Page 50 of The Villain
When the butler returned, he once again wore his disdainful expression, his dark eyes searing her like burning, hot coals. Daphne stood to face him, placing her book upon the bench and clasping her hands demurely before her.
“Niall, I—”
“Lady Olivia is not well,” he interjected, fury lending a shaky quality to his voice. “Days like this one—when she’s more like her normal self—are rare. I won’t have ye ruinin’ that.”
She reared back as if he’d struck her, taken aback by the venom in his words. “Ruin it? I did not even know she was here. In fact, I had no idea she was Adam’s stepsister until after she had attacked me. He told me what happened to her … what my brother did.”
“Then you ken why even the sight of ye is enough to send her spiralin’ into madness again,” he retorted. “Keep yer distance, or I’ll make the rest of yer stay at Dunnottar a livin’ hell. The Master might have become obsessed with your cunt, but I haven’t forgotten who ye are and what ye Fairchilds did to her.”
Her mouth fell open, and she struggled to find words to defend herself, to remind him she’d had nothing to do with Olivia’s condition, and the Fairchild name did not mark her as a monster.
Before she could, he was gone, spinning on his heel and striding away with his hands balled into fists at his sides. Snapping her mouth shut, she thought better of it. The sight of her near Olivia had been enough to rile him, and she did not wish to provoke him further.
As she sank back onto the bench, her book forgotten, she stared off across the garden with unseeing eyes. There were many things she still had yet to discover, but one thing had been made exceedingly clear … Niall was in love with Olivia. Whether she returned the sentiment or not, the butler cared for her in a way that went beyond the relationship of a servant and the lady of the house. She had read the devotion in his eyes when he’d gazed upon her, had heard the tenderness in his voice when he’d spoken to her.
Knowing this only made her guilt increase, the number of people her brother had affected with his poor decision-making growing by the day. Olivia. Adam. Niall. All three of them irreparably damaged by the Fairchild family.
“Bertram, you fool,” she whispered. “What have you done?”
Adam remained away from Dunnottar for several more days, during which Daphne nearly went mad from boredom. Her days continued with the same monotony as before, with morning rides and afternoons spent in the music room, library, or garden. She kept her distance from Niall and did not encounter Olivia again. Perhaps the butler had become more vigilant in keeping her out of sight in Adam’s absence, determined to keep her away from Daphne. Maeve continued to treat her with kindness, though went back to being tight-lipped when it came to the subject of Adam or Olivia.
Daphne did not want to admit to herself that she missed Adam’s imposing presence in the castle—that without the fear he inspired, she was bored to tears, that her body remained in a state of heightened arousal, craving his touch. Most of all, she bemoaned the loss of the music he could create, the haunting notes of the pianoforte filling the music room and tugging on something nestled deep inside of her. She found herself visiting the music room for no other reason than to sit before the pianoforte, her fingers lightly stroking over the keys, the pads of her fingers tracing the same places his had been. That inevitably led to remembering the times he’d taken her in this room—on the rug, on top of the piano.
There must be something terribly wrong with her—some defect making her crave depravity. How else could one explain that Adam had been right about her all along—that she longed for brute force and pleasure with pain, complete oblivion over simple gratification? She would never give him the satisfaction of admitting it aloud, but she could no longer fool herself. She had always known there was something setting her apart, a reason no man had ever seemed like the right one.
Lord Hartmoor is the furthest thing from being the right man as could be, she told herself, appalled she might even consider such a notion.
While his cruelty toward her might be justified in light of Bertram’s transgressions, it did not negate the fact that he possessed the capacity for destruction. Despite her body seeming to want him with a madness that could not be explained, her logical mind realized how bad for her this man truly was. If she let him, he would devour her, then use her bones to pick his teeth. That could never happen. She must endure what remained of her time here with her heart and soul intact. And when she left, she would not give in to the urge to look back.
On the fourth day of Adam’s absence, Daphne decided to explore more of the castle on her own, having grown bored of the garden and music room. The mystery and gothic beauty of Dunnottar held her entranced as winding stairways led to various wings she had yet to discover. She found doors leading out into small courtyards—some planted with flowers or arranged with furniture for lounging, others crumbling and overrun with climbing vines and foliage. She liked these places best and loved running her hands over thick vines and ancient stone, wondering what sorts of assignations might have taken place there.
But it was the discovery of secret passageways that truly enthralled her. Pushing aside the fear that she might lose herself in the dark tunnels built into the walls, she had gone in search of a lamp and entered the labyrinth. Swallowed by darkness, she entered in one place and emerged somewhere else, only to discover another passage, another secret, another hidden route from one wing to another.
Before long, she pushed aside a large panel and found herself confronted with a tapestry. Frowning at the heavy thing, she inclined her head, the sound of feminine voices coming at her through the curtain. One of them sounded familiar, even muffled by the thick fabric separating her from whoever stood on the other side. The other was low and sweet, high-pitched.
A child.
Her breath caught in her throat, her lungs burning as she reached one hand out to touch the tapestry. The surface of her skin prickled, gooseflesh rippling over her arms, a tingle traveling down her spine. Not once had she come across any evidence indicating the presence of a child in Dunnottar. Yet, the cheerful giggle carrying through the tapestry was clearly not that of a servant, or even Olivia. There was a distinctive, childlike warmth to it … a lightness unburdened by the cares of someone who had reached maturity.
Her hands shook, the light in her lamp flickering and beginning to sputter out. She’d wandered for so long, the wick had nearly burnt to ash. Some part of her warned that no good could come from entering the room, her instincts telling her to turn back, to go the way she’d come and forget she’d heard the sound of a child’s laughter. Yet, another part of her would not allow her to turn away without investigating the sound, without seeing for herself the final secret Adam had withheld from her.
She slowly peeled the tapestry aside, her throat growing tight as it revealed what appeared to be a nursery. Cheery yellow paper adorned the walls while an ornate chandelier overhead flooded the chamber with light. It had clearly been decorated for a girl—with white lace etching the curtains and pink and white damask upholstery covering miniature pieces of furniture. Skipping ropes, dolls, and other children’s toys littered the carpet while a white rocking horse rested in one corner. A massive doll’s house took up an entire corner of the room, its insides filled with opulent replicas of Chippendale and Hepplewhite furniture. The room was fit for a princess, as opulent a nursery as any that existed in London.
Movement in the center of the room drew her eye, and she found Olivia sitting on a small, child’s chair, her back turned to the open passageway. Daphne recognized the tumble of dark, lustrous hair, as well as the voice speaking in cheerful tones to a person she could not see. A low, round table sat laden with what appeared to be a tea set, and when Olivia fell silent, the child’s voice came again. The girl sat on the other side of the table, blocked from her view by Olivia, who laughed at something the child said. Daphne did not discern a word, the pounding of her heart filling her ears and blotting out all sound.
Her feet moved of their own accord, drawing her deeper into the room, closer to the table. If she ventured close enough, she could lay eyes upon the child. She could see for herself that things could not be as they seemed.
Olivia remained oblivious to Daphne’s presence, lifting a child-sized teapot and pretending to pour tea into a matching cup. However, the child seated across from her glanced up just when Daphne drew close enough to see her over Olivia’s shoulder.
Her footsteps faltered, and the lamp fell from her hand with a thud, the meager flame sputtering out, the odor of kerosene stinging her nostrils as it spread a stain upon the carpet. It became forgotten as she brought that shaking hand over her mouth, choking on a gasp as she stared into the eyes of a child who could not be older than five years of age.
She had the face of an angel, with a tiny button nose, a sweet moue of a mouth, and soft, round cheeks. Her eyes, wide and round, were the same velvety brown as Olivia’s, innocent, and full of mischief. But it was her hair that commanded Daphne’s attention. Long, fat spirals tied back from her face with a pink ribbon … gleaming auburn in the light of the chandelier. The glossy strands bore the unmistakable mark of Fairchild lineage, the decadent red shining with faint gold highlights that would shimmer in the sun.
Daphne drank the girl in, marking off every bit of evidence portraying a truth too shocking to bear. The freckles on the bridge of her nose, the bowed upper lip, the tiny beauty spot just beneath one eye, the evidence of high cheekbones that would become more apparent as she grew older.
That face was her face.
No, not her face …Bertram’sface.
