4
Redmond stared at the wisp of a woman lying in his bed, trying to stop himself from feeling the guilt of his actions. She had been badly hurt—she still was—and it was made abundantly clear by the tip of her rapier that she did not trust him at all, and he couldn’t blame her, given how he’d behaved. He also feared that she may have been a bit mad with panic. Surely only a woman half out of her mind and desperate would enter into his den, given what was said about him.
He’d not wanted to drug her, but as the evening wore on and her distrust showed no sign of easing, he’d had the cook slip laudanum into the wine. No doubt when she woke, she would be furious and vindicated in her distrust of him, but at least she would be well rested, and her arm would be cleaned and healing.
He had grown
