The mocking smirk that set her teeth on edge returned, and he advanced on her, his eyelids drooping seductively.
“Naughty little dove. Engaging in a man’s sport when no one is looking. What else do you indulge in when no one is watching, I wonder?”
A lump lodged itself in her throat, and she backed away from him, unable to help the instinct for self-preservation warning her away from him. The memory of what had occurred over breakfast was not far from her mind, reminding her of how easily an encounter with him could change on the whim of his mood.
He followed, pressing her against the wall with his body, stunning her into submission with the raw power emanating from his hard muscles.
She stiffened against him, sucking in a sharp breath, causing him to smile—a feral display of teeth that sent a shiver down her spine.
“N-nothing, really,” she demurred, turning her head to avoid his gaze.
It was too probing, too knowing.
His breath huffed against her neck, his nose sliding along her jaw as he moved his mouth toward her ear.
“Oh, come now, little dove. There must be something. Tell me something naughty, a secret you would never dare utter aloud.”
Her face flushed as she thought of days spent hidden in the woods, grass staining her gowns as she lifted them to allow a pair of hands beneath. Pulse quickening, she closed her eyes and recalled the feel of his lips on her neck and breasts, his groans in her ear as he taught her how to touch him the way he touched her.
No. Those summers spent in bliss, roaming the lands between her parents’ estate and his were too precious to speak of.
“Truly, there is nothing,” she whispered as he went on nuzzling her neck, his arms a menacing cage trapping her against the wall.
“Liar,” he growled, his teeth scraping against her earlobe. “Come now, Daphne … tell me one of your secrets, and I will tell you one of mine.”
Her heart stuttered as she realized what he must mean, and she forced herself to meet his gaze and not look away. “A secret about my family … about why you ruined us.”
He laughed, his chest rumbling against her breasts and causing her nipples to pebble. She shuddered, but held his gaze, determined not to back down from a direct challenge.
“A fair exchange,” he relented. “You first, little dove. Tell me something wicked.”
She tried to think of something—anything that would placate him enough to earn the promised secret. She’d come here for answers, and thus far had only been told that the men responsible for protecting her were not who she’d made them out to be in her mind. How could that be when her father had always doted on her—even when her willful nature had frustrated him? How could that be when Bertram had always been the man she trusted more than any other in the world? Her uncle had had his faults, but he certainly hadn’t deserved to be coerced into murdering himself.
She must think of something, but would not betray the memories of those summers spent in the country with the man she had once hoped to marry. There were some parts of her Adam would never touch.
Reaching for the first memory she could fathom—one of the few which could be considered naughty—she blurted it out without thinking.
“I once stole an erotic novel from my brother.”
Adam drew back slightly, his lips quivering with amusement. “Is that all?”
Shock dropped her jaw. “Well, of course that is all. You needn’t sound as if I’ve confessed to pilfering a biscuit from a bakery, as if what I did was of no consequence. The novel was quite explicit in detail and rather shocking to read. Not to mention the scandal that would have ensued had anyone known I’d read it. My reputation—”
“It has always amused me how easily a woman’s reputation can be ruined,” he interjected. “How adorable you are, little dove … so pure and sweet, your white wings untouched and pristine. I am going to enjoy sullying them.”
A shiver shot through her at what his words implied, and the promises he’d made over breakfast of the different ways he would go about ruining her.
“Did you blush as you read the erotic novel?” he teased. “Did the words cause your cunt to grow wet?”
Her neck grew hot as she remembered reading page after page of filth—of being both titillated and intrigued by it.
“Of course not,” she lied.
He chuckled again, the sound a grating reminder that he was laughing at her. “How easily you lie, little dove. I know they taught you it is safer to pretend—to lie to yourself about the things you think about when you are alone at night in your bed … to be ashamed of the things you desire. No one is here. You can admit it to me.”
Shame fell on her like a crushing force, but she forced her chin up and speared him with a defiant glare. She would never confess to being wanton, to have come close on quite a few occasions to becoming the whore he now tried to make of her.
“There is nothing to tell,” she insisted. “I stole the book, read it, and put it back before Bertie was the wiser.”
He scowled, moving away from her with a heavy sigh. “You disappoint me, Daphne. Our time together will become so much more enjoyable once you cease playing the lamb to my lion. You called me a villain last night; yet, I have never been dishonest about the sort of man I am. I told you what I want from you, and the price I am willing to pay for it. But you insist upon playing the coquette, lying both to me and yourself about who you are and what you desire.”
How did he see through her so easily when he had barely known her an entire day? She’d spent her life hiding behind a carefully cultivated mask of innocence, holding her tongue when she’d rather speak, spurning kisses when all she’d ever wanted was to be kissed, pretending to be embarrassed by the reaction of her body to certain stimuli when she’d wished to revel in it. What good was her pretense if a man like Adam could see straight through it?
“I do not know what you expect from me,” she replied, injecting as much coolness into her voice as she could muster. “But I will never play your whore.”
“My whore,” he murmured, reaching up to cup her face, his thumb tracing over her lower lip—still tender from his earlier assault. “Perhaps not, but you will be mine, Daphne. I will have you whether you play the innocent or the wanton.”
He stroked her lip with the pad of this thumb, pressing down enough to pull her mouth open. Her breath quickened, and the response he’d coaxed from her this morning roared to life once more, leaving her feeling off-balance and dizzy.
God, why can’t I fight him? What is it about him that makes me feel so weak?
“You promised me a secret,” she reminded him—because she needed him to talk, to return to their original conversation before she lost her head again.
He gave her a slow smile, lowering his hand and allowing it to brush against her breast on its way down. “So I did. You wish to know about how your uncle met his demise.”
“At your hands,” she snapped, taking the opening his lowered arms offered and slipping out from between him and the wall.
He fell in step beside her, and they walked back the way they’d come. “Are you sure? I feel certain I’d heard he killed himself.”
“Because of you!” she bellowed, turning to face him with her hands balled up at her sides.
Unruffled by her outburst, he paused and leaned against a closed door they had not yet explored beyond.
“No,” he retorted, grinding the words out from between clenched teeth. “Allow me to let you in on a little secret about your uncle. The man was a known gambler, a habit only exacerbated once he began over-imbibing … something he did much more frequently toward the end of his life. Haven’t you ever wondered why he’d taken to drinking so heavily, drowning himself in spirits from sunup to sundown?”
Daphne wrinkled her brow, her ire cooling as confusion pushed to the forefront of her mind. It was true, Uncle William had always had a bit of a gambling habit, though he’d never lost so heavily until … well, she was not entire
ly certain. Five years ago, perhaps. That was when he’d begun a swift descent into near poverty, taking her father with him.
“Of course I wondered,” she whispered, wracking her brain for some clue as to the reason for her uncle’s drinking. For the life of her, she could conjure nothing.
“The reason was hidden from you, naturally,” he replied, folding his arms over his chest and causing his coat to strain at the seams along his shoulders. “Poor, sweet Daphne, too innocent to know the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes at him. “What did you do to my uncle to drive him into the bottom of the bottle?”
Adam laughed, the rough sound lacking humor. “When a man drinks like that, there is only one cause … the demons he runs from. I did nothing to your uncle to cause him to drink himself half to death. Guilt drove him to drink, which drove him to gamble, making it easy for me to take everything he ever owned.”
Her chest tightened, gripping her heart in a vise as she studied the cold-hearted man before her. Jaw clenched tight, eyes dark and lifeless, mouth a cruel snarl. Despite his rugged beauty, the disdain he felt for her family overshadowed it all.
“You purposely pushed him to gamble away his livelihood,” she accused.
He shrugged as if they spoke of the weather instead of his methodical destruction of Lord William Fairchild. “Was he not a man with a mind of his own, capable of standing up from the table and leaving?”
“Yes, but—”
“Your uncle was irresponsible with his property, gambling it away as carelessly as a child tosses a toy across his nursery,” he interjected. “If I am to blame for anything, it would be simply reminding him that after the pain he had inflicted upon others, he no longer had any reason to live.”
Shock rippled through her, swiftly giving way to outrage. Her spine snapped straight, her fists tightening until her fingernails bit into her palms.
“You bastard,” she rasped, her voice tortured from the grief tearing her up inside. “You … you …”
“Murderer?” he offered, remaining as stone-faced as he had since beginning this conversation. “No court would convict me. Perhaps your uncle knew I was right … he took his own life because his sins had made his existence worthless. The pain he felt the moment that bullet tore through his skull was nothing compared to the pain he’d inflicted upon someone else.”
Someone else? Could the person Uncle William had hurt be Adam? The man seemed a force of nature, like a mighty oak tree, unable to be bent by even the strongest winds. How on Earth could her uncle have hurt him? And if William had committed some wrong against Adam, what role had her father and brother played?
“Whatever he did, I am certain he regretted it,” she managed, her head beginning to pound again from the effort it took to understand what was happening. “He did not have to pay for it with his life.”
Coming close again—near enough that she could see the molten gold and green flecks swirling within his brown irises—he dropped his arms to his sides. She stiffened, but he only came closer, so close his lips brushed her cheek, his breath tickling her skin when he spoke.
“A life for a life,” he murmured. “His final debt … repaid in blood.”
She gasped, her eyes going wide. “A life for a life? He killed someone?”
Backing away from her, he turned and began walking back down the gallery. “Come.”
She flinched as if he’d doused her with a bucket of frigid water, but quickly recovered, trotting to catch up with him as they went back the way they’d come. “Will you not answer me?”
“That is the extent of what I wish to divulge to you at the moment,” he replied, his tone dry as if he’d grown bored with both the conversation and her.
“But you cannot leave it there,” she argued. “You cannot accuse my uncle of murder and then refuse to speak more on the matter.”
His eyes darted toward her, and he smirked. “The weight of my secret was a match for yours. Perhaps, if you wish to know more, you will not hold back when I ask you for something. You will get from me as much as you give, little dove. Remember that next time you wish to make demands of me.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but then swiftly snapped it shut. Arguing would clearly get her nowhere with him. He’d given her a piece of the puzzle, one she could think over further once she returned to her chamber. Perhaps some hint of her uncle’s misdeeds stared her in the face—she only needed to think harder. She did not want to believe any of the men in her family were capable of the sort of thing Adam had implied, but something told her there must be some truth here. From the moment she’d met Adam, he’d been forthright, even when he’d been cruel. He had looked her in the eye and admitted to purposely setting out to ruin her father, uncle, and brother. Why would he then lie about the reasons?
Whatever the case, she would know the entire truth by the end of her thirty days here. She had come all this way and put her virtue on the line—leaving without answers would not be an option.
She followed him in silence, numbly inspecting the contents of each room—her glance sliding unseeingly over opulent sitting rooms, a sun room, more guest chambers than she could count, and a small dining room meant for intimate meals. Another, much larger dining area could be found off the main hall, with a table long enough to seat fifty.
“That will conclude our tour for today,” he announced once they’d come back to the corridor where her room was located. “There is still more to explore, but Dunnottar is too massive for you to see all in one day. I will see you back to your room.”
Nodding, she trailed him back down the hallway toward her chamber. As they paused before the door, she gazed further down the corridor and frowned. Now that it was more brightly lit, she noticed the hallway curved to the left, likely leading deeper into the palace.
“What’s down there?” she asked.
Adam followed her gaze, his expression growing even more shuttered as he shook his head. “That part of the palace is forbidden to you, Daphne. Do you understand? You may venture to any other place I have shown you except that wing of the castle. The moment you step foot in that corridor, I will eject you from the premises with nothing more than the clothing on your back and the horse you arrived on. Our agreement will become null and void, and you’ll receive nothing from me.”
The sudden harshness of his tone took her aback, and as she gazed toward the forbidden wing, a shiver rolled down her spine. What could possibly be down there that he did not wish for her to see? His private chambers? Something more nefarious?
Get a hold of yourself. Your imagination will run away with you and ruin everything.
Knowing what lay in that corridor was of no consequence while learning the truth Adam would reveal to her was imperative. She could not leave Dunnottar without answers.
“Daphne,” he barked, drawing her attention back to him. “I asked you a question. Do you understand what I’ve just said?”
She nodded quickly and found her voice. “Yes, of course. I understand.”
With a curt nod, he opened her door for her. “Maeve should bring you the afternoon meal shortly. Tonight, you will dine with me in the room adjoining yours—where we shared breakfast.”
Nodding again, she moved past him as swiftly as she could—the instinct to avoid his reach as strong as ever. He grinned at her, as if very much aware of how he set her on edge.
“Until dinner, little dove,” he purred before leaving the room and pulling the door closed behind him.
Daphne exhaled, the breath she’d been holding coming out in a rush. His threat of dragging out the inevitable breaching of her maidenhead proved more frightening than anything else she might endure while here. Not knowing when he might strike—when he might strip her naked and use her body for his own pleasure—would keep her constantly on edge. Which, she supposed, must be his aim.
“Well, you are alone now,” she muttered to herself. “No need to fear that when he isn’t even
in the room.”
Instead, she would turn her thoughts to the things Adam had revealed a moment ago. Wandering aimlessly around the room, she found an old but polished and well-preserved writing desk with a rough wooden chair pushed beneath it. Pulling out the chair, she sank down and opened the drawer. Inside, she found a stack of stationary, along with a quill pen and full inkwell.
Intriguing.
Had these items been placed here for her use? Perhaps Maeve had thought she’d want to write to her family while living at Dunnottar.
For now, she had nothing to say to her father that Adam had not already revealed in the missive he’d sent to London. What else could she tell him, other than ‘I’m doing it for you, Papa, and Bertie, and Uncle William.’ Her father would know without her needing to divulge it in a letter, and writing it would only bring her to tears. He would likely write back pleading with her to come home, crumbling her resolve. It was best if she did not make contact until she was ready to return, thirty thousand pounds richer.
Pulling out a sheet of the stationary, she unstopped the inkwell and wet the tip of the quill. In the haphazard scrawl that had always vexed her governess, she quickly recorded her thoughts on Adam’s revelations.
Uncle William, drinking led to gambling.
Coerced into gambling away his fortune and property by Adam. Why?
A life for a life. Uncle William, a murderer?
Pausing for a moment, she absently toyed with the quill while staring at what she’d written so far. Adam had implied her uncle had caused someone pain—that it had not compared to the pain of the bullet wound he’d inflicted upon himself. Who could he have hurt so badly that Adam felt William no longer deserved to live?
In her experience, the male sex only reacted this strongly to the pain of another when it was inflicted upon a female in their care, or a child from their loins.
Furrowing her brow, she added another note.
The Villain Page 6
