Sir Christopher crumpled to the floor, and Rohan turned and walked away, throwing his sword across the room. The man was dead, executed, as he should have been years ago.

He walked out onto the snow-covered terrace, staring up at the night sky, trying to control his racing heart, the dark, murderous rage that had yet to leave him. Sir Christopher had managed to pink him a couple of times, probably luck driven by sheer terror, and there was blood staining his billowing white sleeve and seeping through the shallow cut on his chest. Another set of clothes ruined, he thought, shivering.

Charles came to stand by him, saying nothing. Finally Rohan brought himself to speak. “He’s dead?”

“Thoroughly. The seconds are satisfied. It was a fair duel.”

Rohan’s laugh was harsh. “What was the fairness in that? It was like fighting a child.”

“You should have let me do it,” Charles said. “I have no qualms killing those who need to be killed.”

Rohan looked at him. “How do you know I have such qualms?”

“Francis, I know you,” he said. “You’ve abhorred death and violence for as long as we’ve been friends. Have you ever killed your man before?”

“I don’t fight duels.”

“Then before?”

Rohan turned his head away, looking out past the high wall of the stables. “It was Culloden, Charles,” he said wearily. “What do you think? I watched my father and brother slaughtered. I saw good men bayoneted after they surrendered, I saw death everywhere. I saw what men could do, and I swore I would never take a life again, no matter how evil he was.”

“So you changed your mind,” Charles said. “Why didn’t you let me handle it?”

“It wasn’t your fight.” He looked back at the house, filled with self-loathing. “I want you to take…”

“Who’s that?” Charles said, interrupting him.

“Who’s what?”

“Moving along the edge of the stables. Someone is sneaking around. I’m not sure if it’s a thief or someone’s outraged spouse, but I think…”

He saw her quite clearly, though she hid in the shadows, certain he couldn’t see her. He recognized her walk, the way she moved, even covered in that hideous cloak. He’d killed for her, betraying everything he believed in, and she was leaving.

The cold anger settled down about him, a rage that should have burned hot if it were a little less powerful. He looked down, expecting to see blood on his hands. Fittingly enough, it was his own.

“Go on in, Francis,” Charles said gently. “Go find Juliette, or perhaps Marianne. I’ll bring Miss Harriman back safely.”

He didn’t hear him. His rage blinded him, and nothing seemed to make sense. “Go away, Charles,” he said, his voice like ice. “This is my business.”

Charles grabbed his arm, trying to stop him. “I can’t let you hurt her, Francis.”

Rohan slapped him. The same challenging slap he’d administered to Christopher Spatts’s soft, pink cheek after he’d tossed his glass of wine in his face. “Anytime, anyplace,” he said in an evil voice.

“Now.”

Rohan’s smile was ugly. “No. I’m busy tonight.” He started after her, and Charles made one last attempt to stop him, grabbing for his arm.

“You can’t hurt her,” he repeated somewhat desperately.

Rohan stopped, turning to look at his old friend who knew him so little. “I wouldn’t think of hurting her.” Everything unbearable in this life had narrowed down to focus on Miss Elinor Harriman. He’d been a fool, and he’d waited too long. The waiting was over. “I merely intend to finish what I started.”

Elinor kept close to the sides of the buildings. It was unlikely anyone would see her. Lights spilled from the windows on the upper floors of the house, but the ground floor was mostly dark. Anyone still awake would hardly be looking outside, not when there was such decadent entertainment to be had inside. She was probably worrying needlessly.

Maison de Giverney was huge, the size of an English country house in the heart of Paris. Her newly healed feet were freezing, the night sharp and cold and clear, like Rohan’s heart. She pulled the cloak more tightly around her and moved on. The high walls ended in a narrow gate, and she almost thought she saw a carriage there. In the dark and shadows she couldn’t be certain, but it seems her mysterious savior wasn’t content with simply helping her escape the house.

She moved away from the shelter of the stables, when a familiar, drawling voice sent chills through her body. “Did I give you permission to leave?”

She spun around, like a fool, when she should have simply run. He was standing in the darkness, a mere silhouette, but there was something about his voice that sent shivers through her body. Something was wrong, something very bad had happened, and her first, mad instinct was to reach out to him, to reassure him, to hold him…

She knew insanity when it blossomed in her heart. She turned to run, but it was already too late. He caught her as she fled, and there was no gentleness in his hands as he imprisoned her wrists, hurting her.

“Your broke your contract,” he said in a cool voice. “I find I have a great dislike of cheats, Miss Harriman.”

“I’m not a cheat,” she said hotly.

“Are you not? You agreed to remain here with your sister as hostage for your good behavior. And now I find you running off in the middle of the night. Though perhaps I was wrong, and it wasn’t actual escape you were seeking. Perhaps you were just meeting a lover for an assignation and then planned to return to your room, once more presenting yourself as the proud demivirgin wounded by a cruel life.”

His voice was mocking, cold. Different. She’d heard him speak in that voice before, when a servant had displeased him, and she remembered the terror in their eyes. She had the same unexpected fear inside her heart.

It was a waste of time but she said it anyway. “Let me go.” She tried to pull away, but his hand tightened on her wrist, so hard she cried out.

“I think not.” He started back toward the house, ignoring her struggles. She had one last, despairing glimpse of the coach waiting for her, and then he yanked her forward.

She stumbled once, falling to her knees in the snow, but he simply hauled her up again, barely pausing. There were servants waiting to open the doors for him when he approached, and she expected him to release her, to order one of the footmen to accompany her to her room, more prison guard than servant. But he didn’t, dragging her after him along the wide corridors, up the broad marble stairs, past some of his more flagrant guests. She heard catcalls, a few cries of encouragement, but Rohan ignored them all, ignored her stumbling attempts to slow him down. He was intent, cold, furious, and for the first time since she’d met him she understood the ferocity behind the name. King of Hell. He terrified her.

She tried to talk with him once more when they reached the second floor, tried to reason with him, and he halted, dragging her in front of him. The sight of his face sent a chill through her. It was cold, blank, emotionless. “Pray refrain from making excuses, Miss Harriman,” he said in that cold, angry voice. “I have yet to hit a woman unless she’s requested it in sex play, but I’m always interested in trying something new. Be silent.”

And then he yanked her after him, down the hallways that grew narrower, darker. He wasn’t returning her to her rooms, nor was he taking her to his, a small consolation. But there were no lights, only the candelabrum he’d taken from a waiting footman, and the Revels hadn’t penetrated this deep into the house. They were alone, beyond sight, beyond hearing.

It wasn’t until he kicked open a door that she realized how very dangerous things were. Imperturbable, elegant Lord Rohan had never evinced emotion in her presence, and his anger at his servants had been cold and remote. His rage right now was hot and wicked.

He set the candelabrum down, kicking the door shut behind him, and this time when she tried to pull away he released her, so that she sprawled on the floor. He made no effort to help her up; he simply stood there looking at her out of hooded eyes.

“Oblige me by removing your clothes, Miss Harriman,” he said, his voice cool and clipped, at odds with the wildness in his face.

She could see him clearly now, and the sight shocked her. He was wearing his long waistcoat and billowing shirtsleeves, and he was bleeding. The sleeve was torn and stained bloody red on his arm, and there was a slash on his chest through the layers of clothing, and she stared at him, uncomprehending. What had happened to him?

He moved to stand over her, reached for the cloak and ripped it off her. “And who provided the means for your escape?” he inquired in a silken voice. “This hardly looks like the cloak I provided for you once your house burned down. I tend to have more extravagant taste than this.” He pulled it from beneath her and tossed it away. The purse that had been tucked in one of the pockets spilled on the floor, the gold and silver coins bright in the candlelight. He looked at it contemptuously. “That’s your price, Miss Harriman? It seems fairly paltry to me—I would have been willing to pay a great deal more for your relatively untried favors. Assuming you haven’t been lying to me the entire time you’ve been here.” An expression crossed his face, so dark and bleak that it shocked her. A moment later it was gone, leaving him calm and cold. “You had best hope you haven’t been,” he said. “I couldn’t answer for the consequences. Who gave you the cloak and the money?”

She started to pull herself together—she wasn’t going to stay sprawled at his feet like a harem girl. “I don’t know,” she said, starting to rise.

“Did I give you leave to get up?”

“I don’t need your leave,” she said, anger overriding her fear.

“Yes. You do.” And with one strong, pale hand he pushed her down onto the rug again. “I would recommend you stay there until I tell you otherwise. I’m not ready to touch you, and you would only have yourself to blame if you anger me more than you have already.”