It didnt matter how many times Father caught Bram sneaking back to the nursery, bruised and scraped, his clothes torn and dirty. Father whipped him to teach a sense of decorum, as would fit the child of a baron. None of the whippings made a bit of difference. Bram kept running through the brook, kept challenging village boys to fights.
Obstinate barbarian, Father had called him.
Bram remembered standing in the corridor, listening to Father berate the latest tutor for Brams execrable spelling and unmannerly penmanship.
My lord, the tutorMr. Filton? Mr. Finmere?objected, the boy simply refuses to be taught. He will not be guided by anyone, even if what one suggests would directly benefit the boy. It must be done at his decision, or not at all.
Mr. Filton or Finmere had not lasted long. Soon after, Bram was sent away to school. Where he met Whit. They werent immediate friends. In truth, they used to beat each other bloody, until mutual antipathy toward another boy became the foundation of their friendship.
Where was Whit now? Still in London? Or had he and his Gypsy woman fled the city in the wake of Edmunds death?
A furious, aching loneliness gathered in Brams chest. He drank more brandy. It did nothing to relieve the sensation.
He wasnt truly alone. Livia, his own personal Fury, was close by. Not in his bedchamber at the moment, yet she remained near. She couldnt leave him even if she wanted to. And she wanted to.
Her words echoed. Accusing him of being selfish, concerned more with his own pleasure than the doom of countless souls.
I am selfish, he said aloud. Always have been. It formed a comfortable cloak, his aggressive egoism, keeping others demands at a distance. He neednt worry about anything but making himself happy.
He laughed into the darkness. Happiness was ever elusive. But he knew its shadowed caricature: depravity. And for years after his return from the Colonies, that had been enough. Or so hed believed. The Hellraisers had been good company, never asking questions, as intent on the pursuit of pleasure as he.
He didnt trust John. No reason why he should. And the hard, eager look in his eyes unsettled Bram deeply. Ambushers had the same eyes as they lay in wait. But what was John planning?
It didnt matter. Nothing mattered. All of themLivia, John, the Hellraisers, Mr. Hollidayall of them could go rot. He was beholden to no one. No one relied upon him, either.
Watching the fire as it consumed the wood, he outlined his own plan: Drink until he lost consciousness. When he woke, he would immerse himself in the realm of Londons voluptuaries, and there hed remain, importunate ghost or no ghost. And if the world burned down, hed watch it burn, letting the flames engulf his own flesh.
Chapter 4
Rubbing the heel of his hand in his eyes, he stared at her. Not a dream, then. His voice was a groggy rasp, as it always was upon rousing from sleep. Hed no love for the first hour after waking, a relationship made more complicated today by the ill-effects of too much brandy. And the fact that a Roman ghost was there to share the unpleasantness. Damn.
The enthusiasm is mutual. She glanced back toward the fireplace, where an upended chair and empty decanter gave evidence as to how he spent the rest of his night. How much did you drink?
Not nearly enough. He raised up on his elbows, the blankets sliding down to his abdomen, and he didnt miss the way her gaze moved over his bare flesh. She looked at the mark of flame, but moved quickly on to the muscles of his chest, the ridges of his stomach. Her nostrils flared. This ghost was not unmoved by the sight of a nude man.
Neither, it seemed, was the man unmoved by her. The curtains were still drawn, the chamber swathed in shadow, and he could see how her tunic clung to the lush curves of her body. Full breasts, rounded hips. A sensualists body. Her beauty was both patrician and earthy. The kind of woman whod command her slaves to bring scented oils, but use her own hands to rub them on her lover.
Against his will, against his judgment, his own body responded to her. His cock stirred, eager as always for the pleasures of women. The damned thing had to suffer disappointment, however. This woman, for all her sensuality, had no substance. He might as well try to fuck the air.
Throwing back the covers, Bram rose from bed. He felt her gaze on him as he walked, naked, to the low cabinet where the chamber pot was kept. For a moment, he debated whether or not to go behind the screen in the corner of the room. Ridiculous. He wasnt going to affect modesty for this termagant. So, after his partial erection subsided, he relieved himself in full view of her. If she didnt like it, she could just . . . fade away.
Once finished, he strode to the washstand and cleaned himself. He splashed water on his face and torso, all the while watching her in the mirror that perched on the washstand.
Her gaze never left him, traversing the length of his body, lingering on his buttocks. Hunger gleamed in her eyes.