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“Gladly.” He licked a hot stripe up her neck, sucked on her pulse point, and savored how she shuddered in his arms. Her nails bit into the muscles in his lower back. She’d slice directly through him if he gave her the chance.

Was this madness? He’d gladly succumb to it. He caught her leg below the knee, lifted and notched himself into the cradle of her thighs. Rocked his aching cock against her core.

“Maybe if you came on this cock—” he thrust and she moaned into his neck, “—you wouldn’t be so damn angry all the time.”

She raked her teeth over the tendon where his neck met his shoulder and bit down, a jolt of pain that pulsed in his cock. “You like me mean.”

“Is that what you want?” he ground out. With all their groping, her skirts were nearly to her waist, his thumb on the impossibly soft skin above her stocking. “For me to fuck you senseless?”

Another shudder, a nod, her breath hot against his temple. “I want you to leave.”

“Liar.” He captured her mouth again. “All you do is lie to me.”

She stiffened in his hold. Before he could react, she’d shoved him back, leaving him stumbling and bumping into the racks of wine.

Fuck, he couldn’t even see her in the dark, only hear her rushed breathing and the rustle of fabric moving. He stretched out his hands in front of him. “Bridget, stop.”

“Not on your life.”

He slid his feet forward, a humiliating shuffle until his toes bumped the lowest stair. He stumbled upward until he was behind her again. “You don’t hate me⁠—”

“You’re right. I despise you.” She rattled the latch and slapped a palm on the wood. “Let me out of here!”

A shiver racked over him, like a frigid finger scraped down his spine, and he stepped back.

The latch clicked, and the door swung open.

The light from the kitchen temporarily blinded him, and he couldn’t discern Bridget’s expression in the shadows. But he felt the heat of her hatred in her glare. “Go to hell, Valebrook,” she spat before spinning on her heel and storming deep into the manor.

He remained rooted to the cellar stairs, his blood still roaring, her lingering taste sharp on his tongue.

Liar. He’d meant it as a weapon before, but hadn’t intended for it to land like one in the moment, with his mouth on hers and their bodies entwined. After a day of cataloging every deception, she had let go of her performance. Her vulnerability was a gift, and instead of cherishing it, he’d reminded her exactly why she couldn’t trust him.

He was no closer to proving her a fraud. He was, however, much closer to becoming one himself.

The manor was smothering his logic, and he needed air, space to think, a place cold and real and far away from her before he did something else he’d regret in the light of day. He found his greatcoat in the entryway and let himself out. Rain fell in a sullen drizzle, but the wind came off the sea in long, shoving gusts that pulled at his limbs as though holding him back.

He’d walk into town if he needed to, but he found an aging mare in the stables. Guilt pricked at him for only a moment as he saddled her and mounted; he’d return the beast in the morning when he gathered his belongings. Hopefully without seeing Bridget again.

He made it as far as the gravel drive before the rushing reached his ears. Not the sea or the merciless rain; this was closer, louder. Wrong. He maneuvered the mare—a petulant thing, like her owner—down the slope toward the bridge and stopped at the edge of what remained of the crossing.

What had been a peacefully meandering stream when he’d arrived had transformed into something unrecognizable, churning and furious as it chewed on both banks. The bridge canted at an unnatural angle like a broken limb, one end torn free of its mooring and dragged halfway into the current.

No horse could cross that. No man either, not without dying for the privilege.

As if to mock him, the heavens opened, biting rain finding every inch of uncovered skin and sneaking inside his clothing. He stood in the downpour for a long moment before he laughed. A short, ugly sound with no humor, no joy. He wouldn’t leave Ashveil Manor that night, at least not alive.

Wonderful.

He picked his way up the slope to the manor once more and returned the mare to her pen, rewarding her efforts with a handful of oats as he considered his next steps. Hiding in the stable until dawn seemed a good option, only slightly more reasonable than charging into Bridget’s bedchamber to continue what they had started.

But he’d vowed he wouldn’t leave Ashveil Manor without evidence of her fraud. If he couldn’t leave, he could at least search. Every room he hadn’t yet entered, every locked door he’d been too polite to try.

Something unseen might be tormenting him, but he wasn’t giving up without a fight.

CHAPTER 13

Bridget’s feet flew through the manor, as if some unknown force had its hands at her back. After slamming her bedchamber door shut, she leaned against the slab of wood and focused on forcing air in and out of her lungs.