from the other side of the room, ‘Thank you, Madeline, but my honour does not allow me.’
Madeline stifled a snort. Lord, but he had the pride of the devil. She dozed for what was left of the night, stealing looks into the darkness, guarding against the return of Farquharson, even if it was in her dreams.
The next day both Lucien and Madeline were tired and wan-faced. A hasty breakfast and then their journey resumed, moving slowly, increasingly closer to Cornwall and the Tregellas country estate. They travelled along the Dorchester Road, making good progress despite the chill wind. A brief stop at the Three Swans in Salisbury for lunch and then they pushed on, travelling further south as the daylight dimmed and the dark clouds gathered. The rain, when it started at first, was a collection of a few slow drops. But each drop was heavy and ripe, bursting to release a mini deluge. One drop, then another, and another, faster and faster, until the road was a muddied mess of puddles, and the rain battered its din against the coach’s feeble body. They put up for the night at The Crown in Blandford, a coaching inn that had none of the welcome of the White Hart, and was filled with travellers wishing to escape the worst of the downpour. Only the production of several guineas served to procure them a room for the night and the shared use of a small parlour. They ate hurriedly, exchanging little conversation, listening to the hubbub of noise that drifted in from the public room, and the batter of wind and rain against the windows.
Lucien downed the remainder of the brandy and scanned the faces around the room. Old men, young men, peasants, servants, farmers and gentlemen. The weather was an effective leveller of class. Even the odd woman, hag-faced, sucking on a pipe, or young with an obvious display of buxom charm. But thankfully the face that Lucien sought was not present. He wondered how long it would be before Farquharson would come after them, for he had not one doubt that he would. Now he knew that Farquharson would never call him out. The weasel wasn’t man enough to face him again across an open field. Farquharson would use different methods altogether. The lure had worked, just not in the way that Lucien might have imagined. Farquharson would be part of the gossip: an object of ridicule, someone to be pitied. That was not something that Cyril Farquharson was likely to suffer for long. With cold and deliberate calculation Lucien had unleashed the demon. Farquharson would come for him now, at long last. Finally, after all these years. The satisfaction was tempered by the knowledge that he would not be Farquharson’s only target.
He remembered the expression on Farquharson’s face the last time he had looked at Madeline, when he had spoken so cruelly to the woman who was now Lucien’s wife. She was a softer, easier target for revenge and one that would enable Farquharson to score Lucien’s old wounds afresh. And in that memory he realised that it was Madeline that Farquharson would target. Lucien’s mouth compressed to a hard line. He had promised her safety. And, by God, she would have it. When Farquharson came, Lucien would be ready. He blinked the fatigue from his eyes, wondering if Madeline would be beneath the covers yet. Then he sat the glass upon the wooden counter and slowly took himself up the stairs that led to their chamber.
He shifted restlessly in the small hard chair, feeling the ache in his shoulders and back growing stronger by the minute. His head was foggy with exhaustion, his eyes gritty and sore. Yet still merciful sleep eluded him. The memory of Farquharson jabbed at him like a sharp stick, taunting him with the terrible deeds from their shared past. Deeds that had stolen Lucien’s peace, destroyed the man he used to be, and made him the cold hard cynic he was now. The mean fire had long since burned out; grey raked ashes lay in a cold pile. Lucien huddled beneath the layers of his coat and the blanket, and tried to breathe warmth into his fingers. He pushed the thoughts far from his mind, struggled to escape from their oppression. Another sleepless night stretched ahead. He should be used to it by now. Then he heard it: the small movement from the bed; the change from her soft even breaths to staccato gasps; a mumbled cry; the twisting of her body beneath the sheets.
He trod quietly across the wooden flooring and leaned towards the bed.
‘No, Lord Farquharson …’ A whisper of torment that wrenched at his heart.
Lucien’s teeth clenched tighter. Last night had not been in isolation then. Madeline too knew what it was to suffer the terror of the night demons. There was an irony in the fact that the same man lay at the root of both their nightmares. He reached a hand out towards her, touched it gently against her face. The skin was wet beneath his fingers. Sobs racked her body. He could feel her fear, understand her terror. ‘Madeline,’ he whispered, trying to pull her from its grasp.
‘No!’ she sobbed louder.
His mouth tickled against her ear. ‘Madeline, wake up. It’s a nightmare. You’re safe.’
‘Lucien?’
He stroked her hair and wiped the dampness from her cheek. ‘You’re safe,’ he whispered again and again, lying his length on top of the covers, pulling her into his arms.
Gradually he felt the tautness of her body relax as she snuggled into him. Her breathing slowed, the frenzied beat of her heart steadied against his chest. He inhaled the scent of her, revelled in the feel of her softness, of her trust, and knew that he didn’t deserve it. He swallowed down temptation and with steadfast resolve gently began to ease a space between them. He had just managed to roll away when he felt the sudden grip of her hand around the flat of his stomach.
‘Please stay,’ she whispered into the darkness.
And Lucien knew that he was lost. He could no sooner ignore the plea in her voice than he could cut off his own arm. She was afraid. She needed him, he told himself, and ignored the stubborn little voice deep down inside that told him that he needed her, too.
‘Come beneath the covers.’
‘Madeline.’ There was an agony of denial in his whisper as he gently shook his head.
‘I’m so cold.’
‘Oh, God,’ Lucien ground out and promptly climbed beneath the covers of the bed.
She didn’t feel cold. In fact, Lucien would have sworn that she was positively warm. He lay motionless by her side, trying not to feel the slight body that rose and fell against him. She snuggled in closer and wrapped her arm around him. Lucien closed his eyes and enjoyed the soft gentleness of his wife, basking in her smell and her warmth. Slowly, he floated on a feather cushion of bliss into the black comfort of sleep.
Madeline felt the chill in her husband’s body and opened herself against him, sharing her warmth. Her hand slid over the soft lawn of his shirt, resting against the strong muscle beneath. She noticed how strange a man’s body felt in comparison with her own—all taut hardness, large, long and lean, with such a suppressed strength that her eyes flickered open, straining through the darkness to see him. He lay rigid as a flagpole, completely immobile, as if he exerted some kind of tense control over his muscles and limbs, almost fighting sleep. It appeared that Lucien Tregellas was not a man who allowed his guard to slip. He might feign an easiness of style, as if he did not care what happened around him, but it seemed to Madeline that there was something dark and watchful about her husband. What was it that he guarded so carefully against? The only time she had seen the guard drop was yesterday in the travelling coach when he had fallen asleep. Peace had touched his face then. There was nothing of peace in the large body now lying beside her own.
She lay her palm flat against his ribs and snuggled in close so as to feel the beating of his heart. She breathed in the scent of him—a heady mix of bergamot and the underlying smell that was uniquely Lucien. Cyril Farquharson and the stuff of Madeline’s nightmare drifted far away. All she knew, all she felt, was the presence of the man lying next to her, filling her nostrils, beneath the tips of her fingers, against her breast and waist and thighs. Warming. Strong. Sure. No matter that theirs was
