To Love a Dark Lord

by Anne Stuart

  “Was it your child she was carrying when she died?” Emma couldn’t really believe she had the temerity to ask him that question. The night had been long and filled with shocks, her neck felt raw where Darnley had ripped the necklace from her, and she was cold, angry, and oddly near tears. She wanted someone to put his arms around her and comfort her. And yet, strangely enough, she wanted to put her arms around Killoran and press his head against her breast.

  “You do have the most astonishing audacity,” he said. “That’s one of the many things I find irresistible about you.”

  “You don’t find me irresistible,” she said in a low voice. “Thank God.”

  He reached out and took her hand in his. It was the fist holding the broken necklace, and he opened her fingers with no effort, staring at the jewels. “You didn’t care for the diamonds?” he asked, and there was no way she could fathom the expression in his voice.

  “It broke.” She dumped the necklace into his hands, backing away from him in the cozy interior of the carriage.

  “Unlikely, my dear. I do not buy my women shoddy jewelry.”

  “I’m not your woman…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, leaning back, allowing her to escape. “We’ll simply replace it. It wouldn’t do to have Darnley think I wasn’t properly appreciating you.”

  “I won’t be a party to this.”

  “You have little choice, Emma.” There was sudden steel in his voice. “You can live a life of comfort and ease, with nothing asked of you but your cooperation, or you can be out on the streets and dead within a matter of weeks, perhaps even hours.”

  “What if I choose the streets?”

  “I doubt I’d let you go.”

  “You said I had a choice.”

  “I lied.”

  She stared at him, mute, furious. The carriage had come to a stop, and already the coachman had opened the door. It had begun to snow again, and the air was very cold.

  “Why do you have to kill him?”

  “I don’t need to explain myself to you, child.”

  “Why do you want to kill him?” she persisted, ignoring the coachman’s white-gloved hand, staring at Killoran in the darkness.

  Killoran sighed with exaggerated weariness. “Because it wasn’t my child Maude was carrying when she died,” he said sweetly.

  “Then whose was it?”

  “Her brother’s,” said Killoran. And he moved past her, out of the carriage, leaving her sick with shock.

  When Killoran strolled into the library that night, he almost strolled right out again. Nathaniel was waiting for him, a judgmental expression on his handsome face. “You can’t do this, Killoran” he announced.

  “Don’t be absurd, Nathaniel. I can do anything I please. What are you racketing on about this time?”

  “You can’t foist Emma off on society as your sister. You can’t take her to a place like the Darnleys’ and fondle her like some incestuous...”

  “My, my,” Killoran murmured. “Word does travel fast. And you weren’t even in attendance. How very gratifying. And since you’ve obviously lain in wait to give me a piece of your mind, you must enlighten me.”

  “You can’t continue with this disgusting charade.”

  “Why not?”

  The simple question stalled Nathaniel for a moment, and Killoran went back to contemplating his snifter of cognac. He drank too much. His mother had warned him about the evils of too much drink, but she was gone, along with his father, and there was little that made life endurable. Large amounts of brandy were one of the few things that hadn’t palled. And even that was losing its effect.

  “Because it’s... it’s not done.”

  “You’re presuming to lecture me about the ways of society, dear boy?” Killoran drawled. “You’ve learned such a great deal in the past weeks?”

  “Damn it, you can’t just introduce a mysterious young lady as your sister. You have no idea who she really is, where she comes from.”

  “Nathaniel,” his host said wearily, “I can do anything I please. I thought you were fond of my young guest.”

  “Too fond of her to see her become a victim to your games.”

  “You are all victims to my games,” Killoran replied. “As for society, it’s like a huge, voracious monster, feeding on gossip. The appearance of Emma has simply provided more fodder for its insatiable appetite.”

  “Let her go, Killoran.”

  Killoran favored him with a deceptively pleasant smile. The one calculated to strike terror into innocent hearts. As usual, it worked. Nathaniel whitened.

  “I have no intention of letting her go anywhere. May I remind you, Nathaniel, that you are here as my guest. I’ve had no difficulty with your keeping Emma company, but there it will end. You may throw yourself at Lady Barbara’s feet all you want, but you will keep your hands and your noble motives away from Emma. Is that understood?”

  “I don’t understand...”

  “Then let me make it a bit clearer. Lady Barbara is fair game. You’re obviously besotted with her, and for some reason, she’s been extremely patient with you. If you need to rescue a fallen damsel, concentrate on Babs. She should provide a suitable challenge for you.”

  “I ought to black your eye.”

  “You wouldn’t get very far in the attempt,” Killoran murmured. “Take your pick, Nathaniel. Who do you want to rescue? Who would you rather have be the object of my dangerous attentions? The unknown Miss Brown? Or Lady Barbara? It’s your sacrifice.”

  Ah, he was a very bad man indeed. Nathaniel looked ready to explode in rage and frustration. He could consign neither woman to Killoran’s careless regard, so he simply stood there, fuming.

  Killoran drained his cognac, refilled the snifter, and poured one for Nathaniel. “Don’t waste your emotions, my boy,” he said, putting the glass in Nathaniel’s unwilling hand. “In six months neither of them will matter in the slightest.”

  Nathaniel looked at him, his big hand closing around the crystal. “I don’t know who I pity more,” he said slowly.

  “Pity neither of them. Babs is doing her best to go to hell, and she’s making a competent job of it. Miss Brown, on the other hand, will depart this house with sufficient money to keep her quite happily until she finds some young fool to marry her. Neither of them deserves your pity.”

  “No,” said Nathaniel. “It’s you whom I pity.”

  Killoran was momentarily startled. “Dear me,” he said faintly. “Maybe I will have to kill you, after all.”

  Chapter 9

  Dawn was breaking over the city of London. Snow lay melting on the ground, and spring was approaching, but there was no sense of joy or anticipation in the air. Not that Killoran would be likely to notice merriment. He sat by the fire, legs stretched out in front of him, a snifter of brandy cradled in his hand. Irish crystal. For some odd, sentimental reason, he preferred it.

  He could see the gray light through the window, and it suited the bleakness of his mood. Somewhere above him, Emma lay sleeping, her curtain of red hair spread around her. He told himself he was unmoved by the thought, but he knew he lied.

  He never needed much sleep and, in truth, didn’t care for it. Dreams come when he slept, memories, events he’d banished from his life. He hated letting them sneak up on him while he dozed.

  Things had gone extremely well tonight, he thought, wondering why he wasn’t feeling more triumphant. Jasper Darnley had reacted even more strongly than he’d hoped. In truth, Emma’s appearance was nothing less than a gift from fate, and Killoran would have been foolhardy in the extreme to ignore it. The instrument of his revenge, dropped so conveniently into his life, lay upstairs in bed, her red hair spread out around her. He had every intention of using her.

  He thought with fleeting fondness of the feel of Darnley’s drunken body beneath his strong fingers. He could have broken the man’s neck with little difficulty, and it had taken a portion of his legendary self-control to keep from giving in to the imp
ulse. Particularly when the cold, killing rage that had sustained him for ten long years had suddenly burned white-hot at the sight of his enemy mauling Emma.

  Perhaps that was what was troubling him. He’d ruthlessly stripped himself of all weakness, all emotion, anticipating little from this life except a passably entertaining evening and the bloody death of Jasper Darnley. And yet, suddenly, desires were churning inside him, stronger than he’d felt in years. He didn’t like it.

  Emma didn’t like it either, he thought absently. He had felt her animosity, hot, intense, almost sexual, radiating out at him during the ride home. It had been very… arousing. That, and the memory of her face at the opera, eyes shining with delight. He’d wanted to reach for her, put his hands on her, and pull her against him, to touch her and wipe out the touch of Darnley’s fat-fingered hands. She’d have fought him, of course, and he had yet to find the struggles of an unwilling woman to be the slightest bit entertaining.

  But the interest lay in how long it would take him to make her cease struggling. What kind of sounds would she make when he pulled the black silk down to her waist and freed her breasts from the soft chemise he’d bought her? What kind of sounds would she make when he pushed her down on the bed upstairs and drove into her? Would she be easy to pleasure? Or would she be shy, wary, making him seduce her oh, so carefully?

  He had no doubt whatsoever that he could do so. She was fascinated by him. She didn’t like him much, which was to be expected, but like most women, she made the mistake of thinking there was still a spark of decency in him. If she allowed herself to fantasize, she’d probably deceive herself into thinking she could save him.

  He was past saving. When he’d finished with Darnley and was ready to let Emma go, he would show her just how far gone he was. He would take her then, and no sooner, and he would teach her a profound lesson about just how black a soul could be. He would show her the delights of the flesh, both the common and the more sophisticated pleasures. He would turn her into a creature who lived only for him, and for his touch. And then he would release her. Knowing she would never be able to find a man who could make her come alive as he could.

  He tipped his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. It was far from a worthy motive, but worthiness had little to do with his powerful needs, most of which centered dangerously on the young woman upstairs. He’d tossed his coat across a chair, discarded his diamond studs and his peruke. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, and the heat from the fire added to the heat of the brandy, warming him. He listened to the faint hiss and pop of the dry wood, and then another, quiet sound intruded. The soft sound of bare feet on the stairs. His eyes opened again.

  Was she attempting to run off once more? He was getting mortally tired of chasing after her. To be sure, she was important to his convoluted plans. But if she proved more trouble than she was worth, he might simply give in and skewer Darnley and to hell with Machiavellian justice. And then there would be no need to deny himself any longer, and he could finish with Emma as well.

  He was in the library, the door open to the hallway. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she could head straight out the front, without passing his door. And then he’d have to bestir himself, when he didn’t want to.

  She paused at the bottom. For some odd reason, he held his breath, waiting to see what she would do. And then the footsteps moved closer, toward him, away from the front door.

  She stood silhouetted in the entrance, her hair a cloud around her pale face. She was dressed in a thick white nightgown that revealed absolutely nothing of her luscious curves, and he cursed himself for not having paid proper attention to that particular detail when he’d ordered her clothes. Not that he planned to touch her. But it wouldn’t have done him any harm to observe.

  She paused there, a startled expression on her face. And then she squinted, staring at him. “You’re still awake?”

  “Obviously.” He wondered idly whether she’d come to seduce him. It seemed unlikely, given his estimation of her character, but there was always the remote possibility that he was wrong about her. “Why are you here?”

  “I have something for you.”

  His instantaneous response would have amused him under other circumstances. He wasn’t a randy boy, and he’d certainly bedded enough women to know there was nothing new under the sun, and certainly not from an awkward virgin. He only knew that this barefoot, night-railed girl who approached him now, offering God knows what, was the most arousing sight he had seen in years.

  It was her resemblance to Maude, he told himself with a trace of totally uncharacteristic panic. It brought him back to a time when he had been marginally more vulnerable.

  And yet he knew it wasn’t true. Emma Brown was nothing at all like Maude. Maude had been a victim, sweet, helpless, with a touch of treachery that had proved her downfall. He had been oddly fond of her, though he’d never made the mistake of thinking he loved her. He’d met her soon after he came to England, with the death of his parents still burning a black hole in his mind. Maude was pretty, silly, and innocent, a perfect distraction. And far too easy to dismiss when she’d come to him in desperation.

  Emma was no victim. Had Maude possessed one-tenth of Emma’s strength, she’d be alive today.

  To be sure, they had the same cloud of hair. But Emma’s was more fiery, her body more voluptuous, her eyes more innocent. Despite a superficial resemblance, there was no connection between Emma Brown and Maude Darnley. Except for Killoran’s plans. And Jasper Darnley’s perverted lust.

  She came right up to him, bravely enough, he thought, and as her eyes focused on him in the murky glow of dawn and firelight, a faint color rose to her cheeks. So it wasn’t seduction she had in mind. He accepted that fact with only a trace of disappointment.

  He was beginning to realize she was quite shortsighted. One of the few weaknesses this flame-haired virago seemed to have. He glanced up at her, lazily, making no effort to rise.

  She held out her hand and dropped something into his lap. It glittered as it fell through the air, and when he caught it, he realized it was a section of the diamond collar. He’d thrust the other piece in his pocket, not bothering to examine it closely.

  “I was going to keep it,” she said in a stiff voice that signaled confession. “I was going to use it to run away from here, and I’ve been lying upstairs, trying to decide how I could manage it. But I can’t. You’ve been too good to me, too kind, and I can’t betray your generosity by stealing from you.”

  He wanted to hit her. He doubted he’d ever hit a woman in his life—he received little pleasure in physical cruelty, particularly on those smaller and weaker, but he found he wanted to hurt her.

  “I have no kindness, no goodness, and no generosity,” he said through gritted teeth. “Are you slow-witted? How many times must I tell you?”

  Oh, God, she was sinking to her knees beside him, capturing one of his hands between hers. “I don’t know why you’re so determined to convince me that you’re a villain,” she said. “The world may believe that of you, but I know there’s a decent man beneath the… the…”

  “Magpie?” he suggested. He turned his hand within hers, capturing one, holding it, his fingers caressing her deliberately. “You’re a child, Emma. A child and a fool. There’s no decency in me whatsoever. I saved you at the Pear and Partridge because it amused me. I saved you from Mrs. Varienne because I remembered an old score I had yet to settle. Had you had mousy brown hair, I would have left you to your just deserts.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Come now child, you can’t believe I spend my time doing good deeds, rescuing damsels in distress?” he drawled, observing the whiteness of her face, the hurt and denial in her eyes, and not giving a damn. “You can enable me to take care of some unfinished business. That is your worth to me, and that alone.” He put the diamonds back in her hand, curling her fingers around them. “Keep them. In the end, you’ll find you have more than earned them.”


  Oh, sweet Jesus, she looked like a hurt puppy. “What is it you want me to do for you? Whore for you? Sleep with that puce-colored creature? Kill him for you? I thought you said you didn’t need a paid assassin.”

  “You have a good memory, child,” he murmured.

  “Don’t call me child!”

  “Then don’t behave like one. The puce creature, as you so aptly term him, already knows what you’re here for. You’re a trap. One he’s helpless to resist. You will draw him to his doom, and I will administer the coup de grace. And then, my dear, we will be blessedly free of each other.”

  She looked at him. Somehow she’d managed to banish that hurt expression, but the quiet, assessing gaze was almost more unnerving. “I wonder,” she said softly, and started to rise.

  The dawn sent a shaft of early morning light through the window, illuminating her as she pulled away from him, illuminating the high neck of her night rail. He swore suddenly, savagely, and rose, catching her before she could back away, clasping her arm tightly as he reached for the neckline with his other hand.

  “Don’t,” she said, but she wasted her breath. He ripped open the chaste white gown, scattering buttons on the floor, ripped it without considering the body beneath, only the bruised neck.

  She tried to run, but he caught her, holding her immobile by the simple expedient of wrapping one arm around her body and capturing her against his, while his other hand tipped her head back so that he could survey the damage.

  “Darnley did this,” he said, his voice flat.

  She didn’t make the mistake of underestimating his reaction. “He wasn’t trying to hurt me, Killoran. It was the necklace.”

  “It doesn’t matter, my pet,” he murmured. “I’m going to kill him anyway. I’ll simply make it hurt more.” He ran his fingertip lightly across the abraded skin.

  She shivered in his arms, though her voice was deceptively prosaic. “It looks far worse than it feels. As a matter of fact, I thought it looked as if I’d been hanged. Fitting, don’t you think, for a murderess?”