Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood Series, Book 2)

by Adele Clee

  "I'm taking you home," he said, his tone harsh, unyielding. "You'll not run away from me again."

  The sound of carriage wheels rattling over the cobbles caught her attention, and she cried for help as it drew up alongside them. Lord Barrington smothered her mouth with his hand, his arm securing her tight to his body. Grace heard a door open, a gruff command and the dull thud of someone jumping down to the pavement.

  "Get your bloody hands off her."

  Lord Barrington fell back, pulling her down with him. As he released his grip to shield his face from a barrage of punches, she scurried away, coming to stand near the carriage door.

  Despite being a good few inches shorter, Lord Markham delivered a spectacular display of fighting finesse, dodging Barrington's clumsy fists and returning with short, sharp blows to his stomach. Bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, he dealt Barrington a jab to his jaw causing the man to sag to the ground.

  Lord Markham glanced over his shoulder and nodded towards the carriage. "Get in."

  His eyes appeared darker, dangerously sinister, his voice a little hoarse and he did not need to tell her a second time. As she fell back into the red leather seat, her heart beating so erratically she could hardly catch her breath, she heard Lord Markham telling Barrington to forget what he had seen. It seemed a rather odd thing to say. Even odder was his need to repeat the words over and over again.

  Lord Markham yelled to his coachman, climbed inside the carriage and slammed the door before dropping into the seat opposite. As they rumbled along, his ragged breathing penetrated the silence, and she could feel the tension thrumming in the air. Intermittent rays of light from the passing street lamps licked at his irises, which were no longer dark but a bright, vibrant green.

  She watched him slide his tongue over his teeth, no doubt to curb his temper or to prevent him from saying something he may regret. A shiver ran through her body in anticipation.

  "Here," he said shrugging out of his coat. "You're trembling. And your dress is torn." He shuffled to the edge of his seat, leaned forward and draped it around her shoulders.

  Grace stared at him and resisted the urge to inhale deeply as she caught the familiar scent of sandalwood. The warmth of the garment relaxed her a little, and she pulled it tighter across her chest.

  "Thank you for stopping. I … I don't know where I would be if you'd not seen me … if you had just driven by."

  He threw himself forward, the shock making her jump. "I'll tell you where you'd be." His breath came quick as anger burst forth. "You'd be in Barrington's carriage. He would have taken you regardless of your protests." Throwing himself back in the seat, he brushed his hands through his ebony locks and exhaled. "What were you thinking?"

  "Nothing. When I left the garden after you … well, I decided to go home." She snuggled into his coat as if it were strong masculine arms enveloping her. "I didn't know Barrington had followed me."

  Her explanation did not appear to soften his mood. With a scowl, he removed his gloves and flexed his fingers while examining his hands.

  "Where do you live?" he growled.

  "Cobham."

  He gave a frustrated sigh. "I mean, where in London are you staying?"

  "I came to stay with Caroline."

  "Unlike most men, I have no idea where that is."

  His words roused her anger. When he spoke of her sister, he did not bother to hide his contempt, and it hurt. "Your opinion of my sister's character is yours to own. But I do not wish to sit here and listen to your cutting remarks whenever I mention her name. Despite her mistakes, I love her and each jibe is like a knife to my heart."

  He was silent for the longest time, yet she felt his intense gaze roam over her body like nimble fingers. "Are you always so open and honest with your emotions?"

  Usually, she kept most things to herself. Sharing one's life and one's bed with a man whose heart belonged to another, blurred the lines between lies and truth. Although the three short months she'd spent as Henry's wife equated to nothing more than a tiny fragment of her life and that thought made it easier to bear.

  "I'm honest when the need arises," she said, deciding not to say any more. To be truly honest would mean telling him she found him easy to talk to. He was intelligent and logical, even if his lascivious ways influenced his actions.

  "Then I shall do the same," he said, arrogance replacing his anger. "You cannot return to Miss Rosemond's house."

  Grace sat bolt upright. "What do you mean? I have nowhere else to go."

  "Barrington will seek you out. He is renowned for his obsessions and in his warped mind he won't believe that you're not Caroline. He will assume you're using it as an excuse to refuse him."

  "But I can't go home, not to Cobham, not without news of Caroline." She swallowed deeply, trying to ease the tightening sensation in her throat. Although the thought of her waking up to find Barrington peering down at her in bed, made her feel nauseous.

  "What choice do you have? There is no other option open to you," he said, but his tone lacked conviction.

  Grace shook her head. "I can't go home."

  "You should not be embroiled in all of this." His words revealed a hint of frustration. "You're obviously a good person, kind and loyal to a fault."

  She had been called many things: dull, weak, spiritless. No gentleman had ever complimented her character. She felt a flush rise to her cheeks. Her gaze drifted over his firm jaw, over his soft lips and sinful green eyes. The fluttering in her stomach felt strange, yet oddly exciting, something she had never experienced with Henry.

  But she did not need these sorts of complications — she needed something else from him.

  "Have you ever met someone for the first time and felt an unusual connection?" she said. "As though you've known them your whole life yet you've only known them less than a day?"

  He gave an amused snort. "And then there are people you've known your entire life who still feel like strangers."

  "Exactly." She smiled at his response as it confirmed her theory. He had a good heart beneath the bravado. "I need your help. I need a friend, my lord, someone to trust."

  "You mean you need someone to help you find Miss Rosemond."

  "Just for a few days," she said pleading her case. "I know it's unheard of, unacceptable even. A man and woman cannot be friends without someone suggesting impropriety, but no one need know you're assisting me. No one knows me here in Town. Besides, if anyone should see us together they will assume I'm Caroline."

  "I can't help you," he said shaking his head. "I am a complicated man and not always good company."

  "You mean you've never been friends with a woman."

  "I fear, the time has arisen for me to be honest. I ask your forgiveness in advance should my words offend."

  "Say what you will," she said. "There is no one here to stand in judgement."

  "Very well." He sighed, sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "I have only one type of relationship with women, and it involves little to no conversation. Intimacy is something I avoid on all levels, with everyone."

  "Yet here you are in a closed carriage, telling me something you've never told another."

  "Well … I …"

  He couldn't answer. How wonderful.

  "I understand," she said. "And I would never want you to do anything that would make you feel uncomfortable." She glanced out of the window and despite the fog, she still had no idea where she was. "Arlington Street, if you please."

  "Excuse me."

  "You may drop me on the corner of Arlington Street." Grace pulled his coat from around her shoulders and placed it on the seat next to her. "And thank you for the use of your coat."

  "Miss Rosemond lives on Arlington Street?"

  Studying his wide-eyed expression, she said, "Why? What's wrong with that?"

  "It is a stone's throw from three of the most popular gentleman's clubs. You can't stay there."

  For a man who had obviously indulged in many lascivious li
aisons, he was very stuffy. "But I have spent the last two days there on my own."

  His gaze drifted leisurely down to the topaz necklace, dipping lower still. "Damn," he whispered and then gave an exasperated sigh. "Look. I may know of somewhere you can go. I'm not making any promises, but my brother and his wife are staying with her aunt and she's sailing for India in the morning. Perhaps you may stay there for a few days."

  Grace clapped her hands together as a feeling of hope flooded her chest. "It sounds perfect. I'm sure I'll be fine on my own tonight."

  "Tonight?"

  "Her aunt leaves in the morning you said. I'm sure you've given Lord Barrington a dreadful fright and—"

  "What makes you say that?" He sounded curious, yet defensive and again it struck her as odd.

  "You pummelled the man to a pulp. He's probably gone home to lick his wounds and nurse his injured pride."

  "I wouldn't count on it. I told you, the gentleman is obsessed with Caroline Rosemond. Everyone's talking about it. I'll drop you at Arlington Street while you collect a few things. Tonight, I'm afraid you will have to come home with me."

  Chapter 4

  The words had left his mouth before the logical part of his brain had a chance to dismiss the idea as ludicrous. But what other choice was there? If he had not noticed Barrington racing down the street, heaven only knows what would have happened to Grace Denton.

  The lady was a menace unto herself. She appeared to have no concept of how dangerous the city could be for a young woman on her own. Parading around in such a state of dishabille, she'd have been lucky to make it down the length of James' Street without one young buck trying his chances.

  Bloody hell.

  He still couldn't believe he had agreed to help her.

  Elliot glanced across at the woman who roused his ire as much as his desire and realised the carriage had stopped.

  "It's a little further down, number twelve, but I'll walk from here." She sounded more confident now, as though she'd had a complete memory lapse and couldn't possibly be the woman who had just been attacked in the street.

  As her hand settled on the door handle, he noticed the raw pink scar peeking out of the top of her glove. The area was littered with spots of dried blood, and he took a deep breath before taking her hand and turning it over.

  "What's happened here?" He tried to curb his temper, tried to curb the sweet fire heating his blood at the mere touch of her hand. Thank goodness he'd never get the opportunity to lie with her, to cover her naked body with his own. He imagined all that would be left of him would be a sooty pile of charcoaled remains.

  "I tripped and fell when Barrington chased me. It's nothing. It's just a little unsightly."

  Nothing? She'd been injured whilst fleeing a madman. Anger bubbled away inside, and he glanced out of the window. Heaven knows how many gentlemen knew where Caroline Rosemond lived.

  "You're not going in there on your own." He was starting to sound like one of the domineering patriarchs he despised and detested. "I'm coming in with you."

  When they entered the hall, he'd not expected to find it so quiet, so cold and still. "Where are the servants?" he said opening one of the doors off the hall and peering into the darkness.

  "Caroline only had a maid and a cook. I've not seen them for two days, either." She chuckled to herself. "Hence, the mess I made with my hair."

  Loose tendrils hung about her cheeks and dangled down her back. He found he rather liked it. The style did look a little wild and messy. But it was natural and unassuming, just like everything else about her.

  He walked over to her. "You have been here all alone for two days?"

  When she nodded he had a sudden urge to ease her fears, to make everything right so she would never have to worry again.

  "That's why I came to the masquerade," she said. "I rifled through Caroline's invitations until I found something suitable. I was desperate. You see, Mrs. Whitman is to call for me next week on her way back to Cobham."

  "I assume this Mrs. Whitman has no idea she left you in the incapable hands of a courtesan?"

  "Of course not. My mother believes my sister's a paid companion to an elderly matron. That's one of the reasons Caroline came to London."

  Every courtesan had a tale to tell. Some chose wealth over integrity. Some chose a life of immorality over a life in the workhouse. But, judging by her sister's sweet temperament, he guessed Caroline Rosemond's story involved an unsolicited encounter with a scoundrel. He would wager a hundred guineas the elderly matron had a rake for a grandson.

  A frisson of fear rushed through him when he imagined Grace Denton struggling against a man twice her size. Regardless of his own concerns, he would help her find her sister and see her safely out of London, back to the sleepy village of Cobham.

  It was the only scenario his conscience would allow.

  "You can tell me more about it later," he said, feeling a desperate need to drink. "Once I've checked the upper rooms, you may gather your things, and we'll be on our way."

  He mounted the stairs two at a time, aware of her racing up behind him. "I'll come up with you. It feels strange being here alone in the dark."

  "Come, show me your room," he said, waiting for her to catch up.

  "It's that one." She pointed through a gap in the balusters to the door at the end of the landing.

  With some hesitation, Elliot prised the door from the jamb and entered first, checking under the bed and inside the armoire, paranoia being a feeling foreign to him until now. But it distracted his mind from the thought of being alone with the pretty widow in her bedchamber. It did not prevent his cock from stirring. After all, he was a man, not a bloody saint.

  "There are no candles," she said. "I used the last one and couldn't find any more. I'll just change my clothes. I can come back for the rest tomorrow."

  "I'll help you collect what you need, so there's no reason to return." The last thing he wanted was to rummage around in a drawer full of lady's undergarments, but he'd be damned if he'd let her come back alone. And with his aversion to sunlight, he would not be able to leave the house until dusk.

  Damn it. In his eagerness to play the noble hero, he had not considered the restrictions of his affliction.

  Mrs. Denton threw her gloves onto the bed, removed a dress from the armoire and held it up to the window before taking it behind the dressing screen. "This will do for a day or two," she said, and he found he could not form a reply as his mind was engaged in imagining the soft curve of her hips, the peachy-cream skin he knew would feel like silk to the touch.

  When she draped the torn medieval gown over the screen, he almost groaned out loud, and he breathed a sigh of relief when she walked out wearing the pale blue gown.

  "I hate to inconvenience you further. But would you mind if I took a bath?"

  "What, here?" Surely she didn't expect him to traipse up and down the stairs carrying buckets of water.

  "No," she said removing a few items of clothing from the drawers. "Later, when I come home with you."

  Such innocent words spoke of a deep intimacy. Panic flared. He felt out of his depth, floundering amidst a sea of turbulent emotions. He'd never taken a lady to his home. Since his tenth birthday: the day his mother left and disappeared without a trace, he swore never to allow another woman into his place of sanctuary — let alone bathe in his blasted tub.

  Damn, he only had male staff.

  "I'm sure it won't be a problem," he said stiffly, trying to banish the image of her lounging naked in the copper vessel. Reining in his errant thoughts, he stepped closer while she piled some items into his arms. "You'll need a brush," he said, "and don't forget the diary. We can study it together. I'm rather curious to see what she's written about me."

  The lady gasped. "The diary. I almost forgot." Scurrying over to the dressing table, she dropped to her knees and ducked underneath. Even in the dark, she offered him a splendid view, ripe and round, as she grumbled and mumbled to herself before shuffling out
. "I thought it best to hide it," she said clutching the box under her arm as she brushed the dust from her dress.

  Elliot didn't ask any questions. He was desperate to get home. He needed something to soothe the raging fire in his belly. Hopefully, the smooth red liquid would slide easily down his throat, to calm, to coat the restless feeling consuming him.

  When they reached Portman Square, Elliot helped her inside with her things. After a brief conversation with Whithers, whose mouth hung open for so long Elliot feared it would never close properly again, they retired to the study while a room was prepared.

  "Do you mind if I sit?" she said gesturing to the chair next to the fire.

  "Please, make yourself at home." It was only for a night, he told himself, as the words left his lips. In an hour, she would be tucked up in bed and by the time he ventured down tomorrow evening, she would be ready to depart.

  He watched her warm her hands by the fire, saw her flinch as the heat aggravated the grazed skin. "Let me put something on those cuts. It will take down the swelling, soften the skin so it won't feel as tight."

  "That would be wonderful." She examined the marks as she sat down. "I keep trying to forget about it, but it's still a little sore."

  Elliot took a glass and poured a small amount of brandy into the bottom. Walking over to his desk, he opened the drawer, removed a handkerchief and a flask of laudanum and pretended to add a few drops.

  Swirling the amber liquid in the glass, he came to sit opposite her. "Give me your hand." He felt oddly nervous, as though he'd only recently progressed from the school room and just being in the presence of a woman was a stimulating enough experience in itself.

  Mrs. Denton's gaze drifted over his face, and she glanced down at his open palm before placing her hand tentatively in his.

  A host of overwhelming sensations flooded his body. He could feel the pulse of her heart beating against his skin. He could feel a strange tingling sensation that made him feel weightless, somewhat dizzy. His gaze met hers and he noticed her bottom lip trembling.