On the flat rooftop of the manor, multibarrel cannon emplacements covered the approaches to the mansion. If war broke out, the property could be defended long enough to pose difficulties for the enemy. She noted where a small copse of trees would block off the overlapping arcs of fire. Perhaps Dankyo wasn’t as infallible as he seemed to be.
Theo steered toward the landing pad. The thwop-thwop of the blades had barely dwindled to silence before Theo had hopped down and loped halfway to the doorway. A senior house guard stood there, and the two of them continued on together, discussing something. She thought better of intruding, instead pulling out the basket and carrying it inside. Theo waited in the bedroom.
“Theo?”
“I’ll arrange for brunch in the inner study. Meet me in half an hour. There’s an array of dresses ready for you in there.” He indicated the long Gallic carved wardrobe on the far wall, then tipped her chin up with his fingers.
“Pick a nice short one. No leather this time.”
Claire smiled nervously back. Something about his searching gaze bothered her. A little knot twisted in her stomach. Had he been serious about this punishment? She guessed she had agreed to follow his orders, but common sense should prevail. She’d been right. The other—Ericson—oh, heck, that was it, wasn’t it? Frick.
One of the guards at Theo’s door insisted on escorting her to the inner study. As she went through the outer study, that same jagged memory returned—tied hand and foot, scared and miserable. So different now, yet that could be her in a moment if she stepped wrong.
Ah, what am I to do? Every time Theo questioned her the urge to confess grew more terrible, as did the dread that he would discover her falsehood. Slowly, surely, he was picking apart her past. She should never have told him about Inkline.
She ran a hand through her hair. It had dried on the flight back. While she waited for the guard, who fumbled to unlock the inner study’s door, she pulled her hair back into a rough chignon, sorted the hairpins she’d brought. On the dresser next to Theo’s bed had been a bowl with four hairpins. One end was an enameled black and gold bee; the other end was pointed. Weapons, really. She weighed the last one in her hand before reaching back and thrusting it through her hair.
The door swung open, and she strolled through at the ushering of the guard. Left alone in the room, with the door shut softly behind her, Claire stood there amazed.
Books—more than she’d ever thought possible in one place. Timber shelves rose on the walls to her left, all the way to a high ceiling. On her right was a glassed wall that looked out onto a conservatorium awash with greenery and flowers. The sweet perfume of pollen invaded this inner study.
On the wall opposite the door, behind a long sofa, black-and-white lithographs hung in a row. More art? She walked across the white tiled floor, threading past a low table and two ochre sofas. The figures resolved into naked women. My God. She gaped. Even alone as she was, the sight drew warmth to her cheeks. She stared.
Drawn with an artist’s hand, the pictures showed women intricately bound with ropes, in all manner of positions, some joined by men lording over them with whips and more ropes in their hands. In the last two lithographs, the man had the woman tied hand to ankle while he, as clear as day, made love to her. That someone would draw such a thing—
She leaned over to examine the detail and heard the sound of the doorknob turning.
By the time she’d spun on her heel, the door had closed. The skirt of her white broderie anglaise dress swirled and settled light as rain on her upper thighs.
In fresh brown linen shirt and black trousers, Theo walked over. His gaze went from her to the lithographs and back. “Which one is your favorite?”
As if I’d have a favorite! She couldn’t meet the intensity in his eyes, shook her head the smallest amount. “I—” Frowning, she gestured at the artworks. “Why would anyone—I mean—” Unsure as to what she did mean, she fell silent.
He tossed something onto the sofa, then wrapped his arms around her as he leaned against the back of the sofa. His chin rested atop her head.
“Why would anyone do this? Because they enjoy it greatly. The women as well as the men.”
“Hmph.” She couldn’t help seeing the details—the way the ropes emphasized anatomy, the rapt expression on the face of the woman being made love to—couldn’t help imagining herself in that position with Theo. A tremor ran through her. She felt the warmth of his breath through her hair. Confused—she didn’t want to do this sort of thing, surely? It was too close to real life, to what Inkline had done. He’d kept her bound in that chair for the whole day while he inflicted pain on her, and there’d been nothing she could do about it.
Getting her head around the fact that these women had wanted this… So strange.
“Not so different from what I did to you earlier,” he murmured and kissed her hair.
The hardness of him against her buttocks and the sensual warmth creeping up on her confused her even more. Was she wanting this? To be tied up? She swallowed.