Heartless

by Anne Stuart

  She held on to the walls on either side of the narrow stairs, and when she finally reached the top she wanted nothing more than to collapse on her narrow bed.

  She couldn’t. She felt unclean, violated, wrong, so very, very wrong, and she couldn’t rest until she scrubbed her body clean.

  Because she’d liked it. The most deplorable, shameful thing of all was that she’d actually begun to feel alive as she’d wrapped her body around his, taken him inside her, and she’d wanted more. She knew that some rare women could reach their peak as men did, and she could feel it just outside of her reach. She’d struggled, almost there, his filthy, arousing words in her ear, when he said the one thing that would destroy her.

  Harpy.

  He knew who she was.

  She shook her head, hard, trying to banish the thought, and her sudden dizziness increased. She couldn’t bear it. She’d borne everything else, but this was too much—she had to wipe it from her brain. She began to sing beneath her breath, the effort of remembering the words occupying her mind enough to keep her sanity in place. It was an old song—“Come Haste to the Wedding”—and she sang it without thought, all the verses, quickly changing over to a sturdy hymn, “Come Thou Almighty King” as she poured the cold water into the bowl, on to a silly children’s song as she scrubbed between her legs, drowning out conscious thought, memory, the stretching and the unexpected glory of something she’d always hated. She wasn’t going to think about anything. She started on “Bonny Light Horseman” but when she got to the line, “in the war he was slain” she stopped, her voice breaking. Life would be so much better for her if he’d died of his injuries, if she’d never met him at all, but there was no way she could wish it. She had survived things no woman should ever have to face. She could survive this as well.

  When she finally stepped away from the washbowl she was shivering. The fire had gone out, she was wet, bedraggled, and she could still feel him inside her. Scrubbing wouldn’t help. Nothing would, nothing but time.

  She pulled the rough linen sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her, then sank down in the chair and closed her eyes. It will be all right, she told herself, the words she had used to soothe herself. She’d come across an old prayer one time, written by an ancient English nun. All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

  She said those words over and over again, pushing everything out of her mind, as a hard-won calm descended. All would be well.

  It just might take time.

  Chapter 22

  It was cold as a witch’s tit, Brandon thought numbly the next morning, staring out across the countryside. The Hawk and Cock was deserted, a waystation on a heavily travelled road, but most people had had enough sense to stay home. He should go back into the taproom and grab his greatcoat against the bitter chill, but at that moment he would rather freeze his bollocks off than face Emma Cadbury, and chances were she’d be down any minute.

  What a monumental idiot he’d been! What a complete arsehole, treating her like garbage and then offering to buy her sexual services. Even worse, he’d taken her, losing his self-control so completely that he’d ignored his semi-noble determination to bring her pleasure and just gone at her like a lust-maddened dog. He’d even come inside her, an act of stupidity that rivaled few others.

  For the first time in his life he’d lost that little bit of control he’d always held onto, but she’d felt so good, so warm, so tight that he could no more break away from her than he could fly.

  He’d called her by name. By his name for her—he remembered that much, and he cursed beneath his breath. It was out in the open now, and a good thing. He’d acted like a school boy, throwing a tantrum, treating her like one of the punching bags his father had set up in the abandoned cheesery.

  And what terrible thing had she done? Saved his life in that little hospital, held his hand when he’d been frightened of death, forced him back from its beckoning shores. So she’d left him without a word, abandoning him in that miserable place until he could stand it no longer and sent word to his family. There were worse things. She’d kissed him, and he’d done all sorts of wicked things to her in his mind while he lay there, slowly getting stronger, wicked things he had every intention of doing the moment he had the chance.

  But she hadn’t come back. And then, to compound her guilt, she’d looked him straight in the eyes less than a week ago and pretended not to know him, making every word, every gesture a lie.

  Who was he to sit in judgment? It mattered not that he felt betrayed and abandoned—in truth she owed him nothing, and yet he’d stormed and railed like a petulant child, compounding his wretched behavior by offering to pay her for sexual favors. He’d just meant to anger her, but she’d already been angry, and it hadn’t been his fault entirely, though he bore the brunt of the blame. She’d taunted him, deliberately—she’d fought back, and he’d made it worse still, until they’d goaded themselves into bed. He still had no excuse.

  Tillerson was leading the carriage out into the courtyard, Noonan was stomping around, looking like the wrath of God, the horses were fresh and restless in the cool morning air. If his mare was equally . . . Jesus fucking Christ, why hadn’t he made that connection before? He’d named his horse Emma. The only creature he loved and trusted without reserve, and he’d named her Emma.

  “You all right, m’lord?” Tillerson had come up to him, and Brandon realized he’d shaken his head rather violently at the unbidden thoughts that were flying at him like poisoned darts.

  “Fine,” he said shortly. “You and Noonan already had something to eat, I assume?”

  “We have indeed, my lord. Very kind of you to ask.” Tillerson said mildly. “They’re all set and ready to go. Is the whore ready?”

  Brandon hit him. Without thinking he slammed his face into Tillerson’s face, and the man went flat on his arse, looking slightly stunned.

  “Do not ever let me hear you refer to Mrs. Cadbury in such terms again,” he snapped.

  Tillerson scrambled to his feet. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” he said hastily. “I misunderstood the situation.”

  Brandon cursed again, under his breath. Of course Tillerson had—he’d heard all the stories and he’d watched and listened as Brandon had treated her as less than dirt beneath his boots. Tillerson wasn’t the one who needed hitting—he was.

  By that time Noonan had joined them. “Here, now,” he said sternly. “What’s all this about?”

  “Nothing,” Tillerson mumbled, looking sheepish. “I’ll go finish checking the traces.”

  Noonan looked up at Brandon, his eyes beady with anger. “You’re the one who needs to be horsewhipped, you young idiot. What did you go hitting Tillerson for? The man’s a fool, but he’s older and smaller than you. Despite your behavior this week, I thought better of you.”

  He’d thought better of himself. He had two choices—tell Noonan it was none of his damned business or appear an even greater fool by telling him the truth. “He insulted Mrs. Cadbury.”

  He expected Noonan to say something equally bad, but the old man just looked at him, and then he sighed. “You hurt the lass?”

  Guilt swept over him. “Of course not! What kind of man do you think I am? Don’t answer that—you’ve already told me. No, I did not hurt Mrs. Cadbury.”

  “So she just went to your bed on her own accord? That don’t seem likely, me boy.”

  He didn’t bother to wonder how Noonan knew what had happened last night. He’d never been able to hide anything from the man. “If you’re thinking I’d force her. . .” he began.

  “You’d also be flat on your backside in the mud if I even suspected such a thing. I’m not too old to give you a beating when you deserve it, and I’m thinking now might be the time.”

  The very thought should have been amusing, but Brandon didn’t feel like smiling. He knew he deserved a horsewhipping, and he knew just the man who’d do it. All he had to do was tell Benedick what he’d done and his brother would t
ake him out to the stable for a lesson that was long overdue. The last time Benedick had done that, Brandon had been sixteen and he and a group of his friends had trampled a farmer’s field in an excess of ale-infused high spirits. The next time he’d tried Brandon had fought back.

  This time he wouldn’t. He’d take his punishment like a man who deserved it, because he did. If Benedick proved reluctant he could always ask his brother-in-law Lucien, better known at The Scorpion. Lucien had never needed encouragement to rain down fire and brimstone.

  He glanced at Noonan’s pugnacious scowl. “Someone will see to it soon enough. I expect my brother will be the first in line. Are the horses ready? Mine seemed to be favoring her right hock.” He couldn’t refer to her by name. For one thing, Noonan probably knew very well that Mrs. Cadbury was Emma, and for another, he didn’t want to remind himself.

  “You’ve got that right,” Noonan said. “She’s got something going on. I’m thinking it might be better if you didn’t ride her today till I have a chance to poultice it.”

  He almost shut his eyes in desperation. As if things weren’t bad enough, he would now need to be in close quarters with Emma, the real Emma, for hours as they completed their journey. He glanced at the carriage. It was one of Benedick’s infernal inventions—a little heavier than the popular landaus of the day, with a collapsible roof that nevertheless allowed for long-distance travel and room for only one on the box. That roof might collapse beneath his weight if he tried to sit up there as on a stagecoach, and the perch in back, made for a stable lad, was ridiculous. He had no choice.

  “I’ll use yours then,” he said somewhat desperately.

  Noonan laughed in his face. “Meggie’s not up to your weight, and even if she was I’m not letting you get your hands on her. You’ll ride in the carriage and try and undo some of the damage you’ve done. You’ll be nice to the girl. It don’t matter where she came from or what she’s done—she’s a sweet young lady and she doesn’t deserve the likes of you acting like a spoiled brat.”

  Brandon kept his face stoic. Noonan had clearly seen far too much over the last few days. “What if the best thing for her is my absence?”

  “She’ll have that as soon as we get to the city. In the meantime you have some making up to do.”

  He supposed he could always order Noonan to give him his horse, but Noonan would probably laugh in his face. Besides, he’d been a total ass already—he didn’t have to compound it.

  “Are we almost ready then?” he said, hoping he’d have a little while longer in the cold air, but Noonan simply nodded. It would take but a moment to bring his mare out and tie her to the carriage, and it was too cold to leave the horses standing around for long. Looking toward the door to the cozy inn, Brandon straightened his back and moved forward.

  He almost hoped she wasn’t down yet, and he could send Bosomworth up with a message, but when he stepped inside the warmth of the taproom she was sitting at one table, drinking a cup of tea. She looked like a little girl, her feet neatly together, her dark hair two smooth wings on either side of her perfect face. She was utterly still, looking up at him when he came into the room.

  “You’re ready?” he said roughly, unable to think of anything else to say. He was going to have to find some way to apologize, but everything that came to mind would only make things worse.

  “I am,” she said, her voice as expressionless as her face. “Did you require breakfast, my lord? I’m certain Mrs. Bosomworth would be happy to make you some of her delicious gammon and eggs.”

  “Have you eaten?” he said warily.

  “Yes,” she said, and he knew it was a lie. She was too pale, too fragile looking to have eaten a substantial meal, and he wanted to curse. He didn’t. From now on he had to treat her like a perfect lady in a belated attempt to . . . he wasn’t sure. Redeeming himself seemed an unlikely goal. At least he could refrain from behaving like a wounded child again. Though once he’d put his hands on her there had been nothing childlike about their encounter.

  He growled, low in his throat, as he felt his cock began to stir. Last night was over, he reminded himself, pulling his greatcoat in front of him. The best thing he could do to atone was to keep his distance and having wood in his pants was going to make things difficult.

  She rose, graceful, and started toward the door, and without thinking he was there ahead of her, holding it for her. The look she gave him should have shriveled his erection, but his member was perverse enough to grow harder. “After you, my lord,” she said coldly, and he remembered that he’d barged ahead of her when they’d arrived.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’ll be right behind you.” Of course, that probably wasn’t much comfort.

  But Emma was having none of it. “It’s a matter of precedence, my lord. You are my better in every sense of the word—you’re titled, wealthy, a war hero, and a man. A woman like me is of little consequence. I’ll follow you.”

  He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt such shame in his entire life. He looked at her, and knew she wasn’t going to move until he did, so he shrugged and went through the door.

  She was carrying her bag, and he reached for it automatically when she jerked it away from him. “Do not trouble yourself.”

  He had to stop himself from yanking it back. He didn’t move, knowing that if he let down the stairs for the coach or opened the door she’d refuse to precede him, and that would annoy him no end, so he waited until a repentant Tillerson got her settled before approaching the coach.

  “I’m afraid you have company for the last bit of our journey, Mrs. Cadbury. My horse seems to have gone lame.” He was almost amused as he saw her lurch forward, as if to escape, but he was standing in the door and there would be no way past him, so she sank bank in defeat.

  “My condolences,” she said in cool voice, taking the leather satchel she’d left in the coach into her lap. A moment later she’d pulled out a heavy tome with the disconcerting title of The London Guide to Severing Limbs and ignored him as he heaved himself up into the carriage, dropping onto the seat opposite her.

  It was going to be like that, was it? He slouched down, tilting his hat over his head, his greatcoat still clutched around his waist. Fine with me.

  He was exhausted. Yesterday’s endless ride should have been enough to have sent him into a sound sleep and last night’s debacle could have been avoided. But no, since he’d recognized Emma, sleep had been almost impossible.

  He’d ended up sleeping for a few hours in the bed that smelled of sex and flowers, and he hated himself for that. He could have started to mend things as she lay beside him, perhaps even finished taking care of her the way he’d wanted to, had her gasping and writhing in his arms. Instead he’d fallen asleep, and she’d run. Damn his soul to hell.

  He should talk to her. Somehow make peace with her. He just couldn’t summon up the requisite repentance. Oh, he was sorry he’d made such a mess of things, sorry he’d hurt her. But he couldn’t regret those moments in the bed with her.

  It was going to be a long, miserable drive, with his mind awash in guilt and his body still awash in lust.

  He was asleep in five minutes.

  He woke with a start, filled with panic that immediately subsided when he saw her asleep across from him. Her papers were scattered beside her on the seat, the morbid book still open in her lap, and the illustrations would have made anyone but a former soldier blanch. She looked as exhausted as he felt, and for a while he sat as still as the coach would let him, watching her beautiful, troubled face.

  He’d put that look on her, damn his hide. It would be up to him to remove it, though he had no idea how. The first step would be to give her a little time, keep away from her for a few days, despite how the very thought made his gut twist.

  It was cold in the coach—he’d insisted on leaving so quickly they hadn’t even stacked lap rugs and throws to keep the passengers warm. She was wearing fingerless gloves, and he expected that her fingertips w
ere cold, even as she slept on.

  He scooped up the papers first, as silently as he could, tucking them back in her worn leather satchel. Then he lifted the heavy book from her lap, but she didn’t move, and when he’d placed it with the papers he looked back to see that she’d curled up in the corner, her breathing steady and shallow. She had her shawl wrapped tightly around her, but it wasn’t enough to keep her warm, and in the harsh light of day he could see the bruising on the side of her head.

  God, he’d forgotten all about the attack. He’d been so mad with lust he hadn’t done anything to protect her injuries, he’d just rutted. He was going to purchase his own horsewhip and hand it to Noonan.

  Stripping off his heavy coat, he draped it around her sleeping form. He shivered slightly and then scolded himself. He lived in Scotland—he was used to the cold. He swam in weather like this. He settled back on the opposite seat, watching her. It might very well be the last chance he got, and he felt the knife twist inside him again. How had he managed to screw up his life so badly? He had a weeping, unwanted fiancée and a range of sins impressive enough to earn him reentry into the Heavenly Host, he thought with almost abstracted horror. He needed to get the hell away from everyone, back to Scotland with Noonan, and his spaniel and the Widow MacKinnon. Who, he realized, looked a fair bit like Emma herself, tall and pretty, though no match for his Emma.

  But Emma wasn’t his. Never would be. And that was the curse of it.

  Chapter 23

  Emma always woke quickly, ready to face whatever the day threw at her, and today was no different. The carriage was dark—he hadn’t lit the small lamps on either side of the seats—and she could feel the roughness of the cobbled streets beneath them. They had reached London.