She began to struggle, to fight, but her head felt so heavy, and her eyes would not open at all.
Where was she? Where was Colin?
She shivered, her body shaking with cold. She burrowed closer to the warmth beside her. A solid wall that would protect her. Ah, yes. There he was. Colin. He had found her. She was safe now. Warm and safe and protected, sheltered by the wall that no one could breech.
She groaned and buried her head against him, hearing a strong heartbeat that matched her own, beat for beat. She knew that sound and for long moments she listened, letting it calm her. But she hurt.
The man. A large man.Splinters of bright light shattered in her brain, and she closed her eyes tightly and pushed the thoughts away, only letting herself think of Colin and nothing else.
She wanted him to awaken, to tell her all was going to be all right, but her fingers did not want to move, and she could not raise her arms more than a bit.
He stirred, his lips pressing against the top of her head so sweetly, her very heart sighed. There was such safety in his arms. And yet, last night . . .
No.
Instead she raised her hammering head, wanting only his taste on her lips, wanting only his arms about her.
His lips met hers so tenderly, so gently. Yes. This was the man that she needed, the man she craved.
Now she was safe.
She moved closer and curled her fingers in his hair, answering his kiss. No other man would have her, only Colin. She slid her legs against his own, needing his strength, letting it seep inside her, slowly, warming her. His kiss deepened, became more insistent, and she responded as if her life depended on it.
This was Colin after all.
His fingers began to pull at her dress, moving beneath the flimsy fabric, grasping her breasts. The moment he touched her nipples, her head fell back, the waves of pain knifing through her. She felt as if she were on fire, her body shuddering, breath heaving. As her vision grayed, she fought against the darkness, the world spinning, memory overtaking her.
God, please, no.
She struggled to breathe, to calm herself.
But the pain. Her breasts. It hurt so badly. She wanted the darkness again. She should fight him, she knew what he was capable of. He had hit her.Hadn’t he? Hit her with his hands that held her so tightly. She struggled, confused, and scared.
He was so big, so large.
She needed to find Colin. His hands.Dear God, his hands. They were so rough.
Oh, no. Please, no.
She tried to fight, but she couldn’t move. He held her so tightly, his arms like iron chains around her.
He wouldn’t have her. She wouldn’t let him have her.
She tried to speak, to scream, but she couldn’t escape his mouth.
Colin?
He didn’t answer. Oh God, where was he?
Colin was losing his mind. His body ached, his sex hard and hot, goading him on. Each time she moved against him, the dragon sharpened its claws. Blood no longer flowed through his veins. What ran through his body was the hot, licking flames of dragonfire.
The air reeked of vinegar and he didn’t care. The shouting of the dockworkers rattled the windows and he didn’t care. He felt the shabby bedcovers, the hard boards, the sharp, pungent ticking against his face and he didn’t care.
It didn’t matter where they were or how they got there. She was the only thing that mattered now.
The smell of her, the sweet fragrance that was only hers, drove him mad.
He dared not open his eyes, for if he saw fear in her own, God damn his soul to hell, he didn’t know if he could stop.
Now he knew what it was to want, to need so desperately. Now he understood why men let their lust rule them. Her gasps were coming quicker, her hands pushing against his chest, and he heard her call his name. Not in desire, but in desperation, and he opened his eyes then, knowing what he would see.
Her hair was tousled, her lips full and swollen, the bruises on her shoulders flourishing an angry purple and green. And when he had gathered his courage fully, when he had steeled himself for the slow loss of his dreams, he looked into her dark gray eyes.
Fear.
She had been hurt, traumatized by the men from last night, and he had treated her no better.
“Colin?” Her voice was a mere whisper, and his Sarah, his wonderful Sarah buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
Awkwardly he reached for her, but he couldn’t touch her. Not now. His hands fell uselessly to his side. He removed himself from the bed, putting a safe distance between them.
He had spent his life running and hiding. He didn’t have to run any longer. He had played his silly games thinking he could fool the world. Oh, he’d done that, but as he watched the great wracking sobs that shook her body, he realized he couldn’t fool himself.
“We’ll be at Rosemont by nightfall,” he heard himself say.
She lifted her head, her eyes so sad. “I’m to be your mistress?”
“You’re to be my wife.” His tone so bland, so casual, as if he were discussing politics, as if he believed he wasn’t the blood son of the most vile man he’d ever known.
As if he wasn’t the dragon.
Goddamn his rutting soul to hell.
Chapter Seventeen
The ride to Rosemont was blessedly quiet. He wanted her for his wife. She had won. If her body didn’t ache, if her head weren’t so numb, she was certain the thought would have cheered her. As it was, she felt nothing at all.
He helped her into the carriage, handed her a blanket, and then sat alone in the corner, staring out the window.
She felt close to tears. “You’ll stay with me there?” She didn’t want to be alone.
“Yes.”
They were to be married; they were going to the country, together.
By tacit agreement, no words were spoken of the events of that morning and the previous night. If the shadows loomed darker, and the wind blew colder, she could do nothing about it. In time she would adjust. She could only hope.
Absently she rubbed her arms, and Colin looked at her, his dark brows drawn together with worry. She wanted to reach out and smooth away the tired lines that didn’t belong on such a young face.
She didn’t, however. Since the morning, he hadn’t touched her, although he had seen to all of her comforts. He had spoken only when necessary, but his silence wasn’t one of anger, rather a cool, civilized polish that worried her far more. She wrapped the scratchy wool around her, wishing it were his arms.
Eventually the laudanum wove its magic spell, making her woozy and limp, and she leaned her head back against the cushions, letting the rocking motion of the carriage dispel her worries and lull her back to sleep.
When she woke, it was night, and she was no longer in the carriage. She was alone in a large, soft bed. The flames from the small lantern jumped in the chill breeze, casting threatening shadows upon the wall.
So this was her new home.
Shaking with cold, she got up and walked to the window, staring at the dark emptiness, seeing nothing but ghosts. A large man with rough hands and a booming voice. Her father had taught her to laugh at ghosts and goblins. To fear nothing. She was turning into a coward of the worst sort and she didn’t like it at all.
The wind whistled and she jumped and then laughed at her own silliness. There was nothing to be afraid of.
The scent of roses rolled through the air, a sweet smell that caused her stomach to churn. She moved slowly, swallowing with care.
With shaking hands, she closed the casement, fastening it firmly. The sound of the wind disappeared and only silence remained. Content now that she had banished her fears, she sat down in a nearby chair.
She stared hard at the wall, glaring at the shadows, daring them to unsettle her nerves again. In time, the tremors passed. Her breathing slowed and her stomach calmed and she made a game of changing the looming shadows into dancing animals. What had been a man, she conjured into a fat elephant. The s
pecter that was his hand turned into a barking dog. It was quite easy when she applied herself. This was a battle she wouldn’t lose.
Feeling braver, she walked toward the gilt mirror that sat above the chiffonier. She had avoided looking at her reflection, and for the first time she studied her bruises. No wonder Colin acted distant today.
Her jaw was large and swollen, the cuts in her lip and chin just beginning to close.
With a curse she had learned from Colin, Sarah whirled around and wiped at her eyes. When she looked up, she noticed the filigreed vase. An arrangement of roses stood tall and straight.
Her stomach cramped and heaved and she swept the vase onto the floor, the porcelain smashing into ragged bits. Still not satisfied, she grabbed a book and beat upon the flowers, over and over.
She had to destroy them.
With each blow, the red petals turned black, the remains scattering across the floor, and still the sickly scent filled the room.
Pounding and pounding, as if it werehis smirking face she was destroying.
His arms closed around her and she fought, and kicked, and clawed, and screamed, but he would not let go. Her head rang, her jaw throbbed, and she thought she would retch, but still she fought.
He didn’t hit her, though. His large hands were calm and gentle, not rough. His quiet voice soothed and hushed her with silly nonsense. His strong arms held her loosely, letting her beat against him until her hands ached.
As quickly as it came, the rage disappeared. She mustn’t cry, so instead she sat quietly in his arms.
“It will be alright, Sarah. Whatever is wrong, it will be alright.”
“The roses. I don’t like them anymore.”
“They’re gone, Sarah. I give you my word, the roses are all gone now.”
She managed a tired smile and fell asleep on the floor, safe against his chest.
Three days passed before they were married. The bride was bruised and battered, yet the minister wisely held his tongue. After the vows were said, there was no joyful celebration. Instead, Colin went outside the grounds alone and got splendidly drunk. The one thing he had done right in his life—St. George—was now protected, solely in his name. Now if he could only restrain himself from savaging his already weakened wife.
He watched the night fall, watched the single light glow from Sarah’s window, and wondered if she was preparing for bed. By all rights, he could go to her, and take his pleasure. Instead, he took a sip from the bottle of brandy, letting the spirit soothe the edges from his need.
She was improving, her smiles coming more often, but her movements were slow and awkward and the bruise on her jaw still flared angrily. Each time he saw her face, he wanted to weep. He should have kept her safe, he was responsible for her injuries. Soon he would have more answers. He had brought her here, to Rosemont, so she would be safe from those who tried to kill her. Rosemont had always been his haven, and now it was hers. He would find the man who hired Harper, and then he would go to Belgium. If he were to die in battle, she would’ve been married to a war hero, rather than a highwayman’s son. With his name, his wealth, she would have the respectability that she craved. And with that thought, he lay down in the grass, watching the stars and the moon, wishing for much that he didn’t have, and satisfying himself with another swallow of blessed forgetfulness.
It had been two days since their marriage, and Sarah had seen little of her new husband. She had penned a letter to Juliette, assuring her that all was well. When she signed her name, she remembered Juliette’s lack of faith, and with a bit of childish vindication, added a wide flourish, “The countess of Haverwood.” Juliette really should have had more confidence in her.
She read the letter she had received that morning from Catherine, laughing several times. Mrs. Lambert had sunk into the doldrums and was now determined to find a new husband for her daughter. Catherine was equally determined to find the man of her dreams, just as Sarah had done. Sarah penned a response and wished her the best.
The doctor visited each day, which she thought was an unnecessary extravagance, but Mr. Giles said that the earl insisted. And so she was prodded and poked, and treated like a sickly cow. She had to suffer such indignities alone, each day sulking a little more, and finally, lacking a more elegant solution, she badgered a housemaid to give her new husband a summons.
The knock came quickly enough; perhaps she could have worded her message a bit less urgent, but then he would not have come so quickly. She adjusted her robes and sat up in bed. “Come in, please.”
He stood in the doorway, looking at her intently. “Is there something wrong? Are you in pain?”
She waved her hand. “Right as a line. Can you come and sit? For a moment?”
He hesitated, but then nodded. “Of course.”
She smiled charmingly. “How are you?”
Confusion settled in his fine sherry eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Oh, I was worried.”
“Why?”
“Because I had not seen you. I thought perhaps you might have been taken ill, or worse.”
He looked suitably taken to task. “I’m sorry. My manners are very poor.”
“Yes, for a man who was just married, they’re abominable. I believe there’s something amiss here, perhaps, my husband?”
“You’ve been hurt.”
“I’m better.”
“You still need your rest.”
“Is that why you haven’t touched me, or is there something else? Am I a candidate for Bedlam, or so unappealing that you cannot bear the thought of being near me?”
His laughter contained much bitterness. “You must be joking.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
He remained silent.
Finally, she spoke, needing to understand. “Why? Why were you going to marry Catherine?”
“Because of St. George.”
“The foundling home?”
“The orphanage had been entailed by the late earl. If I were not married by my twenty-eighth birthday, a rather nasty firm would have taken it from me.”
That explained much. A noble cause for a noble man. And nothing that involved his feelings for Sarah at all. “So you needed a wife.”
“Yes.”
“Any wife would do.” She said the words with disappointment, not bothering to hide her feelings from him.
“Sarah, I couldn’t leave you alone in London. I could give you my name, respectability, my protection.”
She cocked her head. “And anything more? I’m very greedy, my lord.”
“It’s too soon. You should rest.”
“When?”
“When you’re well, we’ll talk more.”
“I can read the papers, you know. There is talk of war. Would you leave me as you once said?”
“Not until you’re safe.”
Sarah laughed bitterly. “A small measure of comfort at least. There’s been no news?”
“No, Etiénne is in London, searching for the bastard who . . .” He trailed off and looked away.
“Hurt me. I swear, I will be fine.” It was a vow she made with herself and with him.
“Of course.” He still had yet to meet her eyes. He turned to leave.
“Colin, may I ask something of you?”
“Of course.”
“Would you kiss me?” He looked at her then and panic flared in his eyes. She hastened to reassure him. “A small kiss, nothing more. The other man . . . I still remember. I want something else to remember now. Please.”
He sat down on her bed and cupped her face in his hands. His gaze was so gentle, so tender, and she felt wayward tears well in her eyes. She closed her eyes, waiting nervously, aware of every move that he made by his touch, his smell, and finally, his taste. His mouth came down on hers slowly, brushing gently. She pressed her lips against his, and she struggled with her fears. Her stomach began to cramp, and she fisted her hands, fighting herself. But then she opened her eyes, needing to see his
face, nothing more. Not the darkness. And there he was, so very real. So very strong.
He raised his head and stared at her. For long moments they simply stared and she lost herself in his gaze. When he looked at her, with such affection, she let herself hope once more. Perhaps it would all be all right. If there was any man who could make things right, it was Colin. Her husband. Her smile was slow and tremulous, and deep inside her mind, she felt the rebirth of healing begin.
After he left her alone, she hugged the covers close and her smile grew. Soon, very, very soon.
Giles picked up the china figures that decorated the room of the new Lady Haverwood, carefully polishing and dusting each one. He hummed under his breath, not wanting to disturb her sleep. The noonday sun was already warming her chamber, and she should be waking shortly. He hummed a little louder.
She was a breath of fresh air in a house that had stewed in silence too long. Her bruises looked less pronounced in the morning light, although her skin looked pale, almost translucent.
He smiled as he put down the hideous little dragon and started to polish the mirror.
“Hello, Mr. Giles. Where is my husband?” Ah, the young lady was awake. Fancy that. He turned, a suitably respectable expression on his face, although it was difficult. She had an impish smile that she flashed whenever necessary, and he was as susceptible as the next man. She boxed her pillows and stuffed them behind her back.
Giles ceased his polishing and went to assist her. She was fluffing her pillows all wrong; the goose feathers needed to be aired and plumped, not flattened. “He’s a very busy man, my lady. The government, the estate, his charities, even the villagers depend on him.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
Giles nodded solemnly. It had been a hundred years since the villagers depended on a Haverwood, but he liked to see the young mistress’s eyes turn soft and dreamy.
“Do you think he’ll finish soon?” she asked, reaching for her cards on her bedside table and then idly shuffling them between her fingers.
“I don’t know how long he’ll be,” Giles answered, telling the absolute truth. The young master was currently locked in his study meticulously packing away each one of his books. He had packed and unpacked the boxes several times now.
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