Page 3 of A Raven Reborn

Looking beneath the blanket, she was still dressed in that horrible piece of lingerie Madame Bustier had forced her to wear. Luckily, a robe hung from the post at the foot of the bed and whether it was left for her or not, she put it on. The heavy, green, velvet robe wrapped nearly twice around her and reached the floor, but it was better than the wisp of fabric she wore beneath. In fact, it was absolutely luxurious with its soft warmth.

Hushed male voices came from the other side of the door. Rosalyn quickly tied the sash, her heartbeat accelerating inside her chest. She swallowed a lump in her throat. The thick carpet was soft beneath her feet and muffled her steps as she crept across the room and pressed her ear to the cold wooden door, but she still couldn’t make out any of their words. Was it better to wait for someone to come into the room? Or should she face whoever it was head on?

Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she opened the door a crack and peered down the corridor.

ChapterTwo

Two men stood, arguing quietly, both of them tugging on a tray of food. When the man facing her saw her appear, his face lit and he let go of the tray and hurried past the other man.

“You must be Rosie!” He was surprisingly cheerful. “I’m Finch.” He gave her a little bow. No one had ever bowed to her in her life. What was she supposed to do? “I, well… I do pretty much everything around here. Not that you’d guess that from the lack of appreciation I get.” He gestured with his head toward the other man, who was now approaching with the tray.

It was the man from the brothel. He loomed over Finch, his stern gaze sending a message that Finch reluctantly received. She had forgotten just how large he was.

“We’ll continue this later, then.” With a little huff, Finch turned and retreated down the hall.

Rosalyn backed into the room, allowing the man to enter. His broad shoulders nearly filled the doorway as he came through. He closed the door behind him, and only then did it occur to her that perhaps she should have armed herself.

“Good morning,” he said with a brief smile. He placed the tray on the table beside the large armchair. Somehow, in the daylight, he didn’t feel quite so intimidating. Obviously, he was powerful, but the anger from last night seemed to have dissipated.

“Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward the chair and moved out of her way. “You must be hungry.”

She hadn’t realized until he said the words, but she was, in fact, ravenous. As she settled into the plush leather chair, he grabbed the wooden one from in front of the writing desk and situated himself across from her.

“Finch may not be the best cook, but I’m quite certain he hasn’t poisoned your food.” There was warmth in his smile as he nodded toward the tray, and it confused her, but she began to eat anyway.

Not the best cook was stating it kindly. The toast was charred, and the sausage was so tough, it more closely resembled shoe leather than food. In fact, everything on the tray was barely edible, and only that because she hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days. How was it that a man who lived in this place would be served such unsatisfactory food?

“Finch is your cook?” she asked, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. She set the now empty plate aside and quickly took a large gulp of tea, trying to wash the abysmal taste from her mouth. To her amazement, the tea was incredible. She took another sip, just to be sure her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. It was perfection.

The man chuckled. “He does the task of preparing meals on occasion, but I’d hardly call him a cook.”

Rosalyn couldn’t bring herself to argue with that statement. Instead, she said, “This tea is delicious.” She sipped at it again.

“Yes, well, I may put up with terrible food, but I draw the line at improperly brewed tea. Serving me a pot of bitter swill just might get him thrown out on his ear.” He ended the statement with a wink, that for some reason, made her draw in a quick breath.

She laughed nervously, not entirely sure whether he was joking or not. How did he make her feel so off balance?

“So, Rosie.” Rosalyn cringed inwardly at the use of the name Madame Bustier had christened her with. Apparently, no man would want to bed a Rosalyn. It felt a bit churlish to correct him after all he’d done for her. Besides, perhaps Madame Bustier was right. He might not want her as Rosalyn.

“I suppose I should start by introducing myself. My name is Patrick, and this is my home.”

Rosalyn didn’t know what to say, or if she should say anything at all. She settled for a subtle nod and a smile that hopefully didn’t appear forced.

“Well, now that you’re fed, I’m afraid we need to get to some even less pleasant business.”

Rosalyn nodded. Her mouth had gone dry, and even if her brain was able to conjure some words, it was doubtful her lips would cooperate. They were in his bedroom for heaven’s sake, what had she expected? That he had brought her here just to feed her and have pleasant conversation? Her eyes flicked nervously to the huge bed.

“No, not that kind of business.” He held up his hands in a reassuring gesture. Apparently, her thoughts had shown on her face. “I only meant that we need to talk about things, which may be of a personal nature, and if I’m to help you, you’ll need to be completely honest with me.”

Well, talking sounded better than what she’d thought was about to happen, regardless of the topic. “Very well.” Her voice cracked slightly.

He closed his eyes, and as he shook his head, the sunlight that shone from the window danced through his hair, transforming it from just plain brown, into a kaleidoscope of reds and golds, and for some reason she itched to run her fingers through it. A deep chuckle reverberated within his chest. “I’m not making it sound any better, am I?”

She fidgeted nervously with the fabric sleeves of his robe, still not sure if she was supposed to say something or not.

“I’ll get straight to it, then.” He took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. “Firstly, I hope I was correct in my assumption that you had no wish to remain at Maison Rouge.”

“I…” She paused. Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks at the memory of their first encounter. Before now, she hadn’t had time to feel anything other than terrified. But now, sitting across from him, wrapped in his robe, shame filled her stomach like a lead weight. It roiled, threatening to cast up the food she’d just eaten. Of course she hadn’t wanted to be there, but the answer wasn’t that simple.

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