“How appropriate,” Emma muttered. “Men behave like strutting cocks, too.”
He chuckled, a diabolic sound that prickled the fine hairs on her skin. “In the human courting ritual, women preen as well as any man.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said coldly. “We’re not courting, you and I.”
“I never said we were. So we needn’t bother with outer trappings.” He let the tip of the feather drift down her cheek. “Remove your nightdress.”
She pressed back against the bedpost and stared at his great, hulking shape in the shadows. “No!”
“Yes. Do so in your dressing room if you must. Then come straight back here.” He nodded toward the huge four-poster, where a candle flickered on the bedside table and created a deceptively romantic bower.
“I won’t,” she said.
“You will.”
His voice was as dark and dangerous as his gaze. Her heart beating in her throat, Emma clutched the high neckline of her gown. She acknowledged bitterly that he had the right to direct her as he pleased. He was her husband.
Her gaoler.
On wooden legs, she walked past him and into the dressing room. Just as on the night of her wedding, the oval pier glass reflected her image, the upswept blond hair, the pale skin and dainty figure. She had been afraid then, too, cold and shaking and desolate.
Yet wisdom and experience had firmed her girlish weaknesses. The years had made her stronger, braver. She had endured worse hardships than a man’s sweaty body pumping into her. At least that nightmare would last for only a few minutes.
Turning her back to the mirror, Emma stripped off the nightgown and let it drop into a heap on the rug. The chill in the air raised goosebumps on her bare skin. She snatched a dressing gown from a hook on the wall and thrust her arms into the garment, the silk folds settling over her nakedness. With a firm yank, she secured the sash at her waist.
There. Let Lucas be angry. She wouldn’t prance past him in all her exposed glory.
But when she ventured back out into the bedroom, he merely looked amused at her small defiance. Strolling to her side, he plucked the pins from her hair until it fell in a rippling veil down to her waist. He seemed pleased by the effect and combed his fingers through the silvery-blond strands. For some odd reason, she felt as revealed as if she wore no dressing gown. He was the first man to see her with her hair unbound.
“Lie down now,” he said. “On your back.”
Taking her time about it, she climbed onto the high bed and arranged the robe to cover herself. It was a futile gesture, Emma knew. Yet it enabled her to retain a semblance of dignity. She lay stiffly with her arms at her sides, her head resting on a pillow, as she stared straight up at the yellow brocade canopy with its festoons of blue ribbon.
She heard her husband walk to the side of the bed, but she refused to acknowledge him with even a glance. Her pulse pounded so fiercely she felt dizzy. What did he intend? Another prolonged session of stroking—of her front side this time? Would he expect her to reciprocate? Or would he get straight to the business of copulating?
Then his hands were at her waist, untying her robe, drawing back the edges and exposing her breasts, her legs, her privates. Mortified, she flushed hotly. In an agony of suspense, she squeezed her eyes shut and waited for him to pry her legs apart. To violate her.
He would have to use force. She would not—could not—open herself to his male invasion.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight. She could smell him, the deep alien scent of male. Her muscles clenched so tightly they trembled. Dear God, he must be gawking at her nudity. And refining his plan of attack.
His touch came at a surprising place, along the sensitive arch of her foot. It felt like the brush of a demon’s wing. Tendrils of sensation unfurled up her legs and made her shiver.
Startled into opening her eyes, she saw Lucas plying the peacock feather along her ankles and calves. A spontaneous warmth snaked upward into her most secret place. To her consternation, she could feel her body weakening, softening, heating.
She hated it. She hated him.
Emma jerked over onto her side and covered herself. “Stop it,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Stop.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a feather.”
“I am when it’s in your hands.”
One corner of his mouth quirked upward in a shameless grin. “I’m merely touching you. That’s part of our bargain.”
“I should have known better than to bargain with the devil.”
He laughed with black amusement. “You should have known better than to marry him, too. Now turn back. Lest I be forced to tie you to the bedposts,”
She had the sudden, horrific image of herself, lying naked and spread-eagled, with her wrists and ankles secured to the four corners of the bed.
He wouldn’t.
He would.
She couldn’t be sure.
He sat patiently watching, waiting. She didn’t dare put herself at the mercy of the husband she no longer knew.
Emma slowly rolled onto her back. Lucas leaned over her and, with the delicacy of a master thief, parted the flaps of her robe again. She braced herself for his triumph, but his expression was inscrutable, unsmiling. His dark eyes burned with the reflection of the candle flame on the bedside table.
“Why?” she managed, her voice strained. “Why don’t you just take me and be done with it? Why are you torturing me like this?”
He brushed the feather across her midsection, and her abdomen contracted involuntarily. “Just wait, dear wife. It’s the most enjoyable sort of torture.”
She didn’t understand. She would never understand. Who in her right mind would relish being so debased?
Slowly he traced the slimness of her waist. The silky fronds set off ripples of response that eddied over her skin. Her woman’s place constricted and released in a tiny pulse of sensation that verged on pleasure. To her dismay and humiliation, she wanted to experience it again.
He seemed to know exactly what she wanted—and then denied it of her. Lazily, he plied the feather over her abdomen, inching closer and closer to her breasts. The tips drew taut and she closed her eyes, her entire being focusing on his progress until she wanted to scream at him to hurry. When at last the feather caressed her bosom, she bit her lip to keep from sobbing with blessed relief.
Her satisfaction was short-lived. As the feather gravitated lower again, a bewildering tapestry of responses unraveled inside Emma. She felt the restless urge to squirm on the bed, to move her body, especially her hips. Not away from Lucas, but toward him in invitation. Most shockingly of all, she wanted to unlock her legs so he would tickle her … there.
She dug her fingers into the bedclothes in an effort to hold herself still. Every part of her skin felt fevered. Her breath came faster, snagging in her throat. It was the utter embarrassment of her predicament, she told herself. No woman could enjoy having her body manipulated by a man. No decent woman at least—
The feather alighted on her knees and slowly flirted its way up her thighs. Higher … higher … higher. A heated moisture dampened her inner folds of flesh. Emma was surprised by how soft and languid she felt, yet how charged with energy. She ached with a desperate intensity, though she could not say for what. Sweet Jesus, save her. She heard a whimper and realized it came from herself. Unable to look at her tormenter, she turned her head on the pillow and bit her lip. She wanted … she wanted … she wanted … .
As if swept up in a darkly sensual dream, she found herself raising her knees slightly, parting them in order to grant the feather deeper access. Anticipating the sweep of its downy fronds, she felt something foreign touch her instead. Something warm and firm that insinuated itself into her throbbing depths. Something male.
Terror flashed from the dungeon of her memory. His hands, tearing at her underclothes. His legs, pressing down on her. His member, impaling her like a sword.
Seized by a frenzy of fear, she lung
ed out from under him. Her fingers scrabbled on the bedside table and closed around a cold metal shape. The candlestick.
Heedless of the dripping wax, she swung wildly at her assailant. “Never again! I’ll kill you first. I’ll kill you!”
Jolted from a reverie of lust, Lucas swore viciously. He yanked up his forearm to deflect the blow. He was fast, but not fast enough. The candlestick struck his right arm with numbing force. Hot wax splattered his shirt and seared his chest.
Pain shot up and down his arm, emptying his lungs in a roar. “Bloody hell!”
But there was no time to indulge his rage. The candle flew out of its holder and landed on the counterpane. Quick as a blink, the lace caught fire. He snatched up a pillow and beat out the flames. Satisfied that the smoking black spot would not ignite again, he hurled away the pillow and spun toward Emma.
“You little fool!” he shouted. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve blighted my life? Must you burn down my house, too?”
Emma crouched against the headboard, the dressing robe clutched around her quaking body. She said nothing, though the wild fear in her eyes spoke volumes. He had pushed her over the edge. He had overwhelmed her with his aggressive desire. In his arrogant hunger to possess her, he had demanded too much, too quickly.
His arm throbbed as a punishing reminder of his folly. A livid, purplish bruise was already forming from his wrist to his elbow. Cursing his stupidity, he flexed his fingers. No broken bones.
He should have been content with plying the feather and stirring her slumbering passion. Considering her traumatic experience, he should have exercised restraint. He shouldn’t have succumbed to the maddening urge to touch her.
Sentimental nonsense. She was his wife, for God’s sake. He had every right to hold her to their bargain. And her desire had not been a product of his imagination. Whether or not her mind accepted it, her body was primed for mating.
As primed as his.
She huddled in a ball, watching him as if he were a savage beast about to rip her apart. His fit of temper eased into a gnawing frustration. Who had done this to her? Who had made her fear the pleasures of her own body? Dammit, who? And what would it take to rebuild her trust?
Ah, Emma.
The need to comfort her overshadowed the pain in his arm. Ignoring his better judgment, he clambered across the patch of stinking soot and gathered Emma into his embrace. She didn’t draw away, didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge his presence in any way. He resisted the growing tenderness inside him, yet it was there in every beat of his heart.
He passed his hand over her silky hair. It sifted like spun moonlight through his fingers. “Emma,” he said, groping for the right words, “forgive me. You needn’t be afraid of me. I shan’t force myself on you. Not ever.”
She sat stiff and silent. No tears, no hysterics. It was as if he held a beautiful porcelain doll.
His throat tightened. He had driven Emma to this state. By the selfish indulgence of his own desire.
“I want us to share pleasure,” he went on gruffly, “and I’m willing to wait until you’re ready. Until you want it as much as I do.”
She raised her head slightly. “Liar,” she whispered. “I won’t ever want something so disgusting. Since you’ve only one use for me, you may as well take what you want and get it over with.”
She spoke with the conviction of the doomed. It made Lucas burn all the more to banish her fears, to woo her and win her trust. Perhaps by confining his efforts to the bedroom, he had approached her seduction all wrong.
You’ve only one use for me.
An implausible solution struck him. Unfortunately, it would require offering his trust first.
Logic struck back. The last thing in the world he wanted was to involve Emma any further in his life.
Yet if his plan worked, the reward would be well worth the price.
Hoping he didn’t regret his rash decision, he tapped her beneath the chin to make her look up at him. “Meet me in the library tomorrow morning,” he said. “Nine o’clock.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.” In the firelight, her eyes were fathomless pools of vulnerability. He rose from the bed, ruthlessly denying the insidious softness inside himself. “It seems I may have found another use for you, after all.”
Chapter 12
When Emma slipped into the library the next morning, Lucas was absorbed in writing at his desk. Even from the other end of the long chamber, she could tell he favored his right arm because he stopped a moment and flexed his fingers as if they pained him. Ashamed, she leaned against the doorframe. Had she really struck him with such savagery?
Idiot. Why had she antagonized the man who could have her tossed into Newgate at a snap of his aristocratic fingers?
The memory of her outburst made Emma cringe. Yet Lucas had provoked her. He had humiliated her, tricked her into lowering her guard yet again. What was worse, afterward, he had held her close as a friend might do. He had shown her consideration.
I want us to share pleasure. And I’m willing to wait until you’re ready. Until you want it as much as I do.
Was it true? Could a woman enjoy the act? Certainly she had luxuriated in his touch. She had felt an undeniable delight until the shocking moment when she had mistaken his finger for a different intrusion, a violation that opened the floodgates of the past.
Isn’t it enough that you’ve blighted my life?
He had spoken in anger, whipping her with words. But for her, he would never have left England for seven years. He might have married an honorable lady, a sweet-tempered woman who would have given birth to his children. He would have settled into the comfortable life of a gentleman, surrounded by his family. Instead of being saddled with a wife he despised.
He looked lonely, sitting behind the desk and making notations in a journal, his brown-black hair gleaming in the watery sunlight. His coat was draped over the back of the chair, and he worked in his shirtsleeves. Had Lucas finally realized that she could never submit to him willingly? Did he mean to release her from their bargain? Perhaps there was still a chance he would grant her a divorce. She had spent the night fretting over the possibility and wondering why she didn’t feel more thrilled.
Emma cleared her throat. “Good morning.”
He looked up, his mouth tightening. “You’re early,” he said, his deep voice echoing down the long room. He replaced the quill in its silver holder. “It’s only half past eight.”
An unfamiliar shyness descended over her. She, who could charm any gentleman, hardly knew what to say to her own husband. “I’m accustomed to rising at dawn.”
“Oh? And here I thought burglars kept late hours.”
Was he teasing? Emma wasn’t certain. She was never sure of anything with Lucas, not since he’d returned from his travels a cynical, brooding stranger. “Well,” she said brightly, “I haven’t been burgling lately.”
He made no reply. A closed expression on his face, he leaned back in his chair and watched her walk toward him. A strangely sensual feeling stole over her. She was aware of the coffee-brown silk dress caressing her curves. She felt the softness of her chemise, the pressure of her garters, the firmness of her corset embracing her breasts. The last time he had seen her, she had been naked. Well, nearly so. It was an erotic secret shared by only the two of them. Was he remembering, too?
She stopped before the desk. “If I’ve come too early to suit you, I would be happy to read until nine.”
He smiled blandly, displaying the dimples in his tanned cheeks. “Emma, believe me, you could never come too early.”
His smirk held a covert quality as if he were privy to a jest beyond her comprehension. As he looked her over, his smoldering gaze sparked shivers up and down her back. “Tell me why you asked me here,” she said. “I confess you’ve aroused my curiosity.”
“Curiosity,” he said dryly. “At least that’s something.”
He motioned her over to the pile of crates. Lifting the lid
off the topmost one, he dug into the packing straw and drew forth a silver cylinder elaborately inscribed with gold.
She ventured closer, close enough to detect his scent, the hint of darkness and desire. She wrenched her attention to the object he held by its long handle. “How beautiful,” she said. “What is it?”
“A prayer wheel from a monastery high in the Himalayan mountains. It spins like so”—a twist of his wrist started the cylinder twirling—“and sends prayers wafting up to heaven.”
He handed the artifact to her, and she ran her fingers over the cool, smooth surface, then the gold inscription. “Do you know what this says?”
He leaned closer and glanced at the lettering. “‘Om Mani Padme Hoom. O Jewel of the Lotus.’ It’s a Buddhist mantra—a sacred chant. Legend has it that Buddha was born in a lotus flower.”
A thrill sped through Emma, and she wasn’t sure if it came from holding the prayer wheel or from her husband’s nearness. “This was used by holy men thousands of miles away,” she said musingly. “I should like to learn more about their customs.”
“Your wish is my command,” Lucas said, a gleam in his eyes. “Since you’ve little to occupy yourself during the day, you may catalog the artifacts in these crates. My notes on each piece are scattered throughout the journals on my desk. You’ll need to make up a master notebook and also label the contents of each box.”
“Me?” Emma said in astonishment. “Why me?”
“As I recall, you’ve a lady’s skill for sketching. Each entry in the journal requires a drawing of the relic along with a written description.”
“But …” Feeling overwhelmed, she looked around at the piles of crates. “Lucas, I can’t possibly do this.”
He took hold of her hand and lightly rubbed his thumb over the small calluses on her palm, then her healing scar. “Don’t plead helplessness, Emma. By your own admission, you’re no idler.”
A shock tingled up her arm and turned her knees to jelly. She snatched back her fingers. “Running a household doesn’t qualify me for this task. You need a scholar, a historian.”
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