Keep Me Out

Maisie's room was not where she expected it to be.

She had glimpsed the servants' quarters earlier, when Mrs. Whitcombe led her through the lower floors of the house. A narrow staircase beyond the kitchens climbed toward them, and Maisie had seen two girls disappearing up it together, laughing over something she couldn't hear.

Mrs. Whitcombe had taken her the other way.

Maisie followed now with both hands clasped around the handle of her little case.

The house seemed to grow quieter as they climbed.

Not grander, exactly. The carpets were thick beneath her shoes and paintings hung along the walls, but there were fewer doors here. Fewer voices. None of the comfortable clatter that drifted upward from the kitchens.

Mrs. Whitcombe stopped before a narrow door at the end of the passage. "And this is yours."

Maisie stepped inside. The room was small, but she had expected small. What she hadn't expected was the window. A proper window, overlooking the dark green sweep of the eastern lawn. "Oh."

Mrs. Whitcombe glanced at her. "Something wrong?"

"No, ma'am." Maisie hurried farther inside. "No. It's lovely."

Lovely was perhaps too generous. There was a narrow bed, a washstand and basin, a little chest for her clothes, and a peg on the wall. But the mattress looked thick. There was a rug beside the bed.

And she would have the room to herself.

Maisie set down her case carefully. She could scarcely believe her luck. Then she remembered the other girls disappearing up the servants' stairs. "Mrs. Whitcombe?"

"Yes?"

"Are the other maids not quartered downstairs?"

Mrs. Whitcombe's breath caught softly behind her. "Most of them."

Maisie looked back at her. Mrs. Whitcombe had already crossed to the window and was testing the latch. "Your duties are somewhat different."

"Oh."

"His Lordship keeps unusual hours. An earl's business does not conveniently end at supper simply because the rest of us would prefer our beds." There was something dry in the way she said it that made Maisie smile. Mrs. Whitcombe smiled too. "He frequently works well into the night. Correspondence, estate matters, parliamentary papers when he's in residence. He may want his fire tended or tea brought up. Occasionally a meal, if he's neglected supper again."

Maisie nodded quickly.

That made sense.

"And so we've found it easiest to keep the maid attending his rooms nearby." Mrs. Whitcombe gestured vaguely toward the wall. "His Lordship's apartments begin beyond the gallery. You'll learn your way around soon enough."

Maisie glanced toward it.

She hadn't realized they were so close.

"Of course, if he keeps you late, you're not expected downstairs at six with the other girls." Mrs. Whitcombe's tone softened. "We're not monsters here, Miss Bell. Someone else will see to your morning work."

Relief loosened something in Maisie's chest. "Thank you, ma'am."

"You'll find the arrangement rather comfortable once you're accustomed to it."

Maisie looked around again.

The room really was nice.

Nicer than the one she had shared with Ruth and Marta at home, certainly. In winter the frost sometimes crept along the inside of that window, and they had learned to dress beneath the blankets on the coldest mornings.

This one even had a hearth. A tiny one, tucked into the wall opposite her bed.

She swallowed.

Fourteen pounds a year--fourteen. Plus room and board. Maisie had repeated the figure so many times since receiving Mrs. Whitcombe's letter that it had begun to feel unreal. Ma could keep nearly all of what Maisie sent home. They could pay Mr. Pritchard what they owed him. There would be coal before winter. Perhaps meat more than once a week. And Pa wouldn't have to try getting out of bed every morning as though sheer stubbornness might somehow make his lungs work properly again.

Her throat tightened. She blinked quickly and bent to undo the straps on her case.

Whatever hours His Lordship kept, she could manage them.

She could manage tea at midnight.

She could manage fires and trays and an eccentric earl who apparently forgot to eat his supper. For fourteen pounds a year, Maisie thought she could manage nearly anything.

Maisie pulled her best apron from the case and smoothed the wrinkles with her palm. "When do I meet him?"

Mrs. Whitcombe beckoned her closer. "Here, let me see you."

Maisie stepped over, holding out the apron. The housekeeper took it from her and tied it around her waist, then frowned at the way the bodice sat above it. "There's hardly enough of you to fill this out."

Maisie flushed. "Sorry, ma'am."

"Nothing to apologize for." Mrs. Whitcombe gave the apron strings another firm tug, gathering the excess neatly around Maisie's slim waist."We'll have Alice take it in before Sunday." Mrs. Whitcombe's attention traveled higher. "And this won't do."

Maisie's stomach gave a little drop.

Warm fingers tucked an escaped strand of brown hair back into its twist. "His Lordship likes his household neat."

"Yes, ma'am." Maisie resisted the urge to touch her hair herself. She had taken such care with it that morning.

Mrs. Whitcombe smoothed the little twist once, securing the pin Maisie hadn't realized was coming loose. "There. Much better."

Maisie smiled, relieved to have passed inspection.

Mrs. Whitcombe's hand fell away. "His Lordship is in London on parliamentary business. He's expected back toward the end of the week."

"Oh." Maisie nodded. That gave her a few days, at least, to learn how everything was done.

###

By Thursday, Maisie had begun to think she might be very happy at Blackthorn.

The work was hard, but no harder than she had expected. She rose early, ate with the other servants below-stairs, and spent her mornings learning the endless geography of the house beneath Alice's patient instruction. Which fires were laid first. Which rooms were opened every morning even when nobody used them. Which silver was touched only with gloves.

His Lordship's apartments were hers to keep.

For now, with His Lordship in London, this mostly meant dusting furniture nobody disturbed and airing rooms grander than her family's entire cottage.

By evening her feet ached pleasantly.

She ate well. Better than at home, though she tried not to think too hard about that.

On Wednesday night, she wrote Ma four pages by candlelight, describing everything except the size of the house, which seemed impossible to put properly into words.

You mustn't worry about me. Everyone has been very kind.

Maisie smiled as she wrote it.

She meant it.

The following afternoon, Maisie was carrying a tray of freshly polished candlesticks down the west corridor when Alice nudged her with an elbow.

"Mind the carpet. Mrs. Whitcombe will have both our hides if we're polishing wax out of it the day before His Lordship comes home."

Maisie shifted the tray more securely against her hip. "I thought you said she wasn't a monster."

"She isn't. That's why we'd survive."

Maisie was still smiling when hurried footsteps sounded ahead.

A footman came around the corner at a run.

Alice stopped, the colour draining from her face. "What is it?"

"His Lordship." The footman barely slowed. "They've seen the carriage on the north road."

Maisie blinked. "But I thought he wasn't coming until tomorrow."

"So did everyone." Alice shoved the candlesticks into Maisie's arms before she could protest. "Come on."

The next ten minutes dissolved into confusion.

Doors opened. Fires were checked. Someone went flying toward the kitchens. Mrs. Whitcombe appeared seemingly from nowhere, issuing instructions with enough calm authority to make everyone else move twice as quickly. Maisie found herself sent upstairs, back downstairs, relieved of the candlesticks, handed a cloth, relieved of that too, and finally told by Alice to stop trying to be useful and follow her.

By the time the sound of wheels reached the house, the chaos had vanished.

The household stood in two neat rows before the open front doors as though none of them had spent the last quarter hour running.

Maisie took her place beside Alice, smoothing her apron nervously. Mrs. Whitcombe stood just beyond them, keys hanging neatly at her waist. Footmen, maids, the cook, Mr. Pembrook, even two of the stable-boys had assembled along the steps.

Maisie resisted the urge to check her hair. His Lordship likes his household neat.

Gravel crunched beneath wheels.

The carriage came around the bend.

Maisie had expected something grander. It was certainly fine enough, dark-bodied and glossy despite the dust of the road, drawn by four handsome bays. But there was nothing particularly remarkable about it. Nothing to explain why an entire household had spent the last quarter hour flying about as though the King himself were expected.

The carriage swept around the drive and slowed before the house. A footman was down the steps before it had fully stopped. Maisie tucked her hands behind her back and His Lordship stepped out.

Her first thought was that he was younger than she'd expected.

Her second was that he was very tall.

Nathaniel Harcourt, Earl of Alderwick, descended onto the gravel with one gloved hand braced briefly against the carriage door. He wore a dark travelling coat over clothes that looked little different from the gentlemen Maisie had occasionally seen passing through the village, except that everything fit him with an elegance money apparently purchased as easily as bread.

Broad shoulders. Long legs. Dark hair pushed slightly out of place by the journey.

He removed his hat as he approached the steps.

Maisie lowered her eyes.

"Welcome home, my lord." Mr. Pembroke, the Butler, had stepped forward.

"Pembroke." His Lordship handed his hat to the waiting footman. "You look disappointed."

"I had understood we were to expect you tomorrow, my lord."

"So had I." A few of the servants smiled. The Earl continued, "I shall endeavour to give the household sufficient warning before returning to my own home in future."

"Very considerate, my lord."

The Earl's mouth twitched.

Maisie looked down quickly before he could catch her smiling.

So this was His Lordship, she wasn't quite sure what she had expected. Someone sterner, perhaps. Older certainly. An Earl ought to have grey hair, Maisie thought. Possibly a large stomach. This one had neither. Mr. Pembroke began speaking quietly to him, something about luggage and correspondence awaiting his attention. The Earl pulled off one glove as he listened, finger by finger, and handed it absently to the same footman.

The servants dipped and bowed as he started up the steps. Maisie remembered her curtsy a heartbeat later than Alice.

The Earl stopped as he reached her. Maisie's stomach dropped. She held her curtsy, eyes fixed firmly on the gravel.

"New?" One word, nothing unfriendly in it.

"Maisie Bell, my lord," Mr. Pembroke answered. "Mrs. Whitcombe engaged her while you were away. She'll be attending your rooms."

Maisie became acutely aware of everything Mrs. Whitcombe had corrected that morning. Her apron, her bodice, her hair. She hoped desperately that none of it had come loose in the scramble.

"Look at me, Miss Bell."

Maisie did; grey eyes met hers and for a moment, His Lordship said nothing. His gaze moved over her face with an attention that made heat begin creeping inexplicably beneath her freckles.

Then his eyes dropped.

Only briefly.

Maisie felt it nonetheless. The neat bodice Mrs. Whitcombe had promised to have taken in. Her narrow waist beneath the apron strings. Then his gaze returned to her face. "Bell," he repeated.

"Yes, my lord."

"You've been warned about the hours I keep, I hope."

"Yes, my lord," Maisie assured him.

"Good. I'd hate to begin our acquaintance by ruining your opinion of me."

She wasn't certain what answer one gave an Earl to that. His mouth curved at her expression. "Give it time."

Alice made a tiny sound beside her that might have been a cough. His eyes flicked to her and amusement deepened by a fraction. His eyes returned to Maisie, his head tipping slightly. "Welcome to Alderwick, Miss Bell."

"Thank you, my lord."

###

Mrs. Whitcombe had not exaggerated about His Lordship's hours.

Long after the rest of the household had gone quiet, Maisie was still making trips between the kitchens and his study. Tea first, then more wood for the fire when it burned low. Shortly after midnight, the Earl sent the tea away and asked for brandy instead.

Maisie brought the decanter and a clean glass.

"Two fingers, Miss Bell."

She poured carefully beneath his watchful eye, terrified of giving him either one finger or three.

"Excellent. You may go to bed."

Maisie could have kissed him. Instead she curtsied. "Good night, my lord."

"Good night."

By the time she washed, changed and crawled beneath the blankets, she could scarcely keep her eyes open. She remembered thinking the mattress had never felt so soft, and then blissful nothingness.

A noise woke her.

Maisie surfaced reluctantly from the heavy, dreamless depths of exhaustion.

For several seconds, she didn't know where she was. The room was dark. Her body felt impossibly heavy beneath the blankets, her eyes gritty and sore. She had the horrible sense that she'd only just fallen properly asleep.

No grey morning light showed at the window. The house had that peculiar, breathless stillness of the very deepest part of night.

It had to be morning soon.

Maisie closed her eyes again.

A floorboard groaned beneath a sudden weight.

Maisie bolted upright.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, sleep stripped away so quickly it left her dizzy.

Someone was standing at the foot of her bed.

A scream caught behind her teeth.

For one wild instant, Maisie could make nothing of the shape. Only that it was a man. Tall enough that his head seemed impossibly high in the darkness, his shoulders cutting a broad silhouette against the paler window beyond.

Then he moved.

One slow step brought him into the strip of moonlight falling across the floor.

Dark hair. Bare feet. A white shirt hanging loose at the throat.

Maisie's terror stumbled into bewilderment. "My lord?"

The Earl looked at her.

Maisie's skin prickled. She snatched the blankets higher, clutching them against her chest. Beneath them she wore only her nightshift, her hair loose around her shoulders. Heat rushed into her face. "Is something wrong?" Her voice came out thin.

His head tipped slightly.

Maisie's fingers tightened around the blanket. "My lord?"

He stepped closer, coming alongside her hip.

Moonlight crossed his face. Maisie's breath stopped.

His eyes were wrong.

She caught only an impression of black where there should have been grey before something deep inside her recoiled.

Her gaze dropped. She didn't mean to look away. She simply couldn't make herself look back.

His fingers touched beneath her chin.

Maisie flinched. He lifted her face anyway.

Those black eyes held hers for one terrible moment.

Then his hand shifted. His fingers slipped into the loose hair beside her face, combing through it slowly.

Maisie went very still. This was His Lordship. She was being foolish. Whatever he wanted, surely she had misunderstood.

His thumb brushed over her freckles, trailing down across her jaw as his fingers curved against the other side of her neck. Maisie shrank back instinctively.

Then his hand closed around her throat.

She swallowed carefully. "My lord... it's very late."

His other hand found the little ribbon at the throat of her nightgown. Maisie watched his fingers loosen the bow.

It was all right. She was all right. She mustn't make a fuss.

The ribbon slipped free. "You..." Her voice faltered. She tried again. "You shouldn't be here."

"Hush, Maisie."

Her stomach dropped. The Earl had never called her that.

His thumb moved once against her throat, then his grip tightened. Pain bloomed beneath his fingers. Maisie jerked in a breath and found almost nothing there.

Her eyes flew wide.

Maisie thrashed. She clawed at his hand, his wrist, raked her nails desperately down his arm, but his grip did not move. Her throat worked desperately beneath his hand, every frantic attempt at breath producing only a ragged scrap of air.

He was killing her. He was actually killing her.

Her eyes burned. Through the blur, those unnatural black eyes only watched her.

His grip eased.

Maisie sucked in a desperate breath, barely half-filling her lungs before she felt his fingers begin to tighten again.

No. No, please.

His other hand closed around her wrist. Maisie scarcely felt him move it. One moment she was clawing at his arm; the next he was dragging her hand down between them, toward himself.

Understanding came before he finished the movement.

Heat scorched across her face. Shame, bewilderment, horror tangled together until she could scarcely separate one from another. She shouldn't be touching him there. He shouldn't be making her.

After that, everything blurred.

A ragged gasp whenever his grip eased. Panic when it tightened again. Her wrist trapped in his other hand no matter how desperately she tried to pull free. Somewhere in the struggle, pain began to spread from her trapped wrist into her hand, sharpening until even curling her fingers hurt.

Still he did not release her.

Maisie squeezed her eyes shut and endured it.

And only then did his hand loosen around her throat.

Maisie dragged in a breath.

She didn't move.

He lifted her trapped hand. Maisie flinched, but he only turned it over and pressed his mouth briefly to her palm. Then he placed it carefully in her lap before walking out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Maisie sat perfectly still.

One shuddering breath. Another.

At last, one hand fluttered to her aching throat. The other remained where he had placed it in her lap, fingers twitching helplessly.

She could still feel his hand around her wrist.

###

By morning, Maisie's right hand had swollen nearly twice its usual size. The thumb was the worst. Purple bruising had spread beneath the skin overnight, and when she tried carefully to bend it, pain shot clear through her wrist.

She managed the apron eventually, though the bow sat crooked at her back. Her hair proved more difficult. By the time she had wrestled it into something resembling neatness, her eyes were watering and her injured hand throbbed with every beat of her heart. Maisie stopped trying.

She would manage, it was only a hand.

She had just reached for the door when someone knocked.

"Maisie?" Mrs. Whitcombe called. "Are you awake?"

Relief came first, then Maisie remembered her throat. She crossed quickly to the looking glass and tipped her chin up. The marks had darkened overnight. They curved around her throat in ugly patches, unmistakable now in the morning light. She tugged her collar higher, but the worst of them climbed beneath her jaw where no amount of linen would hide them.

Another knock. "Maisie?"

"Coming!" Her voice sounded wrong. Hoarse. She swallowed, immediately regretted it, and hurried to the door.

Mrs. Whitcombe's eyes dropped immediately to the hand Maisie was holding awkwardly against her middle. "Good heavens. What happened?"

"I fell." Maisie had practiced it. It still came out too quickly. "Last night. I wasn't watching where I was going, and I caught myself badly. I'm terribly sorry, ma'am. I know I ought to have been more careful. I promise it won't happen again."

"Come here, child."

Mrs. Whitcombe took her wrist carefully and turned the swollen hand toward the light. Maisie bit the inside of her cheek when her thumb was gently tested. "Can you move it?"

"A little."

"Don't."

Mrs. Whitcombe sat her down and fetched a basin of cold water and clean linen. She wrapped the wet cloth around Maisie's hand, and the first touch of cold made her hiss. "Hold that there."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Whitcombe's gaze lifted. Maisie's breath caught. Her eyes passed over the bruising at Maisie's throat. Then she reached for another strip of linen. "We'll bind the thumb once the swelling has gone down."

By noon, the swelling had not gone down much at all.

Mrs. Whitcombe had relieved her of anything requiring two hands, which left Maisie carrying a small stack of folded linen toward the west rooms when she heard footsteps approaching.

She knew them before she saw him.

Maisie stopped.

The Earl came around the corner.

Grey eyes--grey. Her knees nearly gave beneath her.

"Miss Bell." His tone was polite and pleasantly distant, no different from the day before.

Maisie stared at him.

When she failed to answer, one eyebrow rose. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, my lord." The words scraped painfully through her throat.

His eyes lingered on the bruises. His jaw tightened once before his gaze returned, perfectly composed, to her face. "You've hurt yourself."

Maisie's stomach twisted. "I fell, my lord."

"Badly?"

Before she could answer, he took her bandaged hand lightly in his. He turned it carefully, examining Mrs. Whitcombe's neat wrapping. His fingers rested in almost exactly the same place they had last night.

Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She forced the words past the ache in her throat. "No, my lord."

The Earls expression softened into a small smile. "I'm glad."

He released her hand with a courteous nod and continued down the corridor.

Maisie didn't move.

His footsteps receded behind her.

"Maisie." Alice stood at the far end of the corridor, a bundle of linen tucked beneath one arm. She was staring at her, but Maisie couldn't make herself answer. Then Alice's gaze dropped to the bruises around her throat. "Come with me."

Alice caught her gently by the elbow and steered her into one of the deep window recesses farther down the corridor.

Sunlight spilled warmly across the seat. Maisie sank onto it without being asked, turning instinctively toward the glass.

Outside, someone was hanging washing in the kitchen yard. A gardener pushed a barrow along the path.

Everything looked horribly normal.

Alice set down her linen and dug into her apron pocket.

"Mrs. Whitcombe told me you had a fall."

Maisie's fingers curled in her lap. "I was clumsy."

"Mm."

Alice produced a tiny ceramic pot. "Here." Alice sat beside her and worked the lid loose. "Turn toward me."

"It was dark," Maisie said. "And I'd been up so late. I think I must have caught myself on the banister when I fell."

"Hold still." Alice dabbed one fingertip into the pale paste. Her touch was cool against Maisie's throat.

Maisie flinched.

"Sorry." Alice gentled her hand immediately. "Tender?"

Maisie nodded.

"This will take some of the colour out. Not all of it." She dabbed carefully beneath Maisie's jaw. "I use it when I've a spot I don't want anyone staring at."

Some of the tightness in Maisie's chest eased. That was exactly what she wanted. Not to hide anything, exactly. Only to keep people from looking too closely. From wondering. From asking.

"His Lordship saw." Alice's fingers stilled against her skin.

"I know."

Maisie looked at her.

Alice nodded toward the corridor. "I saw."

Up close, Alice looked perhaps a year or two older than Maisie. Her hair was a pale, pretty blonde, neatly pinned beneath her cap, and the front of her dress contained rather more of her than Maisie's ever had.

Maisie felt the familiar little pinch of envy.

Mostly, though, she watched Alice's practiced fingers.

No one had ever shown her how to do something like this. Ma had certainly never owned anything so frivolous, and Maisie doubted she had either. Yet Alice worked with easy confidence, smoothing away the ugly colour a little at a time.

"Course." Alice smiled as she screwed the lid back onto the little pot. "Anytime."

Sunlight lay warm across her face. Beyond the glass, someone laughed in the kitchen yard. Maisie closed her eyes and tipped her face into the warmth.

###

By early evening, Maisie had almost convinced herself that the worst of the day was over. Then Mr. Pembroke found her outside the linen room. "His Lordship would like to see you."

Maisie's stomach dropped. She looked instinctively at the folded sheets in her arms. "Now?"

"Now, Miss Bell."

There was nothing unusual in the butler's expression. Somehow that made it worse.

Maisie left the linen with Alice and climbed the stairs alone.

His Lordship's study looked different in daylight. Less cavernous without the fire throwing shadows against the walls. Papers covered one end of the desk, and the curtains stood open to the last pale light beyond the windows. The Earl was standing beside them. He turned when she entered. "Close the door, please."

Maisie obeyed.

The latch clicked. Her hand remained on it for a moment.

"Miss Bell."

She turned. Something in his expression made her heart begin beating faster. He wasn't angry. She had prepared herself for anger. He looked grim. "Sit down."

Maisie perched on the very edge of the chair before his desk. The Earl did not take his own. Instead, he remained standing, one hand braced against the back of it. His gaze went briefly to her throat. "I owe you an apology."

Maisie blinked. "My lord?"

"I should have asked you this morning."

Her fingers tightened together.

"I saw your injuries." His mouth hardened. "And I accepted an explanation I did not believe because you were plainly unwilling to give me another."

Maisie's pulse began to throb beneath the bruises.

He continued before she could speak. "I have spent the afternoon making inquiries."

Her head came up.

"Discreet ones," he added. "No one has been told anything concerning you."

Relief came so quickly she almost sagged.

His eyes sharpened. That, apparently, had told him something. "Miss Bell." His voice gentled. "You did not fall."

Maisie stared at her hands. "No, my lord."

When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet. "Did someone in this house hurt you?"

Her throat closed.

The Earl waited.

Maisie thought of fourteen pounds. Coal before winter. Pa coughing into his handkerchief while Ma pretended not to watch. "I don't want anyone to lose their position because of me."

Something changed in his face. "Is that what you're afraid of?"

She couldn't answer.

He came around the desk, then seemed to think better of approaching her and stopped several feet away. "You are not responsible for what happens to the person who did this."

Maisie's eyes burned.

"I need you to understand me." The quietness had disappeared from his voice. Something colder had taken its place. "There is no man in my employ entitled to put his hands around your throat. There is no man in this house entitled to enter your room at night. And there is certainly no man entitled to injure you and leave you frightened to name him the following morning."

Maisie looked up.

He was furious. The realization was so strange that for a moment she forgot to be afraid.

"Tell me who it was."

Her mouth opened but nothing came out.

His expression softened again. "You will not lose your position."

That nearly undid her.

Maisie swallowed painfully. "My lord..."

"Yes?"

She looked down at her bandaged hand. "It was you."

Maisie wished immediately that she could take the words back.

The Earl stared at her. "What?"

Her courage almost failed. "Last night."

The colour had begun draining from his face. Maisie forced herself onward. "You came into my room."

His hand slipped from the chair. For one horrible moment, she thought he might be angry after all. Instead, he took a step backward. "No."

The word was scarcely audible.

Maisie's eyes lifted. He looked ill. Not shocked. Not merely confused.

Terrified.

And suddenly Maisie understood something she had not understood in the corridor that morning.

He truly hadn't known.

The Earl turned away from her. One hand went to his mouth.

Maisie sat very still.

"How much?" he asked.

She didn't understand. "My lord?"

His eyes closed. "How much did I do?"

There was something in his voice that made her chest ache unexpectedly.

She told him only what she could manage. That he had come into her room. That his eyes had been black. That he had put his hand around her throat. That he had held her wrist hard enough to hurt it.

She did not tell him everything. She didn't need to. By the time she stopped, Nathaniel Harcourt had gone grey.

For several seconds he said nothing. Then, "Your door. Does it have a bolt?"

Maisie blinked. "Yes, my lord."

"Use it."

She stared at him.

"Tonight. Before you go to sleep, bolt the door." He was speaking quickly now. "Put something beneath the handle as well. The chair beside your washstand should do. If you hear anything outside, you do not open it."

"My lord--"

"Anything."

Maisie fell silent.

"If someone knocks, you remain where you are. If you hear my voice, you remain where you are." His jaw tightened. "Especially if you hear my voice."

A strange little chill passed through her. Not entirely fear. The Earl looked at her then, and whatever Maisie had been about to ask disappeared. He was afraid. She had spent the entire day frightened of him. And he was afraid of what might happen when the sun went down. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Say it."

"I'll bolt the door. And put the chair beneath it."

"If you hear me?"

"I won't open it."

His shoulders lowered by a fraction. "Good."

Maisie should have been relieved. Instead, for reasons she could not have explained even to herself, her eyes went briefly toward the windows.

The light outside had begun to fade.

###

Well after sundown, Maisie was still awake.

His Lordship had not summoned her. Not for tea. Not for the fire. Not even for the brandy he had asked for shortly after midnight the night before.

At first, Maisie had been relieved. She had eaten supper below-stairs, climbed to her room, changed into her nightshift and bolted the door exactly as she had promised. Then she had dragged the chair from beside the washstand and wedged it beneath the handle.

That had been hours ago.

Now she sat cross-legged in bed with a book open in her lap and had not turned the page in nearly twenty minutes. Nothing stirred in the passage outside. Nothing from His Lordship's rooms.

Maisie frowned at the page. Perhaps someone else had attended him. The thought bothered her unexpectedly.

Her bruised throat pulled when she swallowed.

She remembered his face when she'd told him. He had gone white. She had spent all morning trying not to remember the night before. Now, safe behind a bolted door, she found herself picking through it.

His eyes had been black. Not dark grey in the moonlight. Black. And he had barely spoken. The Earl she knew was dryly amused, courteous, gentle even when angry. The thing that had entered her room had said only two words.

Hush, Maisie.

A shiver ran over her skin.

His Lordship had been perfectly clear. Bolt the door. Put the chair beneath it.

Especially if you hear my voice.

Maisie closed the book and lay down. The door waited across the room.

Bolted. Barricaded.

Safe.

Whatever had happened last night could not simply happen again.

Not unless she let it.

A floorboard creaked in the passage.

Maisie sat up.

Another.

Closer.

Her heart began to pound.

The footsteps stopped outside her door.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then the handle turned.

The chair scraped softly across the floorboards and caught.

Maisie's breath stopped.

The handle moved again.

Once.

Slowly.

Then silence.

He could not get in.

Relief loosened something inside her. His Lordship had been right. The bolt held. The chair held.

She was safe.

All she had to do was stay where she was.

She imagined him standing there. Barefoot. White shirt loose at his throat. Those impossible black eyes fixed upon the wood between them.

Her hand rose unconsciously to her throat. The bruises were tender beneath her fingertips. She remembered his hand there. Not the panic this time--the pressure. The impossible strength of his fingers. The breathless strain of trying to draw air beneath his grip while those black eyes watched her.

Maisie's breath caught. Heat flared low and sudden through her.

She froze.

No, she had been terrified. She remembered that. But her body had caught upon some other fragment of the memory.

The breathlessness. The strength. Those eyes.

Outside the door, a floorboard creaked. He was still there.

Maisie looked at the bolt. She knew exactly what His Lordship wanted her to do.

She slipped from the bed. Cold floorboards met her bare feet. This was foolish. She could climb back beneath the blankets. In the morning she could tell him truthfully that she had done exactly as he'd instructed.

Instead, Maisie crossed the room.

Her heartbeat seemed impossibly loud as she wrapped both hands around the back of the chair.

She hesitated.

Then lifted it away from the handle.

The door opened.

He stood on the other side. Barefoot. White shirt hanging loose at his throat. His dark hair was disordered, as though he'd risen from bed and come directly to her.

Maisie's breath caught.

His gaze moved from her face to the chair still clutched between her hands. Slowly, horribly, his mouth curved. Not His Lordship's dry amusement.

Something darker.

Something pleased.

He stepped across the threshold.

Maisie let go of the chair. It struck the floor behind her with a muffled thud.

His eyes never left hers. "Good girl."

The words were almost tender.

He reached back and closed the door, then his gaze dropped briefly to the bolt she had left drawn uselessly beside it before returning to her face. "You were told to keep me out."

Maisie's heart hammered. "Yes."

His smile deepened. Something possessive entered his expression. "Delightful," he murmured.

He stepped toward her.

Maisie retreated.

He followed slowly, black eyes fixed on hers, until the backs of her legs met the mattress.

She stopped.

So did he.

His gaze dropped to the bruises around her throat.

His bruises.

Maisie's pulse quickened beneath them.

He lifted a hand and traced one with his thumb. "Still frightened, little maid?"

"Yes."

Something dark and pleased moved through his expression.

His fingers curved around her throat.

Maisie stiffened. For an instant she was back in the darkness of the night before, waking beneath that impossible strength, breath catching as his hand tightened.

Except this time she had opened the door.

His grip remained there only a moment before beginning to loosen.

Maisie's hand closed around his wrist.

He stilled.

Her face burned. She could feel the heavy beat of her pulse beneath his palm, his attention settling wholly upon her fingers wrapped around him.

She should let go.

Instead, she held his hand where it was.

Those black eyes lifted to hers. For a moment, he simply stared at her fingers around his wrist. Then his mouth curved.

Slowly, his fingers tightened again.

Maisie's breath caught. Heat answered immediately, low and startling.

His other hand settled against her waist and bore her backward onto the mattress. He followed her down, his hand never leaving her throat. His gaze moved over her as his free hand gathered the loose fabric of her nightgown upward.

Maisie's breathing quickened.

His thumb shifted against her throat. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her who controlled the next breath.

After that, sensation overwhelmed thought.

Maisie's breath vanished. Her back arched from the mattress, a helpless sound catching in her throat. His grip tightened with exquisite control, holding her precisely on that breathless edge.

Too much. For one flashing instant it was all impossibly too much.

Then his hand eased.

Air rushed into her lungs. Maisie gasped. His black eyes watched her fight to fill them again. Before the desperate gasps had quite subsided, his fingers tightened.

Heat rolled through her. Maisie's eyes fluttered shut.

She understood then.

He wasn't simply taking her breath.

He was deciding when to give it back.

###

After that, the night lost its edges.

Breathlessness blurred into dizzying relief, then built again. Strange waves of pleasure swept through Maisie with an intensity she had no name for, each one leaving her weaker, warmer, more helplessly pleased than the last.

She lost count of them.

Lost track of time.

By the end, she knew only dark-eyed Lord above her, his control finally beginning to fray as hers disappeared entirely. The last rush was the strongest. Pleasure and breathlessness crashed together until the room dimmed around her and even those black eyes began to disappear. Somewhere on that final, impossible edge, he followed her.

For one suspended heartbeat, Maisie could neither think nor breathe.

Then his fingers opened.

Air flooded back. She dragged it in with a broken gasp, trembling helplessly as the room slowly returned around her.

His weight remained above her. Maisie's hand slipped from his wrist, she had no strength left to hold it there.

Afterward, Maisie scarcely knew what happened. She was distantly aware of the mattress shifting as his weight left it. She thought his hand brushed once over her hair, though she might have imagined that too.

Then footsteps crossed the room.

The door opened... closed... and a moment later, the lock clicked softly into place. Maisie lay exactly where he'd left her, limbs heavy and useless, every last scrap of strength wrung from her. She was asleep before his footsteps faded down the passage.

Morning came far too soon. The rattle of the door woke her. Maisie surfaced slowly. For several seconds she lay without moving, warm and impossibly heavy beneath the blankets.

The handle moved again. Then stopped. "Miss Bell?"

Maisie's eyes opened--His Lordship.

Morning light filled the room. She pushed herself upright and immediately regretted it. Every part of her seemed to object at once. She sat blinking stupidly at the door until another knock came.

"Miss Bell?" There was unmistakable worry in his voice now.

"Coming." The word emerged rough enough that Maisie winced.

Silence fell outside.

Maisie found her feet, tugged her nightgown hastily into place and crossed the room on unsteady legs.

The door was locked.

She stared at it. She hadn't locked it. Heat crept slowly into her face.

Another knock.

Maisie hurriedly turned the key. His Lordship stood on the other side. Fully dressed. Perfectly composed.

And looking as though he had slept considerably less than she had.

His gaze swept over her the instant the door opened. "Thank God."

Maisie watched relief soften his face. Her stomach gave a peculiar little turn.

His eyes went to the lock. "You kept it locked."

Maisie looked at it too. "Yes, my lord."

His shoulders loosened. For perhaps half a second, Maisie considered leaving it there.

Then his gaze returned to her face. Slowly, it dropped to her throat.

Maisie's hand rose too late.

Whatever relief had been in his expression disappeared.

"Miss Bell." He stepped into the room so abruptly that Maisie stumbled backward. His Lordship closed the door behind him. "What happened?"

Maisie blinked sleepily at him. "My lord?"

"The door was locked." His eyes searched her face, then dropped again to the fresh marks around her throat. "You bolted it. You put the chair beneath the handle?"

"Yes."

"Then how did he get in?"

Maisie hesitated.

Something in her expression stopped him. His face changed. "Miss Bell."

Maisie looked down. "I opened the door."

When she finally looked up, His Lordship had gone very still. "Why?"

She had no answer she could possibly give him.

Not one that wouldn't require explaining the long hours she'd spent thinking about black eyes and impossible strength. The hand around her throat. The terrible breathlessness she had remembered long after the terror itself had begun to fade.

His gaze dropped to the marks again. "Did he hurt you?"

Maisie swallowed. "No."

His eyes snapped back to hers.

The answer seemed to trouble him more than she had expected. "No?"

"Not last night."

Something tightened in his face.

Maisie understood too late what she had said. "My lord, I only meant--"

"I know what you meant." He turned away. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. "He does not know restraint, Miss Bell."

Maisie touched her throat. Last night rose behind her eyes in fragments. His hand tightening. Air returning in desperate gasps. Those black eyes watching every response until he seemed to know her body better than she did. "Yes," she said quietly. "He does."

His Lordship turned.

Maisie's courage nearly failed beneath his expression. She lowered her hand. "With me."

The silence that followed felt enormous.

Something moved across his face. Not jealousy. Not anger.

Fear.

"He shouldn't."

Maisie didn't know what to say to that.

Neither, apparently, did he.

His gaze lingered on her for another moment before dropping to the floor between them.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I don't know what he will do next time."

Next time.

Maisie's pulse gave a small, traitorous leap.

His eyes sharpened. "You are playing a dangerous game, Miss Bell."

"He didn't hurt me."

"This time." The words landed hard between them. His gaze dropped to the marks around her throat. "I have no control over him. I cannot stop him once he comes, and by morning I remember nothing of what he's done."

Maisie's fingers curled at her sides.

"You think because he showed restraint once that you know what he will do with you." His eyes returned to hers. "You don't."

Neither did he.

Perhaps something of the thought showed on her face.

"I don't remember what happens after dark, Miss Bell. But I am not naive enough to misunderstand why your position has required such frequent replacement."

Maisie went still.

"I don't ask. They don't tell me." His jaw tightened. "Do not mistake my ignorance for reassurance."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"So when I tell you to lock your door tonight, Miss Bell, I suggest you listen." He didn't wait for her answer. His Lordship crossed the room, opened the door and disappeared into the passage. It closed sharply behind him.

Maisie stood alone in the morning sunlight. For several seconds, she didn't move. Then her fingers rose slowly to her throat. The bruises were tender beneath them.

This time. A warning. It should have felt like one.

Maisie looked at the door. Tonight seemed very far away.

Not far enough.