The Crimson Lady by Mary Reed McCall Page A

complete, though she’d known that it was his perverse fascination with her and not some nobler instinct that goaded him into the proclamation. But when the time came that she should have been sent to one of his lodgings in the stewes , he had stayed true to his word and kept her back, installing her instead in chambers of his main residence at Chepston Hall. Then he’d applied his considerable intellect to coming up with a solution that would reconcile his uncharacteristic desire for her with his need to secure the profit he would lose by refusing to sell her to other men.
    His plan had been shocking, yet brilliant as well…and she had hated him for it. Hated him for the degradation he inflicted by his own use of her, heaped with the vulgarity of the lie that was the Crimson Lady—hated him with a coldness that went bone deep, even as she continued to betray herself by pretending to respond to his undeniable skill and silken touches. But she’d never relinquished her heart. Nay, nor her soul either. And it was that withholding that had finally thwarted his obsessive desires and brought her, after several years in his keeping, to the night of unforgivable humiliation and pain at his hands.
    Dragging in an uneven breath, Fiona forced her eyes open again and pushed away the bitter memories. None knew the secret of her past except for herself, Draven, and Will. Undoubtedly no one would accept the truth of her limited experience, discounting it, rather, as a fantastical tale, even were she foolish enough to try to defend herself with it. It was far easier for those who saw the Crimson Lady to believe her a fallen woman of the worst sort—and she’d never argued the point, for in spirit she knew they were right. She was well and fully ruined in every way that truly mattered, forever dead to gentle emotions or the ability to feel love. It was Draven’s legacy to her, branded into her soul as surely as the perverse heart had been carved onto her chest.
    Blinking, Fiona lifted her gaze to Braedan, sleeping peacefully on the pallet—a seeming paragon of virtue, willing to risk his life for the sake of a foster sister’s honor. But what kind of man was he, really? Compared to Draven, he appeared tantamount to a saint, but she wasn’t sure she truly believed the purity of his motivation in coercing her. Based on her knowledge of men and their workings, it was near impossible to accept that he would be willing to imperil himself in such a way for the simple sake of another’s honor or safety. There might well be other forces that drove him in his quest, forces she hadn’t been able to discern yet.
    Still, that he sprang from a family known for justice and honor couldn’t be denied; she’d almost fallen over in shock when, sick as he was, he’d drawn his sword in defense of her in the common room belowstairs. Never could she remember any man having put himself in harm’s way for her sake. As a street waif she’d been beneath most men’s notice, and then later, after her transformation into the Crimson Lady, she’d been worth even less in society’s estimation.
    Aye, Braedan de Cantor had surprised her with his action on her behalf. But she couldn’t forget that he was also the same man who had burst into her life brandishing threats and bearing a damning connection to the one person she despised most in the world.
    He’d assured her that it was an association by marriage and not by blood, and she believed it, now more than ever, for while both men were tall and well built, there were undeniable differences between them. By her figuring, Draven was nearly ten years older, his coloring and bearing darkly exotic, the beauty of his face rivaled only by the perfection of his elegant form. Braedan,however, possessed a warrior’s body, powerfully muscular, and he was of fairer complexion, square-jawed and resolute, with wavy hair of rich walnut hue and startling blue eyes that seemed to pierce her defenses. Neither man