Anne Stuart by To Love a Dark Lord

would teach her everything she knew, to love and fear her God, to live chastely and humbly. To leave the tawdry business of finances in her cousin’s capable hands.
    If only Horace had managed to control his ungovernable lust. If only Emma hadn’t looked like a whore, with her disgustingly feminine body and her sinful hair. Miriam had prayed, but God hadn’t been disposed to obey. And now she had to live with the consequences.
    He was supposed to have killed her. The plan had been simple, but her father, much as she’d adored him, had never been one to listen to her teachings. The lure of fornication and strong drink had weakened his mind, that and the presence of Emma in their household.
    She needed to die, Miriam’s father had had no quarrel with that. They were running out of time; sooner or later Emma would run off, or some young man would steal her away, and all that lovely money would be out of reach. It would be a simple enough matter, a fall down the wide, bare, highly polished stairs, or a runaway carriage mowing her down and no one ever discovering the hapless culprit of such an unfortunate occurrence.
    But Horace hadn’t listened. He didn’t want accomplices, he’d said. Other people involved, people they’d have to pay, people who could take it into their heads to demand more and more. He was a man; he could do it himself.
    But Miriam hadn’t been fooled. She’d seen the damp bog of lust in his eyes, and she’d known. There was nothing she could say, however. She was a righteous daughter, and obedient. She’d remained silent when he’d taken Emma off for the day, knowing it would soon be over. Knowing it would be none of her concern, what Horace did with Emma before he cut her throat.
    But Horace was the one who had died. By his own sword, at the hand of some decadent Irish lord. And Emma had disappeared, beyond Miriam’s reach.
    If only she could find Emma. The slut would pay for her sins, her crimes. She had to be responsible for Horace’s shameful death. She must have encouraged that Irishman to kill him, and then run away.
    They’d brought her father’s body back to her. She’d mourned, loud and long. And then she’d stiffened her poker-straight back, and turned to revenge with a prayerful intensity.
    Emma would pay for her crimes. Spectacularly. And there would be no one left to inherit her considerable fortune. Except her dear, devout cousin Miriam.
    If only she could find her.
     
    “ I have the most amusing story to tell you, Killoran.”
    He looked up from the book he was perusing. It wasn’t something he was particularly interested in—a treatise on agriculture he’d purchased more than a decade ago, when he still thought he might return to Ireland. He used it more as a tool with which to bother his companion, and as such it was very effective.
    “ Do you?” he murmured lazily.
    Lady Barbara’s delicate mouth thinned for a moment, and then she smiled. It was a good thing Nathaniel was nowhere to be seen. He was already absurdly smitten with Lady Barbara, and there was no denying that she had a truly enchanting smile. If one cared to be enchanted.
    “ You recall my neighbors? That dreadfully common Varienne family?”
    “ Not particularly.” He set the book down, surveying Lady Barbara with a bored expression. In truth, she didn’t bore him. Her determined pursuit, combined with a complete lack of sincere interest in his innumerable attractions, fascinated him, almost as much as Nathaniel’s instant, passionate devotion to her. The menage they had formed continued to enliven his days, what with Lady Barbara as usual throwing decorum to the wind and arriving on his doorstep morning, noon, and night, thereby convincing the polite world, erroneously, that she was his latest mistress. He gave her very little encouragement, which only seemed to fire her determination all the more. She wouldn’t rest until she had managed to entice him into bed, and he couldn’t imagine why. He