Authors: Joan Johnston
Miss Sheringham whispered into Reggie’s ear, and he watched as Reggie threw a handful of petals from her basket. These landed in a solid clump on the stone floor in front of her. She used the toe of her patent leather half boot to spread them around.
Marcus heard more subdued laughter.
Becky looked up at Miss Sheringham. When she nodded, Becky threw another handful of petals—straight up into the air. This time the laughter was louder and more spontaneous.
Marcus watched as Miss Sheringham leaned over and whispered to both girls, presumably giving more instructions.
Becky peered down the aisle toward where he stood and shook her head. Reggie boldly took three or four steps down the aisle, just far enough to leave the glow of candlelight behind. She stood stock-still in the dark for a moment, then dropped her basket, and raced headlong back to Miss Sheringham.
Both twins clutched at her skirt, and Miss Sheringham did not seem to be able to get them to let go. She lifted her head and looked directly at him.
He knew what she wanted. It would have been a simple matter for him to calm the twins’ fears. If only he had not been the source of them.
“Griggs,” he said. “Please help Reggie and Becky to a seat near you.”
His voice startled the children, actually making things worse. He should have spoken directly to them, not to Griggs, he realized. Now they struggled even harder not to be torn away from Miss Sheringham. Marcus took a single step down the aisle toward them, his heart aching, knowing that all they needed was someone to hug them and tell them everything would be all right.
As though she had read his mind, Miss Sheringham knelt and pulled the girls close. She whispered to them, then led them over and sat them down in the pew next to Lady Denbigh, who lifted Becky right into her lap and put her arm around Reggie.
Before Marcus quite realized it was happening, Miss Sheringham was on her way down the aisle toward him. She did not stop, but stepped over the fallen basket of flowers and walked slowly but steadily out of the light and into the darkness. When she reached a spot in front of the altar, she stopped and stared at the vicar.
“Will you clasp hands,” the vicar intoned, “and pray with me.”
Since she was on his left, Marcus automatically lifted his black-gloved left hand. He had already begun to exchange it for the right when Miss Sheringham laid her hand on the gnarled fingers. She looked into his face—the place where his face should be—and dared him to withdraw.
Marcus turned and stared straight ahead, feeling the heat of her trembling hand through the glove, aware suddenly, as he had not been until this moment, that tonight she would be his.
“Is there any man here who can show just cause why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony?” the vicar asked.
Marcus waited, half expecting someone to point out that the groom was not a man, but a beast. But no one spoke, and the vicar continued.
He did not hear much of the ceremony. His body was too alive with the knowledge of her. He could not think, he could only feel and see and hear.
The touch of her hand on his as he held it to take his vows. “
I, Marcus Richard Wharton, take thee, Elizabeth Eleanor Sheringham, to be my wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward …
”
The agitated rise and fall of her bosom as she said the words that bound her to him for life.
“
I, Elizabeth Eleanor Sheringham, take thee, Marcus Richard Wharton, to be my wedded husband
…
so long as we both shall live.
”
Her indrawn breath when he placed a diamond and ruby ring—a Blackthorne heirloom intended for the wife of a second son—on her finger.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the vicar said. “What God hath joined, let not man put asunder.”
It was an admonition that had particular relevance to Marcus. It was not a man but a woman who had tunneled out the walls of his brother’s castle and made it collapse. But he knew now why Alastair had never
forsaken Penthia. He must, at one time, have loved her.
Love changed all the rules. It had caused Marcus to do what he had said he would never do. He had taken a wife, for better or for worse. But he could not believe a life without Miss Sher—Eliza—could be worse than one with her by his side. Only, she would not be by his side. Except at night. In the dark.
It would have to be enough. Half a loaf of bread was better than none at all. If he ever revealed himself to her, she would surely turn away from him forever.
“Will you kiss the bride?” the vicar asked, cheerful now that his duty was done.
Marcus realized he must have been asked before and missed the question. “No,” he said abruptly. “I will not.”
The vicar’s smile disappeared.
Marcus was aware of a stunned silence behind him. He turned to face them. “Thank you all for coming. My wife and I will be retiring now.”
He grabbed his wife by the hand and, before she or anyone else could protest, disappeared with her through a hidden stone door behind the altar.
One minute they were there, and the next they were gone.
Reggie and Becky stared after Uncle Marcus, who had dragged their new aunt right out the door without saying a word to them. They were completely alone. Who would take care of them now? The twins sat dazed as the Earl of Denbigh rose from his seat beside them, followed quickly by his countess, who eased Becky off her lap and onto the cold bench beside
Reggie. They watched the bizarre scene unfolding around them without saying a word.
“Marcus,” the Earl of Denbigh shouted. “Wait!”
“Hurry, Lion,” the countess urged, following him down the center aisle. “They’re getting away!”
Griggs stepped into the earl’s path. “His Grace said to tell you there’s food and drink for everyone in the dining room. You will find comfortable rooms have been prepared for you in the west wing of the Abbey. His Grace hopes you will enjoy your stay.”
“I demand to speak with Blackthorne,” the Earl of Denbigh said through clenched jaws.
“I need to know that Eliza is all right,” the countess said anxiously. “Please, may I see her?”
“His Grace and his bride are not at home to company,” Griggs announced.
“He will speak to me,” the Duke of Braddock said. “Or I will know why.”
When Braddock moved toward the door where Blackthorne had disappeared with Eliza, Griggs put his one remaining hand up to stop him. The duke could easily have pushed by the sergeant, but he looked at the empty sleeve and stopped where he was.
“Will you at least take a message to him?” Braddock said.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Tell him there are rumors in Scotland of a stranger at Blackthorne Hall, a new laird married to the mistress there, who fits the description of Alastair Wharton, sixth Duke of Blackthorne.”
Reggie grabbed Becky’s arm and whispered, “Father is alive!”
E
liza did not know why she had not struggled when the Beast grabbed her wrist and dragged her from the chapel. If she had said a word of protest, Eliza was certain she would have been rescued. But to what purpose? The Beast was her husband now. She belonged to him.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked breathlessly, as he dragged her down a long, dark hallway.
“To our room.”
Our
room? There was no such place. Only
his
room in this wing of the house and
hers
in the other.
He had no sooner said the words than he opened the door to an immense bedchamber, pulled her inside, and shut the thick wooden door behind her with a
thunk
. He shoved home two heavy iron bolts that effectively locked the door against intruders. And made her his captive.
Eliza’s gaze shifted quickly around the room, searching for an avenue of escape without finding one. Several candles burned in the room, but none of them were anywhere near the bed, which lay in deep shadow.
That quick, futile glance was enough to convince her the Beast did not live in squalor. Brilliant tapestries
hung on the wall; more subdued ones lay on the floor. Black velvet curtains shrouded the windows. And she had never seen such an impressive bed. The massive headboard and footboard were carved with scenes she could not distinguish in the dim light.
Eliza scrutinized the cloaked and hooded man who was about to prove that he was her husband—in every way. Her heart thumped wildly. Her breathing was erratic. Not from the rapid walk to get there—her legs were nearly as long as his, and she had kept up with him stride for stride. But because she was afraid of what he would do to her now.
As Eliza had learned long ago, the best defense against awkwardness in a social situation was to attack first. In this case, because she was also terrified, both her voice and her choice of words were more virulent than they might otherwise have been.
Eliza lifted her chin defiantly and said, “Here I am, Your Grace. Ready to play your whore.”
His body stiffened. His right hand balled into a fist, while the clawlike left merely twitched. “My whore?” he rasped. “I rather thought I had made you my wife.”
“I am no better than a whore,” she accused. “You offer me nothing of yourself and want nothing of me—except the use of my body.” She yanked off the crown of wildflowers and threw it at his feet. The hand-held bouquet shot directly at his head.
He moved subtly to one side, and it sailed past and landed on the floor behind him, skidding to a stop against the stone wall.
“Come, Your Grace,” she said, gesturing him
toward her with both hands. “Take what you want from me, so I may leave and go back to my other life.”
“Other life?”
“The real one. Where children play and servants sweep away the cobwebs and sunshine fills every room.” Her gaze left him and roamed the exotic bedroom, with its medieval bed and tapestries brought back from the Crusades. “This is a fantasy you have concocted for yourself and expect me to fulfill. So be it. You have your wife … and your whore. I am ready to do your bidding.”
“So be it, wife!” he snarled. “If you wish to whore for me, whore you shall be!”
He moved so fast Eliza did not realize what he had done until she heard pearls bouncing on the stone floor that edged the carpet.
“My dress!” she cried. The gift from her mother was ruined. But there was no time to grieve it. With the bodice gaping loose, he yanked the shoulders down, and she was in danger of losing the ivory gown entirely.
She reacted instinctively to his attack. Her hands curled into fists, and she punched out toward his face.
Her right fist never got there. He caught it with a steely hand and forced it back behind her, then used his clawed hand to force the other fist back, where he was able to grip both wrists in his right hand. He used his painful hold to force her hips forward, pressing her tightly against his body from breast to thigh.
“Whores want it over with quickly, so they can be paid. Is that what you want, Eliza?”
Eliza could feel his hardened shaft pressing against her belly, feel his hot breath against her flesh.
His eyes glittered with feral ruthlessness deep within the hood that shadowed his face. “I want it over,” she managed to gasp. “Hurry up and finish!”
He released her suddenly and took a step back. “I think not. I think I would enjoy it done more slowly. After all, I am the one who must be pleased.”
Her shoulders hurt as she brought her hands forward to soothe her recently manacled wrists. She could see no mercy in the Beast. His body was taut, his stance threatening.
He left her standing where she was and crossed to sit in a thronelike chair angled in the corner. He wrapped the full-length black cloak around him and pulled the hood forward, making certain his face was completely in the dark. She realized the single candle merely provided enough light to ensure she would be visible to him.
“Come here, whore.”
Eliza swallowed past the painful thickness in her throat and walked toward him, her satin skirt rustling with each step. She resisted the urge to clutch at the torn bodice. He had ripped the chemise beneath it as well, exposing a great deal of décolletage. Let him look. Let him drink his fill. The Beast could slake his desire with her body. But that was all he would have of her. Nothing more.
It was hard to stand before him perfectly still, letting him look at her, waiting for him to do whatever it was he was going to do.
“Undress for me.”
Eliza ogled him. “What?”
“Take off your clothes, Eliza,” he said in a silky voice. “Let me see what I have bought.”
It should have been impossible for her to remove the dress by herself. The heirloom laced closed in back. When he had yanked on her bodice, the aged, fragile cord in back had broken. When Eliza reached up to pull the dress down, the laces fell loose all the way down her back.
Her face flamed as she let the dress fall in an ivory puddle at her feet. She stepped over it, then reached down to pick it up, holding it against her bosom protectively.
The Beast held out a hand to her, and Eliza realized he wanted the dress. Reluctantly, she handed it over to him.
He took it from her and laid it across the wooden arm of the chair, caressing the satin fabric as though the dress still contained her warm flesh. “Take your time, my dear. I find the anticipation of bedding you immensely enjoyable.”
Eliza stood before him in a chemise and pantalets that were inset with lace in pivotal places. They had been brought along with the dress for her wedding.
Now she knew why. They were meant to entice her husband.
Eliza could feel his eyes on her. Feel his desire across the short distance that separated them. To her horror she felt her own desire rising to meet his. Her belly curled, and she felt a dampness between her thighs. Her skin prickled with awareness of him.
Eliza realized she was only making things worse by hesitating. She quickly stepped out of her satin slippers and pushed them to the side with her foot, then bent over to roll down her stocking.
The Beast drew an audible breath.
Eliza looked up without standing up, saw where his gaze seemed to be focused, then glanced down. Her torn chemise had fallen completely open. Her breasts were exposed to him all the way to the nipples. Which, as she watched, hardened into tight pink buds.