Chapter 1

Chapter One

R obbed, stabbed, and now this.

At first glance, the picture before him was perfect. A young woman lay on the bed, completely naked, her legs spread slightly as if inviting him in. Exactly what he had come to Maison Rouge for.

But even though her fists gripped the sheets beside her, her eyes were clamped tightly shut, and every inch of her trembled from head to toe, none of it was from anticipation. She was terrified. A single tear appeared at the corner of her eye. She bit down hard on her bottom lip as if trying to will its existence away, but it simply trickled down into her chestnut hair.

"For god's sake, cover yourself." He slammed his fist against the bedpost sending pain shooting up his arm to pool into one burning point at the wound in his shoulder. "Fuck!"

She wore the makeup of a whore, rouge on her lips and cheeks that somehow only accentuated the wholesome beauty beneath, and a more than seductive peignoir, which she'd shed the second the door had clicked shut behind her.

What was Madame Bustier thinking?

He plunged his fingers into his hair. He needed relief. To drive himself to exhaustion with a woman who was willing and would enjoy some good bedsport. He sure as hell hadn't come to force himself on some poor young woman who didn't want him.

He threw the door open and nearly trod on Madame Bustier.

Madame Bustier? How ridiculous. It was probably the only French word she knew, so she'd made it her fake name, to go along with her fake accent. Now, here she was, peddling fake whores. It was too much.

"I will never set foot in this… establishment again." He marched toward the door.

But a small voice found its way through the din and caught his attention.

"What did I do?"

His feet slowed, without him even giving them permission to do so. No, he wasn't here for this. He wasn't going to intervene.

"You earned yourself the thrashing of a lifetime is what you did, you stupid girl!" The French accent had suddenly vanished. "Driving away one of my best payin' customers."

Jesus, if that was true, he needed to stop giving his patronage to places like this.

There was a crack of skin on skin, and he stopped in his tracks. His eyes slid closed. He couldn't just leave her.

"Fuck," he muttered again.

He turned to see the young girl stumbling backward through the doorway, her eyes wide like a doe's. She clung to the peignoir she was wrapped in once again, looking frightened and confused, and for some reason, it caused a stinging in his heart. He pushed past Madame Bustier, ignoring her pleas for him to stay, grabbed the girl's wrist, and pulled her along behind him, doing his best to ignore the searing pain in his shoulder.

As they neared the front door, Madame Bustier's pleas became shouts of outrage.

"You can't just take her from here. She belongs to me!"

Patrick stopped and turned, his eyes boring into Madame Bustier's. She cowered slightly. Good. She should be afraid. "She will not stay here with you and be beaten." He fumbled in his jacket pocket as he spoke.

She stuttered then, trying her best to put her French accent back into place as she had her smile. "I would not beat her, of course. It was only a bluff. Besides, what will she do? She has nowhere else to go."

Patrick knew a bluff when he saw one, and she had certainly not been bluffing. There was also no genuine concern behind her words, they were simply her next move in their verbal bout of fencing.

He threw a handful of banknotes into the air and as they fluttered to the ground he leaned in close. "She is no longer your concern." Then he strode through the front door, the young woman in tow.

Not until they reached the bottom of the steps did he take a moment to think. She was wearing nothing but that damned peignoir. Pain shot through his shoulder again as he stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her, trying to cover as much of her as possible.

"Come." He steered her toward a waiting hansom cab. He helped her up and gave the driver his direction before climbing in beside her.

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked softly as they rolled away from the brothel.

"Quiet." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. She had to be freezing.

"Yes, sir." She spoke the words barely above a whisper, and he felt like a bloody cad.

He hadn't meant to be harsh, but what else was he supposed to say? He knew what he should be doing with her. He should be delivering her to Raven House, where Ash would see she was taken care of, and she'd no longer be his problem. That was exactly why Raven House existed, to help women like her.

But he didn't want to deal with Ash's judgment or disappointment tonight, so he'd given the driver his home address instead. He'd let her sleep there tonight and deliver her to Raven House in the morning.

She shivered and he pulled her more tightly against him, wrapping his other arm around her and tucking her head under his chin.

"It'll be alright," he whispered.

To his surprise, she burrowed even more firmly against his chest. What had the poor woman been through?

Hell, no doubt.

She let out a sigh, and her body became limp in his arms. Poor thing must have been exhausted to fall asleep in the arms of a strange man.

"It'll be alright," he whispered again. Perhaps reassuring himself more than her.

A short time later, Patrick carried her into his flat. His valet stopped in his tracks, his eyes grew wide with shock and Patrick could see the endless questions brewing in his mind.

Patrick shook his head and gestured towards the door to his chamber. Finch rushed to open it and then quickly pulled back the blankets so that Patrick could lay the unconscious woman in his bed. Carefully, he removed his coat from around her and covered her with the blanket. She stirred slightly, but only rubbed her nose and nestled further into the blankets before sliding right back into a deep sleep.

She looked so peaceful, the fear gone from her face as she slept. He was tempted to tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear but didn't want to risk waking her. Why did he feel so protective of her? He would gladly stand there and watch over her as she slept, but that was ridiculous. She was perfectly safe now. He tore his gaze away from her and followed Finch out of the room, closing the door softly behind them.

Now what? Pain throbbed in his shoulder, so first, he would have a drink, and then he'd work on figuring out the rest.

Halfway down the hall, Finch turned to face him, eyebrows raised and one side of his mouth turned up in a smirk. "You must be losing your touch. You don't usually have to render them unconscious to get them into your bed."

Patrick looked heavenward while he gathered his patience. "Really, Finch, I know I've forbidden any bowing and scraping and my lording, but a little respect wouldn't kill you."

"Yes, my lord." He bowed deeply.

Patrick pushed past him with an irritated sigh, continuing on to his study. "I hope you've filled my brandy decanter recently," he called over his shoulder.

Patrick downed the first glass and poured another before settling into the chair behind his desk. Finch hovered in the doorway. He was going to have to tell the man something. He would, undoubtedly, need his discretion and his help.

Finch broke the silence first. "Would you like me to send for the doctor?"

"No, Finch. I don't think there's anything wrong with her. She's just tired."

"Not for her, for you." He nodded toward Patrick. "You're bleeding."

Patrick looked down. Sure enough, a red stain was slowly blossoming at his shoulder. "Damn it, this is the first time I've worn this shirt!" He shook his head and rubbed his hands over his face. "No doctor. The last thing I need is one more person in this house tonight."

"At least allow me to change the dressing." Only then did Patrick notice the man already held the supplies in his hands. Somehow Finch always knew what he would want, sometimes before Patrick even knew himself.

He let out a long sigh. "Very well."

"And perhaps while I'm working on that, you can tell me about the girl?"

Patrick chuckled and began undoing the buttons on his waistcoat. "I'll tell you what I know."

* * *

Rosalyn didn't want to open her eyes. Perhaps if she just kept them closed, she could pretend the events of the previous couple of days had been no more than a bad dream. If only that could be true. The lingering scent of spicy cologne confirmed she wasn't in her own bed. She recognized the smell, though. Her nostrils had been filled with it as she drifted to sleep in the arms of a strange man in a hired cab as they rolled away from the brothel she'd been sold to.

Her mind screamed for her to open her eyes and see where she was, but she squeezed them shut even more tightly. She wasn't ready to know. Her heart beat rapidly inside her chest. Why couldn't she just be at home in her own bed? It wasn't perfect, but at least there, she knew what to expect. At least there, she had her mother. She didn't want this life, whatever this life was.

She breathed in deeply through her nose and let it out gradually, giving a silent prayer that there was no one else in the bed with her, and then slowly allowed her eyes to slide open. Thank God. She was alone.

The room was fairly large and decidedly masculine, with its deep emerald hues and heavy fabrics. His room, whoever ‘he' was. She didn't even know his name. In the corner next to the bed stood a large mahogany armoire and on the other side, a writing desk that, along with stationary and writing implements, held a bottle of some amber liquid and a couple of glasses. The most luxurious piece of furniture in the room, an oversized, brown leather armchair, sat before the fireplace, where only dying embers remained. Apparently, he had money. Perhaps she should have guessed that by the fact that he'd thrown an entire fistful of banknotes into the air, but these furnishings spoke to a level of wealth she hadn't expected, even still.

Looking beneath the blanket, she was still dressed in that horrible piece of lingerie Madame Bustier had forced her to wear. Luckily, a robe hung from the post at the foot of the bed and whether it was left for her or not, she put it on. The heavy, green, velvet robe wrapped nearly twice around her and reached the floor, but it was better than the wisp of fabric she wore beneath. In fact, it was absolutely luxurious with its soft warmth.

Hushed male voices came from the other side of the door. Rosalyn quickly tied the sash, her heartbeat accelerating inside her chest. She swallowed a lump in her throat. The thick carpet was soft beneath her feet and muffled her steps as she crept across the room and pressed her ear to the cold wooden door, but she still couldn't make out any of their words. Was it better to wait for someone to come into the room? Or should she face whoever it was head on?

Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she opened the door a crack and peered down the corridor.