No. He would never give his heart to another woman. Or trust one for that matter.
Servants hurried to and fro, gracing the table with the wedding dinner, the festive mood associated with such events conspicuously absent. They carried out their business with eyes averted from his gaze. Father Eames had escorted the lady to the side of the room, no doubt to exhort her to maintain her holiness even though married to the devil himself, and Gervase recalled Mariel's earlier words.
Let it be as God wills it.
What passed for faith in England was often little more than silly superstition, and Gervase Daltrey wanted no part of the hypocritical lot. Neither would he stand idly by while Eames sought to ruin the one pleasure he would have with his bride. The marriage bed.
“Ah, Eames, if I did not know better, I'd swear you were about to canonize my bride,” Gervase noted dryly. “I'm afraid I'll have to put a halt to what I am certain is a splendid warning against the sins of the flesh, but you understand. A terrified bride spoils the wedding night.”
“Baron Daltrey!” the Father exclaimed. “I assure you! No such untoward speech has passed my lips. Where is your sense of decency, Sir? I would never encourage a wife to deny her husband his rights.”
“Deny my rights?” Gervase repeated mockingly. “Do you suppose a man wants merely to exercise his right upon a woman?”
His gaze landed on Mariel, her downcast eyes and flaming cheeks the proof he needed that the man of the cloth had already instilled in her the idea that her wedding bed was something to be endured.
“Has our dear Father Eames convinced you to bear your cross well, Lady Mariel?” Gervase murmured near her ear.
Her silence spoke loudly, awakening in him a brutal need to silence the reverend's words in her mind.
“Damn you and your false words, Eames!” he ground out.
Sweeping Mariel into his arms, Gervase strode to the staircase. Every soul in the great hall stared in astonishment as he carried her to her chambers. Her hands grasped his neck as he alighted the stairs, but she remained tense in his grasp.
“I'll tolerate no martyr in my home, nor in my bed,” he growled, kicking the door to the bedchamber open and planting her feet on the floor before him. “Lock the door, sweetling.”
She obeyed, then turned to face him. The fiery color in her cheeks was gone, replaced with the paleness of fear, her blue eyes wide with nervous emotion. Her breasts rose and fell with her heavy breaths, barely peeking their rounded beauty from the modest neckline, offering Gervase a hint of what awaited him beneath the dark emerald gown.
Circling her in wolfish fashion he soothed, “Calm yourself, my lady. You'll suffer no violence under my hand.”
Pushing her long hair to the side from where he stood behind her, Gervase trailed his lips over the sensitive flesh of her neck and clasped her waist in his strong hands.
Reaching her ear, he murmured, “You'll give the devil his due willingly.”
Her sharp intake of breath and the goose-flesh that rose on her exposed skin ignited a fiery gleam in his dark eyes as he teased the nape of her neck with his lips. Unfastening the clasps of her gown one by one with deft fingers and calculated slowness, growing more satisfied with every hitch of her breath as the material yielded from her body, Gervase continued until a sharp knock interrupted his work. Irritated, he halted his progress and skimmed his fingers across the top of her chemise.
“Discover who it is that disturbs us.”
“Please, my lord, do not be harsh. It is surely Edith, my maid.”
“You have no need of maid this night,” he whispered silkily, caressing her collarbone.
“Yes, Edith?” she asked with shaky voice.
“Lady Mariel, will you need me to change your dress?”
He smiled wickedly, shaking his head as Mariel looked to him for answer.
“That will not be necessary Edith. Goodnight.”
He left no uncertainty of her dismissal. Returning his attention, Gervase's smoldering gaze penetrated her before her eyes lowered. Taking her chin in his hand, he tipped her face up and covered her mouth with his. She startled in his grasp, surprising him. It was not fear, exactly, he intuited. Rather, it seemed her innocent of a man's lips upon her own. Gentling the kiss, he drank slowly of her, savoring the moment her mouth softened beneath his. Gradually, he deepened his probing until her lips parted before his invasion. Her hands clasped his thick biceps through layers of clothing, and Gervase sensed her inner turmoil as she pushed him away only to grasp him more tightly the instant she did so. Sliding the open gown down over her shoulders and arms, he forced her to release him, and the gown pooled around her feet. He released her lips and studied her, the soft outline of her form beneath the light chemise highlighted from the flickering firelight.
“Light the lamp, sweetling.”
His voice rumbled deep and low. He was more affected than he was entirely comfortable with.
“My lord, is that...customary?”
“I wish to see you.”
Awkwardly she moved, lighting the lamp while attempting to cover herself, and a troubling thought dawned in his mind. Perhaps he looked not upon a woman versed in the arts of pleasure, as he was used to, but a true innocent.
“Bare yourself to me, Mariel.”
Her eyes grew wider, the blush on her skin deepening.
“My lord?” she whispered, her voice barely audible and strained with uncertainty.
But he remained silent, waiting.
“Please do not make me do this, my lord,” she pleaded, her blue eyes shimmering with unshod tears.
She stood, unmoving, trembling beneath his gaze.
Is this true innocence? Or mere conniving manipulation?
He could not be sure.
“As you wish, my lady,” he said evenly, his body protesting every word.
Gervase bowed, turned, and headed for the door.
“You are leaving?” she stammered in disbelief, clutching her arms around herself.
“I explained, sweetling. You'll give yourself to me willingly, or not at all.”
“What will everyone think if you do not spend the wedding night in our chambers?” she wondered aloud, a new thought terrifying her. “Oh! When you leave, someone will come for the bed sheets!” she choked out, understanding that the unstained sheet would denounce her being a bride proper.
Gervase turned. Her skin, pale with the terror of impending shame that would result if any, even wrongly, thought her unchaste - her eyes, loosing the tears that had brimmed a moment earlier - moved him. He strode over to the feather bed, pulling his breeches down to expose his thigh. She scurried to the bed, lying down stiffly and closing her eyes, awaiting her deflowering in willing obedience. It was not the sort of willing surrender he had in mind.
Gervase snapped, “Is this what you think I desire? You've no idea what a man wants, sweetling.”
He drew his short blade, slicing open his thigh and smearing the sheets with his blood.
“Your virtue is duly proclaimed, my lady. Rest easy.”
He departed her chambers immediately, unable to trust himself. If he stayed a minute more, she would lose that virtue.
* * *
Mariel remained still on the bed in disbelief. She scanned the bedsheets, the blood that testified on her behalf, taunting her. It was not her own. Her husband had faked her deflowering rather than lay with her! Undecided on whether to be relieved or offended, she flew from the feather bedding to pace the floor.
Did he expect her to let him bed her without hesitation? His words swirled in her racing thoughts.
You've no idea what a man wants, sweetling...
Of course she didn't know what a man wanted! Was she to throw herself at him like some wanton? She retraced the path across the room again, her thoughts gathering as her footfalls slowed. If the Baron of Ayleshind expected her to fling herself at his feet, he was going to be a disappointed man. Even so, the tears fell unchecked. Wed to the notorious Hound of Hell and a
bandoned on her wedding night, Mariel cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 3
Mariel shivered, the chill of early morning prickling her skin, rousing her from sleep. Recollection of the night's events caused her eyes to flash open, revealing what the chill suggested. She was alone.
Peering about the chamber, she found the familiar gray stone walls brightened by patchwork tapestries and the faint glow of embers in the hearth, but no Baron Daltrey. With a sigh of relief, Mariel lay back against the pillows, thinking to have a moment to reflect. Edith barged in, ruining her solitude.
“Forgive me, Lady!” she apologized, “but I could wait no more! That devil forbade me from entering earlier, and my old heart could not wait a minute longer.”
Suddenly, being in her bed seemed as loud as a minstrel wailing at the town gate, giving voice to the intimate acts of a wedding night.
Except there had been none.
She pulled the covers around her chin self consciously, hiding the fact that she still wore her chemise of the night before. The nurse prattled on.
“By the saints! It's past the hour by a full half that your bed sheets ought to be flapping out the window.”
“Oh, Edith!” Mariel cried. “Must we?”
The reddening of her cheeks was mistaken as the tale of lost innocence.
“Good Lady,” Edith sniffed, “I'll not have tongues wagging that you were not a bride proper. I raised you right, and they'll all know it. Now, up with you.”
Edith blustered about the room, grabbing her nightdress from its spot on her dressing chest and returning to cluck at her like a mother hen over a chick.
“Didn't even let you don your gown,” she fussed, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “Let's get you covered so the bath can be brought in.”
“I can manage, Edith. Have the bath brought immediately.”
Edith ensured that things were in place, worrying and fretting until Mariel persuaded her to check on progress in the kitchen. Wiping a tear from her plump cheek, she squeezed Mariel's hand through the blankets before retreating from the chamber.
“Are you all right, child?” she asked, pausing in the doorway.
“Do not get yourself worked into a state, Edith. I am fine.”
She hugged herself tightly as her maid departed. She was not fine at all.
The heat of the water sank into her muscles. Alone with her thoughts, thankfully, as Edith had ordered her to soak for a spell, Mariel attempted to focus on what this day would bring. It was a futile endeavor, for her mind wandered circuitously to the previous night no matter where she began. Images of her dark Baron, his deep, husky voice, his sculpted arms under her hands, flashed through her mind's eye, gathering in the place between her thighs. The silken heat of his lips trailing down her neck, the weight of his hands sliding over her skin played again and again until she flamed with heat, blushing in shame as her body betrayed her. She ached to be once again in his arms.
Foolish girl! You nearly fell to the devil's charms. But what would be the price? You are no Lady.
She had felt every bit a woman under his brown eyed gaze. Wary confusion reigned in her heart. He had been about to seduce her, of this she was certain. But then he left without a backward glance, even insinuating that he was honoring her wishes!
Please do not make me do this...
Her words proved him true; he had been honoring her wishes. Why didn't she feel victorious? Her hopes of a civil, maybe even a kind existence faded as she contemplated the disastrous wedding night.
* * *
Mariel broke her fast as her belongings were packed, her stomach twisting in fits of nervousness. Still she had not laid eyes on her husband. Part of her rejoiced, for she could not fathom facing him, but her other half glanced expectantly toward every approaching footfall.
She had chosen her favorite gown, the color of blue autumn skies, which matched her eyes perfectly. The long sleeves fitted her slender arms and shoulders, the bodice hugging her tiny waist. Rounded silver piping trimmed the curving neckline and bodice's edge where it met the long skirt, and a row of dainty, deep blue roses lined the center of her torso, nestled in a bed of cream lace. Her long, black hair hung in a silver-netted snood pinned on the crown of her head, a few silken strands curling around her face. She would enter Ayleshind this day, and she wanted to look her best.
“My lady, Father Eames is here to see you,” a stable lad announced.
The man of the cloth hurried to Mariel, concern etched upon his features.
“Lady,” the Father greeted seriously, “Do I find you well?”
“You do, sir,” she replied, noting the hint of disappointment that vaguely showed on his face.
She almost believed he was sorry not to have found her distraught.
“I am relieved to hear it,” he answered.
Mariel knew it to be a lie the minute he continued with false piety.
“I truly hope you endured your trial in a way befitting the church.”
“Father Eames, I do not think this is a conversation I care to have with...”
The low voice at her back cut her words short.
“Would you say you endured my attentions, Lady Mariel?”
Gervase laughed when she made no reply to his question.
Instead she rose, saying, “Excuse us, Father, but we have much to do. Good day to you.”
Dismissing the priest, Mariel turned to face Gervase, anger churning wildly in her eyes.
“Afraid I'd spill your secret, sweetling?”
She wanted to slap the arrogance from his face.
“No, my lord. I expected you to give me the honor due a wife, but instead you held my modesty up for ridicule, thinking to expose what should have been a tender, private moment as if I were nothing more than … than a...”
She could not utter the vile word.
“You are wrong, Mariel.”
His voice burned with an anger she did not understand, conjuring tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.
“Speak to me no more of honor, Lady. You were willing enough to allow that sniveling snake to believe that I exercised my will upon you in brutal fashion in the name of your modesty.”
Mariel's blue eyes overflowed their tears.
“Whatever past wrong may have been done you, my lord, do not assign now its guilt to me, nor to my sense of modesty. I make no apologies for my ignorance of how to behave last night, and I certainly would never have discussed our intimacies with Father Eames, even had they occurred. Furthermore, you cannot think that any bride would announce her abandonment on her wedding night!”
Frightened of the consequence her words would induce in the imposing figure her new husband cut before her, Mariel looked up cautiously to gauge his anger. But it was an eerie, tortured expression she found staring back at her before he strode away in silence, leaving her alone once again.
* * *
Following the simple mid-day meal of bread and cheese, Swanson entered the hall and informed her that it was time to depart for Ayleshind Manor. All Mariel's wondering turned to apprehension now that the moment arrived to leave her home, and she threw herself into Edith's welcoming arms.
“Oh, Edith! I do not want to leave you,” she sobbed.
“There, there, child,” the nurse assuaged. “I'll be along in a day or so. I've got to see that your things are in order and brought to you safely. It's only a night or two, Lady.”
“Hurry to me, Edith. Promise.”
The nurse smiled at her with motherly affection.
“I promise, my lady.”
A final kiss ended their goodbye, and Mariel followed Swanson outside into the early spring sunshine. Gervase Daltrey stood next to the largest warhorse she had ever laid eyes on, and he beckoned her to approach. His face offered no hint as to whether he still bore his earlier anger, and with a single sweep of his arms, Mariel found herself seated upon the prancing beast. A second later, her husband mounted, swinging into the saddle behind h
er. He barked orders that her belongings be transported to Ayleshind as soon as possible, and too quickly, her home was lost to her view.
Swanson, with a bundle on his lap, left them far behind, spurring his horse into a gallop. But Baron Daltrey reined in his eager steed and maintained a leisurely pace over the rolling green earth.
Melodies from tiny songbirds drifted on the breeze, the bright sky shining gloriously. Mariel drank in the warming rays of overhead light, protected from the chilled wind by the powerful form behind her. Amid the peaceful beauty, it was difficult to believe any danger existed in the world, but the heavy claymore strapped to her Baron's back interjected that reality too well, causing a shiver to steal down her spine.
Misunderstanding, Gervase pulled her closer against his chest, wrapping his arms about her yet speaking not a syllable. The quickening of her heart betrayed her calm exterior as they crossed the threshold onto Ayleshind land, and once safely within the boundaries of his own property Gervase relaxed, allowing his thoughts to consider the tiny woman planted snugly between his thighs.
Her accusing tone in the hall echoed in his ears, the tears spilled in fear of him on their wedding night, the tears of earlier, these reactions taunted his soul.
Damn her tears.
He had taken a wife for one purpose, he reminded himself. He needed an heir. But handling her gently would make life tolerable in his home, and gain him what he wanted. The recalled images of her standing in the amber lamplight, the soft curves of hip and breast, the shy movements of an untried, unknowing temptress, tore all gentle inclinations from his thoughts and had his manhood straining against his breeches.
Damn his own desire.
His hand wrapped her waist, craving contact with her body, sliding around to span her abdomen. The pulse leapt beneath the tender flesh of throat, her breaths short hurried gasps. Gervase knew not if from fear, or something altogether different. Cresting another swell, he spotted his home.
“Ayleshind, my lady.”
Directing her attention toward the impressive stone fortress in the distance, he laid aside his deliberations to watch her reaction to his family's ancestral home. The dreamy, enchanted lilt to her voice split a fissure in the casement round his heart.
Her Dark Baron Page 2