The Ravencliff Bride (16 page)

Sara held her peace. She watched him walk barefooted through an adjoining door that led to his bedchamber, catching a glimpse of a massive raised bed made with sumptuous quilts and creamy linens. He snatched his dressing gown from the lounge beside a hearth lit there as well, and walked
back into the sitting room attempting to shrug the uncooperative satin garment on over his bandaged shoulder.

“Here, let me help you with that,” she said, instinctively reaching to untangle the robe he’d twisted by trying to slip it on one-handed.

“Don’t!” he gritted, but it was too late.

As if they had a will of their own, her hands slid from the tangled dressing gown to his broad chest, her fingers buried in the silky mat of black hair. The heart beneath hammered wildly, shuddering against her open palms, and his ragged breathing became rapid as he stared down into her eyes, his own glazed and dilated in the hearthlight.

“My God, Sara,
don’t
. . .” he murmured.

Sara scarcely heard over the thunder of her own heartbeat. It had gone too far for her to stop. His scent overwhelmed her, drifting from his hair and moist skin, salty-warm, clean, and feral, laced with brandy. How could she ever forget?

Her arms slipped around him. What was she thinking? That was just the trouble; she
wasn’t
thinking. His closeness was like a drug, drawing her under, blurring the edges of right and wrong, dissolving reason.

Every sinew in the long, lean length of him responded to her touch, though his firm grip on her upper arm made a valiant attempt at resistance. It was like petting a snarling dog with a wagging tail. Which should she believe? The physical evidence of his arousal stretching his faun-colored pantaloons, the bruising pressure of it swelling against her belly through the thin, white muslin, put paid to that decision. All at once, he groaned. The wounded arm slipped around her waist. Crushing her closer still, he cupped her head in his other hand at the base of her neck, swooped down like his namesake the raven, and parted her lips with his own skilled mouth in a kiss that drained her senses.

His silken tongue entered her mouth, drawing hers to it. She tasted the brandy he’d just drunk, warm, earthy, and
mysterious on her tongue, but more mysterious was the man himself. His very essence was in her now, but she wanted more, she wanted all of him—all of the promise in that dynamic body—and she wanted it not just for the moment, but for all time.

He buried his hand in her hair and deepened the kiss—primitive, feral; all things wild under Heaven lived in it. Like a starving beggar let loose at a feast, he devoured her with those bruising lips, and yet there was a facet of tenderness in him, a practiced restraint lying under the surface of his passion like a sleeping animal that defied the rest. What would it take to rouse that sleeping beast? She was on the verge of finding out.

He freed his fingers from her hair, which had fallen over her shoulders, and reached for her breast and the stiffened nipple budding into tight awareness, straining against the embroidered muslin bodice. Sara groaned, and he slid the puffed sleeve down, spread the décolleté, and exposed the shuddering breast beneath to those lips that had left her weak and trembling in his arms. A deep, guttural groan escaped her throat as he leaned down. His tongue encircled the hardened nipple, drawing it into his mouth, teasing it taller—sucking relentlessly until her loins were on fire with icy hot waves of forbidden sensation that weakened her knees. But was it forbidden? They were married after all. Then he straightened and possessed her lips again, and she leaned into his arousal until it responded to the pressure of her undulating motion, growing harder still. It was as if Nicholas had burst into flame and ignited her, setting loose white-hot tongues of fire along the sexual stream flowing between them. It was magical . . . until he broke the spell.

Throwing his head back, he loosed the closest thing to the howl of a dog she’d ever heard, and let her go. It reminded her of Nero’s plaintive howl. The sound spread gooseflesh the length of her body, and left her trembling in the chill that
had come between them in the absence of his warm arms around her.

“Nooo,” he moaned at the end of it. “No, Sara . . .
no!
”

Sara scarcely drew breath, watching him struggle toward composure. His chest was heaving, and he raked the ebony hair back from his sweaty brow with a trembling hand as he fought to control his breathing.

“Why, Nicholas?” she murmured. Covering her breast, still wet from his lips, she took a step closer.

“
No
, I said,” he repeated, backing away as she advanced. “Stay back. Come . . . no closer.”

“But, why, Nicholas,” she pleaded. “You want me. I
know
you want me. I felt how you want me just now. How can you stand there and deny it?”

“I want you, yes,” he gritted out, filling his empty snifter. He downed the brandy in one rough gulp. “You are a very desirable woman, Sara, and I’m hardly made of stone, but I cannot have you—not now . . . maybe not ever. It isn’t fair to either of us to live with false hope. It’s best that we stick to the original agreement.”

“I don’t understand.”

The breath left his lungs on a long, empty sigh. “I know you don’t,” he said, “and I’m sorry for that. This here just now . . . never should have happened. It shan’t again, I assure you.”

“But I want it to,” she murmured through a tremor. “If you do not want children—”

“Sara, it’s not that simple,” he interrupted. His misted eyes were dark pools of red fire catching glints from the hearth, and his moist skin glistened with sweat. “This whole arrangement was a mistake,” he said. “I see that now. If you find that you cannot abide by it, I shall take steps to release you. It would be best if we do that now, before things become . . . more involved . . . Before we go too far.”

“It’s already too late for that,” said Sara. “If you would
only explain yourself. All this time, I thought it was something in me that repulsed you—”

His mad, humorless laugh interrupted her.

“I did . . . until tonight, Nicholas. You’ll never convince me of that now. What in God’s name can it be?”

“God has nothing to do with it, Sara,” he snarled. He began to prowl the edge of the Aubusson carpet before the hearth in the same manner that he had done several times before in her presence, only now, he was shaken, and it showed. Was it the injury that had drained him so, or what had just occurred between them? She didn’t speak, watching him travel the textured rug for what seemed an eternity before he stopped in his tracks and faced her. “All right,” he said, “since you will not make it easy for me to end it, I shall have to take the initiative. I owe you an explanation, it’s true, but that cannot be just yet. Before I could even think of carrying you through that door to my bed, we would need to talk, and I would have to be assured that you would keep what I tell you in the strictest confidence, that what I confide be held no less than sacrosanct—inviolable.”

“Done,” she said.

“No, it isn’t that easy, Sara. I have to be certain of it. At the moment, I am not, or I would have put it to you long ago.”

“What can I do to convince you?”

“Nothing! That’s the hellish part, and such a conversation between us cannot even be considered until all this business with Alex is settled. You must be patient. If you cannot be, I shall have Watts bring the brougham ’round, and have you away at once to one of my other properties until permanent arrangements can be made for you elsewhere.”

Sara gave it thought. Something dark and dreadful lurked between the lines, but she could not read it. Perhaps it was better that she could not. All she knew then was that, no matter the consequences, she could not let him send her away.
She could not bear never to see him again, never feel those strong arms, those hungry lips—the anxious pressure of his manhood leaning heavily against her. Even with the broad span of rug between them, the ghost of his arousal haunted her, sending white-hot ripples of achy heat through her most private regions. A fresh surge of hot blood rushed to her temples at the realization of the power this man had over her even from a distance. They no longer needed to touch; he was in her soul.

“Very well, Nicholas,” she said, her voice steady, for all that she was a shambles then. “I shall be patient, but not for long. That would be cruel.”

“I will never harm you, Sara,” he said. “That is the reason we are having this little talk. I am not a cruel man. I want this situation dealt with just as much as you do. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, Nicholas.”

“Good,” he said, bending to retrieve his dressing gown, which lay forgotten until that moment in a heap on the floor. The minute he picked it up, she took a step closer, of a mind to help him into it, but he held up his hand, and flung the robe down again. “Ohhh no!” he said. “Enough! I shall see you to your rooms just as I am. Come.”

Exiting the suite, he took up a pistol from the gateleg table beside the door, and cocked it. Sara hadn’t noticed it lying there until that moment, and a shattering chill raced the length of her spine. She gasped in spite of herself.

“Just in case,” he said, ushering her into the corridor without touching her. “Stay close to me. There are no hall boys stationed on this floor, which reminds me, how did you get past Peters? It was he stationed outside your suite at this hour, was it not? Was he nodding again? It wouldn’t be the first time—lazy gudgeon.”

“I saw no one outside my suite, Nicholas,” she said. She would not betray Peters. To do so would bring retribution down upon Nell also. Nicholas would keep his secrets, so
would she keep hers. Hoping that Peters was still closeted with the abigail when they reached the tapestry suite, she stayed close to her husband’s side, wishing she hadn’t promised to keep her distance. The corridor was very dark, and her heart had begun to pound again, but not with arousal this time.

They had nearly reached the landing, when something moved toward them from the dimly lit south wing, stopping them both in their tracks. For a moment, Sara’s heart hung suspended in her breast, until the familiar four-footed padding on the carpet that she had so longed to hear these past few days echoed toward them.

“
Nero!
” she cried, as the animal materialized out of the shadows. At sight of them, it stopped in its tracks, slowly exposing its fangs.

To her surprise, Nicholas shoved her behind him, and raised the pistol. “Stay back!” he commanded, squeezing the trigger.

“
Noooooo!
Are you mad?” she cried, spoiling his aim. With both her hands clamped around his wrist, she deflected the bullet toward the ceiling as it discharged. The reverberation was deafening. The acrid odor of gunpowder rose in her nostrils, and a spurt of flames burst from the pistol barrel, all but scorching her skin, as plaster and fragments of a shattered candle sconce rained down over them. Loosing a guttural snarl, the animal bolted and skittered back the way it had come, disappearing in the darkened south wing hallway.

“You little fool!” Nicholas thundered at Sara, sprinting after it. “Get back to your rooms at once, and bolt the door!
That isn’t Nero!
”

The pistol shot brought Mills on the run in his nightshirt, his own pistol drawn, which he handed to Nicholas in exchange for the empty gun. Dr. Breeden, wearing his dressing gown and slippers, and carrying a candle branch, joined them minutes later, and all three set out on a search of the south wing chambers.

“Well, we needn’t speculate any longer over the effects of Nero’s bite, Dr. Breeden,” said Nicholas. “I just saw with my own eyes what might well have been Nero himself, and we both know the impossibility of that. There are no other wolves at Ravencliff.”

“You were aiming to
kill
, my lord?”

“No, certainly not. When it bared its fangs, I meant only to wound it, to bring it down and end this madness, and I would have done if the baroness hadn’t spoiled my aim.”

Smythe and the footmen came running, tugging on their livery coats, their wigs askew, and their hose and breeches twisted. Mills shuffled back and met them at the landing, as more servants came pouring through the green baize door below.

“All is well, all is well,” he called down to Smythe and the others. Nicholas and the doctor ducked inside the nearest chamber—it wouldn’t do to be caught out pistol-shot, when one wasn’t supposed to be in residence. “I was cleaning his lordship’s pistol, and it discharged accidentally,” the valet explained. “I was just now coming to reassure you.”

A rumble of out-of-rhythm murmurings replied to that, as the servants began filing back to their quarters. After a moment, Nicholas stepped out into the corridor again.

“See what you can do with this mess, Mills,” he said, gesturing toward the bits of broken plaster littering the carpet, “and replace the sconce. Those lazy buffleheads will never notice the ceiling, bent over with their ears pressed up against the doors in this house spying on their betters. Just take away the obvious.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Once that’s done, I want you to find Peters, and remand him to Smythe. I want the boy sacked, Mills. This is outside of enough. I told you what would be if he mistepped again in this house, regardless. See to it. He left his post tonight, and her ladyship was with me when . . . this occurred. Smythe knows the consequences of disobedience. See that someone else is posted outside the tapestry suite at once. Make certain whoever replaces Peters understands that the same fate shall befall him if her ladyship is left unguarded again.
Ever!
Then join me in my rooms.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the valet, set in motion.

One by one, Nicholas and the doctor threw open the doors in the south wing, and searched each suite, but there was no sign of the animal. He seemed to have vanished into thin air.

“Where could he have gone?” said Breeden, as they exited the last chamber.

“This house is veined with escape routes,” said Nicholas. “Smugglers occupied it for centuries before the Walravens came to Cornwall. He could have ducked into any one of
them, or melted into the shadows and passed us by when we entered one of these suites. He could be anywhere in the house by now. He has been obsessed with its intricacies since a child.”