She pushed back, wobbled slightly, and then gave up as his hand clamped around her arm, pulling her away. “Let’s have this conversation away from the stairs, Emma,” he murmured. “I don’t want you breaking your bloo— your silly neck.”
“You can say ‘bloody.’ I do.” Her verbal efforts to keep him at a distance were failing miserably, and she shook her head, trying to sharpen her mind, but it only succeeded in making her feel dizzier.
“Emma.” In the dark his voice was even more mesmerizing, rich and deep. It was the kind of voice that could soothe her to sleep, warm her, enchant her. . .
“Don’t call me Emma,” she muttered, squirming a bit to break free of him. He didn’t let go. “What are you doing up here?” Was he going to say, looking for you, Mrs. Cadbury? And she would ask why, and he would say. . .
“My rooms are here. In fact, I know for certain your rooms are in the opposite direction. Allow me to escort you back and I’ll have some food brought up to you.”
Noooo, she wanted to shriek, but she kept her inexplicable panic under control. “I assure you there’s no need,” she said, pleased to sound more alert. “I’m not really hungry after all.”
“There’s every need. You must have met my mother on one of your many visits—she would box my ears if she heard I was capable of such shabby behavior.” There was a moment’s silence between them. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ve done far worse than a slight lapse in courtesy, worse than you could even imagine. Nevertheless, I am doing my best to atone for at least some of my misdeeds, and you are being escorted back to your room whether you like it or not.”
The darkness was disorienting. She could make out his outline, and he seemed to loom over her, for all that she was a tall woman. “I don’t need imagination to know of the hideous things men are capable of. I doubt it would hock me.” She was trying for a practical note. “Anyway, I’ve visited here far more often than you have, and I’m sure I know it better,” she said. “You’d probably get lost getting back.”
“I never get lost. Not even in the Afghan mountain passes.” His voice was expressionless. “What are you afraid of, Emma? Do you think I intend to force my way into your room and ravish you?”
“Most people wouldn’t believe it possible to rape a whore.” She should never have said such a thing, she thought belatedly. Standing there, cocooned in the dark with him, the last thing they should be discussing was sex.
She sensed more than saw him shrug. “That’s a matter requiring vigorous intellectual debate and I’m not in the mood. If you don’t want to prolong our time together you should stop arguing.”
“I’d adore to have you escort me to my room, Lord Brandon,” she said promptly in a breathy little voice, a perfect imitation of a society miss.
His short laugh was more disturbing than almost anything else—it was warm and good-humored, sounding more like the wounded soldier and less like the embittered man who’d returned to her life. “I should have threatened you earlier.” He released his grip on her. “Your arm, Mrs. Cadbury?”
It was too dark to see him clearly, and the last thing she wanted to do was touch him more than socially necessary. Maybe Mr. Perfect who never got lost had excellent night vision in those quite remarkable eyes. She raised her arm blindly, only to accidentally hit him in the chest. She tried to leap back but he caught her, pulled her back against him, his strong arm going around her waist.
“You are the most skittish female I’ve ever known,” he said dryly. “I can’t believe you’re capable of slicing into human bodies without a qualm when you can hardly stand to be in the presence of a male. Unless, for some reason, it’s just me who seems to unnerve you.”
“Given my previous profession, I have a very reasonable fear of your sex, Lord Brandon,” she said, inwardly groaning at her inadvertent use of the word “sex.”
There was a moment of silence. “I assure you, Emma, that you have absolutely no reason to fear me,” he finally said, and in the darkness her heightened senses thought she could hear guilt and regret in his voice.
No reason at all, she thought, letting him guide her through the darkness. She needed to get away from him so desperately that she was willing to do anything. He could even slam her up against a wall and take her if that would hurry things along—at least it could clarify her unsettled feelings. Then she could simply hate him.
He wanted her, and she knew it. He wanted her body, she clarified in her mind as they moved through the darkness, and he was a soldier, a gentleman, someone used to taking what he wanted, and she was a whore. If he decided to take her there was little she could do to fight him. She’d survive, as she’d survived far worse.
But if her sweet, broken boy forced himself on her that might truly break what tiny portion of her heart had remained whole. He wasn’t the gravely wounded, charming man in the hospital bed who spent the long dark nights of pain holding her hand and telling her stories. Once they’d taken him away from her he’d sunk to the very depths, and then managed to patch himself up, an inexpert job, to be sure, but serviceable. The lost boy was gone forever, and the man with his strong arm around her waist was a dark, troubled stranger.
They traversed slowly, in silence, so close that she could feel her skirts brush against his long legs, so close that she could feel the almost infinitesimal hitch in his left leg. She’d seen the ruined disaster, she’d changed the dressings on the torn muscles, the shattered bones. The fact that he could walk at all was astonishing—that he could disguise the lingering effects of such a wound so well was a testament to his strength and will.
Suddenly he halted, and his arm dropped free, so that she was alone in chilly darkness. “Tell me one thing, Emma, and if you lie to me I’ll know it.”
“I don’t lie,” she said stiffly, a perfect lie. Oh, God, what now? The truth was a dangerous commodity, one she used sparingly. She was so versed in dissimulation that he would never guess.
“Did we meet during that dark time in my life? Did I cause you some injury? Those months are clouded in my memory, but I know full well I did terrible things. Did I do them with you?”
She didn’t have to feign her shock. “Of course not, Lord Brandon. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Call me Brandon.”
“No!” She moved a step back, and he let her, still close enough to catch her if she wavered again. She was still in danger. It had been so long since she’d been near a rutting male, but she recognized the breed. It didn’t matter if he was a far cry from the soft old men she’d pleasured. Her body could feel his tension, his desire. “How would I have ever frequented your circle of acquaintance?”
“Emma, I was a member of the Heavenly Host. We had orgies, we hired women, we debased them and ourselves in unspeakable ways. Were you one of them?”
A measure of relief swept through her. She didn’t even need to lie. “I was never in the company of those depraved ‘gentlemen.’” Her voice dripped with contempt. “And I had ceased practicing my profession years before you returned to England.”
He was silent for a moment, and she congratulated herself. Too soon, she thought, when he spoke again. “And we never met before this week?”