by Devon, Eva
Her gaze skimmed over the crowded room, feeling admiration and desire coming from many sets of eyes.
It wasn’t exciting having that amount of attention. It was an exercise in the balance of control. She knew how to keep those men at bay. All her life, she’d had to keep predators in line.
But if the scales tipped in the wrong direction, she would be in absolute danger.
Her uncle would have no other women in the room. Certainly not whores. Not even the most elegant. For, he wished the players to be focused on the games at hand. With her single presence, it was easy to incite foolish and competitive behavior amongst the wagerers. Why, one word from her could cause the rising of a bet to astronomical sums as the men tried to show their confidence and their lack of concern regarding their funds.
It would have been tragic if it wasn’t so laughable at how easy it was to manage them.
Carefully, she looked for the man she’d met outside the castle. Met. Such a ridiculous word for their volatile encounter.
No one had ever made her feel both so revered and reviled in just a few short moments.
God, he was beautiful. Powerful. Almost frightening and she’d reveled in his strength.
He was a man that would be next to impossible to manage. Few of those sort existed. But he was one. She’d seen it in the wild resoluteness in his eyes.
He was driven.
Much like she was.
And driven people couldn’t be distracted from their task.
What did he seek?
The gaze of the prince fell on her as he fiddled with his snuff box. His thick fingers stroked the cards as he played.
She arched a daring brow at him then did the wisest thing to keep his attention. She sauntered away.
Men were little better than animals. They loved to chase. And once they had that which they hunted. . . they lost interest. Leaving their prey harried and forsaken, to be consumed by carrion.
She gave the barest glance over her shoulder as she curled her lips in an ever so slightly wicked smile. Then she sashayed from the room, her longs skirts trailing after her.
As she entered the dimly-lit hall, her heart pounded.
This wasn’t something she was truly prepared for.
She’d become accustomed to her role here at the castle. She wasn’t ready to be a whore. Even if she was a prince’s whore. It didn’t matter that whoring seemed a rather common occurrence in women’s lives. After all, one had to pay for shelter, bread, butter, and drink some way.
She’d paid over the years in different ways for her uncle. All ways that had cost her dearly. But never that. A deep, secret part of her had known this day was coming. The day when he’d ask for more. He’d ask for more until there was nothing left. That, she knew for certain.
Ever so carefully, she made her way down the hall to her uncle’s study.
She needed to know his plan. This was not something she was simply willing to let pass.
The low sound of men’s voices met her ears as she lingered by the door. Then her uncle barked, “Come in, Annabelle, you sneaking dog.”
She winced.
Humiliation was a skilled tactic of her uncle.
Squaring her shoulders and filling her heart with ice, she prepared to enter his domain. Ice was the only way to meet his cruelty. For he loved it when she cowered. She’d learned that years ago.
The firelight bathed the two men in a red glow. A fanciful person might have imagined themselves on the threshold of Dante’s Inferno.
Annabelle was not a fanciful person. Besides, she already knew hell. And hell wasn’t this castle, no matter how cruel she had become. At least, not for her. Not yet.
She dipped into a slight curtsy. “Uncle.” She turned to Caxton. “My lord.”
Caxton was painfully good-looking but his gaze cut like a knife. Perhaps if one didn’t know the way of the world, a lady might have been seduced by his smile, his thick hair, his square jaw, and his strong body. Annabelle knew men. Annabelle knew the darkness in all hearts. Some were darker than others. Caxton’s was as black as they came.
For her, it was impossible to miss the slight, cruel lines at the edges of his mouth, the way he looked at her as if she was a filet to be cut up and masticated for pleasure.
Her uncle gestured to the wine on the table. “Pour.”
Without pause and with as much grace as she could manage, she crossed to the Waterford crystal decanter and poured out three glasses into the beautiful goblets which winked rainbows in the firelight.
Every move she made was slow, deliberate, sensual.
After all, she must prove that she still deserved a place with her uncle as his host. As his distraction which caused men to open their pockets and lose more than they should.
She studied the blood red wine then took up two glasses in her hands and sashayed to the men.
Barely lifting her gaze, she offered one to Caxton.
He took it, brushing his fingertips to hers. Pointedly, he took the goblet, lifted the glass to his lips and took an audible drink. Then he narrowed his gaze and licked a drop of wine from his lower lip.
She held his gaze, knowing fear would only feed his excitement. Caxton was the kind of man who loved fear. A beast of a man, everything about him screamed that he lived for the chase. A rabid dog ready to bring down his prey. . . only, she was certain he fancied himself a lion.
Not he though. He was no noble creature.
He was filth. The kind that belonged in the rookeries. Only the privilege of his birth elevated him from the sort of toughs she’d met with on the corners of streets, their hungry eyes taking her in, promising pain if she came too close.
Even as a small child. It had only been her father’s brutal reputation that had kept her safe on the streets from tearing hands. . . while he’d been alive. Then she’d learned to fend for herself.
“Uncle,” she finally said, “surely, you should return to the prince.”
“Ah,” her uncle agreed with seeming pleasantness. “The prince. You’re correct, of course. But we are discussing that lofty fellow now.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“And you,” Caxton said softly, his voice shockingly seductive.
“Me?” she queried. Good God, she prayed it wasn’t so, though her own reason told her exactly what was to be said.
Her uncle snorted. “Never trust this one, Caxton. She’s excellent at playing a stupid chit. She’d slit your throat in your sleep if given half the chance.”
“Wonderful,” Caxton drawled. “I love a rough cat. All the better when you pull out her claws.”
Her stomach twisted. “I was tamed long ago, Caxton. I am domesticated.”
“You’re an alley cat, Annabelle,” her uncle said through tight lips. “It’s why I chose you. You’ll always be an alley cat.”
“I’m sure I can teach the pussy to sit nicely in my lap,” Caxton said with an arch of his brow. “A good cuff every now and again keeps a dumb creature in line.”
“It is fortunate for me then, sir, that this creature is not in your care.”
There was a long silence.
“Uncle?” she challenged, a dose of real panic racing through her. She’d come expecting to be told to roll into the prince’s bed. She’d been prepared for that.
“You’re marrying Caxton.”
The words screamed through her mind. “Marrying—”
“Me,” Caxton supplied quickly.
“I will not,” she bit out.
Her uncle took a drink of his wine and stared at her for a long moment with his cold eyes. Then, before she could even blink, his hand darted out and grabbed her hair, pulling so hard tears immediately sprung to her eyes.
She clutched her wine glass with one hand, the liquid dancing precariously to the edge. And with the other hand, she grabbed her uncle’s hand, desperate to keep him from pulling a fistful of dark locks from her scalp.
This game was familiar. They hadn’t played it in years. H
e would never hit her face. Not her beautiful face. After all, he couldn’t risk damaging it.
But the hair? Oh, if he pulled too hard, or pulled a clump out, she could hide that with a well-placed silk flower.
The terror choking her throat threatened to take her over, but years of practice allowed her to send it into retreat as she forced herself to breathe slowly. Calmly.
She focused on her fantasy. A fantasy she had created years ago, that one day, she would have him in her power. One day, she would have her revenge. And with each breath, she felt herself relax into his hold.
“Good girl,” her uncle said. “Do as you are told.”
She said nothing. She did nothing. But she knew her passive silence would be taken for submission.
And as he relaxed his grip, she felt a wave of self-loathing.
God, she longed to spit in his face. To claw at his eyes. To tell him that he was the scum of the earth. Survivors didn’t do those things. Oh, no. Survivors. . . survived. And she hadn’t lived through the streets and the workhouse to be destroyed by her uncle. Oh, no, this was nothing compared to what she’d seen done to women.
One day, she’d have her revenge. One day. But not today. Today, she’d face her humiliation, swallow it, and survive.
“She’s quite useful, and she’s tougher than most ladies.” Her uncle eyed her disdainfully. “An alley cat, as I said.”
Caxton reached out and stroked his hand along the side of her face. “That’s all right, pussy. I’ll have you purring soon.”
She hid her wince. Nor did she yank away from his touch. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
Slowly, her uncle slipped his long, slightly gnarled fingers from her hair.
Straightening, she lifted her glass, which she’d managed not to drop. She took a sip of the potent wine, wishing she could drink the decanter entirely. But she never would. She’d seen the way of those who turned to the bottle.
It wasn’t a pretty end.
As if she hadn’t just been handled, she asked lightly, “May I ask the reason for our forthcoming nuptials?”
“You’re clever for a girl, Annabelle,” her uncle mocked. “Why do you think?”
She took another drink then studied Caxton. He was a lord, but he lacked funds. Once, he’d had money but he’d been a bit of a fool. He came from good breeding. She had no fortune and she was the daughter of a lady, no more.
So, what advantage could she bring him?
The prince.
A dry laughed rippled past her lips.
“I say, is she a touch mad?” Caxton asked suddenly. “I won’t have a mad wife.”
“Don’t be a fool, Caxton,” her uncle snapped. “Insanity doesn’t run in my family. Annabelle is merely understanding our game.”
“You think the prince won’t bed me if I’m unmarried,” she said flatly.
“Astute,” replied Caxton. “I admit, I didn’t think you’d reach this conclusion on your own.”
She wasn’t pleased by his surprise. She had no wish to impress him.
“So, we will marry forthwith.” Caxton lifted his glass in salute. “Almost immediately. Your uncle will tell the prince and, within a few weeks’ time, you will warm his bed.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs at the repulsive thought. “And if I say no?”
Her uncle’s eyes glittered. “Then you will have lost your use and you know what will happen to you then?”
She did, indeed.
Young ladies with few skills didn’t do well on the streets. She was more cunning than most with her background, but there would be only two ways of earning her bread. On her back or thieving. Both ended in death. One at the end of a rope, the other by a gent’s hand or disease.
She’d take her silk gown, warm fire, and golden cage any day. For in the cage, she could still manage her owner. If she was careful.
Swallowing back the knowledge that she was about to sink further than she’d ever been, she raised her glass to answer Caxton’s salute. “Fine then. . . Husband. To a prince’s bed.”
Chapter 4
The foul taste in Tristan’s mouth shocked him.
So, she was going to bed the prince.
She was going marry Caxton.
She was a participant in this despicable dance. And yet, how could he blame her?
It was all he’d been able to do to stop himself from intervening in the exchange when he’d realized she was being abused.
The thick shadow of night and the frigid air of evening had been an uneasy cloak as he’d listened at the curtained window.
The last year of his life had been spent lurking. Lurking in shadow. Drawing in the pain of those around him so that he might avenge his sister. Now, it seemed, he had encountered another young woman who was about to be in Caxton’s clutches.
Unlike his sister, she seemed to understand what she was involved in.
Still, that hadn’t eased the brutal hit of anger he’d felt as he’d realized that she was being physically coerced by her uncle.
His mind raced with countering thoughts.
How willing was she in all this? Was she coerced entirely? Was she loyal to her uncle? Did she truly understand the kind of bastard Caxton was?
Could she be used. . .
There it was.
The thought that had solidified just how far he was willing to go to destroy the man who had brutalized and ruined his sister.
Could he use her for his own gain? To get to Caxton?
His breath blew out white before him as he pulled open the small side door that led back towards the halls that wove towards the gambling salon.
He slipped in quietly, ready to head back but not before he caught sight of a dark figure sliding down the hall. Her long skirts trailed behind her. Her silhouette, as enigmatic as a ghost in the cold moonlight, spilled through the window at the far side of the hall.
Her pace was pained, slow, a figure trudging through deep water as she headed away from him then around a corner.
He glanced back towards the salon and, no doubt, Caxton.
Caxton was why he was here, but she was an unexpected element. Before he could give it second thought, he was following her.
His footsteps fell softly along the Turkish carpet. The further they went away from the central part of the house, the more silence enveloped him.
Where the devil was she going? An assignation? Her room?
She slipped up a set of stairs and he waited, waited long enough that he might follow her unnoticed.
When he hurried up the stairs, careful to make no sound, he reached the landing and could no longer tell which direction she had gone. He looked up. There was no sign of her ascending. So, it was likely she had already left the staircase and headed down the adjoining hall.
He hesitated but something was compelling him forward. Something about her was calling him deeper into the house, farther from what he had believed was his goal.
So, he turned and strode into the dark hall he believed she’d traveled down.
When he’d gone several feet with still no hint of her, he silently cursed himself.
This wasn’t why he was here, chasing after a strange young woman.
Just as he started to turn, the cold hard prick of a knife stuck into his coat.
“You are more than you seem, sir.”
He froze, astonished at her mastery. “One could say the same of ye.”
“Why are you following me?” she hissed.
“Perhaps I planned to corner ye in the dark.”
The knife pushed a little further forward and he felt his skin give.
“I like this coat, ye ken,” he said lightly.
“I hope you like your skin better.”
“Och, I do. I hold it in excellent regard. But I am willing to mar it, to achieve certain ends.”
“Such as?” she demanded, her voice a lush whisper in the dark.
“Such as this!” And then he whipped to the side, allowing the knife
to just scratch his lower back and side as he grabbed her wrist, wrenched her arm back, and pulled so hard the knife dropped from her hand.
She let out a muffled cry then slammed her foot down atop his.
He grunted but didn’t let go.
“So ye’re accustomed to men accosting ye in dark halls, I take it?” he asked.
“This isn’t the first experience,” she admitted easily.
He stared down at her, studying her perfect visage. “I’m sorry for it.”
“If you are, then why did you follow me?” she scoffed.
“Where can we go?” he asked abruptly, hardly believing he’d uttered the words, himself.
She blinked, her long, dark lashes caressing her pale cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”
“To be alone,” he clarified.
“I have no desire—”
He leaned down, whispering into her ear. “Ye take me somewhere to be alone or I will make it known to the company downstairs what a merry game we played.”
“My God,” she snapped. “You’re the devil.”
“Actually, I’m just acquainted with his ways. I promise not to hurt ye.”
“Hurting comes in many forms, Your Grace. It’s not always just physical.”
He couldn’t argue with that so he wouldn’t try. “Now,” he growled instead.
She nodded, her dark hair brushing against his throat.
He’d had no intention to hold her closely to him. An interrogation had been his plan. Not a skirmish. A skirmish that would result in her back so close to his chest, her bottom pressed close to his thigh, and the soft scent of roses wafting around him.
She had no power over him. None. He had to keep reminding himself of that. He wanted her presence for one reason alone. To get to Caxton. A new path to him, certainly, but a path nonetheless.
“Go slowly,” he ordered.
She did as bid, her step so smooth, he nearly felt she was gliding as she led him down the hall.
When at last they turned, he was stunned to find them in a bedchamber.
“Your room?” he asked, taking in the simple, but beautiful surroundings quickly.
She nodded.
“Ye brought me here?”
“There is nowhere else,” she informed him. “Not to be alone. We are barely even alone here. My uncle has eyes everywhere.”