“It won’t do you any good, my angel. This is my house, remember. No one will come. ”
“Not if Mrs. Humber has anything to say about it. She hates me. ”
“Don’t be ridiculous—Essie doesn’t hate anyone. ”
“I don’t care about Mrs. Humber. I just want you out of here. ”
“The coach was waiting to take us away,” he pointed out.
“It was doubtless waiting to take you away. I think you had every intention of abandoning me there and going on your way. ”
He didn’t deny it. “Why do you think I changed my mind?”
“God only knows. You must have come up with something even more foul and evil to do to my family, using me to do it, no doubt. ”
He rose, coming up to the bed. The midday light filtered in the windows, leaving strange shadows on the pure white sheets, and he loomed over her like the monster she knew he was. “In fact, I have. ”
“The truth for a change. Well, pray, enlighten me. ”
“Well, I had considered that your family would be driven mad by the thought of you married to me, being kept away from them, made miserable by my neglect and misbehavior. ”
“I hope and pray for your neglect,” she said spitefully.
“Let me finish. ” He held up a restraining hand. “And then I thought of an even better revenge. What if I made you blissfully happy, so happy that you never wanted to leave me? They would be helpless. If I mistreated you they could always ask the Crown to intervene. If I loved you they’d be helpless. ”
She stared at him. “You’re out of your mind. That’s impossible. ”
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” he said. And he began to take off his coat.
She didn’t move. “And you think I’m going to lie still and let you touch me again?”
“I hope you won’t be lying still. It’s much better when you participate. ” His vest followed, onto the floor.
“So you expect me to get out of this bed and follow you into my dressing room so I can’t look at you? Your insanity knows no bounds. ”
“Only when it comes to you. ” He sat in the chair and began to pull off his boots, dropping them on the floor. And then he rose, reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head so that for the first time she could actually see him in the bright sunlight that poured in her windows. No pitch-black darkness this time.
He was beautiful. Muscled and lean and strong, with wide shoulders and powerful arms and a flat waist. And then he deliberately turned around, and she stared at the ruin of his back.
She couldn’t control her horrified intake of breath. It was astonishing that someone could have gone through that kind of torture and lived. The stripes crisscrossed his back, some so deep they had to have hit bone, others lighter, less vicious. It looked to her untrained eye that the beatings had happened over an extended length of time—some of the scars had widened as his body grew, others were still narrow. And then he turned back, tossing his head so she could get a clear look at the same damage to his face, reaching into his scalp.
“So,” he said in a flat voice. “Richard the Third or Caliban?”
She knew she was crying, crying for him, for the pain he’d endured. Crying when she never cried.
Except that she did, for him. Always. She managed a smile. “‘O brave new world,’” she quoted Miranda’s speech, “‘that hath such people in it. ’ Come here, my love. ”
And he came.
It was late afternoon as they dozed, sleepy and sated. He’d won another wager: she had used her mouth on him, of her own accord, though he had to stop her before the afternoon ended too soon. She lay now in a state of bliss, looking out into the afternoon sunlight.
Lucien lay beside her, on his stomach, and she slowly traced the scars along his back with gentle, loving fingers. “Do these still hurt?”
“Not for a long time,” he said, his face half in the pillow.
She leaned over and kissed one of the deeper stripes, and then another, featherlight, and he groaned with pleasure. “It’s a waste of time,” he muttered. “I’m going to need at least an hour to recover. ”
She laughed, falling back on the mattress but keeping her hand on him, wanting, needing to hold him. “Who did this to you?”