Your lady fair shall bear you three dark sons.
Joy they bring you until they read this tome.
Words before their eyes cut your life's line young.
You die dread knowing cursed men they become,
shadowed to walk with death or walk alone.
Not to marry, know love, or bind, their fate;
Your line to die for never seed shall take.
Death and torment to those caught in their wake…
The last two lines were concealed, covered with indelible blood.
Both of Ethan's brothers believed the foretelling, abiding by the warning in it. They lived their lives by the book, and Ethan encouraged that. But Ethan's relationship with it was more…complicated.
He knew there was power within the tome—it was palpable and the book was indestructible. And there was much evidence to support the predictions: Neither he nor his brothers had fathered a babe, they all walked with death in their professions, and of the two times any of them had thought to marry, one fiancée had perished and another nearly had.
Just as foretold, their beloved father, Leith, had died the very morning after his sons had read the lines.
Coincidence could explain some. An undivulged or unknown childhood illness could explain why none of the three brothers had ever been petitioned for support of a child or marriage—though they'd actually hoped for it years ago. In fact, Court had once speculated that this was why Ethan bedded so many women. Hell, maybe Court had been right—maybe Ethan had been trying to get a bairn on any one of them.
And to explain the death of Ethan's fiancée the night before their wedding?
If one believed the rumors circling him, Ethan had cornered her on the roof of Carrickliffe, his family seat, and then pushed her to her death….
Ethan didn't worship the book, taking it as his creed, because the three brothers were well and truly cursed on their own—so why bring theLeabhar into it? Ethan lived his life rationally, and a modicum of common sense said that, cursed or not, assassins and mercenaries andworse best not taint the innocent.
Then why in the hell was he even considering going for the lass tomorrow?
Did you ever think I just wanted you…?
Ethan lay in bed for hours until dawn, scowling at the ceiling as he replayed every minute of the night. That same inexplicable sense of urgency to see her continued to claw at him.
Part of him wanted to shove her from his mind, even as another part of him had wanted to storm Quin's house last night and take her away. Again the need toget her, to possess her, surged within him. He didn't understand it. He hungered for her as he never had for any woman before.
He remembered his lack of response to the comely prostitute displaying her breasts. However, if he recalled the lass's soft, wee ones beneath his palms he shot hard as wood. Yes, he'd just had her and the pleasure was fresh, but his reaction to her still made him uneasy.
What if she was the only one who could provoke him to that kind of lust? Even with the abrupt ending, taking her had been…mind-boggling. Just touching her trembling body…
What if he never experienced that fierce need again without her?
There were other questions surrounding the mysterious chit that he wanted answered. If she was untouched, then why hadn't she been shocked at the sights in the masquerade? And how in the hell had she known how to fondle him with such skill?
Moreover, what could possibly have given her the impression that he'd be honorable enough to offer for her once she'd made her play?
And he wouldn't mind knowing why his shaft had been hard, miserably tight and throbbing, from the time he'd left her. He took it in his fist and stroked, but stopped directly, drawing his hand away with a hissed oath. Why should he spend in his hand—instead of inside her once more?
There was nothing to be done for it.
Ethan would make her his mistress.
With a resigned exhalation, he rose to wash and dress, determined to enter into some kind of arrangement with her this morning. As he set up to shave, he realized there were obstacles to this plan.
The first? If she truly hadn't been thinking to trap him, then she would be outraged by his accusation anddisinclined to accept him.
The second? He'd hurt her last night. Ethan recalled her responses, her exquisite body writhing beneath his, first in pleasure—but then in…agony.
Now that the haze of the night had faded, he comprehended that the pain he'd given her would have been substantial. She had asked him to go slowly, yet he hadn't taken the time to ready her. He'd been frenzied for release, stupid with lust. He'd taken her hard, rutting over her, when she'd been so delicate and fragile.
Damn it, he hadn't meant to hurt her, to make her…cry.
Women's tears did not affect him—this was simply a fact, a part of the coldheartedness others had seen in him since he was a teen. So why had seeing hers troubled him so much?
There'd been a brief moment when he might've promised heranything to get her to stop.
With practiced care, he grazed his razor past the jagged end of his scar. Another obstacle? Quin might actually care for the little witch. Or Ethan's superior, Edward Weyland, might step in. The girl's parents were probably shabby-genteel, land-rich and cash-
poor but still influential, if they were friends of the Weylands. Though none of them could force Ethan to wed her, they could bloody well irritate him on this subject.
Yet everyone had a price—she'd been hunting a rich husband for a reason—and Ethan had already ruined her. Perhaps there were debts weighing on her family, or maybe she had sisters who needed dowries. Ethan was prepared to pay a fortune to make her his mistress, to slake himself on her for a time, and get past her. All he wanted was to put her up in a house close by, somewhere convenient to his needs, and in return, he could make her family's problems go away.
He drew the razor across his face again, then stared into the mirror, regarding the greatest obstacle to his plan.
If I see the girl again, there will be no mask.For the first time in years, he studied his reflection. His scar was deep, stretching taut over the length of his right cheekbone, then twisting down the front of his cheek. Stitches had left uniform depressions at the edges. Every inch of the mark whitened starkly with any expression.
Brymer had done his job well.
That night, once Van Rowen had realized his mistake, he'd hurried to the stable and had grown sick at what Brymer had already done to Ethan. Dazed, Van Rowen had offered restitution or an exact reprisal to himself.
But Ethan had had bigger plans for him and his wife—and for Brymer. When freed, Ethan had just gritted his teeth against the pain and blindly lurched to his horse. Sheer will had gotten him off Van Rowen lands before he'd blacked out in a ditch for two days.
Just months later, before Ethan had been able to finalize his revenge, Van Rowen had provoked a drunken duel. He'd turned without drawing, dying in what was known as a 'gentleman's suicide.'
As for Sylvie, Ethan had rendered her penniless, leaving her to rot in a slum.
For some reason, Ethan had spared Tully. But his confrontation had left the man so shaken, Tully had promptly disappeared from the area and likely still lived in fear.
And Brymer? Ethan had gutted him—his scarred visage the last sight the bastard had seen on this earth….
Before he'd been cut, Ethan would have been a fitting match for the girl. Now she would probably laugh at his appearance. Hadn't she professed herself—what had she called it?—anaficionada of male beauty?
Ethan tried to smile, but he found it uncomfortable, the sight repulsive, even to himself. Hating the Van Rowens anew, he threw down the straight razor, sending it clattering into the basin.
Chapter Eight
