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But, whatever sentiments he could cultivate, were they enough?
Slowly, Royce sank down onto the edge of the bed, somehow aware that he'd gotten to the heart of his misgivings, his reticence to care for Breanna.
She was all he'd told her she was—beautiful to the core. Yet all that beauty had gone un-nurtured for twenty-one years. She'd spent her entire life deprived of the very caring she so naturally offered others. True, she had Anastasia, and a houseful of servants who adored her. But she deserved more. She deserved a man who cherished her as Damen did Anastasia. She deserved a man who recognized her for the exquisite and rare flower that she was, and offered her all that was necessary to make her bloom.
And he? Here he was, slamming into her world like a thunderstorm, taking advantage of her fear and vulnerability, causing her—unconsciously or not—to depend on him. And then, disregarding her innocence, intentionally coaxing forth her natural sensuality, seducing her with words, acting as if he had the right to be that man.
He'd known he wanted her, probably from the first instant he set eyes on her. But what had happened be tween them last night—whether or not it was the re sult of the raw emotions generated by the assassin's visit—had been dumbfounding. He'd never experienced anything like it. He was no stranger to passion or its nuances; he'd explored them with more than his share of women.
But last night he'd been drowning. Holding Breanna in his arms, feeling her skin against his, he'd damned near lost control, torn off the rest of their clothes and buried himself inside her. And judging from the look in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks-she would have let rum.
God help him, what was he doing? What was he thinking? He had no right to toy with her this way, not unless he was willing, able, to give her everything she needed.
They were so very unalike.
Except for the ways in which they were the same.
And even in their differences, she seemed to see inside him, understand him with a clarity that was startling.
He'd confided things to her he'd never spoken of before. His childhood was a distant memory, a painful precursor to the man he was today. His fathe r was dead. And whatever hold he'd had over Royce had died long before that.
The hold, yes. But the residual pain?
Scars, Breanna had said. Well, maybe she was right. Maybe he hadn't escaped without some of those, even if he was stronger for it, more sure of who he was.
He was hard, detached. He'd told that to Breanna last night. And it was true. Too true, perhaps.
The problem was, he wasn't detached when it came to her. With her, he was in over his head.
Why and to what extent—those were the questions that needed answering.
Was he in over his head because he'd never met a woman as incredibly beautiful, both inside and out, as Breanna—a woman who was so strong and at the same time so delicate; whose depth of passion even she had yet to fathom, much less explore? A woman he wanted almost beyond bearing, certainly beyond resisting? A woman he wanted to protect and devour all at once?
Or, as he was beginning to suspect, was the reason he was in over his head something far deeper?
He'd best find some resolution—soon. Because if he wasn't the right man for Breanna, if he wasn't capable of being all she needed, he had to get away from her—fast. If last night was any example of what happened when they were together, he couldn't rely upon his self-restraint. Despite his best intentions, despite his supposed iron will, all she'd done was look at him, touch him, and every shred of reason had vanished.
He shouldn't go back to Medford Manor at all, certainly not to sleep in the bedchamber right next to Breanna's.
But that insight wasn't going to stop him. He wasn't leaving until he found that son of a bitch who wanted her dead.
Morning brought with it a blistering headache from too much brandy, and little in the way of resolution.
Still, Royce was dressed and out early, riding to several local villages in the hopes of finding either the shopkeeper who'd sold the dolls or the one who'd sold the statue. Berkshire was a strong possibility-close enough to be accessible to Kent, near enough to London to be bustling, filled with enough shops for the assassin to find an unobtrusive one in which to make his purchases.
The dolls continued to be a lost cause. They were too common, several similar ones having been sold in each of the five shops Royce visited.
The porcelain figure yielded far better results.
It happened in the third shop Royce strolled into. The store, which sold various novelties and trinkets for women and their dressing tables, was tucked away in a village halfway between Ascot and Reading. Sure enough, Royce spotted a row of small porcelain figures near the back of the store.
He summoned the shopkeeper, an amiable enough fellow named Barker, and questioned him about the specific statue he was hunting for.
Halfway through the description, Barker's entire demeanor changed, and he became wary, slurring uneasily from one foot to the other. “I might have seen the statue you're talking about. Why are you asking?”
“Why are you unnerved by my asking?” Royce challenged, realizing the man knew something and using the most aggressive tactics possible to scare the information out of him. “Is there some reason you don't want to discuss that particular statue—some reason that might get you into trouble?”
“Yes. No. Not in the way you mean.” The man blanched, taking in Royce's powerful build and gauging the distance between him and the door.
