Her voice was scared—high, thin, and reedy.
“I don’t know you. Why are you here?”
The girl stepped forward, and he saw her square her shoulders. In the dim candlelight he saw that she was small, slight of build, and her hair was a rich dark red, long and waving down her back and over her shoulders.
“I
was sleeping here.”
“You aren’t Melissande.”
“No,” she said. “I’m Alexandra. I’m actually your wife.”
He laughed then, and it was an ugly raw sound, holding disbelief and utter incredulity. “You can’t be my wife, sweetheart, for I’ve never seen you in my life. I believe you must be one of Tony’s wives or perhaps one of his many mistresses.”
“You have seen me before, my lord, it’s just that you don’t remember me. I was only fifteen at the time and you saw only my sister.”
“Yes, and I married your sister.”
There was loud pounding on the door in Douglas’s bedchamber. He could hear Tony working the doorknob frantically. Douglas looked up, hearing Tony shout, “Douglas, open this damned door! Alexandra, are you all right?”
“I’m all right, Tony,” she called out. She turned back to Douglas and said in a voice calm as a nun’s, “Shall I let him in, my lord?”
“Why not? He appears to be married to everyone, thus it is his right to visit any number of female beds.”
When the strange girl walked past him into his bedchamber, Douglas moved quickly to the hall door of this adjoining chamber, and was out the door just as Tony burst into his bedchamber. Tony saw him take off on a dead run toward the west wing.
“Douglas, damn you, stop! Where the hell are you going now? Oh, no! Stop!”
But Douglas didn’t stop until he flung open the door of the Green Cube bedchamber. There, in the canopied bed, lay his wife, his bride, Melissande. She was sitting up now, looking dazed, then alarmed, framed in the candlelight. She met his gaze and blinked, pulling the sheet up to her chin.
“Douglas Sherbrooke?”
“Why are you in this room? What are you doing in his bed?”
“Because she’s married to me, dammit! Douglas, please, come away, and let me explain what happened.”
“No, I want to take my wife back to my bedchamber. I want her in my bed. You can’t marry every woman, Tony. It’s not legal except in Turkey. Truly, you must be a Muslim. So, I’ll take this one.”
“She’s not your wife! I married her for myself, not for you. I’ve slept with her, Douglas! I took her virginity. She is my wife.” Tony had begun on a roar but he managed to end on a lower, much calmer octave.
Douglas, very pale now, stared at Melissande. God, she was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. Her black hair was tousled about her white face, her startling dark blue eyes large and deep and so seductive he could feel himself getting hard despite what was happening, despite the fact she was apparently married to Tony, despite . . . Douglas shook his head. He was tired, exhausted actually, but he’d ridden like the devil’s own disciple to get home tonight, to his bride. He thought briefly of Janine and wondered how she would do here as a third wife. He shook his head and looked again toward his bride.
But there was no bride.
No, that wasn’t right. There was a bride and her name was Alexandra and he’d never seen her before in his life even though she claimed he had.
He turned slowly to look at his cousin. “I want you to tell me this is one of your benighted jests.”
“It’s not. Please, Douglas, come with me back downstairs and I will explain everything.”
“You can explain this?”
“Yes, if you’ll just give me a ch—”
“You bloody bastard!” Douglas bared his teeth and lunged at his cousin. He slammed his fist into Tony’s jaw, sending him sprawling. Tony rolled over and came up again, shaking his head. Douglas hit him again. This time, Tony grabbed Douglas’s lapels and pulled him down with him. They fell with a loud thud, struggling, arms and legs flailing and thrashing.
Melissande screamed.