Lord Hartmoor had achieved the very thing she had hoped he would not by making her desire him. While it should relieve her that she would at least find pleasure during their encounters, it also frightened her. The man had paid to use her body as if she were no better than a prostitute, and now, he would make her like it. If the way she was feeling right now were any indication, he would make her crave it.
Turning her thoughts away from him proved impossible when she remained always aware of her surroundings, the ominous castle a reflection of its owner. A bit of fresh air would help to clear her head before she would inevitably face him again. She returned to her chambers for a shawl, uncertain of the weather, but knowing protection from catching a chill would be needed when she traipsed about with only one layer of fabric between herself and the elements.
As she left her room, she nearly collided with a maid carrying a basket full of freshly laundered clothing. She gasped as the woman fell onto her rear on the ground, several items falling out of her basket.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said, reaching down to offer the maid a hand up. “I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere.”
The maid smiled, but it seemed forced. She pointedly avoided Daphne’s gaze as she crouched to begin picking up the things that had fallen out of her basket.
“It’s quite all right, m’lady,” the maid mumbled.
“Here, let me help you,” Daphne said, kneeling to lend a hand.
The maid gasped, snatching the items she held and shoving them into the basket. Daphne frowned while the maid swiftly gathered the other articles as if offended that she would dare touch them. Shoving them quickly under a stack of linens, she straightened and bobbed in a swift curtsy.
“Sorry to have troubled you, m’lady,” she mumbled before moving quickly around Daphne and disappearing down the corridor.
Brow furrowed, she turned and watched the maid retreat, her curiosity growing as she turned left and ventured down the forbidden corridor. Lingering where the maid had left her, Daphne’s mind spun as she considered what she’d just seen. The only indoor servants she’d encountered since arriving at Dunnottar had been Maeve and Niall. Her assumption that there must be a larger staff here rang true now that she’d spotted a chambermaid in the halls. More disconcerting proved the clothing she’d noticed in the woman’s hands. Clothing trimmed in bits of lace.
Clothing which clearly belonged to a female.
And since the maid had taken them, freshly laundered, into the forbidden corridor, Daphne could only conclude that Dunnottar had a female resident. Bile rose up in the back of her throat, acidic and bitter as she wondered who the woman might be. A wife, a mistress? Another unsuspecting chit like her, who had been coerced into selling her body?
The thought caused her throat to clench, anger fisting her hands at her sides. She must know the truth—especially if there turned out to be a Lady Hartmoor she’d known nothing about. She could not—would not—lay with another woman’s husband, not even for thirty thousand pounds. Not even for the answers she had come for. It was one thing to sell herself … it was quite another to commit a sin so grievous as to participate in adultery.
That decided, she made her way to Adam’s study. Her shoulders slumped when she found it empty, the fire in the hearths burned down to nothing but embers. In a huff, she stomped back to her room, determined to find answers. There, she found Maeve hanging the last of her gowns in the armoire.
“Oh, my lady!” Maeve exclaimed, turning to face her with a bright smile. “Is there something you’re needing?”
“Yes,” she declared, closing the door firmly and crossing her arms over her chest as she faced the rosy-faced young woman. “You can tell me who else resides here with Lord Hartmoor.”
If she weren’t mistaken, the maid’s cheeks flushed scarlet, her gaze lowering to the floor.
“Well, there’s Niall and me, of course,” she murmured, her voice so low, Daphne had to edge closer to hear.
“Of course,” she prodded. “And a host of other servants, I imagine. A castle of this size must require a large staff to see it run efficiently.”
Maeve nodded, forcing a smile and timidly meeting Daphne’s gaze. “You’ve the right of it. There’s the cook and the scullery maids, the footmen and grooms … chambermaids and the like.”
Inclining her head, Daphne raised one eyebrow. “And who, besides Lord Hartmoor, do these servants tend to? A wife? A mistress? Members of the Callahan family?”
Lifting her chin, Maeve folded her hands neatly before her. “Now, my lady, it will not do for you to ask such questions of me. The Master will not like it.”
“Hang what your Master does or does not like!” Daphne spat, her nerves already frazzled by the explosive encounter in the music room, and now the realization that she might be cuckolding the lady of the manor in her own home.
Maeve gasped, flinching as if Daphne had blasphemed. “My lady, please … your time here could be so much more enjoyable if you do not go putting your nose where it doesn’t belong. The Master wants you here, in this corridor, where you’ll be comfortable and—”
“And ensconced away from his lady wife?” she interjected.
“No, my lady,” Maeve replied, a pleading tone in her voice. “It is nothing like that.”
“Then why will you not simply tell me?”
Moving around Daphne and busying herself with tidying the surface of the vanity, the maid went on avoiding her gaze. “Please, speak of this no more. If the Master knew we’d discussed this, he’d be furious.”
Scoffing, Daphne waved a dismissive hand at Maeve. Her long legs carried her quickly to the door, which she threw open and slammed behind her in her frustration. She was not usually so petulant, but the unwavering loyalty of this woman to her so-called ‘Master’ irked her to no end. With a sardonic smirk, she wondered what Maeve would think of Adam if she knew of the things he’d done to her on top of his pianoforte. Her face flushed at the thought, and she supposed the maid might not hate him for it. After all, he’d ensured Daphne received her pleasure before taking his own.
But, at what cost could she enjoy his hands on her body, and eventually the coupling he was parting with a small fortune for?
Daphne would never be able to live with herself if he turned out to have a wife, closeted away in some far-flung wing of the castle while he took up with her. Determined to know the truth before she allowed him to lay another hand upon her, she set out to find him.
However, a quick sweep of the areas she knew of the house turned up nothing, and an inquiry of the imposing butler revealed Adam had left Dunnottar on urgent business in Kincardineshire. He would return for dinner and had requested she join him.
Daphne would be prepared to meet him, and she would not rest until she’d gotten the answer to at least this one burning question. Perhaps then, the guilt of what she’d allowed herself to sink to would not be so unbearable.
Daphne arrived in the dining room that evening to find Adam already there. For the first time since they’d met, he was dressed appropriately—his shirt buttoned to the throat and a simply-tied cravat adorned with an onyx stickpin, a brocade waistcoat hugging his chest and waist, a black coat clinging to his shoulders. Not a strand of his hair appeared out of place, combed back from his forehead and tied neatly at his nape.
Still, even dressed so finely, the subtle air of danger remained. In truth, these clothes only heightened the effect, the stark shades making his hair and eyes darker. His body appeared even bigger wrapped in a waistcoat and breeches, the thick column of his neck and rigid slash of his jaw hardly softened by the white linen neck cloth.
He stood behind the chair at the head of the table, hands clasped behind his back. When his gaze fell on her, she froze in the doorway, held captive by his eyes. While his expression remained unmoved— stern, emotionless—the pools of his eyes changed, becoming more liquid, like molten bronze. As those eyes of his lowered, his gaze caressing her from across the room, she suppo
sed he found her attire acceptable.
Maeve had dressed her in burgundy satin trimmed in black lace, the matching gloves covering her arms to the elbow. Despite her protestations, the maid had also tied a length of matching ribbon around her throat, insisting the Master would like it. Daphne supposed it could not hurt to try to appeal to his baser urges. Perhaps if he was pleased with the way she looked, he would be more amenable to answering her questions.
“You look ravishing, little dove,” he declared, coming around the table toward her. “Will you stand there all night for me to admire you, or will you join me at the table?”
The softness of his tone, as well as the humor dancing in his eyes, disarmed her as he approached, offering her a hand. Was this some sort of trick? This was, perhaps, the politest he had been to her since their first meeting. As she placed a hand in his and let him lead her to her place to the right of his setting, she could almost imagine he was escorting her at a London dinner party.
Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble for just the two of them, laying out a variety of sumptuous dishes and adorning the table with beautiful Wedgewood china. Candles lent an ethereal glow to the darkened room, the drapes shut against the light of the moon.
If she did not know better, she would think the man was attempting to be romantic. She decided to play along, and hoped it would smooth the way for her inquiries.
“You look quite handsome this evening,” she remarked, reaching for her napkin and neatly draping it over her lap.
He grinned, leaning back in his chair far more casually than would be acceptable in a London dining room. The posture reminded her how little Adam seemed to regard propriety.
“Do I?” he teased. “Well, that is good to hear. I shall convey your appreciation to Maeve, who insisted I must dress properly when dining in such fine company.”
She gave him a smile, hoping it appeared genuine. Her hands trembled in her lap, and her body seemed to remain on high alert, as if remembering how easily and quickly he could have her naked and spread out wherever he pleased. He’d already proven he wasn’t above draping her over a table and having his way with her.
“Would you care for wine?” he asked, gesturing toward the two bottles resting on the table between them. “I dismissed the footmen so we could dine alone, so we are to serve ourselves this evening. I was not sure which you would prefer, so I ordered both sherry and Madeira brought from the cellar.”
“I would love the Madeira, thank you,” she replied. “That was thoughtful of you, Adam.”
He filled the empty goblet beside her place setting, then his own. After placing the bottle back between them, he eyed her with open curiosity.
“So amenable this evening,” he remarked. “To what do I owe the sudden shift in your demeanor?”
Daphne took a quick sip of her wine to avoid answering right away. His query made her pulse race, worry that he could see right through her making her antsy. The fortifying swallow of Madeira took a bit of the edge off, and she relaxed a bit in her seat.
“Perhaps you allowing me to use the harp has pacified me,” she hedged, shrugging one bare shoulder.
Adam reached for one of the platters and began serving himself, so Daphne followed suit. She was ravenous and took a large helping of venison before reaching for the turnips.
“Hmm,” he murmured while he helped himself to a healthy portion of lamb. “Yet, I did not hear one note of music before I left for Kincardineshire.”
She lowered her eyes and bit back the words hovering on the tip of her tongue. Instead of informing him that she’d been too busy scrubbing his seed off her skin, then trying to unravel the mystery of the hidden woman in his house, she cut her meat and avoided his gaze.
“I plan to take up my practice tomorrow,” she said. “It has been ages, but I do not believe I’ve grown too rusty since the last time I touched a harp.”
“I fully expect to hear sweet music drifting down the corridor to my study,” he said, glancing up at her between bites of food. “After all, you more than earned as much time with the instrument as you wish.”
The reminder of what she’d had to do to ‘earn’ the harp almost caused her to choke. She cleared her throat and forced a swallow, taking a sip of wine to wash it down. His teasing set her teeth on edge, but she managed to keep her composure as they ate.
He asked he why she’d learned the harp, and she answered that she’d been terrible at the pianoforte so her mothered had hired someone to teach her a different instrument. From the moment she’d first touched the harp, she’d excelled.
She asked him about his business in Kincardineshire, and whether he owned lands here in Scotland. He informed her that Dunnottar was simply a castle, not a grand estate with farms and tenants. He did, however, own two larger holdings, both with lands and tenants to be managed—one in Scotland, and the other in England. The time in his study must surely be spent safeguarding his assets.
He spoke of the fair weather today, informing her she was free to take a horse out for a ride tomorrow if it held up, providing she took Maeve for an escort. She thanked him for his generosity and praised the efforts of his chef as she tasted a bit of everything before serving herself dessert.
Daphne was almost loath to destroy the easy camaraderie they’d found during dinner. For at least an hour, he’d been polite, a perfect gentleman who seemed to listen to everything she had to say, answering her questions and asking a few of his own.
Still, the nagging suspicion concerning what he hid in that forbidden corridor would not allow her to enjoy his company with ease. Not when his wife could be eating her own dinner alone in her chambers right now.
The thought washed over her like a frigid douse of water, and she dropped her fork to her plate, the loud clangor drawing his sharp gaze. He frowned as she straightened, lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes at him.
“Is there something wrong with your dessert?” he asked, a look of genuine curiosity plastered across his face.
Instead of answering his question, she volleyed one of her own at him. “Is there a woman living here?”
Pausing with his wine goblet halfway to his mouth, he gave her an amused smirk. “Aye, little dove … you.”
Scoffing, she shook her head, annoyed with his avoidance of her question. “I meant, other than me. A wife? A mistress? Someone you don’t want me to encounter during my time here?”
For a moment, something flickered in his gaze, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Had that been shock—anxiety, even? As if she’d struck a nerve.
He inclined his head. “What does it matter?”
“It matters!” she exclaimed, her voice raising as the annoyance and anger she’d been trying to hold back all evening boiled to the surface. “It matters if you are keeping both your wife and your … your …”
“Whore?” he finished for her with a sarcastic smirk.
After coercing her into this agreement, humiliating her in front of his butler, then subjecting her to his debauched attentions, he had the nerve to refer to her as a whore?
Rage gripped her so swiftly, she could hardly register the emotion before it propelled her to act. Wrapping one hand around the stem of her goblet—which he had just refilled for her—she tossed its contents in his direction. The amber liquid splashed his face, soaking his cravat and front of his shirt. He flinched, closing his eyes and reaching quickly for his napkin, using it to clear his vision before settling his gaze on her.
Dread coiled in her belly at the predatory gleam in his eye, his jaw hardening as he glared at her, nostrils flaring like an animal scenting its prey. She realized her error far too late, and now could not find the strength to stand and run. Her legs had turned to jelly, and she remained frozen in his stare, even as his upper lip curled back from his teeth in a snarl. Even as he took up his own glass and flung its contents at her, returning tit for tat.
She gasped when his wine missed her face but soaked her neck and chest. It sl
uiced into her cleavage and down her belly, causing her bodice to cling to her breasts. As she stared at him in open-mouthed shock, he reached out and grasped one of her wrists.
Before she knew what was happening, he had hauled her out of her chair and into his lap. She struggled in his hold, but he quickly captured her other wrist, winding it behind her back. Then, bending the other arm so both were trapped behind her, he secured her wrists with one large hand. He used the other to grasp her throat, the light hold just enough of a threat to frighten her into submission.
He was looking at her the same way he had before stripping her naked and humiliating her in front of Niall. The same way he had when threatening to debauch her in every way he could think of. Had she angered him enough that he would simply throw her onto the table and ravage her?
A shiver raced through her—though, with the way her traitorous body behaved in his presence, she could not be certain whether it was from fear or excitement.
“Shocked, little dove?” he growled, his teasing tone edged like the blade of a knife. “Perhaps I should have forewarned you, I am no gentleman, and your maidenly outbursts and childish tantrums will not endear you to me.”
“That you are no gentleman has been quite apparent to me from the beginning,” she snarled.
Tightening his hold on her neck just enough to kick her pulse up a notch, he leaned closer … so close, his mouth brushed the line of her jaw. She shivered, her body now chilled by the Madeira soaking the front of her gown.
“One turn deserves another, does it not?” he murmured, his lips gliding along her jaw line and toward her chin.
He opened his mouth and lapped at her skin, now sticky from the wine. He made a sound low in his throat, like a purr, then closed his lips around her chin and suckled.
“If you wanted me to lap wine off your beautiful tits, you should have simply said so, Daphne,” he uttered, the rumble of his deep voice stroking down her spine as he kissed her jaw, then lapped at it with his hot, rough tongue.
The Villain Page 9