stretching toward the other wing of the ground floor. The fencing equipment she’d seen in the gallery meant he must spend time there practicing. That he had left his study when the day had hardly begun told her be must be restless. She found a bout of fencing to be just the thing when her mind became disquieted and wondered if he could be of a similar mind.
Sure enough, the sound of metal striking metal reached out to her as she neared the gallery, the shuffle of footsteps mingling with panting breaths. As she turned into the long, wide space, she spied two men in fencing attire, masks obscuring their faces. Despite being of large stature, they both moved with fluid dexterity, displaying impressive skill with the épées they wielded.
The first man was, undoubtedly, Adam, his large body moving with all the grace of a big cat, his long hair spilling from beneath his headwear and hanging down his back. The other must surely be Niall—the only other man in the castle as large and imposing as Adam.
Leaning against a nearby wall, she watched them go at each other, duly impressed with the way they seemed to know each other, moving back and forth as if in a dance instead of a fight.
Within minutes, Adam had bested his butler, striking the winning point and bringing an end to their bout. Niall removed his mask first, slipping it up to rest on top of his head. Unlike the other times she’d laid eyes upon him, he smiled, easing the harsh lines of his face into an almost handsome visage. Adam followed suit, pulling his mask away completely and shaking his head, causing his hair to undulate, the wavy strands kissed by the sunlight streaming through the large gallery windows.
The two spoke, but she heard nothing more than the low rumble of voices, her distance from them too far for her to discern words. Suddenly, Niall lifted his head and glanced in her direction. She felt it the moment his gaze fell upon her, all the warmth fading from his expression. A chill raced down her spine, followed by a tremor when the butler murmured something to Adam, prompting him to turn and glance at her over his shoulder.
Her throat constricted when he crooked his finger at her, demanding her to come to him without speaking. She’d wanted this, hadn’t she? To find him, speak to him, figure out a way to uncover the things he hid from her.
But as she forced her legs into motion and began the long walk down the gallery toward them, fear lanced through her, turning her stomach. The two men had turned to face her, watching her approach, and the memory of the last time she’d been caught between them opened a pit of anxiety in her gut.
Choking down bitter bile, she fixed her face into an expression of indifference as she came near, the mingled scents of both males and the tang of their sweat making her stomach lurch, heat blossoming in her middle. Adam studied her with unguarded interest, his gaze raking her from head to toe. Conversely, Niall watched her with clear derision in his eyes, as if he would rip her to shreds with his bare hands should he be given half a chance.
“Well,” Adam drawled when she stood before them, hands clasped demurely before them. “When Maeve told me you’d refused lunch, I did not think to see you again until dinner. What brings you here, little dove?”
His downright jovial manner took her aback, a complete departure from the man who had confronted her in the meadow, demanding she open her eyes and face the hideous truth.
“I … I have a proposition for you,” she stammered, her face heating when Niall chuckled in reaction to her statement.
Adam raised an eyebrow and traded amused glances with his butler. “A proposition, eh? Niall, you’d better make yourself scarce … the lady wishes to proposition me.”
Pursing his lips, the butler leveled an annoyed glare at her, but swiftly removed his headgear and fencing attire he’d donned over his breeches, shirt, and waistcoat. Hanging them on a nearby rack, he retrieved his tailcoat, swiftly slipping it on before executing a stiff bow.
“As you wish, Master,” he murmured, casting her another malevolent glare before leaving them.
His footsteps echoed over the polished marble tiles, eventually fading altogether as he disappeared from sight.
Resting his épée over one shoulder, Adam probed her with a curious gaze. Sunlight flooded the room, causing the golden strands of his hair to shimmer and his eyes to take on the hue of warm honey.
“Well?” he prodded when she’d stood there for several seconds without speaking.
Clearing her throat, she lifted her chin. “I had hoped to challenge you to a duel.”
He chuckled, twirling the grip of his épée, the sunlight glinting off the blade’s edge. “Is that so?”
She nodded. “Yes … but I want to attach a wager to our bout. If I win, you must answer a question for me. Any question I ask.”
Creasing his brow, he nodded slowly, as if digesting her proposition. “Did you not learn enough this morning?”
The reminder of the revelation he’d made left a bitter taste in her mouth. “I do not relish being made to wait for the answers I seek. If you are bold enough to allow me a chance to earn more, I’d like to try.”
His smirk spread into a grin, exposing his teeth. “What do I receive when I trounce you?”
She bristled at his teasing, annoyed he thought so little of her skill. That he underestimated her would prove his downfall in the end. She could beat him … she would beat him.
“You may have …”
She bit her lip, knowing she must offer him something enticing; otherwise, he would simply laugh her off. Yet, offering him too much too soon would make it more difficult to attempt this tactic in the future. It would lose its allure for him if, for instance, she offered to give up her maidenhead here and now without a fight. No, it must be something that would please him enough to make him risk being forced to reveal something before he was ready.
“M-my mouth,” she offered before she could lose her nerve.
His grin faded, and his pupils expanded, turning his eyes into fathomless bronze. Nostrils flaring, he took a step toward her, reaching out with his empty hand to grasp her chin. His thumb rested against her lower lip, his gaze dropping as he contemplated her offer.
“A bonny mouth it is, little dove,” he murmured. “What, exactly, are you offering to do with it?”
Her chin trembled, her breath hitching as his nearness washed over her like a roaring ocean wave, muddling all her senses. He filled her vision with his large frame, his scent flooding her nostrils—so heady and masculine, she could practically taste it. Primitive. Wild. Spicy with just a hint of sweat from his exertions. Her knees grew weak, her legs turning to jelly.
“You threatened to use it, did you not?” she managed, her words coming out low and husky.
“Aye. That, I did,” he replied, slowly tracing the line of her lower lip, then pressing down on it to part it from the upper. “And you understand what that means, do you not? You are not quite as innocent as I first assumed, are you?”
He sank his thumb into her mouth, and she lifted her tongue to meet it, lapping at the tip of it in answer to his question. She had never performed fellatio before, but believed she grasped the basics. It should not be difficult.
“Say it, little dove,” he growled, going back to stroking her lip, biting his own as if tamping down the urge to devour her whole. “Say out loud what you’re going to do with that pretty little mouth.”
The words hovered on the tip of her tongue, embarrassment making it difficult to say them. She had insisted he’d never make a whore of her; yet, here she stood, bartering a sexual favor in exchange for something she needed.
“Say it, Daphne,” he growled, an edge of annoyance creeping into her voice. “I want to hear it.”
“I-I will …”
He leaned closer—so close, she could feel his breath fanning against her face, tickling her cheek.
“Suck your cock, Adam,” he finished for her.
“I will suck your cock, Adam,” she said, lowering her eyes—but not before heat and satisfaction flared in his, searing the surface of her skin like a branding iron.
His smile returned, slow, teasing, and feline, drawing her gaze back up to his face. “You have yourself a wager, little dove.”
Releasing a sigh of relief, she stepped away from him, squaring her shoulders and stepping around him to approach the rack arranged against one wall. She swiftly unbuttoned her jacket, exchanging it for the protective clothing Adam already wore. After adorning herself in the padded jacket and gloves, she selected a mask, holding it beneath one arm while inspecting the row of épées mounted upon the wall beside the equipment racks. Flanked by foils on one side and sabers on the other, the épées all appeared identical, so she selected one, testing its balance.
She held it up by its grip and inspected it, then turned it on its side, letting it go and catching it with the tip of her first finger, balancing it by the blade. A trick Bertram had taught her. Satisfied with the épée, she flicked her wrist and caught the weapon by its grip before turning to face Adam.
Eyebrows raised, he inclined his head at her. “The lady knows her way around a weapon.”
She shrugged one shoulder, brushing past him and pulling on her mask. “I told you … I’ve been fencing since I was a girl. I am no novice.”
“We shall put your skill to the test,” he replied, walking down the gallery a few paces before turning to face her. “En garde!”
Daphne reacted swiftly to the command, assuming her starting position and thrusting her épée out before her, legs bent, one hand folded behind her back.
“Rules?” he asked once he’d sank into his own beginning posture. “First to five points wins the bout … three bouts total?”
She nodded in agreement. “The winner of two out of three bouts claims their prize.”
“Very well,” he affirmed. “Ready?”
“Yes,” she replied just before he called out the starting word.
“Allez!”
He followed the command with a swift lunge, his long limbs serving to thrust the épée squarely at her center. She danced back and circled her own weapon to parry the thrust, easily knocking it aside. He lunged again, feinting left, then swiftly striking right when she moved to defend herself. The tip of his épée struck her shoulder, earning him one point.
Clenching her teeth, she moved away from him, sinking back into her beginning stance while he did the same.
“En garde,” she growled, thoroughly irritated that he’d scored the first point.
Bertram had always accused her of being competitive in everything, often goading her into wagers over even the most mundane thing. Her need to win was now more than a desire to ferret more secrets from Adam. It had become a matter of pride. This man had humiliated her far too many times since they’d met, and she was owed recompense.
“Allez!”
This time, she attacked first, lunging, then backpedaling when he feinted and tried to counter-attack. She feinted again, lower this time, forcing him to protect his legs. Then, she swiftly flicked the épée, striking his lowered shoulder.
Glowering at her through the mesh front of his mask, he backed off, taking his position once more. They went at each other three more times, dancing around one another as they learned each other, testing with various attacks and discovering each other’s weakness.
After becoming tied with four points each, Adam managed to beat her in the first bout, countering her attack and landing his épée upon her thigh. Despite the loss, Daphne grinned, circling him to get back in position for the second bout. She’d always enjoyed fencing and had not faced so worthy an opponent in quite some time.
“You possess admirable skill with the épée,” he said as he faced her and crouched into position. “En garde.”
She rolled her eyes and snorted. “Funny … I was going to say the same thing about you … Allez!”
He laughed, swiftly backpedaling away from her attack before countering with one of his own. The second bout lasted longer than the first, both of them giving as good as they got, the tentative learning from the first fight making way for displays of style and flair. She proved lighter on her feet than him, her slender figure making her a smaller target and therefore harder for him to strike.
She stole the second bout, gaining her five points to trounce his three.
“Well met, little dove,” he panted, lifting his mask for a moment and using his sleeve to dry the sweat causing his brow to glisten. “But you shall not fare so well in the final bout. I can feel your sweet lips around my cock already.”
Determination clenched her jaw, and she ignored his teasing, remaining silent as she resumed her starting position. Laughing as if he knew he’d struck a nerve, he circled her, returning to his place and preparing for the third round. She fought against the urge to so much as blink lest she miss any hint of his moves as he went on the offensive, using brute force to beat her back. She danced away from him, spinning and parrying to avoid the touch of his épée. Yet, he did not allow her to land a single blow, becoming far more ruthless in this bout than he had been in the previous two. He landed two blows in quick succession, sacrificing himself and allowing her to land one in the process.
His laughter taunted her, her breath quickening into enraged pants as he landed a third blow and then a fourth. He’d thrown her off balance so quickly, causing desperation and anger to make her careless. The fifth blow fell so easily, she might as well have stood still and allowed him the point.
The épée landed in the center of her chest, its blunt edge resting between her breasts. Adam kept it there while he removed his mask and tossed it aside. Sweat dampened his forehead, but his eyes danced when he grinned at her, triumph squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.
Tossing her épée to the floor with a huff, she tore off her own mask and dropped it, hands clenching into fists at her sides. She wanted to bat his sword aside and rush him, pummeling him with her fists, possibly even delivering a slap that would leave a handprint upon his face.
However, she had been fairly beaten and could find no fault with him this time. Remembering how he’d punished her for acting like a harridan the night before, she took a deep breath and calmed. No need to provoke him further, especially when he would now have her in a vulnerable position.
“You aren’t half bad, little dove,” he quipped, lowering his épée and bending down to retrieve hers before going back to hang them on the wall. “Only Niall ever proves as much of a challenge, so it is nice to have someone new about to cross swords with.”
As he began stripping away his jacket, she was taken aback by his downright jovial tone. Just that morning, he had been so harsh with her; yet, it would seem fencing had put him in a good mood. She had expected him to tease her, to rub her nose in her defeat before throwing her to her knees to claim what he’d fairly won.
“I am out of practice,” she admitted, reaching up to begin unbuttoning her own jacket. “It has been some time since I’ve had someone to spar with daily. Bertram and I …”
She lowered her eyes when his gaze fell upon her, heavy with reproach at the mention of her brother’s name. The urge to kick herself overwhelmed her, and she could not believe she’d gone and said the one name guaranteed to drag him back into a dudgeon.
Clearing her throat, she glanced back up at him, fixing her face into a placid expression.
“If you wish to begin—”
“Not here,” he interjected, shaking his head. “Come.”
Turning and setting off across the gallery, he left her with no choice but to follow.