Spellbound (13 page)

She looked up at him at
that. Her eyes were wide, her poise restored.

Trying out her voice, she
whispered, “You don’t imagine this is the first time this has
happened, do you?” Her voice was huskier than usual and faintly
amused, in spite of the horrifying subject.

He gave her a look of utter
disbelief. “This has happened before?”

She chuckled lightly,
moving her fingers against her throat when the action caused a
twinge of discomfort. “It has. I have dealt with more attempts than
I can count, as have my…protectors.”

“Good God, woman!” He would
have said more, but indeed, what more was there to possibly
say?

Pushing slightly away from
him, she added, “One has never gotten as far as Greyden. I think
that would explain the severity of my shock.”

He just stared at
her.

“Truly, Tris, I am fine
now. It is nothing to dwell on.”

He was amazed. How could
she view rape as just another daily occurrence?

Of course, in the
profession she’d chosen, he supposed it was nearly a daily
occurrence. Gentlemen, after all, were not the only ones who would
try to take a beautiful woman against her will.

Placing one hand tenderly
against her cheek, he whispered, “I am sorry, Rae, for all you have
had to endure in your life.”

It was with a supreme
effort that Raven avoided bursting into hysterical tears. One drop
of moisture did manage to escape. Tristan leaned forward and kissed
it away.

It was only natural,
therefore, for him to proceed to her bruised throat and on down to
her exposed breasts.

When she moaned, Tristan
returned enough to himself to look at her closely. He saw something
in her eyes that caused his breath to catch in his
throat.

Her name came out in a
breathless whisper as he took her mouth in a kiss that robbed them
both of all sense.

Things should have gotten
better from there. But they did not. Far from it, Raven was eaten
by guilt at her loss of control and adversely blamed Tristan. Their
encounters after that afternoon were spent snapping at each other
over petty trifles.

To everyone else, it
appeared as though they’d had a marital row, therefore, nothing to
be concerned about. They conducted themselves well in public and
that was all that mattered.

So it was with some
annoyance that, after dinner one evening, Greyden suggested his
dear sister-in-law favor them with a taste of her thespian skills,
of which, he remarked with a smirk, he was sure she’d make a decent
showing.

Tristan was tempted to
murder his brother then and there. In his mind, it was Grey’s fault
he and Raven were at outs with each other. Had the mad clunch not
tried to force himself on her, she would not have ended up in his
arms sooner than she was actually ready.

Raven, seeing no way to
politely demur when everyone seemed so enthusiastic about it, rose
to her feet to comply with their demands.

“Have you a specific piece
in mind?” she asked the room in general.

Without thinking, Tristan
said, “Romeo and Juliet.”

This suggestion was met
with satisfaction on the parts of the aunts and even the dowager
was gracious enough to incline her head in agreement.

Raven, knowing the play by
heart, nevertheless requested Tristan’s copy from the library. The
duke gestured to the footman on duty who bowed and left.

A few moments had to be
endured before the footman’s return. Raven moved to where Tristan
sat. Upon her approach, he rose to his feet.

“May I have a word with
you?”

He moved a few feet away
with her. “You really don’t have to do this, Rae, if you would be
uncomfortable,” he assured her.

She smiled, almost
laughing. “I could never find acting uncomfortable, my lord, even
in these circumstances. I merely wonder at your choice.”

“Call it a whim, if you
like. I’d like to see you as Juliet again.”

“And who shall play my
Romeo?”

He hesitated, looking
closely at her. She almost held her breath, waiting for his
reply.

He shrugged, the ghost of a
smile crossing his lips. “I will, who else?”

Relief mingled with dismay
in Raven’s breast. She had feared Greyden would be constrained to
oblige the group with his participation. She had also feared
Tristan might be.

What she feared most was
the bittersweet thrill she felt at the thought of reciting any part
of the tragic love story with Tristan. It was too close to the
truth, she reflected morosely.

The footman returned,
handing the requested playbook to his master. He then settled
against the wall, ready should he be needed and secretly thrilled
he would get to witness the actress at work.

Tristan and Raven took a
few moments to confer over what scene they should read. When they
couldn’t agree—Raven wanted something mundane while Tristan wanted
the same scene they had played in the library over a month
ago—Freya suggested they simply open the book and recite whatever
was on the page.

The key players shrugged.
It was a solution. Tristan did the honors.

“Act II, scene 2,” the duke
said, privately pleased. Raven very nearly scowled at him. He
scanned the page for a moment. “Let’s start here,” he said. “Line
107.”

“Very well, my
lord.”

Tristan skimmed the lines
then looked up. Gazing deep into her dark eyes, he recited, “‘Lady,
by yonder blessèd moon I swear / That tips with silver all these
fruit-tree tops—’”

“‘
O, swear not by the moon,
the inconstant moon, / That monthly changes in her circled orb, /
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.’”

Raven’s response was
automatic. She didn’t even look at the book. Indeed, the words
seemed to come from her, said as they were with such
vehemence.

Tristan, distracted by her
feeling, hesitated as he glanced very briefly at the book. “‘What
shall I swear by?’”

“‘
Do not swear at all,’”
she said. She paused, a pensive look suffusing her features. “‘Or,
if thou wilt, —’” Suddenly, her expression cleared, changing into
something altogether different—“‘swear by thy gracious self, /
Which is the god of my idolatry, / And I’ll believe
thee.’”

Tristan, a little dazed,
didn’t bother to look at the playbook, his gaze locked firmly on
his companion’s beautiful face. “‘If my heart’s dear
love—’”

Raven waved a negligent
hand. “‘Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, / I have no joy
of this contràct tonight:
It is too rash, too unadvised, too
sudden;
Too like the lightening, which doth cease to be / Ere one
can say “It lightens.”’” She paused infinitesimally, staring so
hard at him that he felt the urge to fidget. “‘Sweet good night! /
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,
May prove a
beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night! As
sweet repose and rest / Come to thy heart as that within my
breast!’” She moved, as if to leave.

“‘
O, wilt thou leave me so
unsatisfied?’”

Color flared in Raven’s
cheeks. The duke’s tone was not appropriate for mixed company. The
look in his eyes was even less so.

In an unprecedented lapse
of memory, Raven had to glance at the book for her next line—which
brought her uncomfortably close to her partner.

Bending slightly over the
book for no more than a moment was all the opportunity Tristan
needed to breathe in her ear, “Will you, Rae? Leave me
unsatisfied?”

She straightened, not
bothering to move away from him. “‘What satisfaction canst thou
have tonight?’”

Tristan nearly choked at
the innocence of her tone and expression. He made his own
expression mirror hers. “‘The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow
for mine.’”

“‘
I gave thee mine before
thou didst request it: / And yet I would it were to give
again.’”

The sincerity of her words
drew Tristan up short. He delivered his next line with what their
audience thought was a measure of the real bewilderment Romeo may
have felt.

“‘
Wouldst thou withdraw it?
For what purpose, love?’”

Raven smiled. “‘But to be
frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I
have:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep;
the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are
infinite.’”

She stopped, her voice
having dropped to a nearly inaudible whisper, an arrested
expression stealing over her beautiful face.

Tristan closed the book.
Raven stared up at him, horrified. She recalled her conversation
with Bri three weeks ago. The other woman had claimed Raven was in
love with the duke. She had told herself then that Bri was seeing
romance where none existed.

Now, Raven realized the
awful truth: she had fallen irrevocably in love with the Duke of
Windhaven. However could she go on with a normal life after
this?

And the duke, seeing her
expression, wondered just what was passing through that agile
little brain of hers. She seemed almost…repulsed.

The room suddenly erupted
into applause. The two players came back to the present, smiling
automatically at the accolades they received.

Raven still looked pale,
drawn. Tristan watched her closely, worried over her odd
behavior.

With a final smile, Raven
pleaded fatigue and begged to be excused. Tristan offered to escort
her up, an offer she adamantly declined.

“I will be fine, my lord,
truly. Please do not leave on my account,” she added
calmly.

He acquiesced, reluctantly,
allowing her to leave the room. As she moved through the open door,
held by the ever-attentive footman, Grey said:

“How fabulous, Tris. If one
didn’t know better, one would think your wife has tread the boards
in her lifetime.”

Tristan stood at the window
of his study, staring down at the lake. Raven was there again,
sitting on the bank. Her hair was pinned up, as usual since she had
arrived there, a few dark tendrils escaping to blow in the sporadic
breeze.

He sighed deeply. The woman
haunted him. His days were spent in business but thoughts of her
would creep in to distract him.

And his nights…dear God, he
didn’t think he’d had a decent night’s sleep since she’d seduced
him in his room five days ago.

Visions of that afternoon
danced in his head, tantalizing him. He felt his body react and was
tempted to order her brought to him like a medieval lord demanding
his rights.

Disgusted, he turned away
from the window. He was going insane. His desire for her was
elemental but went far deeper. He wanted all of her, her heart most
of all.

Shoving a hand through his
already disordered locks, he nearly growled in
frustration.

Lately, he was at a loss
how to go about winning her heart. The blasted woman acted as
though he had the plague. Or the pox.

Swinging back around, he
looked down on her. She was no longer alone. Greyden was there,
talking to her and from the look on her face, she was not enjoying
the conversation.

Damn his brother
anyway!

Servants stood quickly
aside as the dignified Duke of Windhaven stormed from his home,
murder in his eyes.

Lord Greyden Cramshaw never
saw it coming. A fist seemed to fly out of nowhere, smashing into
his face with bone-crushing force.

He went down like a ton of
bricks. His brother, nobility personified, stood over him,
breathing fire.

“Get up.”

Raven, frozen in horror,
moved quickly forward. “Tristan, stop. We were talking, simply
talking. Nothing more.”

The duke, still staring at
his brother, asked, “Did he offer you insult?”

Raven hesitated, for
Greyden had indeed insulted her. But no matter how much she felt
the young lord deserved it, she couldn’t condone the kind of
violence the duke was determined to mete out. “Tristan, please,
leave it be.”

The duke looked away,
gauging the lie in Raven’s black eyes. She saw that he divined the
truth in her expression.

“You promised, Tristan. You
promised,” she reminded him desperately.

Neither of them was paying
any attention to Greyden. He lay, seemingly insensible until
Tristan turned away. Then, moving stealthily, he regained his
feet.

He’d swung at his brother’s
head before Raven could call out a warning. Tristan stumbled to the
side, shaking away the dizziness in his head.

With a growl of feral rage,
he charged his brother. They collided, went staggering onto the
half-frozen lake.

Raven’s heart stopped. The
men were so enraged they didn’t feel the telltale shiver of
cracking ice.

Tristan wrestled his
brother into a stranglehold, squeezing until the younger man went
into a frenzy, clawing desperately at the duke’s arms.