‘I know what I promised you, but I can no longer limit myself to our bargain. My life would be the poorer if you were not in it, Madeline.’ He moved his mouth until it hovered just above hers. ‘I want you as my wife in every way that it’s possible: a full marriage, not some half-witted contract of convenience.’
‘Oh, Lucien,’ she sighed and met his lips with all the passion that had been burgeoning within her for the past months.
‘I’ve been a fool.’ His words were breathy and hot against her skin, trailing a path along the delicate line of her jaw and down on to her neck.
Madeline made one last grip at reality before it would slide away for ever. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘You saved me from Farquharson; for that I’ll always be grateful.’
‘It’s not your gratitude that I want,’ he growled against the soft white skin of her throat.
She moved to look him directly in the eye. ‘If not my gratitude, then will you accept my love instead?’
He stilled beneath her fingers, his eyes dilating wide and darkening. ‘You love me?’ His brows arched in surprise. ‘After all that I’ve done?’
Madeline felt the smile creep to her lips. The tall, handsome man before her was not as arrogantly confident as he would have the world believe. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘What you did was save my life, Lucien, nothing less. I love you. And…’ she hesitated, feeling the warmth rise in her cheeks ‘…and I want you, Lucien.’
His lips twitched with amusement. ‘In that case, lady wife, I must insist that you accompany me to my bedchamber this very moment.’
‘Lucien!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon, and broad daylight! Retiring at this time of day would be positively scandalous.’
‘Indeed, it would.’ His mouth swooped down, halting only a whisper away from hers. ‘But not quite so scandalous as being discovered making love upon the stairs.’ His fingers teased across the bodice of her dress to rest fleetingly upon her breast. ‘The choice is yours, Madeline. What is it to be?’
Madeline shivered at the delicious sensations threatening to overwhelm her. ‘Well, if you put it like that, sir, I think I’ll choose the bedchamber.’
Lucien delivered her a wicked smile and, without a further word, scooped her up into his arms and advanced up the stairs with some considerable speed. He did not pause until he had deposited Madeline upon the great sprawling four-poster that was his bed.
Sunlight flooded in through the bedchamber windows to bask Madeline in its warm golden glow. She watched in awe while Lucien stripped off his coat, dispensing with it in a heap upon the floor. Next came his waistcoat and a pair of still mud-splattered riding boots. The neckcloth followed, with the same haphazard abandonment. Only when he had discarded his shirt did Madeline protest. ‘Lucien, surely you cannot mean to remove all of your clothes!’
Her husband gave her a mischievous look and his grin deepened.
‘The sun is still high in the sky!’
Lucien glanced nonchalantly in the direction of the window. ‘So it is.’ And then he climbed upon the bed.
‘But—’
Any further protestations from Madeline were effectively silenced when Lucien claimed her mouth with his own, massaging in a rhythmic slide until her lips parted. His tongue welcomed the invitation and slipped into that intimate cavern, seeking what he knew would be within. Madeline’s head danced, dizzy in a haze of floating sensation. Their tongues met. Connected. Moist. Warm. Needful. Danced and twisted and lapped until all vestige of rational thought fled. And when Lucien’s hands slipped down across her body, a path of tingling fire followed in their wake. She trembled beneath his touch, both revelling in it and all the while conscious of a growing need for more.
‘Madeline, my love,’ he murmured against her cheek, her throat, her collarbone and lower, until he touched the neckline where her dress began. His breath moved up, scorched hot upon her shoulder and his fingers moved to deftly undo the row of small jet buttons that fastened the dress to Madeline’s body.
Contrary to all her expectations, Madeline was neither shy nor embarrassed. Indeed, it was with a degree of impatience that she assisted her husband to shed not only her dress but her petticoats, stays and shift as well. She lay naked on the bed, his bed, exposed in her entirety by the clarity of the sunshine licking warm against her pale skin.
Lucien sat back, gaze sweeping over her, drinking in every inch of her sweetness. When she made to cover her nudity with her hand he captured those slender fingers within his own, met those amber eyes that were smouldering with passion. ‘You’re beautiful.’ Beneath the heat of his gaze she felt truly beautiful: beautiful and desirable and loved. Then their lips writhed together until all thoughts were forgotten. Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling the dark silken locks as she had so longed to do. His cologne mixed with his own masculine scent, teasing and tantalising her. She breathed in the intoxicating mix. Awareness narrowed, until there was just the two of them. Lucien and Madeline. Husband and wife. Together in a union of love.
His hands stroked gently around the mounds of her breasts, tracing an inward spiral that stopped just short of their rosy peaks. Madeline shifted beneath him, pressing herself up, nipples tingling with need. And still his fingers teased upon the slopes.
‘Lucien!’ The whisper was urgent, pleading.
He could withhold no longer. Her nipples stood erect beneath the brush of his thumbs. He rolled the hardened buds between his fingers, hearing her gasps of pleasure. His mouth trailed kisses down her neck and on to her breast. She cried out as he replaced his fingers with the hot moisture of his tongue, lapping against the tender pink skin, suckling first at one and then the other. Her hands clutching the dark ruffle of his head closer, harder. The heat grew between her legs, pulsing down to encompass her thighs. There was a wetness there that she did not understand. Instinctively she pressed herself to him, not knowing what it was that she sought, just conscious of an escalating urgency and her overwhelming love for the man who was stoking such powerful sensations within her body. Lucien. Lucien. It seemed she cried his name a thousand times within her mind. Needing him. Wanting him. ‘Lucien.’ The cry of desperation burst aloud from her lips, but Madeline no longer knew what was real and what was not, caught as she was in an escalating vortex of sensual force.
Lucien could not fail to answer such a plea. He rolled off her long enough to divest himself of his pantaloons, then, in response to the small murmur of complaint, covered her body with his own, taking his weight upon his elbows lest he crush her. Satin-smooth skin flushed rosy where the roughness of his stubbled chin had lingered and caressed. His fingers moved to her breast, teased fleetingly at their peaks then slid down across her stomach and lower still. The soft white skin of her thighs was hot beneath his touch, as he massaged and stroked and kneaded a pattern of pleasure. She jerked against him as his fingers gently probed the silken secret between her legs, her breathing quickening to short greedy gasps.
Nothing else mattered. Everything was here and now. In this moment. Here with the man that she loved. She wanted him. She burned for him. Felt the start of a deep welling pleasure at the intimate caress of his fingers, the heat of his lips on hers, his tongue tantalising her own. Some part of him pressed against her thigh. She moved her hips against him and reached her fingers to feel him. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at her touch. His hand captured her wrist. ‘Madeline,’ he gasped. ‘Any more of that and I’ll be unable to finish what we’ve started.’ He kissed her tenderly, stroking her hair back from her face, and drawing back to look into her eyes. ‘I love you,’ he whispered and deliberately moved himself between her thighs.
‘As I love you,’ Madeline replied.
Blue and amber, ice and fire, locked as he thrust gently into her, accepting the precious gift that she offered.
Madeline felt the pain sear through her, momentarily blighting the pleasure. But then his mouth was upon hers and his whispers of reassurance were in her e
ar. Pain diminished. Pleasure grew. And as he began to move within her she gave herself up to the ecstasy that bound them, until his seed spilled within her and they lay entwined and sated in the heady glow of loving. There seemed no need for words. Madeline relaxed, feeling the steady beat of Lucien’s heart against her back, the protective curl of his palm against her stomach. What had happened between them had changed her for ever. She had given her heart and shared her body. They were as one, each bound to the other through love. Madeline knew in those blissful moments that nothing could ever change that.
The hours ticked by and Guy still did not return.
‘Ask Cook to delay dinner for a further half an hour. He should be back by then.’
‘Right you are, m’lord. I’m worried about the youngster. Not like him to be out so long, least not in the country.’ Mrs Babcock sniffed, and sucked hard on her bottom teeth with mounting anxiety and disapproval.
Quite how Babbie could describe Guy as a youngster amazed Lucien, but he had to concede that he shared the old housekeeper’s concern. His brother was not known for his enjoyment of country pursuits. Indeed, it might even be said that Guy found the countryside abhorrent, describing the peace and clean open air as downright ghastly. But then again, Guy had his own reasons for preferring the town. Not for the first time did Lucien worry over the hedonistic path his brother’s life seemed to be taking. Nothing of these thoughts showed upon his face as he sought to reassure the old woman. ‘No doubt Guy has forgone the pleasures of cross-country riding for the hospitality of the King’s Arms in the village. He might even have ridden into Liskeard or Bodmin. Don’t worry, Babbie. He’ll be back soon enough.’
Only when the door closed behind the housekeeper did he massage his temples in the action that he knew would reveal his true anxiety to the old woman who had practically raised him as a child.
Madeline rose from the chair and moved silently across the room to stand beside him. ‘You’re worried, too, aren’t you?’
Lucien looked down at the slender figure by his side. The shadowy light from the window spilled across her face, contrasting with the warm glow from the candles. Her cheeks were still pink from their earlier lovemaking and her eyes held a special sparkle. It seemed that she could read him better than he realised. ‘Guy is reckless and prone to distraction by…how shall I put it…certain pleasurable activities. But I would have expected him to be back before darkness, especially in light of this morning.’
Madeline gave him a puzzled look. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He knew I was intent on speaking to you about Farquharson’s letter and will be interested to learn your response. Believe me when I say there’s no love lost between Farquharson and my brother.’
‘He thinks me guilty.’ It was not a question, just a plainly stated fact.
Lucien would no longer lie to the woman he loved. ‘He doesn’t know you as I do. He saw the evidence and drew his conclusion.’
A flicker of pain flitted across her face.
‘Together we’ll convince him of the truth.’ He took her hand in his and gave a little squeeze.
She smiled and the two turned to look out down the length of the driveway.
Only half an hour later and their happiness was destroyed.
Raised voices, alarmed, alert, coming from the hallway, growing louder. Lucien jerked open the door of the small drawing room and strode down the stairs towards the noise. Not far from the front door a group of servants were huddled around something.
‘Lord above!’ Babbie shouted.
A housemaid began to cry.
‘Is he still alive?’ Mr Boyle said.
Betsy Porter fainted in a heap upon the floor.
And then Mr Norton’s gruff words, ‘Fetch his lordship—now!’
Cold dread clasped at Lucien. He thrust it away. Strode to the small throng, afraid of what he would see. Clearing the path anyway. ‘What’s going on here?’ His tone was cold, clinical, the tone of a man in control.
The crowd parted. He heard Boyle by his elbow. ‘Was tied to his horse to make it back here. Couldn’t do nothin’ other than ride it right up to the front door. Bleedin’ badly he is, m’lord. We got him in here as quick as we could. Young Hayley’s taken the beast round to the stables.’
A broad smear of blood across the marbled floor of the hallway showed clearly where the body had been dragged. Something squirmed in Lucien’s gut. One hand steered the sniffling housemaid to the side until at last he could see the figure that lay there. The man’s clothing was darkened and wet. Great slashes in the material showed skin that had been white, now mottled dark. Lucien’s eyes travelled up the tortured body, past the wounds, past the blood, until they came to rest upon the face. A breath escaped him. A rush of air so silent that none around would have noticed. A sound both of horror…and relief. For the blood-daubed face was not that of Guy, but his valet, Collins.
Lucien knelt by the poor battered body, touching his fingers to the neck in search of a pulse. Then he stripped off his coat and balling it as a pillow, carefully inserted it behind the man’s head.
The gritty eyelids fluttered open. ‘Lord Tregellas.’
The man’s whisper was so low that Lucien had to press an ear close to the bruised mouth to hear the words. ‘It’s all right, Collins, I’m here.’
The valet struggled to speak.
‘Take your time,’ said Lucien, kneeling by the man’s side.
‘Was a trap. Walked right into it before we knew.’ Collins reached a bloody hand to catch at Lucien’s. ‘There were too many of them. Ruffians. Brawn hired by the gent. Didn’t stand a chance.’
The coldness was spreading throughout Lucien’s body. He held Collins’s hand and waited for him to continue.
The man’s swallow was painful to watch. ‘We put up a fight, but they had us in the end. Took us somewhere deep under the ground. No light, just torches. Damp. Horrible. Asked us questions about this place, and you and Lady Tregellas.’
Lucien’s lips tightened to a grim line.
‘Released me to bring you a message.’ Collins paused to gather his strength. ‘The gent says if you want to see your brother alive again then you’re to meet him tonight at ten o’clock by Tintagel Castle—and take your wife with you. If the both of you don’t show, he’ll kill Lord Varington.’
‘Is Guy…?’ Lucien could not bring himself to say the words.
‘He’s hurt bad.’ Collins’s eyes filled with moisture. ‘Nothing I could do. I’m sorry.’
Lucien patted the man’s hand. ‘You did your best. Guy will be proud.’ He leaned in closer as Collins’s eyes began to close. It was a question he did not need to ask, but he wanted to be sure. ‘Just one more thing before you rest, Collins. His name—did the one you call a gentleman tell you his name?’
Collins slowly shook his head. ‘Said you would know who he was. Hair as red as a fox’s pelt. Slim, medium height. Lord Varington called him Farleyson or some such name.’
‘Farquharson,’ said a woman’s voice behind Lucien.
‘Yes, m’lord, that was it.’ The valet drifted out of consciousness once more.
Lucien slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder, and when the ice-blue eyes raised, they met with the clear amber gaze of his wife.
‘Don’t be absurd, Madeline! You are not accompanying me and that is final.’ Lucien’s jaw tightened into what Madeline had come to learn was his stubborn expression.
‘And when you turn up to meet Farquharson without me, what then? You’ll effectively condemn Guy to death.’
‘It’s a trap, Madeline. He means to catch us all. If I go alone, at least I have a chance of killing him. To take you along would be to hand you to him on a platter. It’s bad enough that he has Guy without giving him you as well.’
‘But you mean to walk straight into his trap yourself, and you think that I’ll just sit here and let you?’
‘We’ve little choice, Madeline.’
‘What about the Hi
gh Constable. If we inform him, perhaps he could—’
‘We’re running out of time and, besides, the Constable will be of little use against Farquharson and his cronies. The only chance that Guy has is if I go alone.’
‘No.’ Madeline shook her head. ‘He’ll kill Guy anyway, and then he’ll kill you.’
‘No, Madeline, not if I kill him first. I cannot just leave my brother to die without trying to help him. Farquharson’s methods will not result in a quick and painless death. The villain thrives on pain. It gives him pleasure to watch others suffer.’
‘Sarah Wyatt…’ It was not fair to ask the question with Lord Varington as Farquharson’s prisoner.
Lucien’s face was a mask of grim severity. ‘An endless orgy of torture and rape. He killed her at Tintagel, then brought her here, left her body in the old chapel in the grounds of the house. He thought if her body was found at Trethevyn, then I would be suspected of her murder. My mother found it the next morning. She had been unwell since my father’s death. The shock of what she saw that day sickened her more than I can say. She never recovered. Two months later she was dead.’
‘Oh, Lucien,’ Madeline placed her arm around him. ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have stirred such painful memories.’
‘It’s better that you know the truth,’ he said.
‘Why did he never stand trial?’
‘Farquharson has the cunning of a fox. There was nothing that could link him with the crime. His cronies swore that Farquharson had spent the night of the murder drinking and carousing with them. The High Constable could not proceed. Besides, Farquharson was busy planting the seeds of rumours that I was responsible for Sarah’s death. I was, after all, the spurned betrothed, and her body had been found on my property.’
‘Was there nothing that could be done to bring him to justice?’
‘I employed a Bow Street Runner to investigate the matter, in an attempt to come up with something against him, but there was nothing to be found.’
Lucien Tregellas Page 23
