Phaedra felt as though every forbidden desire she'd kept locked away in her heart all these years lay exposed before Armande. Was there ever any lady who would have thus bartered her virtue? She might as well have begged for Armande to take her, like any street harlot. Her cheeks burned with shame, and she could not meet his eyes.
"You cheated, milady," he said softly. "I declare this game forfeit to me."
But she heard no censure, no triumph in his voice. If anything, he sounded infinitely sad.
By the time Phaedra reached her bedchamber, the storm had ceased its ominous threatening and erupted in all its fury. The rain poured down her window panes. The night raged,a tympany of thunder and violent clashes of lightning, as Lucy helped Phaedra shrug into her night shift. The linen clung to her skin as she slipped beneath the sheets. She was so tense that she hardly permitted her head to rest against the pillow.
As soon as Lucy had gone, Phaedra flung aside the bedclothes. Stumbling through the darkness, she fumbled with the tinder box and managed to light the stump of a candle. Her gaze traveled to the door connecting to Armande's bedchamber. Her heart fluttered like the wings of a bird about to fly of its own volition into the hunter's snare.
And Armande? She wondered what he was feeling, waiting for her on the other side of that door. He had walked away from the card table, trying to summon a smile as though the entire game had been but flirtatious nonsense.
But his laughter had been hollow, the longing in his eyes keen enough to pierce her heart. He would not hold her to the wager; she knew that. She had but to return to her bed, pull the covers up tight about her neck and try to lose herself in the oblivion of sleep.
Her gaze shifted to the dressing-table mirror. Her image appeared almost unearthly in the dim light, a pale spirit garbed in flowing white. She arranged the ripples of red-gold hair over her shoulders in a modest effort to conceal the rose-tipped crests of her breasts, visible beneath the transparent gown. She glided toward the connecting door like a sleepwalker, no more able to control her steps than she could put a halt to the thunder rending the skies.
She reminded herself that Armande was still a man enshrouded in mystery, his hidden past a threat to her. He could be the Prince of Darkness himself, for all she knew. She tried to recall the passion that had betrayed her once before, delivering her into seven years of hellish captivity as Ewan's bride. But memory grew dim until all she could remember was the heat of Armande's kiss.
Her fingers slid back the bolt, the door whispering open beneath her trembling hand. She held the guttering candle before her like a talisman as she stepped across the threshold into Armande's chamber.
"Armande?" she called softly.
"I am here." His voice sounded at once distant and startlingly close. She jumped as the room was illumined by a jagged flash of lightning, revealing the outline of Armande's muscular form but a few feet from her, as though he had been lingering by the door, tense and waiting. He was garbed in his close-fitting breeches, and his white shirt, unbuttoned to the waist, exposing the vee of his chest. He stretched out one arm to her, extending his hand.
Her faltering steps guided her closer, the dim light of the candle giving the pitch-dark room a misty quality. It reminded her strangely of the dream she had had of Armande so many nights before, when she had returned from Lady Porterfield's ball. That tormenting dream of so many endings, as she had stripped away Armande's mask, one time to find death, another desire. What awaited her now in those angular features lost in shadow, the watching eyes but a glint in the darkness?
She had an urge to snuff out the candle and not look upon an expression that might turn the dream into a nightmare. But Armande took it from her before she could do so. In the brief moment he held the taper, his face was fully revealed to her. His sable-dark hair swept back from his brow in damp waves, beads of moisture clinging to the high planes of his cheeks almost as though he had been out walking in the storm. The force of the tempest appeared caught in his eyes, stripping away all illusion of the cold, haughty marquis, leaving but a man, vulnerable, his emotions as raw and untamed as her own.
Phaedra never had imagined anything like the tender way he pulled her into his arms. She could feel the pulse in his throat drumming against her temple.
"I should send you away, but I need you," he said hoarsely. “You have no idea how long I've needed you."
His voice sounded so strange. She did not understand what anguish deepened those lines about his mouth. For tonight, she did not want to know. No man had ever needed her before, and her heart responded to that appeal.
She longed to ease the pain wracking his brow. Stretching up on tiptoe, she whispered kisses against his mouth, his jaw, the curious tiny scar at the base of his neck. He groaned and buried his face in her hair. The candle sputtered and went out, leaving them in darkness, clutching each other as though they stood not in the security of the bedchamber but lost somewhere in the rage of the storm.
He swept her up in his arms, carrying her to the bed. She wound her arms about his neck, clinging to him even after he had laid her down, stretching out beside her.
"Phaedra," he murmured. There was again that strange huskiness, a kind of wonder in the way he spoke her name. "You seem more spirit than flesh. I can scarce believe you are real."
"I am real," she assured him. Indeed she had never felt so alive as she did this night. She upturned her face to receive his kiss, allowing her lips to part in invitation. His tongue mated with hers, filling her with fire, the kiss becoming more urgent, more demanding.
He deftly undid the ribbons of her nightgown, his breath coming quickly. When he stripped away the linen, Phaedra shivered as the cool air struck her skin. Even in the darkness of the room, she felt conscious of her nakedness. Ewan had never bothered to undress her.
She knew Armande couldn't see her face, but somehow he read her feelings all the same. He pulled back the counterpane and nestled her beneath its downy depths, then stood to remove his own clothing. As he peeled off his breeches and shirt, the lightning burst outside the window behind him in a series of quick flashes, outlining the sinewy strength of his limbs, his broad chest and stalwart shoulders. He stood before her like some god from the pagan tales of old, borne in by the winds of the storm, come to fulfill every fantasy she'd ever dared to dream in her lonely bed.
He slipped beneath the coverlet, drawing her back into his arms, resuming their kiss. The first contact of his bare flesh with her breasts sent shock waves tingling along her skin.
"Phaedra ... my sweet Phaedra." He breathed her name in a fierce whisper, making her love the sound of it upon his lips. Yet once again she found something vaguely disturbing and different in the seductive tones of his voice, like notes of a familiar melody played out of key.
But she forgot all else as he kissed her again. His hands moved over her, paying homage to every curve of her body. She fought to keep her own hands still. During those brief times Ewan had taken her, he had never liked her to caress him. He had said her fingers were coarse and clumsy.
Yet as Armande brushed against her, her hands seemed to move of their own accord, reveling in the texture of his hair-roughened chest, the feel of hard muscle corded beneath the pulsing heat of his flesh. Fearful of his reaction, she hesitated, but when he made no move to stay her, her palm skimmed lower, seeking out the most mysterious region of his masculinity, the velvet sheath of his manhood.
She heard the hiss of Armande's indrawn breath as her fingers closed about him. She was wicked, shameless. In another moment, he would thrust her away in disgust. But he emitted a low groan and pressed kisses behind her ear, a shudder shaking his frame. His caresses became more urgent.
Gently he forced her to her back, suspending himself above her.
"My love ... can wait no longer." His voice was a plea, nearly apology. But she already was opening to him, bracing herself for the first violent thrust.
He eased himself so carefully inside her, it was she who f
elt the need to pull him closer. His slow, rhythmic stroking evoked waves of pleasure, and yet a part of her tensed, resisting the culmination of their passion, the fulfillment which had been forbidden her for so long.
Armande bent down and kissed her, deep and hard. "Don't deny yourself, Phaedra," he breathed. "Surrender."
Mercilessly, he increased the tempo of their mating, each movement calculated to drive her to the fever pitch of desire. She closed her eyes, aware of Armande's hoarse cry, the shudders wracking his frame, moments before a wondrous sensation burst inside of her. The exquisite pleasure was far too intense to last for long, but when it was gone she was filled with a sense of sweet release.
More sweet and miraculous still, Armande's strong arms yet banded her close to him even as he sank exhausted beside her, drawing in deep breaths, pressing his lips against her hair. Ewan always had-
As her pulses slowed to a more normal rhythm, Phaedra cradled her head against Armande's shoulder, not suppressing the thought of Ewan so much as simply losing it. Suddenly, it did not matter what her husband had done or said. Somewhere in the dark, in the gentle fury of Armande's lovemaking, it was as though the shadow of Ewan Grantham had been banished from her life. She felt so warm and secure lying in Armande’s arms, and content-a rare emotion for her restless heart. A deep sigh escaped her.
Armande planted a kiss upon her forehead, and she could feel the smile curving his lips as he asked, "Was that a sigh of pleasure or regret, milady? Perhaps you are sorry you strove so hard to lose the game."
Phaedra vehemently shook her head. Sorry? How could he even ask such a thing? She had no words to describe what Armande had done for her. He had given back so much of what Ewan had stolen from her-her belief in herself as a desirable woman, capable of giving love and receiving it.
"No, I shall never regret this night. No matter what happens."
"Hush, Phaedra. You tempt fate with such reckless vows." He tipped back her head, covering her mouth with his own as though in some superstitious dread of what her words might invoke, their kiss the charm that would hold evil at bay.
Phaedra melted willingly into his embrace. She wanted only for him to hold her, any doubts vanquished by the darkness and the warmth of their bodies entwined. Once more she was lost to everything but Armande and his tender caress.
It was some time later when she first realized the storm had ceased, leaving only the rain. She nestled against Armande, both of them lulled by the pattering against the window. There was no need to think or say anything more tonight, to remember anything but Armande's lovemaking, how gentle, how fierce he had been.
Her eyes fluttered closed, drifting into a state of half-dreaming, half-waking. She splayed her hand upon Armande's sweat-dampened chest, her fingers rising with the deep, regular rhythm of his breathing. He felt so warm. Even as he slept, she could yet sense the pulse of his lifeblood rushing through his veins. And to think, the first night she had met him, she had thought him so cold, a man carved of ice and snow.
Her lips tilted into a drowsy smile. Ah, but he was French. Did not Frenchmen like to boast they were the most skilled of lovers? From the beginning, she had been seduced as much by the silken tones of his voice calling her ma chere
His voice ... Once again something niggled at the back of her mind, a vague uneasiness. But Phaedra could no longer resist the pull of her own exhaustion. The disturbing thought drifted further and further out of reach. Cocooned in the security of Armande's arms, she fell asleep.
Dawn crept past the windowsill, shading the bedchamber in hues of pearly gray and soft rose. The morning star came up on a world new-washed by the storm, tinting the sky with promise of a bright summer's day. But for Phaedra, the strength of those first rays striking her eyelids were an annoyance, an intruder come to steal away her dreams.
Such sweet dreams they were-of a dark-haired lover with chilling gaze and burning touch, a man of ice and fire. She flung one hand over her eyes, trying to shut out the insistent sunlight, cling to the image of the hero the storms had cast into her bed. But as she stirred, she became aware of something pinning her to the bed.
Her eyes opened and focused with some confusion upon the naked length of her own body, the paleness of her skin in marked contrast to the powerful arm banding her waist. Her gaze traveled up the length of the arm, to a sinewy shoulder, a broad expanse of bare back, her eyes finally coming to rest upon the countenance of the man who slept beside her, flat on his stomach, his face half-buried in the pillow.
It hadn't been a dream. A blush firing her cheeks as the events of last night flooded back to her. She had truly taken Armande as her lover. But what had seemed so right, so natural in the dark of night now seemed a little overwhelming in the cold light of day.
She tried to ease herself out from beneath the weight of Armande's arm, groping for the counterpane. But the movement woke him at once. He flung himself over onto his back and jerked to a sitting position, his hand flying to the scar on his throat. In that unguarded moment, Phaedra thought she saw an expression akin to terror in Armande's eyes.
Timidly, she touched the smooth bare skin of his shoulder. Armande?"
His eyes slowly focused on her. "Phaedra." Her name on his lips was almost a breath of relief. He smiled and stretched out beside her, pulling her in his arms, seeking her lips. Although not prepared for the sudden fierceness of his embrace, she did not resist, wanting as desperately as he to recapture the magic she had shared with him last night. How right he had made it all seem. She had felt she belonged nowhere else but in his arms. It would have all been perfect except for that uneasy feeling that now crept over her, the same disturbing sensation that had tugged at her just before she fell asleep.
What had triggered it again? Was it something in the way he had said her name?
Phaedra strove to forget her uneasiness as Armande kissed her. His mouth was warm and enticing, the look he gave her so tender that it was as though the sun had risen in his eyes. His fingers tangled in her hair as he murmured, "Good morrow, my love."
Phaedra froze. That was it. His voice.
She thrust herself away from him, sitting bolt upright. "What did you say?" She prayed that he would answer her in the familiar French accent. Looking puzzled by her reaction, he said, "I wished you a good morrow, love. It is one, is it not?"
"I-I suppose," she stammered. What she wanted to cry out was, no! It was far from being a good morning when she had just realized her French lover was speaking to her in accents that might have been bred in the hills of Staffordshire. He might call himself Armande de LeCroix, but the man who had made love to her last night was an Englishman.
How long she had waited for Armande to make some mistake, to reveal his true nature. But why did it have to happen now, after what they had shared? She crossed her arms protectively over her breasts, feeling miserably aware of being naked in bed with a man who was little more than a complete stranger.
"Are you cold, sweetheart?" he asked. He still did not realize how he betrayed himself with every word. The intimacy between them had caused him to lower his guard. He tried to pull her back into his arms, but she squirmed to be free of him.
"No!" She said breathlessly. "I never intended to wake you. I am sorry."
"Don't be. I have never been awakened so pleasantly in my entire life."
"But I really should be-"
"Kissing me," he said, giving one of her curls a playful tweak. She gave a hard shove, breaking his hold on her. Scrambling to the very edge of the bed, she tugged on the coverlet, holding it into place just above her breasts. "The servants will be up soon. I dare not be caught in here. It would be so difficult to explain."
She could not even explain to herself the madness that had overtaken her, leaving her to set aside all her doubts and mistrust of Armande, to render herself as vulnerable as a woman could ever to be a man.
Armande raised himself to a sitting position, the warm glow on his countenance fading. He said slowly, "Yes, I
suppose it is difficult."
Her blush deepened. "I cannot seem to find my nightgown."
He reached over the side of the bed and retrieved the linen garment from the floor. She all but snatched it from him. Considering all that had passed between them, would he laugh at her if she begged him to turn his head while she fled the room?
The request stuck in her throat. Before she could say anything, he rose from the bed himself. She averted her gaze as he shrugged himself into his breeches and shirt.
He came round the bed and silently held out to her his own dressing gown of wine-colored satin. She hesitated for a moment before taking it, then awkwardly scrambled into the garment. Tailored to accommodate Armande's broad shoulders, it hung loosely upon her smaller frame. His musky male scent clung to the garment; donning it seemed almost as intimate a gesture as having made love to him.
"Thank you," she said.
"Not exactly the latest mode in lady's fashions, but the effect is quite charming." He smoothed the fabric over her shoulders, unable to refrain from making the simple gesture a caress.
Phaedra felt a shiver of response run along her spine, but her mind condemned her mercilessly. How can you! You don't even know who he really is.
She shrank away from Armande, knocking a candlestick off the night table. Nervously, she drew the ends of the dressing gown more tightly about her.
"I suppose I must look totally absurd."
"You look like a guilty little girl who has been caught doing something naughty."
“I have never have taken a lover before." She heard her own words with dismay, not knowing why she said that, but somehow finding it important that he should know. She added, laying pointed emphasis on the foreign words, “I fear, monsieur le marquis, that I lack your savoir faire in these matters."
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