The Dark One (25 page)

“You are so beautiful.”

He knew now was not the time for compliments, but he
couldn't help but say what he felt. She smiled, raised her hand to his cheek, and ran her fingers down the side of his face.

“So are you.”

Her hand fell limply to her side. She swayed and Armond eased her down to the bed. He thought she might have been asleep before he managed to get the covers tucked up around her. He sat staring at her for a time, watching the rise and fall of her chest, assuring himself that she seemed to be all right. Just to be certain, he took her wrist and felt for her pulse. It beat strong and he relaxed. Before he could release her, she drew her hand into his.

Their hands were different. Hers were soft, white, and smooth. His were large, brown, and used to hard work despite his titles and wealth. His vision blurred while he stared at their contrast, and for a moment his hand looked different: covered in coarse blond hair, claws jutting from his fingertips. Armond quickly snatched his hand away and lifted it before his face. His heart pounded. His vision cleared and his hand looked normal again.

What was happening to him? The leap from an upstairs window, the fall to the ground below where he had landed on his feet without injury? The way his already heightened senses seemed to sharpen during the fight with the thieves, and the men's faces as they backed from him in terror? He sensed what was taking place inside him, preparation to become someone or, rather, something else. But why was it happening? He glanced down at Rosalind, deep into sleep, innocent yet seductive, and although he knew why the curse now threatened him, he would not admit the truth. He could not. The consequences were too bleak.

The noise woke her. Rosalind startled up from sleep. Flashes of light filled her bedchamber, then loud rumbles and an explosion of sound that made her jump. For a moment she felt disoriented. She glanced around her darkened bedchamber, trying to figure out where she was and why. Her gaze snagged on the shape of a man standing next to her window, staring outside. Flashes of light illuminated him. The quick succession of lightning distorted his features and gave him a sinister look. She knew him, didn't she?

“Armond?”

“Are you feeling better?” He walked into the shadows and approached the bed. “You've been sleeping for a long time.”

Slowly, the day's events came back to her. The dizziness that plagued her before they were to enjoy an afternoon ride and a picnic. Armond carrying her up to her room. Armond helping her undress.

“Is it late?” she asked.

“Close to midnight.” He stood at the side of her bed now. “I thought you might sleep until morning.”

“The storm woke me.” She shivered when the thunder crashed again. “I don't like storms. They frighten me.”

Armond left her side, moved to the low fire burning in her grate, and added logs to build the flame higher. The yellow glow helped chase the shadows from the room, and Rosalind immediately felt better. Now bathed in a soft light, Armond again looked like the handsome man she had married.

“Are you hungry? You haven't eaten since breakfast.”

Her stomach grumbled with the reminder. “I'm starved,” she admitted.

“I have just the thing,” he said, then walked into his bedchamber, returning a moment later with another picnic basket. She laughed with delight when he brought the basket to the bed. “I didn't want to disappoint you today, so here is your picnic,” he said.

It felt slightly wicked to eat in bed and even more wicked to want a man to join her for the feast. But she must remember that Armond wasn't just any man. He was her husband.

“You will join me, won't you?” she asked. “That is a big basket and I'm sure more than I can eat.”

He sat on her bed and removed his boots. “I won't bring the stable into your bed,” he teased. “But a picnic for one is hardly jolly good fun, is it?”

She laughed again. Rosalind sat up and shoved her hair behind her ears. “No. Now, what have you brought me?”

Armond dug into the basket. “I have two meat pies, cheese, bread, wine, and sliced apples.”

Her stomach grumbled louder.

“Was that thunder?” Armond continued to tease. “What will you have first, my lady?”

“The pie,” she answered. “And some wine. My mouth is as dry as a bone.”

“It doesn't look dry,” he countered, lifting a glass from the basket and a decanter of wine, which he unstopped,
pouring some into her glass. He glanced up before handing it to her. “Your lips always remind me of ripe berries glistening with dewdrops. They taste just as sweet, too.”

She felt a flush of pleasure crawl up her neck. “You lied to me at Lady Pratt's tea that day,” she accused softly. “You are a poet. Or simply a seducer of innocent young women,” she added, teasing him back.

“The latter more likely,” he said in a dry tone, handing her the pie with a dainty fork.

Rosalind quickly dug into the meal. Armond didn't join her. He poured a glass of wine and stretched out on her bed, watching her. He reminded her of a large cat with the glow from the fire casting him in golden hues.

“Did you go out this evening?” she thought to ask.

“No, the storm came in at dusk. I doubted that many women were walking the streets during the downpour. Besides, my first duty is to you, Rosalind. I wanted to make certain you were all right.”

The word
duty
could sound as cold as
respect
, she decided. “I seem to be fine, now,” she assured him. “I probably had overtaxed myself, although I've never felt quite that way before. Well, unless I've had a glass of brandy,” she added, smiling slightly at him.

“Nothing wrong with a woman having brandy,” he countered. “I enjoyed very much giving you brandy last eve.”

The subject of brandy wasn't a wise decision, Rosalind realized. She didn't think brandy was what Armond thought a woman should have more of. “You're not eating,” she pointed out.

“No, but I am feasting,” he said, his eyes traveling over her. “Feasting on the sight of you.”

It occurred to her that she sat before him in nothing but her underclothes, her hair wild around her shoulders. It
also occurred to her that after what they'd done together last night, a sudden bout of modesty would seem ridiculous to him.

“Do you often try to seduce sick women, Armond?”

He stretched like a lazy cat. “You said you were feeling better.”

She hid her smile by taking another sip of wine. The silence stretched between them while she finished her pie and nibbled on an apple slice. She couldn't forget last night or the way his fingers had skillfully stroked her, had brought her to heights of pleasure she never dreamed existed. She also couldn't forget the battle he had waged with himself when she felt the knob of her door turning.

“Why do you not simply take what you want?” she found the courage to ask him.

He took a sip of wine before answering. “Is that an invitation?”

“No,” she said firmly, finished with teasing games. “But you are my husband. If you were to demand your marital rights, no one would blame you.”

“No one except you,” he said, staring at her over the rim of his wineglass. “I made you a promise. I will not break it. No matter how tempted I am,” he added, and the now familiar glow of passion danced in his eyes. “You seem vexed that I can resist you. Is that what you're suddenly angry about?”

Was she angry? It seemed silly to be upset over him keeping a promise to her. Perhaps it was simply the control he seemed to easily exercise over himself when common sense deserted her in his arms. Maybe it was because she suspected she loved him, and he had vowed to never love her in return.

Rosalind set her wineglass on a small table next to her bed. “Why did you say that you would never love me?”
she asked, wishing she could have kept silent. Asking revealed too much about her own wants, her own desires and dreams.

He glanced away from her. “I told you why.”

“You made an excuse,” she countered. “Then said something about the curse, and praying I never found out what it really was.”

“Leave the matter alone,” he instructed quietly. “Take what I can give and don't ask for more.”

“What can you give me?” she demanded. “Protection? Duty? Fine gowns and a tastefully decorated home? Why not children, Armond? Why not love? All the rest seems like a cold exchange—”

“Cold?” he interrupted. No longer resembling a lazy cat, he was suddenly beside her, placing his wineglass next to hers on the table. He pulled off his shirt and took her hand, flattening it against his chest. “Do I feel cold? I burn for you. You burn for me. There has been nothing but heat between us since the first night we met. Why can't that be enough for you?”

His skin nearly singed her fingers. His scent rose up to seduce her. He leaned forward and captured her mouth as if to prove to her that whatever they shared, it was not cold. He tasted like wine, his lips every bit as potent. He shoved the food off the bed with one sweep of his arm; then he was on top of her—pressed against her, sharing his warmth.

He nuzzled her neck, cupping her breasts in his hands as he continued the assault upon her senses. If he thought to teach her a lesson, she became a willing pupil. Her hands roamed his broad back, feeling the muscles flex as she touched him. His skin was velvet-smooth. Then something odd happened. Running her fingers the length of his back, she felt his spine move. Felt it expand and then snap back into place.

Before she could think too much about the strange occurrence, he moved down, pulling her chemise away from her breasts to feast upon her. She tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him to her. The teasing circles his tongue traced around her nipples nearly drove her mad. She arched against him, rather wanton in her desire to feel the friction of their bodies moving against each other.

He'd somehow removed her corset, was in the process of slipping her chemise off her shoulders, when she realized he'd soon have her naked. Naked and willing, just as he wanted. Maybe just as she wanted, as well. Was he right? Was love so important when they shared this heat, this passion, this madness for each other?

“No,” she whispered. “It is not enough.”

His fingers tightened on the straps of her chemise for a moment, and she thought he would rip it away from her skin. He looked up at her, and his eyes were not merely aglow; they were on fire. She was suddenly frightened. Afraid of the fire burning in his eyes, of the look of raw savageness stamped across his features. He struggled for breath, and between his parted lips she saw a flash . . . saw what appeared to be fangs. He closed his eyes, took a ragged breath, then rolled off of her.

“Forgive me,” he said softly. “Whatever demon ruled me just then, it was not me. I would never hurt you, Rosalind. I would never take what you would not willingly give.”

She lay beside him with her heart pounding, her mind in denial that she'd seen anything unnatural. The Armond she knew might not love her, but she had nothing to fear from him. She forced herself to turn on her side and look at him.

The fire had banked, and in the soft glow he looked as he had always looked to her. Handsome. Sensual. Irresistible.

“Look at me,” she instructed softly.

He did as she asked, and there was no fire burning in his eyes now, only a soft glow of reflected light from the fire dancing in her grate.

“Say something to me,” she further instructed.

“What would you have me say?”

His teeth were straight and white and quite normal looking.

“Do you hate me?”

He laughed, reached over, and took her hand, placing it upon the bulge in the front of his trousers. “Does it feel like I hate you?”

“But you don't love me?”

“This loves you,” he assured her.

She could have removed her hand from him, but she found that she didn't want to. The afternoon she'd touched him, naked in his bath, she had marveled at the feel and texture of him. He'd said then that her innocent explorations would make him shatter. Shatter in the way he'd made her come apart beneath his fingers just last night?

“Can I touch you?” she asked bravely.

He groaned. “Why must you torture me?”

“I'm asking if I can do for you what you did for me last night.”

He turned on his side to face her. “Only if you want to. I would not force you to do anything you're not willing to do, Rosalind. I've told you that. You don't owe me anything. I started this business between us.”

“I'm curious,” she admitted. And she was. Curious about his body and curious to know if she could give him the same kind of pleasure he had given to her. It wasn't consummation. Although she wasn't so innocent to tell herself that it was harmless, either.

“Tell me what to do,” she said.

. . .

If Armond had one ounce of common sense, he'd rise from her bed, go into his room, and shut the door. No, even that wouldn't be wise enough. He'd leave the house altogether, despite the storm that raged outside. It was nothing compared to the storm that raged inside of him. A moment earlier, something had come over him. Lust. Animal lust. Unthinking and uncaring lust. He'd been tempted, no, driven to take Rosalind whether she was willing or not. Driven to mate.

He'd barely been able to pull himself back from the brink of his consuming desire for her. For a moment, she hadn't been a woman with a face and a heart, and feelings that he could easily crush. She'd simply been available. That frightened him. The loss of control frightened him. And now Rosalind had offered him another chance to lose control. He was almost afraid to take it.

“I've been too bold,” she said, and when she started to remove her hand, he placed his on top of hers.

“I am your husband. You can't be too bold with me.”