The Villain

by Victoria Vale

  Peering over the edge of the massive copper tub, the heat of the water soothing her body, she had watched Adam continue disrobing. Unable to look away, she had drunk in every detail, having realized that he never fully undressed when they were intimate. Her mouth had gone dry at the sight of him, rippling with power and strength—bulky cords of muscle flexing and bunching beneath supple skin. Dark coils of mahogany brown hair covered his chest, then trailed down his abdomen, turning into the coarse nest at his groin. He was chiseled like a statue, deep grooves carved out between the bulges, his legs all taut sinews. His hair hung down his back in soft waves, past his shoulder blades in length. In London, that hair might be considered indecent, the mark of an ill-bred man, not a titled earl. Yet, it suited him, made him seem so much a part of the wild and untamed lands surrounding his castle.

  He met her gaze, but said nothing, seeming unruffled by her unguarded perusal of his nude body. Leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, he approached the shower bath and stepped into the basin, his height forcing him to hunch a bit to keep from hitting his head. Bending down to grasp the pump, he worked it with one hand, the slender pipes attached to the wooden poles rattling a bit.

  “How does it work?” she’d asked, wrinkling her brow.

  She had been too curious to worry that he might not wish her to speak at the moment.

  “The footmen fill it with water, and I use the pump to move it up these pipes and into the upper basin,” he said as he straightened. “Then, I simply pull this cord.”

  She watched as he reached up to pull a rope attached to the upper basin. The action produced a shower of water from overhead, which doused him from head to toe. Then, he took up a cake of soap and used it to lather himself, scrubbing his skin, then his hair before working the pump again to refill the upper basin. Pulling the cord once more, he drenched himself with more water, rinsing clean.

  It was a marvelous invention, one she had heard very little about. She felt certain these were being installed in the homes of the peerage who were not as financially bankrupt as her family.

  He’d left the room then, wrapping a length of linen around his waist, his hair curling and dripping water all over the tiles.

  Maids had come into the room to clean up behind him, ignoring her altogether. Not long after they’d left, Adam returned, dressed in breeches and a shirt, his feet bare and his damp hair pulled back from his face. Seeing him this way proved oddly intimate—his shirt hanging open and his feet bare as they sat in his private washroom. He dragged a footstool toward the tub and sank onto it.

  Producing a hairbrush, he took hold of her hair, which she’d let hang over the lip of the tub after washing it, so it could dry. Without a word, be began dragging the bristles over her hair, his grip surprisingly light, his ministrations gentle. Closing her eyes, she sighed, surrendering to the warmth of the water and the soothing glide of the brush over her hair.

  He did not allow her peace to last for long … though he did continue brushing her hair while he spoke.

  “I will tell you the rest now,” he stated. “Everything you need to know about Serena. But, I warn you, Daphne … after this day, you will not ask me about her again. You will not try to interfere in her life, and you will never again attempt to go into her wing of the house.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, to remind him that Serena was her niece, and he had no right to separate them. She wanted to insist that her stumbling upon the nursery had been an accident, not a purposeful defiance of his orders.

  Instead, she merely nodded her acquiescence.

  “As I told you before, your father turned Olivia away when she tried to inform him of Bertram’s indiscretion,” he continued, his voice eerily calm as he wove the rest of his tale. “She tried to contact both of them several times throughout the rest of the Season, insisting Bertram do the right thing. Her greatest fear had become having a man offer for her and eventually needing to explain her lack of virginity. She was ignored … until she realized she had become pregnant. Olivia tried once more to approach Bertram, thinking he would surely do the right thing now that a child had been sired. Your brother insisted the child surely could not be his … he accused her of trying to trap him into marriage and insisted she must have lain with other men after being with him, and he had no way of knowing who had actually fathered the child.”

  Anger burned the surface of her skin, her eyes filling with tears that she dashed away with a shaking hand. Damn Bertram, he had turned out to be the worst sort of cur. She could not even find the words to defend him, having seen the child for herself and witnessing Olivia’s horror at being in the presence of a Fairchild.

  “So, because Bertram and your father could not be counted upon, she went to the only other man in London who might take pity upon her,” Adam said.

  “Uncle William,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “What did he do to her?”

  “He went to your father, of course, who brought him into the fold,” Adam spat, his hand stilling with the brush as his voice quivered with fury. “Together, the two decided Olivia must be dealt with before she could bring public shame upon the Fairchild family. She could not simply be bought off the way the other ladies had been, that much was clear. William took the lead, insisting he had things well in hand. He called upon Olivia and told her Bertram was young and foolish and might need some time to come to his senses. In the meantime, her condition would need to be hidden from the public. He told her he would send for her … have her taken to some estate owned by your family where she could hide in peace and await Bertram’s arrival. William insisted he would bring your brother to heel, and all would be well. Olivia has always been a gentle soul, and far too trusting. She believed him.”

  Daphne gripped the edge of the tub so tight, her fingers began to ache. She didn’t dare move, or speak, or even breathe, needing to hear what her mind had already guessed at … needing him to say it aloud.

  “He tricked her,” Adam whispered, his voice lowered and raspy with rage. “He met her and spirited her away under the cover of darkness … but it was no estate he took her to. Instead, he drove her clear across England to an asylum for unwed mothers.”

  The acrid taste of vomit lingered in the back of her throat, and she feared she would become violently ill. Asylums for unwed mothers were little more than prisons run by old crones who spent more time chastising the poor women for being wantons than they did actually caring for them. Some of them were known for conditions little better than Newgate, with many of the women wasting away while waiting to give birth, or dying while in labor. The children then became orphans, handed off to the woman’s family or placed in orphanages or convents. To think of Olivia—a sweet young lady who had loved flowers and music—in such a place made her want to wretch.

  “Oh, Adam …”

  He did not reply, but continued with his tale, the words coming faster now, as if he needed to get them out.

  “I did not discover her location for several months. Her cousin wrote to tell me she had disappeared, assuming she’d run off with Bertram, whose company she’d been seen in several times. I immediately traveled to London and sought Bertram out. He insisted he had not seen her in quite some time and had no idea where she’d gone. It wasn’t until I discovered her in that asylum, where she had already given birth to Serena—and nearly died in the process—that I realized that he’d lied to me. The child resembled him too strongly for anyone else to have sired her.”

  She craned her neck to look at him, which was made difficult with his hand fisting her hair. He had tightened his grip, causing her scalp to sting as she tried to look at him, to see the emotion he hid beneath a flat tone. Just as they had that night in the music room, his eyes appeared haunted, swirling with pain and grief.

  “I cannot imagine what she went through,” she whispered, the only words she could say as Adam would have scoffed at any apology she offered.

  “A cold room with no hearth,” he growled, lifting his gaze to
meet hers. “Meager food, and hours of chores forced upon her … a penance for her sin, they said. The midwives who cared for her … they told her the pain was her burden to bear. They did nothing to help her, even when she nearly bled to death. God was judging her … she must suffer his wrath. And if she lived, it meant she had atoned and He had accepted her repentance.”

  She sniffled and choked back a sob, unable to stifle her tears any longer. Her heart ached for Olivia, who had done nothing to deserve her fate. Just as Daphne had done nothing to deserve hers … and yet, an overwhelming guilt caused her to question her own innocence. How could she have walked about so oblivious to all of this? It had happened under her nose, but she’d been so self-absorbed and concerned with her own affairs, she hadn’t recognized the plight of another woman. A woman she might have helped if she’d known.

  “I brought her home and called for the best doctor in Kincardineshire … put her in her bedroom just down the corridor from this one and hoped being surrounded by her own things would cheer her up. Niall … damn the fool … he’d been in love with her since we were children and he was a mere stable boy. He’d been her first kiss, he’d taught her to ride, he … he thought perhaps he could help. But it was too late. Her mind had fractured from the distress … she went mad. In the midst of all her rambling and ranting, we discerned that the midwives had mentioned sending for William to come retrieve the child.”

  She gasped, remembering the first time she’d ever encountered Olivia. She had screamed and clawed at Daphne, declaring she would not take ‘her’ away. The ‘her’ had been Serena, she felt certain. Olivia had feared a Fairchild would come and take away her daughter. As the pieces of this crumbled mosaic began to form a clear picture, Daphne despised what she saw … disdain welled up deep in her gut for the man who had raised her and the brother who had fooled her into believing him the good sort. The best man there was, she’d often called him. It made her ill to realize he was the complete opposite of everything she’d ever believed.

  “You accused Uncle William of murder,” she reminded him.

  He shook his head. “You assumed that, but I never actually said he murdered her … I said he paid for her life with his. You saw her, Daphne … she did not die, but she is trapped inside her fractured mind. It is as if all the things that made her who she was died. Sometimes, I believe she wishes she had.”

  “You must know, I would never …” she trailed off with a hiccup, trying to rein in her turbulent emotions. “I would never try to hurt Serena, or take her away from her family.”

  “No,” he agreed, releasing her hair and cupping her face. “I do not believe you would, little dove. But Bertram or your father might, if they knew she had survived. As far as they are concerned, she died at birth … and that is how it will remain.”

  She nodded, flinching when he gripped her jaw, his fingers tightening almost painfully. “I promise … I will say nothing.”

  “I do not think you want to know what the consequences will be if you forget yourself and let it slip,” he murmured, a clear threat in his lowered voice. “I think we understand each other, Daphne. Do we not?”

  She took a shaky breath and nodded again, fear ramping up her pulse and making her cunt clench with longing. How could this man make her respond to fear and degradation with lust? Just now, she found herself wishing he’d lower his hand, tighten his fingers around her throat again and give her more of the oblivion he had subjected her to in his study. She wanted him to blot out the entire world, where only the two of them remained in sharp focus, and claim her body in a way no one else had. She doubted anyone else ever would.

  “And you understand now why you must pay,” he added, inclining his head and studying her pensively. “Why the only way to truly ruin Bertram is to ruin you?”

  Again, she nodded. Because she understood better than he imagined … she even agreed with him that it must be her. Bertram would not care about anyone else, but his sister … he would take her ruination as a personal affront.

  “I understand,” she whispered, lowering her eyes. “Do what you must, Adam. Whatever you think you need to do to me … I can endure it.”

  Nodding slowly, he stroked his thumb over her lips. “Aye, I know you can. Perhaps that is why I’ve enjoyed this far more than I ought to … because you endure and submit so beautifully. If you were not who you were, and I was not who I am …”

  Her breath hitched when he fell silent, her gaze searching his as he looked away and shook his head.

  What? She wanted to ask him. What would happen if I was someone else—if you were someone else?

  But he did not continue. He simply shook his head and released her, rising from the stool.

  “Bathe, dress, and join me in the bedroom. We will take dinner here.”

  With that, he turned and left the washroom, closing the door behind her.

  Heaving a sigh, she laid her head against the edge of the tub and tried to make sense of the things he had not said.

  Another tear slid down her cheek, this one for Adam. For a man who seemed emotionless, but who felt things far more deeply than she’d realized. She did not want to endure the things he’d made her feel, nor did she want to pity him. Yet, she did. He made her want to soothe him, to make right everything her father, William, and Bertram had done.

  How she would go about that, she was not sure. All she had to offer him was her body, and while he seemed to take pleasure in it, she realized it did not account for much. In truth, she had nothing, and when this had all ended, she would be nothing … no more than a tool he had used to exact his final revenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  or the next sennight, Daphne spent her every hour—both waking and sleeping—with Adam. She slept in his bed and ate her meals at the little table near a window overlooking the countryside. She joined him in the gallery each morning to watch him and Niall practice their fencing, after which he always engaged her in a few bouts. Those times proved enjoyable, learning more about her opponent, and besting him more easily than she had when she’d lost their wager. It became more like a dance between them than a duel, each knowing the moves of the other with an uncanny foresight. After that, they would take their morning ride. They would gallop for hours, across the meadows and through the trees ringing his property.

  Then, he was all business, bringing her into his study while he attended to his day’s work. The first few days, he had forced her to sit upon the floor at his feet—a position that had made her spine bristle with indignation. Yet, she grew accustomed to it, indulging in reading or drawing—even though she was abominable at it. He often gazed down at her from where he sat, his face inscrutable, but his eyes swirling with good humor and amusement. Did he enjoy seeing her like this—docile at his feet?

  On the third day, she had come into the study to find the harp sitting in the midst of the room, the low stool resting before it. When she’d raised her eyebrows at him in surprise, he’d simply told her to play for him. And play, she had. She’d played for hours, losing herself in the music while he worked, practicing every concerto she knew by memory, then asking for sheet music so she could learn new ones.

  In the evening, there was dinner, and often time spent in the music room where Adam would play. Not for her … as he seemed barely cognizant of her presence once he began. He played for himself, seeming to pour all of his anger and grief onto the keys. She heard it in every note, felt it in the energy that permeated the air as he unleashed it in the only way he seemed capable.

  And, of course, he made use of her body frequently and in just about every way he could imagine. He threw her up on his desk and fucked her from behind; he threw her to the gallery floor and fucked her after fencing; he lifted her skirts on the floor of the music room. Their mating was frenzied, desperate … crude. He pulled her hair hard enough to make her eyes water, but it only made her moan louder. He squeezed her throat until her vision grew hazy, but that only made her climaxes stronger. He pounded her merc
ilessly, leaving the insides of her thighs sore in the following hours, but she urged him on, wrapping her legs around him and compelling him to take her harder, faster. He did other things she enjoyed—things that made her question her own sanity. Like tying her legs to opposite bed posts to open her wide and expose her secret flesh. Or spanking her while fucking her from behind, until she could not separate the pain from pleasure. Or leaving his fingerprints and bite marks in places no one could see, but that she felt for days after his claiming. She liked to touch the sore spots, press down on them and close her eyes, remembering the blissful torment of being claimed by him.

  In truth, he was supposed to be about her ruination, but it began to feel as if he had set about her liberation. The more he used her, teaching her what her body was capable of and subjecting her to the sort of pleasure that ought to bring her shame, the more she reveled in her own wantonness, in the power that came with being desired and inspiring lust. She had grown accustomed to going without undergarments, prepared to be taken at any moment, in any place. Her days held a sort of excitement she had never known, a thrill she could not get from riding hell for leather or sneaking an erotic novel.

  She rarely encountered anyone aside from Adam, Niall maintaining his distance and doing a better job of keeping both Olivia and Serena out of her sight. While she wished to inquire about them, she refrained, not wanting to provoke Adam. He might not let her back in if she tempted him to toss her out again. She forced herself to accept that Adam did not want his sister or niece to have anything to do with Daphne or her family. After all the Fairchilds had done to them, she felt obligated to respect his wishes.

  On the seventh day, she became acutely aware of preparations being made for a party. It began with the dressmaker, who arrived to take her measurements. Shop girls helped drape her in navy blue satin, rolling out spools of decadent black lace and gasping over how the colors made her hair appear redder and her eyes a more vibrant shade of blue.