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And he could offer her so much that Glynnis couldn't.
Perhaps she'd grown too soft-hearted. Or perhaps she'd just grown weary of battling an emptiness that had lapsed into futility.
“Mother?” Emma came up behind her. “Are you sure you're not upset that I'm going?”
“No, Emma. I'm not upset. In fact, I'm glad—for many reasons.” She sighed, wondering how to explain to her daughter that she lacked what was needed to propel Emma into adulthood, that she hadn't the enthusiasm, the means, or even the energy to do so. Tm tired, Emma,” she began, starting to turn. “Sometimes I find myself wishing I could just close my eyes and...” She broke off, her words dying on her lips as she spied the intruder.
“And what—sleep?” the man in black inquired. He flourished his pistol, crammed the blanket against its m
uzzle. “I'm delighted to oblige.”
The shot was muffled by the thick wool.
But the result was no less effective.
Glynnis Martin slumped to the floor.
The assassin was beside Emma before she could scream.
Dropping the blanket, he grasped the barrel of his pistol, brought the butt down against the side of her head. Dispassionately, he noted the shocked look in her eyes go dazed, then fade into nothingness.
She sagged forward, unconscious.
He glanced down at her, frowning a bit as he studied the lump already forming on the side of her head He hated damaging the merchandise. Still, youth was an astounding thing. She'd heal by the time it mattered.
Resuming his work, he leaned over, dragging the blanket over Emma's head and pulling it down around her until she was fully covered. He'd tie her up later, when he was a safe distance away—long before she awakened.
Sidestepping Glynnis's body, he swung Emma over his shoulder, making his way from the room and reversing the path he'd carefully taken to get to her— down the shortest corridor of the servants' quarters and out the rear door of the manor. Royce Chadwick would be so disappointed, he m used ten minutes later, tossing Emma's unconscious form into his carriage, and climbing in beside her.
As for the Viscount Ryder, he'd be positively despondent.
Unfortunately, there would be no one to carry on his title and his name. Both would simply have to die when he did.
16
Royce stalked across the small room at the local pouring himself a brandy and tossing it off in fort to relax.
It wasn't like him to be so unnerved, he thought, unbuttoning his shirt and flexing his back muscles. But he felt unusually on edge, as if he were needed.
Could Breanna be in trouble?
No. He dismissed the notion, not out of fear, but out of pragmatism. Hibbert would never let anyone get to her. Besides, this assassin they were dealing with wasn't interested in storming Medford Manor, alerting the entire staff to his presence. He was interested in isolating Breanna, making her beg for her life before ending it. And that was only after terrorizing her and murdering Anastasia.
The prospect made his blood run cold.
Worry. Fear. Protectiveness.
He was even more personally involved in this caw than he'd allowed himself to fathom.
And it wasn't because of his friendship with Damen-
It was because of his feelings for Breanna.
Feelings. That in itself was uncharted territory. The only feelings he'd known until now had been uncomplicated ones—determination, anger, compassion, lust. Those he could deal with; those he understood. Anything more, he'd never received nor learned how to give.
And this preoccupation, this desire to protect, this bloody sense of being off-balance—not only had he never experienced these sentiments, he'd never believed himself capable of them.
Obviously, he was wrong. Whatever emotional deficiencies he thought he suffered from as a result of his upbringing were not entirely irreparable.
