by Anne Mallory
She stared at him for a long moment, and his feelings overwhelmed him too much to read the expression in her eyes.
Andreas willed the emotion down. Flat. Unemotional. Empty. Flat. Unemotional. Empty.
“I didn’t mean to appeal to your emotions in the negative,” her soft voice said.
The chant wasn’t working. He took to examining her instead, every minute detail of her. “You don’t appeal to me at all,” he said harshly.
“No?” Phoebe looked at the dangerous man in front of her. The one who had interested her since she’d started corresponding with him. A faceless man on the other end of pressed ink, combined with cautious warnings given by Christian, entreating her to mysterious daydreams and fantastical thoughts.
And then he’d become her link to the world he lived in, and she’d needed to cultivate that daydream into hardened reality. She’d do whatever she had to for her family.
The candlelight flickered across his features. Her fascination with him had not ceased. Had only grown.
He was stripping her bare. Again. He did it so frequently that she wondered if he was even aware of it. Probing her insecurities and flaws. Her weaknesses.
It always made her feel uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with fear. Made her wonder about her rationale when it came to anything to do with him.
“Do you plan to seduce me into agreeing?” he asked tightly. “To sell me that innocence, which would still clasp so tightly to you even if you were dressed in the weeds of a whore?”
Beneath the steely, harsh words, he almost sounded disgruntled. But he was on the thin edge of reason, and she needed to choose her words carefully.
“No. I have no illusions about my powers of seduction,” she said. He, on the other hand, in his dark way, was the most seductive man she had ever met. “I had thought to appeal to your rational sense instead.”
He was the contradiction of rationality and sensuality. This man who sat so still and moved so fluidly when provoked. Power clinging to him, whispering in the air around him. Completely captivating, teasing her senses with visions of grandeur and bargains with the devil. Not a man to flirt with but one to whom you’d have to sell your soul.
Ruthless and fierce. There was something in that ferocity that made her lean closer. Something coiled with it, irreparably bound with that other part of him that he tried to hide, that she was still piecing together. A vulnerability that she had to understand. That made every part of her want to reach for him. To fill it, to soothe it, to complete it—that something that pulled and pulled and pulled at her, unceasing.
He tensed a fraction at her advance. So small that she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been so keenly aware of him.
“Though it seems I do make you nervous,” she said softly.
It was as if he was physically unnerved by her at times. Something visceral to his reaction. And she relied far too often on her intuition to discount it.
Christian and Edward always said she gave rationally minded men megrims.
Andreas Merrick’s eyes narrowed.
She spoke before he could reply with something cutting that she would need to fend away with humor or innocence. She’d become adept at it in the past few weeks, but doing so was never without peril. “Truly, Mr. Merrick, I desire—need—your help.”
When he watched her like he was doing—stripping her—she had to hold herself still. For fear that she would utter something completely past any fair claim of manners.
“I care nothing for your safety or that of your family.”
Reason told her to believe those words. The man in front of her was reported to have but one attachment, his brother, while all others were treated with hostility at best. And yet, Andreas Merrick had pushed her to the floor that night, using precious seconds to do so, then saved her again within a span of half a minute, regardless of his words to the man who held her.
She looked at the floor near her chair, now clean again but for a few darkly stained sections of wood. At the current rate of attacks on him, they would blend with the other spots soon, staining the room’s floor a new hue entirely.
Ever since that stain had been made, she’d been hard put to believe his words for truth. Especially with the nights she had peered from her window to see a man parting from the shadows and eliminating any threat that neared their door.
No, there was no question that Andreas Merrick was at least interested in their safety.
The question was whether he was complicit in her brother’s . . . disappearance. Or knew who was. There was knowledge there. Obvious knowledge hidden behind threatening scowls and dark words. He knew something.
“Why should I let any of you stay? Especially with the way you essentially broke in.” His eyes narrowed. “Though I’m sure you had plenty of assistance, now that I think on it.”
She hurried to respond. “Do not be upset with your men. I convinced them I had your permission. Punish me, if anyone.”
“How does one punish you? Take away your ability to speak?”
“No. I would simply use my ledgers more. Writing out anything that came to mind.”
She forgave herself for thinking that perhaps a ghost of a smile lifted the left edge of his mouth.
“Perhaps burning your ledgers is key then.”
She unconsciously hugged them to her chest.
He held out a hand. “Give me your ledgers for the night, and you can stay.”
“What?”
He smiled darkly. “You cannot do it, can you?”
There were all manners of things scribbled in her books that he should not be allowed to read. She tended to write her thoughts down as they occurred. Part diary, part business record. Christian had always been appalled by her tendency to add narrative. But she recorded her thoughts as they occurred and somehow, when she looked at them, she could separate the bits and form them into a whole.
She didn’t separate her emotions and thoughts on paper or in her head. Personal bled to business and back again.
She couldn’t allow him to see what she had written about him.
Yet she needed to stay here. It was the right move, she felt it. People—Christian, Henry, Edward—would call her ten times a fool for doing it, but unlike them, she knew there were two people Andreas Merrick was attached to, not just the one that everyone knew. That second person was the reason she had dared this move, putting her father within Andreas Merrick’s reach. Staking her family’s welfare and future on one piece of evidence and a large amount of intuition.
“Perhaps we can compromise.”
“Oh?” It was darkly uttered. “What do you offer as your part of such a promise?”
She looked into his eyes. They were a blue so deep that they appeared black on first glance. She had a feeling that most people would say his eyes were black, if questioned.
She had noticed their true color in her first close glimpse, though. Like the sky when it deepened to night, midnight with fathomless pinpoints of light streaking through.
The real question was what wouldn’t she offer this man?
“I could help with your affairs here.”
What wouldn’t she offer? It was a question to scare a rationally minded person.
“Doing what? Baking biscuits?”
The man in front of her would never claim to be anything but rational. Yet, he frequently made decisions based on emotion. He just didn’t seem to realize that negative emotions counted.
At times she could no more understand him than she could the gargoyles wrapped around the edges of his building. Ferocious creatures snarling above. She’d always found gargoyles interesting and delightfully symbolic creatures, though. Guarding churches and homes, threatening fiercely any force that might oppose that which they loved.
It was something she keenly felt they had in common.
“There are other things I might help with,” she said softly.
She looked at his exposed wrist, mostly healed now. Could still pi
cture it as it had been that first night, singed, dark and raw. It had to have hurt, and yet he had taken care of those five men who had come to murder him and had uttered not a hissed word of pain during the entire ordeal.
He didn’t follow her gaze. “I need no help in exacting revenge.” There was almost a savored twist to how he said it, as if it was his one true pleasure in life.
Unnerving. And yet like the gargoyles, she felt the draw as if it were a living thing reaching out its tendrils to draw her in.
“Perhaps I can make it so you need never gain revenge again,” she said softly.
He was very still for a moment, then suddenly he threw his head back and laughed, the vibrations of it spreading out like he was spreading the nine layers of hell, sin incarnate.
“Will you?”
His eyes traveled over her, a perusal that could not be deemed lazy, as nothing that this man did ever seemed to match that description. It was focused and overwhelming. Intense. Smoking all areas he touched with brimstone fire—the wispy hair framing her face, the curve of her neck, the dips of her body, pulling the feeling over her in a blanket, smothering and tight. A dark, seductive mass of sensation and loss of breath.
“And yet that tells me nothing of what you will actually do for me while you stay here.”
“I can help you with your parliamentary procedures, for one. Christian is . . . was . . . somewhat obsessed with politics. I’ve been handling such matters along with him since Father . . . since Father gave us those concerns.”
A true statement, if rather hiding the fact that “gave” was perhaps not the most accurate word.
He watched her for a long moment, and she could barely keep stiff under such a gaze. How did people think this man was made of ice? How did he believe it of himself? He all but seethed with heat. Every time that gaze touched upon her, she felt the need to divest herself of any outer garments. To strip bare under the flames.
“And you won’t need to leave this building either anymore,” she added.
His eyes narrowed suddenly, but the heat kept pressing. “No?”
“There won’t be need to seek outside pursuits.” She hoped that was adequate in telling him that he would no longer need to stand outside to guard their house. They’d be right here.
There was something quite odd about his reaction, though. His muscles tensed as if he were readying for a fight. She had the strange notion that reading wasn’t correct though. What made a man react like that?
“Is that right?” Was there something . . . sensual in those words?
“Yes.” She cast off the odd notion and nodded instead.
He shook his head suddenly, scowl reappearing, the lines around his eyes tightening. She could see her chance slipping through as he opened his mouth.
“I will give you a share of the company,” she blurted out. His gaze went from resistant to unreadable. “And staying here will stop me from doing anything . . . hasty. That has to be a boon, correct?”
It stung her pride, but sacrifices were sometimes necessary.
“And if you need me to stay away from you. I, I can do that. I actually enjoy speaking to you, of course. I find you fascinating, and”—she clamped her lips together, a bit mortified for once—“I will give you thirty percent of the company.”
He studied her for long moments, muscles shifting beneath his shirt—it suddenly occurred to her that he was quite underdressed, and that was the reason she could discern the play of the cords at all.
“And I can get Lord Garrett to leave England,” she added.
He stilled completely.
“I, I won’t do anything to cause Edward or Henry harm, I won’t disgrace the family and have one evil set of deeds brought to bear upon the rest. But I can make it so their father has to leave. I have Christian’s notes.”
He was so, so still. Statuesque.
“Very well.” His usual surly tone was all but a purr suddenly. “As Roman likes to say, let us see how this plays, Miss Pace. And if you regret it”—he shrugged, but his eyes pinned her, dark and glittering and intense—“don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Yes,” she responded, though her heart was beating entirely too quickly. Her response anchored to the collection of darkened intentions that stole over his face.
He leaned forward, spreading the path of scorching heat over her, tightening it around her, like the dark manacle on his wrist that was still not fully healed, and her heart hammered, not unlike it had when cool steel had rested against her neck, as he smiled darkly. “Then welcome to hell.”
Chapter 9
He tapped.
Taut like the cord of a clock one wind too tight. Watching her disappear again.
Upstairs.
He tapped harder.
Dangerous, dangerous thoughts. Ones that he could not convert to reality. Promises made—promises that she thought something else entirely.
He could call Donald. Donald was in charge, after all, and it was who Roman would have wheedled everything out of if he’d been here. But there were obstacles with whomever Andreas called tonight.
Normally, he would coldly question Donald without fear. Because normally he felt little more than disregard. But Donald, skilled in showing no emotion around anyone other than Roman, would deduce both Andreas’s interest and his lack of complete knowledge. Andreas lived by the reputation that he knew everything, all of the time, without having to interact with anyone. It was the gift of his partnership with Roman.
He tapped his finger again on the desk, lips tight at the admission, even to himself, that emotion was involved. He needed someone he could verbally batter and coerce without exposing himself in return.
Andreas eyed the third cord on the wall with something akin to resignation. He loathed that cord. He reached out and yanked three times.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs moments later. Three sets of feet stopped outside his door—two sets quick, the other dragging behind.
“Enter,” he barked.
Two boys tumbled into the room, one large and fearful, one reedy and eager. God, he hated that cord. The third stalked in behind, small arms crossed, jagged scar the length of his forehead. Belligerent little fuck. Andreas remembered Roman skirting the boy around him when the boy had first come to their fold.
“Sir, sir, what needs doing?” the eager one asked. He had carrot-top red hair, his skin irreparably spotted from an overabundance of freckles. His eyes held the sort of glazed eagerness of an unintelligent puppy.
Andreas dearly wished for Milton or One-eye at the moment. Someone with proper respect, fear, and intelligence. It seemed like the boys before him comprised only one characteristic each.
But One-eye was with Roman. And Milton was still on assignment. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t sent Milton off.
If he had been the type to snort, he would have done so. Milton would have probably carried all of her bags inside himself.
“I want to know about our . . . guests.” He let the word roll off his tongue. He could do nothing at this juncture but pretend he had known they would be moving in all along. Anything otherwise would undermine him. Perhaps that was her ultimate goal. She was doing well by it, all in all. “How they arrived, what they’ve been doing.”
“They came in a week ago. They are living in Mr. Roman’s old rooms.”
Two sentences containing nothing. Eager and blank.
He gave the boy a cold stare. “Do you not know how to report? Or should I dismiss you now for the imbecile you are?”
Carrot-top looked confused.
“Imbecile means idiot.” Andreas tapped his pen harder.
“Oh!”
Andreas continued the painful tapping on his desk, and he saw the fearful lug of a boy nudge Carrot-top in the side, his pupils nearly overtaking any color surrounding them.
Carrot-top tripped over his words. “Right. Johnny and Tommy helped ’em move out the house, Benny, Trip, and Lefty made sure everythin’ got tossed up
stairs. We didn’t break anything, swears. And we’ve had fresh baker bread and lil’ cakes and—”
The scarred boy elbowed Carrot-top hard.
“Er,” Carrot-top continued. “That’s it. We did everythin’ right, swears.”
He wasn’t going to pull that cord again. He could bully Donald so hard that he couldn’t tell his ass from his judgment center next time. “And the occupants themselves?”
“The lady, course. An older lady too, and . . . another old lady.” He nudged the scarred boy, chortling. “Right? Another lady.”
The scarred boy kept his gaze straight ahead, eyes narrowed on Andreas. Snotty little shit. “A man dressed as an old lady,” the scarred boy corrected crisply. “Sir.”
Carrot-top continued, as if the interruption had been part of their act. “Wouldn’t believe it at first. Great big side whiskers on a hunched granny.” He pulled the hair in front of his ears out. “Me maw would have had a . . .” He trailed off, as he finally looked at Andreas. His face turned an unattractive shade of green. “That is . . . there are three of them, sir. The servants disappeared. Oh, and there’s a dog. Tommy’s been walking him.” He motioned to the scarred boy, then quickly backed away, leaving Tommy to the figurative canines.
Tommy was eyeing him mutinously across the desk. Andreas gave him a black look in return and turned to the third boy, who was quite a bit bigger than the other two. “And what have you observed?”
The boy’s mouth worked for a moment with no sound emerging. He was a hulking little beast really. He’d be a force to be reckoned with in a few years. When his mouth kept working, Andreas wondered if perhaps his tongue had been removed. He eyed the boy with anger and distaste. Roman would have taken care of the perpetrators upon being introduced to the boy, but he slashed a quick note to himself to check to make sure. If appropriate measures had not been undertaken, he would do it himself.
He turned to the little shit, Tommy, to continue his questions, but a croak emerged from the hulking boy.
“She said my cooking is good,” the low voice whispered, some sort of apology edged with defiance, then wrapped up in a terrified package.