With the boisterous men behind them, nothing could be heard but the sound of Rossetti's boots shuffling across the stone floor; each stride determined in length as he hurried down the corridor.

He moved with the fluid grace of a man accustomed to treading shadows, and Elle felt this as he ascended the stairs, the change in his step advising her of his surefooted direction as he climbed the stairway with a congenital ease despite her sodden weight.

A terrible draft met them with every twist and turn of the keep, until at last they reached the confines of her chambers.

A few more steps and he placed her on the bed. His arms fell away and with that came every discomfort to mind.

Elle shivered in her damp cloak, longing to discard it, along with her wet garments. She tugged at the lapels as another draft assailed her, its icy intrusion making her muscles ache and her bones rattle.

She listened as Rossetti shuffled about the room, his fleeting movements stirring spouts of dust that had her crinkling her nose, surprised to find so much of it lining the air.

He made quick work of a fire and as it began to crackle and spit warmth, her senses unfolded in awareness to the room.

The air felt colder and moved more freely as if the room was far more capacious than what her chambers had to offer. It felt gloomier, impersonal, as though not lived in but - abided, and aside from the occasional mustiness, it smelled strongly of leather.

A nervous breath left her as her hands flexed over the silken coverlet. The bedstead felt massive as she ran her fingers over its frame; one suited specifically for a ... man.

A soft tremulous breath escaped her. "These are not my chambers."

"Nay," he drawled in that thick baritone, "They are mine."

His boots scraped across the floor as he drew closer and her heart-rate rocketed, feeling his intense regard as he came to stand over her. "Had I returned you to your chambers," Rossetti said, "they would have considered you ... at their disposal."

Elle swallowed, feeling a sudden knot lodged there, "Their disposal?" As if she was a thing to be used and discarded. The thought snatched horridly at her heart.

He was silent a moment and when his reply finally came it had a razor-like edge, "Their beds."

She stiffened, her stomach churning at the specter of those men touching her. Disposing of her, "How very thoughtful of you, my lord," she replied with an ambivalent breath, "And yet here I sit, in your bed."

It should have alarmed her that he had brought her to his chambers, and though she felt a fraction of fear, there was also a feeling of nervousness and excitement that she could not explain.

He moved with a predatory stillness that no longer disrupted the dust, when earlier his movements had been almost frantic. Had he been concerned for her well-being?

"Remove your cloak." He demanded in an unflinching tone.

Her eyes widened as she let out a gasp, "I beg your pardon?"

"You will catch ill if you do not disrobe."

Elle angled her chin, hoping to appear defiant despite the anxious feeling in her breast. "Lucy will be along shortly. I will wait for her."

Rossetti stepped closer and her throat constricted with his advancement, "I do not issue an order twice, little one."

When she showed no signs of complying, his warning came on a growl, "Then you leave me no choice."

Her pulse leapt, "You cannot mean to – "

When she felt the sudden brush of his fingers she evaded his touch by twisting out of his reach. He made a guttural sound of surprise at her unexpected swiftness, "I can assure you," his boots could be heard coming around the bed where she perched with anxious breath, "It is nothing I haven't already seen."

Elle felt color rise in her cheeks as she braced for another dodging of his fingers, "Is that meant to reassure me? Honestly, my lord, are you always this straightforward?"

"I suppose mincing words is another quality I lack next to manners." She discerned his humor and that light-heartedness took her by surprise, affording him the opportune moment to seize her unaware.

With a quickness that robbed her of breath, Rossetti wrenched her cloak off her shoulders. The rapid whip of damp wool sent a gust of cold air against her face, compelling her to grasp her midriff with a shudder.

"You are unreasonably stubborn." Rossetti snarled, but even that surly edge could not disguise his mirth, or the degree of heat embedded in his voice.

Elle rubbed her arms in an effort to ward off the chill and twisted her body towards the array of flames dancing from across the room. "I am partial to the term headstrong."

He loomed above her, his nearness warming her chilled bones, doing far more than the fire against the opposing wall. If she reached out, he would be there. A massive wall of hardened heat. It was strange how that knowledge did not frighten her, but rather grip her stomach as if with a myriad of butterflies, leaving her breathless as though greedy for air, "Now your gown."

Elle pursued her lips to quell an intake of breath. The butterflies raging in her belly multiplied; that breathless sensation in her chest all but intensifying, "I do not have any dry clothes here, my lord. If you would but let me return to my chambers – "

His boots receded to the other side of the room and she tensed, straining to catch his movements as he could be heard rummaging through a chest. He returned seconds later, a rustling of material distinct on her ears as he tossed something next to her.

"That won't be necessary."

Frowning, Elle held a breath and reached for the unseen item. The moment her fingers brushed satin, the air expelled from her lungs. Her fingers spanned the length of it, finding that it trickled in heavy folds over the edge of the bed. It felt fluid and free of wrinkles, despite whatever trunk it had derived from; its texture incredibly smooth and soft beneath her wandering fingers.

Gripped by a sudden curiosity, she asked softly, "What color is it?"

He was quiet a moment before saying in almost a solemn tone, "Red."

And Elle suddenly recalled his account of the color from the beach. It is a burning, insatiable hunger for a woman that can never be yours.

The remembrance of those words had her snatching her hand away as though burned. "I-I cannot accept this, my lord. Surely it is not meant for me?"

"It is, and you will wear it."

His acrid tone revealed to her that the teasing, almost jovial man from before had retreated beneath the hard, inscrutable exterior that was the Rossetti Beast. She sensed the darkness in him now, and an undercurrent of cryptic, tangled emotion. She dragged a breath deep into her lungs, inclining her head to ask, "Where did you get it?"

"Its origin is not important."

His response only deepened her curiosity and it brought about a stab of disappointment. Had the dress belonged to a woman he loved? To her utter astonishment she felt a grudging twinge of jealousy. It took her by surprise, for never had she felt such a grievance, not even when it came to her sight, but to think that a woman he once loved, adorned this very gown, filling it in ways she never could, struck her almost ... envious. It wasn't fair, she thought, to harbor any resentment for a woman that wasn't even present, but that feeling of discontent arose nonetheless.

"I cannot, my lord."

Elle braced for his anger and a berating of some kind, but what came next took her by surprise.

Lean, masculine fingers curved under her chin, tilting her face upward as he brushed his thumb over the swell of her bottom lip. "You cannot or you won't?" he said his voice almost gentle.

She felt herself leaning into those fingers as he traced the arc of her jaw, finding her words on a breath, "The dress – "

"Was my mother's." he interjected, his voice going taut with emotion.

Elle straightened, shocked by his revelation, "Your mother's?"

His hand fell away and he moved away from her, the warmth of him leaving her on a shudder. "Aye, at least, it was at one time, long ago."

To know that the dress had belonged to his mother, the woman who had given him life, and not a lover, left her almost in a state of awe. It chased away all the unpleasant feelings, leaving her to marvel at the woman who had once graced the red satin beneath her fingers.

Had she been a strong and courageous woman? Had she been benevolent and endearing? Or had she too been reclusive and secretive like her son?

She reached out and touched the fabric once more, saying almost absently. "What was she like, your mother?"

The room fell quiet and he was no longer moving, but standing immobile as though reflecting on the woman in question. His answer, when it came, was terse. "She was beautiful. Kind."

And that's it, just a concise response. She felt the graveness in him, the hardening of his resolve. But there was something more, something she hadn't felt from her dark and brooding captor before ... there was a terrible sadness, so much of it that she found herself asking, "What happened to her?"

"What does it matter?" he snapped, his voice turning coarse and almost cruel, "She is dead. What more is there to be said."

Elle flinched at his harshness, "I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried."

"Spare me your pity." He snarled, "The dress is yours. Do with it as you please." And then he stalked from the room, slamming the door with so much force that her teeth rattled with it.

**********