He unfastened his breeches and released himself, and she was wet and slick beneath his questing fingers, ready for him, wanting him, thank God, and he rubbed the head of his cock against her, spreading his dampness and hers, and she let out a little moan of anticipation. He held his cock and began to push inside, into her glorious sweetness, trying so damned hard not to slam inside and hurt her, when he suddenly froze.
He stared down at her, the beauty of her imperfect face, her gorgeous mouth, the pale, aroused body waiting for him, ready for him, and he wanted to ignore everything but the roaring need inside him.
He couldn’t do it. He pulled back out, groaning, and shoved his damned cock back in his breeches, not caring if he hurt himself. Her eyes had flown open in surprise, and she rose on her elbows, staring at him.
From somewhere inside he found the ability to smile at her. “You little liar,” he said softly. “Didn’t you know I can tell you’re still a virgin?”
“You can?” she sounded slightly dazed. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop!”
But that was exactly what he was doing. “Hush, love,” he said, pulling her torn nightdress around her. He only wished he had a blanket as well, the more layers between her body and his, the better. “You don’t take a woman on the kitchen table for her first time. You take her to a bed with fine linen sheets and you do it slowly, carefully, so it doesn’t hurt, and she feels like the treasure she is.” He pulled her forward and picked her up, cradling her against him. She was shivering, and he didn’t know if it was cold or reaction. He damned well wanted to shiver and cry as well.
“You’ve had that many virgins?” she said in a small voice, not denying the truth.
He shook his head. “I’d rather not take a woman’s innocence when I can’t offer her anything in return except pleasure. A man knows certain things by instinct, and I’m not deflowering you when you’ve had too much cognac.”
“I didn’t!” she protested. “And I want it. I want pleasure. I want someone to love my body despite my face.”
Someone. Anyone? It wasn’t going to be him. Not tonight. “Hush,” he said again, cradling her slender body in his arms. “Hush, sweet love.” And he headed for the stairs.
She was asleep by the second floor. He hesitated about taking her up to the servants’ attics—the last thing he needed to do was run into one of the inquisitive maids—and there were a number of smaller rooms on the third floor that would do. But that was far too close for comfort. He’d managed, just barely, to stop himself from taking her, one of the few decent gestures in his life. If he went back on it now he would have gone through all that pain for nothing.
The attics were still and silent as he carried her upstairs, just barely managing in the darkness of the unlit hall. He’d need to install gas lighting up here as well, he thought absently. Assuming he was going to stay here for much longer and not find himself on trial for his wife’s murder.
She looked so peaceful as he laid her down on the narrow, sagging mattress. They needed better beds up here as well. At least the maids didn’t have to share beds, as they did in most other houses, but one could hardly manage a decent night’s sleep on ticking like this. Bryony’s torn nightdress fell open, and he sucked in his breath. The moon was bright that night, shining in her window, illuminating her far too well, and he gave himself a mental kick in the arse. If he didn’t take her when she was drunk and awake he was hardly going to deflower her while she was sleeping so heavily. He wasn’t sure how much she’d had to drink before he’d found her, but it had hit her hard, and she was almost passed out. With luck she wouldn’t even remember what had happened down on the kitchen table—he’d go back down and clean up the mess and try to forget it himself.
He slipped off her clothes, tossing the torn nightdress out the open door before going in search of another one. She made soft, unintelligible noises as he dressed her, and at one point she simply curled up against him, breathing in deeply as she fell back into sleep, and he wanted to groan. She wasn’t making this any easier on him.
Lifting her up, he tucked her beneath the covers, and did just what he’d sworn he wouldn’t do. He kissed her on the forehead, and then on her soft, sweet, dreaming mouth.
“Sleep well, darling one. Dream of the good man who’ll take you with love, and forget about a right bastard like me.”
He stepped back, before he could think better of it, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
He picked up her ripped nightdress and headed back to his makeshift room. He was still hard, and at this point he decided he’d probably stay that way until he damned well died of it. He started to strip off his clothes, then paused, staring down at his white shirt. He must have brushed against something as he searched through Cecily’s room. There was dried blood on the sleeve.
Had it really been the daughter of Eustace Russell, cleaning and scrubbing and trying to disguise his possible guilt? It could have been Collins, of course. The man was clearly loyal, and he’d be the first to cover up any misdeed. At times like these the Irish stood together, be they manservant or lord of the manor.
But he didn’t think it was Collins. It had to have been Bryony in there, scrubbing on her knees, straightening the chaos, hiding the truth of what had happened. Thank God.
Because when a wife went missing, and turned up dead, there was usually one man the gentlemen of Scotland Yard looked at: the husband. And while some of society was under the impression that he and Cecily were happily married, there were enough people who knew the truth.
He shoved the telltale shirt and Bryony’s nightdress in the pile in the back of his closet, hidden with the other blood-soaked clothes. He’d burn them later when he had a chance, that or simply get Taggart to get rid of them. Taggart would do anything he asked without question.
Or he could take Bryony’s torn nightdress to bed with him and take care of his current condition in a few moments, he was so damned hard.
But he wasn’t going to. He was going to be the saint he’d suddenly decided he was, and go to sleep.
And with a bed-shaking punch of his pillow, he did just that.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE CRUSHING PAIN in Bryony’s head woke her, that and the raucous cries of the birds. She tried to open her eyes, but it felt as if there were lead weights on her eyelids, and she rolled over, burying her face in the soft pillow, trying to shut out the incessant noise. Her entire body hurt, her skin was on fire, her teeth itched—everything was wrong. And if the birds were singing it was past time to get up and face whatever fresh disaster the day would bring.
Slowly, carefully, she rolled over again. She wasn’t certain what part of her body hurt the most, and she had no idea why. The last thing she could remember was going down to the basement after hearing Kilmartyn’s muffled curses.
And then she remembered the cognac! Good God, what had she done? She tried to scour her brain for details of the night before, but it simply made it ache more, and she put her hands to her head with a groan. She didn’t want to think about it, refused to think about it. If drinking spirits did this to you then she was never touching the foul stuff again.
At least she must have managed to get back to her own room safely enough. With great care she pushed herself up, swinging her trembling legs over the side of the bed. Her entire body felt tender, from her breasts to between her legs to the soles of feet to her scalp. Sitting motionless on the side of the bed wouldn’t fix anything, however, and she could scarcely spend the day in her room. The only way to get past this was to get through it, and she pushed herself to her feet, swaying for a moment before moving to the wardrobe.
Stripping off her nightclothes, she dressed as quickly as she could, trying to ignore the fiendish screeches of the normally twittering birds outside. On top of everything else her stomach was queasy, and the thought of one of Mrs. Harkins’s grand fry-ups was daunting. There must be some way she could avoid looking at eggs while they were staring
back at her.
She’d washed her hair in Kilmartyn’s impressive bathtub last night, and she’d fallen asleep before it had dried properly. Dragging a comb through the tangled mess had tears springing in her eyes, and there was no way she could bring it under complete control. By the time she’d managed to plait it and pin it down at the nape of her neck she was ready to go back to bed and be damned to the consequences. She pinned a black lace cap to the back of her hair, trying to blink away the tears that filled her eyes, and then she straightened her shoulders and started down the endless flights of stairs. If she was lucky no one would have any knowledge of those missing hours. If it was up to her she’d just as soon not remember them either.
For some reason Mrs. Harkins had decided to make an extreme racket as she capably handled her pots and pans. She gave Bryony a comforting look. “Slept in, did you? Well, you needed that. And not to worry—Emma saw to the master’s morning tray and he’ll probably want to see you later. He was asking about the mistress’s rooms—apparently he knew they were in a mess. I just hope it wasn’t another knockdown, dragged out fight.” She slammed a cast-iron skillet onto the hob and tossed some butter in. Even the sizzle made Bryony’s ears itch.
“Do they have knockdown, dragged out fights?” she said, the sound of her voice echoing inside her head. She needed tea, strong tea with loads of sugar and cream, quite badly. She sat at the table and poured herself a cup, then paused, staring down at the clean, scarred surface. There was something about the worktable, something about the kitchen, something she needed to remember. No, something she didn’t want to remember. She looked up quickly.
“Occasionally. I don’t think he hits her—he’s the only one who’s ever seemed to have bruises. She screams and rages and throws things, and I expect he goads her. There’s no love lost between them.”
She wasn’t sure whether this knowledge pleased her or frightened her. On the one hand, she was illogically happy that he didn’t care for his wife, and she wasn’t going to consider why. On the other, if what she suspected had happened in that room, his dislike of his wife wasn’t a good sign.
She brought the cup to her lips, trying to disguise the fact that her hands were shaking. The first sip was ambrosia, and she felt her world begin to fall back into order. Another, and the incessant pounding in her head quieted. Whether it was the tea, the sugar, or simply the ritual of it all, she was coming alive again. With the sense that something was dreadfully wrong.
Was it just the disaster in the countess’s apartments? Or was there something else, something possibly catastrophic, that she couldn’t remember? Didn’t want to remember.
“Are you quite all right, Mrs. Greaves?”
She looked up at Mr. Collins and managed to shake off some of her dark doubts. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I simply wondered if something had gone on last night. I found bits of glass on the floor down here, and the bottle of cognac is missing.”
Hell’s bells, she thought miserably. Her sins were coming home to roost. She must have dropped the bottle—that was the catastrophe her mind refused to recall. “My fault, I confess,” she said easily. “I thought I heard a noise and I came down to investigate, and I’m afraid I knocked over the tray in the pantry.”
“You should have come and got me and some of the menservants,” Collins said severely. “It could have been an intruder. I’ve heard stories of bad things happening, even in this part of town, and you can’t be too careful.”
“Next time I’ll be certain to call for you.” She took another deep gulp of tea, grateful to note that her hands weren’t shaking, grateful that Mr. Collins didn’t question why the tray he’d left in the butler’s pantry had been broken in the kitchen. She could have come up with a convoluted excuse but right then her brain was too tired to think.
“He’s in a right foul mood,” Bertie said as he came into the kitchen. “Something must have tweaked him real bad.” He spied Bryony. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Greaves.”
“He’s probably suffering the ill effects of overindulgence,” Mr. Collins said smoothly from his spot beside Mrs. Harkins, and Bryony’s sense of impending doom increased. “Not that it’s our place to criticize our betters. But drinking too deeply can wreak havoc with the mind and constitution. Take that as a lesson well learned, Bertie.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Collins,” Bertie said respectfully, as Bryony ducked her head. Collins was a great deal more observant than was entirely comfortable. “And he’s asking for you, Mrs. Greaves. Said as how you should bring a fresh pot of tea and two cups and meet him in the library.”
Mrs. Harkins threw her a look. “He certainly spends more time with you than other housekeepers we’ve had. It’s not my place to say anything, but you have a care. It’s clear to all of us you’re better bred than our usual run of housekeepers. You may not be aware of the dangers. Lord Kilmartyn is a very attractive man, with strong appetites and not much care for what society thinks. You could get into trouble quite easily if you’re not careful. He’s always had an eye out for a pretty girl.”
Bryony stared at her in astonishment. “Mrs. Harkins, do you have trouble with your eyesight? I’m a far cry from a pretty girl.”
“Nonsense,” the woman said comfortably as she watched the bubbling contents of her frying pan. “You’ve got a few marks on your face, that’s all. In truth, you’ve got a quiet sort of beauty, and a graceful way about you. You’re quality, in every sense of the word, and his lordship is well aware of it. I’m just being bold enough to warn you. We like having you here, and I, for one, wouldn’t want you to come to no harm.”
Harm? What kind of harm? The kind of harm that had befallen someone in Lady Kilmartyn’s room? Or some other kind of harm that she couldn’t remember?
She barely managed her calm smile. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Harkins, but I believe I’m well aware of his lordship’s… attractions. Trust me, I’m the last person he’d be interested in seducing. He’s much more likely to turn to someone like Emma.”
“Oh, goodness, no!” Emma squealed. “He scares me.”
“There’s nothing scary about him,” Bryony said crossly, and then could have bit her tongue. “He’s a man like any other,” she continued evenly, “despite his title.”
“And you’ve known so many men, Mrs. Greaves?” Mr. Collins asked. “Begging your pardon for the impertinence, but Mrs. Harkins is right concerned for you. You don’t have the air of someone who’s been… well, in the company of men much.”
Bryony straightened. She was supposed to be a woman of the world, a capable, mature housekeeper, not some sheltered ninny. Even if that was what she was feeling like at the moment. “No, Mr. Collins, I have not known many men. Not in the biblical sense, certainly, and not particularly in the social sense. My previous mistress and I lived a secluded life in Italy and here in England. Nevertheless, it’s been my responsibility to see to the gentlemen’s well-being when they visit a household I have charge of, and they’re really not so different.”
Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort came from Mrs. Harkins, but she said nothing, simply turned to the butler. “Mr. Collins, would you be good enough to make up a tray for Mrs. Greaves to take to the master? He likes things delivered promptly.”
Bryony drained her tea, shuddering. Was she one of the things being delivered to Kilmartyn? Of course not—where did that thought come from? So he’d kissed her, touched her when he’d had her in his bed a few nights ago. He’d probably do that to anyone who ended up in his bed. And he’d let her go quite easily.
She started to reach her hand up to touch her scars, but she stopped herself. It had turned into a nervous habit—using her hand to cover the half of her ruined face—but she’d forced herself to stop. She needed to accept herself the way she was, not fuss over something that couldn’t be changed.
She rose. “Let me do it, Mrs. Harkins. After all, it appears I’m the one on the chopping block today.”
She mov
ed through the halls, carefully balancing the heavy tray, trying not to jar it or her still-aching head. Most of her other ills had improved, save for a strange tenderness between her legs, but she certainly wasn’t going to be thinking about what she might have done to herself in her fit of drunkenness. She had experimented with pleasuring herself but had stopped in a fit of embarrassment. And why was she thinking of that now?
The closer she got to the library the stronger her sense of dread grew, though she couldn’t imagine why. As she’d told Emma, there was no reason to be frightened of Kilmartyn, despite the rare mood Bertie had warned her of. She could handle him—she’d handled him before. But the closer she got the more her heart began to pound, and the tray trembled slightly in her formerly steady hands.
When she arrived at the door she stood there in a quandary. She could try to balance the tray on one knee while she knocked… no, scratched on the door. She could set it on the floor, but then, how in heaven’s name was she going to open it? She didn’t want to face him anyway, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was simply that she, like Kilmartyn, was suffering the aftereffects of too much indulgence…
A sudden panic washed over her, and she whirled around, ready to run, when the door was flung open and she heard Kilmartyn’s distinctive voice. “What are you doing, creeping about? Why didn’t you bring the tea in?”
It took a great deal of effort but she pulled herself together, turning back and showing him an impassive face. “I didn’t know how to carry the tray and scratch on the door at the same time, much less open it.”
For a moment he said nothing, just looked at her, and she wanted to squirm beneath his searching gaze. “Of course you don’t,” he said obscurely. “I’ll take the tray.”
He reached for it, but she held on. “Don’t be absurd. I’m your employee—”