She wanted to hit him. She wanted to distract him, send him away, she wanted to be in the dubious safety of her rooms down by the docks. She pushed open the door.
The huge room was warm, spotless, inviting, a fresh fire burning merrily in the grate, the big bed turned down, and the telltale scrap of brown cloth lay on one of the pillows. Emma’s heart sank. This room had been prepared for her. The information delivery system of Melisande and Benedick’s excellent servants was impeccable—a footman would have seen the Rohan carriage pull up outside, and they would assume it had to be her, returned from the countryside. Someone would have rushed to inform Mrs. Patrick before Emma set one foot out of the carriage, and a small army of maids would be at work by the time they reached the door.
At least Brandon would have no idea how houses worked. Men tended to be oblivious, particularly in someone else’s house. He’d assume the room was set for whoever had arrived.
He was standing behind her just inside the room, and she could feel his presence like a warm robe wrapped around her. A stifling one, she reminded herself swiftly. She glanced up at him and froze when she saw the expression on his face.
Chapter 24
Brandon stared at his old bedroom with a sense of unreality. It was so familiar—he’d spent his childhood, when he wasn’t roaming the estate in Hampshire, in these confines, thinking up mischief, playing with his tin soldiers, holding onto. . .
“Oh, my god,” he said, his voice reverential. “Morley.”
The woman in front of him had moved away, turning to stare up at him. “Morley?” she echoed.
He crossed the wide room in quick strides to pick up the disreputable bundle that for some unknown reason was lying on one of the pillows on his bed, and an unreasonable shaft of longing went through him, for a simpler time, a simpler life, when everything made sense. “Morley,” he confirmed, staring down at the moth-eaten stuffed bunny in his hands. He’d lost one eye, his fur was rubbed off in numerous places, and his stuffing had either leaked or compacted, because he was a far cry from his plump, sassy old self. If Emma hadn’t been there he would have hugged him.
He cleared his throat. “A childhood toy,” he said casually. “I used to sleep with him every night. He looks rather the worse for wear. I should probably burn him.”
“Don’t you dare!” Her protest was so fierce he half-expected her to try to snatch the toy away.
He looked at her curiously. “If you developed an attachment to this bundle of rags then you may certainly have him.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She moved past him to the window, looking out into the rainy night. “He’s not my childhood companion.”
“Then shall I toss him on the fire?”
She said nothing, but he could see then tension vibrating through her, and he decided he’d done too much already. “No, I won’t,” he said. “I’ll keep him with me. He’s a fond memory.”
He looked around the room, and he felt it, an eerie sense of what the French called déjà vu. Highly ridiculous, he told himself. He’d spent half of his life in this room—there were too many memories. But there was something else there, just at the back of his brain.
Normally he’d ignore it, dismiss it. But he’d known there was something about Emma Cadbury, even though he’d been idiot enough to forget her, and he hadn’t paid proper attention. If he had they might not have gotten into such a mess. He’d known he should keep his distance, and for a soldier who relied on instincts to keep him alive he’d done a piss-poor job.
He looked at her stiff back as she stared out the window, obviously waiting for him to leave, and then he glanced at the bed. He could see her on that bed, her arms around him while he wept.
But that was absurd. For one thing he couldn’t imagine weeping—he’d done with that after his first battle, when he’d killed. And killed and killed.
If they’d been on that bed it wouldn’t have been he who was weeping. Emma and beds had an obvious connotation—in fact, the idea of any bed made him think of Emma. Any flat surface. Up against a wall. In a chair—he hadn’t done it in a chair for years. . .
He slammed a door on his thoughts. “Did I ever bed you in this house?”
She turned, and he couldn’t read her expression. “I assure you, until last night I had been blissfully celibate for eight years.”
He froze. “That’s not possible!”
She turned, calm and controlled, raising an eyebrow. “How so?”
“You . . . that is . . . you . . .” he hadn’t been at a loss for words since he’d be a callow youth, and he simply stared at her in disbelief.
“I retired from the day to day tasks of a bordello and concentrated on the business side. Once a whore, always a whore, but in fact my hard-learned skills have not been put to the test for a very long time. I hope I proved satisfactory, my lord. I would hate to receive money for inferior performance.”
The goddamned money! He’d forgotten all about it—it had vanished in the haze of lust that had surrounded him. He would have agreed to anything last night. Good lord, he’d agree to anything right now.
He smiled faintly. “I’ll need to write a draft on one of my accounts.”
“No hurry. I gather you have disposable income, and I don’t come cheap.”
He had never seen such a cool, practiced smile in his life, a perfect curl of the lips that he wanted to kiss so badly, and nothing in her eyes at all. Suddenly he was angry again—at himself, at her for valuing herself so little, at the whole messy, confusing fiasco that he couldn’t figure how to get out of.