Emma didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath as she tiptoed past Brandon’s bedroom. She’d almost made it when the door was shoved open, into her. She let out a panicked squawk, jumping backward, and if he hadn’t caught her arm she would have gone tumbling backward down the stairs.

He yanked her up, then released her with unflattering speed, and she put an instinctive hand to her breast, trying to catch her breath. He was watching her with that same, cynical expression, the one she had learned to hate so much in just one short day.

“You scared me,” she said crossly. “Now I’ve probably gone and woken the household.”

“I doubt it. Noonan went to join Tillerson in the stable, and the Bosomworths live in a wing off the back of the kitchen. No one would hear you if you scream.”

Her eyes shot up to his cool face. “That sounds like a threat, my lord. Is it, by any chance?”

“No. I was thinking about making you scream in pleasure.”

She glared at him. “You don’t know me very well, then, do you?”

She didn’t like that small, sardonic smile that twisted his face, the ruined half as well as the beautiful one, the face that once held such a different smile. “Oh, rather better than you might expect,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She wanted to edge away from him—he hadn’t moved any closer since he’d released her, but he was too big in the small, shadowy hallway. If she moved backward she’d hit the stairs, and this time he might not stop her from falling. The door to his room was between her and the small stairway that led to the upper floor, and she wasn’t going to count on latent manners to get him out of the way. Most gentlemen didn’t consider manners necessary for women with her past, no matter how punctilious they were with their friends and wives and daughters.

“Take it however you want it. I’m very good at reading women. I’ve had a great deal of experience.” Oddly enough it didn’t sound boastful—more a simple statement of fact.

“I’m not an ordinary woman,” she shot back.

“On that we’re agreed.”

Thank God he couldn’t see the flush that had risen to her face. Another veiled insult—why wouldn’t he leave her alone? She drew herself up to her full height, usually imposing enough, but little defense against Brandon Rohan’s. “Did you open your door for a reason, my lord?” She used the title deliberately. “Or did you simply not want to miss a chance to insult me?”

She could see the look of frustration twist his face, and for an odd moment she wanted to reach up and touch the scarred side, to stroke him gently, and it must have shown in her eyes.

Of course he misread it. “Feeling sorry for me, Mrs. Cadbury? If I’m with a woman I do my best to keep the good side of my face in the forefront. I know people have delicate constitutions and they’re not interested in the souvenirs of war.”

His words distracted her from her need to escape. She wrinkled her brow, remembering. “You do keep your face turned, don’t you?” she said. “I don’t think I noticed.” Indeed, he was a man of two sides, and she saw both of them equally, accepting both.

“Again, we’re agreed that you’re no ordinary woman. My fiancée can’t bear to be in the same room with me, much less be forced to look at my scars. I don’t imagine she’ll find my body any more reassuring once she’s in my bed.”

A host of emotions swept through her, anger at Frances Bonham, sorrow at the burden he bore, and sheer, unadulterated pain at the thought of him, stripping off his clothes and taking that cold little girl to bed with his big, strong body.

She was far from an idiot—she had a very good idea where her own pain was coming from. Later, alone, she’d take it out and examine it like a laboratory specimen, looking for signs that she could cut out. For now she could do nothing but ache.

“Then she’s a fool,” she said flatly, before her customary good sense could interfere. “You’re a strong, beautiful young man whose scars are a badge of honor. If she can’t see that then perhaps you shouldn’t marry her.”

There was an arrested look in his eyes. “I’m far from young.”

“Younger than I am.”

“Not by much,” he said. “I hardly think that makes a difference.”

“I’ve seen more of pain and. . .” The words failed her as she remembered his confessions in the chill light of dawn as he was fighting off death. He had been through much worse than she had, she realized suddenly.

“And if I’m so strong and beautiful why don’t you come into my room and demonstrate your appreciation?”

The words were a shock, another blow, as clear an insult as he could have offered, and the pain was searing. “You’re joking!”

“I never joke about fucking. I need release and you’re the only one who’s available.”

This had taken on the air of unreality. During that first, endless night when together they had kept death at bay, he had confessed to all sorts of things, including the torture he and his fellow soldiers had inflicted, tying the victims by the ankles and hauling them up, in order to lash them with canes and whips and batons. And swords. Emma felt like one of them—helpless, hit by blows from every angle.

She let out a soft, silvery laugh, the sound bizarre in the shadows. “Now I understand you, my lord,” she said lightly, finding just the right tone. After all, she’d had years of experience playing a part—this would be her finest performance. “You’re one of those people who derive sexual pleasure from pain. Do you like to receive it as well as deliver it? Or do you simply need to debase and insult and torture your partner in order for you to get it up?” She used the word “torture” deliberately. Mrs. Cadbury wouldn’t have known what he’d done, but of course he would, and reel from the memory, unless he was too far gone in his own darkness to care.

It hadn’t been a good idea to give in to the temptation to taunt him. His eyes were black, inimical as he looked at her. “I have absolutely no interest in those particular variations, though I imagine you’re well versed. And I have no problem in getting it up.” Before she realized what he was doing, he caught her hand and pressed it against the front of his breeches.

She froze. She wasn’t sure what she should do. The smart, hard woman she wanted to be would give him a laugh and a stroke, turning the tables on him, and then there was the odd need to let her fingers touch him, explore that rigidity. He was very hard, and very big, and she just stood there, her hands pressed against his erection, doing nothing to pull away.

It seemed like ages, though it was probably no more than a few moments, until she was able to say, “Release my wrist or I’ll scream loud enough to wake London.”

He did just that. In fact, he’d barely been holding her in place, his fingers loose, and she could have pulled free at any time.

She did, and without thinking she slapped him.

He blinked. “I take it that’s a no?”

Her hand was tingling, her heart was pounding, and in the cool night air she felt blisteringly hot. She couldn’t feel the cold outline of his face against her hand—instead she could still feel the shape of his cock—hard, insistent. “No?” she echoed. “What are you talking about?” She was getting angry now, really angry. “You seriously want to bed me?”

He just watched her, though the imprint of her hand was clear on his face. The only time she ever slapped anyone was during her first year at Mother Howard’s establishment, the time when her veil of oblivion had fallen and she’d realized what was being done to her. Mother Howard had been a relatively kind abbess, but there was no room for disobedient whores, and the men . . . she didn’t want to think about that.

“I don’t want to bed you,” he said, but her momentary relief didn’t last long. “I want to fuck you. Hard and long and deep.”

She crossed her arms, her face set in stone. “Of course you do,” she purred. “How silly of me not to recognize your problem. But you’re forgetting one thing. I’m a professional, and my services come at a high cost.”

“How much?” he said abruptly.

This was getting out of control. What had been pain and confusion at his sudden coldness had sharpened into simple rage. She curved her mouth in a mocking smile—it felt strange, unfamiliar—and looked up at him.

“Five . . . thousand . . . pounds.”

It was an absurd amount. Obscene. A decent dowry for an aristocratic bride, the price of a small country home with tenant farms. No man in his right mind would even contemplate such a sum.

But Brandon merely smiled. “I believe the highest sum ever spent for a night of pleasure was registered at a thousand pounds. Are you that good?”

“Make it seven.” Her voice was like steel.

“Done.”

That small, shocking word took her breath away, and when he caught her up in his arms she was too startled to resist as he carried her into the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them. A moment later she was tossed onto the bed, and stunned, she simply lay there,

The fire was the only light in the warm, cavernous room, and he looked huge, menacing in the shadows. Finally her wits returned. “No,” she said.

“You named a price, I agreed, the bargain is done. Surely you wouldn’t renege on a business deal?” he said silkily.

She stared up at him, and the sudden knowledge hit her with the force of a boulder. He had broken her heart once more. Just when she thought it inviolate, if not extinct, he had managed to get beneath her cool defenses and break her, just like that. She’d been so sure she’d never feel that searing pain again, was incapable of it, and now she lay in his bed feeling shattered. She had no idea whether he was simply ruled by lust or had some inexplicable need to punish her, but she didn’t care.

She could bring an end to all this in a matter of moments. He could climb on top of her, rut and sweat and grunt like all the others, and it would be over. She lifted her eyes to his face. She couldn’t see him well in the darkened room, but she knew there would be no mercy, no tenderness, no emotion whatsoever, and she was ready for the coup de grace. Her face was set like stone. “I await your pleasure, my lord.” She braced herself.

She’d expected he’d rush her. He didn’t move, still lost in the shadows. “Take off your clothes.” His voice was muffled.

She didn’t hesitate. She was paying the price to destroy any last bit of feeling she had for the man, and she sat up in the wide bed, tossing her shawl on the floor. Her nightdress was a thing of beauty, with tucks and lace and tiny pearl buttons, made by the aspiring seamstresses at the Dovecote, and she didn’t want his hands on it. She might never be able to wear it again, but she treasured it, so she slowly lifted her hand and began to unfasten the neckline.

She had learned her lessons well, so long ago. Delay, tease, linger, and by the time she was ready her customer would be so overwrought that it would take but a minute or so of frantic effort and he would spill. She moved her fingers down, taking her time, exposing more and more of her flesh, prepared for him to rush her at any moment.

He didn’t. He didn’t move from his spot in the darkness, though she thought she might have heard a hitch in his breathing. The buttons stopped at her waist, and she paused, hoping she wouldn’t have to go further.

He stayed where he was.

There were buttons on the long sleeves, and she took her time unfastening them, then she paused, waited. Pulling the gown down to her waist, exposing her shoulders and breasts was marginally less humiliating, but she wanted and expected the worst from this encounter. She reached down and caught the hem of her nightdress, yanked it up, lifted her bum to free it and pulled it over her head so that she sat there, completely nude.

And then she remembered that wasn’t how it was done. Gentlemen, for want of a better word, preferred their whores to wear little naughty bits of clothing—useless underwear that did nothing to impede access, bits of fluffy scarves. In fact, she’d usually worn a great deal more than that for the men who wanted the fantasy of debasing their wives, and she couldn’t remember if she’d ever been completely naked.

She could feel the heat suffuse her body. Surely now he would launch himself at her, finish this mockery.

“You’re blushing,” he said softly, and she cursed his night vision, his sudden gentleness. He broke it a moment later, thank God. “I didn’t know whores blushed.”

She could feel the color drain away, until she was cold and hard. “As you can see, you don’t know much.” She sank back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Have at it.”

He laughed, he actually laughed, making no effort to approach her, and she was filled with sudden horror. Had he been playing a game? Was this simply one more way to humiliate her?

She waited, her heart hammering, the silent prayer repeating, over and over again, in her mind. Please go away, please go away, please go away. Tell me you didn’t mean to do this, tell me you aren’t this man.

She didn’t expect her prayers to be answered, and they weren’t. She felt him approach the bed. “All right,” he said, his voice taut and emotionless, and the mattress dipped as he stretched out beside her, his clothed body pressing up against her side. She closed her eyes, wanting to weep. For a moment there was silence, only broken by the sound of their breathing, his heavy, tense, hers shallow. “Do you have any specialties? Are you particularly good with your mouth? Perhaps you like to take it up the. . .”

“Shut up,” she said fiercely, rolling to her side to face him. She needed this done, and quickly. “Unfasten your pants and finish this.”

She was trembling, practically vibrating, but she doubted he’d notice. She reached for his clothes, realizing too late that he’d stripped off his shirt and there was only warm flesh beneath her fingers, the feel of the scars that she had once tended a rough reminder of what was lost forever.

He caught her hands in his larger one, holding her still. “I’m thinking this might be a mistake,” he said evenly.

She wanted to wail, to beat at him. She couldn’t bear it if he suddenly became decent once more. “Surely you wouldn’t renege on a business deal?” she quoted back to him. “Or do you perhaps have performance issues? I suppose there are things that I could do. . .”

A moment later he had rolled her onto her back, and he lay on top of her, between her thighs, the fabric of his breeches rough against her soft skin, his erection pressing against her. He was too damned big. She’d bathed him in the hospital, unperturbed by sick men’s bodies, and he’d seemed no more endowed than the men she’d serviced. That assumption had clearly been wrong.

He cupped her face with his strong hands, and his warm breath touched her face. “You’re shaking,” he said quietly.

“I’m cold.”

“The room is warm, and your nipples are soft. You aren’t cold and you aren’t aroused.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she cried in desperation. “Just get this over with.”

He did the very last thing she expected. He kissed her.