Bound by Night (6 page)
Authors: Amanda Ashley
A cough reminded her they weren’t alone. She moved away from Drake, her cheeks burning with embarrassment when she saw the priest and the witnesses staring at her, mouths agape.
Mortified, Elena turned her back to them.
Moments later, she heard the creak of the front door opening as Drake ushered the priest and the other two people out of the castle.
The sound of the door closing brought a sense of relief, and an unexpected rush of anxiety. She was Drake’s wife now. If he chose not to honor his promise to leave her chaste, there was nothing she could do about it. It was a husband’s right to make love to his wife and no one would condemn him for it. She was his now, for better or worse.
“You have not eaten, wife,” he said when he returned.
“No.”
He gestured at the trestle table in the hall. “Sit,” he said, and left the room.
Already giving her orders, Elena thought with a flash of resentment, but she did as she was told, noting that the table was covered with a clean white cloth. Several vases filled with primroses and yellow daisies were grouped in the center, surrounded by a number of flickering red candles set in wrought-iron holders.
Drake returned moments later carrying a large covered tray. He placed it before her, then removed the lid with a flourish, revealing a roasted hen on a bed of rice, a small loaf of fresh bread, a pot of butter and another of honey. Lastly, there was a bottle of wine and two delicate crystal goblets.
“There’s only one plate and one set of silverware.” Elena looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
“Have you forgotten that I prefer to take my meals alone?”
“No. Why didn’t you tell me you were rich?”
“You never asked.”
“But . . . why do you live here, in this old castle? I mean, it’s lovely, but there’s no plumbing or electricity or . . . or anything.”
“I have other holdings that are more modern,” he said, “but every now and then, I like to come here for a while and meditate.” Sitting in a chair across from hers, he filled the wineglasses, then offered her one. “A toast,” he said, touching his goblet lightly to hers, “to my bride. I give you my oath that I will cherish and protect you for as long as you wish.”
He watched as she lifted the glass to her lips, his gaze moving to her throat as she swallowed. Sipping from his own glass, he could not help wishing that it was his wife’s sweet nectar flowing smoothly over his tongue.
Elena kept her gaze on her plate as she ate her dinner. Nevertheless, she was acutely aware of her husband watching her every move. Perhaps that was what made her so careless as she cut a piece of chicken. She gave a little cry of dismay when the knife slipped in her hand. Blood welled from the shallow cut, dripping down the blade onto her plate.
Drake’s nostrils flared as the scent of warm, fresh blood filled the air. Reaching across the table, he took Elena’s hand in his, lifted it to his lips, and licked the blood from the wound. Sweet, he mused, sweeter by far than the finest wine.
Elena gasped, startled by his action, and by the sensual heat that curled in the center of her being when his mouth closed around her finger. She had licked her own blood before. Who hadn’t? It was a normal thing to do when one received a small cut—a scratch from a thorn or some other minor injury. But to have someone else do it was oddly erotic and slightly repulsive at the same time.
After a last lick, Drake tore a strip from her napkin and wrapped it around her finger.
Murmuring her thanks, Elena stared at him. What kind of man had she married?
It was a question that continued to plague Elena later that night when she went to bed. Lying there, she relived the evening.
After dinner, she had removed her veil, and then she and Drake had danced to music provided by an old-fashioned music box. Elena had never considered herself to be much of a dancer, had never really enjoyed it very much, but all that changed when she was in Drake’s arms. His very nearness caused her whole body to hum with pleasure as they waltzed around the room. She followed his lead as if she had been doing it for years.
“I never knew dancing was so much fun,” she had remarked with a shy smile.
“Neither did I, until tonight, wife.”
“You’re very light on your feet for such a big man.”
He arched one brow. “Do you find that odd?”
“Well, um, yes. I remember watching my uncle dance with my aunt when I was a little girl. He lumbered around the floor like a great clumsy bear.”
“And did he roar, as well?”
“Only when he was angry,” she had replied with a grin. “And he was angry most of the time.”
Laughing, Drake spun her around and around until she clung to him, breathless. And then he kissed her, ever so lightly.
Later, they had taken a walk under the stars. Standing in the shadows, with their arms around each other, she had marveled at the wonder of the stars that twinkled like tiny diamonds carelessly tossed across the vast black expanse of the heavens. He had pointed out the constellations. There was Andromeda, the princess; Cassiopeia, the queen; Draco, the dragon, and Leo Minor.
Elena’s heart had skipped a beat when he drew her into his arms, there, in the drifting shadows of the night. She gazed up at him, bewitched by his nearness. Even though she couldn’t see his face clearly, his eyes gleamed with an odd reddish glow in the moon’s light. She could feel the tension in his arms as he pulled her closer. As he lowered his head to hers. As he claimed a kiss.
Her eyelids fluttered down as his mouth closed over hers. At his touch, the strength seemed to drain out of her legs, and she grasped hold of his biceps to steady herself; the muscles in his arms felt like iron beneath her fingertips.
His kiss went on and on and she leaned into him, hoping he would never take his mouth from hers.
She smothered a small cry of protest when he broke the kiss. She pressed her fingertips to her lips. She had no right to ask for more, shouldn’t want more, not when she had insisted on a marriage in name only. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
Now, lying in bed, she stared up at the ceiling, confused by her yearning for a man she hardly knew. What was there about him that intrigued her so? That made her long for more than his kisses? Why did he refuse to dine with her? Where did he go during the day?
She was drifting, on the brink of sleep, when he slid into bed beside her.
Startled to full wakefulness, she sat up, the covers clutched to her breasts. “What are you doing?”
“That should be obvious,” he replied.
“ Yes, but . . . we . . . you . . .”
“I am your husband. You are my wife. I promised not to consummate our marriage. I never promised not to share your bed, which is, after all, my bed.”
She stared at him. Even though the room was dark, she could see that he was shirtless. Was he completely naked under the covers?
“Go to sleep, wife,” he said, and turned his back toward her.
She sat there a moment, her heart pounding. This was something she had not bargained for. Slowly, she slid under the covers, careful to avoid touching him. Turning onto her side, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.
Was he really naked?
She fought the temptation to ease her foot across the short space between them and satisfy her curiosity. Oh, this was never going to work. How did he expect her to sleep when he was lying there beside her—maybe stark naked—and taking up most of the bed?
She flopped over onto her stomach, opened her eyes just a bit, and glared at the back of his head. His hair was long and thick and black and straight. Ever so slowly, she eased one hand out from under the covers, and like a soldier sneaking across a battlefield, she inched her fingers toward a lock of his hair. It was remarkably soft. She jerked her hand away when he rolled over to face her. His eyes glinted in the darkness.
“What are you doing, wife?”
She swallowed hard. “Nothing.”
“Turnabout is fair play.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied indignantly.
“Do you not?”
She stared at him, mute, as his fingers sifted through her hair.
“Anything else you would like to touch?” he asked.
With a shake of her head, she put her back to him again. Oh, but he was the most aggravating man!
Smiling inwardly, Drake closed his eyes and let himself disappear into the dark sleep of his kind.
Elena was surprised to find herself alone in bed when she awoke in the morning. Not exactly alone, she thought. The cat lay curled up on Drake’s pillow.
She lingered there for some time, contemplating the night past, recalling Drake’s kisses, the sensual heat that had flared between them. In spite of her insistence that they not make love, she couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to let him have his way with her. Would it be wonderful ? Or degrading? She supposed it all depended on who you talked to. There had been girls in school who claimed to enjoy it, girls who did it just to be popular, and girls who did it once and said it was disgusting. Maybe a girl’s point of view depended on the guy’s expertise.
Sighing, Elena stroked the cat’s head. At the first touch of her fingers on the animal’s fur, her mind flooded with images of herself and Drake lying in each other’s arms, making love.
With a start, Elena jerked her hand away.
The cat purred loudly, its golden yellow eyes unblinking. And then it pushed its head under her hand.
“Go away!” Elena gave the cat a shove. “Go on! Get out of here!”
With lazy grace, the cat hopped off the bed and padded silently out of the room.
Elena stared after the beast. What on earth had just happened?
Later, after breakfast, Elena decided she had been cooped up inside long enough. An earlier exploration of the castle had revealed a small door in the kitchen that led to a large garden surrounded by a high stone wall. The door creaked loudly, making her wonder how long it had been since anyone but herself had opened it.
Crossing the threshold, she stepped outside, then lifted her face to the sun. Its warmth felt wonderful on her skin and she stood there for several minutes, absorbing the warmth of the light, the chirping of the birds, the faint breeze that stirred the leaves of the trees.
A glance around showed the garden to be badly overgrown. A few primroses fought for survival in a forest of weeds. A small round fountain and a wrought-iron bench were almost completely hidden under a mass of tangled vines.
Her only experience with gardening was growing tomatoes and carrots in a small garden in her uncle’s backyard, but she found work gloves and a pair of shears in a wooden shed and went to work with a vengeance. She worked steadily for two hours before taking a break. Stepping back, she removed the gloves and wiped the perspiration from her brow as she eyed her handiwork. With most of the weeds removed, she saw that a few daisies and daffodils bordered the primroses.
She regarded the weeds piled to one side. She would have to dispose of them, but not just now.
She sat in the shade of one of the trees for twenty minutes, then attacked the vines that shrouded the fountain and the bench. The vines proved to have very small, very sharp thorns. She let out a little yelp of pain when one of the nasty little spines scraped her arm, drawing blood.
As if attracted by the scent of it, Smoke appeared with a loud meow.
“What do you want?” Elena asked irritably. Sitting on the newly cleared bench, she pulled a tissue from the pocket of her jeans, but before she could wipe the blood away, the cat lapped at the thin line of crimson on her arm.
Horrified, Elena sprang to her feet. She was about to lash out at the animal when she realized that the pain was gone, the shallow cut was no longer bleeding, and the skin was, in fact, knitting together even as she watched.
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