"Oh, God," she murmured, burying her face against his chest and panting as she clung to him. "I . . . I think we'd better go inside."
"Now."
"Oh, yes. Now."
She gave a shaky little laugh. He lifted her head with one finger and kissed her. Light glowed behind his eyelids, and opening his eyes, he found that around them, everything seemed to be holding its breath as the landscape turned to molten gold. Wanting to treasure this moment of rare joy before he brought her inside and spent the morning making love to her, he drew back, turning her so both could watch the sun as it finally rose from its bed. And here it came, a brilliant ball of fire, higher, and higher . . .
Andrew bent his head to kiss her once more — and from just behind came the slow, rising sound of thunder.
"How odd," he murmured, his lips brushing her sunlit nose, and then her mouth, his breath warm against her cheek.
"What?"
"The fact that it's starting to thunder when the only clouds in the sky are high and distant and peaceful."
"I don't hear any thunder," she said on a sigh, her arms going around his neck, her breath mingling with his as she raised her lips for his kiss. "Though I certainly feel some!"
"What do you mean, you don't hear it?" Andrew asked, frowning and pulling back as the noise grew alarmingly loud now, rising in crescendo and volume without break and sounding quite unlike any thunder that he'd ever heard. The hairs on the back of his neck rising, he turned his head to look over his shoulder — and saw a huge silver monster sailing straight over the treetops toward them.
He gave a hoarse cry of terror and instinctively threw Celsie to the ground as it passed overhead, covering her with his body until the deafening roar peaked and rolled and finally grew distant.
When he lifted his head, his skin was pale, his face damp with sweat, his body shaking.
And Celsie was staring at him with wide, shocked eyes.
"Andrew?" she whispered, in a tiny, nervous voice. "Are you . . . all right?"
Chapter 23
"No," he said with sudden sharpness as he got to his feet. "No, I'm not all right."
And with that, he spun on his heel and stalked off down the drive toward the house, leaving Celsie standing there with Freckles and staring after him in confusion, dismay, and hurt.
"Andrew!"
He kept walking. He paused some fifty feet away and turned to look at her, fists clenched at his sides, his very stance stiff and defensive. His face was terrible. "Leave me be, Celsiana. Leave me be while I try to figure out a way to tell you just what sort of monstrous freak you've married."
She took a step toward him; he extended an arm, palm thrust out, as though warding off one who might catch the plague. Then, and only then, did he turn and continue on toward the house.
Celsie could only stand there in confusion and disbelief. Everything inside her bade her to run after him and demand an answer. What was wrong? Why did he keep doing this, to her, to their blossoming friendship and now, to their marriage? This wasn't the first time he'd acted strangely, was it? Her mind raced back over the past several weeks. There was that time at de Montforte House in London. There was his behavior during the sword fight with Gerald. And there was the evening of her charity ball, when he'd looked up at the ceiling, his eyes strangely distant, and then fled —
Just as he was doing now.
What was he afraid of?
What was wrong with him?
And why didn't he trust her with whatever secret he was hiding?
Celsie had no idea. But she knew one thing: She was going to find out. Calling for Esmerelda and Freckles, she headed resolutely for the house.
~~~~
She opened the door and walked into chaos.
The servants were as nervous as a flock of hens with a fox in their midst. Tension charged the air, and angry voices came from another part of the house. The housekeeper, a pretty young redhead named Miss Upchurch, hurried up to Celsie, her voice low. "They're in the library, my lady," she murmured, seeing Celsie's darkening mood.
Celsie's mood had every reason to be dark. Between the robbery, Andrew shutting her out, and now what sounded like the devil of an argument between Andrew and Gerald — what was he still doing here?! — she had had enough.
She stormed into the library just in time to see Andrew backing her step-brother up against the wall, one hand wrapped around his throat, his other on the hilt of his sword. Gerald's eyes were bulging, his hands waving wildly.
"Don't you ever threaten me again," Andrew seethed in a deadly-soft voice. "And don't you dare pretend ignorance where the robbery was concerned either, you bastard. You knew about the aphrodisiac, and I'd bet my last coin that you invited that bitch here to steal it, didn't you?" Gerald made a whimpering noise in his throat. "I'll tell you right now, Somerfield, that if you ever harm any member of my family, ever again, directly or indirectly, I'll kill you. Do I make myself clear?"
Gerald was sweating, eyes wild, his palms sliding up the wall in an effort to get away.
"Do I make myself clear?"
Celsie cleared her throat. "What is going on in here?"
Andrew turned his head. His face was as cold and terrible as she'd ever seen Lucien's, and for a moment Celsie almost didn't recognize him. With a curse, he released Gerald, shoving him slightly to the side as he did. Her stepbrother stumbled and went sprawling, cutting his lip on his teeth as he fell.
Celsie made no move to go to either of them.
Gerald got to his feet, rubbing his throat and glaring at Andrew. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his bloodied lip, then turned wounded eyes on Celsie. "You've married a madman," he said sullenly. "I was in here minding my own business when he came in, accused me of setting Eva on you, and physically assaulted me. I demand an apology, de Montforte!"
Andrew's eyes were deadly. "And do you demand restitution?"
Gerald paled.
"There will be no more dueling," Celsie said sharply, stamping her foot in frustration. She turned her angry stare on Gerald. "Did you set Eva on us to steal the aphrodisiac?"
"Of course not," he mumbled, but his gaze slid away. Celsie blinked back tears of mounting frustration. He was lying. She knew it in her heart. Andrew or Charles could have been killed, and her brother couldn't even look her in the eye and tell the truth.
"I have a demand of my own," she said, her voice unnaturally flat as she tried to keep her wrath in check. "I want you out of this house within an hour after breakfast, Gerald. I'm tired of supporting you, tired of saving you from one financial disaster after another, tired of keeping you out of debtor's gaol only to have you repay me by nearly getting my husband and brother-in-law killed. You have a fine way of showing gratitude."
"You can't throw me out, I have nowhere else to go!"
"You have friends in London. You have an uncle. Go throw yourself on their charity for a change. I have had enough."
Andrew, who'd been leaning negligently against the edge of a table, straightened up. "And if you think she can't throw you out, rest assured that I will." His smile was positively malevolent. "Bodily."
Gerald stood there, his gaze darting from his selfish stepsister to the man she had married. The man who had stolen what should have been Gerald's financial salvation right out from under his nose. The man who had turned Gerald's life and future upside down.
The man Gerald hated with a passion that made him dizzy.
I'll get my revenge on you, you bastard, he thought. You just wait.
"Fine, then," he muttered darkly. "But you'll be sorry. Both of you."
He spun on his heel and stalked from the room. He didn't stop until he reached his apartments. There, as he began hurling possessions into a trunk, he saw that a package had come for him, brought by an anonymous messenger and left by a servant on the table beside his bed.
Gerald tore it open.
It was a small glass vial, accompanied by a note: "Use it wisely. Eva."
S
alvation.
~~~~
Andrew waited until Somerfield left the library; then, before Celsie could start firing questions at him, he bowed stiffly to her and left.
She made no move to stop him.
His heart was in turmoil. He wanted her to chase after him and drag the truth from him. He wanted her to stay where he'd left her and never broach the subject again. He wanted — he dragged his hands over his face — oh, God, he didn't know what he wanted. He felt like a cad, a coward; he felt like the worst sort of monster.
And it had nothing to do with the way he'd just treated her brother, either. Somerfield had been lounging in the library, drinking Celsie's wine, reading Celsie's books, when Andrew had slammed in. The earl's sly innuendoes, taunts and knowing smirk had been all Andrew needed to put two and two together. Again, he saw Celsie taking her life in her hands by confronting that red-haired witch. Again he saw Charles, groggily picking himself up out of the dust after being struck down. And he knew then that Somerfield had been involved in the theft of the aphrodisiac. With his emotions already at fever pitch, it had taken very little to send him right over the edge.
God help me. What must she think of me?
He strode down the hall, seeking a comfort he didn't know how to find, seeking escape in his work when there was no work, no project, not even a laboratory, in which to lose himself. He felt totally lost, like a dismasted ship. He felt like a hounded fox that had suddenly lost its hole. Oh, God, what was he going to do? He had botched things, and botched them terribly.
Tell her. Just tell her, and get it over with.
He shut his eyes as he walked, moving faster to try to run from the thought, shaking his head as he went. I can't tell her. It will destroy everything we've already got between us. She'll think me a freak. She'll hate and pity and recoil from me. I can't tell her. I just can't.
~~~~
Celsie knew he needed some time to himself.
She gave him an hour — and then she went looking for him.
He wasn't in the stable with Newton, nor was he in the dining room having breakfast, nor was he in any of the bedrooms. No, she found him in the ballroom, measuring one of the walls, his coat thrown carelessly over the back of a chair.
Just pretend nothing happened, she thought to herself. Just treat him like you would a nervous, cornered dog that's perfectly capable of biting. Win his trust. Don't make him retreat even further into himself.
"Let me guess," she said affably, picking the coat up and neatly folding it. "You don't like the decor and are planning to put up new wallpaper."
"No."
"You're thinking of adding another window to let in more light, then."
"I'm measuring for shelves," he snapped.
"Shelves? Whatever for?"
"Because this room would be perfect for a laboratory."
"This room is the ballroom, my lord husband, and you'll have to put your laboratory somewhere else."
He turned and met her smiling gaze with hard, defiant eyes that sparkled with anger. "Well, seeing as how I don't like to go out in Society, and I certainly don't want it coming here to find me, I think we can do without a ballroom."
She crossed her arms, trapping his coat to her chest. "And I think I quite like having a ballroom."
He glared at her.
She gazed calmly back, holding his folded coat against her chest and resting her chin on the soft velvet. "Do you know what else I think, Andrew?"
"No."
"I think it's time we tried to work on being friends again. We were doing so well."
He said nothing and turned away, his eyes bleak with pain, a muscle knotting in his jaw.
"Andrew?"
"You should never have married me," he snarled. "You would have been far better off without me, even if your reputation ended up in shreds. I will not make you happy. I cannot make you happy."
"You make me very happy when you don't close yourself off and shove me away with anger that I don't understand." She stepped closer. "Andrew." She laid her hand on his arm and said gently, "Can you not confide in me?"
He remained where he was, his arm rigid beneath her fingers as he stared blankly, mutely, at the wall.
"Can you not tell me the real reason you don't want to go out in Society?" she prompted. "The real reason you keep me at arm's length with displays of bad temper whenever we start to get close?" She made her voice as soft and gentle as she possibly could. "And the real reason why you behaved in such a peculiar fashion this morning, only to flee before explaining yourself?"
He turned his head, the little flecks of green in his otherwise rusty eyes beginning to glitter dangerously beneath his sleepy de Montforte lashes as he met, and held, her questioning gaze. She stared calmly back from over the top of her velvet chin rest, refusing to respond to his anger, refusing to back down or let him scare her off. Because that was just what he was trying to do, wasn't it? Scare her off. And yet Celsie sensed there was some wounded core part of him that craved her compassion and understanding; a part of him that he himself probably would never recognize, let alone acknowledge.
He pulled away from her hand. "I think I've had enough of this conversation," he said coldly, and without another word, he walked out of the room.
This time Celsie let him go. For a long, quiet moment she stood there in the ballroom, alone. Then she raised her chin and walked, with as much dignity as she still possessed, toward her own apartments, feeling the tearful sting of defeat prickling just beneath her lashes.
It was morning.
It was all that remained of her wedding night.
The door was ajar to her bedroom, and she felt the tears threatening as she opened it and stepped inside. The drapes were still drawn. The room was shrouded in lonely gloom. Quietly shutting the door, she walked toward the curtained bed, fighting the tears and hoping against hope that when she got there she'd find Andrew waiting for her — kind, contrite, and open-armed once again, ready to resume where they had left off back at the foot of the drive.
She parted the curtains and, not even bothering to undress, climbed into bed, the tears burning the back of her nose. Oh, Andrew. But she knew the bed was empty as soon as her knee touched the mattress.
Well, not quite.
Freckles was there, waiting for her.
So much for wedding nights, Andrew had said.
Celsie buried her face in the pillow and cried, the soft down muffling her sobs of anguish.
Chapter 24
Making his way upstairs, Andrew heard the tattoo of fading hoofbeats as Somerfield made his timely departure.
He heard the hushed whispers of the servants, no doubt already worried about the strife their new master had brought with him.
And as he paused at Celsie's door, he heard the sounds of muffled weeping.
He hung his head, his gut churning with emotion, his hand poised on the latch. Shame and frustration filled him. He hadn't thought Celsie was the crying sort, but she was crying now, and he had done this to her. He felt lower than an earthworm. He knew he should go in there and try to comfort her, but what could he say? What could he offer her? The truth? A half-truth? A downright lie?
His hand slid from the latch. He pressed the heels of his hands to his brow, then raked his fingers back through his hair, tearing out the bit of ribbon that held it queued and crushing it in his fist. Leave her alone, he thought. Just leave her alone for a while. After all, they were both upset, overwhelmed, exhausted from the stress of the wedding, the robbery, and a night without sleep. She needed time to adjust. He needed time to work up the nerve to tell her.
Hell, maybe they both just needed time to be apart.
But even as he thought it, Andrew knew it was an excuse. He was not accustomed to sharing his life with someone, especially a woman, and even less accustomed to confiding in other people. The very idea made a chill snake up his back. No better to just . . . go away for a while. He needed his laboratory. Any laboratory. Someplace where he
could lose himself, someplace where he could be alone, someplace where he wouldn't have to think.
He turned and continued down the hall.
In a small study off one of the staterooms, he found a desk containing paper, pen and ink. He scribbled and sealed a note. On his way back down the hall, he paused outside Celsie's door, propped the letter against it, and made himself continue on, telling himself, trying to convince himself, that he was doing the right thing. The weeping, thank God, seemed to have stopped. Or maybe he had simply closed his ears to it.
His heart heavy, he left the house and strode purposefully out to the stables. Newton looked at him expectantly, but the big grey was exhausted and Andrew would not ask him to take him to London. Every other horse in the stable was either too old, too lame, or too small to suit, leaving him to suspect that most had probably been rescued from cruelty or death by his kindhearted wife and were now her beloved pets.
All except a bright chestnut stallion in the last stall. He was a short-backed but handsome fellow, with a long, flaxen mane, a dark eye, and a white blaze that tumbled down his sculpted face and ended at the pink seam of his mouth.
Andrew reached out and stroked the sleek neck. This must be the infamous Sheik, who refused to mount mares, who had been, in his own way, responsible for Celsie's taking the aphrodisiac that had proved to be the undoing of both their ordered lives.
He smiled grimly. Let Sheik, then, be the one to take him to London.
Ten minutes later, Andrew was in the saddle and Rosebriar was disappearing behind him.
~~~~
It was still dark in the room when Celsie awoke.
She lay there in bed for a moment, wondering why her heart was a granite boulder in her chest — until she suddenly remembered the reason for its heaviness.
Andrew had never come to join her. Only Freckles, snoring, was with her, sprawled across the bed, the covers pinned beneath his big body. Celsie reached out and stroked him, blinking in the darkness. Oh, how empty she felt. Like a child promised a toy that was never given. Like a sweetheart promised a kiss that was withheld at the last minute.
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