The Devil Wears Tartan (8 page)

“Or tonight, when you entered the dining room to see me here.”

If he wanted confrontation, she would give it to him. She would not be the little Edinburgh mouse recently transported to Ambrose.

Perhaps there were numerous reasons to be wary—the surly housekeeper, the strangeness of Ambrose, the feeling that there were secrets here that she couldn’t begin to fathom, not the least of which was her husband.

But Davina had the feeling that if she began to be afraid, even rightfully, then she would never stop. She must cultivate an air of indifference, of apathy, of any other emotion rather than fear. Fear could eat away at her until there was nothing left but tears.

His right hand reached out and pulled the wineglass closer. A slow, deliberate movement that made her recall his fingers on her body. Was it possible that her new husband craved wine more than he did her?

“Was bedding me nothing more than a chore to you?” she asked.

There, she finally managed to jostle the smile from his face. That dratted perpetual half smile that indicated he thought her amusing, or charming, or precocious, like a small child or a cute puppy.

“Should I comment upon your ability to shock me, my lady wife?”

“That is all I have managed to do, Your Lordship,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps that’s how our marriage will be. You constantly disappointing me, while I annoy you.”

“I never said you annoy me,” he said calmly.

“But I should prepare myself to be continually disappointed?”

He smiled again and slowly pushed the wineglass away with one finger. “I feel suitably chastised, Davina. Reminded of my duty as your husband, and as a man.” One eyebrow arched upward as he looked at her.

She’d never seen a less cowed individual. Instead she was the one who felt reproached.

“You may do as you wish, Your Lordship,” she said with as much of an air of indifference as she could muster. Truly, she didn’t feel very indifferent around him. Instead he annoyed her, challenged her, made her feel emotions she’d never felt in a concentrated form and in a short time.

“I’ll come to you tonight, Davina.”

She didn’t know what to say, but the necessity of speech was taken from her when he stood, threw his napkin down on the table, and strode from the room without a backward glance.

She stared at the meal on the plate in front of her. She couldn’t quite decide what she was experiencing at this moment. Fear? No, not fear. Anticipation? That hardly seemed proper, did it?

Very well, she was doomed to perdition, then. Because that’s exactly what she was feeling. Her fingers
tingled, her breath was tight, her heart raced, and her mind recalled every moment of the night before.

Her aunt had always told her that a lady, a true lady, never had to worry about behavior. A lady was a lady down to the very center of her being. Decorum was second nature, politeness was always expected and delivered, but most of all a lady never stretched the boundaries of propriety. A true lady defined them.

That particular lecture had been given to her numerous times after
her abandon
—her aunt’s way of referring to the scandal she’d caused. Davina hadn’t volunteered that there were other occasions when she hadn’t been the perfect lady, when she’d committed small, inconsequential acts of anarchy: leaving a party surreptitiously, claiming illness when she felt perfectly well, and hiring a public coach to travel through Edinburgh with only a maid for company. No, her most egregious, most inappropriate, and most offensive act had been to bed a man not her husband, and compound her shame by shedding her virginity with a great deal of enthusiasm.

She stood before the footman could assist her and left the room, retracing her steps back to her chamber. An hour later, she couldn’t help but wonder, as she sat on the edge of her bed and watched as the second hand ticked slowly around the face of the mantel clock, whether her earlier, more youthful abandon had somehow altered her nature. Had she become incorrigible?

A proper lady would not be waiting impatiently for the arrival of her husband. A proper lady would no doubt be lying in bed beneath the covers, hands folded
in a prayerful attitude, her supplication to the Almighty being that this chore be done and over with, quickly.

Very well, perhaps she wasn’t proper after all, despite her aunt’s attempt to mold her into a lady. The Queen demanded a certain type of behavior, and outwardly all society attempted to emulate her. But Davina couldn’t help but wonder if the whole of society was truly as dutiful and proper as they appeared.

Had Victoria been?

How very odd to be sitting on the edge of her bed engaged in treasonous thoughts. But were they? Rumor had it that Victoria had been a devoted wife until her husband died a few years ago. Not merely devoted but besotted. Perhaps she had not been as proper in the confines of her bedroom. Perhaps she had been as fascinated with Albert as Davina was with Marshall.

Being a woman, surely, couldn’t be any different from queen to countess.

She thought she heard a footstep and slid from the bed, gathering up the fabric of her peignoir, another frothy creation imported from France, so she could walk. At the time she’d picked out her trousseau, she’d done so grudgingly, and only because her aunt would have chosen for her if Davina hadn’t indicated her selections. She’d not given any thought at all to how she might appear in all this fabric. At the moment, she was certain she looked like a small yellow cloud.

This garment, however, was not quite so modest, and there was no doubt whatsoever that she was naked beneath it.

Very well, she wasn’t proper it all, because she had
no intention of lying in her bed until Marshall arrived. Let him see her nearly naked. And then let him turn around and walk out the door.

She wanted a kiss, and not just any kiss. She wanted his kiss. She wanted to feel the way his lips molded to hers, and the subtle sorcery he employed in opening her mouth with his. She wanted to feel his lips on her neck, throat, breasts, and his fingers all over her body. There was something so magical about his lovemaking, and she wanted to experience it again and again.

As if to demonstrate how wanton she truly was, she recalled the shape of him, his strong, muscular back that tapered down to narrow hips, and curved and perfectly rounded buttocks. His legs were long, and his feet dusted with black hair. He wasn’t hirsute, this husband of hers, but there was no doubt that he was all male.

She wanted to surrender to him, to become sensation and feeling, simply a creature who existed for the sheer pleasure of being. When it was over, when night encompassed the world and there was nothing but the soft sounds of Ambrose settling around them, she wanted to lean into him and kiss him and thank him with a touch of her hand against his shoulder, or the stroke of her fingers along his naked back. The connection of that moment, tenuous and undemanding, meant that she wouldn’t have to return to being a separate individual quite so soon.

Lovemaking was more than just bodies merging. The will itself slipped away as if it were no more than an unnecessary cloak. All that was left was the essence of the person, raw and exposed. In that perfect moment
following pleasure, she’d felt closer to Marshall than to anyone in her life, experiencing a sense of connection that was the opposite of loneliness.

She looked around her. The chamber was a disaster, simply put. The shiny silk and batting had been stripped from the walls, but there were patches of plaster that still needed to be repaired before the room could be painted.

It was hardly a romantic bower.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she left the room, turned, and walked down the corridor to a set of double doors that quite obviously led to the earl’s suite of rooms.

There were no footmen stationed at either side of the door or at the end of the hallway, ready to give aid to any of the family should they need assistance in the middle of the night. Was it Marshall’s decision to have no servants in attendance? Perhaps he didn’t like someone roaming the hallways at night. Or perhaps he simply guarded his privacy.

She knocked once on one of the two doors and waited only a moment before knocking again. When the door wasn’t readily answered, she debated returning to her chamber. If she did, would he come to her?

Would she have to remain in her room and wait for him to call on her? Impatience was a character flaw and one she freely admitted to, along with a quick temper and an occasional tendency to be impulsive. And jealousy. She’d never before thought herself capable of jealousy, but that had been before meeting Mrs. Murray.

She stared at the door and then grabbed the handle, expecting some resistance. However, the door gave way easily, swinging inward and revealing a room that was even stranger than her bedchamber.

For a moment she could do nothing more than stand there, mouth agape. The earl’s chamber was easily double the size of hers. If there was a sitting room, it was beyond this bedchamber. The bed was mounted on a dais, three steps up from the rest of the room. And in the middle, hanging from a plaster rosette, was a magnificent crystal chandelier, its prisms sparkling in the glow of the sconces on the walls.

What was difficult to comprehend was that all four walls of Marshall’s chamber had been lined, not with Chinese silk or batting to hide any imperfections of the plaster beneath, but with mattresses. Laid two deep and lengthwise, they lined every wall, stretching well above her head.

Marshall’s height.

She took a step backward, uncertain whether she should go or stay. When she heard his footsteps, she realized that the decision had been taken from her.

“I believe I’ve asked this question earlier,” he said, appearing in the doorway. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me, my lady wife. Were you not told that this was to be a certain type of marriage?”

In her filmy peignoir and nightgown, she felt even more naked than if she’d been stripped bare. By her actions, she felt exposed and revealed, every single one of her faults and frailties revealed. Above all, she
felt like a child who’d wandered into an area specifically off-limits and about which she’d been lectured repeatedly.

She felt like a fool. Still, curiosity kept her rooted to the spot. “Why?” She looked around the room and then faced him again.

His eyes glittered, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

“Why, Marshall?”

“Get out.”

The two words had the effect of thunder in the quiet room.

Davina turned and left the room, startled when he followed her, slamming the door hard behind him. Before she could speak, before she could offer an explanation, he pinned her by the shoulders against the wall. She flung out her arms, and he gripped one wrist, his hand as firm as any manacle.

“Your husband is mad, lady wife,” he said, breathing the words next to her ear. “Did no one tell you?” His cheek was abrasive against hers, his skin hot.

All she could do was shake her head within the confines of his embrace. Her blood suddenly felt as if it were freezing, and her heart was beating so loud she could barely hear.

Marshall pulled back, smiling. “Did no one tell you I was a monster? A devil? And now you’ve entered hell, my lady wife.”

If she could have spoken, she would have apologized for her intrusion. But this man did not want her words of contrition. His brown eyes were chips of stone; his
smile had disappeared, and in its place was a face stiff with anger.

“Hell, madam wife, is where I scream to God in His heaven. God doesn’t hear, but my demons do, all twenty-two of them. They visit me in hell, bloody and faceless, without hands and feet and sometimes carrying their heads. You want to know what you’ve found, lady wife? My hell. Welcome to hell.”

“Marshall.” That was all she was allowed to say before his mouth clamped down on hers. His lips were tender, the anger in his words and voice not transmitted to his kiss. She sagged against the wall, confused.

He freed her hand, and she placed it flat on his chest. A moment later he pulled back, and she was shocked to see the look in his eyes. There was such pain in his glance that she moved her hand to his face, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

One single tear slid from her eye and tickled its way down her cheek. She’d not even known she was crying.

“Forgive me,” she said, her voice broken and laced with tears. “I am so sorry.”

“For what? For being married to a madman?”

“If you’re mad, Marshall, the world should be filled with madmen.”

He laughed, a short bark of a laugh completely without humor. “You have seen me at my best, Davina. Or if not at my best, then certainly adequate. You’ve not seen me screaming and throwing myself at the walls because they were bleeding. You’ve not witnessed my fits.”

She resolutely refused to look away.

She didn’t know him, true. And they had loved each other only once. But he’d been kind to her, and gentle, where another man might not have been.

“Marshall,” she said softly.

He pulled back even further.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “Do you want me to be?”

“You would be safer to have some fear, my lady wife.”

She opened her arms, and the look in his eyes softened. She took one step closer to him, and he didn’t move, either toward her or away. One more step, and she was standing on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck.

In moments she was in her bed, in the ugly room that had magically ceased to be ugly. The man above her was not a monster at all, but a force of nature itself, a man with pain in his eyes and sorcery at his fingertips.

The yellow peignoir she’d wanted him to admire was gone in a movement she barely registered. From far away she noted the sound of fabric tearing, and then his hands were on her naked body. His dressing gown was flung to the floor, but she’d no time to marvel at the physique of this madman, a devil, her own personal demon.

He was beside her on the bed, pressing his palm against her forehead. He smoothed her hair back as he leaned over her. “Do you want this?” he asked, and it became a demand more than a question.