by Andrea Kane
“But you were a little boy.”
“I was a resilient little boy,” Royce corrected. “She was a broken, defenseless woman. I did what I had to. If anything, it made me stronger.”
“Stronger, perhaps,” Breanna concurred softly. “But scarred. And I don't mean physically. Your wounds are entrenched—permanently. I know that firsthand.”
“My wounds?” Royce shook his head. “I don't regard them as such. Probably because I don't regret what they made me. I suppose, in a way, my father did me a service.”
Something about Royce's words touched something inside her. Perhaps it was the similarity of their upbringing, perhaps it was the conclusion he'd reached—one Breanna understood and shared with regard to herself. Perhaps it was respect for the man he'd become.
Or perhaps it just was.
On sheer impulse, Breanna squirmed out from beneath the blankets, lowered herself onto the rug beside him. “Now I understand what you meant by those who destroy without killing. I also see why you're determined to outwit your enemies, even if it means taking risks—maybe especially if it means taking risks. Your father provided a service, all right. But not for you. For the rest of us—the people you help.” She reached out, trailed her fingertips across his jaw. “Thank you for confiding in me. You're a fascinating and complex man, Royce Chadwick.”
The impact of her touch was jarring. Undercurrents of sensation radiated through them both, jolting them from candid revelations to naked awareness.
Abruptly, the mood in the room altered.
Royce went taut, his gaze finding hers, delving inside her in way that made her breath catch.
“I am a complex man,” he said roughly. “I'm also a hard man. Despite how you perceive me, despite my concern for you and my attraction to you, I'm not given to tenderness or sentiment. They're not in my nature.”
“But compassion is.” Breanna's heartbeat had begun to accelerate.
“Compassion, yes. Compassion and passion” His reference was pointed, an intentional effort to assign a name to what he was feeling. Not for his sake. For hers.
He was trying to shock her into realizing they were alone in a bedchamber in the dead of night, where there was no one nearby to ensure they restrained themselves.
His efforts failed miserably.
“Passion—definitely. As I discovered earlier.” Breanna had no idea where her bravado was coming from. She only knew it was there. She also had no idea what she was striving for by flagrantly baiting him as she was. She only knew that she had to see where it led.
Her thumb just grazed his lips.
“Breanna, stop.”
Abandoning all subtlety, Royce caught her wrist, tiny sparks flaring in his midnight gaze. “You're not foxed now. And you're playing a dangerous game.”
“Yes, I recall. Fire, you said. And I said I wanted to get singed.”
“And I said you were going to get burned.”
She swallowed, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Maybe it's time I learned to take some risks.”
Royce's eyes narrowed on her face. “Not these kind. Not with me. I don't normally display the gallantry I did in that garden tonight.”
“Of course not. That would be a show of sentiment—something you're not given to.”
He was losing and he knew it. Breanna could actually see him weaken.
“Stop provoking me,” he commanded. “Don't you understand what I'm trying to tell you?”
“What you mean is, trying to warn me about.” Breanna eased closer, her heart slamming against her ribs. “Yes, I understand.”
Royce sucked in his breath. He released her wrist, then rose to his knees, his fingers, of their own volition, gliding into the strands of her upswept hair. “This is a mistake.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. You're unnerved by what happened tonight. You're feeling vulnerable.”
“I'm feeling many things.” Breanna tilted back her head, studied the hard angles of his face in the firelight. “But right now, vulnerable isn't one of them.”
“Damn,” Royce hissed. He leaned forward, sliding his palm around to cup the nape of her neck, and drew her closer, staring down at her with an expression that sent live flames licking through her. “This is a mistake. An unprincipled, reckless mistake.”
Breanna gripped his shirt, raising up until their lips were inches apart “I don't care.”
With a harsh sound, Royce dragged her against him, crushing her mouth to his. There were no preliminaries this time. His lips devoured hers, parting them for the intimate invasion of his tongue. He delved deep, angling her head to give him greater access, taking her with heated, suggestive strokes of his tongue.
He twisted her around until he could lower her to the carpet. Then, he stretched out alongside her, half atop her as he continued his hot, drugging kisses. His tongue captured hers, caressed it in dizzying strokes, and his hand moved restlessly down to cover her breast.
Breanna was caught up in a vortex of physical awakening. When Royce's hand found her breast, she whimpered—a soft sound that Royce caught with his mouth. His thumb found and teased her nipple, circling it until it hardened and throbbed beneath his touch. She wound her arms around his neck, threaded her fingers through his hair. She was lost in sensation, in the sheer excitement of discovery.
Royce tore his mouth from hers, moved down her neck, her throat, searing her with each hungry caress. His lips closed around her nipple, tugged at it through the silk of her gown, and Breanna's eyes slid shut, her breath expelling in a rush. She clutched Royce's head, held him against her to prolong the pleasure. Shuddering at her touch, he stopped, but only long enough to reach behind her, undo the tiny row of buttons down her back.
He tugged down her bodice, his fingers automatically shifting to the ribbons of her chemise. “Tell me to stop,” he ordered, his voice hoarse.
“No.” Breanna shook her head from side to side, desperate to experience whatever magnificent sensations hovered just beyond her reach.
“Breanna.”
Her lids snapped open, and she met Royce's molten gaze.
'Tell me to stop,” he repeated, already tugging the first ribbon free.
T won't,” she said breathlessly. “I can't.”
With a stifled oath, Royce dispensed with the final barrier that separated him from his goal. He parted the sides of her chemise, and an awed expression tightened his features before he lowered his head, captured her taut nipple between his lips. “You're so beautiful,'' he muttered thickly, cupping her other breast as he sampled its mate. “And your taste... God, this is an even bigger mistake than I thought.”
Breanna didn't answer. She couldn't. Everything inside her was concentrated on the sensations storming her body. Royce's mouth on her skin... his hands... his breath... She wondered if pleasure this acute could be withstood.
Reflexively, she held him, wrapped her arms around his back. His shirt, which he'd haphazardly groaned when her knock had awakened him, was half-free, only partially tucked into his breeches. She took advantage of that, slipping her hands beneath the shirt, gliding her palms along the warm, hard planes of his back.
Every muscle went rigid beneath her caresses.
“Breanna.” He uttered her name in a hoarse rasp, his tongue lashing at her nipple even as his hands left her, moved to unbutton the front of his shirt.
Then, he was covering her, the hot, hair-roughened skin of his chest rubbing against her breasts.
This time, Breanna couldn't help but cry out. The sound was short-lived, because Royce was kissing her again. She opened her mouth eagerly to his, and he cradled her head in his hands, devouring her lips and shifting to increase the friction of his body against hers. Breanna savored every exquisite sensation, her nipples tightening painfully, liquid heat coursing through her.
“God, I want you,” Royce muttered, burning a trail of kisses down her neck, nuzzling the valley between her breasts. �
��I want to bury myself so deep inside you that...” He stopped abruptly, as if the impact of his own words had suddenly registered. Forcing up his head, he stared down at her, his eyes burning with desire, his breathing harsh, uneven, tremors of reaction rippling through hint.
Almost violently, he tore himself away, rolled to one side. “Dammit.” He sat up, raked a hand through his hair. “Goddammit.”
“Royce?” Breanna turned her head, stared at the rigid lines of his back.
In reply, he pivoted, his hot gaze raking her bare torso once before he pulled the sides of her chemise together, helped her sit up.
“I obviously do have the ability to be gallant twice in one night,” he said, his voice still thick with desire. “Then again, that shouldn't surprise me. Not when it comes to you.”
Breanna blinked, trying to still the swimming in her head. “I didn't want you to stop.”
Royce's mouth thinned into a grim line. “I know you didn't. Not right now. Tomorrow would have been another story.”
“Would it?”
“Yes.” Royce buttoned his shirt in a few harsh motions. Then, he turned, yanked up Breanna's bodice and clasped her shoulders in his hands. “Breanna, you're beautiful. And I don't mean only physically, although Lord knows I can't keep my eyes, or my hands, off of you. You're beautiful to the core. You emanate something I can't begin to describe. But you need—you deserve —a hell of a lot more than a quick tumble on the floor. And you deserve it from someone who can offer it to you. Someone who has the depth of emotion to offer it to you.”
“I see.” With shaking hands, Breanna reached around to button the back of her gown. She was still too dazed to form a coherent thought. But she wasn't too dazed to recognize Royce's implications as untrue, even if he himself didn't realize it “So, along with my life, you're now protecting my virtue.”
A weighted pause. “I’m trying. Not very successfully, it seems.” Royce shook his head in amazement. “I didn't count on this. I've never...” Unsteadily, his knuckles caressed her cheek. “It seems tonight was an exception for me, too. I don't lose control. Tonight, I did.”
He rose to his feet, shoved his shirt into his breeches. “If s almost dawn. Try to sleep. I’ll be right outside your door. We'll talk before breakfast. Then well tell Damen and Anastasia about the assassin's visit to your room.” Extending his hand to her, he helped her up, then brought her fingers to his lips, his hard-edged demeanor softening a bit—whether at the mention of tonight's trauma or the memory of what had just happened between them, Breanna wasn't certain. “Will you be all right?” he murmured.
Breanna nodded. “I'll be fine.” She studied his face, saw the intimate look in his eyes—a look he wasn't even aware of—and wondered if perhaps she didn't have her answer. “Good night, Royce.”
A whisper of hesitation. “Good night.” He turned, walked out of the room, glancing back at her briefly before shutting the door in his wake.
Breanna stared after him for a long time. She heard him drag a chair into the hall, place it against her door, and settle himself for the remainder of the night. Just knowing he was out there, safeguarding her against the madman who wanted her dead, brought her more than a small measure of relief.
Relief and a great deal more.
On that thought, Breanna gathered up the blankets, made herself a cozy bed by the fire, and snuggled into it.
Somehow this spot felt more comforting than the bed. Probably because she'd just shared it with Royce.
She had much to mull over. And, whether he knew it or not, so did Royce. She'd felt his reluctance when he'd dragged himself away from her. And she'd seen his ambivalence, his bewilderment, when he bid her good night.
They'd both encountered sides of themselves tonight that they hadn't known existed. What that meant, where it was leading, remained to be seen.
But one thing was certain. For a man obviously experienced with women, Royce Chadwick was as confused as she.
Not so when it came to the assassin. There, Royce knew precisely what he aimed to do. He was hell-bent on capturing his adversary, determined to succeed.
Unfortunately, so was the assassin.
An icy chill shivered up Breanna's spine.
Lord only knew what tomorrow would bring.
14
“I can't believe I'm hearing this.”
Damen stalked about the sitting room that adjoined his and Stacie's bedchamber, pausing beside the settee where his wife and Breanna sat. He slammed his fist against the ornately carved frame. “That madman invaded Breanna's bedroom while a ball was going on, and left those sick, mutilated...” He broke off.
“Yes.” Royce leaned back against the tightly closed door, arms folded across his chest.
It was early—half past ten—and very few of the guests were awake. Still, Royce had chosen the privacy of Damen and Anastasia's quarters in which to rave this talk.
“You must have been terrified,” Stacie murmured, turning to study her cousin anxiously. “Why didn't you awaken me?”
“I considered it,” Breanna confessed. “But there was nothing you could have done. Besides, you need your rest. You were exhausted. And I knew you Damen was with you.”
“I set outside Breanna's door all night,” Royce assured Stacie quietly. “Her new door,” he amended. 'I've moved her to the room next to mine. I don't want her in her usual bedchamber—not until the killer's caught.”
Damen's mouth thinned into a grim line. “You're saying you expect him to be back.”
“Maybe. If he ever left.”
“You trunk he's hiding at the manor?” Stacie gasped.
“No. Either he slipped out the same way he slipped in, or he's here at your invitation.”
A stunned silence filled the room.
“You believe he's one of our guests?” Damen demanded.
Royce shrugged. “What I believe isn't important. What I do, is. I have to investigate every possibility. It would be foolish to overlook anything, however remote.” He picked up the disfigured statue he'd brought to show them, and turned it over in his hands. “Whoever and wherever he is, our killer's message is clean. But each time he delivers that message, he leaves clues along with it. The chemise is Breanna's. But this porcelain figure isn't. He bought it somewhere, just as he did those dolls. I intend to find out where. Someone will remember who bought these items.”
“I assume you'll be- leaving Medford Manor then,” Anastasia concluded. “When, tonight? Or sooner, before the party ends?”
Royce scowled. “I'm not going anywhere until every guest is gone. After that—” He hesitated, visibly troubled. “I must go to Berkshire, check into the whereabouts of Ryder's daughter. I'm not happy about it, not in light of what's happened. But I have an obligation ...” Unconsciously, his gaze flickered to Breanna.
“Royce, go to Berkshire,” she said, her voice steady, rife with conviction. “If Lord Ryder's daughter is alive, he deserves to meet her. Family is a gift. If my grandfather taught Stacie and me anything, it's that. We'll be fine. Besides, you have to start somewhere checking into shops. Why not start in Berkshire? Maybe that monster bought the statue there.”
Royce nodded, and Breanna could feel Stacie's scrutiny as she stared curiously from her cousin to Royce and back.
“All right,” Royce conceded. “But I'm only covering the shires right around London. The rest I'll have my men take care of. I'll ride out to Pearson Manor tonight, get my answers on Glynnis Martin. Tomorrow at dawn I'll travel down to Ryder's home in Sussex. Along the way, I'll check out the shops. I'll be back here by tomorrow night, or the next morning at the latest. Also, I've decided that Hibbert will stay behind. I want him here, guarding your door. That will ease my mind considerably.”
“Yours, maybe, but not Wells's.” Breanna attempted a smile. “He and Hibbert are both rather territorial. It should be interesting to see them living under the same roof and sharing responsibilities.”
> “They'll work it out.” Royce didn't smile. He set down the statue, turned to face the three of them. “Listen to me, all of you. I can't stress enough how important it is for you to act normally. What that means is, I want no one playing detective, interrogating our guests.” He shot a meaningful look at Anastasia. “Leave the questioning to Hibbert and me. We have a whole day to probe. Don't impede us and endanger yourselves by doing anything stupid.”
“Stacie?” Damen prodded, giving his wife's shoulder a gentle tap. “Do you understand what Royce just said?”
She rolled her eyes. “I'm neither deaf nor dense. I heard. And I'll do what Royce said.”
“Breanna?” Royce pressed.
“I've already assured you, I won't interfere.”
“Good. Then let's go downstairs. Your guests should be arising any time now. Damen, find a way to stay with Anastasia and Breanna. Use the excuse you conjured up last night—that you're a nervous father-to-be. No one will question it.”
“And no one will try to kill either of the women if I'm there, since my presence isn't part of his plan,” Damen finished for him.
“Exactly.” Royce's nod was terse.
“Fine. Then ifs needlepoint and tea for me.” Damen placed a protective hand on each of the women's shoulders. “I'll leave the riding and shooting contests, and the gaming tables to you and Hibbert.”
A fine layer of snow prohibited the men from holding their more ambitious races on horseback.
That suited the assassin just fine. It gave him a better opportunity to study Royce Chadwick.
Something wasn't right.
First of all, the man was too damned relaxed, something Chadwick never was. Which led him to believe it was all an act, being put on for someone's benefit. But whose? Lady Breanna's? And if so, why? Was it because he was trying to seduce her or because he was acting as her knight in shining armor? Did he know about what she'd found in her bedchamber last night? Had she told him? If so, was he coming to her rescue, helping her find out who her tormenter was?
It was the only thing that made sense.
Added to that was the fact that Hibbert had made three appearances among the men today. That unto itself wasn't unusual, given how unorthodox Chadwick was about his manservant. Still, there was something about Hibbert's demeanor—a fine tension only the sharpest eye could discern—as if the elderly butler was delving for something.
