Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

“Younger than me,” she blurted out, then could have bit her tongue.

“Oh, really? You bothered to ask? I’m flattered. And what great age are you?”

“Thirty-two,” she said repressively. “Old enough to view things with a little more distance. You have both arms and legs, you’re not blind, and you seem fit. So many men are much worse off.”

“You’re right, of course, but I must admit that doesn’t provide much comfort.” His tone was sharp. “Don’t worry, I no longer spend my time brooding and feeling sorry for myself. I’ve made peace with who I am.”

“Have you?” It was for too intrusive a question. This was exactly why she had to get away from here—she kept crossing boundaries that were inviolate.

Whatever dark mood had hit him had vanished. “Of course.” His tone was flippant. “Now why don’t you turn around and head back upstairs? Melisande doesn’t even have to know you tried to do a bunk.”

“I told you I have to get back to London. Immediately. It’s an emergency.” She certainly sounded desperate enough—that much was real. “And what are you doing down here at this early hour?”

“I was planning on sneaking out as well. My family has been a little too. . . managing. . . for me, and I thought making myself scarce would be a wise idea. I’ll tell you what—if you’re equally set on getting away from here I’ll take you with me. Who knows, you might like Scotland.”

She was unprepared for how painful his light words were, as if she’d been stabbed in the heart, and she faced the dismal truth. A small part of her wanted him to scoop her up and carry her away, damn it. No matter how much common sense and cynicism filled her, there was some weak, longing strain in her that was still ridiculously in love with Brandon Rohan.

A man who didn’t even recognize her.

“I should slap you,” she said evenly.

“I wouldn’t if I were you. I might slap you back. And don’t give me any tripe about hitting a woman. I view you as an equal, not some frail flower of femininity. I’d give you the respect you deserve by treating you as I would any man.”

She would hit him, damn it! Except that she didn’t want her flesh touching his. Maybe if she had a gun. . .

That was enough to shock her. “Will you please move out of the way?” The intimacy of the darkness around them was only increasing her feelings of isolation.

“No need to, I’m afraid. There’s a reason why I’m not already on the road. My dear brother has left word that none of the horses are to be made available to his guests without his express permission, even those that don’t belong to him. I’m sure he knew I intended to bolt, and Melisande probably didn’t trust you. I’m afraid you’re stuck here for the moment.”

She took a quick breath. “Doesn’t that mean you’re trapped as well?”

“Oh, I’m never trapped. I’ve already sent my man to the local inn to hire a pair of horses for us until I can buy new ones. He and I should be off fairly soon. I don’t expect we’ll meet again, which for some reason should please you. I don’t know why—I’m perfectly amiable, but you don’t seem to be particularly taken with me.”

She ignored the odd pang that ran through her, just as she squashed down her instinctive protest. Let him believe she disliked him—things were much simpler that way. “And you’d simply leave your horse behind?”

“Of course not. Rohan will send Emma back to me when he realizes it’s too late.”

She dropped the bag she’d been clutching. “You named your horse Emma?”

“Indeed. Perhaps that’s why I’m so taken with you. You’re almost as pretty as she is.”

She couldn’t take any more. She picked up her bag, turning to leave, when he caught her arm again, not gently. “If you’re so eager to escape I’ll take you with me.”

She yanked herself free, but she could still feel his strong fingers on her arm. “Go to the devil, Lord Brandon,” she said fiercely, stomping back the way she came, shaking with anger and frustration and something that she wouldn’t name.

“Only if you join me, Emma,” he said with a soft laugh, and like a total coward she gave into temptation and ran.

Chapter 7

By the time Emma reached her room she’d slowed down to a decorous pace. The rain had settled in, the light was fitful even through the tall windows of Starlings Manor, and she felt like a ghost as she walked through the empty halls, drab and gray and lost.

Her bed was already made, the room dank and cold when she closed the door to turn and face it. It was a lovely room, always kept for her no matter how many guests were in residence. There was a large desk with excellent light where she could study, a comfortable chair where she could sit and read. She’d chosen the colors herself—a soft gray-blue that felt serene whenever she walked in.

Except for today. She felt rattled, unsettled, and she couldn’t shake the last half hour from her mind, the feel of his body against her, his hands on her arms. Men knew better than to touch her—she’d cut an aspiring surgeon when he’d moved in on her while she was working. But Brandon was different. She’d felt his touch, long ago, and she knew it, deep in a place she hadn’t realized still existed.

She needed to concentrate on what was important, what was good, when she was feeling so hopeless. Brandon Rohan was strong and healthy, no longer a wounded soldier clinging to life, nor the sickly skeleton of a man addicted to opium and whiskey. She didn’t have to worry about him anymore—he would be fine. She could let go.

That he’d forgotten her was a blessing as well, she reminded herself, no matter how much it stung. The only connection between the two of them was known to her alone, and she could take care of it, dismiss it with no fear of it coming back to haunt her.