Page 39 of Their Master

At the beginning of their liaison, Oliver had come to her every night and often during the day. His father had provided a love nest for them, where Moira lived and was always available for Oliver’s needs.

Over the years he had visited her less and less. By the time she was twenty, he’d stopped taking her out in public. Moira knew that he’d formed a rather unfortunate liaison with an actress who had become pregnant with his child.

She’d discovered her arrangement was over when Oliver had shown up at the pied-à-terre, fucked her one last time, and then told her she had a day to vacate the house because he was installing his new mistress.

Fortunately, Marie had anticipated the situation and had selected her new protector, so Moira had moved from Oliver’s apartment directly into her new home, a far larger and more luxurious establishment that had been paid for by Bernard Chastain.

Chastain—the ludicrously wealthy owner of more slaughterhouses than any other man in France—was the type of client Marie despised, but she’d not been able to turn down the money he’d offered.

“His sort would not even have been fit to kiss your hem a hundred years ago,” Marie had groused when she’d told Moira about her next lover.

But times had changed in France and it was hard to ignore a man sitting on millions of francs, even if they’d been made in abattoirs.

Bernard had been fifty, paunchy, and missing most of his hair, but Moira had liked him a great deal more than the younger and more beautiful Oliver.

He’d been married for over thirty years to a woman who’d given him ten strapping sons and daughters and no longer wanted his cock anywhere near her person. It had been Madame Chastain who had sent her husband away to find a mistress.

Bernard had been so sweetly grateful to Moira for the use of her body it had seemed like a miracle after Oliver’s crude, brutal behavior. He’d been deliriously happy upon discovering that she was willing to accommodate his every desire with a smile on her face.

Moira had liked him—he’d been kind and generous and had showered her with expensive gifts right from the beginning. She suspected she would still be with Bernard had he not died in an unfortunate and gruesome accident while demonstrating a new method of killing a cow.

By that time, she was twenty-two and her bloom had already faded. Unable to secure a new protector, she’d entered the establishment simply known asLa Maison, the most expensive brothel in Paris—although it gave Marie fits to hear it called thus.

But Moira had never fooled herself. No matter what a person chose to call it, La Maison was a whorehouse and Moira was a whore. While she’d not hated her job, she’d been grateful for the chance to come to London. Even now—scarred and broken—she was in no hurry to go back.

After Smith’s visit to Pigeon Court that day, Moira had written a second letter to Marie—even though she’d not received an answer to the first—telling her about the new development. Well, she’d told her about everything except agreeing to have Smith’s child. There was no reason to share such information, not when it would never happen.

Moira had used some of Smith’s money to pay her landlady to deliver food and water—and launder her clothing—and had spent the intervening days eating, sleeping, and resting.

By the morning of the eighth day the bruises had mostly disappeared, even the worst of the welts had scabbed over, and her ribs ached rather than screamed. The scars would be there for the rest of her life, but the pain had faded. At least the physical pain.

Although Moira didn’t think of the attack during the day, she’d had nightmares about Mr. Brown. His beautiful, angelic features had branded themselves on her brain, especially the deadness in his eyes while he’d whipped her bloody, asking her the same question over and over again: “Why are you here?”

Moira’s mind shied away from the last hour of that night—before she’d lost consciousness—and she buried the memory in a dark, deep hole at the back of her mind, rolled a boulder over it, and resolved never to expose it to the light of day.

“Mr. Smith will see you now, Miss Dunsmuir.”

Moira’s head jerked up and she found the same attractive, black-suited servant—Michael, he’d said his name was—who’d admitted her waiting for her.

She followed him through a house that was solely decorated in shades of gray, black, and ivory. Truly, she had never seen the like. The only splashes of color evident were the many paintings on the walls and the objets d’art in glass cabinets.

The servant stopped in front of a glossy black door and knocked.

“Come in,” a familiar voice called out.

Smith stood when Moira entered the room and his face broke into a smile. “What a pleasure to see you, Moira. Please, have a seat.” He motioned to a big leather wingchair across from his desk. “Would you please have tea sent up, Michael?” he asked his servant, not taking his eyes from Moira.

The only person who’d ever looked so thrilled to see her had been her sister Sandrine.

Feeling slightly off balance by his reception Moira dropped a deep, formal curtsey.

“Very nice.” Smith’s eyes sparkled with appreciation.

She handed him the envelope that held his contract. “I’ve signed it.”

“Thank you.” He placed the envelope on his desk, which held only an open ledger and pen.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, resuming his seat behind the desk after she sat.

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