Ruthless

Page 22

  Author: Anne Stuart

  It was a different body, strong and hard, so very different from the soft, sagging flesh of the other, but she panicked anyway, struggling, and without thought stabbed the fork into his upper arm, where she’d seen the bandage.

  His reaction shocked her. He merely flinched, but the hold on her changed abruptly, and a moment later she found herself on the sofa, wrapped in his arms, held tightly, and she had no idea why. He held her as a father might comfort a child, and she realized with shock that she was sobbing, loud, noisy sobs. And then she stopped thinking at all, giving in to all the grief and fear and sorrow that had torn at her life with a thousand tiny claws.

  His arm was around her, and blood was seeping through the sleeve where she’d jabbed him, and she moaned and tried to say something, but he simply shifted her in his arms so that she couldn’t see it, holding her head against his chest and gently stroking her hair, her tear-streaked face, as the harsh sobs racked her body. From a distance she could hear his words, soft, comforting, half in a language she couldn’t understand, but then it was simply the sound of his voice that soothed her, the way he held her, strong yet gentle, so that for the first time in what seemed a lifetime she could stop fighting, she could simply let go of everything, for a brief, blessed moment. She could simply be.

  She truly did have the most amazing ability to fall asleep in his presence, Rohan thought absently, stroking her tear-damp face. He’d recognized the signs of it, the slowing of her breath, the infrequent shudders, her clutch on his perfect silk waistcoat loosening. It would never recover from the wrinkles, but it was little matter—he was bleeding all over it. Another extremely expensive article of clothing ruined, thanks to Miss Harriman. Poor poppet.

  He considered carrying her into his bed, to let her finish her exhausted sleep, but thought better of it. If she awoke while he carried her she’d panic, and he really didn’t fancy her slamming into his wound once more. He’d probably drop her, ruining the entire, romantic effect of it.

  He had to laugh at himself. Romantic gestures were as far removed from his life as this kind of tenderness. All he’d been able to do was treat her as Mrs. Clarke had treated him so many years ago. “Peace, now, love,” he whispered in Gaelic, a language he’d forgotten he knew. He rose from the sofa, cradling her carefully and lay her down on it. There was blood on the silk damask. If he spent much more time with Miss Harriman he was going to need to replace his wardrobe and his furniture. She was going through things at a prodigious pace.

  She slept, exhausted, and he stared down at her. Her face was blotched and puffy from the tears. With the Harriman Nose she was such a far cry from her pretty little sister, from the beauties that surrounded him. She was a ragamuffin of misery. So why was he wasting even a moment of his time on her?

  The answer was instant, obvious and reassuring. He was bored. It was that simple. She was something entirely new in his sphere of existence, and he appreciated the novelty. He’d tire of her soon enough, thank heavens. In the meantime she was entertaining.

  He moved his arm, and flinched, glancing down at his blood-soaked sleeve. Such drama was exhausting, even as it entertained. She hadn’t been raped—that much was obvious, or she would have reacted more strongly to his use of the word. No, it must have simply been some clumsy fool. Perhaps she’d been in love with him and he’d used her poorly and left her. Without even so much as a kiss, poor angel. He wasn’t a great fancier of kisses, but someone like Elinor Harriman needed to be kissed, well and often.

  A sensible woman would simply look for another lover, but women were seldom sensible. And doubtless his sleeping guest thought her life ruined after one awkward encounter.

  Etienne would do very well for her. She would no longer have to brood about her lack of virginity, and while he doubted his cousin had the imagination to awaken her senses, he was, after all, French, and they were, reputedly, particularly good at that sort of thing. With luck, the good doctor could work her past her painful memories, and then he could step in and finish her education, much to their mutual pleasure.

  The Revels were fast approaching. He couldn’t quite see the fierce Elinor stripping off her clothes and her fears to participate in that planned debauch, though it was an enticing idea. It would make sense to put the matter to one side and take it up again once spring had arrived. Perhaps he would discover some new and mysterious beauty at the Revels and forget all about the delicious innocence of Elinor Harriman.

  Because she was even more of an innocent than he’d first thought. A woman who’d simply never encountered the pleasures of the flesh held a certain amount of interest if the woman herself appealed. But one who had tried, and been disappointed, was far more of a challenge, a delicious one.

  Still, it would be safer all around if he simply transferred his interest to someone more likely to join in the celebrations of the Heavenly Host.

  But then, when had safety had anything to do with it?

  The blood was running down his arm and dripping onto the carpet, and he cursed. She was costing him a fortune. He’d have great pleasure taking payment for it with her eventually agreeable body.

  If he didn’t manage to distract himself in the meantime. He headed back into his bedroom, stripping off his clothes as he went, signaling for his valet. Georges was asleep in the dressing room, and he appeared almost immediately, stifling a yawn until he looked at his master’s bloody clothes.

  “Milord, what has happened?” he said, shocked. “Your wound is bleeding again. I will call the doctor…you must lie down…”

  Rohan batted away the valet’s nervous hands. “A simple slip. I was awkward. We don’t need the doctor—you can rebandage me. But first I want you to go into the outer room and cover the young lady with a blanket. ”

  Georges looked understandably confused. “A young lady? Out in the sitting room? You don’t want her in here?”

  Rohan allowed himself a wry smile. “I believe the young lady would object. She’s asleep now—be certain not to wake her up. Take the silk throw—I don’t want her destroying the fur one. I’ll manage to divest myself of these bloody clothes and then you may assist me. ”

  “But, milord…”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Did I give the impression that this was open for discussion?”

  Georges blanched, clearly terrified of him, as most of the servants were. With reason. He was not a good man.

  “Don’t wake her,” he said again. “Or I’ll be most annoyed. ”

  “Yes, milord. Of course. ” He took the silk coverlet from the freshly made bed and disappeared with his usual silence. A moment later he was back.

  “She’s gone, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, his voice shaking slightly.

  Rohan slammed past him, into the sitting room, but Georges had told the simple truth. She was gone. He went to the window, half expecting to see her running down the street as if the hounds of hell were after her. No sign of her.

  “Take the other servants and look for her,” he said in a sharp voice. “If she’s not in the house, send someone after her to ensure she arrives home safely. ”

  “Should he attempt to bring her back, milord?”

  Rohan shook his head. “There’ll be time enough for that,” he said lightly. “Once you’re done, come back and dress me. I believe I’ll go out. I feel the need of company tonight. Female company. ”

  “Yes, milord. ”

  Anyone would do, he told himself. He should have known that oh-so-convenient sleep was feigned. Miss Harriman was, after all, a delightfully burgeoning liar. Either she had pretended to sleep, or awoken when he’d set her down but been too clever to show it. The moment he’d closed the door she would have been off and running.

  He’d let her think she’d escaped. For now. It was almost time for the Revels, and he had other things to do. More than enough to keep him busy for the next few weeks. For now, she could mistakenly feel safe
.

  For now.

  It was a great deal later when Elinor finally arrived home, half-frozen, exhausted. The fire in the front room was banked, the coals sending a warm glow through the room. In the past she and her sister had slept on pallets in front of it, but there was no sign of Lydia. She tiptoed down the narrow hallway. The tiny storeroom that had held nothing but dust and cobwebs had been swept clean and now held a bed and a wash-stand. Her sister lay on one side of it, sound asleep.

  It had been an endless day. It was hard to believe that it had barely been twenty-four hours since she’d first run afoul of the Prince of Darkness. Twenty-four strange, unsettling hours that were now over.

  She tiptoed back to the living room. There was a settee, which reminded her a little too much of Rohan lounging on the one in his salon, plus two small chairs. She ignored all of them, curling up in a tight ball in front of the fire.

  And forced herself to remember.

  11

  She’d been seventeen, not yet convinced that a happy life was out of the question, despite the Harriman Nose. She was young, strong, and hopeful. To be sure, their fortunes had begun to decline. They were living in a ramshackle house on the edge of the city, and Lady Caroline had been without a steady male companion for months.

  Elinor preferred it that way. The men who came and stayed tended to treat her mother with a familiarity that made her uncomfortable, and that familiarity reached her daughters as well. When Lady Caroline was uninvolved she still went out most nights, gaming, drinking, but there were days when she was home. Sometimes she was morose, with a vicious tongue that could flay her daughter with its caustic truth. Those words never touched Lydia, thank God. Like Elinor herself, Lady Caroline doted on Lydia. She reserved her complaints and criticisms for Elinor.

  But there were other times, times her mother was bright and gay and laughing, lighting up any room she entered, and that was one of those times. She’d come in from an afternoon visit, taken young Lydia’s arms and danced her around the drawing room, the two of them laughing, Elinor standing to one side, enchanted. Her mother could charm anyone, and six years ago, when she’d been seventeen and Lydia eleven and Lady Caroline hadn’t begun to show the signs of her illness, back then her charm had been at its brightest.