The Dove Formatted Page 8

  “Those women were teases,” he said after a moment. “A man can only take so much before he grows weary of such games. If they didn’t want it, perhaps they ought to have kept their skirts down and their bodices up in my presence.”

  She gasped, her eyes stinging with hot, angry tears. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she shook her head, unable to believe what she had just heard. Of course, she should have expected such an answer … but truly, no response at all would have been better than that one.

  “You are vile,” she spat, venom lacing her tone as the warm tears fell, splashing her face and neck. “And I am glad that we are ruined, that I was able to take part in ruining us. You deserve far worse for the things you have done.”

  Her words hardly seemed to faze him, and he simply reached up to adjust the lapels of his coat before turning to leave, throwing his last words over his shoulder.

  “If you think he is any better, you are sorely mistaken and in for a rude awakening.”

  Turning back to the window, she watched as he appeared on the sidewalk, perching his hat upon his head before setting off down the lane.

  Using both hands to mop the tears from her face, she took a deep breath and pulled herself together. She refused to shed another tear for him. He was not the man she’d thought he was, and never had been. Bertram himself had proven that just now, giving her what she’d needed to let go of her last shred of affection for him. Even the boy who had once nursed her through a near-fatal fever was dead to her.

  Turning her attention back out to the street, she noticed the figure of Niall again—this time, moving off in the direction Bertram had just taken. She was certain it was him, recognizing the way he held his shoulders and the swagger in his walk—with a slight limp, as if he’d sustained an injury to one of his legs but knew how to compensate.

  Upon first spotting him, she had assumed that he’d been watching her, but seeing him go after Bertram eased her mind. Perhaps she had been wrong, had misconstrued Adam’s intention. He was here for her brother, to finish things once and for all. It had nothing at all to do with her.

  But then, Adam’s ominous words came back to her yet again.

  I came for you, little dove.

  She shuddered, despite the warmth of the fire in the nearby hearth, and wrapped her arms around herself.

  Of course, this had something to do with her. It had everything to do with her.

  Adam would be astute enough to realize that his being anywhere near her would ruffle Bertram’s feathers. Estranged or not, she was a member of the Fairchild family, and his making a spectacle of her made one of her brother and father by proxy. The gossips were undoubtedly already in a frenzy trying to determine what his motives might be and if they had anything to do with her. The moment she was seen with him in public, word would spread like wildfire.

  It would be like rubbing salt in an open wound, and Adam was sure to see this. Once again, she would become a weapon, a tool in his hand, just as she’d been before.

  “No,” she whispered, turning away from the window and striding for the door.

  Last time, she had unwittingly fallen into his trap, seeking redemption for her family and being manipulated into becoming their destruction. This time would be different. She would not allow herself to be used.

  Heading up the stairs, she decided that some time out of the house would do her some good. Her chances of avoiding Adam were nonexistent, as Niall’s presence out on the street proved he knew where she lived. She would simply make sure to be on her guard, to be prepared for him to accost her as he had last night.

  This time, she would not run.

  Daphne’s afternoon passed with a surprising tranquility. After a brisk walk, she had indulged in an ice from Gunter’s before turning back to go home. She had taken her time, enjoying the fair weather and hoping it would extend through the week. She’d grown weary of the damp and cold. Her mood had lifted, as it seemed she would make it home without being accosted. With no sign of her brother or her tormentor in sight, she practically skipped up the front steps, already looking forward to the pot of chocolate and warm fire she’d decided would be just the thing.

  The moment she stepped inside, her heart plummeted into her belly, and a cold frisson of dread raced down her spine. It was as if the very air around her cried out that something was not as it should be. There was something amiss in her home, this haven she had carved out in the world for herself. Handing her redingote off to a footman with shaking hands, she gazed about for the source.

  But, she already knew what it was, had already detected the faint notes of a certain scent lingering in the vestibule.

  Cedar. Cigar smoke. Some aftershave she could only describe as smelling quite masculine.

  Adam.

  Rowney’s approach confirmed it. The man was in a state, his brow broken out in a sweat, his face flushed, his lips inched into a thin line.

  “My lady, there is a gentleman awaiting an audience with you in the drawing room,” the butler declared. “He came with no calling card, but declared himself the Earl of Hartmoor and demanded to be allowed to wait for you to return home. I was not certain how you might wish me to proceed, so I allowed it.”

  Daphne read clearly what the butler did not say. He had not wanted to risk angering an earl by throwing him out, or angering her by doing it without consulting her first. While Rowney would have been firmly within his rights to eject him from the premises, she was glad he had not tried it. Lord knew what Adam might have done if he’d been slighted in such a way.

  It was better for them to get this over with in private as opposed to an alley where anyone might happen upon them. Nodding resolutely, she smiled to reassure Rowney.

  “You did the right thing,” she told him. “I will see him now. Please ensure we are not disturbed.”

  The butler nodded, his expression melting into one of relief. “Very good.”

  Turning toward the closed door of the drawing room, she clenched and opened her hands several times, and tried to school her face into a passive mask. It was for her own sake that she did so, as he knew very well how his arrival had thrown her life into chaos. There was not much she could hide from this man.

  She pushed the door open and stepped inside, her gaze immediately drawn to the dark, hulking shape of him seated near the fire. Slouched in the chair, his elbows braced on the arms, he met her gaze with a slow, lazy grin. Her belly quivered at the sight of his teeth, her skin tingling as if recalling their bite.

  “Welcome home, little dove,” he purred, speaking as if he hadn’t sat here waiting for her for hours, likely growing bored in the process.

  “Yes,” she said, raising her chin. “This is my home. Which is why I cannot understand what you are doing in it.”

  His smile softened into a smirk, the sort of expression he wore when she amused him. “I will admit, my presence here serves more than one purpose. The first of which is to assuage my curiosity over how you’ve spent my money.”

  “It became mine the moment you delivered that bank draft,” she reminded him.

  He chuckled, his gaze leaving her to observe their surroundings. “Aye, that it did. I must admit to being impressed. You’ve got quite a nest here. Far better than your previous cage, I assume.”

  She would not give him what he wanted … she would not thank him for making it possible for her to escape said cage. To be free of her family. Not when she’d earned that money herself, paid for every pound out of her own flesh, and on one night, with blood.

  “As well, this particular room turned up some very interesting reading material,” he added, reaching into his coat pocket and coming out with something white.

  Something white, which revealed itself to be an envelope.

  An envelope with a broken seal, which she had left upon a table in this room.

  Robert’s letter.

  “What are you doing with that?” she growled, her jaw aching from how hard she clenched her teeth, her fingernails bit
ing into her palms.

  “I had to find some way to amuse myself in your absence,” he replied, waving the envelope about before giving her a knowing smile. “Quite entertaining, this letter from our dear Robert.”

  She took a step toward him, her entire body vibrating from the anger boiling in her veins. “Give it to me.”

  “You know, the usual sentiments,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “My dearest Daphne … still love you as much as ever … your circumstances mean nothing to me … please call upon me at your earliest convenience, so we might talk in person … et cetera, et cetera.”

  Her feet moved her another step, despite the small voice in the back of her mind reminding her how dangerous it was to be within arm’s length of him.

  “You have no right reading that,” she spat.

  He scoffed, tossing the letter aside and keeping his gaze on her as it fluttered to the floor. “Have you not learned by now that I do not need the right?”

  That gave her pause, keeping her from coming any closer. As it was, she stood near enough to see the flecks of green in his eyes, the dark rim of brown edging the molten amber center of his pupils. His scent had grown stronger, that enticing, masculine aroma that never ceased to make her mouth go dry.

  He dressed in the height of fashion now that he was in London, his hair pulled meticulously back from his face and tied at his nape.

  “Your other purpose for coming here?” she insisted. “Please state it so that you may take your leave.”

  That smirk of his was back, stoking her annoyance, reminding her that he actually preferred to be challenged. He liked nothing better than for her to fight so he could break her. That didn’t stop her from wanting to fight, from needing to fight.

  “It is quite simple, little dove,” he declared, sitting up straight in the chair. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

  She frowned, genuinely baffled by his words, as well as his behavior. He had seemed to want nothing to do with her once their contracted time together had ended. Yet, here he sat, proving the exact opposite.

  “We agreed to thirty days and nights,” she reminded him. “I fulfilled my end of the bargain, and you compensated me, as promised. There is no other business between us.”

  He stood, the sudden movement making panic spark in her gut. She backpedaled with a gasp, catching herself after it was too late. Noticing her skittishness, he chuckled, folding his hands behind his back. Her chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath, the sudden rush of blood having her ready to fight, to run. She had told herself she would not, but when faced with him, her body seemed to act on instinct.

  “Are you certain?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “Last night, I heard you quite clearly challenge me to match whatever price you might require … and I have come to do just that.”

  She flinched as if he’d struck her, equal parts confusion and anger making her head spin. “What the devil are you talking about? I never said—”

  “You quite clearly stated that I could never match the price you’d require to let me back in your bed,” he interjected. “I’ve come to put that to the test.”

  Her mouth fell open, and for a moment, words failed her. She floundered, vacillating between annoyance that he’d twisted her words to suit his needs and anger at herself for saying them in the first place. In the midst of it all, her rage grew and swelled, every offense he’d ever committed against her adding kindling to the flames.

  Reaching into his coat once again, he came out with another slip of paper—this one, she recognized as a bank draft. He held it up, turning it so she could see his signature at the bottom, as well as the other details neatly filled in.

  All except the amount.

  “Name your price, and I guarantee I can meet and probably even exceed it.”

  The fragile thread of her control snapped, and she forgot to exercise caution, her instinct for self-preservation dissipating. She lunged at him with a snarl, hands raised to pummel him, scratch him, slap him … to tear at him the way he tore at her with nothing but words.

  “Bugger you!” she cried, bashing up against his unrelenting body. “I am not a whore! You cannot buy my body like some cheap trinket!”

  He wrestled her into submission so easily, it was laughable, taking hold of her wrists and gathering them in both hands, then wrapping an arm around her waist. When she began to kick and flail, he simply grunted and bore it, refusing to let go of her even as she punished his shins.

  “Was that a refusal?” he growled into her ear, nuzzling her neck and abrading her tender skin with his rough stubble.

  She squirmed and flailed in his hold, acutely aware that her nipples had gone hard, chafed by the wool of his coat, and all the blood in her body seemed to be pooling in her core. This was when Adam could be at his most dangerous—when he was forcing her to feel all the things she’d tried to stifle … all the things she tried to tell herself she didn’t want.

  “That was a refusal, as well as a ‘sod off’,” she muttered, arching her back to try to put some distance between them.

  That put her face clear of his, but only served to press her tighter against him, mashing her breasts into his chest and her pelvis against the hard ridge between his legs.

  “Oh, little dove,” he rasped, going down to the floor with her. “You always know how to make things more fun for me.”

  The panic she’d tried to tamp down previously made a resurgence, and she bucked beneath him, kicking, flailing, trying to roll away. He let her turn onto her stomach, but simply straddled her, clamping his knees on either side of her body to keep her still beneath him.

  “Please,” she begged, knowing that once he began to touch her in earnest, she would be lost. There could be no fighting him. “You were supposed to let me go … I was free.”

  She heard the rustle of clothing, but despite trying to crane her neck to see him, he remained out of her line of sight.

  “That is the thing, little dove,” he murmured, the harshness of his breath telling her what his words did not—she affected him, too. “I was prepared to let you fly … I truly was. But hours after you’d left, and in the days and weeks that followed, I realized something.”

  He went silent for a moment, and suddenly, a flash of white material appeared before her eyes. It was his cravat, she realized, being lowered over her face. She twisted her head, trying to avoid it, but he managed to work the fabric between her lips. A low whimper became trapped in her mouth, lodged there by the makeshift gag.

  His weight shifted, and before she could even think to try to wiggle away, he had flipped her onto her back. Moving down her body, he reached out and took hold of her leg, stopping her from kicking him square in the chest.

  “Have you ever heard of the way opium can affect a man?” he asked conversationally, as if he were not removing her slipper and tossing it across the room, then sliding a hand beneath her gown to grasp the edge of her stocking. “I know you’ve encountered laudanum, which is a weak liquid made from one of the most addictive substances in the world.”

  She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose, wrestling to keep hold of her senses as he pulled her stocking down, his fingers stroking the inside of her thigh and calf as he did. He repeated the ritual with her other shoe and stocking, then held up both the silk undergarments, trailing them between his hands. Her stockings looked vulgar in his hands this way, caressed by his calloused fingers, pristine and white against his sun-darkened skin.

  “Men are said to become addicted to it after just one taste … one sip of opium tea, one inhalation through a pipe,” he continued, using one of the stockings to bind her wrists together, then leaning over her and using the other to tether her to the leg of the nearby sofa—a piece too heavy to budge no matter how she squirmed. “Is it that men are so weak, or simply that opium is far too potent, too delicious, too goddamned perfect in the oblivion it offers?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath when he abruptly snatched up her
gown, revealing that she wore nothing beneath. Just as she had the night he’d accosted her on the street. Just as she had during her time at Dunnottar. She’d grown accustomed to going without them, enjoying the freedom of leaving off corsets and chemises—which now made her feel heavy and cumbersome. Yet now that Adam was back in her life, being without them made her more vulnerable, defenseless, easy prey.

  Lying on his belly on the rug, he pressed his face against her thigh, moving his head so that his stubble tickled her skin. She mewled through her gag, trying to close her legs. He simply held them open, continuing to rub himself against her like a cat seeking a scratch on the head. Or a lion playing with its food before taking the first bite.

  “I thought I’d had enough,” he said, his breath tickling the curls between her thighs as he moved higher, his lips trailing a fiery path upward. “I thought I’d gorged myself and would be glad to be rid of you.”

  He nuzzled her mons, and she choked on a gasp, her chest burning as she held her breath and waited for the exquisite moment when his lips and tongue would find her.

  Inhaling deeply, he released his breath on a ragged sigh, the sound tinged with a tortured moan. “But it wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough.”

  He brushed his lips against her, then opened his mouth, letting her feel the insides of his lips, the racing of his breath. Her back arched, and she dug her heels into the carpet, searching for him, begging silently for what she wanted … what she needed.

  “Opium, little dove,” he whispered just before his tongue flicked against her.

  She issued a strangled moan, her legs trembling with the force of her need.

  “Potent,” he sighed, lapping at her between words, swirling his tongue over her clit. “Addictive … fucking perfect … opium. That’s what you are … and I’m here … for a taste.”

  She bit down on her gag and tried to muffle her moan when he put his mouth on her, sucking with ravenous pulls of his lips and tongue. He slipped his hands beneath her and cupped her buttocks, holding her at just the right angle to drink from her. He lapped and sucked, scraped her with his teeth and chuckled when she cried out from behind her gag.