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 ba
be 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.
CHAPTER NINE
aphne tossed and turned in bed for hours after Maeve had left her, unable to close her eyes without seeing the tortured faces of Livvie, Adam, and Niall. The few times she drifted toward sleep, the memory of the woman’s screams filled her mind, snapping her awake in an instant.
Fairchild … No … You will not take her from me!
There could be no denying she’d seen Bertram’s features when looking upon Daphne, the blue of her eyes and the red of her hair clearly marking her as a Fairchild. Whatever had been done to her must go beyond simple ruination. It had to have been something so heinous and depraved, the simple sight of Daphne had disturbed the victim to the point of no return.
The guilt that assailed her mingled with the curiosity in her gut—the need to know more, to uncover what remained of the truth. If there was anything she could do to make it right, besides surrendering her pride and her maidenhead to Adam, she must do it. It rested upon her to make things right, even if she had no notion how.
Sighing, she sat up in bed, rubbing her bleary eyes. Despite being more exhausted than she’d ever been, she could not find rest, could not sleep with her conscience weighing so heavily upon her. The four walls of her chamber boxed her in, forcing her into a confined space with her turbulent thoughts and emotions.
Desperate for escape, she stood, pulling on her dressing gown once more. The sun would rise soon, and she had given up all hope of getting any rest. A book from the library might serve to distract her until … well, until Adam came for her, she supposed. After the way he and Niall had looked at her, as if she were the foulest thing they’d ever laid eyes upon, she should not expect that to happen soon.
She stepped out into the corridor and turned in the direction of the library, her steps faltering as the detected notes of music on the air. Frowning, she looked to the music room door, which stood ajar, the soft glow of yellow candlelight spilling out into the hallway.
Whoever occupied the room played the pianoforte beautifully, with a mastery born from years of practice and dedication. The haunting melody drew her forward, its lilting notes resounding through her entire body from scalp to toes. As if pulling her along with an invisible tether, it urged her to the doorway, lifted her hand to the heavy panel, and prompted her to push it open.
Seated on the cushioned bench with his hands moving lightly over the ivory keys, she found Adam. It was the last person she had expected to discover making the beautiful music—his large hands and meaty fingers seeming made for destruction instead of art. Yet, he hunched over the instrument, his digits moving over it as if he caressed a lover or greeted a long-lost friend.
His hair spilled down his back, the firelight illuminated the golden strands within the brown. The rigid tension in his back had melted away, and even from behind, she could tell the music soothed him—that putting his fingers to keys brought him focus in the same way manipulating harp strings made her feel.
She was not familiar with the piece he played, but it struck her as beautiful in a macabre sort of way. In the way that a blossom growing from a crack in the hard desert floor might be. In the way that his hand striking her arse created both pleasure and pain in one blissful, excruciating act.
Her feet propelled her forward again, until she stood just behind him, close enough to detect the rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath, to smell the aroma of cedar and cigar smoke emanating from him. It tangled with the sti
ng of brandy, and she spied the nearly empty decanter placed atop the instrument, a half-full tumbler beside it.
How long had he been in here, seeking solace with the pianoforte and drowning himself in spirits?
A pause occurred in the music, his fingers pounding a discordant note before going still. He turned his head just far enough to peer at her over his shoulder.
“Why are you here?” he rasped, his voice low and grating, the words slightly slurred from the effects of brandy.
A nodule of anxiety lodged in her throat, but she choked it down, closing her eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath before plunging in.
“I … I came to say …”
The firelight illuminated the molten gold pooling in the prisms of his eyes, the rage simmering with a red-orange light within the depths. Coming here—intruding upon his solitude when he was in such a state—had been a terrible mistake.
Throwing one leg over the piano bench, he turned to face her. The half-empty tumbler sat in his large hands, the amber liquid glistening.
“What, little dove?” he snapped, biting off his nickname for her as if it were an epithet. “What have you come to say?”
She cast her gaze downward, unable to abide the revulsion emanating from his eyes … the evidence of the depth of his hatred for her and her entire family.
“I am so very sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick from the tears she fought not to shed.
His upper lip curled back from his teeth, a snarl rumbling ominously from deep within his gut. The sound, filled with turmoil and wrath, sent her skittering back toward the door. Her pulse raced, the instinct for self-preservation prompting her to reach out for the doorknob, to seek escape.
He moved with a swiftness that stole her breath, taking what was left of his brandy in one swallow and tossing the tumbler across the carpet with a thud. Then, he was lunging across the room and reaching past her to slam the door shut before she could slip through. Bracing one hand against the panel, he loomed over her, the burning scent of brandy stinging her nostrils when he parted his lips to speak.
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