The Wicked House of Rohan Read Free Page B

sure idea what would await her in England, whether Mrs. Brandon’s slander would follow her there, but she had good enough references from other families. And no one would ever need know of this.
    She would think of it as a medical procedure, close her eyes and endure. At least no one would cut her open, and the pain would be marginal and quick, or so her sister had told her.
    She moved over to the window seat, curling up against the bolted shutters. If Marcello showed up she’d ask him for food, which he’d probably refuse, but starvation had its own compensations. She was already so muzzy-headed she’d probably barely notice what they did to her.
    She had drifted off to sleep when the door opened and Alistair Rohan came in, heading purposefully toward the table. His head was wet, and clearly he’d just bathed. She would have killed for a bath.
    She sank back into the alcove. A mistake, because her movement caught his attention and he turned to stare at her for a long moment, clearly surprised.
    â€œWhat are you still doing here?” he asked in that lazy voice she remembered so well.
    Somehow she found she was able to answer. “They were afraid they might misplace me.”
    He gave a short, sharp laugh. “You look like you’re starving,” he said abruptly. “Can I offer you some food, or will you throw that back in my face?”
    â€œFood…would be very nice,” she said in a faint voice.
    He nodded, more to himself than to her. “Come with me.”
    She followed, determined not to fall over, trailing behind the straight, tall back that she’d once sighed over. The room he brought her to was small and cozy, with a blazing fire to fight off the damp Venetian chill. She stood there, uncertain what to do.
    â€œGo. Sit by the fire,” he said irritably, and disappeared.
    She did as she was bid. The chair was cushioned, the fire so hot that her hands and feet finally began to warm, and she could see steam rising from her sodden garments. She ought to be embarrassed, but it was nothing compared to what was coming later that night.
    She didn’t know how long he was gone. She had probably drifted off to sleep again, because when he appeared, the supercilious Marcello was with him, carrying a heavy tray.
    She almost cried then. But she swallowed back the tears as Marcello set the tray down on the table beside her, then moved it in front of her. Soup, baked eels, cold chicken, hard cheese, bread, sweet confections. She couldn’t believe the food there, and she didn’t know where to start.
    â€œIf you think I’m going to hand-feed you you’re wrong,” Alistair said, throwing himself down in the chair opposite her.
    â€œDon’t…don’t you want any?” She’d stab him if he did.
    He shook his head. “I’ve been eating regular meals. Clearly you haven’t.”
    It was all she could do not to fall on the food like a ravenous savage. She forced herself to eat slowly, knowing she’d make herself sick if she shoved it all in her mouth, knowing he was watching her out of those heavy-lidded honey-gold eyes. She was past feeling self-conscious. When she finally finished she sat back, her stomach pleasantly full for the first time in weeks.
    She had no choice—she’d been brought up with manners. “Thank you.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “No longer wanting me dead? Though I can’t imagine what I’ve done to earn your enmity. I was trying to save you from the worst folly imaginable.”
    â€œWhy? Oh, I remember. I’m just so damned pathetic,” she said.
    He grinned at that. “I can tell you’re feeling better already. I’ve had Marcello prepare a room for you and a bath. You look as if you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, and you’re going to need your strength if you expect to get through tonight’s festivities.”
    â€œA bath?”