block was at night.
He walked in behind her, and Orillion followed, looking glad to be with his master.
"Cumberland was right. You're not what we expected." He looked at her loosely bound auburn hair, which fell almost to her hips, and continued questioning her. "Did your mother have such coloring?"
"We did look alike." Warily she turned to face him. "And I have her eyes."
He stepped closer to her and took a thick lock of hair in his strong hand. Slowly he stroked it, admiring its rich magenta highlights.
"And your hair? Did she have your hair?"
She backed up against the carved oaken mantel, feeling trapped by the question and the hold he had on her hair. He came closer as if drawn to her, and she felt herself shaking, afraid. But her fear was not so much of the man before her. Despite his brooding looks and his leashed, mysterious anger, she somehow knew he would not harm her physically.
But she was afraid of what he was doing. As he looked at her hair, there was no mistaking the softening about his face; its usual tautness was displaced by a relaxed, almost sleepy sensuality. There was actually warmth in his eyes, cold as they were in color. They sparkled like snow melting in the sun. His desire became apparent with that gleam, and that frightened her more than any of the threats he'd made to confine her at Osterley or to exile her to the stable block.
Her mother's cries rang in her ears, just as they had when she'd been a little girl and Oliver Morrow had come to visit. Was it like that for all women? Would the strong, virile man before her who undoubtedly possessed a rare expertise in lovemaking behave the same way as the vile, crazed Earl of Laborde? Confusion abounded in her thoughts, but she knew she had to come to a conclusion before he pressed the issue. Yet however irrational it was, at that moment she could not differentiate between the act that had been forced upon her mother and the invitation that was so apparent in Avenel Slane's eyes. She started to moan from deep inside her, and before she could stop herself, she cried in a little girl's voice, "Please do not touch me!"
Quickly she retrieved, her lock of hair from his palm and turned away, embarrassed by her fear and by the look of disbelief and guilt in his eyes.
"You find me unattractive?" He spoke to her rigid back. "I have my faults, but I didn't realize that that was one of them.
"I have no desire for a man's attentions, whether he be attractive or not. I thought I made that clear in the gallery." She was completely still and refused to look at him, hoping he would go away and leave her alone.
"I see." He sounded agitated. "Where did this unnatural abstention come from?"
"I need not answer to you," she retorted, still facing the mantel.
"No. But one day you'll wish you did, my lady. There has never been a woman who rejected my lovemaking. And I swear you will live to regret it."
"So you threaten me harm if I don't comply?" She spun around to face him, anger vivid in her face. "How like a man!"
"I have never harmed a woman. But there are other ways to make you suffer, ways that can be just as devastating. You deny your womanly feelings, but there is a weakness in your shaky armor. I shall find it. And when I do, I shall be merciless." He walked to the door and bade Orillion sit. He parted, saying only, "Sleep well, Lady Brienne. I hope you enjoy your chastity tonight." Then he looked about the dismal room and shut the door behind him.
When the door closed, she heard the thump of footsteps on the stairs. Satisfied that he had left the stable block, she cracked open the door, only to find Orillion still sitting sentinel on her threshold.
Not bothering to close the door again, she made a silent oath and walked back into the little room. How would she ever make it through the night?
She sat on the little oaken stool; her mind went over and over again all the day's strange occurrences. Unusual things were definitely going on at Osterley, but
He walked in behind her, and Orillion followed, looking glad to be with his master.
"Cumberland was right. You're not what we expected." He looked at her loosely bound auburn hair, which fell almost to her hips, and continued questioning her. "Did your mother have such coloring?"
"We did look alike." Warily she turned to face him. "And I have her eyes."
He stepped closer to her and took a thick lock of hair in his strong hand. Slowly he stroked it, admiring its rich magenta highlights.
"And your hair? Did she have your hair?"
She backed up against the carved oaken mantel, feeling trapped by the question and the hold he had on her hair. He came closer as if drawn to her, and she felt herself shaking, afraid. But her fear was not so much of the man before her. Despite his brooding looks and his leashed, mysterious anger, she somehow knew he would not harm her physically.
But she was afraid of what he was doing. As he looked at her hair, there was no mistaking the softening about his face; its usual tautness was displaced by a relaxed, almost sleepy sensuality. There was actually warmth in his eyes, cold as they were in color. They sparkled like snow melting in the sun. His desire became apparent with that gleam, and that frightened her more than any of the threats he'd made to confine her at Osterley or to exile her to the stable block.
Her mother's cries rang in her ears, just as they had when she'd been a little girl and Oliver Morrow had come to visit. Was it like that for all women? Would the strong, virile man before her who undoubtedly possessed a rare expertise in lovemaking behave the same way as the vile, crazed Earl of Laborde? Confusion abounded in her thoughts, but she knew she had to come to a conclusion before he pressed the issue. Yet however irrational it was, at that moment she could not differentiate between the act that had been forced upon her mother and the invitation that was so apparent in Avenel Slane's eyes. She started to moan from deep inside her, and before she could stop herself, she cried in a little girl's voice, "Please do not touch me!"
Quickly she retrieved, her lock of hair from his palm and turned away, embarrassed by her fear and by the look of disbelief and guilt in his eyes.
"You find me unattractive?" He spoke to her rigid back. "I have my faults, but I didn't realize that that was one of them.
"I have no desire for a man's attentions, whether he be attractive or not. I thought I made that clear in the gallery." She was completely still and refused to look at him, hoping he would go away and leave her alone.
"I see." He sounded agitated. "Where did this unnatural abstention come from?"
"I need not answer to you," she retorted, still facing the mantel.
"No. But one day you'll wish you did, my lady. There has never been a woman who rejected my lovemaking. And I swear you will live to regret it."
"So you threaten me harm if I don't comply?" She spun around to face him, anger vivid in her face. "How like a man!"
"I have never harmed a woman. But there are other ways to make you suffer, ways that can be just as devastating. You deny your womanly feelings, but there is a weakness in your shaky armor. I shall find it. And when I do, I shall be merciless." He walked to the door and bade Orillion sit. He parted, saying only, "Sleep well, Lady Brienne. I hope you enjoy your chastity tonight." Then he looked about the dismal room and shut the door behind him.
When the door closed, she heard the thump of footsteps on the stairs. Satisfied that he had left the stable block, she cracked open the door, only to find Orillion still sitting sentinel on her threshold.
Not bothering to close the door again, she made a silent oath and walked back into the little room. How would she ever make it through the night?
She sat on the little oaken stool; her mind went over and over again all the day's strange occurrences. Unusual things were definitely going on at Osterley, but
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