Lucien Tregellas (25 page)

‘I still cannot believe it.'

‘You mean you don't want to believe it.'

‘I know her, Guy. It's not in her character to be devious or dishonest.'

Guy gave an incredulous snort. ‘She has you fooled, big brother, and no mistake.'

‘That's just it. She's done nothing to try to fool me. The first time we met in the Theatre Royal she said not one thing against Farquharson, and at Lady Gilmour's ball she was desperately afraid. Such fear and loathing couldn't be faked.'

‘You only have her word for it, Lucien. You don't even know if Farquharson was up in that bedchamber.'

‘The terror and panic on her face were real enough. Never once has she used tears or pleading or dramatics. Do you not think she would have resorted to such ploys had she been acting?'

‘She's too good an actress for that.'

‘I cannot help but feel that we have this all wrong, Guy. In these past months I've come to know Madeline. She's not the woman you would paint her. She's more trusting than you could imagine. The evidence might condemn her as guilty, but instinct tells me otherwise.'

‘She has bewitched you. Don't let your attraction for the woman blind you to the truth.'

‘Oh, don't be absurd, Guy! That has nothing to do with it.'

‘Then you admit that you are attracted to her?' Guy waited for the answer.

‘Damn it, yes! I want her, all of her, in my arms, in my bed, and more. Is that what you want to hear? I may desire her, Guy, but I haven't touched her. I'm not that much of a fool.' He thought fleetingly of the tenderness of their shared kisses. Even last night, what had started as a kiss of punishment had ended as something else.

There was a pause as something of the situation communicated itself to Guy. ‘It's not just desire that you feel, is it, Lucien?' he asked quietly.

‘No,' said Lucien, touching his fingers against the misshapen lump of wax at the base of Madeline's candleholder. ‘I'm afraid that matters are a little more complicated than that,' and realised, perhaps for the first time, exactly what it was that he was saying.

Guy gave a sigh and twitched a smile. ‘Well, in that case, you had best pour some strong coffee down your throat, eat some breakfast, and set about discovering the truth.'

‘I owe her an apology for my behaviour last night…and I would hear what she has to say regarding the letter.' A shameful look washed over Lucien's face. ‘I told her that I was sending her back to London with you at the end of the week.'

‘Ah. Many a lady might relish the prospect of a few days travelling in my company. Somehow, I don't think Madeline is one of them. I'd best ring for that coffee right away.'

 

It was some little time later when a clean-shaven and rather fresher-looking Lucien, finally sought out the company of his wife.

‘She's gone where?'

Mrs Babcock sniffed. ‘Tintagel Castle. Tried to put her off, but she weren't havin' any of it. Assured me that your opinion on her travellin' without you had changed. I came to tell you anyhow, but you seemed to be in the sleep of the dead. Couldn't wake you.' The housekeeper folded her arms. ‘She left this morning. Asked after Lord Varington. Said she would be back this afternoon. Reckon she had somethin' she wanted to be speakin' to him about.'

Lucien opened his mouth to speak.

‘And before you ask, she took Betsy and John Hayley with her. Mr Boyle's back is painin' him today, but he's still drivin' the coach.'

‘Thank you, Babbie.' A spur of unease pricked at Lucien. Madeline had gone to Tintagel, little knowing it was there that Sarah Wyatt met her death.

 

The morning had been particularly fine, all clear pale sunshine and dry cold, apart from the mist that had hovered around their route past Bodmin Moor. Nothing of that remained in Tintagel. She breathed in the fresh sea air, smelling the salt and the seaweed and revelling in the dramatic sight before her eyes. Tintagel Castle was a sprawling medieval ruin balanced precariously close to a cliff whose edge dropped dramatically through a sheer pathway of jagged rocks into the sea. The water was a wash of pale greens and blues, and hissing heads of white froth where it battered against the riot of rocks. She had spent some time exploring throughout the ruins, knowing that the castle was reputed to be the site of the birthplace of King Arthur.

A story of intrigue and deception surrounded the place. King Uther Pendragon had fallen in love with Ygraine, the beautiful wife of his nobleman, Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. Uther could think of nothing else save that he must have Ygraine and when Gorlois would not yield his lady, declared war upon Cornwall and its Duke. Gorlois hid Ygraine in the impregnable fort at Tintagel while he came under siege at another of his castles. Knowing that the fate of all Britain rested upon it, the druid wizard Merlin cast a spell over Uther so that, for a single night alone, Uther would take on the appearance of Gorlois. Thus, out of the darkness the castle guard saw their lord approach, drew up the gate and welcomed him home. Ygraine, too, went gladly to her husband. Before dawn of the next morning, the man she had lain with all the night through had gone. An hour later a messenger arrived to tell them that Ygraine was a widow, for Gorlois had been slain in battle the previous night. Ygraine knew then what had happened. Nine months later she bore a son. His name was Arthur and he was to clear the invading darkness from Britain's shores and become the best and greatest of kings.

From the seeds of such treachery, goodness and salvation had grown. Madeline mulled over Merlin's part in the plot. She sat alone on the simple wooden bench and looked out across the white flecked roll of water, amazed at the ragged chasms in the cliff face and the scatter of sharp stone below. It was a scene she could have looked at for ever, drinking in the rugged beauty, the wildness of sea and wind and the dark dangerous rocks. The rush of the wind filled her ears, chasing the sadness from her soul and the fatigue from her bones. She was glad that she had asked Mr Boyle to stay by the coach. The poor man's back ached more than he was willing to admit. Madeline had not missed the grimaces of pain when he thought that no one was looking. She was glad, too, that she had sent Betsy and John Hayley off to wander the ruins by themselves. If Madeline was right, she suspected that romance was brewing, and even if she had been staying in Cornwall she might soon be in need of a new personal maid. She turned her head and watched the young couple wander hand in hand through the remains. She swallowed down her own sadness and was glad for them. Her gaze fixed upon where the distant roll of waves met clear blue sky and she wondered what it was that Guy had brought with him to Trethevyn, besides an end to all of Madeline's dreams.

As if from nowhere, the wind whipped up one strong gust that pulled the bonnet from her head, tumbling it along the grassy pathway. Madeline leapt up, trying to catch the bonnet before it dropped over the cliff edge, but to no avail. She peered over, watching it swoop down the sheer rock face to meet the white swirl of waves below, tossed on the violent ebb and flow of water. Her feet stood close to the edge of the precipice. Too close, with the wind gusting as it was. She made to retreat. Someone grabbed at her arm. Madeline gave a small yelp of surprise, her feet stumbled and the firm grasp tightened, lifting her up, hauling her back.

‘Madeline!' Lucien's voice strained against her ear. ‘What the…?' He clasped her against him and dragged her further inland.

Madeline's heart hammered hard against her breast, first from the fright she had just sustained in almost pitching down to join her bonnet, and now from the man whose arms were wrapped around her. Slowly the thudding subsided enough for her to hear the words he was saying.

‘Madeline,' he whispered against the top of her head, then moved her back to drop kisses against her cheek, the tip of her nose, her chin. One hand cradled the nape of her neck, the other pressed against her back. ‘I thought I'd lost you,' he murmured against her eyebrow. ‘Thank God…' And then he found her lips and kissed her with a passion beyond anything that Madeline had ever known. Gentle, possessive, loving. As if he would never let her go. As if her nightmare of last night had never been. And in the meeting of their lips were all the words that they had not spoken. ‘Madeline,' he said again and moved back to look into her eyes.

Even through the dazzlement of surprise Madeline noticed the pallor of his face. ‘Lucien?' Her fingers fluttered against his cheek in mounting concern, unsure of the response that they would meet.

‘I didn't think…I wouldn't have you lose your life over my foolish words, Madeline.'

Madeline blinked up at him in confusion.

‘Forgive my shoddy treatment. I fear that I'd made too freely with the brandy.' He reached and captured her fingers from his face, imprisoning them with great tenderness within his own, his voice suddenly gruff. ‘It's not worth killing yourself over, Madeline.'

Madeline suddenly realised what he thought. Her eyes widened and a rather embarrassed expression crossed her face. ‘It was just that the wind…my bonnet…I was only looking to see where the wind had taken it.' She waited for his response.

The bold pale eyes held hers. ‘Then you weren't planning to leap from the cliff top?'

She shook her head, inadvertently loosening more of the hairpins. The wind instantly took advantage and pulled what had started as a plain and tidy style into a mass of long blowing locks.

‘My pins!' Madeline cried and bent to retrieve what she could.

Lucien pulled her back up to face him. ‘Leave them.' He ran his fingers through her hair, mussing it worse than ever. ‘I prefer it this way.'

Madeline felt two spots of warmth grow on her cheeks.

‘I should place you across my knee and give you a thorough thrashing for giving me such a fright.'

Madeline saw the twitch of his smile before it was lost.

‘But I've been too much of a brute of late. I shouldn't have treated you as I did last night.'

‘What happened? Why were you so angry? You thought that I was searching for papers on your desk…for Farquharson.' Her brow crinkled. ‘Why? What did Guy tell you?'

‘The news is not good, Madeline.' The pale gaze held hers, watching, measuring. ‘Farquharson has a letter from you, pleading that he save you from your madman of a husband. It claims that our marriage was the result of forced abduction and rape.'

‘No!' The word slipped loudly from Madeline's tongue. ‘No,' she said again, a little more quietly. ‘It's a lie. I wrote no such letter.'

‘I've seen it with my own eyes. It's written in your own hand, on paper printed with my crest and sealed with the Tregellas seal.'

The accusation hung between them.

‘How can that be? It's impossible!'

‘So you deny sending a letter to Farquharson?' His eyes did not waver from hers.

She paused. ‘No. I don't deny that,' she said slowly.

Lucien felt the tension wrap around his heart and start to squeeze.

‘He wrote to me, you see, some weeks ago.' Colour flooded her cheeks. ‘You were so worried about him, I thought it would only make matters worse to tell you.'

Lucien said nothing, just waited, and all the while the ache in his chest continued to grow.

‘The letter is within the drawer of my bureau, if you wish to see it. Farquharson asked my forgiveness and said that he loved me.' She saw something flit across Lucien's eyes. Pain, hurt, anger? Madeline did not know. ‘And then he warned me of you. Told me the story of Sarah Wyatt, much as you did. Except that in his version, he accuses you of killing her. He offered to help me escape you, said I need only ask and he would help.'

Lucien's eyes were as pale a blue as ever she'd seen, the black outline of the iris and the darkness of the pupil lending them an unnaturally brilliant appearance. The thump of her heart sounded slow and steady in her chest. ‘So I wrote to him and told him that I knew his words for the lies they were and that the man I knew to be a murderer was not my husband. I asked him to leave us in peace.' She did not mention what else she had said in those carefully penned words: that she loved Lucien, that she would never be sorry that she had agreed to marry him, that they were very happy together. ‘I gave the letter to John Hayley to take to the post office in the village.'

‘And you have never written anything else to him?'

‘No, of course not.'

They looked at one another for a moment longer.

‘I believe you. I don't know how he did it, but Farquharson wrote that letter, not you.'

He saw relief colour her eyes, felt the tension slacken from her body.

She slumped forward, resting her forehead against his chest and he knew that no actress could have feigned what he had seen in her face.

‘Let's go home, Madeline,' he said, and, placing his arm around her, led her towards the coach in the distance.

A
ll was quiet at Trethevyn.

Mrs Babcock saw the entwined hands of the Earl and his Countess as they entered the hallway and drew her own conclusion.

Madeline blushed and tried to disengage her hand at the sight of the housekeeper, but Lucien was having none of it. He cast Madeline an intensely intimate look and retained her fingers firmly within his own.

‘Lord Varington has gone out for a ride,' said Mrs Babcock, ‘I'll be in the kitchen if I'm needed,' and promptly left.

‘Then we're all alone with the remainder of an afternoon to fill before my brother returns.' His gaze dropped to her lips before returning to meet her eyes. ‘There are unfinished matters between us, Madeline, matters that should be resolved.'

Madeline knew from the hunger of his gaze that it was not letters, or Farquharson, or even Guy of which her husband spoke. She felt the heat intensify as Lucien bent closer and touched his lips gently against hers. ‘Lucien,' she murmured as he pulled back enough to look into her eyes.

‘I know what I promised you, but I can no longer limit myself to our bargain. My life would be the poorer if you were not in it, Madeline.' He moved his mouth until it hovered just above hers. ‘I want you as my wife in every way that it's possible: a full marriage, not some half-witted contract of convenience.'

‘Oh, Lucien,' she sighed and met his lips with all the passion that had been burgeoning within her for the past months.

‘I've been a fool.' His words were breathy and hot against her skin, trailing a path along the delicate line of her jaw and down on to her neck.

Madeline made one last grip at reality before it would slide away for ever. ‘No,' she whispered. ‘You saved me from Farquharson; for that I'll always be grateful.'

‘It's not your gratitude that I want,' he growled against the soft white skin of her throat.

She moved to look him directly in the eye. ‘If not my gratitude, then will you accept my love instead?'

He stilled beneath her fingers, his eyes dilating wide and darkening. ‘You love me?' His brows arched in surprise. ‘After all that I've done?'

Madeline felt the smile creep to her lips. The tall, handsome man before her was not as arrogantly confident as he would have the world believe. ‘Yes,' she said simply. ‘What you did was save my life, Lucien, nothing less. I love you. And…' she hesitated, feeling the warmth rise in her cheeks ‘…and I want you, Lucien.'

His lips twitched with amusement. ‘In that case, lady wife, I must insist that you accompany me to my bedchamber this very moment.'

‘Lucien!' she exclaimed. ‘It's the middle of the afternoon, and broad daylight! Retiring at this time of day would be positively scandalous.'

‘Indeed, it would.' His mouth swooped down, halting only a whisper away from hers. ‘But not quite so scandalous as being discovered making love upon the stairs.' His fingers teased across the bodice of her dress to rest fleetingly upon her breast. ‘The choice is yours, Madeline. What is it to be?'

Madeline shivered at the delicious sensations threatening to overwhelm her. ‘Well, if you put it like that, sir, I think I'll choose the bedchamber.'

Lucien delivered her a wicked smile and, without a further word, scooped her up into his arms and advanced up the stairs with some considerable speed. He did not pause until he had deposited Madeline upon the great sprawling four-poster that was his bed.

Sunlight flooded in through the bedchamber windows to bask Madeline in its warm golden glow. She watched in awe while Lucien stripped off his coat, dispensing with it in a heap upon the floor. Next came his waistcoat and a pair of still mud-splattered riding boots. The neckcloth followed, with the same haphazard abandonment. Only when he had discarded his shirt did Madeline protest. ‘Lucien, surely you cannot mean to remove all of your clothes!'

Her husband gave her a mischievous look and his grin deepened.

‘The sun is still high in the sky!'

Lucien glanced nonchalantly in the direction of the window. ‘So it is.' And then he climbed upon the bed.

‘But—'

Any further protestations from Madeline were effectively silenced when Lucien claimed her mouth with his own, massaging in a rhythmic slide until her lips parted. His tongue welcomed the invitation and slipped into that intimate cavern, seeking what he knew would be within. Madeline's head danced, dizzy in a haze of floating sensation. Their tongues met. Connected. Moist. Warm. Needful. Danced and twisted and lapped until all vestige of rational thought fled. And when Lucien's hands slipped down across her body, a path of tingling fire followed in their wake. She trembled beneath his touch, both revelling in it and all the while conscious of a growing need for more.

‘Madeline, my love,' he murmured against her cheek, her throat, her collarbone and lower, until he touched the neckline where her dress began. His breath moved up, scorched hot upon her shoulder and his fingers moved to deftly undo the row of small jet buttons that fastened the dress to Madeline's body.

Contrary to all her expectations, Madeline was neither shy nor embarrassed. Indeed, it was with a degree of impatience that she assisted her husband to shed not only her dress but her petticoats, stays and shift as well. She lay naked on the bed, his bed, exposed in her entirety by the clarity of the sunshine licking warm against her pale skin.

Lucien sat back, gaze sweeping over her, drinking in every inch of her sweetness. When she made to cover her nudity with her hand he captured those slender fingers within his own, met those amber eyes that were smouldering with passion. ‘You're beautiful.' Beneath the heat of his gaze she felt truly beautiful: beautiful and desirable and loved. Then their lips writhed together until all thoughts were forgotten. Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling the dark silken locks as she had so longed to do. His cologne mixed with his own masculine scent, teasing and tantalising her. She breathed in the intoxicating mix. Awareness narrowed, until there was just the two of them. Lucien and Madeline. Husband and wife. Together in a union of love.

His hands stroked gently around the mounds of her breasts, tracing an inward spiral that stopped just short of their rosy peaks. Madeline shifted beneath him, pressing herself up, nipples tingling with need. And still his fingers teased upon the slopes.

‘Lucien!' The whisper was urgent, pleading.

He could withhold no longer. Her nipples stood erect beneath the brush of his thumbs. He rolled the hardened buds between his fingers, hearing her gasps of pleasure. His mouth trailed kisses down her neck and on to her breast. She cried out as he replaced his fingers with the hot moisture of his tongue, lapping against the tender pink skin, suckling first at one and then the other. Her hands clutching the dark ruffle of his head closer, harder. The heat grew between her legs, pulsing down to encompass her thighs. There was a wetness there that she did not understand. Instinctively she pressed herself to him, not knowing what it was that she sought, just conscious of an escalating urgency and her overwhelming love for the man who was stoking such powerful sensations within her body. Lucien. Lucien. It seemed she cried his name a thousand times within her mind. Needing him. Wanting him. ‘Lucien.' The cry of desperation burst aloud from her lips, but Madeline no longer knew what was real and what was not, caught as she was in an escalating vortex of sensual force.

Lucien could not fail to answer such a plea. He rolled off her long enough to divest himself of his pantaloons, then, in response to the small murmur of complaint, covered her body with his own, taking his weight upon his elbows lest he crush her. Satin-smooth skin flushed rosy where the roughness of his stubbled chin had lingered and caressed. His fingers moved to her breast, teased fleetingly at their peaks then slid down across her stomach and lower still. The soft white skin of her thighs was hot beneath his touch, as he massaged and stroked and kneaded a pattern of pleasure. She jerked against him as his fingers gently probed the silken secret between her legs, her breathing quickening to short greedy gasps.

Nothing else mattered. Everything was here and now. In this moment. Here with the man that she loved. She wanted him. She burned for him. Felt the start of a deep welling pleasure at the intimate caress of his fingers, the heat of his lips on hers, his tongue tantalising her own. Some part of him pressed against her thigh. She moved her hips against him and reached her fingers to feel him. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at her touch. His hand captured her wrist. ‘Madeline,' he gasped. ‘Any more of that and I'll be unable to finish what we've started.' He kissed her tenderly, stroking her hair back from her face, and drawing back to look into her eyes. ‘I love you,' he whispered and deliberately moved himself between her thighs.

‘As I love you,' Madeline replied.

Blue and amber, ice and fire, locked as he thrust gently into her, accepting the precious gift that she offered.

Madeline felt the pain sear through her, momentarily blighting the pleasure. But then his mouth was upon hers and his whispers of reassurance were in her ear. Pain diminished. Pleasure grew. And as he began to move within her she gave herself up to the ecstasy that bound them, until his seed spilled within her and they lay entwined and sated in the heady glow of loving. There seemed no need for words. Madeline relaxed, feeling the steady beat of Lucien's heart against her back, the protective curl of his palm against her stomach. What had happened between them had changed her for ever. She had given her heart and shared her body. They were as one, each bound to the other through love. Madeline knew in those blissful moments that nothing could ever change that.

 

The hours ticked by and Guy still did not return.

‘Ask Cook to delay dinner for a further half an hour. He should be back by then.'

‘Right you are, m'lord. I'm worried about the youngster. Not like him to be out so long, least not in the country.' Mrs Babcock sniffed, and sucked hard on her bottom teeth with mounting anxiety and disapproval.

Quite how Babbie could describe Guy as a youngster amazed Lucien, but he had to concede that he shared the old housekeeper's concern. His brother was not known for his enjoyment of country pursuits. Indeed, it might even be said that Guy found the countryside abhorrent, describing the peace and clean open air as downright ghastly. But then again, Guy had his own reasons for preferring the town. Not for the first time did Lucien worry over the hedonistic path his brother's life seemed to be taking. Nothing of these thoughts showed upon his face as he sought to reassure the old woman. ‘No doubt Guy has forgone the pleasures of cross-country riding for the hospitality of the King's Arms in the village. He might even have ridden into Liskeard or Bodmin. Don't worry, Babbie. He'll be back soon enough.'

Only when the door closed behind the housekeeper did he massage his temples in the action that he knew would reveal his true anxiety to the old woman who had practically raised him as a child.

Madeline rose from the chair and moved silently across the room to stand beside him. ‘You're worried, too, aren't you?'

Lucien looked down at the slender figure by his side. The shadowy light from the window spilled across her face, contrasting with the warm glow from the candles. Her cheeks were still pink from their earlier lovemaking and her eyes held a special sparkle. It seemed that she could read him better than he realised. ‘Guy is reckless and prone to distraction by…how shall I put it…certain pleasurable activities. But I would have expected him to be back before darkness, especially in light of this morning.'

Madeline gave him a puzzled look. ‘What do you mean?'

‘He knew I was intent on speaking to you about Farquharson's letter and will be interested to learn your response. Believe me when I say there's no love lost between Farquharson and my brother.'

‘He thinks me guilty.' It was not a question, just a plainly stated fact.

Lucien would no longer lie to the woman he loved. ‘He doesn't know you as I do. He saw the evidence and drew his conclusion.'

A flicker of pain flitted across her face.

‘Together we'll convince him of the truth.' He took her hand in his and gave a little squeeze.

She smiled and the two turned to look out down the length of the driveway.

 

Only half an hour later and their happiness was destroyed.

Raised voices, alarmed, alert, coming from the hallway, growing louder. Lucien jerked open the door of the small drawing room and strode down the stairs towards the noise. Not far from the front door a group of servants were huddled around something.

‘Lord above!' Babbie shouted.

A housemaid began to cry.

‘Is he still alive?' Mr Boyle said.

Betsy Porter fainted in a heap upon the floor.

And then Mr Norton's gruff words, ‘Fetch his lordship—now!'

Cold dread clasped at Lucien. He thrust it away. Strode to the small throng, afraid of what he would see. Clearing the path anyway. ‘What's going on here?' His tone was cold, clinical, the tone of a man in control.