by Lilia Ford
“Donal picked the shade?” she asked shakily.
How could he guess such a thing? His comment about being an oracle was no jest. But in a way she wasn’t surprised. With Damian, with Donal, even with Derek, within minutes she’d already felt like she knew them better than the people she’d known her whole life—like they all possessed some instinct that made them instantly recognize each other as kindred.
She took a great breath and shook her head sharply, trying to throw off this absurd mood before she made a complete scene. “As usual, I’m a watering-pot. I think it’s making me thirsty.”
Damian let out a startled laugh. He pulled her in for a tight hug. “You dear girl… Genevieve, you’ve no idea—what you bring to this house….” She looked at him and to her surprise, he seemed almost as affected as she was. “But my bride is thirsty. Why don’t you explore while I fetch us something?”
She tried to offer a polite protest, though really she wanted to explore her “domain” according to the ways of the Blacks. Damian pinched her chin and left.
Genevieve stepped into the conservatory, which was large enough to hold a small dining table with four chairs, a double-width lounge chair that could be lowered to create a daybed, two other armchairs, and assorted small tables. All the furniture was wrought iron, with blue-and-white-striped cushions that looked brand new. There were potted date palms that provided some shade, along with orange and lemon trees that smelled heavenly.
She wondered what it would be like to sleep the night in here—could one see the stars? Even better, the date palms told her the room must be heated somehow: how magical it would be to sit out here during the winter watching the snow swirl all around, but feeling safely warm and comfortable.
But today was no stormy or snowy day, but a perfect June morning, gently warm with mild blue skies. Much as she adored her new rooms, the garden was calling to her.
Chapter Eighteen
Genevieve quickly realized the garden was so big, it would take weeks if not months to discover all its beauties. But she spent the next twenty minutes contentedly wandering the paths, reveling in being in the sun, hearing the soothing buzz of the summer insects mixed with the soft breeze.
She was no gardener to recognize all the different flowers, but at least one of the people who had planted this garden dearly loved herbs. At least seven different types of thyme were growing in unruly sweeps; there were beds full of basil, sage, tarragon, chives with their whimsical purple buds. A row of lavender ran the length of one of the walls; beds were enclosed with tall hedges of rosemary.
Best of all, in the sunniest spot in the garden was a huge bed just for her favorite, mint—and not just peppermint and spearmint. She saw apple, bergamot mint, and pennyroyal varieties as well.
Everything grew in such abundance, she could pick a generous bouquet every day and feel no guilt at all. Genevieve immediately set about picking a bouquet of lavender for their room, and that was how Damian found her some minutes later.
He’d brought a tray filled with jam tarts, biscuits, and a large Colby cheese, along with a pitcher of lemon-water, to which she could now add different types of mint. She practically clapped when she saw he’d brought a blanket—she’d never dreamt she’d love picnics so much.
Damian spread it out in a sunny part of the lawn, and they both lay down, nibbling the food, teasing, but really just spending time together.
Damian mostly talked, explaining how he and his brothers had been raised by Declan in the castle after their parents’ deaths. Genevieve sensed that though at the time it had been a horrible tragedy, grief had long since mellowed into a gentle sorrow. Their childhood had been a happy one. Though Declan had insisted they train very hard, he’d made sure there was plenty of time for sports, reading, riding, and in Donal’s case, endless pranks.
Damian told hilarious stories of Donal’s ongoing war with Roderick, the castle’s irascible cook. It seemed she’d not been far off when she thought he looked like a child stealing tarts from a tea-tray. So far as his family could tell, Donal set himself the goal of causing mayhem in the kitchen at least once a day, though Roderick would thrash him unmercifully when he was caught. Declan had finally been forced to double the cook’s wages to keep him from departing.
“And you were not a party to these raids on the kitchen?” she asked.
“I’ve stolen my share of tarts and felt the snap of Roderick’s great wooden spoon,” he said, laughing. “To be honest, though, my passion was for riding. I was a lazy devil when it came to books, but any time Declan gave us an hour’s leisure, I was on my horse.”
“What of Derek? Somehow I can’t see him stealing fruit-tarts.”
“No—Derek’s passion was for hunting. He was probably the only one of Declan’s descendants never once to be thrashed for stealing from the kitchen. But he was much the same as a child as he is now, surly and unsociable. I think Donal would have taunted him to madness, but Derek has the devil’s own temper and he’s vicious with his fists. As Derek is not a source of jam-tarts, Donal soon learned the amusement of provoking him was not worth the beating he’d inevitably get.”
Genevieve laughed, but she sensed something in Damian’s tone—he loved his brothers deeply and felt protective of them. Her coming would make a great change for them: they would live in a new house; all of their usual arrangements were being disrupted. She couldn’t help worrying about them, especially Derek. Donal struck her as able to find cheer wherever he looked, and not even Genevieve’s self-doubt could stand against his sincere warmth. But Derek….
She shook it off and turned back to Damian, who’d sat there for a whole entire hour without once restraining her hands, fondling her breasts, or driving his tongue into her mouth. She almost laughed at herself for the pang she felt—perhaps she wouldn’t mind just a bit of that.
But though she felt a lingering desire, for the moment she was content to let it recede a bit. There was something to having it not be quite so clamorous. It allowed her to enjoy another side of Damian, or at least a different way of spending time with Damian.
And much as she loved the sensual “play” as he called it, she loved this easy companionableness almost as much. It had been many years since she’d had anything like it, and it made her unspeakably grateful that she would have it with her husband.
Suddenly it was on her lips to tell him she loved him, but she forced down the impulse. A familiar, cruel voice pointed out that they’d known each other a grand total of four days, were still little more than strangers to each other. He might think her needy or easy in her affections for proclaiming her love so quickly. He might feel uncomfortable if (Titania forbid) he couldn’t in honesty return the sentiment.
Another, more recent voice said she was unfair to him. Damian was no cad to humiliate her for feeling affection. He’d consistently shown respect for her feelings. And for all his annoying domineering, she saw how he’d been gently and steadily trying to do away with her fear so that she might feel safe telling him her desires.
But it was too hard: the cowardly voice was too long-standing and tenacious. She blushed when she realized he’d been watching her. His knowing look made her wonder how much he guessed of her thoughts.
“You dear girl,” he murmured.
She didn’t confess her love, but she found the courage to reach for his face. He seemed pleased and held still for her so she might explore. She drew three of her fingers over his forehead, up to the line of his hair, pushing back the lock that always seemed to be falling over his brow—she loved that lock. He obligingly closed his eyes so she could draw a featherlight stroke over his eyelids. She traced his ears, caressing the baby-soft lobes, over to the still-strange scratchiness of his cheeks.
They’d both been lying on their sides, propped up by their elbows. When she finished, Damian lay down on his back, inviting her to lay her head on his welcoming chest. Genevieve couldn’t resist. He pulled her in with his arm and after a moment’s hesitation, she
laid her hand over his heart, wondering if he would guess what she was too afraid to say.
For a long while they just lay like that, without speaking, enjoying the gentle warmth of the June day—she loved that she could do this.
After a while, Genevieve said lazily, “This is the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen. I think I shall live out here in the warm months—that is,” she looked up nervously, “I don’t mean to be idle. If there are things I should do—duties….”
She wasn’t even sure how to ask. Many of his remarks had made clear that unlike her mother, she would not be responsible for the cooking and cleaning.
“I can cook a little,” she said gamely. “Nothing like mama, I’m afraid. Where is the kitchen, by the way? You never showed it to me.”
“Not today, love,” Damian said, giving her a little smile.
The change in his expression was very slight, but Genevieve was becoming more sensitive to Damian’s smiles, and this was the one he saved for his most despotic assertions of authority. It should have been inconsequential, because in truth she didn’t feel any strong curiosity about the kitchen, but she looked at him suspiciously. It was consequential to him.
What wasn’t he saying?
It came to her suddenly. “Where is the kitchen?”
The antechamber had three doors in it, for the dining room, the study, and the sitting room. This room gave out to the garden, and the other two rooms had no doors that she could recall.
How was that possible? Both his brothers would live here, and yet she’d seen only the small bedroom that Derek would use when Damian was absent—where were his brothers’ rooms?
Damian was giving her a smile that was all challenge. Genevieve stood up and walked back to the house. A quick look told her there were no other doors in her sitting room. She checked both the other rooms—no doors. There was a door below the staircase in the antechamber she’d not noticed before, but it led only to a small water closet.
Damian was standing by the double doors, watching her.
She turned on him. “Explain this to me!”
“Explain what, love?” he said softly.
“Don’t be obtuse!” she growled through her teeth. “Where is the door? How do I leave this house?”
“You don’t,” he said with the same velvet softness. “Not until we have settled matters between us, including your rules.”
“My rules?”
“Yes, Genevieve, rules.”
“I suppose I must have your permission to go out then?” she said with maximum scorn.
“No,” he responded. “You may not go out at all unless one of us is with you.”
“One of us?”
“Me or my brothers.”
“Your brothers!”
“Yes. When I am absent, they have charge of you.”
“Your brothers have charge of me? Damian, I’m a grown woman.”
“You’re a married woman, Genevieve,” he warned.
“My mother is a married woman. She does not have to beg permission when she leaves to do the shopping.”
“What happens in your parents’ house or any other house is irrelevant. You are my wife, and I am the one you must obey.”
“Damian, I’ve not asked permission to go out since I was nine years old.”
“I know, darling, and I realize it will be an adjustment for you,” Damian said, sounding eminently reasonable, though his words were anything but. “You will be permitted to visit the town and invite friends to the castle.”
“To the castle, but not to the house!” she sputtered. “Not to my house.”
“No one outside the family may enter this house. That’s my final word,” he said, his temper showing signs of fraying. “The bottom line is that you are my wife now, and you must accustom yourself to having less freedom than you enjoyed before.”
“Not less freedom, no freedom!” she burst out, utterly outraged.
Many odd details of the past few days with him suddenly made a sinister kind of sense. “This was the plan from the beginning—locking me in my room, making sure no one spoke to me. This is what you didn’t wish me to hear, isn’t it! That after marrying you, I would be locked away inside an eastern hareem. And I actually worried I might deceive you! You spoke the truth that night. You were the one deceiving me!”
As she said the words, she realized she’d gone too far. She could tell from his expression that he’d lost the battle with his temper. She backed away, not frightened precisely, but wary.
“As you will it, then Genevieve. No freedom,” Damian said silkily, stalking closer, caging her in between the wall and the stairwell.
When he struck, it was tiger-fast. Once again she was over his shoulder, being carried upstairs.
“Though I believe you will find that there is a difference,” he explained, his voice showing no more strain than if he’d been carrying a kitten not a grown woman. “I would be willing to allow you some freedom, darling, but only if you acknowledge that it is mine to grant, and that I may take it away again at any time. And beware how you goad me, bride, lest I decide to ignore your wishes entirely. Were I only to consult my own preference, you would remain locked in this house, completely sequestered from all but me and the men of my family.”
They had reached the bedroom.
“And” he said, lowering her down on the bed, “when you defied me, you would remain chained to my bed until you saw reason.” There was nothing playful in his tone.
“Damian don’t you dare!” she screamed.
He let go, and she rolled to escape, but it was apparent from his mocking expression that he was merely taunting her. He caught her before she could touch the floor and used his knee to hold her in place while he buckled the cuffs back on. This truly was humiliating.
“This is no game,” she yelled savagely.
“You are right, it isn’t.” He attached the chains and pulled them tight. “You will stay here until you give me your solemn promise never to leave this house without proper permission and without one of us to guard you. I will give you some time to think on your choice.”
And with that, he left the room. She heard the click of the lock, and a second later the sobs started.
Chapter Nineteen
Damian leaned against the wall outside the door to their room, confounded by what had just happened. How on earth had he botched that so thoroughly? Her defiance had triggered some primitive instinct in him, and all he could think was that he would bring her to heel.
Declan had warned him of this—and strongly counseled against giving ultimatums. What would he do if she refused him? He’d left himself no way of backing down without looking weak or admitting that he’d been acting like a bully.
Not that he had any compromise to offer her—not on this. He should have just told her about the Reavers, but he’d wanted her to acknowledge his authority over her. It was for her to obey him, whether or not he chose to give a reason for his command! She may have had this freedom at her parents’ home, but she had married into the Black family. If he chose to restrict her to the house or lock her in their room, he expected her to submit gracefully!
And he knew even if the Reavers were not a threat, he would never have allowed her to come and go as she pleased. Neither he nor Derek could live with the anxiety of worrying about her. But this went beyond worry too. He wasn’t worried about her safety in the garden or the sitting room, but he’d still locked Genevieve inside their room. Just the thought of it made him shoot impossibly hard.
And not only him: he recalled the way her eyes glazed when he told her he’d consider letting her out in a day or so. He didn’t want her to feel like a prisoner, like she had no freedom—this truly wasn’t about crushing her will or leaving her cowed. He adored the outraged glint she got when she demanded he let her go. But it was her temper to be excited when he exercised mastery, and when she yielded despite herself, he thought he would go mad with lust.
That was his mistake: he’d m
ade it a question of brute force, when he should have talked to her openly. Her protests were legitimate and completely understandable. While it was his right as husband to make decisions like this, it was only fair that they be discussed.
That’s what they’d done so far, he realized. They talked and negotiated, made sure at every point that both of their views were taken into account. Though he’d dominated her, until now he’d not acted as if her will was unimportant. And unquestionably, Genevieve had known incredible pleasure surrendering to him.
His heart ached when he thought of her expression when he showed her the sitting room, when she said how perfect it was. Genevieve belonged here. The last thing the house should ever feel like was a prison. She needed a haven—a home. Truly, he had botched this. The worst was he had no idea how to repair the damage. Unfortunately for Damian, the fates would not give him the chance that day.
“Damian!” a voice roared from the bottom of the stairs. It was Donal, and Damian knew immediately that disaster had struck. His brother appeared a moment later out of breath. “They ambushed us—lightning strikes from the north and the west, right over that bloody cliff. Our men fought brilliantly, but they couldn’t hold the lines.”
“Where is Derek?” His first thought was for Genevieve’s protection.
“He’s bringing Nightshade—he’s right behind me—I’m to take you to the rallying point.”
At least Derek was close. Damian had no idea how to face Genevieve, so he played for time by entering Derek’s little room and began putting on one of his uniforms—all three of them were the same size, thank Titania.
As he pulled on the pants, his mind struggled frantically for some way to repair this quarrel in the time he had. What would she think of him for leaving so abruptly? Would she feel betrayed—or worse, abandoned? It was too horrible to contemplate.