CHAPTER EIGHT
aphne remained silent as she followed Adam away from the gallery and down the winding corridor back toward the great hall. His long strides were swift and sure, as if he had a particular destination in mind. At first, she assumed he meant to take her to his study—the only room in the palace she had seen him occupy aside from the gallery and music room. Yet, they breezed past his domain, the door remaining tightly closed. He led her through the main hall and toward a door she had never noticed before—one she assumed led outdoors.
Sure enough, when he swung the heavy panel open, sunlight flooded the gap and stung her eyes. Squinting against the glare, she followed him into a large, square courtyard. Coming to a stop at his side, she gasped in awe, soaking in every detail of the little space. The sides of the quadrangle-shaped palace folded in around the courtyard, closing it off from the world. Stone paths guided the way toward a green hedgerow maze while iron benches here and there invited visitors to sit and absorb the scenery. Bursts of color drew her eye to the blossoms someone had carefully cultivated—roses, edelweiss, lilies, iris, tulips, and a plethora of others, complementing the green hedgerows with bursts of red, yellow, purple, and pink. In the center of it all sat a large well, the low edge allowing her to glimpse the clean, clear water inside.
“Oh,” she whispered, the reason she’d followed him out here forgotten. “It’s so …”
A breathless sigh escaped her as she approached the closest plant, reaching out to caress the delicate petals of a blood red rose.
“You must really love these flowers,” she murmured, the tranquility of the garden all but demanding a lowered voice. “They’re well taken care of.”
“My gardeners are compensated well for keeping them,” he replied.
Despite his attempt to sound nonchalant, she could hear the strain in his voice. Turning to peer at him over her shoulder, she frowned. He avoided her gaze, his hair falling over one shoulder as he gazed out over the courtyard.
“Still,” she offered tentatively. “This must be the most pristine, well-maintained part of the castle I’ve come across. It has to mean something to you.”
Uncertain why the sight of him surrounded by so much light and life tugged upon her heartstrings, Daphne approached the well, putting him behind her. She did not want to see that haunted look in his eyes, or wonder what it might mean. This man had destroyed her family, and, if he had his way, would tear her apart, too. He did not deserve her pity.
“Someone who lived here once planted the flowers,” he hedged, following her to the well. “I can take no credit for them.”
Bracing her hands upon the stone lip of the well, she gazed down at the water. It reflected her image back to her, as well as Adam looming behind her. She held her breath as he braced his hands on either side of hers, trapping her between his arms and pressing his body up against hers.
“This cistern supplies the entire castle with fresh water,” he said conversationally, as if he were not pressing the thick root of his erect cock against her back. “A system of pipes built into the palace walls allow us to pump it into the kitchen and the water closets.”
She wanted to ask who had planted the flowers and why they no longer lived here—if they also happened to be the same person her father, uncle, and brother had somehow wronged. Yet, the hard press of his chest against her back, the heat emanating from him and sinking through her skin, and the warning of his breath teasing the nape of her neck stole the words from her lips. Holding her back erect, she fought the urge to sink against him, to arch her spine and rise up on tiptoe so she could nestle her hips into the cradle of his groin.
“Why must you fight me, little dove?” he murmured, lowering his head and pressing his mouth against her ear.
His lips skimmed the back of her neck, his facial hair tickling the delicate skin, his breath caressing her like the brush of insistent fingers. With a whimper, she closed her eyes, her body jerking from the shivers she tried to keep at bay, the desire she tried to hide from him.
“The things you want … the things you need … I know what they are,” he whispered, grasping her hips and pulling her back into him. “They are why you have remained unmarried for so long, despite being the sort of woman the men of London clamor for … despite having your pick of eligible bachelors. They are why you stayed, even when I promised to hurt you, to break you.”
“You know nothing about me,” she retorted despite the pleasure causing her toes to curl in her boots, her eyes rolling back into her head as he brushed his lips against the back of her neck, his tongue creeping out to taste the ridges of her spine.
He chuckled, the rough sound causing liquid heat to pool in her middle and her cunt to clench with longing.
“I know you do not want courtly manners or sweet kisses,” he countered. “You do not want to be cherished or coddled. You want to be used, defiled … broken. You want to be spread apart and plundered until there’s nothing left.”
She could not suppress her shudder this time, her mouth going dry when he took hold of her hair, wrapping her disheveled braid around his fist before giving it a rough jerk. Her neck arched, her scalp stinging from his brutal hold as he contorted her, seeming not to care that the angle he held her in might cause discomfort. Her heart pounded so hard and fast, she would not be surprised if he could hear it, her veins fairly humming from the heady rush of her blood, the excitement that had ramped up her pulse.
“Keeping you here for thirty days and sending you back to London would be more than enough to ruin your reputation,” he rasped, his whiskers rasping her cheek, his lips soothing where the coarse hairs abraded. “But I knew the moment I laid eyes upon you that it would not be enough—not for me, and not for you. It will go easier for you if you submit and obey, Daphne… if you surrender to what we both want.”
Snorting derisively, she squirmed in his hold, determined to win the battle against her body, which seemed to react to him of its own volition, even as her mind screamed that she stood in the arms of a monster.
“How can I desire someone I hate?” she retorted.
He laughed again, the rumbling of his chest resounding through her back, warming her entire body and causing prickles of awareness to sting her skin.
“So naive of you to think lust has anything to do with softer emotions like admiration or respect. When you return to London with your reputation in tatters, what will it matter that you enjoyed it, that you craved it … even begged for it?”
“I will never beg you,” she ground out from between clenched teeth, even as he rubbed his pelvis against her, filling her mind with all manner of erotic thoughts—imaginings of all the things he could do to her with that cock.
“Perhaps not,” he relented, letting go of her hair and spinning her to face him.
His eyes glittered like brilliant gold in the light of the sun, green prisms appearing in the depths, an unmistakably predatory gleam radiating at her with destructive promise.
“But it does not matter in the end,” he reminded her. “I fully intend to take what I want. Whether you fight me, or give in and let yourself enjoy it, is not my concern.”
Raising her chin defiantly, she met his gaze silently, determined not to be defeated, to let him force her to feel things she did not wish to feel. He was wrong about her—she did not want what he threatened her with, the pain or the defilement. She did not want a monster in her bed, laying claim to her body, filling her with his poison.
Even if her body practically sang in response to his touch.
Taking hold of her shoulder, he pushed, commanding her to her knees without a word.
“Will you give me what I am due, or will you force me to take it from you?” he asked, staring down at her from his position of dominance.
He seemed larger this way, his shadow blotting out the sun, his thick, sinewy legs spread to either side of her, his big body trapping her against the stone side of the cistern. The hard ridge of his cock showed against the front of his breeches, straining toward her against the fabric. Remembering the feel of the large organ in her hands, both hard and soft, made her throat constrict.
“You won our wager fair and square,” she declared, tearing her gaze away from his prick and forcing herself to look up into his eyes. “I am a woman of my word.”
He nodded, his rigid frame relaxing a bit, the muscles that had coiled to spring and attack unwinding. Reaching down to grasp her arm, he trailed his hand along the limb until finding her hand. With a tight grip on her wrist, he urged it toward the fall of his breeches, laying her hand flat against him. She sucked in a sharp gasp, the heat of him radiating through the fabric setting her palm on fire. The organ leapt in response to her touch, seeming to fairly pulse with raw power and masculinity. He grunted, pumping his hips and grinding his cock against her palm, rubbing himself against her.
Then, releasing her hand, he let his arms fall to his sides, gazing expectantly down at her. “Take it out.”
She hastened to obey, not wanting to make this any harder upon herself than necessary. If she pleased him, perhaps he would be kinder to her in the future, more likely to exercise care when taking her maidenhead. Steadying her shaking hands, she swiftly opened the fall of his breeches, revealing his cock inch by inch. It sprang free after she’d finished unbuttoning him, the absence of smallclothes allowing it to practically fall into her hands. It was just as menacing as she remembered, swollen and straining toward her, gone nearly purple at the tip from the blood filling and stretching it to near impossible proportions. Yet again, she found herself wondering how it would ever fit without tearing her in two once he finally decided to claim her.
Sparing a glance up at Adam, she found him watching her impassively, his expression betraying nothing. He took a step closer to her, forcing her to lean her head against the stone well, crowding her vision with the sight of his prick jutting out from the confines of his clothes and the thatch of dark hair blanketing his groin. His bollocks hung heavy and full between thighs made like tree trunks—all sinews and bulging muscle. His scent made her head spin, his unique musk mingling with the aromas of cedar and cigar smoke that seemed to always cling to his skin.
“Take me in your hand,” he snapped, impatience edging his voice.
She quickly obeyed, wrapping her fingers around his shaft, her hand just barely enclosing his entire width. He gritted his teeth and thrust into the opening of her hand, his seed welling up in the slit of his head. Despite the hard, angry length of him pulsating in her grip, he did not seem affected by her touch, his face remaining as expressionless as ever.
“Both hands,” he rasped, his voice coming out rough and shaky.
She smirked, giving him her other hand, the evidence of his lust now beginning to show through his mask of indifference. He grunted when she enclosed him with her second hand, slowly surging his hips to create friction between them. His cock seemed to grow and swell with each thrust, the plump veins throbbing with each beat of his heart. He added his hand to hers, tightening her grip and showing her the rhythm he wanted. His breaths came out in harsh pants, his eyes sliding closed as he helped her pump him, their hands moving in tandem over the hard ridge of his prick.
Staring down at her from beneath lowered eyelids, he released her hands. “Your mouth, little dove … fuck me with that pretty little mouth.”
Dropping her hands, she gathered the courage to do what he instructed. What if she was horrible at it? What if he became annoyed with her for not knowing what she was about and found some other way to satisfy his urgings instead?
Fear only held her back for so long, the realization that making him wait might prove the greater offense prompting her into movement. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against his flared head, tentatively kissing him. He held perfectly still, even the sound of his breathing dissipating as he seemed to wait, anticipating what she might do next.
Opening her mouth, she flicked her tongue at him, surprised at the taste of him. The bit of seed that fell onto her tongue proved wild and primitive—what she must assume constituted the taste of pure, raw male. Slightly salty, slightly sweet, completely and wholly masculine. She lapped at him again, this time dipping her tongue into the slit. He made a little sound in the back of his throat that made her skin tingle and emboldened her. Exploring him more with her tongue, she circled the tip, then stroked the underside, licking down to the base, then slowly working her way back up.
He was breathing again, the harsh sound sawing in and out of his parted lips, chest heaving as he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. She took him between her lips, instinct driving her to suck him, moving her mouth over him the same way she had with her hands. Adam trembled, one hand shooting out to grip the edge of the cistern.
“More,” he growled, thrusting his hips at her face and urging his cock deeper into her mouth. “Take more.”
Breathing through her nose, she closed her eyes and obeyed, tightening her lips around him while stroking the underside of his cock with her tongue.
“Aye, little dove … just like that,” he urged, finding a steady rhythm in her mouth as she took to it easily, urged on by the low grunts and swift breaths he seemed unable to keep quiet.
His words lit a fire in her belly, its tendrils licking at her cunt, sparking a longing only he could fulfill. Her empty channel clenched with need, her breasts tightening at the tips.
Muttering an oath, he took hold of her hair with his other hand and surged even deeper, sending his tip to the back of her throat. He groaned, even as she choked, rearing away from him and fighting to breathe.
His fingers tightened around her braid until her eyes watered, and he thrust at her mouth relentlessly.
“Take it all,” he ground out before shoving her head back down onto his length.
Her chest burned from the effort it took to draw breath as he forced his way to the back of her throat again, holding her there without mercy.
“Breathe,” he commanded, stroking her hair before taking it into his ruthless hold once again. “Through your nose … relax your jaw … take me in.”
She did as he suggested, tamping down the urge to fight against the rigid flesh demanding access to her throat, easing her jaw open and drawing air in through her nose. She swallowed the saliva pooling in her mouth, and he gasped, falling even deeper into her before withdrawing, then plunging in again. He stretched her mouth wide, his grip on her hair never letting up as he fucked her mouth, slowly at first, and then with mounting speed as she grew accustomed to it.
Squeezing her eyes closed, she surrendered to his control, let him use her, the way made easier by her nonresistance. Each breath she took through her nostrils flooded her senses with his scent, each thrust of his cock inside her mouth resounding through her body and causing a pang of longing deep in her core with every stroke. She needed relief, to press a hand to her clit and stroke until she spent, to ease the agony twisting in her womb, growing more acute with each rough sound she pulled from him.
“Shite, that’s good,” he groaned, his knees buckling as his strokes became wilder and less controlled. “Aye, little dove … God, you’re so perfect … so good …”
Her eyes flew open, and she stared up him, an unexpected triumph swelling her chest at the sight he presented. Eyes tightly closed, head thrown back to expose the thick cords of his neck, lips parted as he moaned his pleasure. Even as he used her, took from her, placed her in the demeaning position at his feet, she felt as if she had won this little game, nearly bringing him to his knees with nothing more than her mouth.
“Fucking hell, I’m going to come,” he panted, his knees buckling as he gripped her head with both hands, angling her the way he wanted. “Take it all, Daphne … every single drop.”
She made a little noise of acquiescence, staring up at him and watching as he fell apart, shuddering and shaking as he seemed to fight for more time. Yet, the moment he looked down into her eyes, he gasped, doubling over as he began spilling in her mouth. Hot spurts of his seed flooded her palate, each thrust of his hips bringing on more and more of the salty, tangy fluid. She swallowed every drop, just as he’d commanded, keeping him in her mouth until the last wave of it had left his body, until he went flaccid against her tongue and eased his way out of her.
Breathing heavily, he stared down at her with heavy-lidded eyes, the golden gleam hinting at satisfaction. Releasing her hair, he cupped her face, stroking his thumb over her lips.
“Such a bonny mouth,” he murmured. “And a wicked one, too. Well done, little dove.”
His words had a strange effect upon her, warming her chest and causing pride to lift her chin. He’d thrown her off-balance from the moment she’d arrived here; yet, for the first time, she felt as if she had gained some ground in their battle of wills.
Releasing her face, he pushed his cock back into his breeches and quickly buttoned his fall. While tucking in his shirt, he studied her with amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Look at you … as wanton a creature as any I’ve ever seen,” he teased. “And I’ve had my share of wantons.”
Glancing down at herself, she flushed, embarrassment heating her cheeks. The position on her knees had caused the skirt of her riding habit to ride up to her thighs, revealing her stocking-clad legs. Her blouse had become wrinkled beyond repair, the pristine white sullied by her proximity to the ground. She was certain the back had fared no better from being pressed against the well, the blouse likely ruined. The points of her nipples were visible through the thin shirt, with no chemise giving her the benefit of modesty. An unmistakable scent floated on the air—her arousal.
She glared back up at him in silence, shame washing over her as she realized he’d been right about her. If he tackled her to the ground then and there and plundered her body, she would hardly put up a fight. Just as she had every other time he’d touched her, she would go up in flames, consumed by desire and seized with an insatiable need.
What the devil was wrong with her?
“Why won’t you just get on with it?” she asked, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’ve agreed to give you my body … I am here day and night dressed like a prostitute and at your disposal. Why will you not simply put an end to this?”
She bit her lip as she realized her questions had sounded too much like begging for her peace of mind.
Adam flashed his cat-like grin at her. “Where’s the fun in that, little dove?”
With that, he turned and walked away, his long legs carrying him swiftly back across the courtyard. Then, he disappeared into the castle, leaving her sitting on the ground with an aching cunt and a muddled head.
The next few days passed with a sort of stillness Daphne found unnerving. She and Adam seemed to have fallen into a sort of limbo, leaving her on edge and wondering when he might strike again.
Each morning after her breakfast, she would venture to the gallery, sure to find him fencing with Niall. She would watch him spar with the butler, studying his smooth grace and the fluidity with which he moved—with the same surety and confidence he displayed in every other aspect of his life. When he was finished with Niall, he would take her on next, seeming to enjoy crossing swords with her. Upon being dismissed, the butler never failed to make his displeasure known, his disdain for her clear as he stripped off his fencing equipment all the while ripping her to shreds with his gaze. It sent tremors down her spine and settled a cold mass of dread in her gut. The man studied her as if she were no more than a loathsome insect he would crush beneath his heel if given half the chance.
However, Adam’s presence put her at ease, and a part of her seemed to innately understand that he would not allow anyone within the household to harm her. She was not dense enough to believe it could be due to any affection or care on his part. The man would simply wish to protect his thirty-thousand-pound investment. An investment he had yet to take full advantage of. He seemed content to adhere to his plan, to draw it out and leave her guessing when he would take from her the one thing she could never recover once he’d had it.
And so, in the days following the wager and his subsequent claiming of the spoils, she forced herself to relax and take things as they occurred. For a time, they came with alarming predictability—fencing bouts in the mornings, time spent reading in her room while Adam tended to business matters in his study, rides across the Scottish countryside, hours in the music room practicing the harp.
She’d been as rusty at the harp as she had at fencing, but a few hours on the little stool plucking the instrument and it was as if she’d never stopped. These moments were her favorites—the times she could closet herself away in the music room and touch her fingers to strings. The music would float around her, and she could close her eyes, imaging herself in some other place—perhaps on a grand stage with scores of people watching her, listening, soaking in every note she coaxed from the instrument. And a beautiful instrument it was—the heavy gold resting upon her shoulder like an old friend, its winged angels taking flight and carrying her music with them.
Before long, Adam began appearing in the music room, standing in the doorway or lounging about on the oversized furniture. One afternoon, he’d brought along a stack of ledgers and a quill, quietly settling in a corner of the room. When she’d paused in the middle of Charles Oberthur’s Harp Concerto to cast a wary glance at him, he’d met her gaze and smirked.
“Play, little dove,” he had urged, his voice low and quiet in the stillness of the room, sending a flush of warmth to her palms. “Do not stop on my account.”
She’d continued the concerto, keeping her eyes on him, certain he must have some ulterior motive for disturbing her solitude. Half expecting him to pounce on her and finish what they’d started the last time they had occupied this room together, she’d played with her gaze fixated upon him.
As she’d finished Harp Concerto, flowing easily into Jean-Baptiste Krumpholz’s Symphony No. 1, it became clear he simply meant to sit and listen, his head lowered over his ledgers as he went about his work. Closing her eyes, she’d returned to her own private world—the space inside her mind where only she and the music existed, notes flowing from her fingers like feathers on the wind. One concerto had turned into two, then three, and before she knew it, she’d opened her eyes hours later to find him watching her, his ledgers closed, his gaze intent.
Breath quickening and pulse racing, she had clung to the harp, registering the beading of sweat on her brow and the fatigue in her hands. She had not played for so long or so passionately in ages.
“You play beautifully,” he had said, keeping his voice low as if loath to break the spell. “It has been some time since a person with your skill has laid their hands on those strings.”
Her brow furrowed as she studied him, taken aback by the way that confession transformed his face, his eyes darkening as if storm clouds had gathered, his mouth pinching at the corners. Like the garden, he spoke of the harp as if it belonged to someone important, someone who no longer resided at Dunnottar, but who had meant something to him.
“Did you love her?” she’d asked, uncertain why anticipating the answer should make her hold her breath.
He’d held her gaze for a long moment before answering, a thousand expressions warring with each other upon his face, even as it remained implacable, unmoving. His eyes had betrayed him, giving Daphne her answer before he spoke.
“Aye,” he’d rasped.
The single word had held within in notes of anger and rage, which had only baffled her more. If he’d loved her, then why such bitterness at the reminder of her?
“What happened to her?”
Then, it had dawned on her … the reason she was here, the reason Adam had declared war upon her family.
“Bertram,” she’d declared before he could reply. “He happened to her.”
Nodding slowly, he had crossed one leg over the other, his hands flexing and clenching as if he wished to use them upon something—to break and destroy. The power in those thick, blunt fingers, the veins pulsing along the backs of his hands, had sent a shudder through her.
“Now you’ve begun untangling the threads,” he replied. “It is quite a bit more complicated than that, little dove, but in short … aye. Bertram happened to her.”
Without another word, he’d stood and quit the room, taking his things with him and leaving the door hanging open. She’d sat upon the stool for what had felt like countless more hours, turning over the mystery Adam had presented in her mind. Someone he loved—a woman—had been ruined by Bertram. Who had the woman been? He’d claimed to have no wife; yet, the harp and the garden here at Dunnottar told a different story.
Shaking her head, she’d sighed, realizing it still made no sense. Lord Hartmoor was known as a confirmed bachelor and had not been publicly attached to any woman that she was aware of. Perhaps a mistress or lover, some woman he had lived with in sin or had a secret liaison with.
Yet, there remained the accusation leveled against her uncle … the charge of murder. If Adam believed Bertram had raped this woman, then surely, he also believed William had killed her? What part did he believe her father had played in all this? What reason would they have for preying upon a presumably innocent woman?
The questions plagued her for days, robbing her of sleep and focus, the only times she could cast off the thoughts being her time spent dueling with Adam or practicing the harp.
By the fifth night, she had gone nearly mad with wondering. Rising from her bed, she had pulled on a dressing gown over her negligee, hoping some time in the music room could soothe her mind. She did not know where in the palace Adam’s bedchamber might be located, but felt certain it was not near enough to the music room that she would wake him. In the morning, she would attempt to draw more answers from him, even if it provoked him to take her over his knee or force his cock down her throat. Anything would be better than this place of stillness, the torment of not knowing enough to understand the things happening around her.
She had just stepped out of her room when a strange sound drew her gaze to the bend in the corridor—the turn leading deeper into the palace, down the hallway Adam had warned her never to trespass upon. Her steps faltered, her throat constricting as the noise came again, reverberating down the corridor and echoing off the high ceiling. Clutching the sides of her robe with shaking hands, she turned to glance down the darkened hallway, only slightly illuminated by the moonlight streaming in from the windows of the main hall.
The sound came again, closer this time, its pitch unmistakable.
The shrieks of a woman.
Whoever she might be, she sounded half mad, howling and crying as if possessed by some unholy demon. Daphne wrestled with herself, half of her wanting to retreat into her room and close the door, blocking out the sound, the other half dying to know who the woman in the forbidden wing might be, and what made her scream as if her very soul had been set on fire.
The decision was snatched from her hands when an apparition materialized at the end of the corridor, glowing white like a specter. It raced toward her, its screams reaching out to her, freezing her in place and causing her blood to run cold.
It was the woman, she realized, a thin, white nightgown draping her body, dark hair streaming behind her like pitch black silk. Her face glowed as pale as her gown, wide, desperate eyes unseeing, unfocused, registering something in the air Daphne could not see.
She ran toward Daphne, tears streaming down her face, her bare feet thudding against the carpet. As she drew closer and it became apparent that she did not mean to slow or stop, Daphne began to backpedal, panic flaring in her gut. Whoever this woman was, she clearly did not possess all her mental faculties and might even prove dangerous.
Before she could duck back into her room, the strange woman was upon her, crying and sobbing as she took hold of the lapels of Daphne’s dressing gown.
“Please,” she sobbed, the long, heavy strands of her hair falling into her face and obscuring her features. “Don’t let them take me away … don’t let them hurt me!”
Pity lanced through her as the woman clutched her, trembling and sniffling, clearly terrified by whatever threat she imagined chased her. She was no more than the slip of a girl, slender and petite, the large eyes peering at Daphne through the curtain of hair seeming overlarge in a gaunt face.
Reaching out to grasp the woman’s arms, she forced a smile and tried to steady her voice. “It is all right. I will not let anyone hurt you. I am Daphne Fairchild. What is your name?”
The girl’s head snapped up suddenly, large, brown eyes connecting with Daphne’s. They widened, and the woman’s grip on her arms tightened painfully.
“Fairchild,” she growled, her pupils spreading and darkening her eyes, the snarl echoing ominously down the corridor. “Fairchild!”
Daphne let out a scream of her own as the woman’s body collided with her, throwing her onto the thick rug, falling on top of her in a heap. Hands lashed out at her, nails scraping her face and neck, grasping handfuls of her hair and yanking viciously.
“No!” the woman cried out, attacking Daphne as if her life depended upon it. “No, I will not let you take her from me!”
Raising her hands to defend herself, she twisted and bucked beneath the woman, but madness seemed to lend her strength. A cry for help burned in her throat, lodged there by panic and held there by fear. The woman went on screaming and clawing at her, spittle flying from her mouth, her nightgown falling off one shoulder, hair surrounding them both in a tangled haze of blackness.
Then, as suddenly as she’d fallen onto Daphne, she was gone, a pair of strong hands hauling her up.
Struggling to catch her breath, Daphne crawled swiftly backward, her heart thundering in her chest as she watched Adam wrestle with the enraged woman.
“It’s all right, Livvie,” he murmured, his voice firm but gentle as he took hold of her arms and gave her a little shake. “I am here. It’s me … it’s Hart.”
The woman stilled in his arms, stiffening, then deflating, her tiny body wilting like a flower in the absence of sunlight. “Hart?”
Daphne’s lower lip trembled. There was awe and love in her voice as she uttered the shortened version of his title as if she cherished it … cherished him.
“Aye, butterfly,” he whispered, his voice cracking on the affectionate nickname. “Hart … I am here. I’m always here.”
Nodding, the woman—Livvie, or butterfly, as Adam had called her—fell into another bout of sobs, lowering her head and curtaining her face with her hair again.
“Where were you?” she cried, her tiny voice hoarse and raspy from screaming. “Where were you, Hart?”
He sank to one knee when she collapsed, keeping his arms tight around her as she curled into herself and nestled against him, sobs wracking her body.
“I’m sorry, butterfly,” he replied, his voice a low, gruff whisper, as tortured as her scream-roughened tone. “I’m here now … always.”
Another large shadow appeared from the darkness, and Daphne gazed up to find Niall descending upon them, his face white as a sheet, the harsh lines made more prominent by the worry creasing his brow.
Kneeling beside Adam, he ignored her, offering his Master a clear bottle corked with a wooden stopper. The sickeningly sweet aroma of laudanum emitted from the open bottle as it was held to the woman’s lips. Her cries subsided as she latched onto the bottle like a babe suckling from its mother, low whimpers sounding in the back of her throat as she gulped the drug that was said to cure all ailments.
Daphne’s jaw dropped as the girl consumed an amount that seemed far too much for a person of her size. Yet, once she had finished and Adam removed the bottle from her lips, she closed her eyes and sighed with relief, the tension in her limbs melting away. A soft smile curved her mouth, and her eyes grew glassy and unfocused, peace stilling her.
Studying her features no longer obscured by her hair, Daphne experienced a strong sense of déjà vu. She knew this woman … or, at least, had been introduced to her in the past. Before she could determine when and where, Adam was on his feet, the woman cradled in his arms like a babe. Handing her, and the laudanum, off to Niall, he scowled.
“Take her to her chamber,” he said, the usual sternness in his voice replaced by a weariness that caused Daphne’s heart to plummet into her gut. “Stay with her … she responds more readily to you.”
The butler gazed down at the woman in his arms and nodded, a lone tear tracking down his craggy cheek. He glanced up to find her staring and frowned, murder gleaming in his eyes. Daphne swallowed past the lump in her throat, frozen in his fiery stare.
“Niall!” Adam snapped, breaking whatever thrall the butler had fallen under. “Now!”
The man clenched his jaw, but nodded, returning his attention to the woman, murmuring something to her as he turned away and continued down the corridor, eventually falling out of sight.
For a long moment, Adam simply stood there, gazing at her much the same way Niall had—as if wanting to destroy her, tear her apart and leave her lying in pieces on the carpet. But he said nothing, and eventually turned to walk away, taking the opposite direction as the butler.
Scrambling to her feet, Daphne turned to watch him go, her stomach twisting, her heart squeezing painfully.
“Adam,” she called out, stumbling after him, her dressing gown tangling with her legs as she struggled to keep pace with him. “Adam, wait!”
His shoulders tensed beneath the wrinkled white linen of his shirt, but he kept walking, refusing to turn back. He continued toward his study, hands balled into fists, his back hard and unrelenting.
Maeve appeared, seemingly from thin air, rushing toward them with wide eyes, her skirts clutched in her hands.
“Master!” she called out. “I came as soon as I heard. Niall … is he—”
“Tend Lady Daphne,” he snapped, swiveling toward the door of his study and throwing it open.
Daphne skidded to a stop before she could bump into him, gasping as he turned to look at her, allowing her an unobstructed view of his face for a swift second. Then, he was gone, swallowed into the cavernous room, slamming the door so hard, it trembled in the frame.
She stood there for a moment in shocked silence, her lips parted and her breath rushing in short pants. Her mind reeled from what she’d just witnessed, still not certain she understood what it meant.
The mysterious woman who had clearly lost her grip upon reality, the tender way both Adam and Niall had handled her, the clear affection between them.
Most of all, she could not comprehend the sheer agony she’d just witnessed upon Adam’s face, the hard and rigid lines melting into an expression of despair so acute, she’d felt it to her core.
“Come, my lady,” Maeve urged, coming forward to gently grasp her arm. “Oh, you’ve been gouged something awful. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Glancing numbly down at herself, she noticed the evidence of her encounter with Livvie, the deep gouges in her chest and the tiny beads of blood welling in the nicks. She realized she ought to feel something—the sting left over from the rake of nails, the hot, sticky blood. Yet, she remained alarmingly desensitized as Maeve led her back to her chamber, settling her before the vanity.
Staring off blankly across the room, she remained passive, letting Maeve clean her wounds and dab a strong-smelling tincture onto them, then a soothing ointment of aloe. She did not bother to demand answers from the maid, knowing it would gain her nothing. When the time was right, she would have to confront Adam about what she had seen and heard.
One thing she realized without having to be told … Livvie was clearly the woman her brother, uncle, and father had ruined. Based upon her present condition, Daphne had no doubt in her mind they had deserved every blow Adam had dealt them in retaliation. And, for being ignorant to what the men of her family had done—the grievous sins that had led to the madness of an innocent young woman—perhaps, she did, too.