'What on Earth do you think you're doing?' I say, my pulse quickening.

Tick-tick-pause-tick.

His eyes flicker in my direction. 'As I told you, I am taking my bath before the water gets cold.'

'Mr. Carver, you cannot!'

'I can and I will. If you don't wish to look, Miss Elmes, you can always turn and face the other way, or perhaps you would prefer to spy on me through the window?'

'I was not spying on you and how dare you suggest such a thing!'

The Sin-Eater smiles, a glint of something dark and mischievous in his eyes. He is having much fun at my expense; I am sure of it. 'I think maybe you were, a little bit.'

'This is really too much! You seek to offend me.' My insides twist with anxiety. Never has a man bothered me as much as this one.

Never has a man intrigued me as much as this one.

He shrugs, standing up from his armchair and kicking his boots to one side. 'On the contrary, I merely seek to have my bath which I intend to do whether you like it or not. Now, watch or don't watch. I care not.'

My mouth drops open as he reaches for the waistband of his breeches and I catch a glimpse of firm thigh, of sculptured flesh, before I whirl around, my face on fire that I am sure will burn forever. I can barely breathe when I hear the sound of the water sloshing as Mr. Carver steps into the tub.

I cannot stop the images from assaulting my mind. They cram every dark corner. Every part of my imagination that I dare not speak of. I see the hard, beautiful lines of his torso. Perspiration glimmering on his throat. The perfection of his hipbone. The dark hair curling under his navel.

As he bathes, he hums to himself, low and gravelly and the sound vibrates up my spine and resonates across my collarbone. I wring my hands and then remember that is what my mother would do, and I have to stop, instead reaching for my throat. I so wish to loosen the button of my collar, but it would be highly inappropriate. Mr. Carver might not understand, nor heed the boundaries of propriety, but I do. I have to.

And yet still the sound of his voice thrums over my skin and the steam curls into the rafters above my head.

My hand claws at my throat now, tugging on the high neck of my dress and I run a finger along the inside edge, desperately trying to find some release from its bind. I stare hopelessly out of the window, wishing I could be free of this place but knowing that I cannot because of the nightmares that await outside, and it is then that I see him.

His reflection in the window is blurry where the steam fogs the glass, but I can see him in the tub, his hair now wet and brushed back from his face. I see nothing more than he has already revealed to me, but there is something about watching him in the tub with the flames crackling in the hearth that leaves me a little breathless. I am at once torn between the beauty I see in this man, and what I know of him.

Sin-Eater

Devil.

'How long will you be, Mr. Carver?' I say, allowing a touch of impatience to creep into my tone, even as I cannot take my eyes from his reflected image.

The water moves with his body. 'I just need to wash my back, Miss Elmes,' he says. He's smiling. I can see he's smiling. 'Unless of course you believe you can do it quicker. You are welcome to try.'

I emit a small strangled sound and he chuckles softly. It is too late for me. He reaches up to wash his back with a cloth and instantly I am there, seated behind him on the stool. I am taking the cloth from his hand and squeezing the water out of the fabric, watching as the droplets pool into the indentation of his collarbone. I am...

Stop, Lillian.

In a whirlpool of desperation, I drag my gaze from the windowpane and instead fix onto a pile of books stacked haphazardly on the floor. Many of the covers are worn, the corners battered. A well-read book is always sure to catch my attention and goodness if I don't need something to catch my attention now. Squinting in the hazy light, I try to pick out titles and names, but my eyes struggle to focus on the letters. I manage to decipher some words – terrible, awful words that quicken my heartbeat – and I am almost relieved to be disturbed by the sound of the water and the knowledge that Mr. Carver is finally getting out of the tub.

Where to look? The books. The glass. My foolish, ridiculous hands that twist into the folds of my skirts.

If Lizzie were here, she would never let a man like Mr. Carver unnerve her so. She would look him in the eyes – or wherever she did please – and stand her ground. How I wish now that I had but an ounce of her bravado. Her steel. Her carefree attitude. But I am not her. I am but her shadow, a mere whisper of bone and skin, all wrapped up in silk and lace and a collar that binds too tightly about my neck.

I should never have come here today.

'Miss Elmes, you may turn if you wish.'

Mr. Carver's voice makes me flinch. 'Are you decent?' I demand.

He sighs and there is something about that sound – more exhaustion now, less irritation, I think – that coils warmly in the depths of my stomach.

'Aye, fret not, I wouldn't want to offend you quite that much.'

'So, you do seek to offend me, if only in part?' I say, slowly turning my head to see if he is indeed decent and not trying to fool me.

'I should imagine you are offended by most things, Miss Elmes,' he replies and there is something almost congenial in his tone, a slight touch of amusement once more.

He is perched on the edge of his armchair now, having pulled on his breeches. A loose-fitting white tunic now covers his upper half, but dampness still lingers on his throat where he has failed to dry himself properly and the linen sticks to his chest. His curls remain moisture-laden and heavy, coiling tightly at his temples. When he glances up from adjusting his boots, he catches my eye and for the first time, seems not quite so self-assured. There is a flicker of something I cannot read. An uncertainty in the hard lines of his face that softens him for a second.

He looks away, his lips thin. The fierce boy is back.

'So, Mr. Carver,' I say, taking a small but firm step forward. 'You promised me answers. I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to grant me them now, so that I can return home. I am expected back in the village within the hour and I cannot be late.'

'You cannot? Perhaps you shouldn't crowd your diary with so many engagements. I cannot begin to image how terribly busy the life of a lady such as yourself must be.' There is scorn there. That same disdain as before creeping into his expression. 'You want answers, and you want them quickly, but I'm afraid the answers you seek are not something I can rattle off in seconds merely to suit your schedule.'

My hands clench tighter. 'Mr. Carver, I don't think you quite understand. I should not be here. If I do not return to the village to meet with our housemaid at the appointed time and place, she will go searching for me and will discover I am very much not where I told her I would be. While I do not expect you to understand nor care, it simply will not do if people know that I was here unchaperoned.'

Mr. Carver looks at me then with renewed interest, his eyes widening slightly as if I have revealed some dark secret that he was not previously privy to.

'Oh,' he says, a smile creeping at the corners of his mouth. 'You are concerned what people will say if they know you came here alone. What a strange life that must be, Miss Elmes, to care so much about what other people think.'

'I think you will find that everybody cares what other people think, sir.'

Mr. Carver tilts his head as if the very idea is novel to him. 'Not I. If I did, I think I would have driven myself mad many years ago.' He sniffs dismissively. 'It's folly to care what others think when there are so many other things to care about in this world. Nay, Miss Elmes, opinions matter little.'

'Not to you maybe, but that does not mean it is folly.'

'Really?' he says. 'Then maybe I am just an uneducated man who understands nothing. Tell me, why do you care so much of what people think?'

'Because...' I flounder for the answer, the words feeling like hard stones in my throat. 'Because I have to, that's why. Because being a woman in this world means you have to care what others think, for what others think can determine the entire course of your life. One opinion, one whisper of a rumour, can tarnish a woman's reputation forever. And without a reputation, women are worthless.'

Daniel sits back in his armchair, almost slouched into it, raising one leg and resting his heel on the small clumsy-looking table to the side. He is silent, but when he finally speaks, his voice is hard, his brow dark and heavy.

'Is that what you think? Or is that your mother talking?'

'What do you know of my mother?' I snap.

'I know your mother.'

'You certainly do not. My mother would not dream of knowing or having any dealings with a...' I stop.

Daniel raises a brow. 'A man with a reputation as worthless as mine?'

'I never said that.'

'But you thought it,' he replies, jabbing a finger at me. 'You thought it, because that's what you've been told and you believe what you're told, don't you, Miss Elmes? In the same way that you believe a woman's reputation should hang on the knife-edge of public opinion?'

I blink. This man infuriates and confounds me so. 'Mr. Carver, I would not insult you to assume you are uneducated, but you are right in that you understand little, particularly when it comes to women.'

'You don't think I know women?'

He leans his head back against the armchair. There is something dark and lazy in his gaze, something which makes me burn once more. It reaches out and touches my innermost thoughts, invading the shadowed corners of my head where tinder waits to be sparked.

'I am sure you know something of women, but I have no doubt that your understanding of women such as myself is somewhat lacking.'

'Women such as yourself...' he ponders, his eyes narrowing. 'Oh, you mean fine women. Ladies of standing. Miss Elmes, you forget yourself. My family has been in service to ladies of standing for longer than you have been alive. I was brought up a shadow lurking in your homes. I was schooled in your parlour rooms. I trod your fine rugs with my worn boots. Looked upon your fancy portraits and bone china. Sopped up your grief. I take your money with an open palm and a keen eye, so I think you'll find that I possess – trust me on this – a very, very good understanding of women just like you.'

I swallow. Why do I feel so attacked?

'Then, Mr. Carver, if you do so have a keen eye and a good understanding, as you say, you will understand why a young lady such as myself should not be here and you will do me the honour of providing the answers I seek.'

He says nothing, just fixes me with a hard stare. I resist the urge to fidget, as I would when I was young only to earn a swift rebuke from Mama.

'I find it interesting, Miss Elmes,' he says. 'You say you care for others opinion and are concerned for your reputation and yet still you conspired to come all the way out here to find me.'

I am all at once exhausted of this man, this game of ours that goes back and forth with the maddening ticking of the clock. I came here for a reason. I came to make sense of all this dark business and yet all I have found is more questions.

'I need to know. Please.'