As he trudged up the stairs, he showed none of his earlier excitement. She frowned as she watched him, worried that she was already failing terribly as a parent. And as a wife. Vanessa waited until Gabriel was out of sight, then turned her gaze upon her husband.
“Please,” she whispered. “You’re not thinking clearly. I’m worried about you.”
“Worried?” He laughed harshly and ran his hand through his hair, a gesture she was beginning to realize signified intense emotion on his part. “Don’t you think I can take care of myself?”
“I know you can,” she hastened to reassure him, knowing she’d inadvertently pricked his pride. “But there’s obviously bad blood between you and Roger. If you go there tonight, dressed as Prometheus, and confront him about what he did to me, don’t you think he’ll put two and two together? He’s sure to go to Scotland Yard.”
“What makes you think he’ll be able to tell anybody my identity?” The fury beneath his words, the coldness, made her take a step back, suddenly afraid.
“Are you saying that you’re going to... kill him?” She’d known Adrian had darkness in his soul. But until this moment, she hadn’t realized how deep it ran.
Adrian took her arm and pulled her into the closest room, shutting the door behind them, obviously wanting to keep this conversation from Gabriel, which seemed such a contradiction. How could he be a cold-blooded killer, and yet worry so much about a child?
“Do you think he deserves to live?” He gripped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “What if I told you that he owns the house I took Gabriel from? That he was probably the first one to hurt that boy? I can’t bear to think of what he did to you, Vanessa, but this isn’t just about you. This thing between me and Roger goes back... a long time.”
He released her suddenly, turning away, but not before she saw something frightening in his eyes. Fiona thought he’d been hurt as a child, and she suddenly wondered if it was true.
“Adrian,” she whispered. “What did he do to you?” She put her hand on his shoulder, but he jerked away. She stared at his tense back, her heart breaking for him. But how could she help, when he seemed so determined not to let her?
“We may be married,” he snarled after a long minute. “But we both know that you didn’t do this so you could offer me comfort and pretend to care.”
She swallowed, tears welling in her eyes. But his words gave her an opening, and even though he’d hurt her, she knew she deserved it. He did want her to comfort him. He just didn’t realize it yet. She remembered so clearly that night they’d spent in her flat, reading and drinking hot chocolate. If the only way she could get that back was to make love to him, she was more than willing to try.
“Please don’t go,” she said softly. “It’s our wedding night. Let me live up to my half of the bargain. Don’t you want me?”
He laughed harshly. “You know I do. Just not now. Not yet. I don’t know how to be any clearer.”
She stepped forward and tried to touch his face, but he backed away, shaking his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk then. In the meantime, make yourself at home. Take care of Gabriel. Unpack your things.”
Before she could respond, he turned and left the room.
* * * *
ADRIAN CROUCHED UPONa ledge outside the window of a house in Bloomsbury, staring in stunned disbelief as Bridget sobbed quietly in the middle of a large, rumpled bed. He’d looked for the girl for weeks but had never known this place existed until his conversation with Vanessa earlier in the day.
“He took me to the house where he kept his mistresses...”
After he’d left his new bride, that snippet of conversation had haunted him, giving him something to focus on other than his murderous need to find Roger and kill him. He’d enlisted Clinton’s help, and a few hours and twenty pounds worth of bribes later, he’d been provided with this address.
Adrian had been fairly certain he’d find some poor child trapped in this house; he just hadn’t expected it to be Bridget. His relief at finding her was tempered by the fact that his interest in her had brought her to Roger’s perverted attention. This was his fault.
Unfortunately, Roger was nowhere in sight. Adrian had sincerely hoped his stepbrother would be here. Now he found himself briefly regretting that he hadn’t simply gone to Roger’s house in Mayfair. While he was happy to protect this girl, who was suffering because of him, he had relished the thought of taking out his fury and heartbreak on the bastard who had caused so much devastation in his life.
Of course, there was no real choice. He had to save Bridget. Roger’s reckoning could wait. But the rage inside him right now was a living thing that resented being thwarted. He wasn’t at all certain he wouldn’t have killed Roger tonight if he’d just been given the chance.
From the way Bridget was sobbing, he’d probably just missed the bastard. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the hatred inside him, then attempted to open the window. He wasn’t surprised to find it had been nailed shut. Grimacing, he took off his cape and wrapped the fabric around his hand, then punched through the glass, causing Bridget to jump to her feet, her hands to her mouth. He took off his mask and ducked his head through the opening he’d made, pulling the broken shards of glass from the frame so she could safely crawl through.
“Bridget,” he called softly. “Don’t cry out. It’s all right. Do you remember me?”
She stared at him, wide-eyed, for a few seconds before nodding nervously.
“I’m here to take you away from this place, to somewhere you’ll be safe. Will you come with me?”
Bridget crept forward, wiping her eyes and clutching the see-through nightgown she wore to her thin, bruised body. “I don’t have no shoes. Nor nothin’ else to wear,” she said helplessly.
Adrian shook out his cloak, passing it to her through the broken window. “Put this on, and I’ll carry you. But you must hurry.”
“You won’t hurt me, will you, mister?” she asked fearfully. “You was so nice to me before... the only one who never hurt me...”
