Page 6 of The Villain
With a smile, he nodded, lowering his hand until it circled her throat. Her eyes went wide, fear creeping back in as the threat of his thumb pressing against her pulse made her want to flee. But she held still, sucking in deep breaths as he caressed the throbbing vein in her throat in a slow circle.
“I am so going to enjoy this,” he said before releasing her and moving back behind his desk.
Unlocking a drawer, he retrieved a stack of bank drafts, pulling one free and laying it flat upon the desk. He glanced up at her as he retrieved a pen and unplugged his inkwell. Then, lowering his head, he filled in the draft. Straightening, he lifted the paper and blew upon it to dry the ink before extending it to her. She could not reach it from where she stood, and he seemed content to wait for her to come to him.
She edged toward him slowly, watching for any sign of duplicity or ill-intent. Once she stood within arm’s reach, would he maul her—drag her into a dark corner of the study and deliver the pain he’d promised?
No, she decided. He was simply trying to frighten her. Yes, Lord Hartmoor had ruined her family; yet, he had never done them physical harm. This was why Daphne had come on this errand alone, knowing no court in England would find him guilty. He had simply manipulated circumstances until reaching his desired outcome. While he might have maneuvered her into this agreement, she saw this as the opportunity it was. She would protect herself from this man—giving him only her body while protecting her heart and soul.
He had destroyed the Fairchild men, but she had always believed women to be made of sterner stuff than their male counterparts. After all, what man could boast surviving the horrors of childbirth again and again? Or suffer the monthly ailments of a woman without languishing until death? Bertram became an infant when attacked by something as minor as a cold.
She could do this.
Shewoulddo this.
Approaching the desk, she glanced down at the bank draft. Sure enough, in his precise, neat scrawl, the promised thirty-thousand pounds was written in, along with his signature. She had never known his given name, but saw it now upon the draft.
Lord Adam Callahan.
“My family …” she began.
“I care not for your family,” he stated.
“They do not know where I have gone,” she insisted. “I should send word—”
“I will see to it they are informed of your well-being,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “You will remain the entire thirty days, or receive nothing. Nor will you learn the entire truth of my vendetta against the men of your family. Do we have an agreement?”
She stared down at the draft and the promise it offered. The possibility of financial security, and of eventually learning the truth. What was the nuisance of her maidenhead in comparison to that? No man would wed her if word spread that she’d dashed off to Scotland alone—not that her family’s troubles hadn’t already left a stain upon her, branding her asdesperateand not quite the diamond of the first water she’d been in her initial Season.
Inclining her head, she met his stare without wavering. And with a handful of words, poised herself within the jaws of the beast.
“We have an agreement … Adam.”
CHAPTER TWO
fter agreeing to Lord Hartmoor’s indecent proposal, Daphne was ushered from the study by the frightening butler—who silently led her back down the winding corridor and along a maze of nearly identical hallways until they had come to a different wing of the palace altogether. Just as she began to wonder just where he was taking her, he paused before one of many carved oak doors and pushed it open.
“Ye’ll sleep here,” he’d said simply, before turning to walk away, leaving her standing in the open doorway.
She had scowled at his back, baffled by this man who must be the most unconventional butler she’d ever encountered. A London servant would have seen to her comfort—offered her something to eat, inquired if she needed someone to fetch the supplies she’d left on the back of her horse. She had decided then to have a word with Adam concerning the hospitality of his house—if he expected her to remain and … service him, then she would expect to be treated with common decency.
Though, as far as she knew, the thirty-thousand-pound bank draft he’d written right in front of her might be the extent of the consideration she’d receive for her sacrifice.
Those thoughts died the moment she stepped into the room and found both a crackling fire and steaming bathtub waiting for her. Beside it stood a young woman in the plain attire of a maid. She had seemed out of place in the dark, imposing castle where a savage lord insisted on being referred to as ‘The Master,’ and large butlers with scarred faces treated guests as if they bothered them by simply existing. With a friendly smile, ruddy cheeks, and blonde hair arranged in a soft chignon, she appeared like a wildflower in the midst of a cracked desert.
“Good evening, my lady,” she said with a curtsy. “The Master has chosen me to act as your lady’s maid during your time here. Would you care for a bath?”
The girl’s accent struck her as distinctively English, a bit more polished than the average servant’s, but still not quite cultured. How did this girl know to curtsy to her and refer to her as ‘lady’? For that matter, how had a room and bath been prepared for her so quickly, when Adam could not have known she would accept his offer? When he’d rung for the butler, he had issued no instructions beyond “escort Lady Daphne to her guest chamber.”
Then, she recalled the murmured conversation she’d heard between the master and butler as she’d stood outside the study. Perhaps the instructions had been given before the conversation had even taken place—which meant he’d known all along that Bertram had not arrived on his doorstep demanding an audience. He’d figured out who she was before he’d even turned to greet her—had assumed with the typical arrogance of men of power than she would accept.
For now, fatigue overwhelmed her, and she did not have it in her to question or argue.
“A bath would be splendid, thank you,” she said to the girl. “What is your name?”
“I am Maeve, my lady,” the maid replied as she approached and began helping Daphne undress. “You poor thing … you must be chilled to the bone. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
The heavy clothes fell in a wet heap on the floor, and Maeve helped her into the bathtub, where she sank into the steaming water with a sigh. She allowed the maid to tend to her, lying against the back of the tub while Maeve took up a sponge and scrubbed her arms, neck, and chest with a sweet-smelling soap. Seeming to disconnect from her body, she let the maid manipulate her like a rag doll, shifting her about to reach different areas of her body.
