Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

Idiot, she told herself. Everyone had been here before but Brandon Rohan. There was no guarantee that he would be safely tucked in bed. She was a fool if she didn’t consider that possibility.

But what was the likelihood? She could stay in her room, edgy and sleepless, and possibly too weary the next day to extricate herself from Melisande’s loving clutches, or she could take a chance and go in search of surcease.

No, she would venture out, and she could be phlegmatic about it, a gift that had gotten her through life. If she were meant to see him one more time, then she would deal with it. What she couldn’t deal with was another sleepless night.

She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and stepped, barefoot, into the silent, empty corridor. She made her way down the side stairs kept for the family’s use, making her way down two more flights to the main floor.

One of the footmen was in a chair by the stairs, sound asleep, and Emma slipped past, a smile on her face. Servants were treated very well at Starlings Manor—she had no doubt they were even encouraged to sleep while on duty in the dark of night. She moved through the halls like a ghost, down to the ground floor, and headed to the library.

The heavy door was open a crack, just a faint glow of firelight filtering out, and she hesitated a moment, suddenly unsure. It was highly unlikely Benedick would still be awake—he usually ended his evenings early, in bed with his wife by his side, but there would probably still be coals, and her feet were freezing. She pushed open the door, letting the delicious warmth surround her, and stepped inside, closing it behind her.

There were times when Brandon preferred darkness to candlelight, disappearing into the shadows, and tonight was one of them. He sat back, unseen, his feet on Benedick’s desk, a cup of tea in one hand, his bad mood momentarily distracted. His leg was bothering him even more than his forced immersion into society, with the polite social questions that somehow felt like a vast intrusion into his life. There was nothing he could do about it but drink tea and try to think about something else. Sleep was an impossibility, and it wasn’t just the pain that was ripping it away.

He’d planned to get the hell away from Starlings Manor as soon as he could. He was going to mend fences with his brother and sister-in-law, force himself to be polite and well-mannered, and run back to Scotland like the coward he was.

He still planned to. For some reason he wasn’t quite as eager to go, and he wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with Melisande’s eccentric friend. Whoever heard of a woman surgeon? Her manner was odd as well, strangely hostile when he was pulling out any charm he still had buried beneath his scarred hide in an attempt at courtesy.

But he liked her eyes. Those gray, stubborn eyes that looked at him and didn’t see a cripple or a supposed war hero or even the depraved soul he’d been when he became involved with the Heavenly Host, and he had little doubt that as a close friend of the family she knew all the horrific details. For a secret organization it was surprisingly notorious – a group of bored and degenerate aristocrats intent on smashing every rule of decency and honor in their quest for gratification, and he would carry the shame of his involvement for the rest of his life. His descent into the madness of opium and brandy paled by comparison – at least with those compulsions he’d only hurt himself.

No, that history would be impossible for most people to overlook, particularly someone with the clear intelligence of Emma Cadbury. Trying would be a waste of his time.

He’d been hoping to make amends to his brothers and return home within a week, but Charles wasn’t here yet, and he had no intention of waiting for him. Besides, Benedick was the one he’d injured – only stuffy Charles’s rigid standards of decency had been offended by Brandon’s attempts at self-destruction. Charles could damned well get by without an apology.

There was nothing for him here, Brandon thought, nothing at all. Everything was soft and easy in the south, in ways that were no good for him. He’d found his true home in the wild and windy north, the rocky crags, the foaming surf, the mountain streams, and the scouring winds. The wild beauty of the Highlands spoke to what was left of his soul, and he needed to be back there.

Not to mention the jarring results of his conversation with his long-suffering older brother.

Indeed, it had been worth more than a week on horseback to clear the air with Benedick, to finally be able to ask his forgiveness and to have his own appalling actions be gently dismissed as an aberration. He owed Benedick so much, more than he could ever begin to repay, and his need to purge his soul had been foremost in his mind for the past three years.

It turned out there was no purging necessary. Benedick had simply pulled him into his arms, then given him a swift punch in the shoulder, and with a great deal of throat clearing they were back on solid ground.

Until Benedick mentioned their brother Charles’s Machiavellian plans.

“Why not marry?” Benedick had said. “You don’t have to be madly in love—I promise you that part is completely exhausting and far from practical. If you can avoid such passion your life will be simpler.”

Brandon had laughed at that. “You’d prefer a boring, bloodless union to your current wedded bliss?”

“Of course not. I didn’t have any choice in the matter—I can’t live without her. I assure you our situation is extremely uncommon—most husbands and wives lead separate lives of quiet contentment. You could do the same, and it would go a great way toward repairing your reputation.”

“What if I don’t wish for my reputation to be repaired?” he’d shot back.

“Have you thought about our parents’ feelings in the matter?” Benedick said gently, and the guilt had begun to roil inside Brandon once more. Of course his parents would want his name unclouded, not because they cared much for social standing but because they hated to see him at any kind of a disadvantage.

“I should marry for our parents?”

“Of course not. A solid marriage will help you return to society, give you children, which, I promise you, are a joy behind comprehension. And I’m sure Charles would never pick an unsatisfactory partner for you.”

“He’s already picked one?” Brandon had said, alarm sweeping his body.

Benedick shrugged. “You know Charles and his habit of arranging everyone’s lives to his satisfaction. I wouldn’t be surprised if he arrived with a future bride for you in tow. In fact, I would have thought he’d be here already.”

And that was when he’d decided to leave, abandoning the temptation of the mysterious Mrs. Cadbury. She would have to remain an enigma.

Stretching, he leaned back in the leather chair, loosening the tie that held his long hair back. His tea was growing cold, the fire had died back into coals, and he should make his way up to bed. It was far better than the narrow cot he used for sleeping up in Scotland, but it looked cold and empty to him, and he hadn’t been able to make himself strip off his clothes and lie down. He knew from experience there was no way to get

comfortable with his knee like this, and he leaned over and rubbed it absently. Sooner or later his eyes would grow heavy, sooner or later he’d limp his way to bed.

And then he froze. She was coming. He couldn’t hear anything—he’d been deaf in one ear since he’d been wounded, and if his head wasn’t turned in the right direction someone could sneak up on him, proving that even if he was otherwise sound of body he’d still be no good as a soldier. He was basically useless, and he’d accepted that. It was just punishment for his crimes.