When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,144

the long, narrow hallway above lit intermittently by sconces. He paused at the second door on his left and pushed it open. “Your rooms,” he announced. “We can discuss our business arrangement further on the morrow.” Not now, and certainly not standing in the hall outside her bedroom with soft light playing across her skin.

Adeline stepped into the room but stopped and turned almost immediately. “We have unfinished business, King. I think we need to talk about what you—”

“I have nothing further to say to you tonight.” It sounded cold, but he didn’t trust himself with a woman who stole his breath, his composure, and his control merely by looking at him. Unlike earlier, King recognized the danger of allowing weakness and emotion to dictate action. He had survived unspeakable things on his own. He would survive this too.

“King, I—”

“Good night, Adeline.” He closed her bedroom door.

Chapter 9

The snow that had been falling earlier had stopped, leaving a blanket of white over the grounds beyond the tall windows. Moonlight reflected off the sparkling crust and filtered through the diamond-shaped panes, filling the room with an eerie silver light. A massive bed dominated the far-right corner, a darkened door beyond leading into what was likely a dressing room. A small desk sat at the end of the bed, a discarded book resting on a simple wooden chair. In a near corner, a chaise longue was situated, a coat and waistcoat tossed over the brocaded back, a pair of boots abandoned at its feet, the polished toes gleaming dully in the light from the nearby hearth.

But all these details were insignificant, her attention riveted on the figure at the pianoforte on the far side, his back to her. And for the first time since she’d slipped into King’s rooms, Adeline wondered if she’d made a mistake.

King was seated on a bench, his fingers flying over the keys, his head down. Music filled the room, reaching a crescendo before becoming subdued, only to rise again in a haunting, stirring rhythm. Adeline’s mouth went dry at the sight of his lean power illuminated in the moonlight. He’d stripped down to his shirt and trousers, his sleeves shoved to his elbows. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he swayed and bent, his shirt stretching across his shoulders, his red-gold hair falling just over his forehead as the music and his movements became more frantic.

The urge to push that hair away, to put a soothing hand on his back, was overwhelming. He was playing like a man possessed and, in essence, he was—held captive by the demons that had emerged from his past with the return of John Westerleigh. Which was why Adeline would not let him alone anywhere near Baron Marstowe tomorrow. A man who slew another in broad daylight in the middle of a churchyard would hang, no matter who he was.

She moved into the center of the room. “We need to talk.”

His head snapped up, a discordant crash of notes ending his exertions, but the rest of him remained motionless. “There are locks on my doors.”

“Not good ones.”

“On the contrary.” Still he didn’t turn around. “You could have knocked.”

“You wouldn’t have answered.”

“You can’t be here.”

“What’s at the St James churchyard?” she asked.

“A church.”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

His head dropped, his hands gripping the edge of the keys. He looked like a man caught in a struggle that only he could see. She’d had glimpses of that struggle in Lavoie’s, in the carriage ride home, in the hallway outside her bedroom. A man fighting his memories, fighting his emotions, fighting his instincts, and fighting her.

“It’s where Evan is buried.”

Adeline took a few more careful steps closer. “Thank you.”

“What do you want, Adeline?” he demanded, turning around but remaining seated on the bench. He crossed his arms over his chest, his forearms flexing, and for the first time, she noticed his scars. They were old and faded, thick bands of discolored skin that circled both wrists. She had seen scars like that before.

In places where men and women spent their lives chained to walls.

She swallowed and dragged her gaze away from his scars and back to his face. His cool eyes impaled her, and she felt the force of that stare all the way through her body.

“I want to know the price you wish John Westerleigh to pay that will give you peace.” She asked the question that she needed the answer to the most.

Even in the shadows, the anguish that tore across King’s carefully cloaked