by Nora Roberts
Arianne had not taken her eyes from Nicholas’s intent face, but a smile gently curved her lips. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Well done, my son!” From the handsomely appointed feather bed, the old duke beamed up at his son. “I see you’ve learned wisdom during these past years.”
“I trust so, my lord.” Nicholas’s eyes still held Arianne’s. She looked so beautiful, even with her torn and crumpled gown, her wildly flowing hair, and the pale lavender shadows of weariness from the events of the day beneath her eyes. “We shall be married at the earliest time possible—if Lady Arianne has not changed her mind.”
“When you know me better, my lord duke, you will know that I never change my mind,” Arianne said sweetly, and now laughter and love shone from her eyes, banishing the weariness as she went into his arms.
“A woman who never changes her mind,” the archduke chuckled dryly. “You have a challenge before you indeed, my son.”
“I pledge to meet the challenge—and to surmount it.” Nicholas’s quick, flashing grin lit his face as he tilted her chin up with a gentle finger. “We will be wed and we will be happy until the end of our days,” he promised so quietly that she alone heard the words. “I will devote my life to your happiness, safety, and well-being.”
“And I to yours,” she whispered back.
“It is customary in Galeron to seal such agreements with a kiss,” Marcus pointed out gravely.
“In Dinadan as well.” Nicholas’s eyes held a distinct gleam as he pulled Arianne close.
“Far be it from me to defy custom, my lord,” she murmured with such unaccustomed meekness that he grinned and then kissed her so thoroughly, so deeply, so hungrily that Arianne forgot completely where she was and who was watching, and imagined herself on the very brink of heaven.
9
The bedchamber was redolent with fresh, sweet-smelling rushes, with wine and candlelight. Arianne brushed her hair before the fire, impatient as she waited for her bridegroom. Growing more and more annoyed as the moments passed, she began to pace back and forth from window to door.
She glanced once or twice, fuming, at the magnificent feather bed with its rich scarlet hangings and fur coverlets. This was her wedding night—and it appeared that she was doomed to spend it alone.
The day had been a blur of noise, color, confusion, of ceremony, laughter, and feasting. First the coronation and wedding ceremony held in the Grand Cathedral, brilliant with candlelight and torches and all the lords and ladies in their richest finery. The knights of Dinadan, Galeron, and Nicholas’s own loyal legion of mercenaries had all been in attendance, as had the gypsy, smiling as she watched the royal procession from the very rear of the cathedral.
When Nicholas had watched her glide down the aisle in her gown of pale cream velvet trimmed with mulberry satin, her slender throat and dainty hand adorned with her mother’s amethyst necklace and ring, he’d looked appropriately dazzled and proud. Arianne had never felt happier.
The feast had been all anyone could want—succulent venison cooked in a spicy corn stew, capons and pheasants, a pike stuffed with almonds, fruit pies and marzipan sweetmeats…and there had been wine and ale and dancing and speeches. Endless speeches! Of course, it was wonderful that peace had returned to the land, that Marcus and his troops had driven off the last of Julian’s soldiers from Galeron, that her homeland was being rebuilt, that alliances between all the neighboring kingdoms, including that of Katerine’s father, were now stronger than ever before.
And Castle Dinadan had been restored to its place as a stronghold of peace and beauty. The aura of evil no longer clung to its stone walls—they glistened now in daylight and starlight with a silver-white luminosity that served as a beacon of glory to all who saw it.
Castle Doom was no more. Archduke Armand’s beautiful castle was once again a symbol of safety and pride for his people, a place of joy and festivity.
Arianne was thrilled to know that after a decent interval of mourning, Katerine would wed her brother. She wished them as much happiness as she had found with Nicholas.
But after the feast and the speeches and the dancing—that was when the trouble had begun.
Nicholas’s men had come for him, had claimed it was tradition to get the bridegroom drunk on his wedding night.
He had gone with them, laughing, bowing to her, disappearing and leaving her to be escorted to their chamber by Katerine and her waiting women.
That had been eons ago, and now as she brushed her hair before the crackling fire, attired in her daintily embroidered silk shift, with the candles burning low, and anger sparking her brilliant eyes, she found herself fuming. If he thought he could leave her on their wedding night and then return whenever he pleased, expecting her to be waiting for him like a dish of figs, he was sadly mistaken.
She bounded forward, grabbed her sable wrapper from its hook, and sprang toward the door.
There were many, many places to hide in this castle. If Nicholas wanted her when he returned—if he was not so drunk that he forgot he even had a wife—let him find her. Let him turn the castle upside down and try to find her.
She flung open the heavy door and hurled herself through it—staight into the iron chest of her husband.
“Going somewhere, Arianne?” He chuckled, his strong arms encircling her.
“No! Yes! Let me go at once!” she ordered as he drew her into the room and kicked the door closed behind them, his tight embrace never loosening.
“Let you go? What a thing is that to say to your husband on your wedding night, my sweet love?” He chuckled again, and his eyes glanced approvingly at the fiery ripple of her hair, at her creamy shoulders, and the thin, clinging silk of her shift.
“You left me—to get drunk with that motley crew of barbarians!”
He shook his head at her and ran a hand slowly, teasingly through her hair. “Do I appear drunk, Arianne?”
He didn’t. She studied his keen, clear gray eyes, the healthy but not high color in his handsome face. There was no slurring of his words and, she realized, relaxing slightly in his arms as the rush of anger ebbed, his step was as sure and strong as ever.
“N-no,” she replied cautiously, searching his face.
“In truth, it would take much more than the time I spent with those ruffians to make me forget that I have such a sweet and lovely bride waiting for me. A bride whose charms I wish to admire all night long—unhindered by the numbing effects of spirits.”
He suddenly scooped her up without warning and carried her to the bed. By the time he set her down, their kisses were deep and more intoxicating than any wine or ale.
“But I’m angry with you,” Arianne said, trying not to laugh as they drew apart only by inches. “I’ve resolved to leave this room—to make you regret that you left me for even a moment.”
“Then I’ll have to change your mind, won’t I?” Nicholas grinned, pushing her back against the pillows and pressing a trail of slow kisses down her throat, making her quiver and burn.
“But I…never change my mind,” she whispered, her arms already snaked around his neck. She drank kisses from the warmth of his lips.
“This time you will.”
He reached out and grasped the satin ribbons adorning the bodice of her shift, tugging until they parted and revealed the sweet nakedness of her form. “I am an expert in many kinds of persuasion.”
Arianne gulped a deep breath as his gleaming eyes gazed into hers. “Show me,” she whispered on a breath of laughter and drew him down to her.
As Nicholas clasped her close and rained kisses down upon her eyelids, he spoke again. This time his voice was hoarse with emotion. “My sweet, I’ll spend the rest of my life persuading you to love me always as you do tonight. I never thought to have a home, my title, my father’s respect, or a wife. Now I have them all.”
She held him close to her, and her fingers stroked lovingly across the hard, scarred planes of his face.
“And I have you, my
beloved Nicholas,” she whispered on a crest of love so rich and powerful it brought tears to her eyes. “Surely no woman was ever so fortunate, or ever loved her husband as much as I love you. And will for all time.”
“For all time,” he repeated, catching her close again and claiming her mouth in a fierce and tender kiss.
As the night sky beyond the window bloomed with purple darkness and starlight, the duke and duchess in their castle chamber celebrated their wedding night and all the days and nights to come.
FALCON’S LAIR
Ruth Ryan Langan
For Tom—my free spirit
PROLOGUE
ENGLAND, 1870
“He’s summoned the American.” The voice was little more than a whisper.
The tower room was illuminated by a single candle. The two who met there in secret dared not light a fire, for fear of being discovered. With each word, their breath plumed on the frosty air.
“Why?”
“He suspects something and thinks his brilliant friend will come to his aid.”
“Then we must stop him.”
There was a momentary pause. “Are you suggesting…?”
The hooded head nodded. The silence seemed to stretch out until it was broken by an ominous murmur. “One more makes no difference. We must do whatever is necessary. No one will be allowed to alter our plans.”
A chilling gust of wind snuffed the candle, leaving the two in darkness.
“Did you feel that? It seemed…unnatural.”
Cold hands clasped cold hands. A voice said soothingly, “Just a draft in the tower. It changes nothing. The American must be eliminated.”
1
It was raining again. Felicity Andrews shivered inside her heavy cloak. Ever since she’d boarded the ship in Boston Harbor, the skies had been weeping. But here in England it seemed an icy, bitter downpour that seeped through to her very bones.
The journey had been long and difficult, and she felt weary beyond belief. But the letter from Lord Falcon, her father’s oldest and dearest friend, had left her little choice. Though it had been an invitation, it seemed more a summons. He bade his friend Rob to come quickly—before it was too late.
She mulled over the carefully worded letter, as she had many times since its arrival. Oliver, Lord Falcon, had hinted at something dark and mysterious. Something too painful for him to put into words.
Felicity wondered what the old man would think when he discovered that his friend’s daughter had come in his stead.
Her head was still spinning from all the details she’d been forced to see to. Selling her furniture. Cataloging all her father’s books and letters. By far the most difficult had been letting go of the flat she’d shared with her father before his death. A flat that held a lifetime of memories.
What now, she wondered, now that she’d cut herself adrift from the only life she’d ever known, in Boston, and was about to embark on a life of uncertainty in a foreign land? She wouldn’t think of that. She would think only about the end of this tedious journey. The thought of a hot meal and a cozy bed lifted her spirits.
Despite her best intentions, her lids fluttered while she fantasized about the things she would see while she was here in England. The wild, rocky countryside. The small, picturesque villages. The lovely people her father had always spoken so kindly about…
The coach, racing across the windswept moors, suddenly rocked and swayed, jolting her into wakefulness, causing her to reach out a hand to steady herself. Felicity glanced out the small window. Her heart almost stopped.
Through the swirling mist she could make out a horse and a cloaked rider, on a collision course with her coach. As she watched, a jagged flash of lightning sliced the darkness, illuminating the rider’s handsome, brooding features. Though it was but a single moment, Felicity felt as though the face had been seared into her soul. He had coal-black hair, tossed wildly by wind and rain; dark eyes, deep and fathomless, filled with an eternity of pain; a mouth twisted in anger, as though cursing the heavens. Then darkness closed around him once more. Thunder rumbled across the heavens with all the force of a cannon.
Jolted into action, Felicity rapped on the roof of the carriage, crying out a warning to the driver. But the sounds of the storm and the clatter of the coach’s wheels drowned out her voice.
She felt a moment of panic as she braced herself for impact. Instead, the coach continued along its perilous course. And in the next flash of lightning, she blinked in astonishment. The rider had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared. The only sign of life was a falcon, its wings beating furiously against the buffeting winds.
She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her little cry of alarm. She must be more weary than she realized. Her mind was playing tricks. Annoyed at herself, she huddled in the corner of the coach until she heard a shout from the driver.
The pace of the carriage slowed perceptibly. As she peered out the window, the ancient towers of Falcon’s Lair loomed in the mist. Most of the castle was in darkness. Only a few candles, outlined in windows, flickered in welcome.
The coach halted at the foot of wide stone steps. The driver tossed Felicity’s trunks down to a waiting servant, then helped her to alight.
“Welcome to Falcon’s Lair, m’lady,” he called.
“Thank you.”
“And beware.” His voice lowered conspiratorially. “‘Tis said there are things “He looked up as the scowling servant stepped between them.
There was no time to ask what he’d meant to say. With wind and rain pummeling her, Felicity followed the servant up the stairs and inside the open double doors.
The doors clanged hollowly as they were pulled shut behind her. The servant disappeared without a word, and Felicity was left standing alone and shivering.
She had a quick impression of towering walls hung with ancient tapestries and a stone floor gleaming in the light of masses of candles. The scent of beeswax and a faint fragrance of woodsmoke lingered in the air.
At the sound of footsteps drawing near, she turned expectantly. The woman coming toward her was tall, broad of shoulder, and thick in the middle. She wore a shapeless dark gown and heavy shoes. Dark, graying hair was pulled back into a tidy knot.
The woman peered at her, apparently annoyed at this untimely distraction and said accusingly, “The master is asleep.”
“I’m sorry it’s so late. My name is Felicity Andrews. My father, Robert, was a dear friend to Lord Falcon.”
Felicity saw the slight widening of the woman’s eyes, the only indication that she recognized the name. “I am Maud Atherton, housekeeper at Falcon’s Lair.”
“How do you do?” Felicity offered her hand, but the woman merely stared at her in disdain. She realized that only an American would make such a gesture to a servant. Embarrassed, she lowered her hand and clenched it into a fist at her side.
“I was not told to expect you.” The woman made no attempt to smile. Her eyes, small and dark, peered from behind thick spectacles.
“There was no time to write Lord Falcon of the news of my father’s death. I simply booked passage, trusting that Lord Falcon’s friendship would extend to Robert Andrews’ daughter as well.”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed in distrust. She turned to a hovering servant. “It is too late to wake the mistress. Take the lady’s bags to the east room and see that a fire is laid quickly.” To Felicity she said sternly, “Follow me.”
They passed through a long, dimly lit hallway where candles sputtered in pools of wax, casting grotesque shadows on the walls and ceilings. Felicity glanced up at the gargoyles glaring down from their perches along the gallery and found herself wondering at the prickly feeling along her spine. She felt as if she were being watched.
After climbing wide, curving stairs to the second floor, the housekeeper continued on to the third floor, holding her candle aloft as she led the way along a narrow, darkened hallway.
“This will have to do.” She entered a small, cr
amped room and set the candle on a chest beside a bed.
Across the room a servant huddled before a fireplace, coaxing a thin flame to life on the hearth. Felicity’s trunk and valise had been deposited beneath a window.
“Have you eaten?” the housekeeper asked.
“Not for many hours.”
Maud Atherton seemed annoyed at having to attend to one more chore. “I’ll see that a meal is sent up. But it will have to be a cold one. Most of the servants have retired for the night.”
“If it’s too much bother…”
Without waiting for her to finish, the woman strode across the room and signaled for the servant to follow.
When the door closed behind them, Felicity dragged a chair close to the fire and sank down wearily. Drawing her cloak around her for warmth, she struggled to hold back her simmering temper.
Fool, she berated herself. Why had she jumped at Lord Falcon’s invitation without first weighing the consequences?
Because, another part of her mind replied, she had seen it as a chance to recover from the shock of her father’s death. She’d leaped at this opportunity to withdraw to a place of safety and nurse her wounds. But she hadn’t anticipated such a cold reception.
Oh, what in the world had she gotten herself into?
Felicity dozed until a loud knock on the door snapped her awake. For one dizzying moment she had no idea where she was. Then it all came rushing back to her. Falcon’s Lair. The drafty room. The surly servant.
“Supper, ma’am.” The girl was young, no more than twelve or thirteen, and looked as though she’d been yanked out of her bed. Hair flying. Clothes in disarray. Eyes heavy with sleep.
Felicity could sympathize. She’d been awakened as well, from a dream that was sweet and soothing. Now she was forced back to stark, unwelcome reality.
“My name is Felicity Andrews,” she said. “What’s yours?”