Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

“Then she’s a fool,” she said flatly, before her customary good sense could interfere. “You’re a strong, beautiful young man whose scars are a badge of honor. If she can’t see that then perhaps you shouldn’t marry her.”

There was an arrested look in his eyes. “I’m far from young.”

“Younger than I am.”

“Not by much,” he said. “I hardly think that makes a difference.”

“I’ve seen more of pain and. . .” The words failed her as she remembered his confessions in the chill light of dawn as he was fighting off death. He had been through much worse than she had, she realized suddenly.

“And if I’m so strong and beautiful why don’t you come into my room and demonstrate your appreciation?”

The words were a shock, another blow, as clear an insult as he could have offered, and the pain was searing. “You’re joking!”

“I never joke about fucking. I need release and you’re the only one who’s available.”

This had taken on the air of unreality. During that first, endless night when together they had kept death at bay, he had confessed to all sorts of things, including the torture he and his fellow soldiers had inflicted, tying the victims by the ankles and hauling them up, in order to lash them with canes and whips and batons. And swords. Emma felt like one of them—helpless, hit by blows from every angle.

She let out a soft, silvery laugh, the sound bizarre in the shadows. “Now I understand you, my lord,” she said lightly, finding just the right tone. After all, she’d had years of experience playing a part—this would be her finest performance. “You’re one of those people wh

o derive sexual pleasure from pain. Do you like to receive it as well as deliver it? Or do you simply need to debase and insult and torture your partner in order for you to get it up?” She used the word “torture” deliberately. Mrs. Cadbury wouldn’t have known what he’d done, but of course he would, and reel from the memory, unless he was too far gone in his own darkness to care.

It hadn’t been a good idea to give in to the temptation to taunt him. His eyes were black, inimical as he looked at her. “I have absolutely no interest in those particular variations, though I imagine you’re well versed. And I have no problem in getting it up.” Before she realized what he was doing, he caught her hand and pressed it against the front of his breeches.

She froze. She wasn’t sure what she should do. The smart, hard woman she wanted to be would give him a laugh and a stroke, turning the tables on him, and then there was the odd need to let her fingers touch him, explore that rigidity. He was very hard, and very big, and she just stood there, her hands pressed against his erection, doing nothing to pull away.

It seemed like ages, though it was probably no more than a few moments, until she was able to say, “Release my wrist or I’ll scream loud enough to wake London.”

He did just that. In fact, he’d barely been holding her in place, his fingers loose, and she could have pulled free at any time.

She did, and without thinking she slapped him.

He blinked. “I take it that’s a no?”

Her hand was tingling, her heart was pounding, and in the cool night air she felt blisteringly hot. She couldn’t feel the cold outline of his face against her hand—instead she could still feel the shape of his cock—hard, insistent. “No?” she echoed. “What are you talking about?” She was getting angry now, really angry. “You seriously want to bed me?”

He just watched her, though the imprint of her hand was clear on his face. The only time she ever slapped anyone was during her first year at Mother Howard’s establishment, the time when her veil of oblivion had fallen and she’d realized what was being done to her. Mother Howard had been a relatively kind abbess, but there was no room for disobedient whores, and the men . . . she didn’t want to think about that.

“I don’t want to bed you,” he said, but her momentary relief didn’t last long. “I want to fuck you. Hard and long and deep.”

She crossed her arms, her face set in stone. “Of course you do,” she purred. “How silly of me not to recognize your problem. But you’re forgetting one thing. I’m a professional, and my services come at a high cost.”

“How much?” he said abruptly.

This was getting out of control. What had been pain and confusion at his sudden coldness had sharpened into simple rage. She curved her mouth in a mocking smile—it felt strange, unfamiliar—and looked up at him.

“Five . . . thousand . . . pounds.”

It was an absurd amount. Obscene. A decent dowry for an aristocratic bride, the price of a small country home with tenant farms. No man in his right mind would even contemplate such a sum.

But Brandon merely smiled. “I believe the highest sum ever spent for a night of pleasure was registered at a thousand pounds. Are you that good?”

“Make it seven.” Her voice was like steel.

“Done.”

That small, shocking word took her breath away, and when he caught her up in his arms she was too startled to resist as he carried her into the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them. A moment later she was tossed onto the bed, and stunned, she simply lay there,

The fire was the only light in the warm, cavernous room, and he looked huge, menacing in the shadows. Finally her wits returned. “No,” she said.