He set the small bottle of oil on the table. He was going to introduce Miss Bryony Greaves to the Oriental pleasures provided by the balm. He was going to talk her into everything and anything he wanted. And she would be quite willing by the time he got through with her. She was half-willing already, and he’d barely kissed her.
She’d discovered the leather-bound volume of erotic engravings beneath the mattress—she’d probably come back for that later. He had to ensure that the best one was there. He had several masterpieces down in the library, more collector’s items than pleasure enhancers, but for a young woman who seemed to know very little about the process it could cover a lot of ground.
He was hard as a rock, and he lazily considered bringing himself off, thinking of her, then changed his mind. He liked the edge frustration brought him. By the time he finally sank into her he was going to be voracious. And so, by God, was she.
He was right, Bryony thought miserably. She was wet between the legs, and the knowledge horrified her. The sky was growing light by the time she’d finished scouring her body with the cold water, scrubbing her teeth to wipe away the distracting taste of him, and she knew sleep was out of the question. She dressed, groaning as she put her shoes on. Once she found out who had destroyed her father she was going to spend a week in bed, being waited on, and she was going to be even more considerate of whoever did the waiting. She would plead with someone to rub her feet, her back, her calves, and she would never think of Kilmartyn again, unless it was to see him hang for his crimes.
The longer she stayed here the less sure she was. He didn’t seem to have the soul of a murderer. But how would she know—she’d never met any murderers in her life.
Even so, there was definitely something going on here, something secret, even something evil, and she couldn’t leave until she discovered exactly what it was, until she was certain it had nothing to do with her father’s destruction. Whether it was Kilmartyn himself, or his spoiled wife, she had no idea, and she was too tired to think about it. All she had to do was get through the day and she would sleep like the dead that night. And she wouldn’t go after that leather-bound volume beneath his mattress until she was absolutely certain he was out of the house. Which had better be soon. The longer she stayed here the more trouble she was in. If she had stayed in his bed one moment longer she would have stayed there all night.
She had to hope that Captain Thomas Morgan was a troll.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE KITCHEN WAS SPOTLESS when Bryony managed to drag herself down there at the shockingly late hour of six-thirty. There were fresh cinnamon rolls baking—she could smell them, and there was only one tray set out. At least they had no idea that Kilmartyn had returned in the middle of the night. They wouldn’t know what she’d been doing in his bedroom. In his bed.
“You poor lass,” Mrs. Harkins greeted her familiarly. “You look so tired. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Greaves,” she added, remembering the hierarchy that seemed to matter so much.
She managed a weary smile. “I didn’t sleep well, I must confess.”
“Well, you just go on into your office and I’ll bring you a nice strong pot of tea and the cinnamon buns when they’re done. That’ll put some heart into you. We won’t need to see the master for a few hours yet.”
“See the master?” she echoed faintly. She glanced back at the single tray. “Has he returned?”
“Some time in the night, apparently. And her ladyship has up and left on one of her long rounds of visits, taking that snooty French maid with her. You never know what’s going to happen in this household, and that’s the Lord’s truth. Her ladyship’s rooms are in a shamble, with no word to the staff.”
“How do you know she’s gone on a visit?”
Mrs. Harkins shrugged. “What else would she be doing? She goes off every now and then, usually after there’s some row with the master. He keeps his distance from her but sometimes… well, her ladyship is the sort who looks for trouble. If you’ll pardon my saying so.”
“And was there a row with the master?” Bryony knew she shouldn’t ask such an intimate question, but she couldn’t help it.
“Bertie says he might have heard some to-do, but he doesn’t remember much.” Mrs. Harkins made a disgusted noise. “It’s not like that boy. He slept like the dead, he did. Didn’t wake when his lordship practically tripped over his feet, and he never saw Lad
y Kilmartyn and her maid when they left. Doesn’t know if she went before or after his lordship returned.”
“Does it matter?”
For a moment Mrs. Harkins looked uncomfortable, and a strange sense of dread began to coil in Bryony’s stomach. “Happen it might. The two of them don’t do too well together, you know. And her room was in such a mess.” She shifted her impressive weight. “I just don’t understand why Bertie didn’t wake up.”
“He’s been working very hard, Mrs. Harkins,” Collins said from the doorway. “It’s no wonder he fell asleep. We shouldn’t be so hard on him.”
Mrs. Harkins managed to sniff in disagreement while she cast Collins a covert glance. “Young Bertie’s a light sleeper, and always has been. He’s been in the household for ten years now, starting out as the boy who brought the coal in, and he’s always been someone who could be counted on.”
Mr. Collins moved farther into the room. “Everyone makes mistakes, my dear Mrs. Harkins.”
The cook’s face flushed becomingly. “Aye,” she said. “No need to go over it. In the meantime, though, I’m that worried about her ladyship. Her room looked like a storm hit it.”
“I’m sure there’s no reason to be troubled about it,” Collins said smoothly, “but if you’d like I can go tidy it up a bit before anyone takes notice. We shouldn’t want her ladyship’s room looking like a pigsty, and my duties at present are very light.”
Bryony frowned, shaking her head. “Certainly not, Mr. Collins. That’s hardly in your purview. One of the maids can tidy it, but there’s no particular hurry if, as it appears, her ladyship has departed for a lengthy visit. How long does she usually stay away, Mrs. Harkins?”
“Two weeks at the very least. Sometimes a month or more, with no word to the master or anyone.”
“Then clearly we can get our usual daily duties taken care of first before we set her ladyship’s rooms to right.” At Mrs. Harkins’s doubtful look she continued, “I’ll go and check on it, see if it requires more than a simple tidying. If it’s that bad Emma can take the two new maids and they’ll get through it in no time.”
“You can’t go now, Mrs. Greaves. His lordship has left word. He wants to go over the menus with us.” Mrs. Harkins looked pleased at the prospect of someone finally caring about her culinary genius.