The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

“Definitely not.” Royce shook his head. “If we do, and if it happens we're on the right track, well only incite the killer in ways we'd be best off not doing. My reputation is not exactly a secret. If the assassin real­izes I'm involved, that I'm actively looking for him, it would push him in a dangerous direction He needs to believe he's in control. Let’s let him think that. We’ll find out what we want to know—subtly. Very subtly.”

Royce paused, his” mind racing. TU do some nos­ing around tomorrow before the first guests begin to leave,” he decided. “Better yet, I'll have Hibbert do it for me He has a way of getting information out of people without their realizing they've revealed any­thing. I’ll concentrate on finding out where that statue was purchased. And the dolls, too. The killer won't notice any of that. He's too busy planning the next step in his scheme to terrorize you.” A muscle flexed in Royce's jaw. “I'm going to beat this bastard at his own game.”

“You certainly understand his mind,” Breanna noted quietly.

Something cold and bitter flashed in Royce's eyes. “I've known others like him,” he responded. “Preda­tory geniuses obsessed with their own superiority. Some call themselves assassins. Some don't. And some don't kill—at least not in the bodily sense, nor in ways one could describe as criminal. But their minds are twisted and their means destructive as hell—at least to those who are unfortunate enough to be their victims.”

Like you? Breanna almost blurted out.

She bit her hp to silence the question, although she knew in her heart the victim Royce was alluding to was himself. And not in a professional capacity. Who­ever had hurt him wasn't among the military person­nel he'd dealt with. It was someone else—someone closer to him. She, better than anyone, recognized the signs.

So where did that leave her? True, she didn't want to pry. But, given her own life, was it possible she could help?

“I don't know very much about you,” she ventured, broaching the subject cautiously, giving Royce as much or as little room as he chose to take. “I know only what Damen's told me.”

“I'm not given to discussing myself,” Royce re­turned bluntly. He angled his head to study Breanna's face. “Neither are you, I would imagine.”

“You're right. I'm not.” She rushed on without al­lowing herself time to reconsider and change her mind. “I'm also not given to extreme shows of affec­tion. Tonight proved to be an exception—at least for me. Maybe it should be for you, as well. If not physi­cally, then verbally.”

A hint of a smile. “Maybe it should. All right, what would you like to know?”

“Only what you're comfortable discussing.” Be­neath the blankets, she drew up her legs, rested her chin atop her knees. “You said you spent Christmas with your brother and his family,” she tried carefully. “Are you and he close?”

A shrug. “Not particularly. Edmund is a good man. His wife Jane is a decent woman. They're content in their roles as the Earl and Countess of Searby.”

“Content. In other words, dull,” Breanna surmised, her lips curving a bit. “Your brother sounds like most of the men I'm acquainted with. And now, having met you... I can't imagine you'd have much in common with him.”

“I don't,” Royce admitted. “But his sons are incredi­ble—three bundles of energy. The hours with them are worth all the boredom. They're even worth spend­ing a few days in that house. On occasion,” he quali­fied. “Too often and I'm besieged by the ugliest damned memories...” Abruptly, he broke off.

Breanna recognized the bitterness in his voice, the pain and resentment in his eyes. She'd experienced those emotions all too often herself, incited by only one person.

That helped make her assessment of Royce easy.

It had to be his family. Not his brother, whom he talked about without anger. His parents. Most likely, his father—unless his mother was an unusually tyran­nical woman. Yes, his father. That had to be who was behind Royce's bitterness. Breanna would be willing to bet on it.

“These memories—were they of your father?” she tried quietly.

“One and the same,” was the sharp retort.

It was the only confirmation she needed.

“My guess is that he was much like mine,” Breanna ventured. “Domineering and cruel. Edmund is one re­sult of such a father. He must have turned out as I did: malleable, self-contained. And you? You're too dynamic for that. You veered off in the opposite direc­tion. You're the rebel, the one whose will was strong enough to fight back.”

Royce stared into the flames, and for a moment Bre­anna thought he didn't intend to reply.

She was on the verge of apologizing for overstep­ping her bounds when he said, “For the record, you're nothing like Edmund. Self-contained, maybe, but not malleable. And definitely not dull. As for me, I wasn't always as strong as you implied. I was once a fright­ened child. Very frightened. You see, my father's phi­losophy was to bludgeon us into what he called 'being men.'“

“He beat you.”

“Oh, the beatings were the easy part. They were qui

ck, they were predictable, and all they could hurt was my body. So I endured them. Edmund couldn't— not that I blame him. His passive nature was no match for my father's brutal resolve and vile temper. He crumpled by the time he was six, conformed to my father's wishes. That, combined with the fact that he was the heir apparent, freed him from my father's exe rcises in abuse. In my case, the exercises took a new form—a series of challenges my father provided for me to overcome.”

“Challenges?” Breanna felt an unpleasant sense of foreboding. “What kind of challenges?”

“The kind supposedly designed for me to prove myself, but which, in fact, were designed to prove my father's dominance and to destroy my will. When I was five, I was ordered to ride a wild stallion who had a history of throwing and trampling his owners. My orders were never to fall. Each time I failed to stay in the saddle, I was whipped. And each time I cried, I was forced to endure an additional hour on the stal­lion's back.

“When I was six, I was locked in a cramped closet and told to find my way out. If I dared fail or call out for help, the next space I was locked in would be more cramped, harder to escape. And when I was seven, I was given books to read—in various lan­guages—and told to memorize them. When reciting them back, I was denied one meal for each mistake I made. That usually meant going days without food. Shall I continue?”