“Hell and damnation,” Emma said in a rough, raspy voice. It was twelve hours later, the middle of the night, and once again she couldn’t sleep. Despite the uproar of the day, which should have left her a little pool of exhaustion, she was awake, staring at her ceiling once more.

She’d been bathed, stitched, and put to bed, and she’d immediately fallen into an exhausted sleep as her body started to mend her injuries. She should have known, though, that sleep would again elude her, and now it was probably two or three in the morning.

Perhaps it wasn’t that surprising. She wasn’t in pain, per se, but the aches of her wild struggle were reminding her every time she tried to turn over. The stitches at the edge of her scalp were a more insistent throbbing, but she’d learned to soldier on no matter what insult her body or soul had been subjected to, and nothing had changed.

She could ignore stitches, twisted ankles, body blows that left ugly bruises. She had a harder time with her stomach.

She was starving. She’d grabbed a biscuit from Mollie’s kitchen, but she’d skipped breakfast in her hurry to escape, and she’d fallen fast asleep once Melisande and the surprisingly efficient Miss Trimby finished with her. She’d had the hazy idea that she should talk to Frances Bonham’s companion to see whether she might be interested in furthering her education in the healing arts. She was tired of being the only unicorn in a herd of jackals, and she knew Benedick would be more than happy to sponsor the woman, particularly if Miss Trimby’s mistress was going to be part of the family.

She refused to think about that, though it doubtless would have destroyed her appetite. Instead the thought of strong tea with lashings of sugar and cream, fresh warm buns, and even some cold chicken and cheese were filling her head with sensual dreams, and the longer she lay still in the darkness, the more her stomach protested.

She gave up the battle, trying to pull herself up in bed, but dizziness and pain hit her with brute force, and she almost sank back on the soft mattress. She knew if she did she wouldn’t be able to try again, so she braced herself with her left hand, staying utterly still until the dizziness abated. So far, so good.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed was a little more challenging. Everything seemed to hurt, even her teeth, and she wanted to moan. Strong women, survivors, didn’t moan, and she clamped her mouth closed, ignoring the tenderness. Lifting her hand, she touched her skin, checking for swelling, tenderness. She must look a fair sight, which was probably a good thing—her so-called beauty had been nothing but a curse to her and those around her.

She pushed herself to her feet, then quickly steadied herself. She was already feeling a little more human—a short hike down to the kitchens and a decent bit of food would do wonders.

The hallway that encompassed the family rooms was shadowed. It wasn’t pitch black—the sky had cleared after the torrential downpour, and a sliver of moonlight came in through the tall windows at the end of the hallway. The family staircase lay at the center of the hall, and she started forward, moving slowly, waiting for her customary brisk energy to return, but she was breathless, dizzy, exhausted. She had just reached the top of the staircase when her strength deserted her entirely. Feeling her legs give out beneath her, she put out her arms in a blind attempt to stop her fall, only to have them caught in someone’s strong hands as she was pulled back against a strong, male body.

She knew who it was. Fate wouldn’t be kind enough to have Charles or Benedick Rohan wandering the family corridor—oh, no. Besides, Charles would have let her fall. For a moment she let Brandon hold her, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of him, the heat of him, before she turned, trying to push free.

“What the hell are you doing wandering around in the middle of the night in your condition?” Brandon demanded in a rough, low voice. “You could have fallen and broken your silly neck.”

Move away from him, she ordered herself, but that other Emma wasn’t listening, too weary to fight her own base nature. As long as he held her, she didn’t have to meet his gaze, and for all his voice was harsh his hold on her was infinitely tender.

“I was hungry,” she said to the clean white linen of his chest. He was not wearing a coat, and she wondered whether he was in his night rail. The thought was disturbing, but instead of pulling away she pressed just a little closer. No, the feel of his breeches through the thin material of her own nightgown was. . . confusing. Reassuring, disappointing, disturbing. . . God, she must have been concussed after all.

He sighed. His chest rose and fell with it, and she could feel her tangled hair stir. “Why didn’t you just ring for the maid?”

“I don’t ring for maids,” she said, trying to sound brisk but failing miserably. Maybe he’d carry her back to bed. Maybe he’d climb in bed and hold her, and she could keep breathing him in, feel the strength of his arms around her, holding her, keeping her safe where nothing could harm her.

She pushed back, wobbled slightly, and then gave up as his hand clamped around her arm, pulling her away. “Let’s have this conversation away from the stairs, Emma,” he murmured. “I don’t want you breaking your bloo— your silly neck.”

“You can say ‘bloody.’ I do.” Her verbal efforts to keep him at a distance were failing miserably, and she shook her head, trying to sharpen her mind, but it only succeeded in making her feel dizzier.

“Emma.” In the dark his voice was even more mesmerizing, rich and deep. It was the kind of voice that could soothe her to sleep, warm her, enchant her. . .

“Don’t call me Emma,” she muttered, squirming a bit to break free of him. He didn’t let go. “What are you doing up here?” Was he going to say, looking for you, Mrs. Cadbury? And she would ask why, and he would say. . .

“My rooms are here. In fact, I know for certain your rooms are in the opposite direction. Allow me to escort you back and I’ll have some food brought up to you.”

Noooo, she wanted to shriek, but she kept her inexplicable panic under control. “I assure you there’s no need,” she said, pleased to sound more alert. “I’m not really hungry after all.”

“There’s every need. You must have met my mother on one of your many visits—she would box my ears if she heard I was capable of such shabby behavior.” There was a moment’s silence between them. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ve done far worse than a slight lapse in courtesy, worse than you could even imagine. Nevertheless, I am doing my best to atone for at least some of my misdeeds, and you are being escorted back to your room whether you like it or not.”

The darkness was disorienting. She could make out his outline, and he seemed to loom over her, for all that she was a tall woman. “I don’t need imagination to know of the hideous things men are capable of. I doubt it would hock me.” She was trying for a practical note. “Anyway, I’ve visited here far more often than you have, and I’m sure I know it better,” she said. “You’d probably get lost getting back.”

“I never get lost. Not even in the Afghan mountain passes.” His voice was expressionless. “What are you afraid of, Emma? Do you think I intend to force my way into your room and ravish you?”

“Most people wouldn’t believe it possible to rape a whore.” She should never have said such a thing, she thought belatedly. Standing there, cocooned in the dark with him, the last thing they should be discussing was sex.

She sensed more than saw him shrug. “That’s a matter requiring vigorous intellectual debate and I’m not in the mood. If you don’t want to prolong our time together you should stop arguing.”

“I’d adore to have you escort me to my room, Lord Brandon,” she said promptly in a breathy little voice, a perfect imitation of a society miss.

His short laugh was more disturbing than almost anything else—it was warm and good-humored, sounding more like the wounded soldier and less like the embittered man who’d returned to her life. “I should have threatened you earlier.” He released his grip on her. “Your arm, Mrs. Cadbury?”

It was too dark to see him clearly, and the last thing she wanted to do was touch him more than socially necessary. Maybe Mr. Perfect who never got lost had excellent night vision in those quite remarkable eyes. She raised her arm blindly, only to accidentally hit him in the chest. She tried to leap back but he caught her, pulled her back against him, his strong arm going around her waist.

“You are the most skittish female I’ve ever known,” he said dryly. “I can’t believe you’re capable of slicing into human bodies without a qualm when you can hardly stand to be in the presence of a male. Unless, for some reason, it’s just me who seems to unnerve you.”

“Given my previous profession, I have a very reasonable fear of your sex, Lord Brandon,” she said, inwardly groaning at her inadvertent use of the word “sex.”

There was a moment of silence. “I assure you, Emma, that you have absolutely no reason to fear me,” he finally said, and in the darkness her heightened senses thought she could hear guilt and regret in his voice.

No reason at all, she thought, letting him guide her through the darkness. She needed to get away from him so desperately that she was willing to do anything. He could even slam her up against a wall and take her if that would hurry things along—at least it could clarify her unsettled feelings. Then she could simply hate him.

He wanted her, and she knew it. He wanted her body, she clarified in her mind as they moved through the darkness, and he was a soldier, a gentleman, someone used to taking what he wanted, and she was a whore. If he decided to take her there was little she could do to fight him. She’d survive, as she’d survived far worse.

But if her sweet, broken boy forced himself on her that might truly break what tiny portion of her heart had remained whole. He wasn’t the gravely wounded, charming man in the hospital bed who spent the long dark nights of pain holding her hand and telling her stories. Once they’d taken him away from her he’d sunk to the very depths, and then managed to patch himself up, an inexpert job, to be sure, but serviceable. The lost boy was gone forever, and the man with his strong arm around her waist was a dark, troubled stranger.

They traversed slowly, in silence, so close that she could feel her skirts brush against his long legs, so close that she could feel the almost infinitesimal hitch in his left leg. She’d seen the ruined disaster, she’d changed the dressings on the torn muscles, the shattered bones. The fact that he could walk at all was astonishing—that he could disguise the lingering effects of such a wound so well was a testament to his strength and will.

Suddenly he halted, and his arm dropped free, so that she was alone in chilly darkness. “Tell me one thing, Emma, and if you lie to me I’ll know it.”

“I don’t lie,” she said stiffly, a perfect lie. Oh, God, what now? The truth was a dangerous commodity, one she used sparingly. She was so versed in dissimulation that he would never guess.

“Did we meet during that dark time in my life? Did I cause you some injury? Those months are clouded in my memory, but I know full well I did terrible things. Did I do them with you?”

She didn’t have to feign her shock. “Of course not, Lord Brandon. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Call me Brandon.”

“No!” She moved a step back, and he let her, still close enough to catch her if she wavered again. She was still in danger. It had been so long since she’d been near a rutting male, but she recognized the breed. It didn’t matter if he was a far cry from the soft old men she’d pleasured. Her body could feel his tension, his desire. “How would I have ever frequented your circle of acquaintance?”

“Emma, I was a member of the Heavenly Host. We had orgies, we hired women, we debased them and ourselves in unspeakable ways. Were you one of them?”

A measure of relief swept through her. She didn’t even need to lie. “I was never in the company of those depraved ‘gentlemen.’” Her voice dripped with contempt. “And I had ceased practicing my profession years before you returned to England.”

He was silent for a moment, and she congratulated herself. Too soon, she thought, when he spoke again. “And we never met before this week?”

“Never.” Her voice was strong, sure, incontrovertible. “Now that’s settled will you guide me the rest of the way to my room or allow me to find it myself?”

“We’re at your door.” He moved toward her, brushing against her, and opened the door, letting the faint glow of the fire out into the hall. She could see him then, his dark and light beauty, his troubled eyes.

Don’t, she thought desperately. Please don’t. “Thank you for your assistance this evening, Lord Brandon.”

“Brandon,” he corrected her.

The moment stretched. “Are you expecting me to invite you into my room, Lord Brandon?” Her voice was steady, and she congratulated herself on sounding so unmoved. “I don’t think you have the price.”

“You’re right,” he said slowly. “The only man who’s going to get in your bed is going to have to love you, and I’m afraid that’s a part of me that never healed.”

It felt like a blow. Why should the word “love” even be mentioned between them? “You’re stronger than I am,” she said calmly enough. “You could take what you wanted. I’m a professional, remember? I know when a man wants me.”

His smile was wry. “Oh, I want you very much. I doubt there’s a man who sees you who doesn’t want you, with the possible exception of my brother Benedick. Even a stuffy old prude like Charles wouldn’t be immune. But you’ve been hurt, you’re weak and trembling, and I don’t make a habit of taking advantage of frightened little girls.”

“I’m not. . .” she started to protest, when he bent down and brushed the softest, sweetest kiss against her mouth, gone almost before it had begun, so quickly that she could do nothing more than stare at him in astonishment.

“You are,” he said softly. “Good night, Emma.”

She stood outside her door, bemused, as he faded into the shadows. She put a hand to her lips, expecting some monumental change. They were no different—soft, slightly open. He’d kissed her, and life would never be the same.