Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (39 page)

Emma screamed and clutched at unyielding rock as the stones beneath her feet seemed to sink. Pebbles fell like rain.

Hart yelled, "Don't move," but Matthew was shifting. He reached for an ancient arm of root that protruded from a crevice. Even as his feet wobbled against a rocking stone, Matthew was swinging the knife back toward Emma.

Hart gave up on yelling and began to beg. "Please don't. I beg you. Don't hurt her." But the knife drove toward her and Hart could do nothing.
"No."

"No!" Emma screamed, and then the knife was on her, sawing into her belly and she gasped and threw her hands up as Hart felt his heart shatter to dust.

"Go," Matthew snapped. "Go past me."

She looked down at her belly just as Hart did. There was no blood, and her hands were free. They both stared stupidly at the rope that curled over the tops of her feet.

Hart snapped back to sanity first. "Come, Emma. Quick and careful. Try to hang onto the wall."

She nodded and reached shaking hands up to grasp at the jagged rock near Matthew's shoulder. She eased closer to him, sobbed when a rock simply disappeared from beneath her toes. The whole floor would break and roll away any moment.

"Hurry," Matthew urged, as he wrapped an arm around her and eased her past him. The man's other hand strained against the root, but Hart could see the dead root twisting, raining bits of brittle wood down on their heads.

Just as Emma made it past Matthew, the shale beneath her sank a good six inches, throwing her to her knees. Her hands were close to solid rock now and she tried to crawl. Hart winced as he fell to his own knees and scrambled forward to grab her hands. But she slipped back. The rumble started again, freezing them all in their places.

She spread her arms wide to try to balance her weight.

"Reach for me," Hart ordered, but she shook her head.

"I can't."

They stared at each other, separated by three feet of rock that was cracking like glass beneath them. Hart tore his gaze from hers and looked up to Matthew. The man's eyes had lost the bright gleam of madness. His face was set in a sorrow that Hart recognized.

He met Hart's gaze for a long moment of understanding, then he slowly uncurled his fist from the small safety of the root. Stones shifted beneath him, rocking him as he knelt down and reached for Emma's feet. One swipe of the knife and her legs were free to help her scramble up.

Matthew nodded. "I love you, Emily. I only ever loved you." Then, as Hart reached down and grabbed one of her outstretched hands, Matthew gave her a hard push from beneath. The force threw Emma to the safety of solid ground and loosened the last of the cliff beneath Matthew's feet.

His face was set in calm grief as he slipped from sight, as the rocks fell away and set him free for a short moment. Hart heard silence and then a grotesque thud as the ground caught Matthew's body far below.

But Emma was wrapping her arms around him, her body shuddering with life, and Hart couldn't dredge up any sympathy for the man. Emma could, it seemed. Before she'd finished sobbing she pulled away and crawled toward the new edge of shale.

"Emma, don't. Don't look. It's not safe."

"But. . . Matthew." She shook off his restraining hand and eased her head closer to the precipice. He knew she'd spotted the body when she stiffened, turning to pale marble as he watched. Hart glanced over also, just to be sure. There was no doubt the man was dead. When he tugged her back she gave in and slumped into his lap.

"We need to get off this cliff. And the authorities must be informed."

The fear had left her eyes now, along with everything else. She stared straight ahead, gaze blank as death, and the sight spurred Hart to stand and carry her back to the highest point of the ledge. He eased her up, hating the way she just sat there. This wasn't his Emma; he prayed to God that she hadn't gone far, that she'd be back.

After wrapping her in a blanket, he gathered the reins of the old mare and scooped Emma up. Somehow he managed to mount the gelding without killing all of them.

"
Staithes
is to the north. A little farther than that last village, but larger, I believe."

She gave no answer, so Hart held her tighter and urged the horse to a run.

Chapter 24

"I didn't want to leave you alone," Hart explained, as if Emma cared that he'd taken only one room. She did not care if he was here, didn't care that he knew she was curled naked beneath the quilts. She had no clothing, no belongings, no home.

"You did not eat."

"I was bathing," she muttered as she turned away from him.

"Shall I bring you something now?" "No."

"Emma, you must be hungry and thirsty. Please, eat something."

Well, she'd been wrong. She
did
care that he was in the room, wished he would go away. The man was hovering, showing sympathy and worry and that damned softness she'd never wanted from him.

"Have some wine at least."

She scooted up and reached a hand from beneath the blankets.

Hart muttered, "I should've known," as he pressed the goblet into her hand. Yes, he should have known. She liked wine almost as well as gaming, and both so much more than honest emotion.

She drank deep of the rich red liquid, but she lowered the glass when she caught the direction of Hart's gaze. He was staring at her arm, at the bruises left by Matthew's hands, the bloody rawness of her wrists. Emma set the wine down and curled back beneath the covers.

"I'm sorry I left you," he whispered. "I should never have left you alone."

"I didn't want you there. Didn't need you."

"Yes, you were insulting and hurtful. And I was stupid enough to fall for it, as I always do."

Emma shook her head. "There was nothing to fall for. I simply made clear how I felt. How I still feel. I do not want you."

She felt his weight dip the bed when he sat next to her. His thigh pressed against her back, and she wanted him to move, because his weight and heat only made her want more. Emma curled tighter into herself.

"Why did you come to my home that night?"

"What night?"

He sighed. Loudly. But his fingers stroked over her hair, rubbed her scalp. "You've only been to my home once, Emma."

She snuck deeper into her nest, "I don't want to talk. Please leave me alone."

"No, I won't. I need to know why you came to my house that night. If I disgust you, if you think I'm no different from your father's friends . . . I need to know."

Her eyes, wide open, focused on a fold of cream linen, but she could see Hart clearly: his beautiful face, full of fear for her, full of caring and passion. He hadn't looked like a duke today, with his two days' worth of stubble and tired eyes; today he looked like a man.

Emma swallowed. "Why?"

His thumb touched her temple, traced her hairline. "You came to me when you didn't have to, made love to me when you had every reason not to. Emma . . ."

The linen blurred to nothing before her eyes.

"I was falling in love with you. Did you know it then?"

"No," she whispered. No, because it was impossible. He was
Winterhart
and she was . . . she was as empty as a shell.

"And I need to know about that night, because I think you were falling in love too."

"No."

"If I'd realized, if I hadn't been so soused, you would have ruined all your grand plans by coming to my bed. I would've realized you were a virgin. And yet you came. Why?"

"Please go away. Go away,
go away.
My head hurts and I don't want you here."

His weight shifted and she thought he would leave, but he only pressed a kiss to her hair. "Better?"

"No. I won't be better until you're gone."

"You are not disgusted by me. You don't hate me. You may even be in love with me as I am with you. I love you, Emma. I want to marry you, have children, build a life. Will you—"

"No!" she cried out, and fought the tight cocoon of the covers. She pushed away from him and twisted around, flinging her fists at him in a blind rage. "No, no, no! I will not have you, do you hear me? You disgust me. You and the way you make me feel. And
children.
They are worthless and weak and, and . . ."

"You're lying again. You had a little brother. You must have loved him. Didn't you—"

"Stop!" Her throat ached with her cries. "Stop! Do not speak of him." She gulped in air, but it did nothing to stop the wild sobs that burst from her throat. He tried to reach for her and she struck out, slapping him away. "You have no idea. None!"

"Tell me."

"Of course
I
loved him. I loved him and he died, just like everyone else. My mother. My father. My uncle. Matthew. And all of it my fault.
My
fault."

"Emma," his voice was a soothing lull. He didn't understand. "You didn't cause those deaths."

"You have no idea. My mother, she was ill after I was born. She should never have had another child. We killed her, Will and I. And my uncle . . . If I'd left Matthew alone, if I'd told him
I
couldn't meet him that night. . . I was bored, you see. Flirting with him was my only excitement. I didn't care if he loved me. I didn't care that I would drive him mad, push him to kill my uncle and himself."

"That man hunted you like an animal. He set fire to both your homes!"

"Because of me.
There is something inside me. Something wicked that pushed him to madness. I am terrible and sinful just like my father."

"You are nothing like your father. You are a sensitive woman with healthy passions."

"And Will. . ." Emma sat slowly back on her haunches and pulled the linens tight around her. She stared into the hearth, at the jumping flames that looked like life, but brought pain and death. "My father was drunk. He was drunk and laughing in that way he has after a long night of drinking and
wenching
. He wanted to take Will for a ride in a phaeton he'd won in some game the night before.

"I told him no. I did. But Will was so excited. My father never paid attention to us. He began whining that he wanted to go, and my father told me to shut my mouth or I'd discover the taste of a real whip. And I was scared. I'd seen women whipped in my home before, and I was scared, so I backed away and watched him lift Will up into that carriage and I knew. I knew he was drunk and reckless. I
knew.
I saw it in my head in that moment, the horses, the road, the crash. And I did nothing."

"You were just a girl. He was your father."

She began to cry. Soft, high sounds leaked from her throat as her tears fell against the sheets. Hart reached for her and she let him, hating her weakness and overwhelmed by need.

"He was so small, just a baby. And when they told me, I didn't believe them. I couldn't. I told the nurse that she was a stupid cow and I ran, ran all the way up to the attic to hide. I must've stayed for hours. By the time I came down it was dark. And. . . and they were all gone. All of them. My father hadn't paid most of them for months. They took silver and rugs and crystal. It was cold and pitch-black."

"You must have been terrified."

"I just. . . I didn't know what to do."

"Of course not." He'd slipped beneath the quilts and held her tight to his body. His hands stroked her naked back, a touch that took nothing and had naught to do with sex. She wanted to climb into him in that moment. Disappear into his warmth and strength. But she couldn't disappear, no matter how much she wanted.

"I found a candle on the floor, just laying there. I lit it and walked around, looking for someone, sure that my brother was in his bed or in the schoolroom. I remember the wax dripping on my hand, but I didn't dare put it down. And then I found him."