Page 91 of The Hunter
Welton foisted the prickly-looking oddity forward with both white-gloved hands, his chin rising several notches. “This, madam, is called a ‘pineapple.’ A gift to the master, from the Countess Northwalk.”
Reaching out, she tested the sharpness of the tufted stalks and the rough scales of the oblong fruit. “I’ve heard of these, someone told me the Duke of Milford had a hothouse that grew them—Wait… The Countess Northwalk? She sends Mr. Argent exotic fruits?” A twinge of displeasure stole through her. Lady Farah Blackwell, Countess Northwalk, an heiress in her own right and wife to arguably the most infamous and wealthy man in the realm, sent gifts of a morning to a reclusive assassin. Why? What sort of arrangement did they have? And, more importantly, why did Millie care where Christopher Argent procured his produce?
“Lord and Lady Northwalk are friends of the household,” Welton announced proudly.
“Indeed,” Millie murmured, wondering if it had been terribly unkind of her to assume that Christopher had no such thing as friends. In fact, hadn’t Argent said something the night before about a long-standing loyalty to Dorian Blackwell?
“Well, acquaintances, at any rate,” Welton amended.
Acquaintances, and yet here was a gift from a married woman… Was there something going on between her protector and the countess? If someone were to be brave enough to cross the king of the underworld, it would certainly be the master of this house.
“I was just going to add the fruit to the breakfast menu, but I’m not sure when Master Argent and the young master will be finished in the ballroom.” Welton looked down his spectacular nose at Millie, one brow cocked with insinuation.
“What are they doing in the ballroom?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” It seemed this morning that Welton’s nasal haughtiness was tinged with something else. Not warmth, exactly, but a purposeful optimism, perhaps, that made Millie feel accepted.
“Thank you, Welton.”
“Very good, madam.” Turning on his heel, he resumed his soldierlike march through the empty dining hall, presumably to the small solarium in which they were to take their breakfast.
Millie wandered in the opposite direction, through the grand, desolate entry and toward the French doors, where the right-hand one stood ajar. The echoes of serious conversation filtered from the opening, and Millie paused to smooth the teal silk gown down her front and check her hair for any escaped tendrils.
Nerves fluttered in her stomach at the thought of seeing him again. Her might-have-been assassin. Her protector.
Her lover.
The manner in which he’d fled from her last night left her confused and uncertain. Two emotions particularly foreign to her, especially when it came to men.
In general, she found men easy to understand, charm, and read, thereby making them uncomplicated company. They were creatures of ego and artifice. They smiled with their wolfish teeth whilst scheming with their eyes. Their weaknesses included flattery, their virility, and challenge or conquest, power, wealth, and sexuality, respective and interchangeable throughout. Anything that made them feel like a predator was enjoyable, as long as they could master it without too much effort.
Some prized intellect. Others physical strength and prowess. And still more chased possessions or influence. Some were cruel, others were kind. Some jolly, others solemn. They loved to compete, and shamelessly display their wealth, power, or consequence over each other. They were fascinating creations of alternating primitive instinct and societal constraints.
Not Christopher, though. He was such a unique and complicated animal. An enigma, really. What was it that drove him? Money, it seemed, was important, as he made a great deal of it, but he didn’t seem to spend it on much of anything. Certainly not on creature comforts. He possessed a grand house, at the behest of someone else, but he slept in more distasteful conditions than the servants would. His clothing was well made, but far from ostentatious.
As for ego and artifice… he didn’t seem to understand either concept. He lied to kill. Or to survive. But not to protect himself from judgment or awkwardness. He accepted his strengths and skills at their value and correct measure, owned them without a speck of modesty, but also without ego. He never exaggerated, nor did he undermine. Seduction was an art he didn’t practice. Flattery was as foreign a language to him as Greek or Arabic. He kept his relationships, such as they were, confined to arrangements. Contracts, whether on paper or understood, ones with very set parameters of which he refused to step out of bounds.
So when he said he wanted her, when he told her she was beautiful, that he dreamed of her. He’d meant it. He meant it more than any of her admirers had ever meant a single one of their poetic words.
And yet he was tethered by nothing. A boy born in a cage, taught little but cruelty and survival. Then he was thrust into this world and had to make his own way, falling upon the only skills he’d ever mastered.
Violence and death.
But there had to be more to it, tohim,didn’t there? Despite what he claimed, he was not without emotion. The tortured dreams he suffered. The things he’d said to her. Unapologetic illicit things at first, but then he’d given her needful words, and the most selfless pleasure.
All because he’d thought the only way she’d come to him was in a dream. The reason being, he believed nothing good ever happened to him while he was awake.
What if she changed his mind? What if she brought good into his world? Was there hope for a man with so much blood on his hands? Millie hadn’t thought so before, but after last night…
Lord, but she was thinking nonsense, wasn’t she? A romantic fool, that’s what her brother Merek had always called her. And he was probably right.
“They take my spectacles and then push me down.” Jakub’s voice carried through the door, distracting Millie from her thoughts. “I can’t see to take them back.”
What was this? Millie hadn’t known anyone had done her son violence. That he hadn’t confided in her stung, that he confided in Christopher now intrigued and concerned her.
He’d never had a father, nor had she provided him much in the way of male companionship. Certainly, he knew her fellow actors, and there was Mr. Brimtree, of course, but due to Jakub’s reclusive nature, he’d never connected much with any of them. Was it testament to her failure as a mother that the first man her son seemed to bond with murdered people for money?
Quite likely. She winced. But he had saved Jakub’s life… there was that…
