‘I did not mean to wake you,’ she said.
‘I was awake anyway. As you correctly observed, the chair does not make the most comfortable of sleeping places.’ He paused. ‘You have not answered my question.’
There was a difference about his face this morning. Nothing that she could define exactly, just something that wasn’t the same as yesterday. ‘Yes. He has haunted my dreams since I first met him. Even before…before he tried to…’ She let the sentence trail off unfinished. ‘Every night without fail, he’s there waiting in the darkness. I know it sounds foolish, but sometimes I’m afraid to fall asleep.’
Understanding flickered in Lucien’s eyes. ‘He would have to come through me to reach you, Madeline, and that will only happen over my dead body.’
It seemed that in the moment that he said it a cloud obliterated the sun, and a cold hand squeezed upon her heart. ‘Pray God that it never happens,’ she said.
‘It won’t,’ he said with absolute certainty. ‘I’ll have stopped him long before.’
‘We’ll be safe in Cornwall, though. He won’t follow us there, will he?’
Lucien did not answer her question, just deflected it and changed the subject. ‘Put Farquharson from your thoughts. The fresh water was delivered only a few minutes ago; it should still be warm.’ He gestured towards the pitcher. ‘I’ll go and order us breakfast. Will fifteen minutes suffice to have yourself ready?’
Madeline nodded, and watched the tall figure of her husband disappear through the doorway. So, even down in Cornwall, so far away from London, the threat of Cyril Farquharson would continue.
The hours passed in a blur. At least the weather held fine until the light began to drain from the day. Then a fine smirr of rain set up as the darkness closed, and they sought the sanctuary of the New London Inn in Exeter. It was the same pattern as the previous two nights. He had promised that they would reach Trethevyn by tomorrow. This would be their last night on the road, his last excuse to share her bedchamber. Lucien thrust the thought away and denied its truth. His presence was just a measure of protection. Or so he persuaded himself. If Lucien had learned anything in the years he’d spent waiting, it was to leave nothing to chance. The busy throng within a coaching inn provided opportunity for Farquharson, not safety from him.
Sharing a bed with Madeline had been an unforeseen complication. Lucien’s loins tightened with the memory. He tried to turn his mind to other matters, but memory persisted. No matter how damnably uncomfortable the chair, or the sweet allure of her voice, or, worse still, her soft welcoming arms…Lucien’s teeth ground firm. He’d be damned to the devil if he was stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. Take the chair, not the bed, he thought, and made his way up the scuffed wooden staircase of the New London Inn.
Surprisingly the room was not in darkness. The fire still blazed and a candle flickered by the side of the bed. The small room welcomed and warmed him. Still hanging grimly on to his determination, he made his way over to the chair and slipped out of his coat. Not once did he permit his gaze to wander in the direction of the bed and the woman that lay within it. He just kept his focus on the chair, that damned wooden chair, and started to undress.
‘Lucien,’ she said in a quiet voice.
He stilled, his boot dangling in his hand. Temptation beckoned. His eyes slid across to hers…and found that she was sitting up, watching him, her hands encircling the covers around her bent legs, her chin resting atop her blanketed knees. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, hoping that she would not notice the huskiness in his voice.
‘I wondered if you might…if you would…’ The candlelight showed the rosy stain that scalded her cheeks.
Oh, Lord! Lucien knew what it was that his wife was about to ask.
‘I thought perhaps if you were here that…that Farquharson…that the nightmares might not come.’ She glanced away, her face aflame, her manner stilted.
Lucien felt her awkwardness as keenly as if it were his own. How much had it cost her to make such a request? Hell, but she had no idea of the effect that she had upon him. She was an innocent. The boot slipped from Lucien’s fingers. He raked a hand roughly through his hair, oblivious to the wild ruffle of dark feathers that fanned in its wake. ‘Madeline,’ he said gruffly, ‘you don’t know what it is that you ask.’
She gestured towards the empty half of the bed. ‘It seems silly that you should be cold and uncomfortable on a hard rickety chair when there is plenty room for both of us in this bed.’
Better that than risk the temptation that lay in what she was so innocently offering. Lucien opened his mouth to deny it.
‘I do trust you, Lucien.’
She trusted him, but the question was—did he trust himself? The warmth of her sweet gaze razed his refusal before it had formed.
‘Madeline,’ he tried again, raking his hair worse than ever.
She smiled, and pulled the bedcovers open on the empty side of the bed, his side of the bed. ‘And it’s not as if my reputation can be ruined by our sleeping in the same bed. We are at least married.’ She snuggled down under the covers and waited expectantly.
Lucien knew that he was lost. Could not refuse her. Swore to himself that he would not touch her. Still wearing his shirt and pantaloons, he climbed in beside her.
Madeline felt the mattress dip beneath his weight. Safety and excitement in equal dose danced their way through her veins. She knew that she should not have asked. Perhaps he thought her wanton to have done so. But the need for him to be close was greater than the shame in asking. And so she had spoken the words that Madeline Langley had never thought to utter and asked a man to come into her bed. They lay stiffly side by side. Each on their backs, careful not to look at the other, determined that no part of them should actually touch. His warmth traversed the space between them, so that the full stretch of the left-hand side of her body tingled from his heat. She wondered that he could have brought himself to marry a woman that he found so…lacking. For all that she was neither his social nor financial equal, he did not despise her, for surely something of that would have communicated itself in his manner? When he touched her she felt warm, happy, breathless with anticipation. Clearly Lucien did not feel the same. He did not want to touch her. The gap between them widened. That was when a glimmer of understanding dawned upon Madeline.
‘Lucien.’
‘Mmm?’ Still he did not turn his head towards her.
It probably was the very question that she should not ask of her new husband, especially when he was lying in bed beside her. Indeed, any sensible woman would not have dreamed of so foolish a folly. But as the prospect of monumental guilt began to blossom, Madeline had to know. Whatever the cost. ‘May I ask you something of…of a personal nature?’ She felt him edge infinitesimally away from her.
‘You can ask, Madeline. It does not mean that I will answer.’
A pause, while she searched for the right words. Eloquence of speech had never been Madeline’s strong point. She sneaked a glance across at her husband. ‘Before you married me…before Lord Farquharson…’ She stopped, unsure of how best to frame her question. And started again. ‘I know that you did not wish to marry me, that you only did so to prevent Lord Farquharson from…to keep me safe from him.’
It seemed that the large body next to hers tightened with tension.
‘Was there another lady that you…’ she took a deep breath ‘…that you had hoped to marry?’ An ache tightened across her chest as she waited for him to answer.
Lucien looked at her then, a look of icy incredulity in those blue eyes.
She swallowed. ‘I beg your pardon, I should not have asked, but…’ Why had she asked? To find if he has given his heart to someone else, came back the little whisper.
‘Then why did you?’ he said curtly.
She shook her head. ‘I-I thought that…’ It might explain why you seem so determined to keep this distance between us, the silent voice came again. She stoppered her ears to its tr
eachery.
‘Don’t think. The details of my past life do not figure in our arrangement, Madeline.’ Then he rolled away on to his side, turning his back on her, and blew out the candle.
The sting of his rejection wounded her. She knew that she was not pretty, not like Angelina. The message was loud and clear. He might have taken her for his wife. He was prepared to share her bed…under duress. But he did not want her as a woman. Could not bring himself to touch her. But last night…Dreams, only silly foolish dreams, from a silly foolish girl. A marriage of convenience. A contract of protection. Safety from Farquharson. That was what he had offered. Clearly. In terms that could not be uncertain. That was what she had accepted. She had no right to expect anything else.
The bed was warm and blissfully comfortable. The first hint of grey light crept around the curtains. She wriggled her toes and sighed a sigh of utter contentment. Lucien’s arm was draped around her, holding her against him as if to protect her from the world. Her cheek rested on the hardness of his chest, the material of his rumpled shirt soft against her skin, rising and falling in slow even breaths beneath her face. The scent of him surrounded her, assailing her senses: cologne and something else that was undoubtedly masculine. Where her breasts crushed against him she could feel the beat of his heart, strong and steady like the man himself. Madeline revelled in the feel of him. Everything about him filled her senses and triggered some current of underlying excitement that she did not understand. Their legs were entwined together so that she could not have freed herself even had she wanted to. His arm was heavy and possessive. She resisted the urge to open her eyes, wanting to hold the dream for a little longer before she awoke to find that the bed was empty.
Inquisitive fingers explored across his body, sneaking beneath the loose linen of his shirt. Even in sleep his muscles were hard, with nothing of softness. A light sprinkling of hair dusted across the breadth of his chest. Her fingertips lightly swept through it, dancing in small circles against his skin. Madeline obeyed her instinct and followed her fingers with her mouth, touching her lips against his chest. A sleepy sigh escaped him as she pressed a small kiss against his skin. Lucien groaned, the rumble of the sound vibrating against her lips. So real, too real. Madeline’s eyes flickered open. Warm contentment vanished in a second, to be replaced with utter shock.
Lucien’s shirt was pushed up to expose his naked skin, and she was kissing him! Lucien groaned again and swept a hand down to caress her buttocks. Madeline froze, desperate to escape the situation she had created, yet afraid to waken Lucien. Slowly she tried to ease herself away from him. Lucien murmured something and slid his fingers against her hip. The material of her shift was no protection against him. His touch branded her with its heat. Another attempt to extract herself, gently easing her legs from his. ‘Sweetheart,’ he murmured and in one smooth motion rolled over to press her beneath him.
She felt him probe against her, something that willed her thighs to open. Madeline wanted nothing more than to comply, to give herself to him. The strange compelling need that burned in her, that made her crave his touch, his kiss, stoked higher, chasing reason and sensible thought from her head. Madeline fought back. She wanted him, but not like this. Not when he was sleep-drugged and did not know what he was doing. One magical hand stroked across her thigh. She gasped, knowing that this was all wrong, part of her wanting it just the same. ‘Lucien!’ His name was thick upon her lips. His hand moved to capture her breast, fingers teasing across the soft mound of skin, hardening its tip, until she thought she would faint for the need of him. Need. Her thighs burned with it. Her pulse throbbed with it. ‘Lucien!’ she cried out with the one last strand of sanity that lingered where all others had fled. ‘Lucien!’ a cry of desperation and of longing.
Lucien came to with a start to find that the glorious dream in which he was making love to his wife was a horrendous nightmare. He stared down aghast at the sight of Madeline lying half-naked beneath him. ‘Madeline?’ The word was raw and disbelieving. Her hair splayed across the pillows, long and straight, framing her face. Huge wide eyes that stared back at him in shock and disbelief, lips parted, panting small breaths of fear. And he, like a great beast, swooping over her, with his arousal pressed against her softness. ‘Hell!’ he swore and rolled off her as quickly as he could. Disgust tore at him, sickening him to the pit of his stomach. He was every bit as bad as Farquharson. He had become the devil that everyone thought him. A man about to rape his own wife—had it not been for his breeches. A thrust of the covers and he was out of the bed, standing staring at her. She looked as shocked as he felt.
‘Madeline—’ his voice was harsh and gritty ‘—forgive me. I was sleep-addled. I did not know what I was doing.’ It was a feeble excuse, even to his own ears. As if that could justify what he had been about to do, what he would have done if her pleading shouts had not woken him to the villain he was. He wiped a hand across his mouth.
‘It was not your fault,’ she said.
God in heaven! What had he done to her? ‘It won’t happen again. I give you my word, Madeline.’
‘No.’ She shook her head as if to clear the daze from her mind.
How could he expect her to believe him when he had so glibly given his word before and broken it just as easily? ‘It was a mistake to share the bed. I shall not do so again and you shall be perfectly safe.’ His throat tightened. His jaw clenched.
‘But—’ Desolation struck at her beautiful eyes.
‘Forgive me,’ he said again, and gathering up the rest of his clothes in his arms, walked out of the room. It was the best he could offer her. His absence. He could only hope that through time Madeline would come to forgive and to forget.
Chapter Eight
The rest of the journey, from Exeter to Liskeard and then on past Tregellas village, was made in sullen silence. Lucien attended to her every need: ensured she was warm enough, that she was not hungry, that she was not too tired. But there was a formality between them, a distance that could not be breached. He did not touch her, or smile or even lounge back in his seat as he had done during the journey so far. Instead, he sat rigid and stern-faced, as if an anger bristled beneath the surface. His words, the few that he actually spoke to her, were not unkind. But his eyes sparked with something that she could not name. Loathing? Disgust? She did not blame him. He had made it very clear that he did not want her and she had behaved like nothing short of a trollop, tempting his kisses, craving his touch. Her face flamed just at the memory. Little wonder that he could hardly bear to look at her. Shame flooded her soul. She bit down hard on her lip, and averted her face.
Clearly he was a man to whom honour was everything. Why else throw himself away on a marriage to the likes of her? He had sacrificed himself to save her and all because of something in the past with Lord Farquharson. This was how she repaid him. Wanton. The word taunted her, playing again and again in her head, until she thought she would scream from it. Her teeth bit harder, puncturing the soft skin. She didn’t even realise she was doing it until the metallic taste of blood settled upon her tongue. The road passed in a blur of mud and field and hedgerow. Madeline was blind to it all, concentrating as she was on holding herself together. His voice echoed through her mind, disgust lacing his every word. It won’t happen again…It was a mistake to share the bed. She wanted to weep tears of shame and loss. Instead she took a deep breath, and sat calmly, steadfast and enduring, as if her heart wasn’t bruised and aching. Strength rallied. She had survived a betrothal to Farquharson with his wandering hands and cruel promises. She could survive Lucien’s disgust.
A shameful situation and each believing themselves to be to blame, neither Madeline nor Lucien noticed that both their dreams had been free from the presence of Cyril Farquharson.
Trethevyn was a large manor house that stood on the edge of a great, barren stretch of moorland. Madeline’s heart sank as she caught sight of it through the cloud and rain. A huge imposing structure of grey stone, as dismal as the
bleak countryside that surrounded it.
She supposed that Lucien must have sent word that he would be arriving, for the staff were assembled in the black-and-white chequered hallway to welcome the master of the house. An austere elderly butler and a large-boned elderly woman who answered to the name of Mrs Babcock seemed to be in charge. Mrs Babcock, who Madeline soon learned was the housekeeper, had a huge bun of wispy grey hair clearly displayed without the pretence of a cap of any kind. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were as dark as two plump blackcurrants. As far as Lord Tregellas was concerned, she showed not one iota of the respect that one might have expected. Indeed, she was of a rather no-nonsense approach. She eyed the new mistress with obvious curiosity.
Lucien kept his distance. If the servants thought there anything strange in the fact that his lordship barely looked in the direction of his new wife, they made no hint of it. What would be said below-stairs was quite a different matter all together.
‘No doubt you will wish to rest after such a long journey. Mrs Babcock will show you to your rooms.’ Madeline was dismissed into the care of the housekeeper without a further word. Lucien disappeared into a doorway on his immediate right, closing the door firmly behind him.
Madeline looked at the large woman.
Mrs Babcock stared right back, and then a huge smile beamed across her face. ‘Come along then, m’lady. Best get you settled upstairs and warmed up before anythin’ else.’ The housekeeper hobbled up towards the staircase that veered off to the right.
Madeline hesitated for a moment longer.
‘This way, if you please, Lady Tregellas,’ came Mrs Babcock’s voice. The kindly blackcurrant eyes peered round at Madeline. Mrs Babcock’s ample girth set off at a dawdle up the stairs. She turned her head with frequent regularity to check if the lady of the house was following in her wake, and struggled up stair by stair with her uneven stomping gate. ‘Oh, my word, these stairs get steeper all the time,’ complained Mrs Babcock, her breath coming in wheezes.
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