Dead After Dark (Companion #6.5)(66)

“With my deed, and the receipt for the property, could not your law help you? I’m sure you could persuade Bromley to testify against him.”

He combed his fingers through his hair. “That would take years.”

“I suppose you could call him out,” she offered. “Is that not what one does these days?” Especially if one was a man interested in honor. And this one had honor. He hadn’t destroyed her scroll. And he didn’t seem to question her right to the place.

“That would draw a bit too much attention to myself.” His mouth was wry.

Ahhhh. He had something to hide.

“Besides, that would be a quick death. Much too good for him.” His eyes went harder than she had ever seen a human male’s expression. Only her father could look more implacable. “But I will have my revenge on him, for everything he’s done. I’ll find a way.” His eyes took on a gleam. “Perhaps I could take a page from your book and haunt him. Bedlam would be a fitting end for him.” He glanced up at her. “I suppose I owe you an apology for ripping up your room.”

She shrugged. “You thought it was your room, and I an intruder.”

He nodded then sucked in a resolute breath. “I shall relocate to the tavern immediately.”

All she had wanted was to have him out of her house, and now when he was going, she found she did not want him to leave at all. There was a familiar full feeling of arousal in her woman’s parts. That was almost expected. But it wasn’t her physical attraction to him that filled her with regret. Something about this man was incredibly appealing. He was a mystery, hard with his need for revenge, tentative in his feeling for his dead love, honorable, damaged in some complex way that went deeper than the scars on his back.

This was not in her plan. She was resolved to have no contact with the world, no painful engagement with anyone, until she knew who she was and what she wanted.

“Don’t go tonight,” she found herself saying. It was almost shocking. But she realized that what she wanted was to know this man better. “It’s getting late. In fact, you might as well stay here while you plan your revenge. I promise not to bother you. I sleep during the day.”

He looked doubtful.

“The tavern is noisy, I’ll wager. The curious will poke you with questions.”

He pressed his lips together and she knew she had him. “Very well,” he said, his voice tight. Was he thinking of last night, dreading that it might happen again, or that it might not? Because that was what she was doing—dreading both possibilities at once. She was insane for allowing temptation inside her very doors. Or maybe she was mad to refuse temptation.

She smiled. It was the first time she’d smiled in . . . in a year. It made her mouth feel strange. “I’ll get fresh sheets and make up another room for myself.”

“You’ll need some help,” he growled to her surprise and opened the door for her.



Freya chose a bedroom down the hall from his with red brocade draperies that would hold out the sunlight nicely. They had stripped the Holland covers off the furniture, and were making up the bed. They said nothing, perhaps because this feeling of electric attraction between them was almost stifling in its intensity. Could she be thinking of having sex with a man who had lost his love today? But she was. Imagining him naked, aroused, plunging inside her, consumed her thoughts. How could all the restraint she had managed in the last year be cast aside so . . . easily? She was shameless. Despicable. Worse, he might be giving way to imagination, too. The smoldering looks he was sending her from across the bed were not something she could mistake. To take her mind off her very vivid imaginings and to remind him why he should not be interested in having sex with her, she said, “I did not say I was sorry for your loss earlier. I am.” That would dampen things.

He froze in the middle of putting a pillow into its case. “Ahhhh. Yes. Thank you.” He shook the pillow down into place and threw it on the bed. Then he paused. “You know, I was nineteen and she seventeen when we shared a few kisses and told each other how much in love we were. But are you at that age? In love? I mean”—here he turned to face her—“what does one that young know of love? I still don’t know what love is. But I’m not sure that was it. Perhaps I was in love with the idea of being in love with her. That idea kept me alive when her father had me charged with horse stealing. He passed sentence himself, supervised the lashing and condemned me to be transported to the prison colony at New South Wales.”

That was how he had gotten those horrible scars. No wonder he hated Sir Melaphont.

“There was no ship available, since so many criminals were being transported. So I was sent to a prison hulk in Portsmouth.” He must have seen her look of puzzlement. “They pack six hundred prisoners on a dismasted ship and float it in the harbor. Foul conditions. I nearly died of fever there, while my back healed.”

“How could Sir Melaphont do such a thing?”

“Because he is a magistrate, and I was a bastard groom in his stables who dared to love his daughter.”

“But you did not stay transported, and you do not talk or dress like a groom.”

“The transport ship foundered in a storm. I made it to an island.” He pulled the sheets up and tucked in the blanket as he talked. “I was rescued by free traders of the sea.”