You could let go of fear and worry, Emma. Put yourself into my keeping. You could trust me to give you everything you need.
A shiver ran through her. She ought to have been shocked. Disgusted.
Instead, his words set off a deep, explosive resonance that shook the foundations of her being.
’Twas a yearning she could put no words to—an urge so terrifying that for the first time in her life, she’d not only stood down, but fled. Only she couldn’t run from herself. From the strange, mortifying,exhilaratingimpulses that Strathaven had awakened her.
She’d dreamed of him last night. Of them, tangled skin against skin. In sleep, she had no control over her will, and she’d let him do everything he’d described to her. His hands, his mouth, his command... Pleasure had trapped her like a bell jar, and there’d been no escaping the confines of her own surrender. He’d owned her breath, her body, her soul—and she’d never felt more free. She’d awoken bathed in perspiration, the tips of breasts pebbled and throbbing, her sex slick with dew...
“I don’t think I’ll have much use for a new wardrobe,” Violet droned on. “I’m planning on joining Astley’s and becoming a circus performer.”
“That’s nice, dear,” Emma said.
Silence met her words.
She looked up from the bowl. “Sorry,” she sighed. “I wasn’t listening, was I?”
“Not to a single word I was saying.” Vi’s golden-brown eyes narrowed. “Whatisthe matter with you, anyway? You’ve been acting strangely all this week.”
“Nothing’s the matter. I’m just... preoccupied.”
“By what? Making salve?” Vi’s gaze rolled upward. “Back in Chudleigh Crest, you did that while tending to Papa, sewing up petticoats for me and Polly, putting out Harry’s latest fire,andcooking supper. No, something’s going on,”—Vi tapped her chin—“and I’d put my money on the duke.”
Though her pulse skittered, Emma spooned salve into the waiting jars. “I’ve cleared up the matter with the magistrates. I’ll have no further dealings with him.”
Why doesn’t that make me feel relieved?
She told herself that things were better this way. She had to admit that she was not as in command of her carnal impulses as she’d believed, and staying away from Strathaven was clearly the safest option. After all, she’d offered to make amends; he’d refused. She’d done what she could. As for furthering her investigative skills, she’d simply have to find another way to convince Ambrose...
The sound of rustling silk made her turn to the doorway. One look at Marianne’s grave expression, and even Violet said in alarm, “What’s wrong, Marianne?”
“I’ve just received some rather disturbing news.”
Emma’s nape tingled with premonition. “What is it?”
“It’s Strathaven,” Marianne said. “He’s been shot.”
Chapter Twelve
If there was anything Alaric despised, it was the sick bed.
He’d spent half his youth in one, the boredom and helplessness nearly as bad as the illness itself. He’d hated the quacks; summoned by Aunt Patrice, they’d arrived to Strathmore Castle in droves, vials of potions rattling in their carrying cases. Some supposed cures had actually made matters worse; after being dosed with a tincture of belladonna, he’d retched for hours. Writhing and shivering in his own sweat, he’d prayed for an end to the suffering.
Lady Patrice had nursed him tirelessly through it all. Having lost her own son to scarlet fever, she wasn’t taking any chances with her new ward. Between her, the stifling sickroom, and uncontrollable episodes of pain, he’d felt like an osprey stuffed in a canary cage.
Like Ares imprisoned in that bloody jar.
His gaze went to the painting on the wall, which brought that mythological scene to life in darkly exquisite oils. He’d commissioned the work from an Italian master, and it showed the God of War, his muscles rippling and fists raised against the curved walls of his cell. The artist had captured Ares’ expression admirably, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. It wasn’t meant to be.
To Alaric, it was a reminder: he’d never let himself be trapped again.
“How are we doing today?” came a bright, female voice.
Annabel McLeod entered the room, Will trotting at her heels. The two had showed up after the shooting—summoned by Jarvis, the old betrayer—and proceeded to nurse Alaric, who’d been too weak to fend them off.
Now he glared at his sister-in-law. She had pulled back the sleeve of his robe without so much as a by-your-leave and was fussing with the dressing on his right arm.
“Are you trying to finish off what the assassin started?” he said.
