Page 4 of The Villain
Vexation finally overcame the fear he’d inspired in her, and she reached out to jab him in the chest with her index finger. “Now, see here! I did not brave ruin and illness in this horrific weather to come here and be mocked. I am owed an explanation, and I will have it, my lord … the sooner, the better so I might take my leave.”
Turning his back on her, he rounded the desk toward the large seat behind it. He seemed content to take his time sitting—pulling the chair out and lowering himself into it. Then, tipping it back on two legs, he lifted first one foot, then the other, carefully balancing them on the desk. He seemed completely at ease in the precarious position, only frustrating her further. The urge to rush the desk and push him over seized her hard and fast. However, she was angry, not suicidal.
“I warn you now, my lady … your queries will not bring you peace,” he said, avoiding her gaze and staring off somewhere across the study. “Young ladies like you are sheltered for a reason—going straight from the schoolroom and out to secure a husband who will pamper and cosset you just as your father has. You, with your lily-white skin protected by bonnets and parasols, your hands as soft as the day you were born … like a little dove in a cage to be admired by the men who protect you.”
She opened her mouth to deny his claims, to insist he was wrong about her. However, his words struck her as being annoyinglytrue, and the words died on her tongue. Like any other young, unwed lady, she had been sheltered and protected, kept from seeing any of the world’s ugliness. However, the destruction of everything her family held dear had prompted her to seek the truth—to purposely unearth the things that had been hidden from her.
It had frustrated her to no end the way her father and brother had passively accepted the blows this man had dealt them … refusing to fight back, to do anything to stop him. Her mother had never been a strong woman, seeming content to follow her husband’s dictates always.
That left her, the only person who had possessed the courage to confront the person responsible for their ruin. She would not be put off.
Drawing herself up to her full height, she took a deep breath and tried again.
“I am no schoolroom chit,” she insisted. “I am four and twenty years of age, and know far more about the world than you might think. For instance, I know there are men like you who delight in hurting others, in taking what does not belong to you, pilfering things like some great dragon gathering treasure in his dark cave.”
He smirked at that, bringing the thumb of his left hand against his fingers. Rubbing the thumb against the pad of each digit, he eyed her boldly, assessing. The motion repeating over and over, he issued a silent challenge. She tore her gaze from his, only to find it falling to that hand, to the thumb caressing each finger in what felt like a calculated gesture.
“I would pilferyou, little dove. I’d drag your cage into my lair and hang you from the ceiling, admiring you whenever I wish. Is that why you’ve come?”
A bitter taste filled her mouth at his insinuation, her face heating at what his words implied. “How dare you—”
“No, my lady, how dareyou,” he snapped, suddenly straightening and allowing his feet to fall to the floor, the boots echoing with a loud thud. “You come here—in the middle of the night, no less—and demand answers of me. Answers to questions which you are not ready for, may never be fully prepared to hear. I warn you again to turn around and walk back through that door. Leave this place, now, and take the last shred of your dignity with you. This is the last time I will make such an offer.”
The weight of his words hung heavy on the air between them, the threat in them clear. What would he do if she refused to leave? Would he hurt her physically? Tear her down with cruel words? Perhaps he spoke true—turning around and leaving now might be best. If she rode hard and fast, she could be back in London before any lasting damage had been done to her reputation. Her family would cover her disappearance as well as they were able until she returned. It was not too late to go back.
But no … she could not go back. Not now. Not when she’d already lost so much.
“I would have the answers to my questions, and damn your notions of what I can or cannot handle!” she cried, her voice quivering with the force of her frustration.
She’d asked her brother why such bad blood existed between them and Lord Hartmoor, but Bertram had simply shrugged and given her a baffled look.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea, Daff,” he had replied. “I’d never met the man in my life before he set about ruining me.”
Which could only mean Hartmoor had his own motives—something driving him that she must uncover if she had any hope of making things right.
Not that she possessed any idea how to go about doing so.
Slowly rising from his chair, he curled his hands into fists and braced them upon the surface of the desk. He leaned forward a bit, the powerful muscles in his shoulders bunching beneath his shirt. He stared up at her, and the firelight turned his eyes to liquid gold.
“Very well,” he said, his voice ominously low. “Have it your way. I shall reveal the reason behind my actions to you … over the span of thirty days, and thirty nights.”
Daphne frowned, bemused. “I do not understand.”
“No,” he murmured, coming upright and circling the desk to approach her again. “But I will explain. I am aware of your family’s … desperate situation.”
“Naturally,” she growled from between clenched teeth. “You caused it.”
He shrugged as if they were discussing the weather and continued. “I am prepared to write you a bank draft for thirty thousand pounds.”
Her eyes widened at the absurd sum. It was three times the amount of her dowry, which her father had used to pay his debts. And even then, it hadn’t been enough. The debts had continued to pile up, threatening their livelihood more and more by the day.
Thirty thousand pounds … it would be enough to set everything right, though it might never repair Bertram’s broken engagement. No matter. Her brother was a handsome man, sharing her auburn hair and blue eyes—Fairchild traits passed down through the generations. He was known among the members of thetonfor his quick smile and easy charm. There would be other women, other chances for Bertram to make a good match.
But, the money … there would never be another opportunity like this one. A chance to earn enough to pull the Fairchilds back from the brink of poverty.
“And in return?” she prodded, certain this man—thismonster—would not simply offer her the money for nothing.
“In return, you will remain here at Dunnottar for thirty days and nights, with me,” he murmured, reaching up to grasp the plait running down into the collar of her jacket. He yanked it free—not gently—and fisted it in his massive hand, studying it as if it fascinated him to no end.
