The Dark One (31 page)

Hurt? He planned to hurt her? Being raised without a mother, Rosalind was sorely lacking in information regarding intimacy between a man and a woman. She knew the basics. She did not know about pain.

“Pain?” she asked. “You're going to hurt me?”

He stared down at her, and she noticed that his eyes were aglow. “I am going to claim you,” he answered, and he did.

Before she could comprehend all that his claiming might entail, he thrust inside of her, thrust deep to the very core of her. The pain came, knife-sharp, wrenching a cry from her lips. Lips he soothed with kisses a moment later, even though he could barely fuse their mouths without having to break away to gasp. He pressed his forehead against hers, as if he, too, grappled with the shock of invasion.

Tears welled up in Rosalind's eyes. The sting had been jarring, stealing her passion, blunting the pleasure she'd found in his arms up until the point of his claiming. She was glad it was over, and said so to him.

His lips found her ear; he bit gently upon the lobe. “It is far from over, Rosalind,” he said. “It has just begun.”

He moved and she steeled herself for more pain. But the pain did not come. He filled her completely, filled her to overflowing. His size and strength forced the air from her lungs in little gasps every time he withdrew slightly
only to thrust again. But it was not painful, what he did. Not any kind of pain she could understand or had felt before. Her wetness made him slick inside of her and he maneuvered with relative ease, which surprised her, given his size.

Once she realized there would be no stabbing pain again, she was able to concentrate on him and her—the sensation that he created with his movements, the tingling where their bodies joined, the pressure building once more when he withdrew and filled her with slow, steady strokes.

His sex teased the swollen bud of her sensation, and she found if she moved just so, the contact was greater, the sensation more pronounced. It was to that end that she gave herself up completely to him.

Inhibitions fled. Something primal in her took over. Something primal in him as well, she realized. There were no soft whispered words of love from him. He seemed focused on one objective and one objective only. Her pleasure and his own. Completion of what they had begun together. His breathing became more labored, his body slick with sweat as he continued the slow, steady rhythm that brought her quickly to a place of only need, only desire, only him and her, in his room, hidden away from the world.

Her nails raked his back, her hands gliding to the tight muscles of his buttocks. She held him to her, wrapped her legs around him, as if she'd performed this act with him a thousand times, as if she knew what she wanted and what he wanted as well.

He whispered her name; no, he growled her name. A low, throaty sound in the back of his throat that brought her to dizzying heights of ecstasy. His teeth clamped down against her throat, not painful but possessive, like
something she'd seen the toms in the barn at the estate do to the females during mating season. A show of his dominance. A show of his complete possession of her. And he did possess her. Heart, body, and soul, all wrapped together, all fighting for dominance inside of her.

Body won. His steady strokes stimulated her to the point of near pain, of certain obsession. She could think of nothing but the way their bodies moved together, nothing except the perfect way they seemed to fit, although at one time she would have sworn he would never fit at all. But he did, and in a way she could not find lacking.

He filled her completely, filled her to bursting, and when she arched her hips to increase the tempo, she found he had not even given all of himself to her. He did so now, thrusting so deep she thought he might break through clear to her womb, but still, it was a different kind of pain. A pleasing kind of pain. A pain that left her little choice but to cross the thin boundaries of sanity into madness.

She clung to him, her body now slick against him with her own sweat. She angled and arched until the building sensation once again grew and grew and could not be contained.

Suddenly she burst apart, shattered beneath him, the waves of ecstasy breaking over her only intensified by the continued thrust of him deep inside of her. Her nails dug deep, drew blood, and she called his name, convulsed and thrashed, and even bit into his shoulder.

“Unwrap your legs from around me.”

His voice came to her from far away. She could not move but only hold on to him as if he were the only thing solid in the world. She was afraid to let go, afraid she'd slip away to somewhere form whence there was no return.

“Rosalind,” he growled again, his thrust deeper, faster,
harder. He fought to untangle himself, she realized, too late to register that he wanted release from her grip on him.

Then he tensed, buried so deep inside of her she wondered if he could possibly find his way back out again. He cursed in her ear. A very bad curse word. The worst, in fact, she had ever heard. He shuddered and she felt him deep inside of her, releasing his seed.

Again too late, she realized that was why he'd wanted to be free. To spill his seed somewhere else. Somewhere harmless. It was as if she felt her womb open to him. Invite him inside to plant, as was his purpose in life, and hers to receive him.

He withdrew by degrees, until finally he lay back against the sheets, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest still rising and falling with obvious effort.

“God, what have I done?” he finally muttered.

Even in her very limited experience, Rosalind sensed it was not a thing a woman wanted to hear a man say after making love to her. Since boldness seemed to rule her emotions this evening, she replied, “I believe you did what I asked you to do. And even in my ignorance over such matters, I believe you did it remarkably well.”

He was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “When I take you again, you must not allow me to come inside of you, Rosalind. My seed is tainted and I would not see it take root.”

Once more, hardly words a woman wanted to hear from her husband after making love. Then something he said registered. “Will there be a next time?” She rose on her elbows to look at him. “I mean, tonight?”

He removed his arm from over his eyes. They still had a faint glow. The longer she stared at him, the brighter they shone in the darkness around them. “I plan to have you again,” he said. “And again after that, and maybe
once more before morning. I told you to be careful what you asked for.”

She sighed dreamily and lay back down beside him. “I suppose if you must.”

He was suddenly leaning over her again. “I must,” he assured her.

He'd had her twice again before the first pain took him. Armond now sat huddled in a corner of the bedchamber, coated in sweat, shaking uncontrollably, while his wife slept the sleep of the exhausted in his bed. Even suffering the pain that twisted his body into knots, he wanted her again. Was it the man who couldn't get enough of her, or was it the beast that refused to be sated?

He loved her. He knew before tonight, before they came together as one. He knew the moment he saw her at the Greenleys' first ball of the season. He'd believed that denying what he felt would save him from the curse. It was upon him now. He glanced toward his window, the slight breeze moving the curtains around as if they were dancing in the dark. He could see the moon, see that it was nearly full. How long did he have? One night? Two? Three at the most.

Rosalind stirred and mumbled his name in her sleep. He could not go to her, not as he was, not fighting what he would soon become. He thought about his father then. He understood now his despair. How he had feared that he might hurt his wife, his children. The pistol had been his only friend in the end. Then Armond thought about what the dowager had said to him regarding his mother.

She'd died of a broken heart. His father hadn't given
her a choice the day he took his life. Just as Armond wouldn't give Rosalind one once he was forced to disappear from her life. But before he went, there was one thing he had to do. He had to kill Chapman. And his accomplice as well.

He'd been thinking about that. He strongly suspected he knew who aided Chapman in his dark deeds against women. It was obvious, really. Tomorrow, provided that his pain subsided and he could present a normal facade, he would find out for certain.

“Armond?” Rosalind sat up in bed. He watched her glance around the darkened room. Beneath her skin, he saw the blood pumping through her veins. He squeezed his eyes shut. Forcing the air in and out of his lungs, he tried to stop the shaking, tried to ignore the pain that twisted his insides.

A gentle hand touched his brow. “What are you doing here on the floor?”

What could he tell her? The truth? She wouldn't be able to comprehend the truth. Most people couldn't. It was selfish, but he wanted to leave her knowing she still loved him. “Trying to refrain from making love to you again,” he answered. “You'll think I'm some kind of beast.”

“If you are one, then you've made me one as well,” she said softly. She leaned forward to kiss him. He had her on her back before she could make contact.

Good Lord. Rosalind felt as if she'd been beaten. There wasn't a place on her body that didn't ache. At some point during the night, Armond had taken her to her own bed, she supposed in consideration of her sleeping upon his bloodstained sheets, or maybe just in consideration of her person. Were all men so . . . so virile? When he'd taken her on the floor, he'd been insatiable. He'd been
primitive, almost wild, and he had stirred something in her that was the same.

He'd done something else that confused her. He'd done what he told her he mustn't do again. Buried deep inside of her, he'd given her his seed again. Why if he didn't want children? Maybe he had changed his mind about that, she hoped. Could one night of lovemaking change everything? If so, perhaps she should have instigated consummating their marriage before last night.

A discreet knock sounded upon her door. Hawkins called, “Lord Wulf has ordered you a bath and I've set it up in his suite, since he said you were not to be disturbed at an early hour.”

Rosalind could use a nice long soak. Set up in Armond's room? Would he be joining her then? She rose, put on her wrapper, and opened the door adjoining their suites. Just as Hawkins had said, a tub of steaming water sat in the middle of the room. The bed had been made, she imagined the sheets stripped, which made her blush. Hawkins would have little doubt about what she and Armond had done in this room the night prior and well into the morning hours. Everything in the room looked in order, everything in its place, except for one thing . . . her husband.

Disappointment chased away her happy thoughts. She had hoped Armond would at least have breakfast with her before he took himself off to do whatever it was that he did when he took himself off. She moved to the tub and stripped off her wrapper, easing her sore body into the steaming water. Her soaps had been set out, and the smell of lavender soon worked to help soothe her. She lay back and closed her eyes. Memories of making love with Armond brought a soft smile to her lips.

She had claimed him, and he, her. Simply because her day hadn't started as she had wished didn't mean their
relationship would not move forward as she had hoped it would. She tried to keep her spirits up. She tried not to think about the house next door and the dark stain that also marred her happiness. If only she had irrefutable proof of Franklin's guilt, she and Armond could go to the authorities and let them deal with her stepbrother.

Rosalind wondered then how her stepmother was doing without her daily ration of doctored tea. Had the effects had time to wear off? Would the lady soon be on the mend and able to speak to Rosalind? Would the duchess's confessions against Franklin be enough to convince the authorities of his guilt? And would the lady confess against her own son at all?

The tumble of thoughts running through Rosalind's head made relaxing in her bath impossible. She soaped herself, washed and rinsed her hair, then climbed out, drying herself on a fluffy towel Hawkins had left. She replaced her wrapper and walked into her room to dress. Once she finished, she returned to Armond's room. Again she walked around the room, touching his personal belongings, though they were a sorry substitute for having Armond there with her this morning.

She came across a book pushed back on a shelf of his bureau. It looked very old, and curious, she picked it up and considered whether she wanted to borrow it. The one she'd taken from Armond's study did not hold her interest. As she flipped through the worn pages, a faded, yellow piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Rosalind bent and picked it up.

It was written in Latin, but her father had indulged her with tutors over the years she spent in the country and she had no trouble deciphering the handwritten scrawl. It appeared to be a poem.

Hawkins knocked softly upon the door again. “Are you dressed, Lady Wulf?”

Rosalind quickly stuffed the paper back into the book and replaced it on Armond's shelf. “Yes, Hawkins, you may come in.”

The steward entered. “Lord Wulf told me to inform you that this morning, the Dowager Duchess of Bray-berry will send her coach around to collect you. I believe you are to have a fitting at her residence. His Lordship thought you might enjoy having another woman's opinion on the gowns you wish to have made.”

“Thank you, Hawkins,” Rosalind mumbled. “How very thoughtful of him.” But not as thoughtful as it would have been for Armond to stay and have breakfast with her. “Would you bring a tray up to me, Hawkins? Now that I know I shall pay a visit this morning, I should take more care with my appearance.”

“Very well, Lady Wulf,” Hawkins answered.

Once Armond's man left, Rosalind glanced toward the book again. Armond had said she had free run of the house. Would he mind if she took the book? She snatched it up and carried it with her into her room. Once there, she laid it on the table next to her bed, but the poem folded inside seemed to call to her.