Making quick work of cleaning herself more thoroughly, she dried and then donned the clean nightgown. Like the other items Adam had ordered for her, this gown seemed more like something a courtesan would wear than a demure young lady, the black silk clinging to her breasts and waist, a high slit allowing easy access.
But, as she approached the bed, she supposed the title of ‘courtesan’ did not lay far from where she found herself.
Paid to be a man’s plaything.
He stood on the other side of the bed in nothing but his breeches, his unbound hair falling down his back. His naked upper body was shown to its advantage, the moonlight illuminating the hard bulges and sinewy ridges. She idly wondered how he would feel if she pressed her hands against his chest. Would that part of him be hot to the touch, much like the velvety skin blanketing his cock? Would the coarse hairs tickle her fingers … would it be soft to the touch like the hair on his head?
“Get in,” he snapped, his voice breaking her out of her reverie.
Despite the strain in his voice, he did not appear to be vexed with her … merely a bit impatient. She scrambled into the bed, swiftly covering herself with the blankets. He followed suit, climbing in beside her and turning onto his side. One long arm came around her, dragging her across the space between them until she rested against him. A gasp burned in her throat, a visceral reaction to the hot, male body pressed against her. He gave off a heat that seemed to sink through her skin and settle as deep as her bones.
“Relax,” he growled against her ear. “I am not going to take you again … not right now. That isn’t to say I might not want to later. I’d rather keep you within reach if I wake up and decide I want you than have to cross the palace to wake you in the middle of the night.”
Nodding her understanding, she swallowed past the anxiety lodged in her throat. His words hardly eased her mind. In truth, she would rather have endured him again right away as opposed to being awakened when she least expected. While she was clearheaded, she could brace herself for whatever he might do to her. In a state of half-sleep, she would be defenseless.
She lay silently for a while, staring at the ceiling overhead. Her body slowly relaxed against his, fatigue beginning to drag her under. The change in his breathing told her he had fallen asleep, which served to ease her anxiety a bit more. She turned to look at him, finding him no less intimidating in sleep than when he was awake. Even with his eyes closed, his lips parted, his breathing deep and slow, he reminded her of a wild cat—the strength in his muscles and the threat of the large hand splayed over her lower belly putting her on edge.
Despite that, she eventually drifted off to sleep beneath the heavy—yet somehow pleasant—weight of his arm, his warm breath softly fanning the side of her neck.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
hen Daphne woke the next day, she found the bed beside her empty. The sun streaming through the windows stung her eyes, its brightness telling her it must be at least an hour past noon. Her sleep had been restful, though Adam had awakened her twice during what remained of the night. The first time, she had come to with his cock slipping into her, the hem of her nightgown snatched up to her waist. He had entered her while she laid upon her side, his large body curled around hers, one hand possessively holding her hip. She had splintered within seconds, muffling her screams in the pillow as he’d pounded her from behind, his pelvis colliding with her buttocks in a rhythm matching her beating heart. He’d pulled away from her and spent with a low groan, turning away from her to spill his seed upon the sheets.
The second time, she’d been roused by his tongue between her thighs and the orange glow of dawn appearing outside her window. She had opened her eyes to find him lying between her spread legs, hair spilling over his shoulders, eyes closed. He’d lapped at her with a slow thoroughness completely at odds with his earlier claiming. He’d taken his time exploring her with languid tongue strokes and soft pulls of his lips, thrusting his hands beneath her nightgown to find her breasts so he could toy with them. He’d made her spend more times than she could count, his gentleness eventually giving way to urgency until he’d devoured her as if starving, his breath racing against her wet, tender flesh.
Then, without preamble, he’d sat back on his haunches and flipped her onto her belly. She’d hardly found her breath before he’d been straddling her, plunging inside her to the hilt. The ministrations of his tongue had made her so wet, the sting of his invasion had only lasted a moment. As he’d fisted her hair in one strong hand and pulled, forcing her back into a deep arch, she had closed her eyes and surrendered. He would have her whether she allowed herself to enjoy it or not … at least, this was what she’d told herself while screaming her pleasure, gripping the bedclothes in her fists as he’d hurtled her toward another powerful climax. It was what she’d told herself as he’d pulled free of her sheath and stained her back with his seed … when she’d collapsed onto the bed so he could wipe her clean before pulling her back against his chest and urging her to sleep a bit longer.
Now, as she sat up in bed, an emptiness yawned inside of her, opening in the pit of her gut. She should be glad to find herself alone, to be free of him for even a short time. Yet, she was forced to confront the fact that she’d just gotten her most restful night of sleep since arriving at Dunnottar, despite being awakened twice to slake Adam’s lust. Or, perhaps even because of it.
Groaning, she ran her fingers through her tousled hair and lowered her head. What the devil was wrong with her? She should not miss his presence, nor should she allow herself to feel anything toward him except antipathy. The man had treated her cruelly from the beginning, never ceasing to remind her she was no more than a means to an end.
But then, his haunted gaze flitted through her mind, reminding of her of the reason for it all. Why he hated her … why she was nothing more than a channel through which he could hurt Bertram … why he could never care about her in any way. The things he’d revealed to her in the darkest hours of the night—his pain, his grief—made her pity him as much as she abhorred him.
“Oh, my lady, you’re awake!” Maeve exclaimed.
Daphne glanced up to find the maid approaching the bed, carrying a tray laden with food and tea.
“The Master wanted me to ensure you had a proper meal,” she continued, waiting for Daphne to sit up straight so she could lay the tray in her lap. “He was called away on urgent business to Kincardineshire, but should return in a few days.”
Taking up a triangle of buttered toast, she bit into it and nearly swooned with pleasure. She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was until she’d tasted the first bite.
“Why should I care where he has gone or when he will return?” she retorted, annoyed with herself for the sinking feeling in her gut as she digested the news.
She told herself it was only because Adam’s absence meant she would grow bored. Without someone to fence with, how was she to occupy herself each morning? As well, she could hardly ferret out the other answers to her questions concerning Bertram and Olivia if he was not here.
Maeve did not reply, simply casting her a smug, knowing look before going about her duties. While Daphne ate, she selected riding attire, suggesting an afternoon ride while the weather was still so fair, then prepared another basin of rosewater.
After she’d eaten her fill, the maid set the tray aside then began her toilette. Once she had been bathed with the rosewater and wore a simple white blouse and skirt for riding, Daphne sat to endure having her hair combed, brushed, and arranged into a simple chignon.
Her spirits lifted a bit as she stepped out onto the front steps of the palace, turning her face up to the sun. She had not spent nearly as much time out of doors as she was accustomed to, and with the Scottish countryside stretching out for miles before her, she became filled with the urge to ride as far and fast as her mount would allow.
A stable groom quickly prepared her horse, and before long, she descended the escarpment, putting Dunnottar behind her. She rode fo
r what felt like hours, her face breaking out into a smile as the soft breeze stroked its fingers through her hair and the sun caressed her face. Even the lingering soreness between her legs could not steal her enjoyment of the ride, the exercise going a long way to ease the tension in her tight muscles.
Her good mood lasted for the rest of the afternoon, which she spent reading in the garden.
It was there that Olivia happened upon her, seeming to have wandered away from her wing of the house.
Daphne gasped at the sight of her, frozen in place upon the bench she occupied with an open tome in her lap. She held perfectly still, not wanting to startle the girl, but captivated by the sight of her.
She wore a demure morning gown of spring green muslin, her dark hair unbound and hanging down her back. She walked through the courtyard barefoot, her steps slow and fluid. She moved with the same grace Daphne had noticed in Adam, though with her slender form and dainty feet, the motions appeared more dreamlike—as if Olivia floated instead of walking.
Approaching a rosebush bursting with open blossoms, she smiled, reaching out to touch one. She must be the reason Adam kept the garden so well-maintained. The girl looked at home here—as much a part of the scenery as the flowers blooming around her.
She appeared far more peaceful than she had the night she had attacked Daphne. As Olivia plucked a blossom and turned to face her, she realized why. Her eyes glistened with an unfocused sheen that told her she had recently come out of the haze induced by laudanum. The effects still lingered, keeping her passive.
A soft smile curved Olivia’s mouth when their gazes met, and she brought the rose up to her nostrils to inhale.
“Hello,” she murmured, her voice soft and lyrical when not strained from screaming. It carried the same soft Scottish brogue as Adam’s. “I do not believe we’ve met.”
Daphne closed her book and set it aside, trying not to move too quickly lest she startle the girl.
“I am Daphne Fa-”
She paused, clearing her throat, realizing the error she’d almost committed. Telling Olivia her last name would only set her off again.
“Just Daphne,” she amended. “I am here as a guest of your brother.”
With a giggle, Olivia came closer, twirling the stem of the rose between her fingers. “Hart always did have good taste in women. You’re absolutely beautiful.”
Daphne’s smile was genuine this time. “Thank you. I find you to be quite lovely, as well.”
But Olivia paid no heed to her compliment. Instead, she kept the rose in one hand while reaching out to Daphne with the other.
She held as still as possible and let the girl touch her hair, pulling the long rope of her braid from over one shoulder to trail it between her slender fingers. They were the hands of a harpist—dainty and feminine, with long, slender fingers she imagined would glide over the strings with ease.
“Such a lovely shade of red,” Olivia murmured. “Just like—”
“Livvie!” a man’s voice boomed from across the courtyard.
Both women turned to find Niall approaching them from the door leading to the main hall. His black coat strained at the seams, his shoulders and arms rippling with power as he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He did not appear pleased, his dark eyes narrowing when they landed on Daphne, his mouth turning down.
Yet, Olivia seemed unaware of his displeasure, giggling as she shot to her feet and dashed toward him. “Niall!”
The butler turned his attention to the young woman, his expression softening considerably when their gazes met. Daphne looked on in shock as the girl threw herself at him, laughing as he caught her up against his body. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, bringing her up to meet his gaze. Her diminutive size made her feet dangle off the ground, her small hand cupping his face.
“Such a grumpy thing you are,” she teased. “Careful, Niall … so much frowning brings wrinkles.”
He grunted as she began kissing him, her lips brushing his forehead and the bridge of his nose, then his lips. “Ye’ll give me wrinkles on yer own, wanderin’ off like that. And with no shoes, to boot. Hart’ll kill me if ye injure yerself.”
Daphne’s mouth fell open at the clear evidence of affection between them. Despite Olivia not being in her right state of mind, there existed a familiarity here that could not be denied. She cared for Niall, and by the way the large butler handled her, he obviously returned the sentiment. Daphne would never have thought him capable of such gentleness; yet, he held Olivia as if she were made of glass, as if she were more precious to him than a handful of priceless gems.
“Come on, then,” he murmured, turning to walk back toward the open door with her still in his arms. “Let’s get ye back to yer room and into a pair of slippers.”
Olivia clung to him, her arms wrapped tight around his neck as he carried her away.
“Good-bye, Daphne,” she called out cheerily. “It was lovely to have met you!”
As if he’d forgotten about her presence, Niall turned to glare at her over his shoulder. “You … stay there. We’ll speak when I return.”
She watched them go with a slack jaw. Niall had seemed like a different person in Olivia’s presence, his careful handling of the girl baffling. Especially considering the man looked fit to kill her anytime she was in the room with him.
She sat quietly in the garden and waited—not because Niall had all but ordered her to, but because she needed to connect another thread in this convoluted tapestry. She needed to know what else Adam was keeping from her. It would seem there was more than met the eye … so many facets of this situation she remained ignorant to.
When the butler returned, he once again wore his disdainful expression, his dark eyes searing her like burning, hot coals. Daphne stood to face him, placing her book upon the bench and clasping her hands demurely before her.
“Niall, I—”
“Lady Olivia is not well,” he interjected, fury lending a shaky quality to his voice. “Days like this one—when she’s more like her normal self—are rare. I won’t have ye ruinin’ that.”
She reared back as if he’d struck her, taken aback by the venom in his words. “Ruin it? I did not even know she was here. In fact, I had no idea she was Adam’s stepsister until after she had attacked me. He told me what happened to her … what my brother did.”
“Then you ken why even the sight of ye is enough to send her spiralin’ into madness again,” he retorted. “Keep yer distance, or I’ll make the rest of yer stay at Dunnottar a livin’ hell. The Master might have become obsessed with your cunt, but I haven’t forgotten who ye are and what ye Fairchilds did to her.”
Her mouth fell open, and she struggled to find words to defend herself, to remind him she’d had nothing to do with Olivia’s condition, and the Fairchild name did not mark her as a monster.
Before she could, he was gone, spinning on his heel and striding away with his hands balled into fists at his sides. Snapping her mouth shut, she thought better of it. The sight of her near Olivia had been enough to rile him, and she did not wish to provoke him further.
As she sank back onto the bench, her book forgotten, she stared off across the garden with unseeing eyes. There were many things she still had yet to discover, but one thing had been made exceedingly clear … Niall was in love with Olivia. Whether she returned the sentiment or not, the butler cared for her in a way that went beyond the relationship of a servant and the lady of the house. She had read the devotion in his eyes when he’d gazed upon her, had heard the tenderness in his voice when he’d spoken to her.
Knowing this only made her guilt increase, the number of people her brother had affected with his poor decision-making growing by the day. Olivia. Adam. Niall. All three of them irreparably damaged by the Fairchild family.
“Bertram, you fool,” she whispered. “What have you done?”
Adam remained away from Dunnottar for several more days, during which Daphne nearly went mad from boredom. He
r days continued with the same monotony as before, with morning rides and afternoons spent in the music room, library, or garden. She kept her distance from Niall and did not encounter Olivia again. Perhaps the butler had become more vigilant in keeping her out of sight in Adam’s absence, determined to keep her away from Daphne. Maeve continued to treat her with kindness, though went back to being tight-lipped when it came to the subject of Adam or Olivia.
Daphne did not want to admit to herself that she missed Adam’s imposing presence in the castle—that without the fear he inspired, she was bored to tears, that her body remained in a state of heightened arousal, craving his touch. Most of all, she bemoaned the loss of the music he could create, the haunting notes of the pianoforte filling the music room and tugging on something nestled deep inside of her. She found herself visiting the music room for no other reason than to sit before the pianoforte, her fingers lightly stroking over the keys, the pads of her fingers tracing the same places his had been. That inevitably led to remembering the times he’d taken her in this room—on the rug, on top of the piano.
There must be something terribly wrong with her—some defect making her crave depravity. How else could one explain that Adam had been right about her all along—that she longed for brute force and pleasure with pain, complete oblivion over simple gratification? She would never give him the satisfaction of admitting it aloud, but she could no longer fool herself. She had always known there was something setting her apart, a reason no man had ever seemed like the right one.
Lord Hartmoor is the furthest thing from being the right man as could be, she told herself, appalled she might even consider such a notion.
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