Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood Series, Book 2)

by Adele Clee

  God, he'd had many women, taken his pleasure in every way possible. Nothing compared to the craving he felt deep in his chest when he looked at her. He shook his head and tried to focus.

  "Look away," he said, aware of the slight change in the pitch of his voice. "It will hurt less."

  She nodded and turned to look at the flames.

  Elliot put the handkerchief to his mouth, wetting a corner before patting the broken skin.

  She sucked in a breath as he continued with his delicate ministrations, touching it to his mouth, dabbing the skin. All the while, watching her. All the while, aching for something he could not explain.

  "What happened to your husband?" He did not mean to pry into her private affairs, but he needed to find some way to distract his mind.

  "Henry fell off his horse and broke his neck."

  There was something cold and detached about her reply and her hand remained steady in his. It told him all he needed to know but still he said, "It must have been awful for you."

  "Only awful because a man lost his life being reckless." She sighed deeply and turned to look at him. "Sorry. I should not have said that."

  Her gaze held his for a moment, and he saw pain reflected there, perhaps even disappointment.

  Placing her hand gently in her lap, he reached for her other hand, and she turned away as he began to dab at the dried specks of blood.

  "What I mean to say is we were only married for a few months."

  Elliot could feel her sadness surrounding him, pressing down on his shoulders like a heavy weight. Sadness for what, he thought? She had more or less admitted to feeling nothing for the man whose name she bore.

  Driven by a compulsion to discover more, he asked, "There was no love between you?"

  "Love?" she echoed giving a cynical snort. "No, there was no love, only resentment." She turned to face him again. "Have you ever been in love?"

  The question hit him like a blow to the chest. As a man who avoided intimacy, it was far too intrusive. But he had set this scene, provoking her to open her heart and so she deserved to hear his answer.

  "No. I have never been in love. I do not believe there is such a thing." Indeed, his mother had taught him that. Although spending time with Alexander and Evelyn has caused him to doubt his own philosophy. "All human actions are motivated by selfishness in one form or another. The great poets would have us invest in the idea that love is an exotic destination, the reward for surviving a long and perilous voyage. I'm more inclined to agree with the notion that it is a form of manipulation. Where the weak minded become slaves to their passion and dress it all up as something far more profound."

  "I'm not sure I agree," she said glancing down at his hand wrapped around hers. "Although experience tells me you may be right, I would prefer to think of love as a feeling of deep affection. To be cherished, to be accepted for who you are, must surely be the greatest gift imaginable."

  "I have heard fanciful tales of such things, yet in all my thirty years I have only ever witnessed it once."

  Rather than appear discouraged, she simply smiled. "Then there is hope, is there not?"

  Since the night he'd been turned by a devil, hope was a word obliterated from his vocabulary.

  "There," he said letting go of her hand, desperate to put an end to the conversation. "It will still be sore but will heal much more quickly. You should notice a difference come morning."

  She glanced down and examined both arms. "It feels better already. You must tell me how to make the tincture."

  He stood and walked over to the drinks tray, swallowing the brandy in one mouthful when she wasn't looking. With desperate eyes, he pulled the stopper from the decanter of blood, knowing how the smallest taste would calm him.

  "Would you care for some refreshment?"

  "Thank you. I'll have a small measure of whatever you're having."

  Groaning inwardly, he replaced the stopper and poured them both a glass of brandy.

  Picking up the diary from the small table next to her, she began flicking through to the relevant page. "Here it is. The comment about her appointment to meet with you."

  "Would you mind if I looked at it?" he said swapping the diary for the glass of brandy.

  He took it over to the desk, angled the candle in an attempt to study the script.

  She came to stand at his side and peered over his shoulder. "You see." She pointed to his name, her arm brushing against his. "It looks like Markham."

  With all the will in the world, he couldn't concentrate while she was standing in such close proximity. She was a widow ripe for the plucking. As she turned the page and mumbled something about the way his name was written, all he could think of was her spread out over the wooden surface, his hands grabbing her waist as he positioned himself between long luscious legs.

  "You're staring at it blankly," she said. "Can you not see what I mean? I don't know why I've never noticed it before. Perhaps because I have only ever studied it in the daylight."

  "Sorry, what have you not noticed before?"

  She tutted. "The dot."

  "The dot?" he repeated.

  "You've not been listening to a word I have said. The next page is blank, but if you examine it under the light, you can see the indentations. It isn't Markham. It is Mark dot ham."

  Elliot turned the page to study it himself. "I see what you mean. So you think she met with someone called Mark?"

  "I'm not sure," she said with a sigh. "Your name is mentioned, which is why I assumed it was you. But there is no other mention of a Mark."

  Curious to know what Miss Rosemond had written, he flicked back through the pages. "Where are the notes she made about me?"

  She snatched the diary from him. "It is rude to read someone's private thoughts. I only did so because I feared the worst." She studied his face for a moment, sighed and then conceded. "Under the circumstances, I suppose you deserve to know what she wrote, but I shall read it to you."

  "Very well."

  Finding the relevant page, she began. "Lord Markham was as arrogant as ever, but I see the way he looks at me with those lustful eyes. Given time, I believe I have what it takes to win him over. The only qualities he admires amount to—" She stopped abruptly.

  "Go on."

  "The rest doesn't really matter."

  "It matters to me. Go on."

  "The … the only qualities he admires amount to nothing more than a m-moist mouth and a warm body. Although I believe the latter is somewhat negotiable."

  Disdain bubbled away in his gut, and he stormed over to the drinks table. The blood slithered into the glass without making a sound. He swallowed it down, closed his eyes and savoured the taste. Truth be told, he felt ashamed. Something he'd never felt, something he never expected he would.

  Mrs. Denton walked over to him. "It is just one person's opinion."

  "Is it? I wouldn't be so sure."

  What troubled him most was why he wanted Grace Denton to think better of him. Why did the idea of finding something more than the shallow, insipid women he was used to, cause hope to unfurl like the first fresh flower of spring?

  A knock on the door disturbed his reverie, and he glanced up to see Whithers.

  "The guest room is ready, my lord, and a bath has been drawn."

  "Thank you, Whithers. You may leave the tub in the room tonight and dispense with it in the morning."

  Whithers coughed into his fist. "And Lord Hartford is here."

  What the hell did Leo want? At this hour, he was usually nestled comfortably between soft thighs.

  Mrs. Denton stepped forward. "Invite your guest in, my lord. I'm tired and shall retreat to my room."

  It was for the best. The more time he spent in her company, the more he lost all grip on reality, the more his mind was plagued by whimsical fantasies.

  "Give us a minute, Whithers, and then you may show Lord Hartford in." As Whithers retreated, he turned to his delectable guest. "I'm a late riser, so we will confer later in
the afternoon. Whithers will provide anything you need in the meantime."

  She smiled, but the beautiful image faded as Leo's voice boomed through the hall. "Is he in here?" The gentleman strode in like a true Turkish prince. "As you left the party so early, I thought I'd bring it to you. The ladies are waiting in my carriage and—" He stopped abruptly, his wide eyes focusing on Grace Denton.

  "Forgive me," Leo said offering a gracious bow. "I did not expect you to have company."

  Elliot turned to Mrs. Denton. "Whithers will show you up to your room."

  She inclined her head. "Thank you, my lord."

  Ignoring Leo's frown, he watched her walk from the room.

  "You have brought a woman into your home?" Leo whispered. "I thought you said women like Caroline Rosemond were not worth the effort."

  Faced with the dilemma of telling Leo the truth, Elliot said, "Can you do something for me?"

  Leo appeared surprised by the question. "Of course. You do not need to ask."

  "If I write a note, will you take it to Alexander? I need Evelyn's help."

  "Certainly. I take it you're not coming with me. The delights waiting in my carriage are no match for the skill of a seasoned courtesan."

  Elliot glanced up at the ceiling, imagining a bathing scene unfolding. "What I have here is something far superior than even I can comprehend."

  Chapter 5

  Grace squinted against the brightness of the morning sun as she peered out through the heavy drapes. There were people already milling about outside. A milkmaid cried her wares in the square as she swung her pails on a yoke. A sweeper continued the fruitless task of clearing the street, a carriage disturbing his ministrations as it rattled by.

  No one had called to wake her. Not even the smallest sliver of light had managed to penetrate the darkness. The absence of any scrumptious smells wafting up from the kitchen led her to believe she'd slept through breakfast.

  Finding a clock on the mantle, she noted it was almost nine. Grace was used to keeping country hours and never slept past seven. Although it must have been well into the early hours when she finally stumbled into bed.

  Recalling Lord Markham's fondness for rising late, she assumed it would be at least three hours before he made an appearance. It didn't seem quite right to be wandering around his house with him being absent.

  Dressing quickly, she pulled the cord and waited for the maid. Responding to the light tap on her door, Grace was surprised to find a footman enter her chamber.

  "I wondered if I could trouble a maid for some fresh water and perhaps some toast and tea as I fear I've missed breakfast."

  The footman inclined his head. "There are no maids, madam. Lord Markham keeps a small, rather select staff and so I'm afraid I will be providing for your needs."

  How odd. She had never heard of such a prestigious house having no maids. What about the beds and the laundry?

  "Will you be taking breakfast in your room, madam, or shall I lay a place in the dining room?" Noting her hesitation, the footman added, "Here, mealtimes are rather informal affairs."

  Grace smiled. She found Lord Markham's unconventional habits quite refreshing. The gentleman conveyed an air of mysteriousness. His dark brooding features implied a volatile, unpredictable temperament. Yet he had been far more considerate and attentive to her needs than she could have ever expected.

  "Then I shall take my breakfast in here," she replied feeling a little more at ease.

  When the footman left, she jumped back onto the huge bed and grabbed the diary from the nightstand. The grazes to her arms were still visible, though they had healed remarkably well overnight and caused not the slightest irritation.

  The footman returned with a pitcher of clean water and two empty buckets and asked if Grace minded if he cleared away the bath tub. Some twenty minutes later, he returned with the breakfast tray, and she was finally able to concentrate on her task.

  In the last two days, she'd scoured the notes looking for any indication as to where her sister may have gone. Perhaps starting at the beginning was not the best idea. Only last night, they had made an interesting discovery on the last page. Grace stared at the dot again as she bit into her toast. Had it not been for the indentation on the blank page she might have missed it.

  Her sister wrote with a heavy hand, and so she ran the pad of her finger gently over the surface of the empty page in the hope of feeling any other marks pressed into the paper. The texture felt different near the bottom; to the naked eye, it was almost impossible to see anything.

  Then she had an idea.

  Rushing over to the fireplace, she rubbed her finger along the inside of the chimney-breast and smudged the soot over the marks on the blank page. Like a conjurer's trick, the words appeared before her eyes, practically rising off the page.

  Caroline must have used the diary to lean on when she had written a note as there were no torn or missing pages. Grace could make out a string of words, nothing more. What she did see caused a sudden burst of panic.

  I'm tired of the games and the lies … I want to end it all.

  Grace struggled to catch her breath and her pounding heart felt ready to burst from her chest. Tears threatened to fall. Just spending one day as Caroline Rosemond had proved a horrendous ordeal. She gathered the diary to her chest and hugged it tight. If only Caroline would have confided in her.

  Not knowing what to do. Not knowing what to think. She wished Lord Markham was awake. She needed to talk to him. He would know what to say to calm her; he'd apply his usual logical approach to the situation, and she'd be able to breathe freely again.

  Pacing the floor for what felt like hours, she glanced at the mantle clock again. Surely it was later than eleven. Perhaps she should tap on his door. Given the severity of the information she had uncovered, it was unlikely he would mind.

  Tucking the diary under her arm, she opened the chamber door and wandered to the other end of the landing. If she heard a sound coming from one of the rooms, she would know he was awake.

  But she could hardly storm into a gentleman's bedchamber. Heaven knows what sight would greet her.

  The thought caused her cheeks to flame.

  For goodness sake, she was hardly a young girl making her debut. She had intimate knowledge of men, even if her experience was limited to one man in particular. To one cold-hearted devil.

  There were four other doors situated on the landing. Grace imagined Lord Markham would want a room overlooking the garden: a quieter, more subdued space. That left two options. She was drawn to the room furthest from her own. With no female staff in the house, she guessed the lascivious nature of the man she'd grown to like demanded her room be at opposite ends of the house from his own.

  She tapped lightly on the door she suspected was his, but he did not answer. Grace gave an indiscreet cough and then knocked again.

  Nothing.

  Oh, well. Her poor heart would give out if she had to wait a moment longer and with trembling fingers she wrapped her hand around the handle.

  Lord Markham was understanding and considerate, and not at all the mean-spirited monster Henry once was. She had nothing to fear.

  Elliot knew Grace Denton had entered his chamber without lifting his head from his pillow. He had picked up threads of her thoughts as she hovered outside, assumed she would walk away, convince herself that to enter a gentleman's private chamber was certain folly.

  But he should have known it would not be the case. When the lady set her mind to a task, she'd not let something as trivial as impropriety stand in her way. Next time, he'd be sure to turn the key in the lock.

  As he heard the door groan in protest, he snuffed out the candle, laid the book flat on his chest and closed his eyes. If he squinted, he could just see her outline entering the room. With only the briefest hesitation, she padded lightly over to the bed, stood over him and stared.

  He could see her gaze drift over his bare chest, lingering on the dusting of hair trailing down below his
abdomen. With part of his branding mark visible, he wondered what she would make of it. Thank the Lord he'd kept his trousers on, else she'd not be able to mistake the sight of his arousal. The need to have her had consumed him from the first moment he'd met her, more so when he'd heard the evidence of her kind heart and witty tongue. She intrigued him. He was captivated by her contradicting qualities: a deeply passionate nature mingled with a soft, sweet temperament.

  "Lord Markham," she whispered. But he knew if he opened his eyes fully, if he gazed upon her sultry smile, the needs of his famished body would overpower all rational thought. And so he tried to keep his breathing calm, more sedate, as he feigned slumber.

  She sighed, the sound revealing frustration rather than fatigue.

  He felt her move away before he noted the sound of light footsteps. Disappointment and relief waged an internal war. He knew which side he was on. Curiosity forced him to peer through squinted lids, and he choked on the sudden wave of panic exploding from his gut.

  "D-don't," he yelled as her hand gripped the drapes.

  She jumped as he stumbled from the bed. His arms and legs struggled to keep up with the chaotic train of his thoughts.

  "I must speak with you urgently," she said. "It's so dark in here."

  "Leave them." The words sounded like an incoherent growl as he tried to reach her before she gave into her innocent whim.

  Elliot heard the swishing sound before the slivers of light hit his chest, the piercing rays searing into his skin. He put his hands to his face as he crumpled to the floor, shock swallowing down his cries.

  "What? What's wrong?" she cried rushing down to his side.

  Amidst the agonising pain, he knew he had to force the words from his lips. "C-close them … close the drapes. Hurry."

  With a mix of fear and confusion marring her brow, she did as he asked, dragging them across to plunge them back into darkness.