The Bride Price (20 page)

The press of the gold in the room pushed in on him. Her hair, golden and fine; the glow of the gilt in the lamplight; the linens threaded and shimmering. It made him want to push back. To ravish the pristine environment, to make her beg and scream, her head thrashing from pleasure, the gold wild, streaming through his hands, under his complete control.

The bedspread, instead of her chemise, bunched in his fists. The hard-won control that had turned his rage into resentment, his loss into bitter strength, forced him not to touch her. Not to give up the control, to fall to someone else’s spell. She stirred, one hand tucked against his thigh. So easy to take what would be so willingly offered once he started. They all fell before him if he desired it.

He had never been so tempted before. Or so sure of his own demise.

He pulled the covers up to her chin, tucking them around her shoulders, brushing the gold strands away from her face, spreading them over the pillow. A fairy who cared for others first. Who felt something for other people that wasn’t just desire or hate. Who didn’t judge everyone based on his usefulness. Who possibly could distinguish love from desire.

Her cheek moved into his fingers, and he stroked the smooth skin.

No, love was just a softer form of desire. A desire for companionship, or parental feelings, or understanding. Love stopped when a person turned less useful—became less of a companion, less of an achiever, less of a prize. When those feelings faded, what was left of love?

He stood and looked around the room in the diminishing candlelight, at the softening of the edges, of the gold. He blew out the candle and strode from the room. He would continue his quest, because at the moment he couldn’t consider doing anything else.

London is alight with the contestants who have chosen to return to her bower for the fortnight. One wonders why all the guests haven’t traveled to her hearth for the break in the games.

A
beautiful, dusky pink rose blinked at her from the pillow next to hers. She smiled, turned, closed her eyes, then froze.

Every sense went on alert. A leftover thread of spice and warmth stated that Sebastien had been in the room, but not for many hours. Her chemise and stays were still on, tangled about her. There was no indentation anywhere else on the bed. No soreness of her limbs. The sounds of birds chirping and squirrels nattering were the only noises that met her ears.

She turned back to the delicate flower. She didn’t remember falling asleep. She doubly didn’t remember being tucked in. And the bloom? He had to have returned to lay it there.

She picked it up, bringing it closer to her nose. The sweet fragrance claimed it as one from her own garden. She unwillingly smiled again.

The man was a menace as intoxicating as the rose, as dangerous as the thorns he had shaved from the stem. Alternately thoughtful and rude. Something like a disreputable pet—the one who wets on the floor when everyone is looking and lifts an eyebrow as if to say,
Yes?

She smiled at the image and pulled the rose against her chest. She had to be cautious, yes, but life was more than the sum of her fears, founded or not.

Images of Patrick unfolded. Of daring eyes and hands, of promises that were always broken. Of a troth that had led to mussed sheets and heartbreak, wandering eyes and dissatisfaction. Of a marriage that would not have taken place without the earl’s interference—her name changed with the exchange of a few pounds of coin and pride.

She looked at the rose. The earl wouldn’t clean up two mistakes like that, but for once she didn’t feel the dread of the earl’s wrath. It was her choice to make. And Sebastien wasn’t making promises. She knew where he stood.

It was the broken promises and betrayal that hurt the most. As long as she kept her heart strong, she could wave farewell when the tournament came to an end.

She had to believe that.

The festivities were in full swing by the time Sebastien sauntered to the edges of the ruins. His eyes immediately sought Caroline, finding her in the midst, nodding and pointing to the others, the general at the head of her troops.

Her soft crown of gold glittered against the lanterns and firelight. Three men surrounded her on the side facing him, dressed in their backcountry finery; even the gentry males hardly held a candle to the lowest of the
ton
’s ware. He didn’t like the looks in their eyes—the appreciative and considering stares. Even from here he could see the rusted wheels working in their heads as they surveyed her or asked a question, watching her throat move as she talked, the tilt of her head.

He flipped his tinderbox and exhaled a stream of smoke. Easy enough to pick off the “best” of them. In Town it wouldn’t even have registered as something he needed to do, but here, with her, a barely restrained urge to throttle someone gripped him.

The man in blue would go first. Jelly-filled and weepy-eyed, he’d either bluster or cry. The man in green—

He felt a tug and looked down to see huge glassy eyes staring up.

“Mr. Deville, I’ve lost the steps,” Polly whispered in a tone that was anything but quiet.

Her grubby little hand gripped his expensive coat, watery eyes blinked. Appalling little creatures, children. He should remove his perfectly cut coat from her fingers, in order to salvage as much of the material as he could. The firelight caught her eyes, making them shine blue-gray, much like Caroline’s. A bitty angel in disguise.

He knelt down, which allowed her to grip another part of his coat, infecting it as well. “You’ve forgotten the steps to the dance?” He stubbed the
cheroot on the ground, his eyes staying focused on the color of hers, so like another perfect pair.

“Yes.” Her head bowed.

“Well, that won’t do.” He lifted her chin. “Have you asked one of the other girls to help?”

She grimaced. “They said they are too busy. But all they do is giggle after the boys.”

“What about the boys? Have you asked Noah?”

She shook her head miserably. “Too busy giggling after the girls.”

Amusement ran through him. “Only thing for it then.” He stood and offered his hand. “Right, back, left.”

They danced just outside the first ring of columns. Just far enough that no one near the bonfire would see.

Polly stepped on his foot an average of two out of every five steps, so he started to simply spin her around, to her laughing delight. When he finally put her down, she was breathing hard and her color was high.

“I must show Mama before I lose them again.”

“Off with you then.”

She waved and took off down the gentle slope.

A slow clapping brought his attention to the left, a sense telling him who it was before he saw her. Caroline leaned against one of the columns in a mockery of one of his own well-worn poses. “Really, Mr. Deville, a little young for you, isn’t she?”

“How utterly common of you, Caroline, to suggest such a thing. I’m shocked.” He sauntered over and leaned into her, pressing into the same
column. He kept his hands in his pockets, using only his shoulders to bring himself nearer to her position. He watched with satisfaction as her eyes darkened and her lips moistened. She darted a glance around, no doubt to check if they were being observed.

The moonlight and firelight glinted and reflected off the columns, pulling and dispelling the shadows in turn.

She tilted her head. “Little can shock you, I think.”

“Much can shock me, just not the types of things that normally shock others.”

“Mmmm. Well, I can’t say the same in this instance. I can’t believe you chose to come.” She looked at him skeptically, then cast the look over the joyously ratty entourage below.

“No?” He touched a curl. “Do you not know that I would do anything for you?”

She gave him a deadpan look. “You will behave if you attend.”

“I will be nothing but the most charming gentleman I can be.” He smiled winningly.

She bit her lip. “I don’t know…”

“Come now, Caroline, where is your sense of comedy now? Didn’t you fancy a scene with the children earlier? Think of what awaits with me in the midst of a mass of dreadful commoners.”

She hesitated.

“Mrs. Martin!” Noah burst into the clearing. “The group dance is set to begin! It’s a good thing I saw the edge of your dress!” He hustled around her, then stopped when he saw Sebastien.

“Oh, good evening, sir.”

Sebastien tilted his head.

“Are you to attend the festivities?”

“I do believe I shall, thank you, Mr. Miller. Shall we see what waits below?”

He strode forth down the hill with Noah, allowing Caroline to nervously catch up.

“Noah, you will help Mr. Deville, won’t you? Introduce him to some of the men?” She tossed Sebastien a warning look edged with challenge before walking toward the matrons and leaving him behind.

Noah looked uncertain, but then motioned toward the fire, to the glowing shapes and happy faces. Hands covered mouths and eyes darted toward Sebastien as the mass of the hoi polloi whispered and ogled. He pulled forth his most disarming smile and began to chat with the more stringent-looking women and men. He could play the game if he so chose, and the only way to get Caroline was to play it tonight. She would little thank him if he threatened her reputation.

No, he thought, as her erstwhile suitors shook his hand, he didn’t think that he would let anyone else discover what she tried so hard to hide beneath her magnificently competent facade. He smiled charmingly and joined in a discussion on crops, all the while watching her work her magic.

She handled the children. She handled the bullies. She handled the matrons and the upright prigs. She handled the men who had tipped the bottle a little too heavily and were apt to grope a little in their quest for the physical support of a
helping shoulder. More than a few sported bruised ribs after being “handled” by her, he was sure.

She had never elbowed him in the ribs, not even when he had been his most annoying. Not that he ever expected to be elbowed, but now he wondered at the lack. She was obviously quite capable.

“Mr. Deville, is it?”

A severely dressed man stood in front of him, brown hair lightening to silver at the temples. His back straight as if the pole up his backside had been in place since birth.

“Yes. I don’t believe I’ve had the
pleasure
.” Eh. He only needed to make a good impression on most of them. For some reason this one raised his hackles.

“Mr. Wallace.”

Ah, so this was the man who sought Caroline’s hand and whom the matrons were pushing her toward. He looked the man over more fully. No, he wouldn’t do at all.

He was trying to decide whether to simply ignore him or to break the man when Wallace spoke first.

“How do you know Mrs. Martin?”

Sebastien considered the man. “We met at the manor. She is helping with the games.”

“So you are a competitor?” He said it in the same vein one would define a cockroach.

“No, I am
the
competitor.”

The man’s back snapped even more rigid. Not dim-witted, then, this one. He understood exactly what Sebastien was saying.

“The games will be over in a few weeks and you will be naught but a distant memory, Mr. Deville. I wouldn’t presume anything.”

That strange twinge gripped him again, but he shoved it aside. He might one day be a distant memory, but this rigid man would snuff out the last carefree light in a pair of beautiful blue eyes, were he able. And that, Sebastien wasn’t going to let happen.

“But you presume, don’t you?” He smiled and rolled an unlit cheroot between his fingers. “Hasn’t gotten you very far, and I daresay that it won’t get you further in the future. Perhaps you should take the hint from the lady herself? Look to less fair pastures that encourage your attentions?”

The man’s color went high and his mouth opened, but a tug on Sebastien’s sleeve had him looking down.

“Will you dance with me again?”

Sebastien smirked at Wallace, then extended a low arm to Polly. “Of course, sweet girl.”

They left the man fuming in their wake.

The music filled and surrounded her as she watched Sebastien dance with Polly, and Noah dance with a pretty villager whom he had been making cow eyes at all night. Everyone paired together and enjoying themselves. Even Mr. Wallace was leaving her alone for once. She hadn’t seen him in a good ten minutes, and he was usually relied upon to hover at her side and chide all manner of her decisions. The matrons had even loosened up a bit under the wild midsummer
moon. Free to show some affect in the midst of the festivities.

She wanted to move, to be free too. To feel the music and passion, the release. But she couldn’t afford to do so yet. She had just gained the matron’s respect. She needed a place…

The perfect spot blinked in the moonlight, and she felt the pull. Breaking away from curious eyes and reminders of bad choices past, she disappeared into the night, the itch needing fulfillment, her body needing to be free.

He had seen her tapping on the sidelines, trying to ignore the music and dancing. Trying to stay aloof and restrained. He had danced with Polly, and when he had turned she had disappeared.

He excused himself from the group and headed toward the edges of the festivities, hoping that everyone would think he was simply going to relieve himself.

Skirting around the edges, he kept eyes focused on finding her. She wouldn’t have left yet. Not her celebration. Not after the preparations and effort. She was the hostess, the queen, the general of the assembled troops. Not able to share in the celebration because of her need to maintain dignity in public at all times.

He surveyed the grounds. Where would she go?

His eyes went to the ruins, and he instinctively headed toward the columns, the broken hall perched along the slope. They were shadowed and dark, haunted if one believed the tales Caroline spun.

He heard a soft swish as he rounded the path into the still-standing entry room of what was once a great hall. He could almost believe in spirits as he watched her move.

She swayed in the shadows, dancing, her body bending and twirling, hidden from the view of the celebration, yet close enough to hear the music, the laughter, the people singing. The atmosphere was alive between the cold stones, the vibrations clinking within, the sound echoing in an eerie, hypnotic way, wrapping around limbs and pulling to the melody and beat. She swayed like some earthen fairy, unable to come out during the day, only caught at night by the diligent or lucky man who fell upon her path.

Sebastien felt himself pulled toward her across the turned stones and moon-shadowed path. And when she made a gentle turn into his arms, they both froze, the laughter from outside washing over them, the voices and fiddles, the chatter and merrymaking, seeping in and around with the strike of the perfect moment and the triviality of the banal.

He slowly lifted her hand, pressed his lips to her knuckles, eyes never leaving hers, lips straying across perfect skin, fingers wrapping together. He twirled her and she gasped, her eyes bright in the moonlight, startled, then heavy with some emotion that went beyond want and into pure need. Erotic, wanting and sure, her eyes held his, only breaking as he spun her again, then reconnected, the deep need within sending pure heat straight down his spine.

He twirled her into his chest, and her fingers rose to curl into his hair, her breath heavy against his throat, lips gasping against his chin as he led them in some strange dance he had never done. Never attempted. A writhing need, expressed to music that beat in his blood rather than whispered in his ears. Caught up in some spell she had cast, had become ensnared in herself in the midst of a temple of ancient stone.

Forbidden longing to bind himself to the siren’s song rose within him, and he turned them in a writhing circle, pushing her against one broken wall, grinding into her and capturing her lips as she tried to climb him, to seat herself on him and fulfill the spell. Desperate movements, mewing whimpers, forbidden promises.