To Love a Dark Lord

by Anne Stuart

Darnley’s amusement was complete. “What I know about your sister? It could hardly be more than you are already acquainted with. You must know the details of her proper upbringing, her loving family, her life of piety.”

  Killoran moved closer, but Darnley was too drugged to care. Even the feel of Killoran’s large, strong hand around his throat, pressing against it, brought no fear to his ruined body.

  “I could kill you so easily,” Killoran mused. “Just a certain amount of pressure and I could crush your throat. You’d suffocate, and there’d be nothing anyone could do to save you.”

  Darnley stared up at him, unmoved. “That is my greatest advantage, Killoran. I truly don’t care whether I live or die. And despite your efforts to prove that you are just as heartless, you still have a few sentimental longings for the auld sod and family. That’s the difference between you and me, Killoran. The difference between the English aristocracy and an Irish upstart. We will always triumph.”

  The hand around his throat tightened for a moment, infinitesimally, and Darnley blinked. Perhaps he wasn’t quite so inured to the thought of dying, after all. There were doubtless better ways to meet his Maker than suffocating in his own blood.

  Killoran smiled down at him with terrifying sweetness. “It was a mistake to come after Emma, you know. I trust you won’t make such an error of judgment again. Two men are dead, and I could quite easily make you the third.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Perhaps not. But you can answer me one question. One simple question that will keep you alive for at least another day of miserable existence. Who is helping you, Darnley? Who wants Emma dead?”

  Darnley glared up at him, letting his unvarnished hatred show through. “Go to hell, Killoran. Kill me, or get out. Whichever you please.”

  For a moment the hand tightened further, and the breath caught in his throat. He lifted his hands, to claw at the strong, merciless arm, but his intruder seemed oblivious of his struggles. The night was growing darker around him—odd, when it should be getting lighter. The man was actually going to kill him, here and now.

  There was a certain relief in that notion. What little strength Darnley had was leaving him rapidly, and his arms fell back on the bed as the darkness began to close in on him. Death, he thought with a vague smile on his face. Maude.

  Killoran released him, stepping back from the bed in disgust. Darnley still breathed. He’d be bruised around his throat, a fitting enough fate, considering he’d delivered the same to Emma’s fragile flesh.

  The room stank, of sweat and alcohol and drugs, and of the sickly-sweet miasma of decay. The man who lay so still in the bed was not far from death as it was—it would have taken only a moment or two to push him over the edge. “Not yet, my friend,” Killoran said coolly. “You’re not getting off quite so easily.”

  He glanced around the room for a moment, then began to search, silently and diligently, secure in the knowledge that Darnley’s servant wouldn’t dare approach his master until summoned. Darnley had blinded a footman, a decade ago, in one of his enormous rages, and most servants were properly frightened of him.

  There was little sign of anything interesting. The servants were well paid, well trained. It was almost full light when Killoran finally had a modicum of success. A card, poorly engraved, on cheap vellum. Miss Miriam DeWinter, Crouch End.

  Why in God’s name would someone like Darnley know anyone in Crouch End? Why would he keep her card for that matter? Had this Miss DeWinter come to Darnley’s house? For what possible purpose?

  He could think of none, but he was assured of something more important. Miriam DeWinter was connected to his mysterious Emma Brown, or he was no Irishman.

  Killoran paused over Darnley’s comatose figure. The man was snoring loudly now, but his color was ghastly, pasty white and green around the edges. “You won’t be needing this anymore, my boy,” he said gently, tucking the card into his vest pocket. “Pleasant dreams, Darnley.”

  The sleeping man roused for a second, clawing toward Killoran, and a babble of curses flowed from his mouth along with a foaming spittle. He caught Killoran’s arm as he turned to leave, and Killoran drove his hand into the wastrel’s soft belly, as hard as he could.

  Darnley’s scream of pain echoed through the house. He went rigid, his eyes shot open, bulging in pain, and then he rolled over in the linen sheets and began to vomit blood. Killoran stood there for a moment, taking in the spectacle of his worst enemy, debased. And then he slipped out of the room, the same way he had entered, disappearing down the hallway before the servants could come running to see what ailed their cantankerous master.

  Killoran had slept little the night before. The taste, the scent, the feel of Emma had lingered in his mind, on his mouth, on his hands. The moment he’d begun to drift off he would see her eyes again, the soft fullness of her mouth, and he would recognize the longing of an untried virgin asking for something she’d always regret.

  He had heard Nathaniel return, and he’d almost risen from bed to see whether he could goad him into a fight. Verbal if need be, though fisticuffs would have been preferable. Killoran was in the mood to bash someone, to hit the person very hard, and he really didn’t give a damn who it was.

  But Nathaniel had been moving without his customary high spirits through the house, and Killoran had remained, still and silent in his library, listening as the lad had gone upstairs. He’d clearly had a bad night. While it was more than likely that Barbara had seduced him, he didn’t seem particularly lively about it. Maybe he’d disgraced himself, as young men with no control often did. Barbara would tease him unmercifully—she often reserved her crudest moments for those young men who were most vulnerable.

  And yet, when it came to that unlikely pairing, it seemed that it was Lady Barbara who was vulnerable. Lady Barbara who longed for what she could not have, longed to be what she could not be. For once Nathaniel seemed oddly mature.

  So Killoran had let him go. He could find someone else to hit. And the notion of Darnley had sprung immediately to mind.

  His carriage had been waiting around the corner. John Coachman was abed with a concussed head and a broken arm, and the groom who had awaited him was young and frightened of him. Which suited Killoran perfectly. He preferred people to be afraid of him. He only wished he could manage to keep Emma terrified.

  But she always fought back. It was absurd—an innocent like her should have been completely helpless. Instead she managed to come back time and again after each devastating blow. She’d been attacked, almost murdered tonight, and instead of flinging herself in his arms, in his bed, or at least indulging in a strong case of hysterics, she’d simply pulled herself together.

  If he didn’t watch himself very carefully, he might find himself in the hideous situation of actually liking her. Caring what happened to her. When he really had no intention of caring about anyone at all, ever again.

  He wasn’t a man who lied to himself. And he knew the truth, whether he wanted to face it or not. It was already too late. The longer he stayed in Emma’s company, the more vulnerable he became. She reminded him of a time he thought he’d dismissed long ago, she was making him human once more, and he didn’t like it. He needed to finish quickly with this business and release her. Before he found himself in the unbearable position of not wanting to let her go.

  He climbed into the back of the carriage before young Willie realized he was back, pulling the stairs up and the door closed behind him. “Take me to Crouch End, Willie,” he called out, settling against the squabs.

  He heard the shock and hesitation in the young voice. “Crouch End, my lord? Are you certain?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Hardly seems like your lordship’s kind of place,” Willie said nervously.

  “And how would you know what my kind of place is?” Killoran kept his voice low, pleasant, knowing that would terrify the boy even more.

  “I grew up there, your lordship. Until I came to work for yo
u, three years ago. My family’s still there.”

  Killoran immediately dismissed his notion of tormenting the boy. “How fascinating. Would you say you know Crouch End well?”

  “Well enough, sir.”

  “Then take me to the home of Miss Miriam DeWinter.”

  “Old Skin-and-Bones? Why would you want to go there?”

  “I don’t remember offering to share my plans with you,” Killoran said in his most pleasant voice.

  “N-no, sir,” Willie stammered. “Right away, my lord.”

  “Does Miss Skin-and-Bones live alone?” he questioned idly, disguising his alertness.

  “She used to live with her father, but he died a month or so back, or so my mother told me when I visited her last. Murdered by some aristocrat.”

  “Fascinating,” Killoran murmured, immediately placing Uncle Horace. “Anyone else?”

  “Just her cousin. No one ever saw much of her—she kept to the house. Only went out for church, and then Miss DeWinter made certain she was heavily veiled. I heard tell she was frightful ugly. Miss DeWinter wouldn’t let anyone come around when her cousin was there.”

  “And is the cousin still there?”

  “Dunno, my lord. I think she went away at the time Mr. DeWinter was killed. Why would you want to be visiting the likes of them? They’re not your kind at all.”

  “Miss DeWinter and I share a certain acquaintance,” Killoran replied. “Besides, I’ve never been in Crouch End, but I doubt it can be worse than the stews of Dublin. Does that satisfy your curiosity, boy, or have you more questions?”

  Common sense finally seemed to penetrate Willie’s thick skull. “No more questions, sir.”

  “Then drive on. I desire to get this settled in time to get a few hours of sleep.”

  “It’s already daylight.”

  “Willie, you grow very tiresome.”

  “Yes, sir,” Willie said hurriedly. “We’ll be there in a shake.” He was unfortunately far too accurate, as the horses snapped to with a jolt tossing Killoran back against the squabs.

  The morning was cold, and he hadn’t bothered with more than his coat. He picked up the thick fur throw and pulled it around him, ready to doze comfortably, when a teasing, alluring scent came to him.

  Roses and lavender, a clever mix innocent yet absurdly provocative. The thick white throw smelled of Emma.

  He clutched his hands around it, shoving it away from him. It would be far too easy too close his eyes, wrapping himself in comfort. The risk was tempting, insidious, and he had no intention of giving in to it for even a moment.

  There were times when Emma Brown seemed even more of a danger to him than Jasper Darnley. And he had better do everything possible to keep from succumbing to her temptation. He couldn’t afford weakness so late in his desiccated, dissolute life.

  Chapter 14

  Miriam DeWinter was on her knees in prayer when she heard the rude pounding at her door. The house was cold, the floor hard beneath her padded knees, and she’d been intent on ordering her personal God to smite her enemies when the thunderous noise disturbed her.

  There was no one else to answer the door at that early hour. She had an aversion to live-in help—women were too weak and men too lustful for Miriam’s state of mind. While Emma had been there, she’d gotten by very well with a minimum of servants. Gertie saw to the sparse meals and Miriam’s personal needs, and a succession of poorly fed young girls would help Emma with the household work.

  It had been a convenient arrangement. Sinful natures such as Emma possessed were better off being occupied by hard work, and she had seen to it that Emma wasn’t troubled by idle moments. In the past few months Miriam had been forced to hire another servant, or face the wretched necessity of joining in the endless cleaning.

  But at six in the morning Gertie would be just arriving, and the man who came in to tend the fires wouldn’t dare answer her door.

  Miriam rose, heavily, and started the long, winding path to her front door. Down narrow, spotless hallways, unblemished by paintings or wallpaper; down uncarpeted stairs polished so brightly that they presented a danger to anyone careless enough to move with lighthearted speed through the house.

  But there was no one with a light heart living in the DeWinter house in Crouch End. Miriam moved slowly, with a stately dignity, as the pounding continued, relentless.

  It could be Darnley again, she supposed. He wasn’t happy with her, a notion that didn’t bother Miriam in the slightest. He was a fool to think he controlled her—in her entire life no man had ever controlled her. He thought he was using her to get his revenge upon Killoran, using her to get his hands on Emma.

  But she was the one who was doing the using. She was the one who would extract revenge, from Killoran and most especially from Emma. Emma would die. If Darnley happened to rape her first, it mattered not in the slightest to Miriam. She would die, and her paramour as well. Miriam had failed the first time, but she wouldn’t make that mistake again. She would hire her own men instead of relying on Darnley. She would make her own arrangements. And if that failed, she would do the deed herself.

  She opened the door, glaring out into the early morning fog. The liveried servant who stood at her door could have been no more than twenty, and he looked frankly terrified. He glanced behind him, as if he expected to see a ghost appear over his shoulder, then turned back to Miriam.

  “Beg pardon, Miss DeWinter,” he mumbled. “My master was desiring of seeing you.”

  She peered out into the dim light. She was as nearsighted as Emma, and just as vain. The tall figure that loomed out of the fog could only be one man.

  “Lord Darnley,” she said in her frostiest tone. “Why are you back again?”

  He stepped closer, out of the fog, and Miriam felt her first moment of real fear. “I’m afraid not. Miss DeWinter,” the man said. “Though I do wonder what Jasper Darnley would find to interest himself in Crouch End.”

  Miriam DeWinter was a formidable woman. It took her only a moment to pull herself together, to let the icy coating of murderous rage wash over her. “I couldn’t say, my lord,” she said in her most waspish tone.

  His smile was cool, charming, but Miriam was stonily unmoved, blocking the huge door to her house. “I wonder how you knew I was a lord,” he remarked gently.

  A mistake, Miriam acknowledged to herself. But not a fatal one. The man in front of her was as clever as the devil, and not far removed from him. It would take a good woman like Miriam to confront him, and best him. She had to watch every word, make certain she didn’t betray herself. But it was hard, when her soul was crying out for justice and death.

  “Your servant is wearing livery,” she said icily. “And your carriage has a crest on it.”

  “I wouldn’t imagine you could see my carriage through this fog.”

  “I have excellent eyesight.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured. “I gather it doesn’t run in your family.”

  She ignored that provocative statement. “How may I help you, my lord? I’m not used to entertaining gentlemen in my robe and slippers.”

  “I imagine not.”

  Miriam seethed. “State what you desire and then please leave.”

  “I’ve come to talk to you. Miss DeWinter. About your family. About your unfortunate choice of friends.”

  “I’m afraid I have no interest in talking with you, Lord Killoran.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Now, surely I didn’t mention my name, did I?”

  “You are well known,” Miriam said firmly. “You’re a rake and a scoundrel, a gamester and a murderer. I have no use for sinners like you. Get yourself gone!”

  “A murderer? I’ll plead guilty to the other crimes, but as far as I know, I have yet to commit murder.”

  Miriam’s self-control vanished. “Get out!” she shrieked.

  Killoran didn’t move. “Of course, if you’re referring to your late, lecherous father, then I must inform you that it was a case of self-defense.” />
  He’d manage to sting her into reacting. All discretion had vanished. “He wasn’t a lecher. It was her. That evil whore, luring him to his destruction. But she’ll suffer for it, I warn you. And you as well. You won’t benefit from his murder. I’ll see to it that...” Her voice trailed off before his calm, ironical gaze.

  “Yes, Miss DeWinter?” he said politely. “And how were you going to exact revenge? Doubtless through Darnley’s assistance, though I’m afraid he’s not the most competent of villains. You do make an odd pair.”

  The last of her control had disappeared, leaving Miriam in a blind, spitting fury. “I know you have her in your house, in your bed,” she shrieked, trembling with rage. “You tell her. She’ll die. I’ll see to it. And I’ll laugh. And dance on her grave! The Lord will have justice. If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out. Vengeance is mine...” she babbled.

  “Saith the Lord,” he finished for her in a calm voice.

  “Insolence and blasphemy!” Miriam shouted.

  Killoran nodded. “I do my best. Good day to you. Miss DeWinter. I rather think you’ve told me all I need to know.”

  “She’s a whore!” Miriam called after him, ignoring the curious neighbors. “A slut, a fornicator, a creature who converses with devils!”

  “I’ll give her your best regards,” Killoran said gently, climbing into the carriage.

  “May God strike you both dead!” Miriam shrieked after him. But the Almighty failed to listen, and the sudden silence of the morning street, the icy chill all around her, brought Miriam back to her senses. She slammed the door, leaning against it, breathing heavily.

  She had no doubt whatsoever that the Almighty was a man. A woman wouldn’t have failed to exact instant and awful retribution.

  Fortunately for Miriam’s God, He had Miriam to manage things. To arrange revenge when the Almighty failed.

  Miriam moved into the austere front room, sinking down on the bare floor in an attitude of abject prayer. She would have to move fast now. Lord Killoran was obviously the devil’s own henchman—with no difficulty he’d managed to goad her into revealing her hatred. Now that he’d been warned, he might do something. Take Emma away, out of harm’s reach.