“Get out of here, man!”
“Christopher!” Erienne gasped and took two halting steps to follow the befuddled servant, but Christopher came around to face her with a glare.
“Stay where you are, madam! I am not finished with you.”
“You have no right to give orders here,” she protested, her own ire growing. “This is my husband’s house!”
“I’ll give orders when and where I damn well please, and for once, you will stand and listen until I’m through!”
More than a trifle outraged herself, Erienne hurled back her answer. “You may command the men on your ship to your will, Mister Seton, but you have no such authority here! Good day to you!”
Catching up her skirts, she whirled and stalked toward the tower until she heard the sound of rapid footsteps coming behind her, then a sudden panic seized her that he would make such a scene that she would not be able to face the servants…or her husband. She raced into the entry, stepping over the puddle, and took to the stairs, forcing every bit of strength she could into her limbs. She had barely gained the fourth step when she heard sliding feet, a loud thump, and then a painful grunt followed by an angry curse. When she whirled, Christopher was just coming to rest in a heap against the wall after sliding across the floor, partway on his back. For a moment she stared aghast at the dignified man sprawled in a most undignified manner, but when he raised his head to look at her with barely contained rage, she was struck by the humor of it all. Bubbling laughter broke forth, winning from him a dark scowl of exasperation.
“Are you hurt, Christopher?” she asked sweetly.
“Aye! My pride has been mightily bruised!”
“Oh, that will mend, sir,” she chuckled, spreading her skirts to perch primly on the step above him. Her eyes danced with a lively light that was simply dazzling to behold. “But you should take care. If such a modest spot of water can bring you down so abruptly, I would not advise sailing beyond these shores.”
“ ’Tis not a spot of water that’s brought me down, but a waspish wench who sets her barbs against me at every turn.”
“You dare accuse me when you come in here huffing and snorting like a raging bull?” She gave a throaty, skeptical laugh. “Really, Christopher, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You frightened Paine and nearly made me swallow my heart.”
“That’s an impossibility, madam, for that thing is surely made of cold, hard steel.”
“You’re pouting,” she chided flippantly, “because I have not fallen swooning at your feet.”
“I’m angry because you continually deny the fact that you should be my wife!” he stated emphatically.
Footsteps on the stairs behind Erienne made them glance up. Aggie came nonchalantly down the steps, seeming unaware of Christopher’s storm-dark frown. Excusing herself, she stepped past her mistress. Finally, on reaching level footing, she contemplated the man, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. “Aren’t ye a wee bit old ter be takin’ yer leisure on the floor, sir?”
He raised a brow at Erienne as that one smothered a giggle, and with a snort, got to his feet and brushed off his breeches and coatsleeve. “I see that I gather no sympathy here, so I shall leave you both to fare as you might with Lord Saxton.”
“Don’t go away angry, sir,” Aggie cajoled. “Ye haven’t eaten yer meal. Stay and dine with the lovely mistress here.”
Christopher gave a low grunt of derision. “No doubt I will find warmer companionship at the Boar’s Inn.”
Erienne raised her head. The idea that he might seek out solace from Molly’s arms upset her and filled her with a roweling jealousy. An image of his long, muscular form entrapped by the twining limbs of that lusty wench made Erienne’s heart sink sickeningly. She could not bear the thought of him making love to another woman, even though only a few hours ago she had given herself to her husband. Her cheeks grew flushed at the conflict that raged within her, and she struck out in anger.
“Then go!” she cried. “And be quick about it! Hopefully I will forget that you even exist!”
Christopher frowned at her sharply as Aggie slipped away quickly and discreetly. “Is that what you really want?” he demanded. “Never to see me again?”
“Aye, Mr. Seton!” The words burst out in bitter ire, and she felt no urge to halt them. “That is the way of it!”
He swore silently before he growled, “If that is what the lady desires, then that is exactly what she shall have!”
He yanked open the door and in two strides he was out, slamming it behind him. Tears welled in Erienne’s eyes, and she muffled a sob as she flew up the stairs to her room, there to copy his manner by flinging shut the portal.
Erienne’s rare fit of temper left the servants exchanging worried glances. The mistress had never raised so much as a brow in reprimand to any of them. Whenever a problem arose, she had always addressed the matter with quiet yet unmistakable authority. Thus, when the word got around that she had ordered the gentleman, Mr. Seton, from the house, it caused more than a few mouths to gape. Paine served her the noon meal with a questioning uncertainty, not daring to encourage her to taste the fare that she readily pushed aside. Even Aggie seemed dismayed, though in the morning she had appeared quite cheery after cleaning the master’s chambers. The maids who usually did that particular chore had been shooed off without explanation to some other portion of the house. Though the housekeeper gave the servants little time to discuss these happenings, worried conjectures still began to flit about the manor. The presence of such a man as Christopher Seton in the manse was certainly something to talk about, especially when he had sent Paine fleeing from the hall. And, of course, they could only wonder what he had done to cause Lady Saxton’s vexation.
That particular spur drove Erienne to seek a walk in the cool air beyond the dark and silent walls of the manse. The sun had made a rare and brilliant appearance, dispensing with much of the snow that had fallen during the night as it continued its flight across the sky. Though large patches of white remained huddled behind protecting walls and shrubs, stepping-stones were now visible, bordering a small, overgrown garden that lay between the main house and the tumbled eastern wing.
Erienne paused on the path to take in deep gulps of the icy breeze that stung her cheeks. She needed its bracing coolness to clear her head and perhaps mend the tattered shreds of her emotions. She was distressed that she could not discipline her thoughts and banish Christopher from her mind. She wanted desperately to hold fast to the bliss she had shared with Lord Saxton, but invading images, combining the moments in her husband’s bed with those in the coach, kept flashing through her consciousness, viciously attacking the goal of faithfulness she had set for herself. The impossible yearnings of her heart clashed against her will, and the battle raged in a desperate but fruitless struggle.
Sadly she recognized the path that was laid out for her in life, that one of honor, and though it would mean a severe wounding of that vital organ that throbbed achingly in her chest, she would do what was right. The die was cast. She was Lord Saxton’s wife. She had made a commitment.
Petulantly Erienne kicked at a small pebble in front of her. It bounced along, leading her gaze to a spot near the wall where a bit of color broke the monotony of the snow and the dull grays and dead browns of a tangle of brush. There, trembling forlornly in the breeze, was a tiny blood-red rose. The bush was small and weak, bearing a single blossom that by some miracle had brought its beauty into winter’s midst.
Almost in awe Erienne cupped the fragile bloom between her hands and bent low to catch the delicate fragrance that wafted from its crimson-hued petals. From a time long ago, when her dreams had held such grand illusions of a prince offering a single rose to vow his love to his lady fair, she recalled a legend that a rose found in winter brought the promise of true love found.
Erienne touched the delicate petals, and for a moment she held a vision of a silver-helmed knight who bore beneath his gleaming visor an all too familiar face. In the ill
usion he fought with singular purpose to rescue her from her fate and in so doing became her victor, her only love. He leaned near to take her in his arms, then the silver-helmed knight was gone, dissipated in the chill breeze that swept the garden, forever banished from her sight.
A long, wavering sigh slipped from her. Her heart seemed weighted with lead, and it yearned for a lightening of its burden. Yet no succor came. No dawning brightness lit her gloom. Christopher was gone and might never be back.
* * *
’Twas Lord Saxton’s standing order that none of the servants were to wait up if he failed to come home before the household was ready to retire. None did so this night, and the halls grew quiet and still as each found his bed. Candles were left burning to relieve the gloom that pervaded the darkened halls, and by their meager light the master passed like a ghost through the house. With painfully silenced tread, he climbed the stairs and moved down the corridor toward Erienne’s room. Pushing the portal gently ajar, he leaned against the jamb and fed his hungry gaze on the form within the bed. Her gentle, even breathing marked her depth of slumber as she lay on her side facing the hearth with a hand tucked beneath her pillow. Her long hair streamed out into the darkness beyond, and he knew if he gathered her close the luxuriant mass would spill about him and fill his head with an intoxicating scent. The sight of her fulfilled the vision he had kept of her throughout the day, that of a stirringly beautiful woman who warmed his blood more than he could bear.
Careful to make no sound that would betray his presence, he crossed to the bed and pulled the velvet hangings closed to darken the interior. Moving to the far side, he doffed his gloves and mask. Soon he was a pale shadow in the night, slipping beneath the covers. Surrounded by the velvet hangings, he became only a movement in the blackness. A soft sigh escaped Erienne’s lips as he pressed close against her back. He inhaled the delicate fragrance of her hair and brushed aside the silken strands to kiss the tender nape. His hand found its way beneath her gown and searched out the womanly softness of her.
Wavering between fantasy and awareness, Erienne lay pliant beneath the roaming hand while elusive grayish-green eyes flickered at the edge of her consciousness. An essence, not unlike brandy, filled her head as the warmth of the firm body penetrated her gown. She stirred against him, and his whisper filled her mind.
“I can’t leave you alone.” He touched his lips to the smoothly rising slope of her shoulder. “The thought of you stumbles the beat of my heart and arouses such a hunger in me that I must seek you out or groan beneath the torture of it. You have chained me to you, Erienne. The beast is your slave.”
* * *
The gown was drawn over her head and banished to the darkness, with only a whisper of a sound evidencing its fall to the floor. Erienne’s mind broke to the surface of full awareness as he pulled her close to the hard, naked heat of him. He was a man, fully roused against the coolness of her buttocks. Her breasts warmed beneath his caress, and the slow, languid strokes of his fingers upon their throbbing peaks plucked at the strings of her passion, sending bursting shards of excitement hurtling through her until her loins awakened with a hunger of their own. His caresses continued, following the curving arch of her hip, and her heart quickened its pace beneath his questing search. A husky moan escaped her as he became bolder, intruding into the privacy of her woman’s flesh and setting her senses aquiver with expectant eagerness. She melted against his warmth, arching her neck as his teeth nibbled at the slim column.
With a hand on her shoulder, he pressed her back upon the bed, and Erienne caught her breath as his tongue moved slowly over a soft crest of a breast, setting her whole body ashiver. His kisses slipped downward to caress her waist and belly, leaving in their wake a fiery trail that fairly threatened to consume her. She lay willing and eager as he rose above her in the darkness. She welcomed his weight with open limbs, then gasped as the plunging hotness penetrated. Her hands slipped over his shoulders, finding the scar that helped to banish Christopher’s countenance from mind. Then with hypnotic motion his loins caressed hers, slow and sure, sheathing the flaming blade and drawing away until it became sweet, ecstatic torture. In blissful response she arched her hips against him, and the grayish-green eyes came back as her hands slipped downward over the hard, flexing buttocks. In her mind the shining orbs gleamed in triumph, but she was past the point of chiding her will into obedience, and she did not care at the moment what image her thoughts conjured in the dark.
* * *
In the softly glowing aftermath of their passion, Erienne was content to nestle in the warmth of the large manly form that curled against her. He lay on his side facing her, his legs drawn up beneath her buttocks, with the right foot extended well beyond the silken limbs that rested across his thighs. The only sound that intruded into the silence was the muted ticking of a distant clock. The heavy bed hangings forbade the smallest glimmer to shine through, cloaking them in intimate darkness. Even so, Erienne was haunted by faint and fleeting impressions of a chiseled profile and warm gray-green eyes.
“You’ve been drinking,” she murmured softly.
“Aye,” he answered in a rasping whisper and kissed her brow. “I fear I was quite besotted with desire for you.”
She smiled in the dark. “Your desire has the smell of strong drink.”
“My plight would not ease with a cup or two. The brew only sharpened my cravings.”
“Why didn’t you come home? I was waiting for you.”
He responded with a low chuckle. “Aye, and to have returned to you in the light of day would have been disastrous indeed. Do you not ken how much of a temptation you are, madam?”
“I don’t understand,” she replied in confusion.
“I am trapped in darkness, Erienne. I can only come to you when the night will hide my face, and yet there grows in me a craving to take you in my arms while the sun is high, when I can see you flushed and warm with passion. ’Tis my hell that I must be a beast of the night.”
It was much later when Erienne roused to the unfamiliar presence beside her in bed. Her husband’s deep, even breathing assured her that he was asleep, and like thistledown wavering on a breeze her hand slipped hesitantly along his side, reaching his hip and sliding downward, ever so carefully, until she was halted by the feel of a raised, smooth scar, such as a burn would make, on her husband’s thigh. How far it extended down his leg, she had no way of knowing, but the welt discouraged further exploring. She drew her hand away as a slight shudder went through her, and she wondered if she would ever come to the place where she would totally abandon her qualms.
Lord Talbot’s ornate personal carriage drew up before the Saxton manse after a space of a week following the grand ball. The two footmen leapt to the ground, and while one ran to hold the horses, the other hastily placed a small stepping-stool beneath the door before opening it. A gold-buckled shoe reached out and felt cautiously for the step, then the richly brocaded form of Lord Talbot followed. Stepping to ground, he looked about arrogantly and adjusted his equally elaborate cloak with a shrug of his shoulders. The footman ran ahead to thump the large door knocker as his lordship fastidiously picked his way toward the tower entry with a silk-wrapped packet carried daintily in his gloved left hand.
Paine answered the summons and received from the footman the curt announcement of his lordship’s presence. The butler seemed unaffected by the lord’s arrival and handled himself with the usual dignified efficiency. After accepting the gloves, the tricorn, and the heavy cloak, he ushered Lord Talbot into the great hall, there bidding him to wait until the master was informed of his visit.
Though considerably less grand than Lord Talbot’s manor, the hall of the Saxton estate clearly bespoke of its age and heritage. The high-arched, crudely carved trusses and the tapestries hanging from the plastered and timbered walls whispered of a time when chivalry and honor ruled the land. The chamber sharply contrasted with the grandiosity of the man’s attire. Each would have been well suited to
a score and ten years past, but now, while the manor remained undated, the lavish raiment of the lord appeared quite outmoded and ostentatious.
Paine came back to escort Talbot to the chamber beyond the common room, where Lord Saxton and his lady would receive their guest. The fancified gentleman marked his progress across the stone floors with a sharp rap of high heels. The butler stepped before him to open the door, then moved back, allowing the man to enter the withdrawing room. The masked one rose as Talbot pranced into his presence, and though the latter waited an appropriate length of time, there was no hint of a bow or even a nod of that stern, helmeted pate. Erienne sat rigid and unmoving, as her husband had bade her. As he had explained, the law ordained that the two lords were equal, and Lord Saxton would have it no other way. Indeed, if their individual worth were accountable by wealth of land, as it so often was, Lord Talbot might well be the one found lacking.
Talbot was piqued because the other did not accept a lesser status, but he managed to control his irritation to only a mild furrowing of his brow and a light twitching of his moustache. With a directness characteristic of the trained diplomat, he plunged into the matter that had brought him to the hall.