Ruthless (The House of Rohan 1)

Marcus was standing in the hall, looking impatient. “I wondered where you disappeared to, my dear,” he said smoothly. “I was worried about you. You’ve seemed a bit disconsolate lately. ”

“Really?” she said, surprised. She’d been putting a great deal of energy into being amiable and even-tempered. Perhaps her fiancé was more sensitive than she gave him credit for. “All the travel has been wearying. ”

“Of course,” he said swiftly. “And my trials aren’t over yet. I wanted to tell you that I’ve been called to London for the rest of the week. Some business to do with the estate. I hope you don’t mind, dear Elinor. I should be back on Monday, and the arrangements are set for our marriage to take place that very day. ”

She summoned an agreeable smile. “That sounds lovely. ” Why in God’s name had she ever agreed to this mad proposal? She’d been so desperate to leave France she would have jumped into the channel and swum.

He leaned over and kissed her hand with a wet, smacking sound, and it took all her determination not to pull back. “I’ll miss you, my dear,” he said, looking down at her. “It won’t be long now. ”

“I’ll miss you too, Marcus,” she replied. Holding her breath until she was finally alone.

She’d thought the house would feel more familiar with Marcus elsewhere, but it didn’t. Some rooms were still the same—whoever had done the massive redecorating had been uninterested in the kitchens and stables. But no matter how she looked, she could find no one who had been there in her father’s time, and she eventually stopped asking.

Indeed, there was little that interested her. Not food, since the new cook seemed to favor heavy sauces swimming in fat. Normally she would have found something to read even in her father’s narrow library, but the written word couldn’t hold her attention. In fact, she wanted to do nothing but doze by the fire. Her dreams were bizarre and colorful, but most of the time Rohan didn’t appear in them, and when he did he was suitably contrite. When she awoke, her face was still wet with tears, but she couldn’t blame herself. She would have thought the more time passed, the less she felt like crying, but for some reason she’d become a total watering pot.

The next few days passed in a blur, and she was almost glad she didn’t see Marcus until the morning of her wedding. To her surprise there were to be no witnesses or guests apart from those at the registry office, but she dutifully dressed in the fussy day dress of puce and lavender and was handed into the carriage by her husband to be.

She surveyed him critically from across the small carriage. He was indeed a handsome man. His lips were full, almost overgenerous, and his color was high and healthy. He would kiss her with those lips, later today, she thought. And she would let him.

Or perhaps, like Sir Christopher, he wouldn’t kiss her at all. She would find that a great deal more preferable.

The marriage ceremony went quickly, with only the parson’s wife and clerk in attendance. Marcus spent an unexpected amount of time making certain that the marriage was duly recorded, that all the paperwork was in order, and by the time he was finally ready to escort her to a celebratory lunch her appetite had gone from nonexistent to flirting with nausea. Perhaps her new husband hadn’t suffered from sickness of the sea during their travels but instead a stomach illness that had now transferred to her. The thought was hardly reassuring.

Nor was his kiss once they were alone in the carriage. She could scarce complain—he had every right to put his hand on her breast, to breathe into her mouth and chew away at her lips as if they were his last good meal. The thought that she’d spend the rest of her life with this didn’t help matters, but she simply remained still, grateful at least that Marcus, like Sir Christopher, preferred her to be still.

“I thought we might go for a walk along the sea,” Marcus said after finally releasing her. “Unless you prefer to go back and retire…”

“A walk sounds divine,” she said hurriedly, trying to avoid the sight of those lips.

“The bluffs overlooking the harbor are particularly delightful, don’t you think?” he said.

“Indeed,” she said. She remembered those bluffs. They were high over the rocks near the ruins of the old abbey, commanding a spectacular view of the coast, and if it were up to her they’d be hiking until midnight, despite the less than clement weather.

The abbey overlooked the bluffs, and the place had served as a most excellent picnic spot in her youth. A brisk wind was blowing when she alit from the carriage, and she pulled her cloak more tightly around her as she glanced up at the darkening sky. It was still the same cloak Rohan had provided, and it had gone from being despised to giving her a nameless comfort. She took her husband’s arm, and he put his gloved hand over hers as they started over the stubbled grass.

She looked down at his hand. It was so very different from Rohan’s pale, languid, surprisingly strong one. This was undistinguished, with fat fingers and a hamlike appearance, and she quickly looked away. Those clumsy hands would be touching her tonight.

One wall of the old abbey still stood, the gaping windows an eerie sight on a gloomy day. They walked past it, heading for the bluffs. She and Lydia would play hide-and-seek among the ruins when they were younger. There were innumerable places to hide, and in retrospect Elinor shuddered at the thought. The cliffs were far too steep for two children to be playing there unsupervised, but Nanny Maude’s painful legs had precluded her accompanying them, and the chambermaid that had charge of them was far more interested in flirting with one of the undercoachmen who’d driven them.

The wind grew stronger as they approached the bluffs, and she sensed an odd excitement in her new husband. She glanced up at him. His eyes were shining with anticipation, and he licked his thick lips…and Elinor’s heart sank. He was clearly looking forward to the coming night with a great deal more enthusiasm than she was. Men were indeed odd creatures. He scarcely knew her, and yet he wished to perform that most intimate of acts in her body.

The ground grew uneven beneath her light shoes, and she slipped. His hand was there to catch her, and she laughed lightly. “Had I known we were going to go hiking I would have worn boots to my wedding,” she said.

“I should have warned you. ”

There was the strangest note in his voice. “Had you planned this, Marcus?”

He smiled down at her. “In a way. ” They were at the edge of the pathway, close to the edge, closer than what she deemed comfortable. While she had no particular fear of heights, the bluffs at Dunnet were well-known as a place where unsuspecting hikers could fall to their deaths, and she had a healthy respect for the crumbling ledge.

“Come, my dear

,” he said, tugging her.

“This is quite far enough,” she replied firmly, trying to remove her hand from his grip.

She couldn’t—his hamlike hand was like iron. She looked up into his handsome face and felt a moment’s dizziness. There was no love in his eyes, so like her own in shape and color. There was malice.

And murder.