him, felt the tight muscles beneath her fingers relax. His breathing eased, letting go, the guard slipping slowly and steadily, until she knew that he slept. She smiled a little smile of contentment into his chest, placed a kiss through the lawn of his shirt, and gave herself up to follow the same path.
Lucien awoke with an unusual sense of calm contentment. He lay quite still, trying to capture the essence of the fragile moment, reticent to lose it. The first strains of daylight filtered through the thin curtains stretched across the window. Lucien opened one bleary eye and reality jolted back into place. As the warm body beside him nestled in closer, he realised the exact nature of his predicament. A woman’s soft body was curved into his, like a small spoon lying atop another. Her feet touched against his leg, her back fitted snug all the way up from his abdomen to his chest. Not only did he find that his arm was wrapped possessively around her, but his hand was resting against the small mound of her breast. As if that were not bad enough, her buttocks were pressed directly against his groin. Worst of all, Lucien was in a state of blatant arousal. The breath froze in his throat.
Madeline gave a little sigh and wriggled her hips closer into him.
Lucien captured the groan before it left his mouth, and gently removed his hand from the place it most certainly should not have been. Sweat beaded upon his brow. No woman had ever felt this good, like she belonged in his arms. He could have lain an eternity with Madeline thus and never wished to resume his life. Except that he must not. Never had he wanted to love a woman as much as he wanted to love Madeline right at that moment. Every inch of his body proclaimed its need. Lucien gritted his teeth. A fine protector he would be if he took advantage of her. Little better than Farquharson. Not like Farquharson, a little voice whispered. She’s your wife. You care for her. Lucien slammed the barrier down upon those thoughts. What he cared about was justice and retribution. He eased a distance between their bodies, but he had reckoned without Madeline.
From the depths of her dream Madeline felt him slipping away and sought to recapture the warm contentment that he had offered. She rolled over and thrust an arm over his retreating body.
Lucien stifled the gasp. Hell, but was a man ever so tempted? For a brief moment he allowed himself to relax back into her, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his, inhaling her scent, sweeping his hand lightly over her back to rest upon the rounded swell of her hips. ‘Madeline.’ Her name was a gentle sigh upon his lips. In the greyness of the dawn he studied her features: the long black lashes sweeping low over her eyes, the straightness of her little nose, the softness of her lips parted slightly in the relaxation of slumber. Lucien swallowed hard as his gaze lingered over her mouth. He experienced the urge to cover her lips with his; to kiss her long and deep and hard; to show her what a husband and his wife should be about. But he had promised both her and himself that he would not.
He heard again her question of that night that now seemed so long ago, although it was scarcely four nights since: What do you wish from me in return, my lord? And he remembered the proud, foolish answer he had given: Discretion … a marriage in name only … nothing need change. But as he lay there beside her, he knew that he had lied. Everything had changed. He knew very well what he wanted: his wife. Lucien’s jaw clenched harder. That wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal. He looked at her for a moment longer, then allowed himself one chaste kiss against her hair, her long glorious hair, all tousled from sleep. Quietly he slipped from the bed.
Madeline reached for the warm reassurance of her husband’s body and found only bare sheets. Her fingers pressed to the coolness of the empty linen. Gone. She sat up with a start, eyes squinting against the sunlight filtering through and around the limp square of material that passed for a curtain. His name shaped upon her lips, worry wrinkled at her nose.
‘Good morning, Madeline.’ He was lounging back as best he could in the small chair, watching her.
Surely she must still be dreaming? Madeline watched while his mouth stretched to a smile. A tingling warmth responded within her belly. Most definitely this could only be a dream. Part of the same nocturnal imaginings in which she had lain safe within Lucien’s strong arms all the night through, shared his warmth, and felt his hand upon her breast. Madeline blushed at the visions swimming through her mind, rubbed at her eyes and cast a rather suspicious look in his direction. ‘Lucien?’
‘I thought I might have to carry you sleeping out into the coach. You seemed most resistant to my efforts to wake you.’ He was fully dressed, his hair teased to some semblance of order; even the blue shadow of growth upon his chin had disappeared. Her gaze lingered over the strong lines of his jaw and the chiselled fullness of his lips.
Madeline’s blush deepened as she remembered exactly what she had been dreaming about. ‘I must have been very tired to sleep so long. I’m normally awake with the lark. I don’t usually lie abed.’
‘You appear to be mastering the art well,’ said her husband with a wry smile. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Madeline’s heart skipped a beat. Had last night been real? Or a wonderful dream that followed hard on the heels of a hellish nightmare? The touch of him, the smell of him, the chill in those long powerful limbs. No, she couldn’t have imagined that, could she? ‘Yes. After you … after the nightmare passed, I slept very well, thank you.’
The smile dropped and his voice gentled. ‘Do you dream of Farquharson every night?’
‘How did you know?’
‘You uttered his name aloud.’
They looked at one another. Warm honey brown and pale blue ice.
‘I did not mean to wake you,’ she said.
‘I was awake anyway. As you correctly observed, the chair does not make the most comfortable of sleeping places.’ He paused. ‘You have not answered my question.’
There was a difference about his face this morning. Nothing that she could define exactly, just something that wasn’t the same as yesterday. ‘Yes. He has haunted my dreams since I first met him. Even before … before he tried to …’ She let the sentence trail off unfinished. ‘Every night without fail, he’s there waiting in the darkness. I know it sounds foolish, but sometimes I’m afraid to fall asleep.’
Understanding flickered in Lucien’s eyes. ‘He would have to come through me to reach you, Madeline, and that will only happen over my dead body.’
It seemed that in the moment that he said it a cloud obliterated the sun, and a cold hand squeezed upon her heart. ‘Pray God that it never happens,’ she said.
‘It won’t,’ he said with absolute certainty. ‘I’ll have stopped him long before.’
‘We’ll be safe in Cornwall, though. He won’t follow us there, will he?’
Lucien did not answer her question, just deflected it and changed the subject. ‘Put Farquharson from your thoughts. The fresh water was delivered only a few minutes ago; it should still be warm.’ He gestured towards the pitcher. ‘I’ll go and order us breakfast. Will fifteen minutes suffice to have yourself ready?’
Madeline nodded, and watched the tall figure of her husband disappear through the doorway. So, even down in Cornwall, so far away from London, the threat of Cyril Farquharson would continue.
The hours passed in a blur. At least the weather held fine until the light began to drain from the day. Then a fine smirr of rain set up as the darkness closed, and they sought the sanctuary of the New London Inn in Exeter. It was the same pattern as the previous two nights. He had promised that they
