Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

The hall was deserted, and there was no footman dozing downstairs. No witnesses, no gossips, no one to know.

She hadn’t brought a candle, and she didn’t knock. She simply pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He wasn’t there. Pain and fear swept over her—she’d been so sure he was back, but no, he was dead somewhere and. . .

“Why are you here?” His voice came out of the shadows, flat and expressionless.

He was over by the window, the pale moonlight silvering his body. He’d been undressing, and he wore only his breeches, his chest bare, the scarring clearly visible. She loved his scars.

“I was afraid something had happened to you.”

His derisive laugh broke the night. “What, did you think I’d gone off to find the remnants of the Heavenly Host? I went to a pub with Noonan and sat watching him, drinking tea, for God’s sake, while he got rip-roaring drunk on Irish whiskey. He’s a fondness for it and you’d have a hard time finding it anywhere in Scotland.”

She, who never prayed, offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the God who had never listened. She took a tentative step toward him. “I brought Morley back to you.” She held out the floppy little bundle.

There was a long moment of silence, as if he were considering whether he was going to tell her to throw the bunny on the banked fire or get the hell out of his room. He did neither.

“Come here,” he said.

She did.

Emma Cadbury was quite the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life as she moved toward him on quiet, bare feet. God, he loved her feet! Her rich, dark hair was hanging down her back, the flowing nightdress was ridiculously fancy. It must have been a gift from his sister-in-law. She should wear something more classic, simpler, silk against her glorious body. Or nothing at all.

She came up to him, and the moon shone down on her upturned face. She had the hint of faint creases around her eyes, and he could imagine what she’d look like when she was old. She’d still be beautiful, sitting at a table, drinking tea, looking at the man opposite her. That man was going to be no one but him.

She held out Morley, and he wanted to laugh. He didn’t want a bundle of stuffed rags in his bed, he wanted Emma there. Needed her. Forever. He just had to convince her that she needed it too.

He took his boyhood companion from her and tossed it lightly onto the chair, and there was nothing between them but inches. He shortened the distance, and she didn’t retreat, and he was almost touching her, so close he could smell the soap on her, so close he could feel her warmth, so close.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. “You’re perfect.” There was almost wonder in his voice that he couldn’t hide.

She didn’t flinch. “I hate it. I hate being pretty, I hate that that’s all people ever see, I hate that something like my face causes men to do terrible things. I wish I were a troll.”

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. This was a confession so intimate he wondered if even Melisande had heard it. But she was telling him.

“Well,” he said judiciously, drawing out the word. “I didn’t say you were that pretty.”

She laughed, her voice light and silvery, and it hit him directly in his heart. They were so close. And then she said the most astonishing thing. “I think you’re that pretty.”

It was absurd. One didn’t call a man pretty, and God knows he was a monster who scared small children. He kept his tone light. “Perhaps the part of me that hasn’t been ravaged might not be too bad, but. . .” Before he knew what she was doing she’d risen to her tiptoes and pressed her lips across the scarred side of his face. The feeling in his skin was strange—both numb and exquisitely sensitive, and her soft lips were miraculous.

She leaned back. “Pretty,” she said, and this time he believed her. “I love your scars.”

“Why?”

“Because I never would have met you if you didn’t have them. Because you get to show your darkness on the outside, where mine is stuck in my heart. Because the other side of your body is too handsome and you needed something to give you character. A thousand reasons.” She placed another kiss on his jaw and he wanted her hands on him.

It was simple enough to reach down for them, to pull them up and set them on his shoulders. “I don’t want you to lose your balance.” His voice had lowered to an intimate growl. Her hands held on.

“I don’t like this,” she whispered, making no effort to move away.

“What don’t you like?” He lowered his head and kissed the side of her neck, so gently, then her cheekbone, then her forehead, slow, soft kisses that demanded nothing, and he heard the hitch in her breathing. “This?” He moved over and kissed her perfect earlobe, sucking it into his mouth for only a moment. “Or this?” and his mouth brushed her eyelids.

Her sigh was soft on the night air. “I don’t want to be here.”

Their bodies were almost touching. “Then why did you come?” he whispered back.

Her eyes opened wide, meeting his gaze in the silvery moonlight, and he could read so many emotions there. Fear, anger, longing, sorrow. And love. He could see love. His Harpy was here with him, now, and she loved him.