A Rose in Winter (50 page)

She sponged away the last traces that remained of the ball and garbed herself in gown and robe. The garments were the usual diaphanous frills that were hardly worthy of any name, let alone the actuality, but they were typical of those selected by Lord Saxton. Sinking to the bench at her dressing table, she picked up the brush and idly stroked her hair as she mused on the evening. A thousand images flitted through her mind: the ball, the grandeur of the Talbot mansion, the man's persistence, Claudia's sneering smiles; and her own thoughts came back to Christopher. She remembered when first she met him. She had been so anxious for a handsome suitor, she had readily welcomed him into the cottage. Though her father had been much at fault in the affairs between the two, he could not yet hear Christopher's name without turning a livid red. It still bemused her that Avery could be so nonchalant about all that he had done, as if he were the innocent one.

She laid down the brush and pressed her hair flat against the sides of her head, letting the long tresses fall in rippling dark waves down her back. "Am I in truth my father's daughter?" she whispered softly. "Is it my brow that bears a resemblance?" She leaned forward and peered intently at the image. "Perhaps the eyes are his, or the nose." She moved the chimneyed candle to shift the light to see her image better, then lifted her chin and turned her head from side to side, tracing the pouting lower lip with a questing fingertip. "Where is the likeness? Is it outward?" Her eyes widened as a slow horror dawned. " Tis not outward, but inward! 'Tis here!" Her clenched fist flew to her bosom and pressed over her heart as she stared at the slack-jawed image that gaped back in distaste. "I have denied my husband the rights of my own vows, and yet there is within me this disabling desire to yield the same to another. My father yielded to his own greed and gaming lusts and sold me in the bargain. 'Tis the same. My father's blood is mine!"

She came to her feet and braced her hands on the table, leaning close to deny what her reflection accused her of. "I shan't let it be! My husband shall have what I have promised him!"

She was in the hall without consciously willing it so, and then at the door of Lord Saxton's chambers. Before she could dwell on the horror that awaited her, she opened the heavily carved portal, stepped inside and closed it, reaching behind her to turn the latch.

A low fire snapped and crackled in the hearth, and though the velvet drapes were pulled around the sides of the canopied bed, the foot was open to the warmth of the fire. Within the shadows of its interior, there was a hurried movement and then a hoarse, muffled whisper that sounded loud in the still room.

"Who comes to me?"

Erienne's heart fluttered in her breast, but she could no more retreat from her course than the gallant Joan of Arc. Erienne moved slowly forward until she reached the end of the bed, her shadow lengthening and joining the deeper ones. In the shifting firelight, she could see the huddled, twisted form of her husband beneath the cover and saw that he had hastily wrapped a light silk cloth about his head.

" Tis Erienne, milord." She loosed the belt and dropped her robe, then leaned a knee upon the bed. The waiting silence continued, and drawing up her other knee and climbing onto the mattress, she sat back on her heels. Her voice trembled as she spoke her reason for coming. "My lord, I am less afraid of what you are than what I might become if you do not make me your wife in full. 'Tis my plea that you take me to you so no further questions might be involved in our marriage."

She leaned forward, reaching out to take the silken mask away, but his hand caught her wrist and held it from its goal. Even close Erienne could see only the dark shadow of his eyes and nothing more.

Lord Saxton shook his head and whispered softly, "In truth, my love, this face is still the one that will set you to flight."

Erienne turned her hand to hold his, and his head bowed over it. Through the cloth his lips caressed her hand, and Erienne was moved by the infinite gentleness of his kiss. After a moment he straightened, and when he spoke, his whisper was tender and held an odd note of pity, as if he knew full well the conflict that raged within her.

"Erienne, my love... pull the drapes."

She raised up on her knees, and her arms stretched wide to grasp the curtains. The firelight betrayed her beauty through the filmy gown, showing the slender curves of her body in silhouette, then the weak light was shut out and the darkness of the bed was unbroken. For Erienne, it was like having a door close behind her with the finality of one never to be opened again. She had come, bound with honor to carry out her commitments as wife, yet now that she was on the threshold of that fulfillment, she could not bring herself to make the last move. She waited, struggling with her fears and the almost overwhelming desire to flee.

The bed dipped as Lord Saxton rose to kneel before her. Like a feather floating to the ground his hands slipped down her lightly clad arms, and then the token armor of her gown was lifted over her head. As the garment floated away, the whipcord arms came slowly around her, and the warmth of his body pressed full against the coolness of her own. Erienne silenced the gasp that was born in her throat. The jolt of surprise she experienced had naught to do with revulsion, but rather with the bold, manly touch of him. The alien hardness was a hot brand against her thighs. In the back of her mind there bloomed a vision of him as he had appeared to her at the inn in that moment when he had been aroused by her presence. The shock to her innocence, then, had been no less than what it was now.

His strength was unexpected. He lifted her easily, turning her and taking her down with him. Though the cloth still pressed to her ear and separated the scarred face from her, his naked lips caressed her throat and ventured downward until they were hot and moist upon her breast, rousing her to a warmth she had not thought possible with him. A word came to her lips, but she squelched it cruelly, for it was the name of another. The realization of where her mind strayed made her all the more determined in this quest. She moved against him in an attitude of eager response, and her hand, slipping about his neck, found a long, wrinkled scar that traced along the rippling muscles of his back. It helped convince her that it was Lord Saxton making love to her. Her husband was the scarred one, not Christopher Seton.

She held fast to that security as his caresses grew bolder, exploring the secrets of her body with the sureness of a knowledgeable lover. She was distantly surprised, for she had half expected a fumbling eagerness and a rough uncertainty. But he was gentle... so infinitely gentle. His hand wandered with deliberate slowness over every detail of her, as if savoring what he found, and she trembled beneath his lightest touch.

He moved between her thighs, and she gasped as the fiery brand intruded into the delicate softness of her. A sudden, quicksilver pain flashed through her as the resisting flesh split beneath the mounting pressure. His manhood penetrated deep within her, and Erienne bit her lip to keep from crying out, hiding her face against the base of his throat. Her nails dug into the flesh of his back, but he seemed not to notice as his lips touched her ear and brow. His breathing was harsh and ragged, sounding hoarse in her ear, and she could feel the solid beat of his heart against her naked breast. With utmost care he began to move, slowly at first, and the sharp, tingling pain faded. The soft, rosy peaks were teased beneath the crisp furring that covered his chest. She began to answer his thrusting hips, and a frenzied wildness swept them on and upward to dizzying heights. The expanding pleasure, that same which she had so recently experienced, made her writhe and arch her hips against his. They soared onward in a hurtling, twisting flight, climbing together until the ether was thin and heady. Erienne gasped for breath, wanting more, and he gave it. It was a common goal they sought as their bodies strained together, muscles flexing, limbs entwined.

A small cry broke from Erienne's lips as the blissful aura burst around them, bathing them in pulsating waves of pleasure that seemed destined never to die. Slowly, ever so slowly, they drifted back to earth, spent and exhausted but completely content in the union of their bodies.

In the aftermath of their passion, Erienne curled against her husband, firm in her belief that Stuart Saxton was no empty shell but a man of extraordinary skill and prowess. Like the manse, though scarred and charred on the outside, he bore within him a wealth of qualities above the common man. Her hand caressed the furred chest, and almost without guidance, it drifted down toward the twisted leg he carefully held away from her. Again she was stopped as his fingers became a gentle band of steel around her narrow wrist.

"Remember what you have, Erienne," his whisper warned softly. "All I can give you in this world. Do not tempt fate beyond this moment, for 'twould grieve me sorely to see this night turned into a time of hatred."

Erienne started to protest, but his finger came across her lips and shushed her.

"You may be ready, my love, but I am not." He reached across to carefully tuck the quilt in close about her against a chance chill. "I like the feel of you close within my arms, and 'tis my wont to have you sleep beside me until I wake at morningtide. Will you stay?"

"Aye, milord." She snuggled close to him, but his low, wheezing laughter made her draw back again to try to see the eyes that were only a dark shadow behind the silken cloth. "Something amuses you?"

"Sleep! 'Twill be impossible with you in my arms."

"Shall I go?" she questioned, resting a hand on his chest.

"Never!" He caught her to him in a fierce embrace, burying his face against her throat. "I have waited an eternity for this," he rasped, "and though I may be damned on the morrow, I will not let it end so quickly."

"Damned, milord? How so?"

"I will explain later, my love. Now I would savor once again the delights that you have brought within my grasp."

Sunlight softly penetrated Erienne's sleep, and her eyes fluttered slowly open as she sensed a presence at the edge of the canopied bed. The large, black-garbed form of her husband half filled the opening where the velvet hangings had been pulled aside. Beyond him, the light of a new day filled the chamber, and with the contrast she saw not so much the shape of a beast but a man with wide shoulders wearing a dark leather mask and dressed in somber attire. Surely after such a sweetly blissful night, it was only a trick of her mind that he seemed taller and straighten She felt his gaze upon her and blinked the lingering slumber from her eyes.

"Good morning, milord," she murmured with a smile gently curving her lips.

"An excellent morning, my love, and you have made it so," he rasped.

At his gentle reminder of the intimacy they had shared, a rosy hue crept into her cheeks and spread downward along the ivory-white throat. The night had held many exceptional and unexpected pleasures for them both, and she was still much in awe of what had transpired.

Clutching the sheet to her, she accepted the gloved hand he extended and sat up, swinging her long legs over the side of the bed. Lord Saxton enjoyed the view of the silken limbs and, where the sheet sagged, the enticing fullness of her bosom. He reached out to smooth the tumbled locks over her shoulder, and with a finger traced the creamy throat downward from her ear. Erienne rubbed her cheek against the darkly gloved hand, amazing him with the softly glowing warmth in her eyes.

"You no longer fear me, madam?" he hoarsely questioned.

It came with a slow dawning that all of her apprehensions had fled. Though the mask was still a barrier between them, it no longer bothered her and would eventually be removed.

"I am content to be your wife in every way, milord," she murmured.

Lord Saxton was stunned by the commitment she voiced and could find no worthy reply. He had never expected her to yield her loveliness to an ugly beast, and now she was tearing down all the boundaries between them. What was he to think of her? Did she love the beast? Had he won the game, or lost it?

Erienne laid a tentative hand upon his arm. "We have much to learn about each other, and we have a lifetime to do it in. It troubles me that I have never seen your face, and I wonder if you might relent..."

"Nay, I cannot." He swung away from her and dragged his heavily booted foot across the expanse of the rug. Halting before the fireplace, he stared for a long, troubled moment into the undulating flames, then he leaned his head back, rolling it across his shoulders as if plagued by some pain there. Now that she had given herself to him, he found it even more difficult to rid himself of the mask. She would only hate him the more, and he'd lose everything.

"As you gave me time," she said softly, intruding into his thoughts, "I shall wait for you, my lord."

He half turned to look at her and found a gentle smile awaiting him. An urge swept over him in that moment, and it was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms, ridding himself of the mask and gloves, and kissing those tender lips until they throbbed beneath his. Yet common sense ruled. He had to bide his time, or lose the perfect rose that he had held so carefully in his grasp.

"I must be gone for a time this morning," he stated with measured words. "Mr. Seton will be joining you in the hall for breakfast. I doubt that I'll return before he leaves. Will you give him my apologies?"

Erienne glanced away from the expressionless, staring mask, feeling the heat of a blush creep back into her cheeks. Christopher was the last person she wanted to face this morning, but she could find no adequate excuse to deny her husband's request. When it came, her nod of acquiescence was barely noticeable.