Heartless by Anne Stuart
“I doubt that you have suddenly been called back to London. You seem to have taken me in dislike. I presume it’s my ugly mug that’s put you off.”
“Don’t be absurd!” she said, shocked.
“No? Well, you’ve probably heard dark tales of my degenerate behavior in years past. If you’re as close a friend to Melisande as you appear to be then I imagine you know the full breadth of my wickedness.” His voice was light, uncaring.
“Lord. . . Lord Brandon, I have not taken you in dislike,” she stammered, appalled. “As far as I can tell you are a pleasant young man with an admirable record in the war that left you with battle scars of honor.”
His laugh was both cynical and unsettling. “Really? I must assure you that I am most definitely not very pleasant, and I’m no longer young, and any claim I had to honor is long gone.”
“Younger than me,” she blurted out, then could have bit her tongue.
“Oh, really? You bothered to ask? I’m flattered. And what great age are you?”
“Thirty-two,” she said repressively. “Old enough to view things with a little more distance. You have both arms and legs, you’re not blind, and you seem fit. So many men are much worse off.”
“You’re right, of course, but I must admit that doesn’t provide much comfort.” His tone was sharp. “Don’t worry, I no longer spend my time brooding and feeling sorry for myself. I’ve made peace with who I am.”
“Have you?” It was for too intrusive a question. This was exactly why she had to get away from here—she kept crossing boundaries that were inviolate.
Whatever dark mood had hit him had vanished. “Of course.” His tone was flippant. “Now why don’t you turn around and head back upstairs? Melisande doesn’t even have to know you tried to do a bunk.”
“I told you I have to get back to London. Immediately. It’s an emergency.” She certainly sounded desperate enough—that much was real. “And what are you doing down here at this early hour?”
“I was planning on sneaking out as well. My family has been a little too. . . managing. . . for me, and I thought making myself scarce would be a wise idea. I’ll tell you what—if you’re equally set on getting away from here I’ll take you with me. Who knows, you might like Scotland.”
She was unprepared for how painful his light words were, as if she’d been stabbed in the heart, and she faced the dismal truth. A small part of her wanted him to scoop her up and carry her away, damn it. No matter how much common sense and cynicism filled her, there was some weak, longing strain in her that was still ridiculously in love with Brandon Rohan.
A man who didn’t even recognize her.
“I should slap you,” she said evenly.
“I wouldn’t if I were you. I might slap you back. And don’t give me any tripe about hitting a woman. I view you as an equal, not some frail flower of femininity. I’d give you the respect you deserve by treating you as I would any man.”
She would hit him, damn it! Except that she didn’t want her flesh touching his. Maybe if she had a gun. . .
That was enough to shock her. “Will you please move out of the way?” The intimacy of the darkness around them was only increasing her feelings of isolation.
“No need to, I’m afraid. There’s a reason why I’m not already on the road. My dear brother has left word that none of the horses are to be made available to his guests without his express permission, even those that don’t belong to him. I’m sure he knew I intended to bolt, and Melisande probably didn’t trust you. I’m afraid you’re stuck here for the moment.”
She took a quick breath. “Doesn’t that mean you’re trapped as well?”
“Oh, I’m never trapped. I’ve already sent my man to the local inn to hire a pair of horses for us until I can buy new ones. He and I should be off fairly soon. I don’t expect we’ll meet again, which for some reason should please you. I don’t know why—I’m perfectly amiable, but you don’t seem to be particularly taken with me.”
She ignored the odd pang that ran through her, just as she squashed down her instinctive protest. Let him believe she disliked him—things were much simpler that way. “And you’d simply leave your horse behind?”
“Of course not. Rohan will send Emma back to me when he realizes it’s too late.”
She dropped the bag she’d been clutching. “You named your horse Emma?”
“Indeed. Perhaps that’s why I’m so taken with you. You’re almost as pretty as she is.”
She couldn’t take any more. She picked up her bag, turning to leave, when he caught her arm again, not gently. “If you’re so eager to escape I’ll take you with me.”
She yanked herself free, but she could still feel his strong fingers on her arm. “Go to the devil, Lord Brandon,” she said fiercely, stomping back the way she came, shaking with anger and frustration and something that she wouldn’t name.
“Only if you join me, Emma,” he said with a soft laugh, and like a total coward she gave into temptation and ran.
Chapter 7
By the time Emma reached her room she’d slowed down to a decorous pace. The rain had settled in, the light was fitful even through the tall windows of Starlings Manor, and she felt like a ghost as she walked through the empty halls, drab and gray and lost.
Her bed was already made, the room dank and cold when she closed the door to turn and face it. It was a lovely room, always kept for her no matter how many guests were in residence. There was a large desk with excellent light where she could study, a comfortable chair where she could sit and read. She’d chosen the colors herself—a soft gray-blue that felt serene whenever she walked in.
Except for today. She felt rattled, unsettled, and she couldn’t shake the last half hour from her mind, the feel of his body against her, his hands on her arms. Men knew better than to touch her—she’d cut an aspiring surgeon when he’d moved in on her while she was working. But Brandon was different. She’d felt his touch, long ago, and she knew it, deep in a place she hadn’t realized still existed.
She needed to concentrate on what was important, what was good, when she was feeling so hopeless. Brandon Rohan was strong and healthy, no longer a wounded soldier clinging to life, nor the sickly skeleton of a man addicted to opium and whiskey. She didn’t have to worry about him anymore—he would be fine. She could let go.
That he’d forgotten her was a blessing as well, she reminded herself, no matter how much it stung. The only connection between the two of them was known to her alone, and she could take care of it, dismiss it with no fear of it coming back to haunt her.
She was happy, she truly was. She had her work—she had saved lives at Temple Hospital, she would continue to save lives wherever she ended up living.
Admittedly, the situation at the hospital had become more and more difficult, and now, with Benedick’s latest determination, it threatened to become impossible. As a major benefactor, the viscount had a great deal to say in the running of the institution, or Emma would never have found a place there.
But Benedick had decided that Emma would replace Mr. Fenrush, and no sensible argument would dissuade him. The surgeon was a venal, ham-handed butcher, but he’d been in control for decades, and his reputation, was impeccable, despite the fact that he killed more patients than he saved. He was a cruel, vicious little man, and she shuddered at the thought of what she was going to face when she returned. The sooner she did, the better. The fact that it took her far away from Brandon Rohan was merely an added benefit.
This place had been her haven, and it could be again, as long as she didn’t have to spend time with him. He reminded her of too many things she could never have, but she hated being a coward.
Perhaps she could find a cottage of her own near Starlings. She could take care of the Gaggle, keep an eye on Melisande, glory in her godchildren, and never have to breathe the foul air of London again. Lord Brandon might occasionally come to visit, but it was just as likely he’d turn up at his parents’ country house in
She had a headache, sharp and probing, and she pulled out her hairpins, letting her dark mane fall loose over her shoulders. She reached up to rub her scalp as she stared out the windows into the gloom. She’d planned to spend a week in the country, and it looked as if she was going to have no choice. The best she could do was keep busy, and the Gaggle were nearby.
Now that they’d finished the move, the country Dovecote was bursting at the seams, and Emma had gone down there almost every day. Most everyone had made the transition well, though Mollie Biscuits didn’t think much of the kitchen. The others had settled in, and many of them, born and bred city girls, were now venturing out of doors simply for pleasure.
It was a good thing Starlings Manor came equipped with a large dower house. The estate was huge—the entire place covered more than a thousand acres. It had belonged to the Dukes of Bellingham, but the last one had died without an heir, and Viscount Rohan had been one of the few in England able to afford it. Melisande had immediately claimed the massive dower house and it served the purpose beautifully.
She needed some sort of distraction, she thought, leaning against the window. If Benedick Rohan was playing silly games with the carriages she could easily walk—after all, she’d been bred a country girl and her job required she spend hours on her feet instead of on her back, something she always considered with amusement whenever her feet were hurting her. She wouldn’t melt in the heavy rain.
It was a perfect day to curl up by a warm fire and immerse herself in medical texts, but first she was going to clear her mind and her fancies by visiting the Dovecote, always a strong reminder not to feel sorry for herself. She’d be plied with ginger biscuits and hot, strong tea, surrounded by the only friends she had outside of Melisande. Why should a little rain stand in the way of that?
She was about to change her shoes when there was a soft scratching at the door, and a maid poked her head in.
“Beg pardon, Mrs. Cadbury,” she said, “I hadn’t thought you’d be coming back to your room. I’ll lay a fire right now. . .”
“No need, Rosie. The rain appears to have stopped for the time being, and I find I’m in need of fresh air.”
“Good day for a walk, missus,” Rosie offered.
Emma glanced out the leaded-paned windows to the overcast sky. “Whether it is or not, I should make another visit to the Dower House. I find the company more amenable there.”
The girl said nothing for a moment, then took a deep, nervous breath. “If you’re going to the Dower House you might want to take the shorter way past the orchards. Us girls all use it, and it’s ever so much quicker.”
“Excellent advice.” Emma knew she sounded far heartier than she felt, but she’d learned years ago that brooding never helped a troubled situation. Action was always best.
“You simply turn left past the orchards and follow the path,” Rosie said. “It will lead you to the Dower House.”
Emma wrinkled her brow. “Won’t that take me in the opposite direction?”
“It loops around. Just follow the path, over the footbridge and then left again and you’ll be there.”
The girl was unaccountably nervous, and Emma couldn’t imagine why. Melisande had to be the most lenient of mistresses—Rosie would have nothing to be afraid of. “Are you all right, my dear? If you’re not feeling well I’m certain you’d be allowed to go back to bed . . .”
Rosie’s anxiety increased. “I’m fine, Mrs. Cadbury. No need to mention it to anybody. Lady Melisande makes certain that we don’t work longer than twelve hours a day, and we get time off for meals and even a bit of a rest. She’s the talk of London with her newfound ways. You wouldn’t believe it.”
In fact, Emma would believe exactly that. Melisande was the best woman she had ever known, the best person, and she had a scrupulous sense of the unfairness of life. They’d called her “Sweet Charity” Carstairs before she’d married Rohan—a society joke for her efforts to save various soiled doves, not to mention having a retired whore as a partner in the endeavor. Melisande had continued on, undaunted, and Emma had done her part. For some women the position as an upstairs maid was a dream come true, particularly for some of those who’d made their living on the streets. For others it might be a punishment.
Rosie looked as if she belonged in the punishment category, Emma thought, eyeing her. “Where did you come from, Rosie?” she asked suddenly, and the girl started, a look of panic flitting across her face before vanishing, so fast Emma would have thought she’d mistaken it. “I mean, originally.”
“The north,” Rosie said. “My family died and I came down here to live with my aunt, but then she died and I had nowhere else to go except the streets. You know the rest of it.” It sounded reasonable enough, and Emma had no reason to disbelieve her, but there was something uneasy, almost furtive about the girl. Emma was used to those emotions, having seen them in the Gaggle, having felt most of them herself.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here at Starlings. Go along now and get a cup of tea for yourself. If anyone bothers you tell them it’s on my orders.”
There was only the slight shadow of a forced smile as Rosie curtseyed. “Yes, miss. I’m very lucky to be here.”
She watched the girl leave, her mind busy. Something was wrong with the girl, and she needed to discover what it is. She might be ill, or even in the family way, but no matter how great the problem, she would be treated well and fairly, hallmarks of Melisande’s efforts toward them, toward all of the Gaggle.
Which reminded Emma that her own visit there was not without complications. The soiled doves were always trying to find a man for her, determined that she should have some kind of storybook ending. It touched her, though she never showed it, that women who had lived such a harsh, unforgiving life still had a naïve belief in love and marriage. She’d lost that belief years ago, and she hadn’t suffered nearly as much as some of them.
She would be naïve herself to think that they didn’t know all about the appearance of the viscount’s youngest brother, and even the unexpected change in her own plans. Many were still illiterate despite Emma’s best efforts, but they knew how to put two and two together. She decided not to take the shortcut, so she could spend the walk down there schooling her attitudes and expressions enough to fool most of them. Mollie Biscuits might be a challenge.
At least the shortcut would help later if the rain returned. Grabbing only her serviceable shawl, she left the room, in search of strong tea and warm hugs. Both would go a long way towards curing what ailed her.
Three hours later, rain was soaking through Brandon’s clothes, a fact which bothered him not in the least. He didn’t mind the sharp wind, the constant downpour, even the sluggish horse that Noonan had been able to procure. They’d left Starlings Manor without a word to anyone and were already six miles away. They could probably make another ten before they stopped for the night, find a decent coaching inn, one with a bath and a fire, and be back in Scotland by the next week if they pushed.
No, he didn’t mind the horse, the rain, the cold. All he could think of was the conundrum that was Emma Cadbury.
That should have been warning enough—for his mind to be so obsessed with a woman in such a short time was a clear sign of danger. He had no time for pleasant interludes in bed, and particularly not with someone like Emma Cadbury, who probably did an excellent job of feigning pleasure in an act that meant nothing but degradation to her. She was too much trouble on every level, and he had more important things to do.
Still, he didn’t know why he was running. He had done terrible, hideous things in his life, things that his ramshackle but loving family had no inkling of, but he’d never been a coward. So what if Charles was ready to marry him off? He was no longer nine years old, being bullied by a stuffy elder. It had bee
And he had no reason to run away from Emma Cadbury. He thought he understood her, or at least enough to satisfy his interest. Even if he were in the market for a decent shag she was the wrong choice. When he’d visited houses like the one where Emma had worked, he would take a particular pleasure in drawing his partners past their professional response to real pleasure, but that was when he’d been younger, foolishly carefree. Emma was no longer meant for dalliance—in truth, he couldn’t imagine a time she ever was, despite her extraordinary beauty.
But it wasn’t her beauty that was preying on his mind. He’d seen beautiful women a hundred times before—he could admire them and move on. There was something else about Emma that caught his attention, and that part was still a mystery. It was hardly her charm of manner—she seemed to dislike him the moment she met him. She always seemed to be struggling to be polite, and ultimately losing the battle.
Her slightly taciturn manner was both unexpected and fascinating. She said what he’d want to say if proper decorum hadn’t been beaten into him as surely as his army training. Despite the rages that came and went, rages he kept under iron control, he did his best never to show emotion. He was a tabula rasa, a blank slate for people to accept or ignore. No one could get near him and that was the way he preferred it.
And yet with Emma Cadbury, his rigidly polite exterior seemed to crack. Any smart man would run.
He was a smart man, but he wasn’t one who ran away, and he had to admit there was an irresistible challenge to her. He could show her how delightful sex could be if it was inspired by desire, not money—he had no doubt of it. His skills were beyond that of the average Englishman—his time in Afghanistan had taught him all sorts of interesting things, things he found himself imagining doing with Emma.