Authors: Margaret McPhee
From the depths of her dream Madeline felt him slipping away and sought to recapture the warm contentment that he had offered. She rolled over and thrust an arm over his retreating body.
Lucien stifled the gasp. Hell, but was a man ever so tempted? For a brief moment he allowed himself to relax back into her, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his, inhaling her scent, sweeping his hand lightly over her back to rest upon the rounded swell of her hips. âMadeline.' Her name was a gentle sigh upon his lips. In the greyness of the dawn he studied her features: the long black lashes sweeping low over her eyes, the straightness of her little nose, the softness of her lips parted slightly in the relaxation of slumber. Lucien swallowed hard as his gaze lingered over her mouth. He experienced the urge to cover her lips with his; to kiss her long and deep and hard; to show her what a husband and his wife should be about. But he had promised both her and himself that he would not.
He heard again her question of that night that now seemed so long ago, although it was scarcely four nights since:
What do you wish from me in return, my lord?
And he remembered the proud, foolish answer he had given:
Discretionâ¦a
marriage in name onlyâ¦nothing need change.
But as he lay there beside her, he knew that he had lied. Everything had changed. He knew very well what he wanted: his wife. Lucien's jaw clenched harder. That wasn't supposed to be part of the deal. He looked at her for a moment longer, then allowed himself one chaste kiss against her hair, her long glorious hair, all tousled from sleep. Quietly he slipped from the bed.
Â
Madeline reached for the warm reassurance of her husband's body and found only bare sheets. Her fingers pressed to the coolness of the empty linen. Gone. She sat up with a start, eyes squinting against the sunlight filtering through and around the limp square of material that passed for a curtain. His name shaped upon her lips, worry wrinkled at her nose.
âGood morning, Madeline.' He was lounging back as best he could in the small chair, watching her.
Surely she must still be dreaming? Madeline watched while his mouth stretched to a smile. A tingling warmth responded within her belly. Most definitely this could only be a dream. Part of the same nocturnal imaginings in which she had lain safe within Lucien's strong arms all the night through, shared his warmth, and felt his hand upon her breast. Madeline blushed at the visions swimming through her mind, rubbed at her eyes and cast a rather suspicious look in his direction. âLucien?'
âI thought I might have to carry you sleeping out into the coach. You seemed most resistant to my efforts to wake you.' He was fully dressed, his hair teased to some semblance of order; even the blue shadow of growth upon his chin had disappeared. Her gaze lingered over the strong lines of his jaw and the chiselled fullness of his lips.
Madeline's blush deepened as she remembered exactly what she had been dreaming about. âI must have been very tired to sleep so long. I'm normally awake with the lark. I don't usually lie abed.'
âYou appear to be mastering the art well,' said her husband with a wry smile. âDid you sleep well?'
Madeline's heart skipped a beat. Had last night been real? Or a wonderful dream that followed hard on the heels of a hellish nightmare? The touch of him, the smell of him, the chill in those long powerful limbs. No, she couldn't have imagined that, could she? âYes. After youâ¦after the nightmare passed, I slept very well, thank you.'
The smile dropped and his voice gentled. âDo you dream of Farquharson every night?'
âHow did you know?'
âYou uttered his name aloud.'
They looked at one another. Warm honey brown and pale blue ice.
âI did not mean to wake you,' she said.
âI was awake anyway. As you correctly observed, the chair does not make the most comfortable of sleeping places.' He paused. âYou have not answered my question.'
There was a difference about his face this morning. Nothing that she could define exactly, just something that wasn't the same as yesterday. âYes. He has haunted my dreams since I first met him. Even beforeâ¦before he tried toâ¦' She let the sentence trail off unfinished. âEvery night without fail, he's there waiting in the darkness. I know it sounds foolish, but sometimes I'm afraid to fall asleep.'
Understanding flickered in Lucien's eyes. âHe would have to come through me to reach you, Madeline, and that will only happen over my dead body.'
It seemed that in the moment that he said it a cloud obliterated the sun, and a cold hand squeezed upon her heart. âPray God that it never happens,' she said.
âIt won't,' he said with absolute certainty. âI'll have stopped him long before.'
âWe'll be safe in Cornwall, though. He won't follow us there, will he?'
Lucien did not answer her question, just deflected it and changed the subject. âPut Farquharson from your thoughts. The fresh water was delivered only a few minutes ago; it should still be warm.' He gestured towards the pitcher. âI'll go and order us breakfast. Will fifteen minutes suffice to have yourself ready?'
Madeline nodded, and watched the tall figure of her husband disappear through the doorway. So, even down in Cornwall, so far away from London, the threat of Cyril Farquharson would continue.
Â
The hours passed in a blur. At least the weather held fine until the light began to drain from the day. Then a fine smirr of rain set up as the darkness closed, and they sought the sanctuary of the New London Inn in Exeter. It was the same pattern as the previous two nights. He had promised that they would reach Trethevyn by tomorrow. This would be their last night on the road, his last excuse to share her bedchamber. Lucien thrust the thought away and denied its truth. His presence was just a measure of protection. Or so he persuaded himself. If Lucien had learned anything in the years he'd spent waiting, it was to leave nothing to chance. The busy throng within a coaching inn provided opportunity for Farquharson, not safety from him.
Sharing a bed with Madeline had been an unforeseen complication. Lucien's loins tightened with the memory. He tried to turn his mind to other matters, but memory persisted. No matter how damnably uncomfortable the chair, or the sweet allure of her voice, or, worse still, her soft welcoming armsâ¦Lucien's teeth ground firm. He'd be damned to the devil if he was stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. Take the chair, not the bed, he thought, and made his way up the scuffed wooden staircase of the New London Inn.
Surprisingly the room was not in darkness. The fire still blazed and a candle flickered by the side of the bed. The small room welcomed and warmed him. Still hanging grimly on to his determination, he made his way over to the chair and slipped out of his coat. Not once did he permit his gaze to wander in the direction of the bed and the woman that lay within it. He just kept his focus on the chair, that damned wooden chair, and started to undress.
âLucien,' she said in a quiet voice.
He stilled, his boot dangling in his hand. Temptation beckoned. His eyes slid across to hersâ¦and found that she was sitting up, watching him, her hands encircling the covers around her bent legs, her chin resting atop her blanketed knees. âIs something wrong?' he asked, hoping that she would not notice the huskiness in his voice.
âI wondered if you mightâ¦if you wouldâ¦' The candlelight showed the rosy stain that scalded her cheeks.
Oh, Lord! Lucien knew what it was that his wife was about to ask.
âI thought perhaps if you were here thatâ¦that Farquharsonâ¦that the nightmares might not come.' She glanced away, her face aflame, her manner stilted.
Lucien felt her awkwardness as keenly as if it were his own. How much had it cost her to make such a request? Hell, but she had no idea of the effect that she had upon him. She was an innocent. The boot slipped from Lucien's fingers. He raked a hand roughly through his hair, oblivious to the wild ruffle of dark feathers that fanned in its wake. âMadeline,' he said gruffly, âyou don't know what it is that you ask.'
She gestured towards the empty half of the bed. âIt seems silly that you should be cold and uncomfortable on a hard rickety chair when there is plenty room for both of us in this bed.'
Better that than risk the temptation that lay in what she was so innocently offering. Lucien opened his mouth to deny it.
âI do trust you, Lucien.'
She trusted him, but the question wasâdid he trust himself? The warmth of her sweet gaze razed his refusal before it had formed.
âMadeline,' he tried again, raking his hair worse than ever.
She smiled, and pulled the bedcovers open on the empty side of the bed,
his
side of the bed. âAnd it's not as if my reputation can be ruined by our sleeping in the same bed. We are at least married.' She snuggled down under the covers and waited expectantly.
Lucien knew that he was lost. Could not refuse her. Swore to himself that he would not touch her. Still wearing his shirt and pantaloons, he climbed in beside her.
Â
Madeline felt the mattress dip beneath his weight. Safety and excitement in equal dose danced their way through her veins. She knew that she should not have asked. Perhaps he thought her wanton to have done so. But the need for him to be close was greater than the shame in asking. And so she had spoken the words that Madeline Langley had never thought to utter and asked a man to come into her bed. They lay stiffly side by side. Each on their backs, careful not to look at the other, determined that no part of them should actually touch. His warmth traversed the space between them, so that the full stretch of the left-hand side of her body tingled from his heat. She wondered that he could have brought himself to marry a woman that he found soâ¦lacking. For all that she was neither his social nor financial equal, he did not despise her, for surely something of that would have communicated itself in his manner? When he touched her she felt warm, happy, breathless with anticipation. Clearly Lucien did not feel the same. He did not want to touch her. The gap between them widened. That was when a glimmer of understanding dawned upon Madeline.
âLucien.'
âMmm?' Still he did not turn his head towards her.
It probably was the very question that she should not ask of her new husband, especially when he was lying in bed beside her. Indeed, any sensible woman would not have dreamed of so foolish a folly. But as the prospect of monumental guilt began to blossom, Madeline had to know. Whatever the cost. âMay I ask you something ofâ¦of a personal nature?' She felt him edge infinitesimally away from her.
âYou can ask, Madeline. It does not mean that I will answer.'
A pause, while she searched for the right words. Eloquence of speech had never been Madeline's strong point. She sneaked a glance across at her husband. âBefore you married meâ¦before Lord Farquharsonâ¦' She stopped, unsure of how best to frame her question. And started again. âI know that you did not wish to marry me, that you only did so to prevent Lord Farquharson fromâ¦to keep me safe from him.'
It seemed that the large body next to hers tightened with tension.
âWas there another lady that youâ¦' she took a deep breath ââ¦that you had hoped to marry?' An ache tightened across her chest as she waited for him to answer.
Lucien looked at her then, a look of icy incredulity in those blue eyes.
She swallowed. âI beg your pardon, I should not have asked, butâ¦' Why had she asked?
To find if he has given his heart to someone else,
came back the little whisper.
âThen why did you?' he said curtly.
She shook her head. âI-I thought thatâ¦'
It might explain why you seem so determined to keep this distance between us,
the silent voice came again. She stoppered her ears to its treachery.
âDon't think. The details of my past life do not figure in our arrangement, Madeline.' Then he rolled away on to his side, turning his back on her, and blew out the candle.
The sting of his rejection wounded her. She knew that she was not pretty, not like Angelina. The message was loud and clear. He might have taken her for his wife. He was prepared to share her bedâ¦under duress. But he did not want her as a woman. Could not bring himself to touch her. But last nightâ¦Dreams, only silly foolish dreams, from a silly foolish girl. A marriage of convenience. A contract of protection. Safety from Farquharson. That was what he had offered. Clearly. In terms that could not be uncertain. That was what she had accepted. She had no right to expect anything else.
Â
The bed was warm and blissfully comfortable. The first hint of grey light crept around the curtains. She wriggled her toes and sighed a sigh of utter contentment. Lucien's arm was draped around her, holding her against him as if to protect her from the world. Her cheek rested on the hardness of his chest, the material of his rumpled shirt soft against her skin, rising and falling in slow even breaths beneath her face. The scent of him surrounded her, assailing her senses: cologne and something else that was undoubtedly masculine. Where her breasts crushed against him she could feel the beat of his heart, strong and steady like the man himself. Madeline revelled in the feel of him. Everything about him filled her senses and triggered some current of underlying excitement that she did not understand. Their legs were entwined together so that she could not have freed herself even had she wanted to. His arm was heavy and possessive. She resisted the urge to open her eyes, wanting to hold the dream for a little longer before she awoke to find that the bed was empty.