Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

Emma’s whispered voice drifted into their argument, though her eyes were still closed. “Stop fighting and get on with it. I feel like a bone between two dogs.”

“A very pretty bone, my dear,” Melisande said tenderly. “Even if you’re a little worse for wear. Brandon, go find one of the servants and have them bring fresh clothes. . .”

“Trying to get rid of me! I’m staying right here. Send a maid, or Miss Bonham.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Emma’s weak outrage stopped them. “Just get on with it. I want to curl up in bed and sleep for days.”

“That’s the last thing you’ll be doing, my girl,” Brandon said with no attempt at compassion. Emma would prefer plain speaking, he was sure of it. “Head injuries need to be watched constantly, and you won’t be allowed to sleep for long periods in case there’s some hidden injury.”

It was a fortunate thing that Emma’s response to that was quiet enough that it didn’t reach Miss Bonham’s ears, though he suspected that Miss Trimby heard. He fought back his grin. Sinking back in the chair, his eyes never left Emma’s angry face. “Don’t worry, darling,” he said deliberately. As long as he could annoy her, it would keep her alert. “I won’t leave your side.”

He was expecting another shocking, whispered outburst, but she simply closed her mouth in a thin line. He glanced over his shoulder at Melisande, who was busy threading a needle. And then he saw Miss Bonham’s expression.

She hadn’t missed his term of endearment, and she had no way of knowing it was mocking. As if he would ever call a woman darling, ever again. Not when he was incapable of offering anything but shame and sorrow to someone he loved.

Loved?

Where the hell had that come from? He tore his gaze away from his troubled fiancée to look down at Emma Cadbury. Her eyes were open, and she was looking up at him.

“Don’t,” she said in a whisper, and he didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Don’t stay by me, don’t care about me, don’t get in my way, don’t love me. But her grip on his hand was strong.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter 12

“Hell and damnation,” Emma said in a rough, raspy voice. It was twelve hours later, the middle of the night, and once again she couldn’t sleep. Despite the uproar of the day, which should have left her a little pool of exhaustion, she was awake, staring at her ceiling once more.

She’d been bathed, stitched, and put to bed, and she’d immediately fallen into an exhausted sleep as her body started to mend her injuries. She should have known, though, that sleep would again elude her, and now it was probably two or three in the morning.

Perhaps it wasn’t that surprising. She wasn’t in pain, per se, but the aches of her wild struggle were reminding her every time she tried to turn over. The stitches at the edge of her scalp were a more insistent throbbing, but she’d learned to soldier on no matter what insult her body or soul had been subjected to, and nothing had changed.

She could ignore stitches, twisted ankles, body blows that left ugly bruises. She had a harder time with her stomach.

She was starving. She’d grabbed a biscuit from Mollie’s kitchen, but she’d skipped breakfast in her hurry to escape, and she’d fallen fast asleep once Melisande and the surprisingly efficient Miss Trimby finished with her. She’d had the hazy idea that she should talk to Frances Bonham’s companion to see whether she might be interested in furthering her education in the healing arts. She was tired of being the only unicorn in a herd of jackals, and she knew Benedick would be more than happy to sponsor the woman, particularly if Miss Trimby’s mistress was going to be part of the family.

She refused to think about that, though it doubtless would have destroyed her appetite. Instead the thought of strong tea with lashings of sugar and cream, fresh warm buns, and even some cold chicken and cheese were filling her head with sensual dreams, and the longer she lay still in the darkness, the more her stomach protested.

She gave up the battle, trying to pull herself up in bed, but dizziness and pain hit her with brute force, and she almost sank back on the soft mattress. She knew if she did she wouldn’t be able to try again, so she braced herself with her left hand, staying utterly still until the dizziness abated. So far, so good.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed was a little more challenging. Everything seeme

d to hurt, even her teeth, and she wanted to moan. Strong women, survivors, didn’t moan, and she clamped her mouth closed, ignoring the tenderness. Lifting her hand, she touched her skin, checking for swelling, tenderness. She must look a fair sight, which was probably a good thing—her so-called beauty had been nothing but a curse to her and those around her.

She pushed herself to her feet, then quickly steadied herself. She was already feeling a little more human—a short hike down to the kitchens and a decent bit of food would do wonders.

The hallway that encompassed the family rooms was shadowed. It wasn’t pitch black—the sky had cleared after the torrential downpour, and a sliver of moonlight came in through the tall windows at the end of the hallway. The family staircase lay at the center of the hall, and she started forward, moving slowly, waiting for her customary brisk energy to return, but she was breathless, dizzy, exhausted. She had just reached the top of the staircase when her strength deserted her entirely. Feeling her legs give out beneath her, she put out her arms in a blind attempt to stop her fall, only to have them caught in someone’s strong hands as she was pulled back against a strong, male body.

She knew who it was. Fate wouldn’t be kind enough to have Charles or Benedick Rohan wandering the family corridor—oh, no. Besides, Charles would have let her fall. For a moment she let Brandon hold her, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of him, the heat of him, before she turned, trying to push free.

“What the hell are you doing wandering around in the middle of the night in your condition?” Brandon demanded in a rough, low voice. “You could have fallen and broken your silly neck.”

Move away from him, she ordered herself, but that other Emma wasn’t listening, too weary to fight her own base nature. As long as he held her, she didn’t have to meet his gaze, and for all his voice was harsh his hold on her was infinitely tender.

“I was hungry,” she said to the clean white linen of his chest. He was not wearing a coat, and she wondered whether he was in his night rail. The thought was disturbing, but instead of pulling away she pressed just a little closer. No, the feel of his breeches through the thin material of her own nightgown was. . . confusing. Reassuring, disappointing, disturbing. . . God, she must have been concussed after all.

He sighed. His chest rose and fell with it, and she could feel her tangled hair stir. “Why didn’t you just ring for the maid?”

“I don’t ring for maids,” she said, trying to sound brisk but failing miserably. Maybe he’d carry her back to bed. Maybe he’d climb in bed and hold her, and she could keep breathing him in, feel the strength of his arms around her, holding her, keeping her safe where nothing could harm her.