Page 46 of The Villain
“Have a care, little dove,” he warned suddenly. “I might have been drunk last night, but that does not mean I was not well aware of what I was doing or who I was doing it to. I hardly think you would relish being thrown on your hands and knees on this staircase and ravaged. Or … perhaps you would. Provoke me, and perhaps I will forget your body needs a reprieve and put that to the test.”
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she backed away from him, clasping her skirts in shaking hands. Fear lanced through her at the image he conjured, and she could practically feel the cold, hard steps digging into her knees and the palms of her hands as he took her from behind as mindlessly and brutally as he had when taking her maidenhead.
Yet, her core clenched in longing, the tips of her breasts pebbling and insides melting into molten fire. God help her, he had awakened something she was not certain she could ever put back to sleep. Some filthy thing in the depths of her soul that craved depravity … sex … oblivion.
She wanted to test him, to take a step toward him and see what it earned her, see what challenging him would result in. Instead, she retreated a few paces, which seemed to free him from the thrall. He disappeared swiftly down the staircase, leaving her in the hollow corridor alone.
Another sleepless night drove Daphne back to the music room, where she hovered in the doorway, staring listlessly at the pianoforte. Her heart sank when she entered to find it empty, though she did not know why she cared. It should be a relief to return to this place she’d begun to think of as a haven and find solitude. She most certainly did not care that Adam did not occupy the space, or that the evocative composition he’d played in the early hours before dawn no longer reverberated from these walls.
She approached the harp, reaching out to caress its strings, stroke her fingers over the golden angels. As she sank onto the low stool, her gaze flitted to the spot on the floor where Adam had ravaged her. Despite the rug remaining pristine, she imagined it carried a mark from their encounter, a stain that could never be washed clean. It confronted her accusingly, reminding her of the dark things that had happened here, of the twisted desires he had pulled from deep inside her, forcing her to confront and accept them.
Closing her eyes, she embraced the harp, seeking succor in the music. Louis Sphor’sFantasia in C Minorflew from her fingers without a second thought, despite it having been years since she’d laid eyes upon the sheet music. She didn’t need it to remember each note, to let them carry her away. She kept her eyes closed and ignored the invisible stain upon the rug and the ache it caused in her chest. Her mind became lighter than air, and she floated away with the music.
She moved into another composition, one she had long forgotten the name of. It had been one of her first, though, and she played it as effortlessly as she hadFantasia. It was not until she neared the end that she realized she was not alone, that her music was no longer the only sound filling the confined space.
Opening her eyes, she found Adam seated at the pianoforte, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal his strong forearms. The muscles stretched with fluid grace as his hands moved over the keys, playing in accompaniment to her composition. The two sounds melded and became one—strings and keys intertwining into harmonious notes flitting about on the air around them.
He sat with his profile presented to her, his gaze cast someplace she could not see. So, she openly watched him, traced the angle of his sharp, stubble-roughened jaw, roamed the undulating strands of his hair, soaked in the bunch and roll of his shoulders beneath the pristine white shirt.
Like last night, his expression had melted into one of stillness and peace as he played, the cares of the day washing away until he existed as one with the music … and, in a way, with her. They played together naturally, Adam guiding her wordlessly into another composition, then another. After what felt like hours, they finally finished, reaching the end of their fifth composition without him flowing into another.
Daphne rested her instrument on the carpet, releasing a deep sigh as her body began registering the strain of playing for so long. Her fingers had grown tired, her shoulders and back aching from sitting so perfectly erect.
Adam had hunched on the bench, hands in his lap as he stared down at his keys. From where she sat, he appeared despondent … grieved. She wondered if he had just come from Livvie, if the young woman had suffered another episode. Pity she did not wish to feel settled in her gut, causing her heart to twist violently in her chest. Without the anger he wore like a mantle, he appeared a pitiful creature … a lion licking at the thorn in his paw. If she thought he would not maul her to death for drawing too close, she might have wished to help him remove it, to soothe the ache that obviously plagued him.
Folding her hands in her lap, she cleared her throat. “Where did you learn to play?”
He did not spare her a glance, reaching up to press his first finger to one of the keys. The long note rang out, quickly fading away without another on its heels to lend it strength.
“My mother,” he replied, his voice low as if he were as loath to disturb the peace they had found together as she was. “Not a pastime typically taught to sons, but I was all she had. This was her instrument … an extravagant wedding gift from my father. I spent hours in here sitting on this bench beside her, watching her play, matching the notes to the keys she struck. One day, I snuck in here alone and played an entire composition on my own. I was only five years of age.”
She gasped, awed by the revelation that Adam was a bit of a musical savant. She’d heard of such people, but had never met one in person.
“You do not read sheet music,” she observed aloud.
He shook his head. “I never needed to. There was something in me that seemed to understand the music without it. My father did not like it, but Mother saw what I had and nurtured it. While I am also adequate with the violin, harp, and cello, I never excelled at any instrument like I did the pianoforte.”
She smiled at the thought of a young Adam sharing the piano bench with his mother, his little legs swinging inches off the floor, his hair tousled by affectionate hands.
“What of Olivia? Did you teach her the pianoforte?”
At last, he turned to gaze at her, the troubled expression on his face deepening and causing her chest to tighten painfully.
“No,” he replied. “Olivia loved the harp and played it better than anyone I’d ever heard … until you. It is why I took to calling her butterfly, for the way her hands would flit over those strings, so light and swift.”
Staring at the golden instrument resting in front of her, she sighed, sadness slumping her shoulders. The beautiful harp had belonged to Livvie, no doubt—yet another thing Bertram had stolen from her, ensuring she could never enjoy it again.
“I purchased that harp for her on her birthday,” he added. “When she reached seven and ten … just before setting off on my Grand Tour. She loved the bloody thing. When I returned from the Continent to assume my place as the earl, I purchased Dunnottar and created this music room. I thought playing again might heal her … make her feel more like herself.”
He did not have to say the words that hung on the air between them—did not have to tell her he could hardly get her to look at the harp now, let alone touch her fingers to the strings.
She parted her lips, but then snapped them shut. She had been on the verge of apologizing, of uttering the words she knew would only infuriate him. Because her apologies meant nothing … because expressing her regret would not give him his sister back or assuage her guilt.
“Come here.”
His words turned her blood to ice water in her veins, a shiver of dread rolling down her spine. He did not look at her, did not seem impatient for her to obey his command. Perhaps because he knew she would obey, if for no other reason than to make it easy on herself.
Clenching and opening her hands, she slowly rose from the stool and forced her limbs into motion. She became aware of her cunt, still aching from their first joining, and her breasts, her nipples which had turned into hard points at just the sound of his voice and what his command suggested. Would he use her again, tear her clothes from her body and throw her to the floor?
