Page 40 of The Villain
Most of all, she could not comprehend the sheer agony she’d just witnessed upon Adam’s face, the hard and rigid lines melting into an expression of despair so acute, she’d felt it to her core.
“Come, my lady,” Maeve urged, coming forward to gently grasp her arm. “Oh, you’ve been gouged something awful. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Glancing numbly down at herself, she noticed the evidence of her encounter with Livvie, the deep gouges in her chest and the tiny beads of blood welling in the nicks. She realized she ought to feel something—the sting left over from the rake of nails, the hot, sticky blood. Yet, she remained alarmingly desensitized as Maeve led her back to her chamber, settling her before the vanity.
Staring off blankly across the room, she remained passive, letting Maeve clean her wounds and dab a strong-smelling tincture onto them, then a soothing ointment of aloe. She did not bother to demand answers from the maid, knowing it would gain her nothing. When the time was right, she would have to confront Adam about what she had seen and heard.
One thing she realized without having to be told … Livvie was clearly the woman her brother, uncle, and father had ruined. Based upon her present condition, Daphne had no doubt in her mind they had deserved every blow Adam had dealt them in retaliation. And, for being ignorant to what the men of her family had done—the grievous sins that had led to the madness of an innocent young woman—perhaps, she did, too.
CHAPTER NINE
aphne tossed and turned in bed for hours after Maeve had left her, unable to close her eyes without seeing the tortured faces of Livvie, Adam, and Niall. The few times she drifted toward sleep, the memory of the woman’s screams filled her mind, snapping her awake in an instant.
Fairchild … No … You will not take her from me!
There could be no denying she’d seen Bertram’s features when looking upon Daphne, the blue of her eyes and the red of her hair clearly marking her as a Fairchild. Whatever had been done to her must go beyond simple ruination. It had to have been something so heinous and depraved, the simple sight of Daphne had disturbed the victim to the point of no return.
The guilt that assailed her mingled with the curiosity in her gut—the need to know more, to uncover what remained of the truth. If there was anything she could do to make it right, besides surrendering her pride and her maidenhead to Adam, she must do it. It rested upon her to make things right, even if she had no notion how.
Sighing, she sat up in bed, rubbing her bleary eyes. Despite being more exhausted than she’d ever been, she could not find rest, could not sleep with her conscience weighing so heavily upon her. The four walls of her chamber boxed her in, forcing her into a confined space with her turbulent thoughts and emotions.
Desperate for escape, she stood, pulling on her dressing gown once more. The sun would rise soon, and she had given up all hope of getting any rest. A book from the library might serve to distract her until … well, until Adam came for her, she supposed. After the way he and Niall had looked at her, as if she were the foulest thing they’d ever laid eyes upon, she should not expect that to happen soon.
She stepped out into the corridor and turned in the direction of the library, her steps faltering as the detected notes of music on the air. Frowning, she looked to the music room door, which stood ajar, the soft glow of yellow candlelight spilling out into the hallway.
Whoever occupied the room played the pianoforte beautifully, with a mastery born from years of practice and dedication. The haunting melody drew her forward, its lilting notes resounding through her entire body from scalp to toes. As if pulling her along with an invisible tether, it urged her to the doorway, lifted her hand to the heavy panel, and prompted her to push it open.
Seated on the cushioned bench with his hands moving lightly over the ivory keys, she found Adam. It was the last person she had expected to discover making the beautiful music—his large hands and meaty fingers seeming made for destruction instead of art. Yet, he hunched over the instrument, his digits moving over it as if he caressed a lover or greeted a long-lost friend.
His hair spilled down his back, the firelight illuminated the golden strands within the brown. The rigid tension in his back had melted away, and even from behind, she could tell the music soothed him—that putting his fingers to keys brought him focus in the same way manipulating harp strings made her feel.
She was not familiar with the piece he played, but it struck her as beautiful in a macabre sort of way. In the way that a blossom growing from a crack in the hard desert floor might be. In the way that his hand striking her arse created both pleasure and pain in one blissful, excruciating act.
Her feet propelled her forward again, until she stood just behind him, close enough to detect the rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath, to smell the aroma of cedar and cigar smoke emanating from him. It tangled with the sting of brandy, and she spied the nearly empty decanter placed atop the instrument, a half-full tumbler beside it.
How long had he been in here, seeking solace with the pianoforte and drowning himself in spirits?
A pause occurred in the music, his fingers pounding a discordant note before going still. He turned his head just far enough to peer at her over his shoulder.
“Why are you here?” he rasped, his voice low and grating, the words slightly slurred from the effects of brandy.
A nodule of anxiety lodged in her throat, but she choked it down, closing her eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath before plunging in.
“I … I came to say …”
The firelight illuminated the molten gold pooling in the prisms of his eyes, the rage simmering with a red-orange light within the depths. Coming here—intruding upon his solitude when he was in such a state—had been a terrible mistake.
Throwing one leg over the piano bench, he turned to face her. The half-empty tumbler sat in his large hands, the amber liquid glistening.
“What, little dove?” he snapped, biting off his nickname for her as if it were an epithet. “What have you come to say?”
She cast her gaze downward, unable to abide the revulsion emanating from his eyes … the evidence of the depth of his hatred for her and her entire family.
“I am so very sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick from the tears she fought not to shed.
His upper lip curled back from his teeth, a snarl rumbling ominously from deep within his gut. The sound, filled with turmoil and wrath, sent her skittering back toward the door. Her pulse raced, the instinct for self-preservation prompting her to reach out for the doorknob, to seek escape.
He moved with a swiftness that stole her breath, taking what was left of his brandy in one swallow and tossing the tumbler across the carpet with a thud. Then, he was lunging across the room and reaching past her to slam the door shut before she could slip through. Bracing one hand against the panel, he loomed over her, the burning scent of brandy stinging her nostrils when he parted his lips to speak.
