She stared down at the draft and the promise it offered. The possibility of financial security, and of eventually learning the truth. What was the nuisance of her maidenhead in comparison to that? No man would wed her if word spread that she’d dashed off to Scotland alone—not that her family’s troubles hadn’t already left a stain upon her, branding her as desperate and not quite the diamond of the first water she’d been in her initial Season.
Inclining her head, she met his stare without wavering. And with a handful of words, poised herself within the jaws of the beast.
“We have an agreement … Adam.”
CHAPTER TWO
fter agreeing to Lord Hartmoor’s indecent proposal, Daphne was ushered from the study by the frightening butler—who silently led her back down the winding corridor and along a maze of nearly identical hallways until they had come to a different wing of the palace altogether. Just as she began to wonder just where he was taking her, he paused before one of many carved oak doors and pushed it open.
“Ye’ll sleep here,” he’d said simply, before turning to walk away, leaving her standing in the open doorway.
She had scowled at his back, baffled by this man who must be the most unconventional butler she’d ever encountered. A London servant would have seen to her comfort—offered her something to eat, inquired if she needed someone to fetch the supplies she’d left on the back of her horse. She had decided then to have a word with Adam concerning the hospitality of his house—if he expected her to remain and … service him, then she would expect to be treated with common decency.
Though, as far as she knew, the thirty-thousand-pound bank draft he’d written right in front of her might be the extent of the consideration she’d receive for her sacrifice.
Those thoughts died the moment she stepped into the room and found both a crackling fire and steaming bathtub waiting for her. Beside it stood a young woman in the plain attire of a maid. She had seemed out of place in the dark, imposing castle where a savage lord insisted on being referred to as ‘The Master,’ and large butlers with scarred faces treated guests as if they bothered them by simply existing. With a friendly smile, ruddy cheeks, and blonde hair arranged in a soft chignon, she appeared like a wildflower in the midst of a cracked desert.
“Good evening, my lady,” she said with a curtsy. “The Master has chosen me to act as your lady’s maid during your time here. Would you care for a bath?”
The girl’s accent struck her as distinctively English, a bit more polished than the average servant’s, but still not quite cultured. How did this girl know to curtsy to her and refer to her as ‘lady’? For that matter, how had a room and bath been prepared for her so quickly, when Adam could not have known she would accept his offer? When he’d rung for the butler, he had issued no instructions beyond “escort Lady Daphne to her guest chamber.”
Then, she recalled the murmured conversation she’d heard between the master and butler as she’d stood outside the study. Perhaps the instructions had been given before the conversation had even taken place—which meant he’d known all along that Bertram had not arrived on his doorstep demanding an audience. He’d figured out who she was before he’d even turned to greet her—had assumed with the typical arrogance of men of power than she would accept.
For now, fatigue overwhelmed her, and she did not have it in her to question or argue.
“A bath would be splendid, thank you,” she said to the girl. “What is your name?”
“I am Maeve, my lady,” the maid replied as she approached and began helping Daphne undress. “You poor thing … you must be chilled to the bone. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
The heavy clothes fell in a wet heap on the floor, and Maeve helped her into the bathtub, where she sank into the steaming water with a sigh. She allowed the maid to tend to her, lying against the back of the tub while Maeve took up a sponge and scrubbed her arms, neck, and chest with a sweet-smelling soap. Seeming to disconnect from her body, she let the maid manipulate her like a rag doll, shifting her about to reach different areas of her body.
I’ve just sold my body to a monster.
The thought resounded through her mind, echoing as ominously as Adam’s voice had through his cavernous study. It caused her to grow numb, her limbs hanging uselessly from her body and her eyes growing unfocused. Perhaps it was not too late to renege on their agreement. After all, her virginity remained intact. However, returning to London would feel too much like failure without the answers she sought—without the money that could save her family.
I’ve just sold my body to a monster. But I did not sell my soul.
Resolved, she left the tub and pushed Maeve’s fussy hands away. Dismissing the maid and assuring her she’d do all right on her own, Daphne dried herself and slipped into the nightgown she’d been offered. The thing was prim and trimmed in lace; a bit at odds with the role she was to play, but she would not question it. The gown proved warm and comfortable against her freshly scrubbed skin, and the turned-down bedclothes appeared inviting.
Tomorrow, she would steel herself to come face to face with Lord Adam Callahan again. Tonight, she would rest so she’d have the strength to fight.
For fight, she must.
To guard her soul from the beast, to save her mind from the ruin his sharp words and foul deeds could cause. A body could heal … a broken spirit would never be the same.
As she climbed into the large four-poster bed in the center of the room, Daphne wondered where in the castle Lord Hartmoor slept in relation to her. Did he undress for bed down the hall, or even just next door? Or had he banished her to some far-flung wing, where she was to remain until he came to claim what she’d promised him—what belonged to him by way of their agreement?
Despite the anxiety caused by imagining waking up with him on top of her, she could not keep her eyes opened once she’d slipped beneath the bedclothes. No … Adam would never be so duplicitous. A man who so clearly stated his intentions would not skulk about in the dark and take what he wanted with the tapers snuffed out. He would come to her with every candle in the room blazing, so she would be forced to look upon him as he claimed her, defiled her, treated her like the whore he’d promised she would become.
She would need her wits about her when she faced him again, and that knowledge allowed her to slip into a sound slumber.
When Maeve entered her room the next morning, Daphne had already awakened. Having found a dressing gown draped across the foot of the bed, she’d pulled it on over her nightgown. Smoothing a hand over the heavy, rich fabric, she’d wondered who it had belonged to before her. The thought of some other young, unsuspecting chit in this room, wearing this same robe as she waited for Adam to come despoil her, had made her shudder. However, the frigid chill lingering in her room had kept her wrapped in the warm garment while she’d padded barefoot across the room to spark a fire in the hearth.
Once she had coaxed the flames to life, she had remained before the large fireplace, her back turned to soak up the warmth of the blaze. She’d studied her surroundings with curious eyes, grudgingly forced to admit she had been given a room fit for a princess. As prison cells went, one truly could not ask for better.
The large bed sat elevated on a platform in the center of the room, draped with blue damask curtains tied back to the posts with tasseled ropes. Thick rugs matching the curtains covered stone floors, and the lower half of the walls had been paneled in rich, dark wood. The upper half boasted blue wallpaper printed with a silvery filigree. She’d approached the wall to touch the paper for herself, marveling at its rich texture. No expense had been spared to refurnish and remodel this room, and she supposed it must be the same for the rest of the ancient castle. She had not been certain what to expect when setting out for Dunnottar, but it certainly hadn’t been paneled walls and brass sconces.
This was how Maeve found her, stroking the wallpaper. Pausing near the door, she smiled and curtsied as if she had been chosen to serve the que
en instead of a woman contracted to act as Lord Hartmoor’s plaything.
“Good morning, my lady,” she chirped happily, moving to the large, ornate armoire located in the corner of the chamber. “The Master has requested your presence in the adjoining drawing room, where breakfast will be served.”
So, it would begin. Squaring her shoulders, Daphne nodded as the maid faced her with a gown draped over one arm.
“Very well,” she replied. “Might I ask whose clothing I will be borrowing during my stay here?
Allowing Maeve to help her out of the dressing gown, she studied the maid closely. The girl avoided her gaze.
“These are the only loaned items you’ll need to wear while you are here,” she replied as she unbuttoned Daphne’s nightgown. “The Master will have your measurements taken and garments purchased for you.”
Daphne scowled as the nightgown fell away from her body. Why extend such a courtesy, when his motives toward her proved the unsavory sort? Would it amuse him to dress her in rich garments only to rip them from her back before plundering her body?
“That is entirely unnecessary,” she protested while Maeve helped her into a pair of stockings and garters. “My stay here will be a short one, and a few borrowed garments will suffice.”
“Master’s orders, my lady,” the maid replied, her cheery tone never faltering. “You will find it easier to simply acquiesce to his wishes, and all will be well.”
Anger burned like a lump of hot coal in her throat, rebellion rising from her gut to fill her chest. Yet another person who expected her simply accept the dictates of the man controlling her fate. If she’d had enough of that from her brother and father, then she certainly would not tolerate such from him.
“Perhaps you do, but I do not,” she argued. “I shall address the issue with him myself over breakfast.”
Amusement pulled at the corner of Maeve’s mouth as she approached Daphne with the gown. The expression mocked her, seeming to warn that she might broach the subject with Adam, but should not expect him to bend. Well, the maid and her so-called ‘Master’ had another thought coming. Just because he had purchased the right to use her body for thirty days and nights did not mean she could not stand her ground on matters such as these.
Glancing down, she gasped, realizing that while her thoughts had wandered, Maeve had begun dressing her in the gown … with no undergarments beneath them.
“Is there at least a chemise I might wear beneath this?” she asked, feeling completely naked without the layers of her petticoats, corset, and drawers.
At last, Maeve’s demeanor faltered, her cheeks flushing crimson as she seemed to fumble for words. Finally, she managed to mutter something about “Master’s orders” and “no undergarments.” Daphne’s face heated as the maid finished the row of buttons running down her back, her ire at Adam rising even more.
“Another matter I shall have to address with Lord Hartmoor,” she declared.
Maeve’s smirk returned as she urged Daphne to sit at the vanity to have her hair brushed.
“Of course, my lady,” she murmured.
Suffering through the rest of her toilette in silence, she remained still while Maeve loosened her braid and brushed her hair, leaving it hanging free down her back. Then, in an act that sent bile rising up in the back of her mouth, Maeve tied a length of ribbon around her neck in a makeshift choker, creating a saucy bow against her collarbone.
As if she were a cat to be adorned before presentation to her master.
The maid turned her to face an ornate mirror, standing behind her and beaming as if proud of her handiwork. The previous owner of the navy velvet gown she wore must have possessed a petite frame, for it fell a few inches short and hugged her body a bit too tightly. She supposed she ought to be grateful not to have a corset on, as the dress cinched in her waist quite a bit on its own, the neckline biting into her breasts. The plump flesh spilled from the bodice, and despite trying to pull the fabric up to cover herself, Daphne eventually gave up. The frock was too small, and no amount of tugging could change that.
She had to admit the choker Maeve had fashioned out of ribbon enhanced her neck, causing it to appear longer and slenderer. Its navy color—a match for her gown—caused the blue of her eyes to appear brighter and more vibrant.
“Perhaps a chignon,” she suggested, running a strand of hair between her fingers.
Maeve inclined her head. “The Master—”
“Has ordered that I wear it unbound,” Daphne finished for her with a sigh.
“Now you’re catching on, my lady,” Maeve replied with a giggle. “You will find him through that door, there.”
Following the maid’s pointing finger, Daphne spotted a door she had not noticed before—the wooden panel apparently leading to the aforementioned sitting room.
Turning to tidy up the bed, Maeve seemed content to pretend she was no longer in the room.
Daphne took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and marched toward the door with resolute intent. Never one to cower or hide, she would face him and show no fear. He might have broken the men of her family, but Adam Callahan would not break her.
She opened the door to find herself in a drawing room with decor matching her bedroom. The same blue and silver paper covered the walls while oversized furniture in matching shades sat positioned to face the hearth. Across the room from her rested a table covered in a white cloth, adorned by silver candelabras and tapers dripping wax, laden with several platters of food.
It was here she found Adam, seated in one of the two chairs, his long legs crossed and angled so they did not hide beneath the table. A white linen napkin lay draped over his thigh, and he sipped tea from a china cup that appeared no larger than a thimble in his massive hand.
Her mouth went dry, and she faltered halfway across the room at the sight of him. Heavens, she had forgotten how large he was—his shoulders and arms bulging against the fabric of his coat, skintight breeches clinging to powerful thighs.
Clenching her hands and swallowing past the knot of anxiety in her throat, she raised her chin, refusing to be intimidated.
“Good morning,” he said without turning his head to look at her. “Come. Eat.”
His words fell on her like the curt commands they were, causing her to stiffen. Yet, she did as he said, having no intention of shunning a meal after having ridden through the night without dinner.
As she neared the table, a dark shadow peeled itself away from the corner and converged upon her. A strangled cry died in her throat as she recognized the butler—still shrouded in unrelenting black, still wearing an expression of disdain at the sight of her.
He remained silent and stone-faced as he approached the table, pulling out the empty chair for her. Nodding her thanks, she sank into it and studied the platters spread out before her. For a moment, she simply stared at the various foods presented, overwhelmed by the choices.
After pouring a cup of tea for her from the silver tea service placed at the center of the table, the butler returned to his place in the corner.
“Help yourself to whatever you wish,” Adam said. “I certainly hope you are not one of those chits who insists upon pretending to have the appetite of a bird.”
Reaching for the dish of coddled eggs, she raised an eyebrow at him. “Many ladies eat that way in public because of the way our undergarments restrict our bellies. Though, during my time here, I suppose I shall not have that problem.”
He paused in buttering his toast and glanced up at her, humor dancing in his eyes, though his mouth remained a hard, unmoving line. She smirked, certain he had understood her subtle jibe. Good. She would ensure he knew how displeased she was at being forced to prance about without proper undergarments.
Returning to his breakfast, he declined to answer her. Her stomach had begun to ache from hunger, so she filled her plate with slices of ham and toast, then laced her tea with sugar and milk. As she ate, she snuck glances at the man seated across from her—the fiend who
had savagely destroyed her family.
He had the sort of Corinthian frame the men of London used padding beneath their clothes to achieve and the ladies giggled over behind their fans. His clothing proved plain and unadorned, nor were they latest fashion, but they had been tailored to fit him perfectly and appeared to be of high quality.
Still hanging loose around his face, his dark brown locks gleamed with golden highlights in the glow of the candles. This morning, his eyes appeared dark brown, the golden and green flecks practically invisible. His expression offered no hint of his thoughts or mood, which Daphne found disconcerting. It made this man dangerous, more so than she had imagined before coming here.
Once she’d eaten enough to ease the hollow sensation yawning in her stomach, she took a sip of her tea and glanced up to find him watching her. He’d cleaned his plate and now leaned back in his chair, staring at her in a way that left her feeling like a mouse being stalked by a cat.
Prey. That was how he made her feel … like game to be devoured by a predator.
“Is there something on your mind, little dove?” he murmured, inclining his head.
His pet name for her rankled, reminding her of the insults he’d hurled at her the night before. He thought her weak, a simpering chit cowering in a gilded cage, preening for those who admired and protected her.
Her nostrils flared as she took in a deep breath, determined not to allow him to ruffle her. “I would like to have a word with you, Adam.”
The only response to her use of his Christian name came with the slight lift of his eyebrows.
Waving a hand, he shrugged. “Speak your mind freely … Daphne.”
He’d purposely emphasized her name, the underlying growl in his deep voice rumbling through the syllables like a purr. The sound did strange things to her belly.
The Villain Page 3