Heartless by Anne Stuart
The huge room was warm, spotless, inviting, a fresh fire burning merrily in the grate, the big bed turned down, and the telltale scrap of brown cloth lay on one of the pillows. Emma’s heart sank. This room had been prepared for her. The information delivery system of Melisande and Benedick’s excellent servants was impeccable—a footman would have seen the Rohan carriage pull up outside, and they would assume it had to be her, returned from the countryside. Someone would have rushed to inform Mrs. Patrick before Emma set one foot out of the carriage, and a small army of maids would be at work by the time they reached the door.
At least Brandon would have no idea how houses worked. Men tended to be oblivious, particularly in someone else’s house. He’d assume the room was set for whoever had arrived.
He was standing behind her just inside the room, and she could feel his presence like a warm robe wrapped around her. A stifling one, she reminded herself swiftly. She glanced up at him and froze when she saw the expression on his face.
Chapter 24
Brandon stared at his old bedroom with a sense of unreality. It was so familiar—he’d spent his childhood, when he wasn’t roaming the estate in Hampshire, in these confines, thinking up mischief, playing with his tin soldiers, holding onto. . .
“Oh, my god,” he said, his voice reverential. “Morley.”
The woman in front of him had moved away, turning to stare up at him. “Morley?” she echoed.
He crossed the wide room in quick strides to pick up the disreputable bundle that for some unknown reason was lying on one of the pillows on his bed, and an unreasonable shaft of longing went through him, for a simpler time, a simpler life, when everything made sense. “Morley,” he confirmed, staring down at the moth-eaten stuffed bunny in his hands. He’d lost one eye, his fur was rubbed off in numerous places, and his stuffing had either leaked or compacted, because he was a far cry from his plump, sassy old self. If Emma hadn’t been there he would have hugged him.
He cleared his throat. “A childhood toy,” he said casually. “I used to sleep with him every night. He looks rather the worse for wear. I should probably burn him.”
“Don’t you dare!” Her protest was so fierce he half-expected her to try to snatch the toy away.
He looked at her curiously. “If you developed an attachment to this bundle of rags then you may certainly have him.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She moved past him to the window, looking out into the rainy night. “He’s not my childhood companion.”
“Then shall I toss him on the fire?”
She said nothing, but he could see then tension vibrating through her, and he decided he’d done too much already. “No, I won’t,” he said. “I’ll keep him with me. He’s a fond memory.”
He looked around the room, and he felt it, an eerie sense of what the French called déjà vu. Highly ridiculous, he told himself. He’d spent half of his life in this room—there were too many memories. But there was something else there, just at the back of his brain.
Normally he’d ignore it, dismiss it. But he’d known there was something about Emma Cadbury, even though he’d been idiot enough to forget her, and he hadn’t paid proper attention. If he had they might not have gotten into such a mess. He’d known he should keep his distance, and for a soldier who relied on instincts to keep him alive he’d done a piss-poor job.
He looked at her stiff back as she stared out the window, obviously waiting for him to leave, and then he glanced at the bed. He could see her on that bed, her arms around him while he wept.
But that was absurd. For one thing he couldn’t imagine weeping—he’d done with that after his first battle, when he’d killed. And killed and killed.
If they’d been on that bed it wouldn’t have been he who was weeping. Emma and beds had an obvious connotation—in fact, the idea of any bed made him think of Emma. Any flat surface. Up against a wall. In a chair—he hadn’t done it in a chair for years. . .
He slammed a door on his thoughts. “Did I ever bed you in this house?”
She turned, and he couldn’t read her expression. “I assure you, until last night I had been blissfully celibate for eight years.”
He froze. “That’s not possible!”
She turned, calm and controlled, raising an eyebrow. “How so?”
“You . . . that is . . . you . . .” he hadn’t been at a loss for words since he’d be a callow youth, and he simply stared at her in disbelief.
“I retired from the day to day tasks of a bordello and concentrated on the business side. Once a whore, always a whore, but in fact my hard-learned skills have not been put to the test for a very long time. I hope I proved satisfactory, my lord. I would hate to receive money for inferior performance.”
The goddamned money! He’d forgotten all about it—it had vanished in the haze of lust that had surrounded him. He would have agreed to anything last night. Good lord, he’d agree to anything right now.
He smiled faintly. “I’ll need to write a draft on one of my accounts.”
“No hurry. I gather you have disposable income, and I don’t come cheap.”
He had never seen such a cool, practiced smile in his life, a perfect curl of the lips that he wanted to kiss so badly, and nothing in her eyes at all. Suddenly he was angry again—at himself, at her for valuing herself so little, at the whole messy, confusing fiasco that he couldn’t figure how to get out of.
“No, you don’t,” he agreed. “You are, however, worth every penny.” The moment the words were out of his mouth he knew they were the wrong ones. He’d only enforced the notion of a commercial transaction when he’d been trying to tell her how much he wanted her.
In for a penny, he thought. “Would you be interested in doubling that amount?”
Her face drained of color. “Get out.”
He knew how ridiculous he must look, looming over her in his old bedroom, his much-loved childhood bunny in his hand. For some goddamn reason he couldn’t keep his mouth shut when he really needed to.
He shrugged. “You’ll need to give me the direction of your bank so I can have the money transferred.”
“I don’t want your goddamned money,” she said between her teeth. “I just want you to go away.”
Instead of walking away he moved closer, but she held her ground. “You were the one who brought money into our relationship.”
“We don’t have a relationship.”
He moved closer. “Of course we do,” he said. She was right there, so close, tension radiating through her body. He dropped the bunny, took her arms and pulled her close. “Harpy,” he added softly, and kissed her.
He was prepared for a battle. He was prepared for rage and then, please God, an eventual melting. He never expected she would slide her arms around his waist, holding him tightly, as she let him kiss her, as she started to kiss him back with such endearing awkwardness that his blood caught fire. He wanted her, needed her, so badly. He needed to lose himself in her, drown in her, die in her, he loved. . .
She yanked herself out of his arms, a second before the door opened and Mrs. Patrick appeared, a young maid behind her. “There you are, Master Brandon!” she said jovially, missing any tension between the two of them, Emma’s reddened mouth, the brightness of her eyes, his own upheaval. “Your room’s all ready for you. Would you two be wanting dinner down in the dining room, or would you prefer a tray up here?”
“If you don’t mind I’d prefer a tray,” Emma said before he could say a word. “I’m very tired. I’m certain Lord Brandon would like to go out this evening. He must have old friends he wished to visit.”
And with those simple words she broke him.
Emma watched Brandon walk out of her room without another word, and she felt sick inside. Why had she said that? She had, in effect, told him to go out and try to kill himself again. She knew his old friends had been deviants and satyrs, she had seen the results of their work when she’d found him in this very room, trying to put an end to his existenc
And now she’d just told him to go back there. He hadn’t missed it, either. His face had gone still, blank, and he’d simply walked away from her.
She could feel him on her mouth, the taste of him, the demand of him. She could feel him on her breasts, pressed against his hard chest as she’d held on to him. She could feel him in her belly, the growing hardness pressing against her, something she no longer thought of with revulsion. He’d been warm and strong and hard and she wanted him back.
She turned away, hugging herself, cursing herself and then she stopped thinking, moving on instinct alone, through the door and out onto the landing that looked down over the broad staircase. He was going quickly down the steps, his head bowed, and she couldn’t stand it. He was going out to die, all because of her wicked tongue, and she couldn’t let that happen. If it did, she would die too.
“Brandon!” She leaned over the railing, not even considering what she was doing.
He stopped his headlong pace, turning to look up at her from that endless distance. She was the slightest bit nearsighted, and she couldn’t read his expression, but she could imagine it.
“Mrs. Cadbury?” His voice was frosty, and she should have been abashed that she’d used his given name for the very first time.
“Lord Brandon,” she amended hastily. He didn’t move, and she cleared her throat. She felt like such an idiot, such a thoughtless, evil fool. “Lord Brandon,” she said again. “I . . . I didn’t . . . forgive me . . .” She couldn’t put her regret into words.
She squinted, trying to draw him into focus, but it was hopeless. “There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Cadbury,” he said with stiff politeness. “I will wish you a good evening.”
“Where are you going?” She heard the intake of breath behind her and knew that Mrs. Patrick had overheard her grossly inappropriate question.
There was a long moment of silence. “I haven’t yet decided,” he finally said. “To church or to the devil or someplace in between. Pleasant dreams.” Before she could say another word he was gone.
Chapter 25
Emma was alone. There was no one to keep her from walking out the door and heading straight back to her rooms by the docks. She could hire a hackney, or she could even walk, straight out of his life and this time he wouldn’t come after her.
It was beyond stupid to even consider it. She’d been so fixated on getting away from him that she hadn’t examined the situation with her usual calm deliberation. She’d spent her life surviving by sheer grit and her ability to use her wits. Now was hardly the time to stop using her brain, even if it did have the unfortunate tendency to turn to pudding any time she got near Brandon Rohan. She needed to be practical, not let herself get distracted by what she could never have. Something she shouldn’t even want.
Whether she wanted to admit it or not, it appeared as if someone was most definitely trying to kill her. There was a chance that all three incidents—the fire, the near drowning, the attack at Starlings—were coincidental. There was a likelier chance that dogs could talk and pigs could fly. She’d been going around with blinders on, fixated on the one man who had ever been able to make her feel, make her long for something more, and she’d been foolishly reckless.
Resolutely she pushed him out of her brain. Discipline, my girl, she told herself firmly. Your first task is to stay alive. Mooning over Brandon Rohan is a complete waste of time if you end up dead.
Of course, mooning over Brandon Rohan was a complete waste of time, no matter what, but she refused to think about him right now, about the way his hands had touched her, about the way his body had moved over her, inside her, so very different from all those other times, all those other men.
Enough! Going over to her worn leather satchel, she pulled out her heavy book, the sheaves of paper covered with her neat script, until she found a blank one, along with her pen and tiny bottle of ink. She sat down in a chair by the fire, and then jumped up again at the feel of something beneath her.
The stuffed toy. Morley, he’d called it. She’d spent many nights in Brandon’s bed in the last three years while he’d been banished to Scotland, and she’d slept holding the worn bunny rabbit, a pathetic talisman of someone who would never be a part of her life. Tucking it under her arm where it rested comfortably enough beneath her breast, she set the paper in front of her, using the book as a makeshift desk, and began to write.
She started with three columns, neatly arranged. First, anyone who had reason to hate her. Next to that, the ability to carry out the three attacks, followed by what her enemy had to gain by her death. When she was done she looked down at her pages of handiwork in frustration, no closer to a solution.
“Hello, dearie.” Mrs. Patrick pushed the door open, followed by a thin, very young maid carrying a heavy tray laden with covered dishes. Unfortunately the tempting aromas were lost on Emma, though she knew she needed to eat, if for no other reason than fuel. “You must not have heard me knock. We’ve brought you a bite to eat, and Jenny here will see to your bath. You’ll have a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow everything will look ever so much better.”
She didn’t bother to question Mrs. Patrick’s accurate assessment of her current state of mind—in the years she’d known her Emma had discovered the housekeeper had an almost preternatural gift for homing in on feelings and emotions she’d rather keep hidden. “I’m not terribly hungry,” Emma said, setting her papers aside, “but I’ll try. And a bath would be lovely if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all, miss. We’re here to take care of you—it’s our life’s work to make things a little more pleasant for you. Heaven knows Lady Melisande has wanted to coddle you for years now, but you always refuse. She’ll be very happy you decided to spend some time here, I’m sure. And I’m so glad you haven’t changed your mind and decided not to stay. Lord Brandon left strict orders that you were not to leave the house, but the footmen are in distress, worried about what they might have to do to keep you here.”
Emma had never learned the gift of accepting a servant’s work as her just due, and the thought of the nervous footmen, afraid to put their hands on her but terrified to disobey Brandon, made her feel guilty. At least now she knew she couldn’t have left even if she wanted to. He hadn’t looked in any mood to stop and issue warnings when he’d stormed out of the house, but maybe her stupid words hadn’t sunk in.
She sighed, reminding herself one more time that she wasn’t a stupid woman. “I won’t be going out until tomorrow, Mrs. Patrick. I have work at the hospital.”
Including the new, unpleasant task of dealing with Mr. Fenrush about the seismic shift in responsibilities. The man was going to be enraged, but Fenrush was a ham-handed butcher, a spiteful fanatic who took lives with his carelessness and taught his sycophantic staff to do the same. Splitting the control between the two of them should lessen some of the unnecessary deaths, but she foresaw a battle royale that wasn’t going to end anytime soon. The sooner she began to deal with it, the better.
“That’ll be up to Lord Brandon,” Mrs. Patrick said, her brow creased, and Emma felt a fresh, cleansing rage sweep through her.
“No,” she said firmly, “it won’t. I will be going to the hospital first thing tomorrow morning, and you may tell the servants that Lord Brandon would not want anyone to touch me.” That much she instinctively knew was true. He might want to control and imprison her, but he wouldn’t want anyone laying hands on her. Anyone else.
Mrs. Patrick shook her head. “Well, now, that’s between the two of you, or I miss my guess. I always find that it’s the gentlemen that know best.”
The ire simmered nicely beneath her breastbone, keeping Morley company. “And I always find the gentlemen couldn’t find their arse with both hands.”
Mrs. Patrick let out a huff of shocked laughter, and the very young maid gri
He’s a rat catcher, she thought, giving Mrs. Patrick a dulcet smile. “Of course,” she murmured, and the gullible woman believed her.
The bath went a long way towards improving her mood, and the cold chicken, fresh rolls and cheese managed to woo even her fading appetite. It wasn’t until she climbed into bed, Morley still tucked under her arm, that the thoughts began to flood her mind once more, worry and guilt and longing. What if he’d gone straight to an opium den? There were both pubs and private clubs where he could drink, and bordellos.
With a whimper she rolled over in the bed, burying her face in the soft pillow as she hugged the toy. A mistake—the night before came rushing back, his long fingers on her skin, his teasing, questing mouth, his tongue, his. . .
She rolled onto her back with a moan. He was probably dead, she told herself bitterly, and she didn’t care. Anyone who let a woman’s harsh, careless words decimate him wasn’t long for this world anyway. Of if he’d gone to the devil once more, he could still return as he had managed to three years previously.
She stared into the room, lit only by the banked fire. It was much quieter in Melisande’s neighborhood—the docks were never silent but Bury Street might almost have been in the country. Except for the birds.
She heard the unmistakable call of the ravens, back and forth, and she was suddenly very cold in the big bed. They were nowhere near the Tower of London with its permanent flock of the birds, and yet the sound was clear and loud. They were a harbinger of death—she’d known that since she’d been a young child. It was nothing but a country superstition, and she was a woman of science, but the calls came again, and she curled up around herself, unable to quell her panic. He was going to die, and she had never told him she loved him.
Yes, she did love him, no matter how much she didn’t want to, no matter how much she pretended it wasn’t true. She loved him and he was going to die.