Page 6 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
She’d never been in a flat, but had to admit it was quite serviceable, for a bachelor. The corridors had been clean, and now that she was inside, the large room she stood in was obviously a combination of parlor and dining area, judging from the simple—but comfortable—furnishings.
One side of the room contained a dining table, and behind that, in the corner, there was a counter with an icebox. She’d heard furnishings like this often didn’t contain full cooking capabilities, assuming most residents would buy food from vendors. And there was a small corridor, from which she could see a trio of doors branching off.
A water closet and two bedrooms, perhaps.
The parlor in which she stood was cozy, with a wood stove, a sofa in front of the window and a large chair positioned to catch the most light from both the window and the lamp. There were paintings on the walls, sweeping landscapes in bright colors which frankly surprised her.
And here and there despite the simple furnishings, indicative of a working-class man…there were touches of elegance. The crystal decanter and the art, for instance, but also a delicately woven Axminster, and a vase of hothouse flowers as well.
“This driver of yers…” Fawkes still stood with his back to her, glass in one hand, peering out into the night. Dark designs crawled up his right arm, the tattoos difficult to discern—perhaps they were vines? Roses? “Filipe? Or one of O’Sullivan’s boys?”
“Neither,” she answered quietly. “He is one of my husband’s servants. Only now I suppose he will be employed by—” Her voice caught, and she swallowed. “Either by myself, or my brother-in-law.”
Please God, let the seed take. Allow me to become pregnant.
Even if it was a female child and couldn’t inherit Rufus’s viscountcy, Ellie would have bought Merida and herself enough time to make a plan.
Perhaps you should not worry about prayers for a pregnancy, and start praying—begging—the man will actually perform the act. If he will not, you will be forced to find another convenient man, although he would not share blood with Rufus.
Convenient? There was nothingconvenientabout this situation. She was here to beg a man to have sex with her—perhaps thisdidmake her a whore, as he’d said. When was the last time she’d been this lowered?
This humiliated?
She would suffer this humiliation—begging a man to claim her—if it meant safety for Merida.
Are you not the least bit curious why he has not recognized you?
Ellie sucked in a breath at the thought, but before she could follow up on it, Fawkes spoke.
“So, this isnae a set up.” He abruptly spun, putting her in mind of a large cat. When he propped his hip against the windowsill, he didn’t look at all at ease, but rather as if he were merely studying her to decide if he should pounce. “And ye really werenae sent by one of my enemies?”
From this angle, she could see the details of the tattoo on his upper arm—a long, thin dagger piercing a rose. That, combined with the inked designs climbing his other shoulder, made him seem…dangerous.
Her unhelpful inner dialogue silently snorted, and she had to admit the scars on his chest and the blade he’d bared when he’d opened the door…they’d definitely added to the air of danger which surrounded him.
Everything she’d ever heard of Fawkes MacMillan—and she had to admit, it was less than a thimbleful—had indicated he was some sort of pharmacist. A chemist? A solid member of the working class who had been afforded an upper-class education and upbringing thanks to his mother’s position, or loss thereof.
Why would achemisthave enemies?
“I was not sent by your enemies,” she assured him. “In fact, it took some investigating to find your address.” Her fingers were beginning to ache from gripping one another so hard. “And to be honest, your hospitality needs a little improvement, sir.”
Ellie wasn’t sure why she’d allowed her tart tongue free rein as one of those auburn brows rose. And was it her imagination, or did a corner of his lips twitch?
The liquid in the crystal glass remained untasted.
“Madam,” he began, pushing himself away from the sill and moving forward. “I have to ask ye this, plainly and succinctly. I understand it might be insulting, but yer response is most vital.”
He stopped before her and Ellie resisted the urge to step backward. Fawkes MacMillan wasn’t the tallest of men, although he would have towered over his cousin Rufus, had they ever been in the same room.
And Ellie…Ellie was short.Petite, her sister had called her, but Ellie preferred to be honest. She was short, and Fawkes was standing close enough that she had to crane her head back to meet his gaze.
“Ask, Mr. MacMillan,” she commanded softly.
“Are ye, Ellie, the woman who has just arrived on the doorstep of a dangerous man in the dead of night, asking for ridiculous requests without any explanation…” He bent forward, bringing their noses closer—forcing her to arch her back a bit—and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Mad?”
Well.
Was she? Mad, that is?
