Chapter
6
Elena woke early after a restless
night. Her dreams had been fitful, filled with shadowed images of
Drake pursuing her through a long, twisting maze that had no
end.
She spent a few minutes wondering what
it meant, if it meant anything at all, then shrugged it off.
Probably just a case of prewedding jitters manifesting themselves
in a nightmare.
Sitting up, she stretched her arms over
her head. It was her wedding day. Last night, marrying Drake had
seemed like the answer to all her problems; now, she wasn’t so
sure. He was devastatingly handsome and physically appealing, and
there was no denying that she was attracted to him but—she didn’t
really know anything about him. He was little more than a handsome
stranger. And he didn’t know any more about her than she knew about
him. Why would he agree to marry a woman he had known such a short
time? What did he hope to gain?
Shaking off her doubts, she went
downstairs for something to eat. As usual, a tray awaited her.
While drinking a glass of orange juice, a new thought occurred to
her. She had nothing suitable to wear to a wedding. True, Drake had
gifted her with a number of dresses, but even though they were
silk, they weren’t really elegant enough for a wedding. And she
didn’t have any heels. Or a veil. Or flowers.
Of course, none of those things were
necessary. All that was needed for a wedding was a bride, a groom,
and a priest.
And then she frowned. She had no idea
where the ceremony would take place, no idea what her future
husband’s religion might be. For all she knew, he might not
practice any religion at all. Her uncle professed to being
Catholic, but in all the years she had lived with him, he had never
accompanied the family to church, never attended Mass, not even at
Christmas.
Elena glanced down as the cat rubbed
against her ankles. “Where did you come from?” she asked, and
received a loud “meow” in reply.
“I guess it’s too late to worry about
where we’re getting married,” Elena mused as she lifted the cat
onto her lap and idly scratched its ears. “I can either marry my
uncle, marry Drake, or run away again, although I don’t know where
I’d go from here. Do you?”
Smoke stared at her through unblinking
yellow eyes.
“I just hope I’m not making a horrible
mistake.”
A low rumble rose in the cat’s
throat.
“I’ve never done anything so impulsive
and yet, it feels right, somehow.” She glanced around the hall.
“Maybe there really is some kind of enchantment on this place. Oh,
I know, that sounds silly, and yet, ever since I walked through the
door that first night, I’ve felt like I belong here, you know? It’s
nonsense, of course. I don’t believe in Fate.”
The cat had no opinion on the subject.
Instead, he rubbed his head against her breast.
She stroked the cat’s fur for several
minutes, her thoughts turned inward. “One good thing, when I’m a
married woman, I won’t have to stay hidden away in this old castle
during the day. I’ll be Mrs. Drake. . . .”
She shook her head ruefully. “I don’t
even know his last name. But he’s been kind to me, you know. I told
him I wanted a marriage in name only, because, after all, I don’t
really know him, but—there’s no denying he’s very sexy, and I can’t
help wondering what it would be like to taste more than his
kisses.”
The cat looked up at her, its golden
yellow eyes bright. If it hadn’t been impossible, she would have
sworn the animal was smiling at her. Or maybe
laughing.
Elena was torn between wishing the sun
would set and hoping it would never go down when there was a knock
on the castle door. In all the time she had been here, Drake hadn’t
received any visitors. The only outsiders to come calling had been
her uncle’s men. Had they returned?
Hands clenched, she glanced around the
room. What should she do? If she stayed quiet and didn’t answer the
door, maybe whoever it was would go away.
The knock came again. Harder. Louder.
And then a voice. A woman’s voice.
“Miss Knightsbridge? Hello? Is anyone
home? It’s Madame Raschelle.”
Elena frowned. Who on earth was Madame
Raschelle, and what was she doing here?
“The dressmaker,” the woman clarified.
“From Brasov. I have a delivery for Lord Drake.”
Lord Drake? He hadn’t said anything about
being royalty. Curious, she went to open the door.
“Miss Knightsbridge?”
Elena nodded. Madame Raschelle was tall
and lean. Her hair was bright red under a frilly bonnet that was
the same shade of green as her eyes. Her russet-colored silk gown
and colorful fringed shawl were like nothing Elena had ever seen
before, except in period movies.
“May I come in?” Madame Raschelle
asked, a note of amusement in her voice.
“What? Oh, yes, of course.” Elena took
a step back, allowing the other woman entrance, only then noticing
that she had several large plastic garment bags draped over one
arm, and a large handbag over the other.
“I’ve brought you a number of gowns to
try on, my dear,” Madame Raschelle said. She dropped the garment
bags onto the trestle table, along with her bag.
“Gowns?”
“For the wedding.”
“Oh, but I can’t . . . I mean, I don’t
have any money to pay for . . .”
Madame Raschelle dismissed Elena’s
concern with a wave of one beringed hand. “Not to worry, my dear.
Lord Drake has taken care of that.”
“But . . .” Elena sighed. There was no
use arguing with the dressmaker. She obviously had orders from the
master of the castle.
Madame Raschelle removed her shawl,
then began unzipping the bags, pulling out one dress after another,
each more beautiful than the last. Rich silks and brocades, lush
velvets, smooth satins, most of them in varying shades of white
from ivory to cream. Two gowns stood out from the rest, one the
color of a midsummer sky, the other a pale rose. In addition, there
were a number of undergarments.
Elena could only stare at the amazing
assortment. So many styles and fabrics. How could she ever be
expected to choose just one gown when they were all so
exquisite?
Madame Raschelle held up a velvet gown
with a square neck and long fitted sleeves that ended in points.
“This is one of my favorites,” she said, smiling.
Elena ran her hand over the soft,
cream-colored velvet. Lace edged the neckline. The skirt was
gathered up on one side, revealing more lace. It reminded Elena of
dresses worn in medieval times.
“Why don’t you try it on?” the
dressmaker suggested.
With a nod, Elena took the dress and
hurried up the stairs to her chamber. She changed under the curious
eyes of the cat, then glanced around, only then remembering that
there was no mirror in the room. She frowned as she realized there
were no mirrors in any of the rooms of the castle.
Lifting her skirts, she made her way
down the stairs.
“So,” Madame Raschelle asked, smiling.
“Does it suit?”
“I need a mirror.”
The dressmaker glanced around the room,
then rummaged in her bag and produced a large hand mirror, which
she offered to Elena.
“Oh,” Elena murmured, “it is lovely,
isn’t it?”
“Quite. Perhaps you should try them all
on?”
There was no need, Elena thought. She
had already made up her mind. Still, who knew when she would ever
have a chance like this again? Between the two of them, they
carried all the garments up to Elena’s room.
Trying on all the gowns was not only
time-consuming, but a mistake. Elena had been certain the velvet
was the gown she wanted, but there was a lovely silk adorned with
pearls, a beautiful satin with an empire waist, an elegant ivory
brocade fit for a queen. How was she ever to decide?
“Lord Drake instructed me to tell you
that you might keep them all, if you so desired,” Madame Raschelle
remarked.
“All of them?” Elena had never seen
such lavish attire, could scarce imagine their cost.
“He is a man of wealth and power,” the
dressmaker said. “He can well afford the price.”
“But . . . all of them?” Aside from her
wedding, when would she ever again have need of such finery?
“Perhaps just the velvet. And the blue satin. And the rose silk.
And the ivory brocade.”
Madame Raschelle laughed heartily as
she began hanging the gowns Elena had selected in the
wardrobe.
“Of course, you will also need shoes.”
Reaching into her valise again, the dressmaker produced a pair of
satin pumps and placed them on the floor.
She reached into her valise yet again
and pulled out a long, thin box. Lifting the lid, she shook out a
shoulderlength veil.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” Elena murmured,
stroking the delicate lace.
“I knew you would like it. And now, the
pièce de résistance,” the woman said, and dipping into the valise
once more she withdrew a long white nightgown that was so sheer, it
was little more than a mere whisper of diaphanous
cloth.
Elena stared at it, thinking it was as
delicate as a spider web. A web for catching a man’s
interest.
“For the wedding night,” the dressmaker
said, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.
“But . . .” Elena bit down on her lower
lip. Had Drake misunderstood her? Theirs was to be a marriage in
name only.
Madame Raschelle smiled. “The nightgown
was my idea. I added it to his order when I saw that he had
neglected to think of it.”
Elena forced a smile. She was relieved
that the nightgown hadn’t been Drake’s idea. Wasn’t
she?
“I wish you every happiness, my dear,”
Madame Raschelle said. “If you have need of more gowns, you have
but to let me know.”
“Thank you,” Elena said sincerely,
though she doubted she would be calling on the dressmaker any time
soon.
Elena accompanied the older woman to
the front door, bid her good-bye, and then closed and locked the
door behind the rather eccentric dressmaker.
She stood there a moment; then,
realizing it would soon be sundown, she hurried back to her room to
bathe and dress.
Drake stood in front of the fireplace,
a glass of wine in one hand as he waited for his bride to appear.
The priest from the next town sat in one of the chairs facing the
fire, his hands folded in his lap, his benign expression belying
the nervous tic in his left eye, the rapid beating of his
heart.
Drake grunted softly. He had never seen
the cleric until tonight, when he summoned him to the castle, yet
it was obvious that the good Father possessed a strong inner sense
that warned him of danger. Though Drake meant the man no harm, it
was an instinct for survival that would serve the priest well if he
but listened to it. The priest’s cook and her husband stood nearby,
called to serve as witnesses.
At the sound of footsteps, Drake
glanced toward the staircase. For a moment, he stood frozen as he
watched Elena descend the steps. She was exquisite. The
cream-colored velvet gown clung lovingly to each curve, outlining a
figure so perfect as to make other women weep. A delicate lace veil
covered her face, giving her a ghostly appearance in the flickering
light of the candles. Her hair fell over her shoulders like a fall
of thick black silk.
He moved quickly toward her, eager to
be near her, to touch her. To taste her. Reining in his rampant
lust, he took her hand in his. Her skin was cool; he could feel her
trembling. “How lovely you are,” he murmured. “And how lucky I
am.”
She blushed prettily. “Thank you, Lord
Drake,” she replied, emphasizing the last two words.
He lifted one brow.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a
title?”
“It is merely a title of respect,” he
said with a shrug. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Keeping hold of her hand, he led her
into the hall where the priest waited. “Elena, this is Father
Andrew. He will be performing the ceremony.”
Elena smiled tentatively. “Good
evening, Father.”
Rising, the priest offered her his
hand. “Good evening, my child.”
Elena smiled at the man and woman who
were to be their witnesses. She thought they both looked ill at
ease. Certainly they didn’t believe the rumors about ghosts in the
castle?
Elena tried to concentrate on what the
priest was saying, but she couldn’t stop stealing glances at Drake.
He was devastatingly handsome in a pair of black trousers, black
boots, and a long black coat over a white silk shirt. When he
looked at her, a thousand butterflies took wing in the pit of her
stomach. Was it fear? Or excitement? Or perhaps a bit of
both?
When he squeezed her hand, she realized
Father Andrew was waiting for her response. She blinked at the
priest. If she said yes, there was no turning back, no changing her
mind. How could she marry a man she hardly knew?
Panicked, she looked up at Drake. The
calm assurance in his eyes drove her uncertainty away. Lifting her
chin, she murmured, “I do.”
A rush of heat warmed her cheeks when
the priest pronounced them man and wife. And then Drake was lifting
her veil, taking her into his arms, lowering his head to kiss her,
and everything else faded into the distance. There was only a pair
of strong arms to hold her, a pair of firm lips playing over hers,
his tongue teasing her own. She leaned into him, wanting to be
closer. A soft moan rose in her throat as she slid her fingers up
his nape to curl in his hair.
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.
She stared down at the big gray cat,
who stared back at her. What kind of creature was it? Surely this
was no ordinary cat.
Telling herself she was thirsty, she
hurried into the kitchen, shutting the cat outside.
She paused a moment, her back to the
door, the image of the cat licking her blood melding with a similar
image of Drake doing the same thing.
Shaken, she went to the ice chest for a
bottle of water, then made her way up the stairs to the main hall.
With a shake of her head, she sank down on the sofa in front of the
hearth, felt an odd foreboding when the cat padded into the
room.
Jumping up on the back of the sofa, the
cat purred loudly, then sat down and began to wash its
paws.
Elena shivered as a chill ran down her
spine. She had shut the cat up in the garden only moments ago. How
had it gotten into the castle?