The Silver Coin Page 14

  “But why did the killer come here?” Breanna felt cold, so very cold—a chill that radiated from the in­side out. “Just to take something that belonged to me? Or did he come to shoot me and, when my being out strolling the grounds made that impossi­ble, settled for stealing my chemise to torture me in­stead?”

  “No.” Royce refuted the latter. Walking over, he pressed her cold hands between his. “He had no in­tention of killing you. He came for the chemise. He also wanted to familiarize himself with you—your tastes, your weaknesses. He was searching for the best ways to terrorize you.”

  “He found them.” Breanna curled her fingers in Royce's—and felt her core of inner strength waver. “I can't stay in this room tonight,” she blurted, unable to keep the words from rumbling out. “I just can't.”

  “That’s not an option.” Royce saw the terror flash in her eyes, and he shook his head, negating her fear. “What I mean is, you're not staying here. Not only tonight, but any night Not until we find this animal.”

  Breanna started, her insides lurching again. “You think he'll be back?”

  “Eventually,” Royce said honestly. “But not to kill you. He has more to accomplish first He's not fin­ished tormenting you. And we're not going to give him the opportunity to do that to the point where he's ready to move on to the next stage of his plan” The phrase to kill Anastasia and you hung between them, echoing as clearly as if Royce had spoken it aloud. “Breanna,” he added fervently, his grip tightening as he watched the expression on her face. “We're going to hunt him down. I'm going to hunt him down. I promise you that.”

  “How?” Breanna heard herself ask.

  “He bought that statue somewhere. Just like he bought those dolls somewhere. I'm going to find out where. I have contacts all over England. I'll send them to every shire, every bloody town if I have to. But I will find this killer. You've got to trust me.” A shaky nod. “I do.”

  “In the meantime,” Royce continued, “if he does manage to get back inside the house, he won't find you in your chambers. I'm moving you into the room next to mine. Hibbert and I will take turns guarding your door. You'll never be unprotected.”

  “Stacie.” Breanna's thoughts were racing. “What about Stacie? She's in danger, too.”

  “Anastasia is safe. Damen's with her. The assassin would never enter their room and take the chance of alerting her husband.”

  “But if he shot her before Damen awakened, or if he decided to shoot Damen, too ...”

  Again, Royce shook his head. “That's not his plan. He's only after you and Anastasia. To close in on her, knowing full well her husband would be at her side and would, therefore, have to be eliminated, would be unacceptable. This man only kills those he means to— unless an unexpected victim like Knox gets in his way In that case, killing is unavoidable. But to plan his strategy—his ultimate strategy—knowing the stage wasn't set precisely as he wanted it to be; to burst in with the foreknowledge that someone other than his intended victim would be there? That would be ama­teurish.

  “Besides which, he'd never shoot Anastasia from inside the manor. He knows he'd be caught—if not by Damen, then by someone else who heard the shot. He'd want you and Anastasia isolated, away from prying eyes and alert ears. Remember, demonstrating his cunning is as much a part of this bastard's thrill as demonstrating his skill. No. I'm convinced that if he went to your chambers again, it would either be to leave something else to terrorize you or, at the very worst, to watch you when you're unaware.”

  “To... watch... me?” Breanna managed. She shuddered. “Y ou mean while I sleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Breanna recognized she was on the verge of totally breaking down and, desperately, she struggled to bring herself under control. Royce was offering her an alternative, a means to remain safe. She wouldn't reward him by sobbing like a child.

  That thought prompted another.

  “Y ou said you and Hibbert would alternate stand­ing outside my door,” she said, her voice stronger, steadier. “That won't be necessary. The killer won't find me if I'm in a different wing of the house. Be­sides, I refuse to impose on y ou. Y ou weren't hired as guards.”

  Royce raised her chin with his forefinger, those midnight blue eyes delving deep inside her. “That’ s my choice to make. Not yours.” He released her. “Now collect your nightclothes and whatever else you need. We're getting you out of this room.”

  13

  Breanna's temporary quarters were bare, void of per­sonal touches and bedding.

  Royce took care of that problem quickly and efficiently, carrying in a few blankets and pillows from his chambers to her new one, then building a healthy fire to warm away the winter chill.

  Breanna couldn't seem to stop shaking, no matter how high the flames were fanned. She hugged herself tightly, trying to conceal the severity of her tremors, clenching her teeth to disguise their chattering.

  “That'll do for tonight,” Royce announced a half hour later. He stepped back from the fireplace, setting down the iron poker. The room was still barren, un­lived in. But, barren or not, it was far safer than Bre­anna's.

  His gaze flickered to Breanna, then to the window. “It'll be light in a few hours. You'd better get some sleep.”

  Sleep?

  That word brought Breanna's head up, and her stomach twisted into knots as she realized the impli­cations of Royce's suggestion.

  He wanted her to lie down, to close her eyes, to rest.

  And he intended to leave her alone so she could do that. Impossible.

  Before she could stop herself, she'd reached out, clutched Royce's sleeve with her fingers. “No.”

  He glanced down at her hand, his own expression unreadable. “No?”

  “I can't sleep. Not yet. Not alone. No, that’s not what I meant,” she amended hastily, hot color flood­ing her cheeks.

  She sucked in her breath, tried again. “What I meant is, could you stay awhile? Just to talk,” she added in a rush. “It's just that... that is...” This was even hard­er than she'd expected. Turning to someone for help— someone other than Stacie or Wells—it didn't come easily to hen “I'm not quite ready to be alone with my thoughts,” she admitted at last. “Not after tonight's in­cident.”

  Royce smiled faintly, plucked her fingers from his sleeve, and brought her palm to his lips. “Was that really so difficult?” he murmured.

  “Yes.”

  His smile faded, and his gaze intensified. Tersely, he nodded, as if in understanding. “I suppose it was.” He guided her over to a chair, eased her into it. Then, he gathered up the blankets, spread them out over her, one by one, until she was totally enveloped. “I’ll stay. We'll talk. Under one condition. You curl up under those blankets. We've got to warm away that chill of yours. You're shaking like a leaf.”

  Breanna looked sheepish. “You noticed.”

  “Noticed?” He leaned over her, his hands gripping the chair arms on either side of her. “Your teeth were clenched so tightly, I was afraid your jaw would snap. And your fingers were biting so deeply into your gown sleeves, I was afraid the material would wear away. Does that answer your question?”

  Her lips twitched. “I suppose it does.”

  Royce's knuckles caressed her cheek ever so slight­ly. “You're an astonishing woman, Lady Breanna Colby. Tell me, does that inner strength of yours never falter?”

  Breanna swallowed. “I'm not certain how to answer that.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” Royce studied her in­tently. “You're not even aware of how extraordinary you are. Every woman I know would be close to hyste­ria by now—crying clinging fainting dead away. But not you. You do none of those things. No matter how terrified you are, how dire things get, you stay strong.”

  “That's not strength,” Breanna replied honestly. “It's self-control. I was raised to always exhibit it. After all these years of reinforcement, I suppose it's part of me.”

  An odd look crossed Royce's face. �
�I understand that reality only too well.” He straightened, turned his attention back to the fire.

  He might have been referring to her reality, to his knowledge of her father's crimes.

  Somehow Breanna sensed otherwise.

  The reality he was referring to was his.

  And the self-control was one he understood first­hand.

  Watching the stiffness of his posture, Breanna once again resisted the urge to pry. “I appreciate all you've done tonight, all you're still doing. I needed your as­sistance;—badly. Regardless of how you perceive me, I'm not really all that strong. My blood ran cold when I saw that chemise.”

  Royce relaxed, lowered himself to the rug by the fire. He stretched out his long legs, propped himself up on one elbow. “You're every bit as strong as I be­lieve. If you weren't frightened by what happened here tonight, you'd be a fool. Don't confuse intelli­gence with cowardice.”

  “All right. I won't.” Breanna tucked the blankets beneath her chin. “How do you think he got in?”

  “That's a good question.” Royce frowned, the light of the flames reflecting off his face, illuminating the hard angles and accentuating his pensive expression. “He could have slipped past the guards by climbing into one of the arriving guest's carriages and riding all the way to the manor. If he was dressed in black, he could have scaled his way to the second floor after that without being seen. Or, he could have smuggled himself into one of the delivery vehicles and ridden to the rear of the house, then crept up the rear staircase while the ball was under way. No one would have no­ticed him. All the activity was taking place in the front sections of the manor. Or...” Royce broke off, mid­night sparks glinting in his eyes.

  “Or?” Breanna prompted.

  He raised his gaze to meet hers. “Or he could have simply presented his invitation at the door and walked in.”

  Breanna stared, her eyes growing wide as saucers. “You're suggesting this killer might be one of my guests? Someone we knowingly invited to this party?”

  “I'm not suggesting it. I'm simply not ruling it out. After all what do we know about this person? Only that he's a master at his craft and that he has a twist­ed, albeit brilliant, mind. That description could apply to anyone, in any walk of life.”

  “Including the ton.” Breanna gripped the blanket with icy fingers. “If he is one of our guests, then he's still in the manor. He's here right now, sleeping under my roof, planning to do Lord knows what.”

  “If,” Royce emphasized. “It's a slim chance, not a likelihood. None of your guests is exactly a stranger. Most of them have done business with Colby and Sons for years, including a fair number who were dose acquaintances of your grandfather. Not to men­tion mat a good portion of them, I'm acquainted with—well enough to doubt they're killers.”

  “That doesn't eliminate the possibility that he's here. So how can we either dismiss or confirm the no­tion? Should we begin questioning everyone?”

  “Definitely not.” Royce shook his head. “If we do, and if it happens we're on the right track, well only incite the killer in ways we'd be best off not doing. My reputation is not exactly a secret. If the assassin real­izes I'm involved, that I'm actively looking for him, it would push him in a dangerous direction He needs to believe he's in control. Let’s let him think that. We’ll find out what we want to know—subtly. Very subtly.”

  Royce paused, his” mind racing. TU do some nos­ing around tomorrow before the first guests begin to leave,” he decided. “Better yet, I'll have Hibbert do it for me He has a way of getting information out of people without their realizing they've revealed any­thing. I’ll concentrate on finding out where that statue was purchased. And the dolls, too. The killer won't notice any of that. He's too busy planning the next step in his scheme to terrorize you.” A muscle flexed in Royce's jaw. “I'm going to beat this bastard at his own game.”

  “You certainly understand his mind,” Breanna noted quietly.

  Something cold and bitter flashed in Royce's eyes. “I've known others like him,” he responded. “Preda­tory geniuses obsessed with their own superiority. Some call themselves assassins. Some don't. And some don't kill—at least not in the bodily sense, nor in ways one could describe as criminal. But their minds are twisted and their means destructive as hell—at least to those who are unfortunate enough to be their victims.”

  Like you? Breanna almost blurted out.

  She bit her hp to silence the question, although she knew in her heart the victim Royce was alluding to was himself. And not in a professional capacity. Who­ever had hurt him wasn't among the military person­nel he'd dealt with. It was someone else—someone closer to him. She, better than anyone, recognized the signs.

  So where did that leave her? True, she didn't want to pry. But, given her own life, was it possible she could help?

  “I don't know very much about you,” she ventured, broaching the subject cautiously, giving Royce as much or as little room as he chose to take. “I know only what Damen's told me.”

  “I'm not given to discussing myself,” Royce re­turned bluntly. He angled his head to study Breanna's face. “Neither are you, I would imagine.”

  “You're right. I'm not.” She rushed on without al­lowing herself time to reconsider and change her mind. “I'm also not given to extreme shows of affec­tion. Tonight proved to be an exception—at least for me. Maybe it should be for you, as well. If not physi­cally, then verbally.”

  A hint of a smile. “Maybe it should. All right, what would you like to know?”

  “Only what you're comfortable discussing.” Be­neath the blankets, she drew up her legs, rested her chin atop her knees. “You said you spent Christmas with your brother and his family,” she tried carefully. “Are you and he close?”

  A shrug. “Not particularly. Edmund is a good man. His wife Jane is a decent woman. They're content in their roles as the Earl and Countess of Searby.”

  “Content. In other words, dull,” Breanna surmised, her lips curving a bit. “Your brother sounds like most of the men I'm acquainted with. And now, having met you... I can't imagine you'd have much in common with him.”

  “I don't,” Royce admitted. “But his sons are incredi­ble—three bundles of energy. The hours with them are worth all the boredom. They're even worth spend­ing a few days in that house. On occasion,” he quali­fied. “Too often and I'm besieged by the ugliest damned memories...” Abruptly, he broke off.

  Breanna recognized the bitterness in his voice, the pain and resentment in his eyes. She'd experienced those emotions all too often herself, incited by only one person.

  That helped make her assessment of Royce easy.

  It had to be his family. Not his brother, whom he talked about without anger. His parents. Most likely, his father—unless his mother was an unusually tyran­nical woman. Yes, his father. That had to be who was behind Royce's bitterness. Breanna would be willing to bet on it.

  “These memories—were they of your father?” she tried quietly.

  “One and the same,” was the sharp retort.

  It was the only confirmation she needed.

  “My guess is that he was much like mine,” Breanna ventured. “Domineering and cruel. Edmund is one re­sult of such a father. He must have turned out as I did: malleable, self-contained. And you? You're too dynamic for that. You veered off in the opposite direc­tion. You're the rebel, the one whose will was strong enough to fight back.”

  Royce stared into the flames, and for a moment Bre­anna thought he didn't intend to reply.

  She was on the verge of apologizing for overstep­ping her bounds when he said, “For the record, you're nothing like Edmund. Self-contained, maybe, but not malleable. And definitely not dull. As for me, I wasn't always as strong as you implied. I was once a fright­ened child. Very frightened. You see, my father's phi­losophy was to bludgeon us into what he called 'being men.'“

  “He beat you.”

  “Oh, the beatings were the easy part. They were qui
ck, they were predictable, and all they could hurt was my body. So I endured them. Edmund couldn't— not that I blame him. His passive nature was no match for my father's brutal resolve and vile temper. He crumpled by the time he was six, conformed to my father's wishes. That, combined with the fact that he was the heir apparent, freed him from my father's exe rcises in abuse. In my case, the exercises took a new form—a series of challenges my father provided for me to overcome.”

  “Challenges?” Breanna felt an unpleasant sense of foreboding. “What kind of challenges?”

  “The kind supposedly designed for me to prove myself, but which, in fact, were designed to prove my father's dominance and to destroy my will. When I was five, I was ordered to ride a wild stallion who had a history of throwing and trampling his owners. My orders were never to fall. Each time I failed to stay in the saddle, I was whipped. And each time I cried, I was forced to endure an additional hour on the stal­lion's back.

  “When I was six, I was locked in a cramped closet and told to find my way out. If I dared fail or call out for help, the next space I was locked in would be more cramped, harder to escape. And when I was seven, I was given books to read—in various lan­guages—and told to memorize them. When reciting them back, I was denied one meal for each mistake I made. That usually meant going days without food. Shall I continue?”

  “No.” Breanna shook her head, bile rising in her throat. “How did you get through it?”

  “By becoming resourceful, learning never to fail. Every challenge my father hurled in my face, I mas­tered. Of course, that made him angrier. Which meant his challenges grew harder and his punishments more severe. He was determined to break me. It became his obsession. He was brilliant, vicious, and relentless. But, as you so astutely guessed, my will was stronger. I withstood his brutality for twelve long years. Then, I left for Eton. After that, I rarely came home. And once my mother died, I stopped coming altogether.”

  “Your mother?” Breanna's head came up. “Didn't she intrude?”

  “I wouldn't let her. Do you know what he would have done if his wife defied him? He would have bru­talized her.”