The Bride of Larkspear (7 page)

I don’t know whether it is fury or thrill coursing through my veins. It has ever been this way with her, feelings that should be simple and straightforward turning complicated, even twisted. I only know that I cannot live without this. I cannot live without her.

Her climaxes come in voluptuous waves, one building upon the next, together pushing toward that violent crash. And I crash directly into her, my seed erupting endlessly, this collision of ours as much one of passion as one of desperation.

I desperately want to make her mine. And she desperately wants to avoid ever becoming mine.

A
FTERWARD, I RELEASE HER WRISTS
, hold her in my arms, and, with her blindfold still on, kiss her for a long time. She does not return my kiss, but she does not speak in mockery. Nor does she tell me she is pretending that I am someone else when I once again make love to her, slowly, tenderly—for a while, at least, until my lust—our lust—burns out of control and we again revert to animals.

In need. In frenzy.

In love.

Me, at least.

Chapter Four

D
AWN BEGAN WITH A MISTY DRIZZLE
. By the time I return—early—from my ride, rain is coming down in a steady shower, accompanied by flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder.

I find Grisham outside my door, anxiously waiting for me. Most of the time he is high-spirited and adventuresome, and I see little of him except in passing, as he runs about showing himself a good time around the estate. But when the sky cracks open with booms of thunder, Grisham turns into a whimpering pup and follows on my heels for as long as the weather remains loud and violent.

“I ought to chase you out of here, Grisham,” I admonish him even as I crouch down to scratch him behind his ears. “Why, yesterday afternoon when I came across you in the woods, you didn’t even stop to say ‘arf arf.’ You just zoomed past me after that rabbit. And now you come with your tail between your, well, next to your leg, and you want the comfort and security of my manly presence?”

Grisham barks eagerly.

“It’s true what they say: Irony is lost on you, my boy. All right, I forgive you. Now give me a minute change out of my wet clothes. We’ll go down for breakfast and I’ll let you steal some bacon from my pl—”

Some instinct makes me turn my head. Farther down the corridor, my bride stands by her half-open door, watching me. For no reason at all, my face grows hot.

And is it my imagination or is her face also turning red?

I straighten. “Lady Larkspear.”

She returns a perfunctory nod, steps back inside, and closes the door. I remain where I am for long minutes, before I realize I am still wet and that Grisham is still waiting for his bacon.

I sigh and rub the top of his head. “Come on.”

W
HEN I LEAVE MY ROOMS
again, I look toward my bride’s door. It remains firmly closed, no one observing me, openly or surreptitiously.

Disappointed—even though I knew she was not going to be there—I set out for the breakfast parlor, Grisham at my side. Only to come to a standstill on the threshold of the room. She is at the table, a slice of toast in one hand, a book in the other.

Grisham barks to announce himself.

She looks up, her gaze sliding over me as if I am part of the wall, to land with a smile upon Grisham. “Well, well, if it isn’t the true master of Larkspear. Come here, Grisham.”

Grisham needs no further encouragement to bounce toward her chair, tail wagging furiously. She grabs his head and scratches his neck. “There’s my boy. There’s a good boy. How did it go with your lady yesterday? Did you have any luck? You did, didn’t you? You look smug, you dog.”

“How do you know about his lady?” I can’t help my question.

She glances sideways at me. “Oh, doesn’t everyone know he is hot for his little bitch?”

My face scalds again. Fortunately there are no servants about to bear witness—the items for our breakfast are set up on the sideboard for us to help ourselves. I approach the sideboard, lift the silver domes, and cast about for something to say. “Don’t restrict yourself to toast. Your favorite dishes are here: baked mushrooms, potted hare, and fried ham.”

“How do you know these are my favorites?” Her tone is just noticeably sharp.

Do I dare open up any more of myself to her? Will she consider it an open invitation to hurt me further?

I turn around and my gaze lands on Grisham. Poor thing had been frightened of carriages, after what had happened to him. Then one day, as I was getting into one, he leaped in after me. After that he was fine and carriages didn’t bother him anymore.

Except I am not a dog and she is not a carriage. My limbs are safe from her, but my heart—

My heart I have always hidden away, and precious little good it has done me.

“We have known each other half our lives. What don’t I know about you?” I hear myself ask in a tone that might almost be described as tender.

She blinks and glances away.

I return to the table with my plate and take a seat. “What are you reading, if I may ask?”

She looks down at the book, as if surprised to find it in her hand. “Baudelaire’s letters. Now, that’s enough licking, Grisham. You’ll ruin my skirt.”

Grisham, at her firm tone, sits down rather sadly next to her chair.

She reaches across the table, takes a piece of bacon from my plate, and gives it to him. “There, there, don’t look so downtrodden. There are better things to eat than broadcloth.”

Watching the two of them, I am more than a little afraid at just how easily she might handle me in the future, with a scratch behind the ears and a piece of bacon. Will I be as easily satisfied as Grisham?

“I have Baudelaire’s complete works, if you are interested.”

She gives Grisham another pat on the head before turning her attention to me. “Do you read them, or do you merely have them about because they have been controversial in their day?”

This time I do not hesitate as long. Telling the truth, like anything else, becomes easier with practice—and as I realize I am in no worse shape today than I was yesterday. “I read them because you admire his works.”

She sets down the book and pulls apart a piece of her toast. “When have you ever cared about my opinions? The first time Baudelaire’s name came up between us you told me I liked him only because he was outrageous.”

“And can you deny that there is some part of you that did like his work better because it infuriated so many?”

A slow smile spreads on her face. “No, I cannot deny that.”

Even sitting down, I feel a little dizzy. A real smile, for me.

Her countenance turns serious again. “But that was not the entire reason, at best a quarter of it.”

“Yes, I know.”

She raises a brow. “And yet you mocked me for it every time we happened to be in the same room for months afterward.”

Bringing her pleasure in bed might make her body yearn for mine. But in the end, our lives will not always be spent making love. There will be many, many hours when we will be out of bed, fully clothed, and not even touching.

And whether I succeed or fail in my endeavor to win her heart, I will succeed or fail here, at this breakfast table, in the light of the day, without those skills as a lover to aid and abet me.

“I have always been a bastard where you are concerned,” I admit, my mouth as dry as a cotton bale.

She raises both her brows. “So you do know that.”

“Yes, I’ve always known that.”

She considers me as she scratches Grisham’s ears. He pants a little. She takes another piece of bacon from my plate and offers it to him. The familiarity of her gesture makes my heart roll over.

“And do you intend to continue to be a bastard to me?”

I swallow. “Would you like me to be different?”

She says nothing.

Of course not.

For her to say anything at all on the matter would be to show an interest in this marriage of ours, an interest in the shape and texture of what happens between us.

She eats the rest of her toast, drinks her tea, and rises, ushering Grisham out with her, leaving me with a brisk, “Good day, Lord Larkspear.”

T
HE RAIN STOPS MIDMORNING
. From my study, where I try my best, given my distracted state of mind, to deal with a stack of papers, I become aware that outside, my bride and my three-legged dog are frolicking on the gravel drive. She throws a stick; he retrieves it. She throws it again, and he, with even greater joy and enthusiasm, goes after it.

Such a simple, mindless pastime. But Grisham does not tire of it. And I do not tire of looking at them: his love of life, her delight in everything that is vibrant and spirited in him.

I should join them. But I stay where I am, behind the curtains of my window, and only watch.

W
HEN I ENTER HER ROOM
that night, my bride is already naked in her bed, reading, with half a dozen pillows propping up her back, her hair hanging loose, and both her knees raised, giving me an almost unimpeded view of her pudenda.

I hang onto the door handle behind me, forgetting how to walk.

She peers over the top of the book at me. “You are here, Larkspear. As you can see, I have decided to make things a bit easier for you,” she says, setting aside the book.