To Love a Dark Lord

by Anne Stuart

  “You’ll be wanting something to eat, no doubt, and perhaps a cup of tea,” Nathaniel said solicitously. “Rest for a moment, and I’ll see what I can do…”

  The words faded into the thick velvet of her mind. The warmth had finally reached down into her bones, turning them to jelly, and she closed her eyes, drifting into a deep, helpless sleep before Nathaniel could even finish speaking.

  “What are you going to do with her?”

  Killoran turned to look down at Lady Barbara, wondering lazily why the miraculous perfection of her face left him so unmoved. He could see her well enough in the dim light of the carriage, and while he admired her beauty, it ignited no spark of desire. “I doubt that’s any of your concern, my love.”

  “Don’t call me your love, Killoran,” she snapped, momentarily distracted as he’d meant her to be. “Not if you don’t mean it.”

  “I never mean it, my love,” he said deliberately. “You should know that.”

  “I don’t make the mistake of assuming you’re going to take the wench to bed,” Lady Barbara continued.

  “And why not?”

  “Because you’ve refused to take what I’ve offered,” she shot back. “I doubt whether you’re a real man at all. Perhaps you prefer the attentions of others of your sex.”

  He laughed softly. “Perhaps I merely seek a challenge, dear Babs. You’ve made it more than clear I can have you any time I evince the slightest interest. Perhaps I like the hunt.”

  “Perhaps you like other men.”

  “Perhaps,” he murmured, unruffled by her attempt to be provoking. “Doubtless you’d like me to throw you down on the carriage seat and prove how wrong your supposition is.”

  “Doubtless,” she purred, suddenly all preening sensuality with no real emotion beneath it. He wasn’t fooled by her, and never had been. Barbara’s wiles were for the likes of gullible young men such as Nathaniel.

  “Sorry to disoblige you, darling,” he said, “but right now I’m more interested in seeing how our little Miss Brown is faring.”

  “I’d scarcely call her little,” Barbara said waspishly.

  “No, indeed.” Killoran allowed a certain amount of detached appreciation to enter his voice, just enough to enrage Barbara further. “She’s quite a luscious handful, is she not?”

  “You know her, don’t you?” she said shrewdly. “The moment I described her, you knew who I was talking about. Who is she? And don’t expect me to believe her name is really Brown. Mrs. Varienne might call her that, but I’ve never had any opinion of her intelligence.”

  “I doubt that it is. I have no idea what her real name is; for all I know, it could be Pottle.”

  “Pottle? What a revolting name.” Barbara shuddered.

  “Indeed. Just don’t let Nathaniel hear you say so. He was devoted to Miss Pottle.”

  “I’m getting confused, Killoran. Is Nathaniel in love with the girl we just rescued?”

  “Of course not, darling. He’s in love with you, poor sod, and well you know it. Before that he was in love with a Northumberland lady with the unfortunate name of Pottle, and next he’ll probably fall in love with Miss Brown.”

  “Which would be a great relief to me,” she said, possibly not even aware that she lied. “You still haven’t told me where you’ve seen her before.”

  “No,” he said gently, “I haven’t.”

  Barbara’s carriage had barely come to a halt outside Curzon Street when Killoran opened the door and leapt out. It had begun to snow lightly, the thick white flakes drifting downward to blanket the street. “I know you’ll refuse to come in, so I won’t even bother asking you,” he said smoothly, looking up at Barbara as she leaned out the carriage door.

  Soulless she was, but that experienced body could still provide him with a night of sweet oblivion. For one brief moment he wondered if he could let himself be tempted.

  “But, Killoran,” she said, and the possibility vanished as swiftly as it had come.

  “Good night, Babs,” he said, closing the door firmly in her pouting, pretty face.

  He didn’t care much for servants hovering around him, and the front hall was blessedly empty when he let himself in. He tossed his thin kid gloves on the gilt-and-ormolu table, then wandered through the public rooms, glancing at them with new eyes, wondering what his new guest would think of such bizarre magnificence. He couldn’t quite place her background. On the one hand, it seemed more than likely that she came from yeoman stock, decent, middle-class blood, perhaps tainted with trade. A cit, solid and unimaginative.

  But for all that he didn’t care much about people, he was very observant, and Miss Emma Brown was no cit. There was breeding in her fine, strong bones, in the cool bravery of her eyes, in the elegance of her hands and that indefinable air of grace. She was an enigma, was Miss Brown, a fierce, murderous enigma. One that was blessedly entertaining.

  He had a use for her. The notion had been playing around the back of his mind these past few weeks, merely a fancy that he’d been considering. At that time he’d had no idea whether he could find her again, nor was he certain he wished to. Mrs. Withersedge might provide him with her direction, but there was no guarantee that the girl had taken advantage of his offer, no guarantee that she was even still alive.

  But fate had taken a hand, and Killoran was Irish enough to believe in fate. A beautiful red-haired waif had, for the second time, been brought to his attention. He’d have to be a fool not to make use of her.

  Nathaniel was nowhere to be seen. The fire in the library beckoned Killoran, and that night he gave in to creature comfort, moving toward the one room in the house in which he allowed himself to drop the armor that protected him so well.

  He stripped off his coat, tossing it on a chair, then placed his lacy cravat and a handful of diamond-and-emerald studs on the desk. He had moved closer to the fire and was turning his laced sleeves back when he saw her.

  Her red hair was a blaze across the white ermine lap throw in which she was wrapped. She was sound asleep, lying on the settee, and he could see the pinched white misery of her face, the paleness of her lips, the faint spattering of freckles against her skin. He wondered if he could redden those lips.

  Would she pay the logical price for rescue? She was in his house, in his power, and if she were even the slightest bit knowledgeable about the way the world worked, she’d know what was expected of her. She was probably lying naked beneath that soft white fur, expecting him.

  A sudden rush of desire washed over him, and he examined it, surprised. It had been a very long time since the thought of a soft, sweet body had aroused his interest, not to mention another, more demanding part of him. But Emma Brown, with her murderous ways, her soft, shy mouth, and her astonishing bravery, had done just that.

  He moved to stand over her. He considered unfastening his breeches and taking her there on the sofa. After all, she must be a doxy, despite that innocence. No one could look as she did, find herself in the situations she did, and remain untouched.

  He reached out a hand, tugging the fur down, hoping to see exposed skin. Instead he saw that miserable gray serge that he’d wanted to rip off her when he’d unfastened it earlier. She wasn’t made for gray serge. She was made for silks and satins and furs. And the pristine whiteness of bed linen and smooth skin.

  “What are you doing?”

  His damnable guest, Nathaniel, appeared in the doorway, his brown hair ruffled from sleep, a glowering expression on his face.

  “Admiring Miss Brown,” Killoran said lazily, turning his gaze back to the sleeping woman. The sound of voices didn’t rouse her, and he imagined she would continue to sleep quite soundly.

  “Where’s Lady Barbara?”

  “I sent her home.”

  “Killoran...,” Nathaniel’s voice was strong with disapproval.

  Killoran glanced at him. “Yes?” His voice was chilly enough to daunt even hardier souls, but Nathaniel was a hero, intent on defending the flower of womanhood from
a dedicated villain. It should have been amusing, but Killoran’s malicious sense of humor was abandoning him when he most needed its protection.

  “Leave her alone, Killoran. I promised her you meant her no ill.”

  “And did she believe you?”

  “Not for a moment.”

  Killoran looked back at her. “Wise girl,” he murmured. “But for now, she’s safe. I promise to keep my marauding hands off her fair young body. For the time being.”

  “Damn it, Killoran, she’s an innocent!” Nathaniel protested hotly.

  “My dear Nathaniel,” Killoran said, utterly weary as he turned away from the sleeping girl, “no one is innocent.” And without another word he left the room. Before he could change his mind.

  Chapter 5

  Emma lay still beneath the thick covering, alone in the darkness of Killoran’s library, and although that ought to bother a decent, God-fearing young woman, she found she couldn’t rouse much indignation. She was wonderfully warm, and even though her stomach was still quite hollow, she had no desire to go in search of food.

  Cousin Miriam would be horrified if she saw her, but then Cousin Miriam was easily horrified. Having spent the majority of her almost forty years addicted to good works, and to increasing the general misery of any poor soul unfortunate enough to cross her path, Cousin Miriam had very little tolerance for moral laxity. And Emma was definitely feeling lax.

  She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes, staring into the firelit darkness. Why had the notoriously decadent Earl of Killoran rescued her once more? Would he want payment this time? It was unlikely in the extreme that he should find her over-tall, overripe body desirable, but then, she’d never been one to fathom the way gentlemen’s minds worked. If Killoran wanted her, she would have to pay her debt. It could hardly be worse than Frederick Varienne.

  She sat up in the darkness, secure in the knowledge that she was, at least for the moment, alone. Her body felt the same beneath the thick fur throw—if anyone had despoiled her, she didn’t seem the worse for it. Besides, she sincerely doubted she’d sleep through that.

  She had a headache. Her stomach growled ominously. And the heat from the fire penetrated only a few feet into the elegant room.

  She didn’t want to run away again. She didn’t want to end up on the icy streets of London with no cloak, no money, no prospects.

  But she had no desire to lie naked in the Earl of Killoran’s bed and wait for him to take her. Given that she found the earl unnervingly attractive, the experience probably wouldn’t be unpleasant. Given the turmoil of the past few weeks of her life, it seemed unlikely she would end her days a virgin or find a decent husband. Failing those two preferable fates, the dark and dangerous Killoran should begin to take on a certain appeal.

  She was being soundly impractical. If she ran off, she would doubtless end up selling her body. She’d been resigned to the notion once before, when she’d presented herself to Mrs. Withersedge. The Earl of Killoran was a beautiful man, far better than anyone who’d be willing to buy her favors on the streets.

  Why didn’t she count her blessings and let herself be debauched?

  She sat up and began to fasten her clothes slowly, deliberately, as she considered the notion. It was perhaps his very beauty that unnerved her. The cool amusement in his handsome face, the banked emotion in his dark green eyes. The grace in his tall, strong body. She didn’t want that body touching hers. She didn’t want those long, beautiful hands caressing her. The very idea terrified her.

  Her hair was a loose tangle down her back, and she quickly bundled it behind her neck, securing it with a strip of silk. Moving to the window, she pushed the heavy velvet aside to stare out into the city street.

  It would be getting light soon. Snow was falling, a lovely blanket of white covering the cobbled street. Emma looked down at her thin shoes and shivered.

  Killoran was a man who appreciated elegant trifles. A small pile of diamond-and-emerald studs gleamed from the center of the walnut desk, catching even Emma’s myopic eyes. She moved toward them, picking them up and weighing them in her hand.

  His coat lay there as well. She stared at it, uncertain for a moment. It was black satin, embroidered with silver, and she’d look ridiculous in it. She would also be protected from the snow.

  It lay on a chair near the fire. When she picked it up, it was warm, as if it had just come off his back. She slid her arms into the long sleeves, and the froth of lace covered her hands entirely. The coat encased her shabby dress in silken elegance, and it smelled wonderful—of leather, and spice, and whiskey, and fire-warmed satin. It smelled like Killoran.

  She found she was stroking the sleeve absently. She almost stripped the garment off there and then, disgusted with herself. It was a good thing she was possessed of a certain amount of determination. It would be dangerously easy for her to stay in the mesmerizing presence of her wicked rescuer.

  She’d rather take her chances on the streets of London. She dropped the jeweled studs into a silk-lined pocket, pulled the capacious folds of the coat around her, and started for the door.

  At the last moment, caution halted her. She hadn’t seen or heard any sign of a servant in this night-shrouded place since just after she arrived, but that didn’t mean they weren’t lurking. Most servants rose at the break of dawn, and if she dared wander the hallways, she might run into someone.

  Indeed, she thought she could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. There were no other doors in the room, only windows overlooking the snowy dawn. She didn’t hesitate. By the time the door to the library opened, she had already slipped out the casement, pulling the window closed behind her.

  She landed in the snow. It was very wet, the temperature not yet being extreme, and it soaked immediately through her skirts, drenching her thin leather slippers as well. She struggled upright, tugging Killoran’s coat around her. It no longer felt quite so cozy.

  She started forward, and an icy blast hit her full in the face, rocking her backward. For a moment she thought longingly of the warm fire and the fur throw. And then she thought of Killoran’s cool, malicious eyes, and she kept going, head down, into the early morning storm.

  Leaning negligently against the window frame, Killoran watched her vanish into the swirling snow, his new coat wrapped around her tall figure.

  He glanced at his desk. The jeweled studs were gone as well, and if he instituted a search, he’d probably find other artifacts missing. He smiled faintly. Another man might swell with outrage. Another man might call in the runners, or at least send his servants after her to retrieve the stolen property. Killoran did no such thing.

  He found he was properly in awe of her, as well as amused. She seemed to have an essential grasp of how to survive, even if she was uncommonly interested in preserving her virtue to the point of murder. She hadn’t succumbed to the vapors when she’d skewered her uncle, and though she had fainted when she discovered her latest victim bloody but unbowed, he sensed it was his presence that had delivered the coup de grace, not the resurrection of Frederick Varienne.

  She had stolen his jewels and his coat and climbed out his window to disappear into a snowstorm. If only all women could be so resourceful.

  He considered letting her go. She was undoubtedly a great deal of trouble; if he hauled her back, she might grow agitated, and try to skewer him.

  The notion had a certain oblique charm. No one had tried to kill him for a number of years, ever since he had dispatched his third man in a duel. He was considered possessed of the devil’s own luck, both in dueling and in cards, and most people avoided both those pursuits with him.

  So circumspect were the majority of his acquaintance, in fact, that he found them deadly boring, as well as vicious, petty-minded snobs. On the other hand, Nathaniel’s ill-concealed dislike managed to provide him with some much-needed distraction. And despite being vastly irritating, young Nathaniel, with his stern disapproval and heroic ways, was twice the man any of Killoran’s Lo
ndon acquaintances were.

  Of course, he wasn’t nearly so distracting as the strapping, flame-haired murderess who had so conveniently dropped into his lap. He was convinced she’d been brought into his life for a purpose, not by mere chance, and he found the thought curiously soothing. In the past five years only one human being had managed to rouse him from his ennui, and that was Jasper Darnley.

  The score he had to settle was an old one. He’d worked away at it, bit by bit, until the sport was almost gone. But still, Darnley managed to surprise him and come back. Emma could provide the means for the long-awaited coup de grace.

  However, she was a double-edged sword. Killoran knew Darnley would take one look at her and be consumed with lust. That was exactly what he counted on.

  The only danger was that he might fall prey to the same weakness he offered his enemy,

  She was almost at the edge of the garden now, and her tall figure was obscured by the blowing snow. Her thin shoes would be worthless in the deep slush. Her clothing was rough, cheap, unimaginative, and too flimsy. And his satin coat would provide little protection from the elements.

  Would she freeze to death within sight of his house? He considered the notion absently. It would certainly make things interesting. He could well imagine the rumors that would abound. People would assume she was a serving girl, seduced and abandoned. Or some indigent relative, turned away without a crust of bread. People believed the worst of him, and rightfully so. He was a heartless bastard, worse even than they imagined.

  She might get as far as the stews of London. She wouldn’t last long on a night like this. If the cold and the storm didn’t stop her, one of the denizens of the night would. He couldn’t imagine how she’d survived before, but he had seen her pale face and shadowed eyes and known she was at the limit of her endurance.

  If he didn’t go after her, she’d be dead before the sun rose. It was just that simple.