Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

L ucien poured a glass of brandy from a cut glass decanter then drank it, waiting for the spirits to quell the clamoring in his head, but neither the liquor, nor glaring at Grace's bedchamber door could blur the images that kept swirling in his mind.

Grace, her body silken, eager, so responsive he'd nearly pushed their first love play beyond what a new bride would expect. He'd wanted to do it all, all of the sensual things he'd been imagining since he'd tasted pink frosting on her skin, seen her naked as a pagan nymph in the townhouse. He had avoided virgins his whole life. Not because he was troubled by noble scruples, but because first lovers sank hooks into a person's memory, even with a man as jaded as he. And physical pleasure was all he had ever cared to offer.

Tonight, when he'd nestled between her creamy thighs, his mouth mere inches away from her sex, he had stopped. Not because he didn't want to shock her. But because he had known with Grace the act would be different. He would be crossing a threshold of intimacy impossible to retreat from.

He had been unnerved by whatever the hell he was feeling. Primal triumph at being Grace's first lover, yes, but far more perilous. Hunger for something he could not even name.

The sensation of sinking into the heat of her body had undone him, this craving for her…for more …closed about him like a fist.

Those moments after he had rolled out of her bed, stared into the fire in her room…he had fought the need to return to her, gather her into his arms, press that delectable body against him. He still felt an inexorable pull.

Won't you stay…

Grace's plea echoed in his head, and he could see those wide eyes that were so filled with compassion and life . The sadness he'd seen as he turned away from her now haunted him.

He had given her the Everdene jewels, and she'd not touched a single bauble. She was seeking something far more dangerous, prying at the place he kept locked tight in his chest.

Just by leaving her bedroom, he had hurt her. What would happen when he left her to live separate lives as he intended…

When she'd escaped her arranged marriage and come to him, she had been so na?ve. She had no idea what she'd bargained for wedding a man with no heart to give her.

There was only one thing to do. Get Grace with child as quickly as he could. A babe would comfort her, amuse her, love her as he could not.

And once that child was in her arms, he could do as he planned—put miles between them, go back to his solitary life.

Until then, he had to keep a tight leash on his passions because God knew where it would lead if he were ever reckless enough to let go.

Lucien swore.

It didn't matter that he had spent countless sleepless nights in his study, buried in work. Tonight he damned well could not sit still. He yanked on clothes, thrust his feet into boots. Securing a lantern, he stalked out into the night air, down the path to the Everdene stable. The building lay quiet, the grooms and stablemaster asleep in their quarters above the stable, the smell of horses and hay and leather driving back the scent of Grace's skin.

Atlas, Lucien's favorite mount, thrust his head over the stall door and shook his cream colored mane, his gold coat shimmering in the flickering light. The gelding whickered and Lucien hung the lantern on a hook, then went to the horse, stroked his velvety nose. Once Atlas was out of the stall, Lucien tied him to the post and went to fetch the tack, hoping a ride would cool the fever in his blood.

As he stepped out of the tack room, a voice cut through the quiet.

"Hands in the air. Turn around. Very slowly."

Lucien raised his hands, turned, and found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol. Jamie McLeod, garbed in naught but hastily donned breeches, sleep tousled and hard eyed, pointed a weapon at Lucien.

Recognition flared in the Scotsman's battle-hardened eyes. He lowered the pistol, bare feet shifting in discomfort. "Your lordship! What are you…? I didn't expect—I thought I heard someone meddling with the horses."

It wouldn't be the first time thieves had attempted to steal one of the valuable animals.

"Is something amiss?" McLeod asked, running a hand through his dark red hair.

"No. I am going for a ride."

McLeod frowned and looked out the stable window. "It's the middle of the night."

"I ride when I please." The certainty eased some of the tension inside him. He was a viscount. In command of this stable, this estate. His own goddamned body.

Their gazes locked, held for long moments, McLeod's bitter. The stablemaster made no secret he had contempt for the landlords he'd left in Scotland. Men who had turned him off his family's land. Lords, like Lucien, who did as they pleased. But at last, the Scotsman laid the pistol atop a barrel and took over the task of saddling and bridling the gelding.

When Atlas was ready, Lucien swung up into the saddle, but McLeod held fast to the reins. "There have been incidents between angry workers and some other landlords to the east," he warned.

Lucien thought of the brick that had been thrown at him in London. The threat tied to it.

McLeod held out the pistol. "Take this."

Arabic symbols inlaid in the pistol glinted silver in the lantern light, mysterious words from the years McLeod had spent as a prisoner of war in Afghanistan.

Lucien took the firearm and thrust it into the waistband of his trousers. McLeod opened the stable door and Lucien spurred off into the night. He had faced a far more lethal threat than horse thieves or rebellious crofters in Grace's bedchamber tonight.

Grace's husband was avoiding her. For seven days Lucien had come to her bed at precisely ten of the clock, made love to her with a fierceness that left her breathless, then vanished behind his bedchamber door, transforming back into the reserved stranger she had once known him to be.

Oh, there were those rare times during the day when she caught him watching her with those hooded ice-blue eyes as if he were a wolf, in the dark of winter, glaring at the beckoning warmth of a fire, but unable to draw near.

Her own world felt cold as well. She had tried talking to the servants, though the maids seemed nervous and the housekeeper jealously guarded her territory. After those failed forays, she had decided to turn her attention to the crofters at New Everdene. But searching the pantry for jars of jam and other treats to share with them met with the cook's denouncement that Captain Harcourt's wife had already distributed this month's largess. Remembering Helen's mistakes with the staff at The Willows, and not wishing to tread on Penelope's toes, Grace relented and puttered about the garden, wrote letters, read books, and generally tried not to let her unhappiness show.

The one place Grace had not been regarded with suspicion was the stables. She'd walk over there every day, lean against the fence, the sight of mares and foals in the pasture reminding her that she would not always be so alone. This marriage might soon grant her a babe to love and care for. She imagined a child with Lucien's eyes, his dark hair, that child in his father's arms. Lucien smiling down at his son or daughter with a tenderness and wonder all the more precious because he allowed that side of himself to show only to her.

She had seen glimpses of what could be if this enigmatic man let her into his closely guarded heart. And that hope had filled her with longing—no, more than that. Love . She felt a shiver work through her, somewhere between thrill and fear. She was falling in love with Lucien. And yet, once she conceived their child, would he disappear altogether?

As the stable yard came into view, she was grateful for the sight of Eli, the young groom who was brushing a two-year-old mare named Guinevere.

"Your charge is doing very well," Grace said softly. She picked up a brush from the bucket at Eli's feet and gently began smoothing the little mare's mane.

"My lady," Eli said, pulling his cap. "Mr. McLeod is letting me help with her training."

"She obviously trusts you," Grace said.

Was the weight of that responsibility the reason for the shadows under Eli's eyes? In the seven days since her arrival, he had grown noticeably paler.

"Have you been ill, Eli?" she asked, gently stroking the mare's nose.

"My lady?"

"I can't help but notice you are not as hale as when first I came here."

The boy ducked his head. "Oh, I never get sick. It's just sleepin' in the tack room that's worn me out."

Grace's brow furrowed. "Is one of the horses ailing?"

"No." The boy pulled a face. "Leastwise, not yet."

She tipped her head in puzzlement. "I don't understand."

"We're all of us scared Atlas is goin' t' take a tumble, what with his lordship ridin' out late every night."

Grace stiffened. "What?"

"Somebody's got to be down here, t' get his lordship's horse saddled an' cool Atlas down after he returns."

"In the middle of the night? How long has this been going on?"

"Ever since ye came to the brick house. Mr. McLeod says I can sleep while 'is lordship is gone, but I'm worrit Atlas will step in a hole an' his lordship'll be hurt. We're all holdin' our breath each night 'til they come back in one piece."

That was what Lucien had been doing after he left her bed? Riding his poor horse in the darkness? Keeping this poor boy up half the night? Was Lucien so determined to get away from her that he would risk breaking his own neck?

She bid Eli and the mare goodbye, leaving before the lad saw how outraged she was. She fumed the rest of the day, stalking about Everdene Hall's grounds, deadheading roses in the garden with a vengeance, invading the kitchen and helping knead bread to the horror of the cook, getting angrier by the minute until she heard her husband enter the house.

She swept into the entryway to meet him. He didn't look like a man who was riding all night like some unquiet spirit. He was perfectly turned out, cravat starched, not a crease in his coat, while she felt as if one of the stable's cats had been batting her about ever since her encounter with Eli.

"I have been waiting to speak to you," she said.

"Can it not wait until tonight? I have an accounting matter to consider. This horse Simon wishes to purchase?—"

"Does the horse come with lanterns on its bridle so it can see in the dark?" she demanded in heated accents. "Because if that is so, I say any coin spent would be well worth it considering that night is your favorite time to roam the countryside."

He froze, looked at her sharply. She had never expected to see the Viscount Everdene discomfited. But red crept up from that perfectly tied cravat. "Who told you that?"

"That doesn't matter. It is obviously true."

"I have nothing to hide. When I choose to ride is of no concern to anyone else."

"As your wife, I disagree," she said. "I would rather not be made a widow. After what happened in London and the threats you received, you must be aware of the danger you are in. Is it truly so difficult for you, having me here in the house, that you have to go for midnight rides?"

"Riding helps me think."

"I want to be a help to you, as my mother was to my father. Would not talking to me help you think without the risk of broken bones—for you or the horse?"

He clenched his jaw. His eyes glittered with something dangerous. Good, Grace thought. Anything was better than the cool politeness that made her want to scream.

"No," Lucien said levelly. "Talking to you would not help me think."

"How would you know?" Her hands knotted in fists. "You have not even given me a chance!"

His ice-blue eyes locked with hers, the connection sizzling between them until it was nigh unbearable. She refused to look away.

He paced toward her, more like a tiger than ever, his gaze never wavering. "Talking to you would not help clear my mind, wife," he said, as he grasped her by the arms, "because when I see you, the only thing I can think of is this ."

His mouth crashed down on hers.