Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

She was shocked into stillness. Exactly what did he remember? She had assumed, by his deliberate utterance of the word “harpy,” that he remembered everything, including the night when he’d tried to kill himself in his London bedroom. Apparently that bit of information was still missing.

And she was not about to offer it up. “It doesn’t surprise me,” she said darkly. “Nevertheless, where I choose to live is none of your business or your concern.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. My brother entrusted you into my care with clear orders that I was to see you safe. Why aren’t you living in their house on Bury Street? The place is huge, and I have little doubt they would have wanted you staying there.”

She squirmed, but instead of releasing her his arms simply tightened again. “They’ve done enough for me,” she said, trying to ignore the way her body was warming, softening in his arms. “I prefer to rely on myself.”

“Why didn’t you stay at Melisande’s house, then? You used to live there—Melisande told me.”

And just what else has Melisande told you, she wondered. His arms were like loose iron bands around her body, not hurting her, crushing her, but an inescapable shackle.

“We ran out of room, and the women needed a sanctuary far more than I did. Please let me go.” The last was added, almost against her will. She was surrounded by him, encased in him, and she wanted nothing more than to sink back and absorb him into her very bones, one last time. She stayed rigid.

“Not yet.” His voice was implacable. “All the women are out in Sussex. What’s your excuse now? Or do you simply prefer to be a martyr?”

His words hit her with the force of a blow as the truth sank into her, unavoidable. Unbearable as the thought was, she had seen herself as a woman doing penance, deserving of nothing. She couldn’t bear to think of it right now. “The Dovecote burned,” she said, her flat voice giving no hint to her emotions.

He went very still, and then, to her mixed relief and sorrow he released her, so quickly she almost slumped to the floor before landing on the opposite bench. The London streets were uneven, the carriage lurched, and she stumbled, but he was no longer holding her, touching her.

“When did that happen?” His voice was flat and cold.

“A few weeks ago.” She hunted for something to say, to belittle the disaster, but nothing came to her.

“Somebody set it on fire?”

It would be useless to deny it. “Yes.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No.”

He was relentless. “No one was there at the time?”

She was an excellent liar—it would have been such a simple thing to do to distract him. “I was,” she admitted.

“I rejoice that you decided to stop lying to me. Were you hurt?”

“I told you the truth—no one was hurt. I breathed in a bit of smoke, but I managed to escape quite easily.”

“How?”

“Do we have to co

ntinue with this?”

“How?”

“I jumped,” she said defiantly. “The stairway was blocked, and my only choice was to throw a chair through the window and then jump out. People were already coming to help, and I had no more than a few small cuts from the glass.”

There was silence in the carriage as it made its way through the streets at a snail’s pace, the milling nighttime crowds getting in the way. Finally he spoke. “So that’s a second attempt on your life.”

“Well, technically the first.” She was trying to sound breezy and failing utterly.

“Were there any others?”

“Other what?” she said, stalling.

“Other attempts on your life?”