The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

Breanna blinked, trying to still the swimming in her head. “I didn't want you to stop.”

Royce's mouth thinned into a grim line. “I know you didn't. Not right now. Tomorrow would have been another story.”

“Would it?”

“Yes.” Royce buttoned his shirt in a few harsh mo­tions. Then, he turned, yanked up Breanna's bodice and clasped her shoulders in his hands. “Breanna, you're beautiful. And I don't mean only physically, al­though Lord knows I can't keep my eyes, or my hands, off of you. You're beautiful to the core. You emanate something I can't begin to describe. But you need—you deserve —a hell of a lot more than a quick tumble on the floor. And you deserve it from someone who can offer it to you. Someone who has the depth of emotion to offer it to you.”

“I see.” With shaking hands, Breanna reached around to button the back of her gown. She was still too dazed to form a coherent thought. But she wasn't too dazed to recognize Royce's implications as un­true, even if he himself didn't realize it “So, along with my life, you're now protecting my virtue.”

A weighted pause. “I’m trying. Not very successful­ly, it seems.” Royce shook his head in amazement. “I didn't count on this. I've never...” Unsteadily, his knuckles caressed her cheek. “It seems tonight was an exception for me, too. I don't lose control. Tonight, I did.”

He rose to his feet, shoved his shirt into his breech­es. “If s almost dawn. Try to sleep. I’ll be right outside your door. We'll talk before breakfast. Then well tell Damen and Anastasia about the assassin's visit to your room.” Extending his hand to her, he helped her up, then brought her fingers to his lips, his hard-edged demeanor softening a bit—whether at the men­tion of tonight's trauma or the memory of what had just happened between them, Breanna wasn't certain. “Will you be all right?” he murmured.

Breanna nodded. “I'll be fine.” She studied his face, saw the intimate look in his eyes—a look he wasn't even aware of—and wondered if perhaps she didn't have her answer. “Good night, Royce.”

A whisper of hesitation. “Good night.” He turned, walked out of the room, glancing back at her briefly before shutting the door in his wake.

Breanna stared after him for a long time. She heard him drag a chair into the hall, place it against her door, and settle himself for the remainder of the night. Just knowing he was out there, safeguarding her against the madman who wanted her dead, brought her more than a small measure of relief.

Relief and a great deal more.

On that thought, Breanna gathered up the blankets, made herself a cozy bed by the fire, and snuggled into it.

Somehow this spot felt more comforting than the bed. Probably because she'd just shared it with Royce.

She had much to mull over. And, whether he knew it or not, so did Royce. She'd felt his reluctance when he'd dragged himself away from her. And she'd seen his ambivalence, his bewilderment, when he bid her good night.

They'd both encountered sides of themselves to­night that they hadn't known existed. What that meant, where it was leading, remained to be seen.

But one thing was certain. For a man obviously ex­perienced with women, Royce Chadwick was as con­fused as she.

Not so when it came to the assassin. There, Royce knew precisely what he aimed to do. He was hell-bent on capturing his adversary, determined to succeed.

Unfortunately, so was the assassin.

An icy chill shivered up Breanna's spine.

Lord only knew what tomorrow would bring.

14

“I can't believe I'm hearing this.”

Damen stalked about the sitting room that adjoined his and Stacie's bedchamber, pausing beside the settee where his wife and Breanna sat. He slammed his fist against the ornately carved frame. “That madman in­vaded Breanna's bedroom while a ball was going on, and left those sick, mutilated...” He broke off.

“Yes.” Royce leaned back against the tightly closed door, arms folded across his chest.

It was early—half past ten—and very few of the guests were awake. Still, Royce had chosen the priva­cy of Damen and Anastasia's quarters in which to rave this talk.

“You must have been terrified,” Stacie murmured, turning to study her cousin anxiously. “Why didn't you awaken me?”

“I considered it,” Breanna confessed. “But there was nothing you could have done. Besides, you need your rest. You were exhausted. And I knew you Damen was with you.”

“I set outside Breanna's door all night,” Royce as­sured Stacie quietly. “Her new door,” he amended. 'I've moved her to the room next to mine. I don't want her in her usual bedchamber—not until the killer's caught.”

Damen's mouth thinned into a grim line. “You're saying you expect him to be back.”

“Maybe. If he ever left.”