A Rose in Winter (39 page)

"Don't touch me!" she gasped and jerked away as his whisper stabbed to the roots of her being, tearing holes in the thin facade of her composure. Shaking, she faced him, holding up both wrists accusingly. "You see? They are both bruised. You are no better than he is. For most of this evening I have been dragged hither and fro by men who declare they only wish to protect me."

Christopher recognized her anger and gave a brief, mocking bow. "Your pardon, my lady. I only sought to tell you about a man whose intentions are less than honorable."

"And what of yours, sir?" she scoffed. "If we should venture to the warmth of yonder stable, would you, then, withhold yourself? Or see my virtue to an end?"

He moved close but carefully refrained from contact, though his eyes devoured with ravenous hunger all that he saw. "You have guessed the truth, madam." His voice was husky and warm. " "Us my dearest yearning to take you in my arms and have done with this damned virginity. If your husband cannot do the thing, then in mercy let it fall to me, but do not waste yourself on that strutting cock, Talbot. He would use you to the limits of his boredom, then hand you to his friends for whatever end they could conceive."

Erienne stared up at him, and when she spoke it was almost in awe. "And what of you, Christopher? If I were to yield myself to you, would you, then, honor me?"

"Honor you?" he breathed. "Sweetest Erienne, how could I not? You are ever in my thoughts, bending me, twisting me, plucking at the fibers of my mind. The man inside me trembles whenever you're near, and I groan in agony for the touch of your hand laid upon me in a soft caress. I am beset with my desire for you, and if I thought for one moment that you would not loathe me forever, I would ease my lusts this very night, be you willing or nay. But I'd rather hear my name fall from your lips with words of love than snarled in tones of hate. "Tis the one thing that keeps you safe from me, Erienne. 'Tis the only thing."

She could only gaze at him, her lips parted as a tumult of emotions coursed through her bosom. There raged within her a memory of a night in an abandoned stable, when his kisses had seared through her resistance and left her shaken with the realization of her own passion. The feelings came back, and she was seized by a biting, raging fear that if she delayed a moment longer, she could dishonor herself, her husband, and her house. She whirled and fled, afraid that he would press for an answer and was just as frightened of the one she would give.

Chapter Thirteen

THE jamb of the window was cool against Erienne's temple as she stared out through the crystal panes. Before night had settled over the land, clouds had gathered and now formed a gossamer veil that hid the face of a bashful, waning moon. Far off to the south a multitude of London lamps cast an amber glow against the lowering mass. Even as she watched, a soft, misting rain began to fall, and the distant lights faded until only the gnarled, naked arms of the ancient oaks twisted up into the darkness, their forms dimly lit by the stable lanterns. Beyond the grounds of the manse, no detail, no hint of habitation could be seen.

Erienne rubbed her brow against the smooth wood, as if to soothe the confusion that churned inside her head. She was thankful that Lord Saxton had not returned from his business, for she was skeptical of how well she could hide her agitation from him.

Her breath clouded the diamond-shaped panes, shutting off her view of the world beyond. With a half-angry discontent, she moved away from the window and gathered the soft, velvet robe close about her against the chill of the room. Seeking warmth, she went to the fireplace and sat on a low stool in front of it. The lamps had been doused in the chamber except for a single candle on the bedside commode. Blending with its meager light, the leaping flames threw a soft, golden illumination into the room, elongating and distorting shadows.

Though a deep weariness had come upon her after the rush of the long day had ebbed, her thoughts continued to tumble in a crashing, tumultuous surf and refused to give her rest. Christopher's words would not remain interred in the back of her mind, where she wished to bury them. Instead, they crept forward like gray, thin ghouls to torment her and maul her peace of mind.

"That rakish Yankee attacks me from every side," she moaned and shook her head in abject frustration, setting the long tresses swaying with fluid motion. "His boldness knows no bounds! Why won't he leave me alone?"

No answer came from the dancing flames, and she shifted to another rationale in a desperate attempt to bring her roiling discontent to heel.

" 'Twas the music," she excused. "The rhythm and the dance which excited me."

Even as she spoke them, the words sounded hollow and without substance. It was
his
arms that had warmed her!
His
voice that had shot tiny little bursting shards of delight through her! His nearness that had sent her senses reeling!

She fought against the whirlpool of unwelcome emotions that threatened to drag her down to a new depth of despair. There was a tremor in her breast that would not obey the command of her will. Then slowly a darker shape took form, and the ghosts dissipated before its threat. The featureless leather mask, though unchanged, stared at her with an accusing glare.

Erienne's head came up with a jerk, and her eyes were wide as they searched the room for the one whose stealth had oftentimes brought him in unheeded. Though the chamber was empty, she rose to her feet and began to pace nervously, her restless strides measuring the width and breadth of the bedroom. There seemed to be no escape from her plight. The more she tried to find some reason and logic in her feelings, the more confused she became, until finally with a moan of hopeless frustration, she tossed aside her robe and fell back upon the bed. She lay without moving, letting the cool air seep through the thin gown and touch her body. Her shaking eased by slow degrees, and her mind was lulled by the serene stillness of the room. Her eyelids sagged as her mind drifted where it would, swirling through the dances and the moments when sparkling grayish-green eyes had held hers prisoner. The shadowed form came back to stand at the end of her bed, but this time she could conjure no manly features in the gloom. The thing stared at her with a fixed smile and red, glowing eyes that pierced the darkness, paralyzing her with a sudden fear. Then a log fell in the fireplace, and in the flare of light, her eyes caught the broad shoulders, the black garments, and the smooth mask of her husband.

With a startled gasp, she sat upright. The smile and the red eyes were nothing more than dark holes in his leather visage, yet her terror did not wane as she thought of what he might have seen in her.

"My pardon, Erienne," he rasped. "You were so still, I thought you were asleep. 'Twas not my intent to frighten you."

The frantic throbbing of her heart would not be calmed by his assurance. She sought to steady her voice as she answered, "You've been gone so long, milord, I was beginning to think you had either forgotten or deserted me."

Wheezing laughter came from the mask. "Unlikely, madam."

She felt the bold touch of his hungry gaze, and inwardly she shivered. His gloved hand reached out, and she froze as it pushed aside her tumbling hair. His fingers moved in one long, slow, unending caress along her arm, and even through the light covering of her gown she was sure she could feel the inhuman coolness of his touch. Her pulse quickened when he stepped nearer, and in one scrambling leap she was out of the bed. Flying across the room, she fetched a small jeweled box that Anne had presented her earlier in the evening.

"Look at this, milord," she bade, bringing it back to him and giving no mind to the transparency of her nightgown as she stood before him with the box resting on outstretched palms. Her only thought was to avoid his caresses and, if she could, to placate his temper. "Isn't it lovely?"

Lord Saxton opened the velvet-lined box, momentarily displaying an interest in it, then without looking up he startled her with a hoarsely murmured inquiry. "Do you realize how much I want you, Erienne?"

She lowered the box, then stared helplessly into the eyeholes of the mask when he raised his head. Tears filled her eyes as she struggled with the turmoil that writhed within her. She knew she had no right to deny him, but neither could she bring herself to the point of yielding. The fear of what lay beneath the mask could not be easily set aside.

His breath sighed through the openings in the leather. "Never mind. I can see you're not yet ready to become my wife."

She raised a hand to him in plaintive appeal, but as hard as she tried, she could not make herself touch him. She could not think of him as a husband.

Lord Saxton rose and made his laborious way to the door, where he paused and spoke over his shoulder. "I have more business to attend on the morrow. I will be gone before you waken."

With that, he left and closed the door behind him, leaving Erienne to stare in rampant misery at the portal. Her shoulders began to shake as muted sobs welled up within her and tears streamed down her face.

When she joined the Leicesters for the morning meal, Erienne was surprised to find them already in the drawing room with another visitor, one who managed immediately to turn her emotions into a jangled knot of sensations. When she first saw him, standing tall and dashing beside the window, her heart quickened and she had to squelch a surge of excitement. Then anger and resentment began to well up in her breast as she thought of the man's audacity in presenting himself to her husband's friends.

Anne came across the room where Erienne had halted beside the door and took her arm. "Come, my dear. I have someone I'd like you to meet."

Erienne resisted being drawn forward and, avoiding Christopher's amused gaze, replied in a muted tone, "Your pardon, my lady, but Mr. Seton and I are already acquainted."

"Acquainted perhaps, Erienne," Anne responded pleasantly, "but I'll wager never properly introduced." She led the reluctant young woman across the space and halted before the man. "Lady Saxton, may I present Mr. Christopher Seton, a kinsman of yours, I believe."

Erienne looked at her hostess in astonishment, not quite sure she had heard her correctly. She gingerly repeated the word that had caused her distress. "Kinsman?"

"Oh, yes! Let me see now. The Setons and Saxtons are related in several ways." Anne pondered the matter for a moment, then waved a hand as if to dismiss it all. "Well, no matter. The latest was by marriage, and I believe there was a common ancestor back there somewhere. That would make you at least cousins."

"Cousins?" Erienne's dismay leaked through in her voice, and she felt as if someone had just closed a heavy gate to bar her escape.

"At the very least," Anne assured her earnestly. "And quite possibly something else as well."

"But he's a Yankee!" Erienne protested. Humor shone brighter in the translucent orbs, and a warming ire at his effrontery stirred in her.

"Really, my dear," Anne reproached the young wife gently, "we cannot all be so fortunate as to live out our lives on good, English soil, but one can hardly ignore the ties of blood. I, for one, have completely forgiven my sister—"

"Harrumph!" The marquess interrupted his wife's chatter abruptly. "Let's not get into a detailed review of the family tree, my dear. I'm sure Christopher can explain it all in simpler terms." He turned to his guest expectantly.

"Actually"—Christopher's shoulders lifted in a lazy shrug—"Stuart's mother was a Seton before marriage. I have always been considered something of an outcast by the family, so they usually strive to disallow whatever claim I may have."

"I believe I understand their reasoning," Erienne quipped in subtle sarcasm.

Grinning roguishly, he inclined his head. "Thank you, cousin."

"I am not your cousin!" she corrected crisply. "Indeed, had I known
you
were kin, I would
never
have consented to this marriage."

"You mean you haven't fallen madly in love with Stuart yet?" he chided. His eyes gleamed with mischief, and when she opened her mouth to retort, he put up a hand to halt her. "No need to explain, cousin. I have no great love for him myself. We tolerate each other only because the situation demands it. In fact, we seem to exist only to antagonize the other. I envy him his newly acquired bride, and he is jealous' of my good looks, which"—he shrugged—"simply makes us both quite incompatible."

Phillip turned to his wife, seeking to ease the tension of the moment. "We'd better have breakfast, my dear, if we are to be about our affairs."

"Christopher, will you bring Erienne along?" Anne urged sweetly as she took her husband's arm and moved toward the dining room.

"Of course, madam." Christopher gallantly presented his arm to the dark-haired beauty, at the same time catching her hand and pulling it through the crook of his elbow, not giving her a chance to deny him.

Erienne yielded rather than make a scene, but behind Anne's back she glared up at him and hissed, "You're outrageous!"

"Has anyone told you this morning," he breathed, blithely ignoring her irritation as he bent his head near hers, "how beautiful you are?"

She lifted her slim nose to a higher elevation, avoiding any reply. Still, she could not quite quell the stirring of pleasure his words aroused.