Taming The Beast

by Heather Grothaus

  Hunt…

  The word triggered a catch somewhere deep in Roderick’s mind, but he swept it aside as nonsense, choosing instead to address his betrothed’s sire.

  “You need not my permission to stay, Fortune—Cherbon is your daughter’s home now, as well. But I do not take meals in the hall, so…enjoy.” Roderick turned to Michaela, his eyes wanting to land and linger on those lips, whose feel and texture he still remembered so vividly from her folly last night. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Michaela.”

  “My lord.” Michaela bowed her head slightly, and Roderick wondered if it was his imagination that showed him Miss Fortune’s eyes straying to the location of his own mouth.

  He moved, but had forgotten the accessory about his knee that was Leo.

  “Turn me loose, Leo. I have matters to tend to.”

  “Ee-oh go wif you. Ee-oh go wif him papa.”

  Roderick looked up at Michaela pointedly, expecting her to intervene as Hugh would.

  She only stared back at Roderick, a cryptic smile on her full, pink lips.

  “Leo, you…I have—” Roderick tried to think of an excuse—any excuse—that would put the boy off. It shouldn’t have been hard to think of a reason that would seem plausible to a three-year-old, but when Roderick looked down into the wide brown eyes, so like the beautiful, exotic Aurelia’s, the greasy knot filled his throat again, and it seemed to dam logical communication between his brain and his mouth.

  Roderick looked at Michaela, knowing her silence was purposeful. She would not rescue him—bloody hell, it was likely she had put the boy up to it.

  “You’ll come and get him in one hour,” Roderick growled.

  “Of course, my lord. From where shall I fetch him?”

  Roderick searched his mind. His only plans after being rid of Walter Fortune had been to retire to his chamber—he was dreadfully unused to being about in the daylight.

  “We shall be in my accounting chamber.” Roderick reached down and pried the boy from his leg. “Let go that I might walk without you underfoot.” Roderick started for the rear of the blasphemous chapel in his pathetic, stomp-drag manner.

  The sound of clattering feet soon caught up with him, and Leo dashed around to his other side in order to slip a hand into the folds of his cloak.

  “We go count all you money, Papa?”

  “Yes, Leo,” Roderick sighed. He would have to speak to Hugh about the subject matter he discussed with the three-year-old. “We’re going to go and count all of my money.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The time between when Roderick had left Michaela and her father in the chapel and when she awaited him in her chamber that night seemed to span three days.

  Would he come as he’d said he would? Or had his parting words to her been only a nod to courtesy? She didn’t think so—the Lord of Cherbon seemed to care little for niceties or the sparing of feelings, Michaela knew firsthand.

  She’d hoped to ask him if he indeed planned on visiting her chamber again when she’d gone to fetch Leo, but the only persons she’d encountered in Cherbon’s monies room were Leo and a smirking Hugh Gilbert. And while disappointed that Roderick had vanished on her—and Leo—yet again, Michaela had taken the opportunity to complain to Hugh about his method of drawing Lord Cherbon from his shell and gaining his confidence.

  But Hugh had not seemed put off in the least by Michaela’s angry—if hushed, for Leo’s sake—accusations. He’d assured Michaela that he knew “Rick” better than anyone, and that his plan would work.

  “Relentless,” he reminded her again, and then with a wink, suggested, “Bolder! Push him.”

  So now Michaela sat in one of the chairs by the hearth once more, only this time she shivered with every chill that raced across the floor, and tucked her bare feet under the hem of her skirt.

  She’d taken off her shoes.

  She hoped that was bolder.

  The rap on her door caused her to jump and gasp, a hand to her chest. Michaela took a deep breath and blew it out before calling as calmly as possible, “Yes?”

  The door opened and there he was, tall and wide-shouldered in his draping black cloak, his walking stick kicked out to the side of his shadowed outline, and at the memory of the green eyes she knew were hidden in the darkness of his hood, the roughness of his upper lip, the tight smoothness of the scar on his cheek; remembering the smell of him, the largeness of his person when Michaela stood in his shadow, the thought of the young, lonely boy he used to be, visiting the graves on a nearby knoll, caused her heart rate to treble.

  He came in without invitation this time, Michaela was pleased to note, and shut the door behind him.

  “Good evening, my lord,” Michaela said.

  Roderick Cherbon grunted.

  Michaela smiled at him and stretched out her legs as she poked her frozen toes from beneath her skirt. She did think her feet quite pretty. For feet, of course.

  His hood flicked down at the movement, and then raised to address her face once more.

  “Have you lost your shoes?”

  Michaela felt the heat wanting to creep up into her face, and was glad her back was to the fire—mayhap it would shadow her embarrassment.

  “No, I—I felt more comfortable taking them off this evening,” she said, a trifle defensively even to her own ears. She felt the need to disconcert the massive man now more than ever. She let her voice go husky. “I like…I like the feel of the fire on my bare skin.”

  He crossed the floor in his deliberate, careful manner, showing Michaela how much skill and balance it took to move a body of such grand dimensions. He stopped a pair of paces from her and with the hand not holding his walking stick, pushed back his hood. Immediately, the fire threw green sparks into those breathtaking eyes.

  “Then should you not turn your feet toward the fire rather than to me?”

  She thought she almost saw him smile, and Michaela choked on her own humiliation.

  “I was…they…”

  But he spared her any lame excuse by sitting in the chair opposite her. He dwarfed the medium-sized piece of wooden furniture, but his posture was graceful.

  Michaela wondered what the muscles of his arms and shoulders looked like beneath his shirt. What they would feel like under her palms…

  “What would you speak about this evening, Miss Fortune?” Roderick asked, reaching for the carafe of wine on the table. He paused, one eyebrow raised. “No bread? No cheese?”

  Michaela shook her head, shocked when he poured himself a chalice of wine and then held the carafe toward her own cup as if in question. “Yes, thank you. No, you said you didn’t—”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Roderick interrupted her. “Have a tray sent up tomorrow night. Now, our chat…?”

  “Oh, yes.” Michaela was now so confused that she had no idea what to say to the man. He had discomfited her to the point that she wasn’t certain she could take a drink of wine properly. “Ah…how was Leo for you this afternoon?”

  “Fine.” He took a sip from his chalice and looked into the flames, momentarily hypnotizing Michaela with his profile.

  “You—” She shook her head slightly to clear it. “You weren’t there when I came to fetch him.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  Michaela frowned. “Where were you?”

  Then Roderick did look at her and his expression clearly conveyed his displeasure with her question.

  “Have you seen your father settled?”

  “Yes. He’ll take his leave upon the morn.” Michaela bit her lip for a moment. “He said he had yet to speak with you further. Did you—”

  “Lord Fortune and I have said all to each other that needed to be said. I am certain the next time we meet will be at our wedding.”

  Hearing those words from his lips caused Michaela’s stomach to clench. Our wedding!

  Well, at least as of this night, he still planned on marrying her. And the thought of that event blessed her with another subject to broach with
him.

  “Shall we be married in the chapel?”

  His look of distaste was unmistakable. “Do you wish it?”

  “Of course. It’s very beautiful.”

  “Is it?” Roderick turned his face back to the fire once more and grunted. “It can be arranged. I care not.”

  “I see,” Michaela said. “You have some quarrel with Friar Cope, then.”

  “Had I a quarrel with Cope, ’tis unlikely he would yet be breathing, let alone making his home at Cherbon.” Roderick held his chalice just before his lips. “The chapel is simply naught but a waste of space. A wedding will put it to some use, I suppose.” He sipped.

  “A waste of space?” Michaela was intrigued. “Mayhap you would not consider it so were it used for its intended purpose.”

  The fire had taken hold of the stout logs beautifully by now, and Michaela’s toes—hidden from the lord’s gaze under the table, unfortunately—were toasty warm. The chamber was growing quite close.

  Roderick laughed harshly. “Then it would serve as a waste of time, as well.”

  “What a sinful thing to say,” she said, picking up her own chalice. “For shame, Lord Cherbon.” She took a drink, her eyes never leaving him.

  “I’ve had my fill of religion, Miss Fortune,” Roderick said evenly. “Or have you not heard of my holy pilgrimage?” He spat the words like a curse.

  “Of course.” Michaela knew she was getting closer to the core of this man and she clearly heard Hugh Gilbert’s voice in her ear, pushing her to push him. “I’ve heard of your bravery and selflessness, as well.”

  “You have no idea,” he murmured, and then drank again.

  “You’re right,” she conceded. “I don’t.” She let the silence lay between them like broken glass, one of them not caring enough to pick up the pieces, the other too frightened she would end up bleeding. “Perhaps if you told me about it, I—”

  “No.”

  It really was growing warm in the chamber, and for a mad instant, Michaela wondered if Sir Hugh would think her bold if she took off her overdress. The heat was making her slightly reckless.

  “Might I ask you about your family, then?” she tried. “Your mother? Your…your brothers? Sisters? I’d know Leo’s lineage for when he grows older.”

  “My mother is dead. I have no brothers or sisters. I am all Leo needs know about.”

  “But Friar Cope said—”

  “Cope has a habit of dramatic embellishment.”

  Michaela felt herself frown. “My lord,” she started.

  “Why do we not talk about your family, hmm?” Roderick’s face swung to hers suddenly, and Michaela could not help but gasp at the glimpse of ferocity she saw flash in his eyes. “Since you’ve come to Cherbon, your sire’s name has seemed familiar to me, and yet I could not place him. But upon his visit today, I began to recall—a scandal, if I’m not mistaken. Something about your mother claiming to be stolen away by the Wild Hunt. Isn’t that it?”

  It was Michaela’s turn to stiffen. “That’s all nonsense. My mother is—”

  “Mad?” Roderick suggested coolly. “Or an idiot?”

  “Don’t speak that way about her,” Michaela snapped. “You know her not!”

  “So she was lying. There was no Hunt.” Roderick swirled the contents of his cup and leaned back in the chair. “The servants say you were spawned by the devil himself—that ’tis why you’re called Miss Fortune; bad luck seems to follow you.”

  “You obviously are in no humor to have a reasonable discussion with me this evening.” Michaela stood, hoping Roderick would take her cue and leave.

  He did not. “Either you believe her claims, or you do not. One makes you the daughter of a deranged old woman who ruined her family, the other…” Roderick shrugged. “Miss Fortune.”

  “My mother is not a deranged old woman.”

  “So you believe her?”

  “Yes!” Michaela shouted. “I do believe her. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  Roderick’s eyes bored into hers. “Yes.”

  Michaela had never been so deeply disturbed, admitting to the strange rumors that surrounded her parents with this wounded, mountain of a man who had no use for God. She felt as if something wild and dangerous was whirling inside of her, seeking a way to be free and wreak its havoc.

  “Tell me of your mother,” she challenged, beyond all good sense. “Of the graves on yonder knoll. I’ve seen you there.”

  Roderick shrugged, as if the subject had little meaning for him. “My mother was Dorian Cherbon. She died when I was nine years old. Besides Magnus’s, the other graves are my sisters—six of them, each dead before they had lived a month.”

  Michaela could not help her gasp.

  “Now,” Roderick said smoothly, quietly, as he reached for the carafe and refilled his cup, “is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “You were raised by your father, then?” Michaela answered his question with one of her own, because although the answers he’d given her did not bring her joy, they were indeed what she had wanted to hear. “No one has so much as a kind word to say of him.”

  “Because there are none,” Roderick offered. “Everything you’ve heard about him is true, and likely worse. So, yes, I was raised by my father, if that’s what you’d like to call it. Him, and Harliss.”

  Michaela pressed on. “Is that why you…why you seem so distant with Leo?”

  “What in bloody hell are you talking about?” he growled. “The manner in which I interact with Leo is none of your concern.”

  “It is if I am to be your wife and Leo’s stepmother,” she argued quietly. “My father, he was nearly broken by the thing—whatever it was my mother believes happened to her before my birth. By association, it has broken a part of me, I daresay. You…you have been broken by—”

  “Everyone is broken, Miss Fortune,” Roderick said, and then he did stand. “It’s only a matter of who retains all their pieces still.” He came to her, standing so close she could feel the added heat of his body, and it made her sweat. “And I do not. I left them behind in a bloody room in Constantinople. So it’s of no use trying to fix me.”

  “I don’t want to fix you,” she said, noticing how her voice had gone breathy.

  His eyebrow rose. “No?”

  She shook her head. “I want to know you—to understand you.”

  “What I am is what you see.” Roderick held his arms away from his sides and they seemed to stretch from one wall of the room to the other as he loomed before her. “A beast. The new Cherbon Devil. Broken, scarred. Rather unpleasant.”

  Michaela shook her head again, but the movement was slight, so mesmerized was she by his very presence, the energy rolling off of him. She stepped closer to him, as if drawn.

  “Are you going to kiss me again?” He gave her a dangerous grin, the scar on his cheek going white by his eye like a warning.

  But she could not heed it. “I think I shall.” She licked her lips. “Do you mind?”

  For one who was so deliberate in his movements, Roderick had taken her into his arms within the span of a blink, and this time, it was he who kissed her. Roughly, wetly, his mouth open and his tongue invading her. Michaela could only cling to the front of his tunic, her head spinning, her heart racing, her breath flown somewhere beyond the keep. The feel of him was intoxicating to the point that she felt she’d been drugged.

  Then he let her go so suddenly that she nearly fell over, gasping, her body afire and not from the blaze in the hearth. He turned and grabbed up his walking stick and then faced her once more.

  “I believe our palaver is finished for the night, Miss Fortune. Bid your father farewell for me on the morn.” He stomped to her door, opened it, but paused before stepping through. “And be sure to remember the tray for tomorrow night.”

  Then he was gone.

  Michaela was at last able to move, but the best she could manage was to bring her fingertips to her lips where the Lord of Cherbon’s mouth had touc
hed hers.

  He was forever leaving her.

  Roderick stormed through the dark, twisting corridors, lurching into and bounding off of the walls like a wounded animal, and with great growls swiping at the intermittent candles fastened to the walls. Alone at last, finally allowing himself to feel his thrashing heart, his shaking muscles, his anger, his—

  Fear. His fear of the glow-haired woman he’d just left. His fear of the way she made him feel when he was with her.

  Roderick didn’t want to feel. The feeling part of him was dead, and that suited him perfectly. What business was it of Michaela Fortune’s to try to resuscitate a part of him so damaged that its form would be a mockery of life? Sick and twisted and destroyed. Just like himself.

  What a fool he was, behaving with her the way he would have behaved with a woman three years ago. Playing the seducer, as if he had anything other than wealth to offer. As if he could ever allow himself the whole comfort of her bed, her body. He had only duped himself for that short time in her chambers—when Roderick had kissed her as a man would kiss a woman, when she had responded to that kiss, he had foolishly forgotten.

  He hadn’t consciously known where he was going in his angry flight through the interior of Cherbon until he stopped, breathing hard, before the ornately carved doors of the chapel. A single, fat candle gutted on each side of the portal, but Roderick allowed the flames to stand, using their meager light to make out the Latin words carved on the lintel:

  A porta inferi erue Domine animas eorum.

  From the gate of hell deliver their souls, O Lord.

  The words were almost enough to give Roderick pause, but he shook off the last remnants of superstition left buried in the deepest parts of him from his childhood, and threw open the doors, crashing them back against the stones and causing the candle flames to flap parallel to the ground. He stormed down the center aisle toward the altar. There, he stopped, his chest heaving like a bellows, as he looked around the murky shadows for a tool.

  He grasped the altar railing with his free hand and heaved himself up the step, not glancing once at the twenty-foot-high crucifix over the tabernacle. In a moment, the long candle snuffer was in his fist and Roderick tromped back down the step, to the left of the altar as quickly as his ruined body would carry him. He lifted the snuffer high over his head and swung the dangling, bell-shaped end down in a whistle of air against the edge of the stone railing as hard as he could. The harmless bell flew into the blackness of the chapel with a ring and diminishing clinks, leaving a long, pointed, gleaming spear in Roderick’s hand.