“Thank you,” Elena said sincerely, though she doubted she would be calling on the dressmaker any time soon.
Elena accompanied the older woman to the front door, bid her good-bye, and then closed and locked the door behind the rather eccentric dressmaker.
She stood there a moment; then, realizing it would soon be sundown, she hurried back to her room to bathe and dress.
Drake stood in front of the fireplace, a glass of wine in one hand as he waited for his bride to appear. The priest from the next town sat in one of the chairs facing the fire, his hands folded in his lap, his benign expression belying the nervous tic in his left eye, the rapid beating of his heart.
Drake grunted softly. He had never seen the cleric until tonight, when he summoned him to the castle, yet it was obvious that the good Father possessed a strong inner sense that warned him of danger. Though Drake meant the man no harm, it was an instinct for survival that would serve the priest well if he but listened to it. The priest’s cook and her husband stood nearby, called to serve as witnesses.
At the sound of footsteps, Drake glanced toward the staircase. For a moment, he stood frozen as he watched Elena descend the steps. She was exquisite. The cream-colored velvet gown clung lovingly to each curve, outlining a figure so perfect as to make other women weep. A delicate lace veil covered her face, giving her a ghostly appearance in the flickering light of the candles. Her hair fell over her shoulders like a fall of thick black silk.
He moved quickly toward her, eager to be near her, to touch her. To taste her. Reining in his rampant lust, he took her hand in his. Her skin was cool; he could feel her trembling. “How lovely you are,” he murmured. “And how lucky I am.”
She blushed prettily. “Thank you, Lord Drake,” she replied, emphasizing the last two words.
He lifted one brow.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a title?”
“It is merely a title of respect,” he said with a shrug. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Keeping hold of her hand, he led her into the hall where the priest waited. “Elena, this is Father Andrew. He will be performing the ceremony.”
Elena smiled tentatively. “Good evening, Father.”
Rising, the priest offered her his hand. “Good evening, my child.”
Elena smiled at the man and woman who were to be their witnesses. She thought they both looked ill at ease. Certainly they didn’t believe the rumors about ghosts in the castle?
Elena tried to concentrate on what the priest was saying, but she couldn’t stop stealing glances at Drake. He was devastatingly handsome in a pair of black trousers, black boots, and a long black coat over a white silk shirt. When he looked at her, a thousand butterflies took wing in the pit of her stomach. Was it fear? Or excitement? Or perhaps a bit of both?
When he squeezed her hand, she realized Father Andrew was waiting for her response. She blinked at the priest. If she said yes, there was no turning back, no changing her mind. How could she marry a man she hardly knew?
Panicked, she looked up at Drake. The calm assurance in his eyes drove her uncertainty away. Lifting her chin, she murmured, “I do.”
A rush of heat warmed her cheeks when the priest pronounced them man and wife. And then Drake was lifting her veil, taking her into his arms, lowering his head to kiss her, and everything else faded into the distance. There was only a pair of strong arms to hold her, a pair of firm lips playing over hers, his tongue teasing her own. She leaned into him, wanting to be closer. A soft moan rose in her throat as she slid her fingers up his nape to curl in his hair.
A cough reminded her they weren’t alone. She moved away from Drake, her cheeks burning with embarrassment when she saw the priest and the witnesses staring at her, mouths agape.
Mortified, Elena turned her back to them.
Moments later, she heard the creak of the front door opening as Drake ushered the priest and the other two people out of the castle.
The sound of the door closing brought a sense of relief, and an unexpected rush of anxiety. She was Drake’s wife now. If he chose not to honor his promise to leave her chaste, there was nothing she could do about it. It was a husband’s right to make love to his wife and no one would condemn him for it. She was his now, for better or worse.
“You have not eaten, wife,” he said when he returned.
“No.”
He gestured at the trestle table in the hall. “Sit,” he said, and left the room.
Already giving her orders, Elena thought with a flash of resentment, but she did as she was told, noting that the table was covered with a clean white cloth. Several vases filled with primroses and yellow daisies were grouped in the center, surrounded by a number of flickering red candles set in wrought-iron holders.
Drake returned moments later carrying a large covered tray. He placed it before her, then removed the lid with a flourish, revealing a roasted hen on a bed of rice, a small loaf of fresh bread, a pot of butter and another of honey. Lastly, there was a bottle of wine and two delicate crystal goblets.
“There’s only one plate and one set of silverware.” Elena looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
“Have you forgotten that I prefer to take my meals alone?”
“No. Why didn’t you tell me you were rich?”
“You never asked.”
“But . . . why do you live here, in this old castle? I mean, it’s lovely, but there’s no plumbing or electricity or . . . or anything.”
“I have other holdings that are more modern,” he said, “but every now and then, I like to come here for a while and meditate.” Sitting in a chair across from hers, he filled the wineglasses, then offered her one. “A toast,” he said, touching his goblet lightly to hers, “to my bride. I give you my oath that I will cherish and protect you for as long as you wish.”
He watched as she lifted the glass to her lips, his gaze moving to her throat as she swallowed. Sipping from his own glass, he could not help wishing that it was his wife’s sweet nectar flowing smoothly over his tongue.
Elena kept her gaze on her plate as she ate her dinner. Nevertheless, she was acutely aware of her husband watching her every move. Perhaps that was what made her so careless as she cut a piece of chicken. She gave a little cry of dismay when the knife slipped in her hand. Blood welled from the shallow cut, dripping down the blade onto her plate.
Drake’s nostrils flared as the scent of warm, fresh blood filled the air. Reaching across the table, he took Elena’s hand in his, lifted it to his lips, and licked the blood from the wound. Sweet, he mused, sweeter by far than the finest wine.
Elena gasped, startled by his action, and by the sensual heat that curled in the center of her being when his mouth closed around her finger. She had licked her own blood before. Who hadn’t? It was a normal thing to do when one received a small cut—a scratch from a thorn or some other minor injury. But to have someone else do it was oddly erotic and slightly repulsive at the same time.
After a last lick, Drake tore a strip from her napkin and wrapped it around her finger.
Murmuring her thanks, Elena stared at him. What kind of man had she married?
It was a question that continued to plague Elena later that night when she went to bed. Lying there, she relived the evening.
After dinner, she had removed her veil, and then she and Drake had danced to music provided by an old-fashioned music box. Elena had never considered herself to be much of a dancer, had never really enjoyed it very much, but all that changed when she was in Drake’s arms. His very nearness caused her whole body to hum with pleasure as they waltzed around the room. She followed his lead as if she had been doing it for years.
“I never knew dancing was so much fun,” she had remarked with a shy smile.
“Neither did I, until tonight, wife.”
“You’re very light on your feet for such a big man.”
He arched one brow. “Do you find that odd?”
“Well, um, yes. I remember watching my uncle dance with my aunt when I was a little girl. He lumbered around the floor like a great clumsy bear.”
“And did he roar, as well?”
“Only when he was angry,” she had replied with a grin. “And he was angry most of the time.”
Laughing, Drake spun her around and around until she clung to him, breathless. And then he kissed her, ever so lightly.
Later, they had taken a walk under the stars. Standing in the shadows, with their arms around each other, she had marveled at the wonder of the stars that twinkled like tiny diamonds carelessly tossed across the vast black expanse of the heavens. He had pointed out the constellations. There was Andromeda, the princess; Cassiopeia, the queen; Draco, the dragon, and Leo Minor.
Elena’s heart had skipped a beat when he drew her into his arms, there, in the drifting shadows of the night. She gazed up at him, bewitched by his nearness. Even though she couldn’t see his face clearly, his eyes gleamed with an odd reddish glow in the moon’s light. She could feel the tension in his arms as he pulled her closer. As he lowered his head to hers. As he claimed a kiss.
Her eyelids fluttered down as his mouth closed over hers. At his touch, the strength seemed to drain out of her legs, and she grasped hold of his biceps to steady herself; the muscles in his arms felt like iron beneath her fingertips.
His kiss went on and on and she leaned into him, hoping he would never take his mouth from hers.
She smothered a small cry of protest when he broke the kiss. She pressed her fingertips to her lips. She had no right to ask for more, shouldn’t want more, not when she had insisted on a marriage in name only. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
Now, lying in bed, she stared up at the ceiling, confused by her yearning for a man she hardly knew. What was there about him that intrigued her so? That made her long for more than his kisses? Why did he refuse to dine with her? Where did he go during the day?
She was drifting, on the brink of sleep, when he slid into bed beside her.
Startled to full wakefulness, she sat up, the covers clutched to her breasts. “What are you doing?”
