Page 19 of This Haunted Heart

“I would never do that,” he said sternly. “The sheep wouldn’t like you,” he added, less sternly. “My pigs on the other hand—”

With all my might, I balled my fist and punched him in the mouth. His jaw snapped to the side. When I made to strike him again, he caught my wrist and trapped it against his leg, pinning the side of my body to his.

“I’m not going to kill you, Rynn,” he said, chuckling. Frenzied glee lit his tawny eyes; walnut hair mussed and falling across his lashes made him appear perfectly wild. “You’re of no use to me dead, and there are enough ghosts in my manor as it is. I’ve no desire to add another to the mix.”

Ghosts? Surely, he meant the metaphorical sort. My fist smarted. It had caught on his teeth, cutting the middle knuckle. Opening and closing my fingers, I tested its functioning and hoped his face hurt worse.

“I’m not going to harm you,” he murmured softly, and some of the nerves clenching my stomach settled down at his earnestness. “I’m not like Utrecht, Rynn. I’d never put your arm in a sling. I wouldn’t harm a single hair on your beautiful head.”

If this devil wanted to bargain for my time, I might be willing, but my price would be steep.

“If you’re not going to hurt me, then admit to me what this is about,” I begged him, fire flaring in my belly. Fear and a racing heart and the unseemly passion the combination always inspired had me squeezing my thighs together wantonly. “You’re not the first man to assume that his desires are his alone and not fit for a crowded city. I couldn’t have read you so wrong all this time. I’m certain I’ve seen lust in youreyes when you looked upon me. If this is all about a passion you’re ashamed of, then say so. I demand to know what’s to become of me!”

“Debauchery you can handle,” he repeated.

I swallowed hard. “That’s right. Whatever it is, it’s probably not even as unusual as you assume. I’d wager I’ve even done it before—would probably enjoy it. This production to ensure your privacy is unnecessary . . .Ifthat’s what this is . . .”

He licked his lip. Then he brought my fist up to his mouth. I tried to yank it away, but he reeled me in like I was as light as a bird. His hot tongue flicked across my injured knuckle, lapping up the blood there.

Thatadmittedly, was something I’d never done before. A shiver of liquid pleasure flowed down my spine. I felt the touch of his tongue everywhere all at once, from the roots of my hair to the tips of my feet. My toes curled in my boots, and my fingers, trapped in his, trembled. One little flick of his tongue and he’d invaded me, body and soul.

He did not give my hand back to me, tucking it against his lap like he was going to keep it forevermore.

He didn’t answer my questions or confirm my suspicions. I wanted to believe that this shy man was unwilling to explore his passions outside of his own home and needed a captive courtesan to appease him. Perhaps the capture was part of the draw for him.

Perhaps he sought trouble the same way I did and we’d found it in each other.

Or perhaps I could still reason with this pirate. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to make a trade with a devil to get out of something awful. Oh God, it was just so disappointing that he was one. All this time I’d wanted desperately to believe hewas something different. I had no reason to expect that for myself, aside from longing after it too much, fool that I was.

When you want something that badly, you start seeing it everywhere—especially in all the wrong places.

He left me to stew, as though having me in a panic was his preference. We bumped along in silence, my body pressed to his because he would not release me. His spicy scent was heady in my nose, and his thumb strummed mindlessly over that little injury on my knuckle, inspiring a whirlwind of feelings I longed to banish. It hurt and soothed all at the same time. My nipples pebbled rebelliously against my chemise.

The coach was nearing a small town formed around a long dirt drag and a copse of magnolia trees. A strong wind covered the main road in fallen pink blooms.

“For how long am I to stay with you?” I asked timidly.

He turned his head, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders as though his body were growing stiff. We’d been riding for at least two hours. The coach was well-sprung, but the terrain was muddy gravel, and I was feeling similarly sore.

“You mentioned summering?” I added, trying to pry a word out of him.

“We’ll start there,” he said dubiously.

I scooted closer. “Tell me a date. Offer me something! We could compromise like rational people. I’d be willing to stay a week and give you no trouble. You pay me and return what’s mine, and we go our separate ways.”

“We’ll see,” he said absently, staring out his window at the nearing stables. The coach pulled off to the side to allow a larger wagon to drive through. We were off again quickly.

“A month with a fee?” I offered. “That’s overly generous.”

“Through the summer,” he repeated, “then we’ll see.”

“I’m back to aweeknow and an even larger fee, since you won’t be reasonable,” I growled.

The bronze of his eyes caught in the sunlight through the window and glistened like a lit spark. “Twenty. Years,” he rumbled. “Then you can have your money back.”

My lungs squeezed like they had a band tied about them. I searched his face, his scars, his familiar eyes, studying him with renewed purpose. “Whoare you?”

He tried to turn back to his window, but I fisted my fingers into his morning coat and jerked, stressing the buttons. “Tell me!” I begged. “A name. Either one. Who are you, and why are you doing this to me?”

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