The Villain Read online

  Removing her hat, she lifted her chin and revealed herself. “No, my lord, I am not. But your staff would not have allowed me entrance had I not used his name.”

  “Lady Daphne, I presume,” he stated.

  Not a question, but a mere statement of fact.

  Of course he knew who she was. Considering the way he’d gone about tearing apart everything even remotely connected to the Fairchild name, it stood to reason that he would know quite a bit about their family.

  “You know who I am,” she said with a resolute nod. “Good. Then we may dispense with pleasantries.”

  He quirked one eyebrow up at her, his expression clearly stating he hadn’t been inclined to offer any. “You braved the journey from London and the wilds of Scotland alone to come here. Why?”

  Folding her arms across her chest, she narrowed her eyes at him. “You, Lord Hartmoor, are a despicable lecher … a villain of the worst order.”

  He grinned, the blinding flash of white teeth startling her momentarily. God in Heaven, even when the man smiled, he looked like some wild beast ready to devour its prey. The smile was mocking and lacked humor, causing annoyance to ripple along her spine.

  “You came all the way here just to tell me that?”

  She clenched her jaw so tight, her teeth began to ache. “I have come to demand an explanation for your vendetta against my family. You have relentlessly pursued our downfall, and I wish to know why. Do not do me the disservice of thinking me daft—I know it was you manipulating events so they would ruin my father, my brother, and my uncle. We are now destitute, my father’s title and lands meaningless without the clout to back them, my brother’s engagement ruined with but a word from your lips, my uncle …”

  Her throat constricted as she thought of Uncle William.

  “A sad state of affairs when a man is driven to put his own pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger,” Lord Hartmoor replied drolly.

  Daphne gasped at the callous way the words fell from his mouth, lashing against her like the crack of a whip. “Have you no couth? No sense of decency? You drove a man to murder himself without cause!”

  That eyebrow of his twitched, lifting upward as he pursed his lips at her. “Who says I did not have cause?”

  Determined not to be swayed by his avoidance, she braced her hands upon her hips and took another step toward him, feigning a boldness she did not feel. “We have nothing, and my father and brother have become shells of the men they once were. I demand to know why. What on Earth have the Fairchilds ever done to you to deserve such cruelty?”

  Folding his arms across his chest, he inclined his head. “What, indeed?”

  Vexation finally overcame the fear he’d inspired in her, and she reached out to jab him in the chest with her index finger. “Now, see here! I did not brave ruin and illness in this horrific weather to come here and be mocked. I am owed an explanation, and I will have it, my lord … the sooner, the better so I might take my leave.”

  Turning his back on her, he rounded the desk toward the large seat behind it. He seemed content to take his time sitting—pulling the chair out and lowering himself into it. Then, tipping it back on two legs, he lifted first one foot, then the other, carefully balancing them on the desk. He seemed completely at ease in the precarious position, only frustrating her further. The urge to rush the desk and push him over seized her hard and fast. However, she was angry, not suicidal.

  “I warn you now, my lady … your queries will not bring you peace,” he said, avoiding her gaze and staring off somewhere across the study. “Young ladies like you are sheltered for a reason—going straight from the schoolroom and out to secure a husband who will pamper and cosset you just as your father has. You, with your lily-white skin protected by bonnets and parasols, your hands as soft as the day you were born … like a little dove in a cage to be admired by the men who protect you.”

  She opened her mouth to deny his claims, to insist he was wrong about her. However, his words struck her as being annoyingly true, and the words died on her tongue. Like any other young, unwed lady, she had been sheltered and protected, kept from seeing any of the world’s ugliness. However, the destruction of everything her family held dear had prompted her to seek the truth—to purposely unearth the things that had been hidden from her.

  It had frustrated her to no end the way her father and brother had passively accepted the blows this man had dealt them … refusing to fight back, to do anything to stop him. Her mother had never been a strong woman, seeming content to follow her husband’s dictates always.

  That left her, the only person who had possessed the courage to confront the person responsible for their ruin. She would not be put off.

  Drawing herself up to her full height, she took a deep breath and tried again.

  “I am no schoolroom chit,” she insisted. “I am four and twenty years of age, and know far more about the world than you might think. For instance, I know there are men like you who delight in hurting others, in taking what does not belong to you, pilfering things like some great dragon gathering treasure in his dark cave.”

  He smirked at that, bringing the thumb of his left hand against his fingers. Rubbing the thumb against the pad of each digit, he eyed her boldly, assessing. The motion repeating over and over, he issued a silent challenge. She tore her gaze from his, only to find it falling to that hand, to the thumb caressing each finger in what felt like a calculated gesture.

  “I would pilfer you, little dove. I’d drag your cage into my lair and hang you from the ceiling, admiring you whenever I wish. Is that why you’ve come?”

  A bitter taste filled her mouth at his insinuation, her face heating at what his words implied. “How dare you—”

  “No, my lady, how dare you,” he snapped, suddenly straightening and allowing his feet to fall to the floor, the boots echoing with a loud thud. “You come here—in the middle of the night, no less—and demand answers of me. Answers to questions which you are not ready for, may never be fully prepared to hear. I warn you again to turn around and walk back through that door. Leave this place, now, and take the last shred of your dignity with you. This is the last time I will make such an offer.”

  The weight of his words hung heavy on the air between them, the threat in them clear. What would he do if she refused to leave? Would he hurt her physically? Tear her down with cruel words? Perhaps he spoke true—turning around and leaving now might be best. If she rode hard and fast, she could be back in London before any lasting damage had been done to her reputation. Her family would cover her disappearance as well as they were able until she returned. It was not too late to go back.

  But no … she could not go back. Not now. Not when she’d already lost so much.

  “I would have the answers to my questions, and damn your notions of what I can or cannot handle!” she cried, her voice quivering with the force of her frustration.

  She’d asked her brother why such bad blood existed between them and Lord Hartmoor, but Bertram had simply shrugged and given her a baffled look.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea, Daff,” he had replied. “I’d never met the man in my life before he set about ruining me.”

  Which could only mean Hartmoor had his own motives—something driving him that she must uncover if she had any hope of making things right.

  Not that she possessed any idea how to go about doing so.

  Slowly rising from his chair, he curled his hands into fists and braced them upon the surface of the desk. He leaned forward a bit, the powerful muscles in his shoulders bunching beneath his shirt. He stared up at her, and the firelight turned his eyes to liquid gold.

  “Very well,” he said, his voice ominously low. “Have it your way. I shall reveal the reason behind my actions to you … over the span of thirty days, and thirty nights.”

  Daphne frowned, bemused. “I do not understand.”

  “No,” he murmured, coming upright and circling the desk to approach her again. “But I will explain
. I am aware of your family’s … desperate situation.”

  “Naturally,” she growled from between clenched teeth. “You caused it.”

  He shrugged as if they were discussing the weather and continued. “I am prepared to write you a bank draft for thirty thousand pounds.”

  Her eyes widened at the absurd sum. It was three times the amount of her dowry, which her father had used to pay his debts. And even then, it hadn’t been enough. The debts had continued to pile up, threatening their livelihood more and more by the day.

  Thirty thousand pounds … it would be enough to set everything right, though it might never repair Bertram’s broken engagement. No matter. Her brother was a handsome man, sharing her auburn hair and blue eyes—Fairchild traits passed down through the generations. He was known among the members of the ton for his quick smile and easy charm. There would be other women, other chances for Bertram to make a good match.

  But, the money … there would never be another opportunity like this one. A chance to earn enough to pull the Fairchilds back from the brink of poverty.

  “And in return?” she prodded, certain this man—this monster—would not simply offer her the money for nothing.

  “In return, you will remain here at Dunnottar for thirty days and nights, with me,” he murmured, reaching up to grasp the plait running down into the collar of her jacket. He yanked it free—not gently—and fisted it in his massive hand, studying it as if it fascinated him to no end.

  She stiffened, offended at what he suggested. “I am a lady, not a whore.”

  He glanced up to meet her gaze once more and smiled, a slow, lazy curving of lips and flash of teeth. Was it her imagination, or were his canines a bit longer than any she’d ever seen?

  Dear God, she was going mad.

  “You will be one when I’m done with you, Daphne,” he stated, running her braid through his fingers and releasing it once he’d reached its end. “Give yourself to me for thirty days, and not only will I reveal to you—in my own time—the answers you seek, but I will restore what I took from your family by giving you the funds to set things right.”

  Her neck heated as he perused her body from head to toe with an undoubtedly lascivious glance. Despite the heavy, damp wool coat concealing her form, she remained aware of how indecent her attire was; breeches clinging to her hips and legs, and a man’s shirt with nothing underneath. It left her feeling disarmed, when she usually had her corset and petticoats to don beneath her gowns like a form of armor.

  She opened her mouth to rebuke him, but one heavy, blunt finger fell against her lips, silencing her.

  “Before you take me to task for being indecent, allow me to enlighten you,” he said, his eyes appearing darker when he stood so close—like polished brass. “I do not care for your maidenly sensibilities. I know you are a virgin like most unwed chits, and I do not care. I will take your maidenhead with relish, with no concern to what state you go to your future husband in. I will debase you and own you for every single one of the thirty days and nights I require. You will submit to my will and obey, or there will be consequences. If you are strong enough to endure, in the end, you shall have your reward—the truth you seek, plus the grand sum of thirty thousand pounds.”

  A stinging retort died on her lips. His promises of debasement and the loss of her virtue should have frightened her. They should have sent her running through that door and back out into the stormy night. However, her mind chose to latch on to the only words he could have said to make her consider going through with it.

  If you are strong enough to endure …

  Her spine straightened, and her nostrils flared as a rebelliousness her mother had been trying to squelch her entire life rose to the surface. If Lady Fairchild were here, she might warn her against impulsiveness, a trait that had gotten her into trouble on more than one occasion. A cautious woman is a safe one, she had said before Daphne’s first Season, hoping to keep her from putting herself in a situation that might lead to public ruination.

  Her father would scoff and insist that her mother might as well give her warning to a wall made of stone, as rising to a dare seemed to be part of Daphne’s very nature. Bertram would simply laugh and remind them how many times he himself had gotten a rise out of her by insisting she could not do something as well as him.

  She could not stand for anyone to tell her she could not do something, and she’d had enough being coddled.

  As much as she loathed this man, she could not deny the truth of his earlier words comparing her to a dove. White, pristine, unsullied. Protected, indulged, sheltered.

  Look away, Daphne, her mother would say to keep her from witnessing anything that might upset her.

  It is no concern of a gently bred lady, her father would say whenever she pried into matters of import.

  Someday, your husband will teach you about what goes on in the marriage bed, every married lady she knew would tell her, as if revealing the coveted secrets of the bedchamber would cause her to swoon in a dead faint.

  She was tired of being sheltered, of being told that matters concerning her well-being were ‘none of her affair.’ Of allowing her parents to rule her life, passively accepting their every decision. In the past five years, they’d sunk deeper and deeper into destitution, and neither of them had been able to set matters right.

  But, she could.

  And all it would cost was her maidenhead and a short time allowing him access to her body.

  No, she realized as she met his challenging gaze. If this man had his way, it would cost her soul. He had destroyed her family and way of life … what guarantee did she have that he wouldn’t destroy her, too?

  “Would I have your promise not to … to ill-treat me?” she stammered, lowering her eyes.

  Embarrassment filled her as she was reminded just how out of her depth she swam. How was she to know what to do in such situations? Nevertheless, this was her body they were negotiating over—she could not afford to put it on the line without certain assurances.

  He chuckled, the sound making her belly grow warm. That heat suffused out through her, leaving behind an odd sensation she did not understand.

  “How naive you are, little dove,” he teased, reaching out to grasp her face with one large hand. His hold did not hurt, but neither would it allow her to move or pull away. His thumb caressed her lower lip, causing her mouth to fall open. “It will hurt, and not just the first time. There will be times when I will make it hurt. But, Daphne … you will like it. Not only can I promise you will like it—by the end, you’ll be begging me for it.”

  She wanted to scoff and tell him it wasn’t bloody likely. She wanted to slap his arrogant face and tell him to sod off; she wasn’t some Haymarket strumpet, and her body was not for sale. Yet, the promise veiled as a threat did not frighten her the way he’d likely thought it would.

  If you are strong enough to endure …

  There was nothing she hated more than being baited … except, perhaps being taunted by the person doing the baiting.

  Lifting her chin, she met his gaze, refusing to flinch away as he traced the inside of her lower lip with his thumb. “I want the bank draft written out in advance. I want to see you sign it, and I want to be assured that it will be placed in my hand in thirty days.”

  He inclined his head, but gave no indication of whether her acquiescence surprised him. “Am I to believe you are accepting my offer?”

  “First I see the bank draft,” she said. “Then, I shall accept.”

  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.

  She would do 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?”