Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood 2)

"What happened to your husband?" He did not mean to pry into her private affairs, but he needed to find some way to distract his mind.

"Henry fell off his horse and broke his neck."

There was something cold and detached about her reply and her hand remained steady in his. It told him all he needed to know but still he said, "It must have been awful for you."

"Only awful because a man lost his life being reckless." She sighed deeply and turned to look at him. "Sorry. I should not have said that."

Her gaze held his for a moment, and he saw pain reflected there, perhaps even disappointment.

Placing her hand gently in her lap, he reached for her other hand, and she turned away as he began to dab at the dried specks of blood.

"What I mean to say is we were only married for a few months."

Elliot could feel her sadness surrounding him, pressing down on his shoulders like a heavy weight. Sadness for what, he thought? She had more or less admitted to feeling nothing for the man whose name she bore.

Driven by a compulsion to discover more, he asked, "There was no love between you?"

"Love?" she echoed giving a cynical snort. "No, there was no love, only resentment." She turned to face him again. "Have you ever been in love?"

The question hit him like a blow to the chest. As a man who avoided intimacy, it was far too intrusive. But he had set this scene, provoking her to open her heart and so she deserved to hear his answer.

"No. I have never been in love. I do not believe there is such a thing." Indeed, his mother had taught him that. Although spending time with Alexander and Evelyn has caused him to doubt his own philosophy. "All human actions are motivated by selfishness in one form or another. The great poets would have us invest in the idea that love is an exotic destination, the reward for surviving a long and perilous voyage. I'm more inclined to agree with the notion that it is a form of manipulation. Where the weak minded become slaves to their passion and dress it all up as something far more profound."

"I'm not sure I agree," she said glancing down at his hand wrapped around hers. "Although experience tells me you may be right, I would prefer to think of love as a feeling of deep affection. To be cherished, to be accepted for who you are, must surely be the greatest gift imaginable."

"I have heard fanciful tales of such things, yet in all my thirty years I have only ever witnessed it once."

Rather than appear discouraged, she simply smiled. "Then there is hope, is there not?"

Since the night he'd been turned by a devil, hope was a word obliterated from his vocabulary.

"There," he said letting go of her hand, desperate to put an end to the conversation. "It will still be sore but will heal much more quickly. You should notice a difference come morning."

She glanced down and examined both arms. "It feels better already. You must tell me how to make the tincture."

He stood and walked over to the drinks tray, swallowing the brandy in one mouthful when she wasn't looking. With desperate eyes, he pulled the stopper from the decanter of blood, knowing how the smallest taste would calm him.

"Would you care for some refreshment?"

"Thank you. I'll have a small measure of whatever you're having."

Groaning inwardly, he replaced the stopper and poured them both a glass of brandy.

Picking up the diary from the small table next to her, she began flicking through to the relevant page. "Here it is. The comment about her appointment to meet with you."

"Would you mind if I looked at it?" he said swapping the diary for the glass of brandy.

He took it over to the desk, angled the candle in an attempt to study the script.

She came to stand at his side and peered over his shoulder. "You see." She pointed to his name, her arm brushing against his. "It looks like Markham."

With all the will in the world, he couldn't concentrate while she was standing in such close proximity. She was a widow ripe for the plucking. As she turned the page and mumbled something about the way his name was written, all he could think of was her spread out over the wooden surface, his hands grabbing her waist as he positioned himself between long luscious legs.

"You're staring at it blankly," she said. "Can you not see what I mean? I don't know why I've never noticed it before. Perhaps because I have only ever studied it in the daylight."

"Sorry, what have you not noticed before?"

She tutted. "The dot."