Perilous Pleasures by Jenny Brown

then—it seemed like a long time must have passed—she awoke in a narrow bed. For a moment she thought she was back in her small cubicle at Mrs. Endicott’s school, but when she opened her eyes and saw the unfamiliar cracks on the smoke-darkened ceiling, the memories of her flight rushed back, and she knew she must be in a bedchamber at an inn.
    Someone had tended her wounds and loosened her gown so that she could breathe after she had fainted. Her ankle was wrapped tightly with rags, and there was a dull throb where she had torn her thigh, but she couldn’t determine the extent of the injury, for it, too, was bound. She struggled to sit up, only to meet Ramsay’s luminous eyes.
    He was seated on a spindle-backed chair by the side of the bed. His long hair was matted with sweat, and a deep scratch slashed through the tattooed serpents on one arm. A wave of relief swept through her at the sight of him, until she remembered that relief was the last thing she should feel, now that she was once again back in his power.
    â€œI told you not to run away from me,” he whispered. The long planes beneath his cheekbones made him look stern.
    â€œYou gave me no choice. Why didn’t you let me go? If you had, you wouldn’t be troubled by me anymore.”
    â€œYou don’t trouble me.”
    He was lying. She did trouble him, immensely. She could feel him resonate with her pain and with something else—something she couldn’t understand.
    â€œI pollute you,” she protested. “My touch disgusts you. Why can’t you let me go? You don’t want me.”
    â€œOh, I may not want you,” he said, so softly she could barely hear him. “But I need you. You must come with me. The Dark Lord is waiting.”
    He looked away. A pang of longing filled her as he broke the connection, followed by despair. He felt no echo of the yearning that filled her. He loathed her and would be glad to see the last of her. He kept her beside him now only to do the Dark Lord’s bidding. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t keep her eyes off him, when he had made his distaste for her so clear?
    She pushed herself up to a sitting position and pulled one leg out from beneath the gray sheets of the dirty bed, but the searing pain that tore through her ankle forced her to sink back onto the mattress, defeated.
    â€œYou’ve probably sprained your ankle.” He spoke in the distant tone he must use when tending all his patients. “If so, it’ll be uncomfortable for a day or two, then it’ll heal. But for now, you must rest. I’ll stay here with you until you fall asleep.”
    He stood up and fumbled in his pocket for something. A key?
    She demanded, “Will you lock me in? Now that I’m your prisoner again?”
    â€œNo.” He drew out his small, red, leather-bound book. Under his long, lustrous lashes, his gray eyes held something that she might have called warmth, had she not known that he hated her. “You won’t be running anywhere tonight. Not with that ankle. But I’ll watch over you, lest a fever develop.”
    She wanted to protest, to rail against him, so that he’d know he hadn’t got the best of her, but she didn’t have the energy. She watched as he settled himself in the spindle-backed chair, picked up his book, and began to read serenely, once again the cool aristocrat who had taken her from her mother.
    She gave up the struggle. She’d had enough for one day. She’d done what she could to escape and lived up to the noble blood that ran into her veins. But, even so, she’d failed. Ramsay had caught up with her, and he’d done it so quickly, too. Perhaps he could read minds. Perhaps he could even control them. There was no other explanation for the relief she’d felt when she’d woken to find him watching by her bedside, even though she knew she should hate him. Perhaps his magic was