Page 38 of The Villain
“You play beautifully,” he had said, keeping his voice low as if loath to break the spell. “It has been some time since a person with your skill has laid their hands on those strings.”
Her brow furrowed as she studied him, taken aback by the way that confession transformed his face, his eyes darkening as if storm clouds had gathered, his mouth pinching at the corners. Like the garden, he spoke of the harp as if it belonged to someone important, someone who no longer resided at Dunnottar, but who had meant something to him.
“Did you love her?” she’d asked, uncertain why anticipating the answer should make her hold her breath.
He’d held her gaze for a long moment before answering, a thousand expressions warring with each other upon his face, even as it remained implacable, unmoving. His eyes had betrayed him, giving Daphne her answer before he spoke.
“Aye,” he’d rasped.
The single word had held within in notes of anger and rage, which had only baffled her more. If he’d loved her, then why such bitterness at the reminder of her?
“What happened to her?”
Then, it had dawned on her … the reason she was here, the reason Adam had declared war upon her family.
“Bertram,” she’d declared before he could reply. “He happened to her.”
Nodding slowly, he had crossed one leg over the other, his hands flexing and clenching as if he wished to use them upon something—to break and destroy. The power in those thick, blunt fingers, the veins pulsing along the backs of his hands, had sent a shudder through her.
“Now you’ve begun untangling the threads,” he replied. “It is quite a bit more complicated than that, little dove, but in short … aye. Bertram happened to her.”
Without another word, he’d stood and quit the room, taking his things with him and leaving the door hanging open. She’d sat upon the stool for what had felt like countless more hours, turning over the mystery Adam had presented in her mind. Someone he loved—a woman—had been ruined by Bertram. Who had the woman been? He’d claimed to have no wife; yet, the harp and the garden here at Dunnottar told a different story.
Shaking her head, she’d sighed, realizing it still made no sense. Lord Hartmoor was known as a confirmed bachelor and had not been publicly attached to any woman that she was aware of. Perhaps a mistress or lover, some woman he had lived with in sin or had a secret liaison with.
Yet, there remained the accusation leveled against her uncle … the charge of murder. If Adam believed Bertram had raped this woman, then surely, he also believed William had killed her? What part did he believe her father had played in all this? What reason would they have for preying upon a presumably innocent woman?
The questions plagued her for days, robbing her of sleep and focus, the only times she could cast off the thoughts being her time spent dueling with Adam or practicing the harp.
By the fifth night, she had gone nearly mad with wondering. Rising from her bed, she had pulled on a dressing gown over her negligee, hoping some time in the music room could soothe her mind. She did not know where in the palace Adam’s bedchamber might be located, but felt certain it was not near enough to the music room that she would wake him. In the morning, she would attempt to draw more answers from him, even if it provoked him to take her over his knee or force his cock down her throat. Anything would be better than this place of stillness, the torment of not knowing enough to understand the things happening around her.
She had just stepped out of her room when a strange sound drew her gaze to the bend in the corridor—the turn leading deeper into the palace, down the hallway Adam had warned her never to trespass upon. Her steps faltered, her throat constricting as the noise came again, reverberating down the corridor and echoing off the high ceiling. Clutching the sides of her robe with shaking hands, she turned to glance down the darkened hallway, only slightly illuminated by the moonlight streaming in from the windows of the main hall.
The sound came again, closer this time, its pitch unmistakable.
The shrieks of a woman.
Whoever she might be, she sounded half mad, howling and crying as if possessed by some unholy demon. Daphne wrestled with herself, half of her wanting to retreat into her room and close the door, blocking out the sound, the other half dying to know who the woman in the forbidden wing might be, and what made her scream as if her very soul had been set on fire.
The decision was snatched from her hands when an apparition materialized at the end of the corridor, glowing white like a specter. It raced toward her, its screams reaching out to her, freezing her in place and causing her blood to run cold.
It was the woman, she realized, a thin, white nightgown draping her body, dark hair streaming behind her like pitch black silk. Her face glowed as pale as her gown, wide, desperate eyes unseeing, unfocused, registering something in the air Daphne could not see.
She ran toward Daphne, tears streaming down her face, her bare feet thudding against the carpet. As she drew closer and it became apparent that she did not mean to slow or stop, Daphne began to backpedal, panic flaring in her gut. Whoever this woman was, she clearly did not possess all her mental faculties and might even prove dangerous.
Before she could duck back into her room, the strange woman was upon her, crying and sobbing as she took hold of the lapels of Daphne’s dressing gown.
“Please,” she sobbed, the long, heavy strands of her hair falling into her face and obscuring her features. “Don’t let them take me away … don’t let them hurt me!”
Pity lanced through her as the woman clutched her, trembling and sniffling, clearly terrified by whatever threat she imagined chased her. She was no more than the slip of a girl, slender and petite, the large eyes peering at Daphne through the curtain of hair seeming overlarge in a gaunt face.
Reaching out to grasp the woman’s arms, she forced a smile and tried to steady her voice. “It is all right. I will not let anyone hurt you. I am Daphne Fairchild. What is your name?”
The girl’s head snapped up suddenly, large, brown eyes connecting with Daphne’s. They widened, and the woman’s grip on her arms tightened painfully.
“Fairchild,” she growled, her pupils spreading and darkening her eyes, the snarl echoing ominously down the corridor. “Fairchild!”
Daphne let out a scream of her own as the woman’s body collided with her, throwing her onto the thick rug, falling on top of her in a heap. Hands lashed out at her, nails scraping her face and neck, grasping handfuls of her hair and yanking viciously.
