Heartless

by Anne Stuart

  She lifted her gaze to her companion. She’d been instantly aware of him, everything flooding back before she even opened her eyes, but he was in the shadows, and she could only hope he was still asleep. She felt uncommonly . . . safe. There was no other word for it. Warm and protected and cared for. Despite her instant alertness, that false sense remained, but she forced herself to sit up, even though she wanted to stay exactly where she was and hold on to that ephemeral feeling.

  Something was over her, keeping her warm. Pushing it aside, she realized it was his huge greatcoat, and her heart twisted in sudden pain. She threw it across the small space, straight at him, but the dark figure caught it deftly, clearly wide awake.

  “Where are my papers?” she snapped, with no intention of thanking him.

  “They’re in your satchel along with that distressing book you were reading.” His voice was light, conversational. “The thought of you sawing through bones is quite terrifying.”

  “It wouldn’t be your bones I’d be cutting off,” she shot back, and he had the temerity to laugh. “We’re in London?”

  “Indeed. We’re almost at your lodgings.”

  Light was coming from the street outside, light and noise, and he leaned forward, looking out the window, momentarily silhouetted before he sank back into the shadows once more. It would be her last glimpse of him, she thought. The moment they pulled up outside of the house she would be ready to scramble out before he could pretend to be polite, and she could sweep inside with the knowledge that Noonan or Tillerson would bring her bags. This part of her life was over, completely, irrevocably over, and she should feel nothing but joy.

  She wanted to weep. It was a good thing she couldn’t—every tear in her body had dried up long ago. If he’d seen her with tears in her eyes he might make the foolish mistake of thinking that she cared for him, which she didn’t, not any longer, not even a little.

  The carriage finally rumbled to a stop, and she could hear the voices from the streets, sounds that she knew so well she never paid any attention. She did now. The smell was overpowering as well—garbage, human waste, unwashed bodies, and horse droppings. Her taller boots came in handy as she made her way to and from work, but those boots were still recovering from her dunk in the Thames, and she had only her sturdy shoes, which would probably be ruined by the detritus on the street. So be it. She began to gather her things, ignoring the simple fact that her hands were shaking, ignoring Brandon.

  The door had been opened, but no one had let down the steps, and Noonan stood there blocking her escape, deep in conversation with Brandon, who was now fully visible. She wished he’d stayed in the shadows. The left side of his face was to her, the scarred, damaged side, and deep, unwanted emotions rushed through her. It would have been so much better if the unmarked side of his face was in evidence—the pretty, perfect bit of him that was like everyone else. That wasn’t the man she had . . . that wasn’t Brandon to her. This was, and it hurt.

  “Could you please set down the steps, Mr. Noonan?” she said, interrupting their hushed conversation. “I’d would very much like to get inside and settled.”

  Brandon nodded at Noonan, leaned back, and to Emma’s complete horror the door was slammed closed. “You’re not going there,” he said flatly, and the carriage jerked, slowly moving forward through the shifting groups of people, proving his point.

  She leaped for the doorway, determined to simply fling herself out, but he caught her, caught her, damn it, pulling her against him and keeping her flailing arms imprisoned with his own. She swore at him like a veritable fishwife, and her command of profanity was extensive, but it made no difference. He had hauled her onto his lap, and she kicked her heels back at him, hoping to do some damage, but he seemed impervious, and even her attempts to move down and sink her teeth into his arm got her nowhere. She struggled until she was worn out, until the warmth and strength of his body around hers grew too distracting, and then she sank back against him, unable, or unwilling to fight.

  “That’s better,” he said with a pragmatic tone that made her frankly murderous. “Fighting me won’t do you any good, my girl. I’m not letting you stay at that pesthole with criminals all around, any one of them capable of cutting your throat before you realized what was happening. Why in God’s name do you live in the slums?”

  “Those are my people! That’s where I belong, not set up as a rich man’s doxy. I’ll take the honest slums over anything you have to offer.”

  He sighed, and she could feel it, held as she was against his chest. “First of all, you cannot really insist that those are honest slums. People who live in poverty can’t afford to pay attention to such niceties when they’re trying to survive.”

  “And how would you know, my lord?” she said, emphasizing his title.

  “Because I have lived far from a blameless life since I returned from the wars. Melisande must have told you I was once a member of the Heavenly Host. Trust me, I have spent more than my fair share of time in the slums, doing unspeakable things.”

  She was shocked into stillness. Exactly what did he remember? She had assumed, by his deliberate utterance of the word “harpy,” that he remembered everything, including the night when he’d tried to kill himself in his London bedroom. Apparently that bit of information was still missing.

  And she was not about to offer it up. “It doesn’t surprise me,” she said darkly. “Nevertheless, where I choose to live is none of your business or your concern.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. My brother entrusted you into my care with clear orders that I was to see you safe. Why aren’t you living in their house on Bury Street? The place is huge, and I have little doubt they would have wanted you staying there.”

  She squirmed, but instead of releasing her his arms simply tightened again. “They’ve done enough for me,” she said, trying to ignore the way her body was warming, softening in his arms. “I prefer to rely on myself.”

  “Why didn’t you stay at Melisande’s house, then? You used to live there—Melisande told me.”

  And just what else has Melisande told you, she wondered. His arms were like loose iron bands around her body, not hurting her, crushing her, but an inescapable shackle.

  “We ran out of room, and the women needed a sanctuary far more than I did. Please let me go.” The last was added, almost against her will. She was surrounded by him, encased in him, and she wanted nothing more than to sink back and absorb him into her very bones, one last time. She stayed rigid.

  “Not yet.” His voice was implacable. “All the women are out in Sussex. What’s your excuse now? Or do you simply prefer to be a martyr?”

  His words hit her with the force of a blow as the truth sank into her, unavoidable. Unbearable as the thought was, she had seen herself as a woman doing penance, deserving of nothing. She couldn’t bear to think of it right now. “The Dovecote burned,” she said, her flat voice giving no hint to her emotions.

  He went very still, and then, to her mixed relief and sorrow he released her, so quickly she almost slumped to the floor before landing on the opposite bench. The London streets were uneven, the carriage lurched, and she stumbled, but he was no longer holding her, touching her.

  “When did that happen?” His voice was flat and cold.

  “A few weeks ago.” She hunted for something to say, to belittle the disaster, but nothing came to her.

  “Somebody set it on fire?”

  It would be useless to deny it. “Yes.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No.”

  He was relentless. “No one was there at the time?”

  She was an excellent liar—it would have been such a simple thing to do to distract him. “I was,” she admitted.

  “I rejoice that you decided to stop lying to me. Were you hurt?”

  “I told you the truth—no one was hurt. I breathed in a bit of smoke, but I managed to escape quite easily.”

  “How?”

  “Do we have to co
ntinue with this?”

  “How?”

  “I jumped,” she said defiantly. “The stairway was blocked, and my only choice was to throw a chair through the window and then jump out. People were already coming to help, and I had no more than a few small cuts from the glass.”

  There was silence in the carriage as it made its way through the streets at a snail’s pace, the milling nighttime crowds getting in the way. Finally he spoke. “So that’s a second attempt on your life.”

  “Well, technically the first.” She was trying to sound breezy and failing utterly.

  “Were there any others?”

  “Other what?” she said, stalling.

  “Other attempts on your life?”

  “I’m not agreeing they were personal attacks.”

  “Any other?”

  She took a deep breath. “I did fall into the Thames,” she admitted.

  “Christ! Fell? Or was pushed?”

  “The crowd jostled me.”

  “You were pushed,” he said grimly. “And with all this happening you wanted to return to your miserable rooms in the slums with no protection? Just how great an idiot are you?”

  “I’m perfectly able to take care of myself! I’ve done so for more than half my life.”

  “It doesn’t appear that you’ve been doing a very good job of it,” he muttered, and the usual guilt swept over her.

  She shrugged, knowing her face would give no clue to what she was feeling. “I didn’t feel I should kill myself after I ended up in a whorehouse, which was morally weak of me, I agree, but I was more interested in fighting back.”

  She couldn’t see him that well in the fitful light from the nighttime city, but a flash of teeth made her think he might have grinned at that. “You are a fighter,” he said, and it almost sounded like admiration in his voice.

  “I want you to take me back to my rooms,” she said.

  She couldn’t see much more than his silhouette in the darkness, but he looked perfectly at ease. “No,” he said flatly. “Have Benedick and Melisande even seen that place?”

  She was silent. “I thought not,” he said. “I’m already due a horsewhipping from my older brother—if I let you stay there he’d probably kill me. I’m taking you to their house.”

  It could be worse, she thought, her brain scrambling for an escape. “And where will you be?” She tried to make her distaste clear in her voice, but she could only hear her own wistfulness.

  “My house is closed up, with only my caretaker and his wife on the premises. It would take too long to open it up. I really should get rid of it—I have no intention of ever living in the city again.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “Wife?” There was no missing the confusion in his voice. “Oh, you mean Miss Bonham.”

  “Do you have any other affianced wives?”

  Just a moment’s hesitation, before he answered. “I’ll make suitable arrangements for Miss Bonham.”

  She really wanted to hate him. “I’m sure you will.”

  The carriage was finally slowing. When it pulled to a stop the footmen were already waiting, opening the door and letting down the steps.

  She considered refusing to leave the questionable safety of the coach. Brandon couldn’t just haul her out, kicking and screaming, in the middle of Mayfair.

  “After you, Mrs. Cadbury,” he said in a silken voice. Yes, he probably could. The sooner she appeared to be following his high-handed orders the sooner she’d be able to escape.

  Sighing dramatically, she pulled her shawl around her shoulders and clasped her heavy satchel to her bosom, only to have it snatched away. “I’ll bring it,” he said.

  The under butler was already waiting for her. “Welcome back, Mrs. Cadbury,” he said warmly. “Will you be. . .” His words vanished as he suddenly saw the man who accompanied her, and then his pleasant face turned into a dazzling smile.

  “Lord Brandon!” he cried, momentarily ignoring her. “We had no idea you were coming! How wonderful you look.”

  Brandon came up beside her and caught her elbow. “Good to see you, Michaels. Richmond sends his regards. We’ll be staying here for the time being—will you let the housekeeper know?”

  “Mrs. Patrick is already waiting, sir.” Michaels seemed slightly affronted that he’d need to be reminded. “She’ll be overjoyed to see you.”

  “I’m sure she will,” he said wryly. “It’s a good thing my sainted mother is so strong, or Mrs. Patrick would have insisted on raising me.”

  “She’s very fond of you,” Michaels agreed in his precise voice.

  Just how fond was amply demonstrated when Brandon guided her into the front hallway. Mrs. Patrick, a seemingly placid woman of impressive girth and indeterminable age took one look at Brandon and launched herself at him like a young girl, bypassing Emma completely.

  “My boy!” she cried, bursting into tears. “You’re back! I was that worried about you. You would never have gotten into all that trouble if I’d been here, I know you wouldn’t, and I could have cursed my sister for getting sick at just that time, or I could have saved you.”

  He smiled down at the old woman with real affection. “I was heading for hell any way you looked at it, and even your tender mercies couldn’t have stopped me. And how is your dear sister?”

  “Dead,” said Mrs. Patrick with no particular regret. “Just like her, too, stirring things up and then popping off. I’d never been so annoyed.”

  Emma felt her eyebrows rise at this, but Brandon seemed well versed in Mrs. Patrick’s attitude toward life. He detached her gently. “I’ve brought Mrs. Cadbury. We’ll be staying for a few days.”

  Mrs. Patrick finally recalled her duties. “Mrs. Cadbury, a pleasure to see you as always.”

  “Put her in her usual room, would you?” Brandon said.

  Emma tensed.

  Mrs. Patrick cast him a quizzical glance. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t,” she said. “Mrs. Cadbury always prefers to use your room.”

  He glanced down at her, hopefully unable to read her blank expression. “Does she really? Well, then, continue to indulge her, and put me anywhere you please.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Emma broke in. “Of course you must take your own room. It merely seemed convenient during the times I stayed here. I didn’t even realize it was yours,” she added hastily, praying Mrs. Patrick would keep her mouth shut.

  That hope was in vain. “Oh, no, Mrs. Cadbury! You’ve forgotten, but I told you all about Mr. Brandon since you two had never met.”

  A little of Emma’s anxiety left her. At least Mrs. Patrick had been nowhere around during that long, terrible night when she’d found Brandon hanging from a rope in that room and managed to save him.

  She’d spent most of that night holding him in her arms, dry eyed, mourning, hurting so much inside she thought the pain would devour her. “Really?” she said vaguely. “It must not have made much impression.” She refused to meet his gaze. He would know very well that she would have paid close attention to any information about him, even if he’d been only one of her random patients, but she refused to think about it. He hadn’t brought up the subject of their earlier acquaintance, though he’d made it clear he knew about it, and she had no intention of doing so either. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Patrick, could I perhaps have something on the third floor? I like my privacy.”

  “She takes my room,” Brandon said, and Emma knew it would be a waste of breath arguing. “I’ll use the blue room.”

  She jerked her head to look at him as an obedient Mrs. Patrick scurried off. “That’s next door. No.”

  She couldn’t read his faint smile—was it derision, contempt, or actual amusement? “I’m not about to creep into your bed in the middle of the night, Emma, so you may rest easy. I just happen to know you’ll take the first chance you get to run off back to that viper’s nest you’ve been living in, and I don’t fancy retrieving you time and again. If you try to run away I will tie you to the be
d. Yours or mine is still up for discussion.”

  She froze. “I thought you weren’t interested in those sorts of variations.”

  He moved in on her unexpectedly, crowding her, but she stood her ground. He put a hand under her stubborn chin, tilting it up toward him, and said, “You, of all people should know there’s a difference between the enjoyment of pain and the more delicious possibilities of measured restraint. Then again, your practical knowledge of fuckery is surprisingly scant. You didn’t even know how to kiss.”

  There was no reason she should feel shame at the criticism. “Men do not kiss whores, my lord.”

  “I do.”

  The words left her still, breathless for a long, silent moment, and then she came to her senses.

  “Taken from a business point of view, I must tell you that whores do not like or expect kisses. They want to get things done quickly and efficiently before they move on to the next one.”

  “Do they really?” He sounded amused, and she had to give him that. If any of the women she knew had been servicing Brandon Rohan they probably wouldn’t be in any kind of hurry. Even she wouldn’t.

  “Well,” he continued, “taken from my point of view I must tell you that you’re dead wrong. Women like to be kissed, no matter what the financial arrangements are, and I kiss very well.”

  She had to give him that as well. That man could seduce a nun with his mouth. He came absurdly close to seducing her.

  “I find this conversation distasteful,” she said, turning her back on him and starting up the stairs. She should have known he’d immediately be by her side. In fact, distasteful was not the word for talking about kissing with Brandon Rohan. Disturbing might be more accurate.

  He followed her up the staircase, down the long hall without a word, and her skin prickled at his nearness. His room was at the end of the hall, and she stopped outside the door.

  “Do you want me to carry you across the threshold?” he inquired politely.

  She wanted to hit him. She wanted to distract him, send him away, she wanted to be in the dubious safety of her rooms down by the docks. She pushed open the door.