A Murder in Time(141)

He turned to look at her, his expression more puzzled than angry. “You have such a peculiar way of speaking. I daresay it is because you are an American.”

“Nuts, as in crazy. Mad. Cuckoo.” Her blood turned to ice as she watched him pick up one knife, inspect it carefully, and then set it down. Then he picked up another knife, a bigger one.

Panic broke loose inside her, splintering her control. Even though she knew it was hopeless, she strained against the handcuffs, tried to pull the chains from the wall.

Morland glanced at her, amused. “You won’t be able to get loose, Miss Donovan. You may as well accept your fate.”

Like hell. Still, she stopped moving, concentrating on her breathing, trying to work past the terror that was filling her lungs. She seemed to be drowning in it.

Her feet and legs weren’t restrained. Briefly, she fantasized about using her legs to snap his neck, like the femme fatales did in the movies. Unfortunately, the movies rarely reflected reality, and that maneuver was damned near impossible to accomplish. He’d have to be in exactly the right position. And even then, she’d only be able to disable him temporarily, probably not kill him. But it could buy her some time . . .

A small sound caught her attention. Shit. She’d forgotten about Thomas. Even if she had a chance with Morland, Thomas would intercede and finish her off. On the positive side, though, Thomas would kill her a lot quicker than Morland would.

“So . . . what’s your problem with your mother? You’ve been figuratively killing her for years. Do you blame her for your father not being around?”

Morland stilled. He came over to look down at her again. But he was still too far away for her to do any damage.

His dark blue eyes had gone eerily flat. “My father was around, Miss Donovan.”

It was hard to keep her own eyes fixed on that soulless gaze. Shivers ran up and down her spine. “I thought your grandfather had him shipped off to India.”

“A clever invention.”

“But he . . .” Kendra drew in a sharp breath as an ugly possibility took shape. She closed her eyes, ashamed at all the details that she’d missed. Details right in front of her face. “Adonis.” She opened her eyes again. “She called you Adonis. And she called herself Myrrha . . .”

Morland watched her with that unblinking gaze, shark-like.

“My father was quite taken with Greek mythology. As was my mother.”

“Jesus Christ.” Kendra remembered the painted mural on the foyer’s ceiling at Tinley Park. It was, she realized, the story of Myrrha, who’d been turned into a myrrh-tree after having committed incest with her father, King Cinyras. Nine months later, Adonis had been born from the tree.

She sometimes mistakes me for my father. Morland had said that to explain his mother’s confusion. Rebecca had talked about how the late earl had doted on him, enjoying their likeness.

“Your mother didn’t elope with anyone. There was no infantryman.”

“They were forced to devise the story when she got herself with child. The world would have ostracized them both had they known the truth.” His lips twisted and the flatness of his gaze was replaced by a glow of rage. “Society, with all its bloody rules to force men to conform, to be something they are not.”

“Why do you hate your mother?”

“I do not hate my mother. She taught me, as her father taught her.”

“Taught you . . . ?” Something in his face alerted her, and she felt the bile rise up in her throat. Like abuse, incest could be a vicious cycle, replayed over and over again for each generation. “You sick son of a bitch. You really never stood a chance, did you?”

“Do not blaspheme me, Miss Donovan!”

“You’re not God.”

“Oh, but I am. I am one of the gods. I am not blinded by the falsehoods of society. I understand power in its fullest sense, because I recognize no boundaries.” Now the glow in his eyes struck Kendra not as rage, but as madness.

He straightened suddenly, and ordered, “Thomas, come here.”

Thomas shuffled forward, eager to do Morland’s bidding.

Morland smiled. “Thomas has been my most loyal manservant. We met during one of my hunting expeditions in London, before I had, shall we say, honed my craft. I was slitting the throat of a street whore when Thomas spotted me. We quickly discovered we had mutual interests. When Lady Atwood mentioned that she desired an ornamental hermit, I thought of my young friend here.”

Kendra said nothing. As long as he was talking, he wasn’t slitting her throat.

“His help has been immeasurable in securing harlots. I formed a little club, invited a select group of disillusioned young bucks to join. It has been . . . amusing. My private joke on the Ton.” He laid a hand on the hermit’s shoulder. “Except for April Duprey, Thomas has been my emissary with the bawds.”

Bawds. It came to her then, that niggling sensation that had been bothering her for days.

“You knew,” she said slowly.

He lifted his brows. “I beg your pardon?”

“You knew April Duprey was a bawd. When we interviewed you, you identified her as a bawd—not a harlot, or any of the other slang you might have used to describe the prostitutes.”

Morland chuckled. “You are very clever, Miss Donovan. Of course, not clever enough or else you wouldn’t be in this . . . position.”