Read Online Perilous Pleasures by Jenny Brown - Free Book Online Page A

your tricks. From now on, I’ll be on my guard. You may be sure of that. Whatever your scheme might have been, it failed. The power of the Dark Lord isn’t mocked.”

Chapter 4
    T he next morning, when he led Zoe down to the inn’s common room, where they were served an indifferent breakfast, Adam found perverse pleasure in the discovery that his companion looked no better than he felt. Her eyes were suspiciously puffy and her usually bright features bore the heavy look that told of a sleepless night. He greeted her with a slight nod, hoping to avoid further confrontation, but the dull look of despair with which she met his eye showed she feared him even more than she had the previous day—as she should, after failing at whatever it was she’d been up to the past night.
    Even so, she made a brave show of eating the leathery bacon they had been given for their breakfast. She cut it into ladylike portions and lifted each forkful slowly to her mouth, though her hand shook as she did so. He should have taken pleasure from observing her misery, but strangely, he could not. Instead, he found himself fighting the urge to reassure her. He couldn’t imagine why. Her behavior had been preposterous. By behaving like a harlot, she’d proven herself to be her mother’s daughter, despite the demure face she’d hitherto shown him.
    And what had she intended with her knife? His insides contracted just thinking of it. Had he stayed asleep, she could have easily unmanned him. He had only her word for it that she’d meant him no harm. So why was he still haunted by the feeling that he’d been wrong to transfer his hatred of Isabelle to her daughter? Zoe’s behavior should have strengthened his anger, not weakened it. But it hadn’t.
    He’d been haunted all night by the vision of her face as he had swum up into consciousness to find himself in her embrace. And he was haunted still by the memory of her touch, which had awakened such longing in his body—and in his heart. Was it to reassure her that he wanted to reach out and stroke her narrow shoulder? Or himself?
    He should hate her. She was alive only because her mother had ensured his sister would die in her place. But over the years he had cultivated the ability to listen for what was unsaid, until it seemed to him sometimes that he could hear even the sound of the worms slithering in the earth beneath his feet. Now, with that trained facility sharpened by their tryst the previous night, he could hear her thoughts. He could sense what it cost her to maintain the pose of cool unconcern with which she had faced down every insult he had given her. And her courage amazed him.
    She was alone, abandoned by the mother who should have protected her and helpless in the hands of her enemy—himself. But still she radiated defiance, despite the fear he felt thrumming beneath her carefully maintained façade of self-sufficiency—which he felt as strongly as if it had been his own. In the face of such courage, how wrong it would be if his revenge was to be directed at her .
    He left his breakfast untouched and called for the chaise to be brought round. The sooner they reached Iskeny, the better. As the carriage jolted down the rutted road, he struggled to keep his leg from touching the thick fabric of Zoe’s skirt, lest he remember about what lay hidden beneath it. But avoid her as he might, his flesh still tingled where her gentle hands had stroked him the night before.
    If only he had truly been asleep. If only it had been the touch of a dream woman he’d responded to. But he hadn’t been asleep, not the whole time. He’d awakened as Zoe had been going about her business, and that was what he couldn’t forgive himself for. Even when he’d known she was not some phantom summoned by his loneliness, he’d allowed her to continue—nay, he’d done far worse than that—he’d ensured that she