Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood Series, Book 2) (3 page)

Spending so much time with Alexander and Evelyn had evidently softened his steely resolve.

"In times of trouble, we must do what is necessary to find the answers we seek," he said in a bid to console her.

When her tempting lips curled up into a weak smile in response, he suddenly felt like the richest of men.

"That was how I knew you had been on … on intimate terms with her."

"Trust me," he said with a snort. "I have never been on intimate terms with Miss Rosemond."

"But she mentioned your name and when you said you knew her, your words implied otherwise."

"I knew you were not who you were pretending to be. As I said, my intention was to shock so you would stumble."

She gave a resigned nod, and her shoulders sagged. "Oh, I see."

"I can't explain why she saw fit to write such things, but I can assure you I am not a man who welcomes such complications."

"My sister certainly would be a complication in any gentleman's life." She sighed deeply. "I don't know where to turn now. I don't know what to do."

The urge to come to her aid pushed to the fore, but he ignored it. He could not afford to draw undue attention to himself. Perhaps if there was an incentive. If he could sate the desire simmering beneath the surface. But despite the clawing need in his loins, he refused to dally with an innocent.

"What about your family? Can they not help you?"

"Oh, no!" Her eyes grew wide, the soft delicate blue reminding him of a cloudless sky on a summer's afternoon. A wave of regret swept over him, a reminder of all he'd lost and he sucked in a breath to eradicate the feeling. "There are too many secrets," she continued, "things my mother would not understand."

"I see." She did not need to say any more, and he did not want to ask. Not out of politeness, but because he did not wish to deepen their acquaintance.

"Well, there is another possibility to explore," she said. "And I would trouble you for just one more thing."

He almost said 'anything' but curbed his eager tongue and merely nodded.

"My sister was friendly with a gentleman called Barrington. I would ask you to point him out to me."

"Lord Barrington!" The lady would do well to stay clear of such a man. "I do not know what you intend to do here, but I suggest you let me escort you to my carriage. My coachman will take you wherever you need to go. I am confident your sister will make a dramatic appearance in a day or two. It would not be wise to jeopardise your own reputation."

She gave him a tender smile that expressed gratitude. "I thank you for your counsel. But instinct tells me you're wrong. I know something awful has happened. Just as I know you speak the truth when you proclaim your innocence." Her gaze drifted over his face, and his heart lurched. "Now, can you tell me if you've seen Lord Barrington this evening?"

"Miss Rosemond," he said with a sigh.

"It is Mrs. Denton, Grace Denton. But I ask that you mention it to no one."

"You're married?" Disappointment flooded his chest. The lady looked no older than twenty. While her words revealed a level of maturity and intelligence, there was something pure and unworldly about her. She held an innocence and a level of naiveté he found endearing.

She offered a weak smile. "I am a widow."

The revelation caused another momentary surge of emotion. The more they conversed, the deeper, the more intimate his knowledge of her grew. As he tried to shake the feeling of comfortable familiarity, he glanced over her shoulder to see Lord Barrington hovering on the steps as he scoured the garden.

What Elliot did next was unarguably the most foolish, most surprising thing he had ever done. He wrapped his hands around Mrs. Denton's delectable arms, pulled her closer to his needy body and kissed her.

It was a way of preventing her seeking out Barrington, a way to let Barrington know he'd staked his claim. After all, widows were fair game. But when she gasped as her lips touched his, he couldn't fight the urge to plunder her mouth. Wild and reckless, he thrust his tongue deep inside, desperate to taste her, desperate to sate the passion burning within.

Oh, how he wanted to feel disappointed. He wanted to prove that she was just an ordinary woman, nothing special. He wanted her to react as all the others had done: unrefined, vulgar, wanton — the only sort of woman he deserved.

But the Lord had delivered his most virtuous, most tempting angel to torment him.

With surprising strength, Mrs. Denton pushed him away. She swallowed visibly as her breathing came short and quick, her soft breasts heaving to punish him all the more. Bringing her gloved hand to her lips, she touched the tips of her fingers to her mouth.

"Mrs. Denton," he began, but he had no words to account for his actions, the situation being strange and foreign to him and the more he thought, the more his mind grew hazy.

Which was why he failed to notice her draw back her hand.

When it connected with his cheek, it sounded like a dull thud but stung his pride like the lash of a whip.

"You mistake me for someone else, my lord," she said, kindness and warmth replaced with coldness and loathing.

The stone barricade around his heart shook, bits of broken mortar crumbling away. God help him, he wanted her more than ever — to see her smile, to trust him, to open her caring heart to him.

Damn it.

Sensing her disappointment and disdain, he stepped back. "Go." The word came out as a growl, a vicious warning and he simply stared as she pulled down her mask, picked up her skirt and ran off into the night.

Chapter 3

Grace raced through the garden, desperate to be away from the world of sin and degradation her sister found so appealing. Inside, her chest burned. Days of suppressed emotion refused to be tempered yet still she fought to keep it at bay.

To cry would mean failure and she would not desert her sister in her hour of need.

Lord Markham proved to be worthy of his scandalous reputation. Of course, she'd only had the word of a stranger and a few notes in a diary, but his crude assault supported their statements.

A pang of sadness filled her heart.

Not just for her poor sister. During her conversation with Lord Markham, she had caught a glimpse of a kind and considerate man. She had confided in him, talked to him as a friend and he had treated her like a common harlot. When she returned home, she would study the diary, convinced she must have missed something. As despite his dissipated antics, she believed the reckless lord's protestations of innocence.

Finding no exit out of the garden and reluctant to step back into the ballroom, Grace made her way down a flight of stone steps leading to the basement door. Moving through the servants' quarters, she followed the corridor up to a service entrance and soon found herself out on the street.

Without a cape for protection from the chilly night air and no money to hire a hackney, she hurried along the pavement before coming to an abrupt halt at the crossroads.

With nothing to assist her but the muted light from the lamps, she scoured the streets looking for a familiar sign or building. Nothing captured her attention. Was it left and then right or the other way around? It had all seemed so simple earlier in the evening. She had been so desperate to get to the masquerade that she'd forgotten to make a mental note of the directions.

Mrs. Whitman would have a fit of the vapours if she could see her now.

What sort of lady roams the streets alone at night, she would say, dressed as though she's eager to be tupped at the back of the buttery? Only a naive fool intent on courting trouble.

Hearing raucous laughter spilling out onto the street behind her, she made the quick decision to turn left. She'd only taken a dozen steps when she heard the clip of heels charging along behind her. With her heart stuck in her throat and feeling a strange sense of foreboding, she picked up her skirt and ran.

"Caroline." The frustrated masculine voice called out to her. "Caroline. Wait. I only want to talk."

She didn't want to wait.

She didn't want to talk.

Fear gripped her again, and she wished she could close her eyes and wake up miles from this dreadful place.

The clicking got closer, the culprit's shoes striking the ground with efficient regularity. In the dark, she didn't notice the uneven stone. The loose-fitting gloves provided little protection as she lost her balance and tumbled to the ground. The pain of stubbing her toe was nothing compared to the burning sensation searing her forearms as she slid along the cold slabs.

It took a few seconds for her mind to catch up with her body. But when the large hand grabbed her wrist to pull her up, she cried out in pain as the determined fingers dug into the grazed skin.

"You're hurting me."

"Why are you running from me?" the gentleman said. Ignoring her plea, he swung her around to face him. "I just want to talk to you. I waited for over an hour at the theatre."

So this was Lord Barrington.

Dressed as an Elizabethan courtier with his white stockings and thick ruff, he towered above her, and she felt weak and minuscule in comparison. The grey flecks in his side-whiskers and the prominent lines framing his thin mouth suggested the man was much older than Caroline.

"I must go home," she said, almost losing her gloves as she tried to pull away from his grasp, but he took hold of her hands and refused to let them go.

"Look what you've done." He turned her arms over to reveal the thick pink welts flecked with blood. The lace frill at one elbow dangled loosely. "Why won't you let me take care of you?"

"Please, just let me go. We can talk tomorrow. I need to apply some ointment to the wounds, and it's—"

"You said you would consider my proposal. You said you would give me your answer." He was still panting from overexertion and his sickly sweet breath forced her to turn her head away to inhale. "I do not appreciate being made a fool of."

In theory, his words should have soothed her. Lord Barrington believed he was speaking to Caroline and evidently knew nothing of her disappearance. Yet his eyes held a wild, urgent look as though she was a juicy piece of pie and he couldn't wait to satisfy his slavering chops.

"I … I don't have an answer for you."

"Is it the terms? Do you wish to negotiate?"

Negotiate? He was not buying a horse or items of equipage. "I need more time."

"You'll give me your answer now," he growled jerking her closer. "I cannot spend another night wondering if I'll have you."

Panic flared.

She had no idea what this man was capable of.

With a quick glance left and right, the street appeared to be deserted. But a blanket of fog had begun to descend, the roads ahead disappearing into a blurry haze. If she could run, if she could get a good start, she might be able to lose him.

Grace tried to tug her hands from his grasp. "At least let me remove my mask so we can talk."

Her words seemed to placate him, and he let go of her hands. As she removed her mask, she swiped him across the face with it, ignoring his blasphemous curse as she rushed towards the cloud-like mass. But his strides were longer, his obsession fuelling his determination and he grabbed the back of her dress and pulled her back against his chest. She felt the material strain in protest, heard the delicate threads tear apart.

"I'm taking you home," he said, his tone harsh, unyielding. "You'll not run away from me again."

The sound of carriage wheels rattling over the cobbles caught her attention, and she cried for help as it drew up alongside them. Lord Barrington smothered her mouth with his hand, his arm securing her tight to his body. Grace heard a door open, a gruff command and the dull thud of someone jumping down to the pavement.

"Get your bloody hands off her."

Lord Barrington fell back, pulling her down with him. As he released his grip to shield his face from a barrage of punches, she scurried away, coming to stand near the carriage door.

Despite being a good few inches shorter, Lord Markham delivered a spectacular display of fighting finesse, dodging Barrington's clumsy fists and returning with short, sharp blows to his stomach. Bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, he dealt Barrington a jab to his jaw causing the man to sag to the ground.

Lord Markham glanced over his shoulder and nodded towards the carriage. "Get in."

His eyes appeared darker, dangerously sinister, his voice a little hoarse and he did not need to tell her a second time. As she fell back into the red leather seat, her heart beating so erratically she could hardly catch her breath, she heard Lord Markham telling Barrington to forget what he had seen. It seemed a rather odd thing to say. Even odder was his need to repeat the words over and over again.

Lord Markham yelled to his coachman, climbed inside the carriage and slammed the door before dropping into the seat opposite. As they rumbled along, his ragged breathing penetrated the silence, and she could feel the tension thrumming in the air. Intermittent rays of light from the passing street lamps licked at his irises, which were no longer dark but a bright, vibrant green.