Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood 2)

But she could hardly storm into a gentleman's bedchamber. Heaven knows what sight would greet her.

The thought caused her cheeks to flame.

For goodness sake, she was hardly a young girl making her debut. She had intimate knowledge of men, even if her experience was limited to one man in particular. To one cold-hearted devil.

There were four other doors situated on the landing. Grace imagined Lord Markham would want a room overlooking the garden: a quieter, more subdued space. That left two options. She was drawn to the room furthest from her own. With no female staff in the house, she guessed the lascivious nature of the man she'd grown to like demanded her room be at opposite ends of the house from his own.

She tapped lightly on the door she suspected was his, but he did not answer. Grace gave an indiscreet cough and then knocked again.

Nothing.

Oh, well. Her poor heart would give out if she had to wait a moment longer and with trembling fingers she wrapped her hand around the handle.

Lord Markham was understanding and considerate, and not at all the mean-spirited monster Henry once was. She had nothing to fear.

Elliot knew Grace Denton had entered his chamber without lifting his head from his pillow. He had picked up threads of her thoughts as she hovered outside, assumed she would walk away, convince herself that to enter a gentleman's private chamber was certain folly.

But he should have known it would not be the case. When the lady set her mind to a task, she'd not let something as trivial as impropriety stand in her way. Next time, he'd be sure to turn the key in the lock.

As he heard the door groan in protest, he snuffed out the candle, laid the book flat on his chest and closed his eyes. If he squinted, he could just see her outline entering the room. With only the briefest hesitation, she padded lightly over to the bed, stood over him and stared.

He could see her gaze drift over his bare chest, lingering on the dusting of hair trailing down below his

abdomen. With part of his branding mark visible, he wondered what she would make of it. Thank the Lord he'd kept his trousers on, else she'd not be able to mistake the sight of his arousal. The need to have her had consumed him from the first moment he'd met her, more so when he'd heard the evidence of her kind heart and witty tongue. She intrigued him. He was captivated by her contradicting qualities: a deeply passionate nature mingled with a soft, sweet temperament.

"Lord Markham," she whispered. But he knew if he opened his eyes fully, if he gazed upon her sultry smile, the needs of his famished body would overpower all rational thought. And so he tried to keep his breathing calm, more sedate, as he feigned slumber.

She sighed, the sound revealing frustration rather than fatigue.

He felt her move away before he noted the sound of light footsteps. Disappointment and relief waged an internal war. He knew which side he was on. Curiosity forced him to peer through squinted lids, and he choked on the sudden wave of panic exploding from his gut.

"D-don't," he yelled as her hand gripped the drapes.

She jumped as he stumbled from the bed. His arms and legs struggled to keep up with the chaotic train of his thoughts.

"I must speak with you urgently," she said. "It's so dark in here."

"Leave them." The words sounded like an incoherent growl as he tried to reach her before she gave into her innocent whim.

Elliot heard the swishing sound before the slivers of light hit his chest, the piercing rays searing into his skin. He put his hands to his face as he crumpled to the floor, shock swallowing down his cries.

"What? What's wrong?" she cried rushing down to his side.

Amidst the agonising pain, he knew he had to force the words from his lips. "C-close them … close the drapes. Hurry."

With a mix of fear and confusion marring her brow, she did as he asked, dragging them across to plunge them back into darkness.

Relief coursed through him.

She knelt down at his side, her trembling hands hovering over him, patting at the air above his chest. "Your skin, it is all blistered and burnt. What can I do?"

"The decanter," he said, his breathing raspy, ragged. He knew his eyes were dark, his teeth visible. Lifting a limp arm, he pointed to the console table on the far side of the room. "I need to drink."

With wide eyes, she gaped at the sharp points overhanging his lip. "Good heavens, what's happening to you?"

"Just … just get me a drink."

She hurried away and came back with the decanter and glass. "Shall I pour it?"