What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (10 page)

It was as though they had never been apart.

After dinner, they sat in the drawing room. He spoke of his wild escapades in France. Imagining him in his French lover’s arms had kept her awake at night many times over the years. Indeed, the thought plagued her even now.

“What should I do if I hear or see anything strange tonight?” she asked as they climbed the stairs. Being in his company made her forget all about her woes. It wasn’t until he suggested they retire early that the morbid thoughts returned.

“If you’re able, knock on my door. Call out if you fear leaving your bed.” He opened the door of her chamber and stepped aside for her to enter. “Would you like me to check your room?”

Panic flared. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest at the thought of being alone with him in her private chamber. Just a few days ago, she had sat across from him in her carriage believing herself lacking when it came to feeling any genuine emotion. Now, desire blossomed, unfurling slowly like the petals of a spring bud.

“No. I’m confident it will be fine. And you will be just across the hall.”

He raised his chin in acknowledgement. “I suppose I should wish you a peaceful night, but it would help our cause if something unusual did happen.”

She hugged the edge of the door, watched him as he walked across the landing to open his door. “I’m sure it will be a long night. I doubt either of us will sleep.”

Stepping inside his room, he turned to face her. “After all my probing questions, you’re bound to be in need of a little rest.”

It was her cue to yawn and bid him goodnight, but something kept her there.

“My head
is
throbbing from your relentless prying,” she said with a chuckle. “Perhaps it is only fair I get to ask a question of my own before we retire.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “We did agree to be honest. You may ask whatever you wish.”

Why did you not want me?

What did I do to make you stop loving me?

The questions did not suddenly spring into her mind. She carried them around with her always. A permanent reminder of her inadequacy. But she would not demean herself by demanding an answer.

“You asked me something extremely personal, something intimate. I would like you to answer the same question.” She stood rigid, hoping her taut muscles would shield her from the blow she knew was coming. “Do
you
have a lover? Is that why you do not appear enamoured with Miss Smythe?”

Tristan stared at her; his expression wavered. One moment she saw a glint of pleasure in his bright blue eyes, the next she saw sadness and pain. A heavy tension hung in the air.

“No. I do not have a lover.”

Despite his melancholic tone, relief coursed through her. Why should she feel so elated? Why did she want to clap her hands, sing and jump for joy?

She scrambled about in her mind, trying to find the right words to reflect her surprise without revealing anything more. But Tristan took a step back.

“I do not have a lover,” he repeated as he closed the door slowly. “There has never been anyone other than you.”

Chapter 8

Tristan pressed his back against the bedchamber door and closed his eyes.

Bloody hell!

He exhaled deeply. The long weary sound drifted through the room until all the air had left his lungs.

Of all the things he could have said, the declaration proved that he had not been able to move forward with his life. Revealing his secret roused an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability that did not sit well with him. Muttered curses continued to fall from his lips.

Whilst perhaps appearing rude, his sudden retreat was merely a defensive manoeuvre.

Should he open the door and offer an explanation? Should he demand she put him out of his misery, tell him what he had done to force her into the arms of another man?

Pushing away from the door, he raked his hand through his hair. One thing was certain. He could not go on pretending the past didn’t matter. Although bitterness lingered deep within, he still wanted her. More than ever.

God, he was a damn fool.

Perhaps Chandler was right. A discreet liaison would serve his purpose. Burying himself inside Isabella’s tempting body would help him to banish the demons of the past. But she had rejected him once before. Why would she want him now?

Feeling a desperate urge to find a distraction from his conflicting thoughts, he scanned the dimly lit room. From the drapes to the bed hangings, the various shades of blue created a cold, detached feeling, one so opposed to the fiery heat coursing through his veins when he thought of the tempting lady just across the hall.

So this was the room Lord Fernall slept in before he died.

Isabella had given him the option of choosing a different bedchamber, but logic dictated that he remain close. Besides, his time in France had seen him sleeping in barns, stables, a blanket laid out on the forest floor. And so he was grateful to have a bed. Sentiment played no part in his decision.

Stripping down to his breeches and shirt, he climbed onto the bed and lay back against the mound of pillows. He crossed his arms behind his head and surveyed the room. Nothing captured his attention. Everything was exactly as one would expect. There was a washstand, his shaving implements laid out in an orderly fashion on top of the marble surface, an armoire which he assumed now contained the spare shirt and breeches he had brought with him in a saddle bag. The tall bookcase opposite the bed was crammed with a collection of dusty old tomes.

Well, at least if he struggled to sleep he would have something to read.

Reaching for his pocket watch, which he had placed on the side table next to the bed, he noted it was only eleven o’clock. Most ghosts and spectres chose to wait until after midnight before performing their devilish tricks. There was something about the early hours that created a perfect setting for a haunting. Perhaps it had something to do with the depressingly dark atmosphere or the eerie sound of silence.

Knowing sleep would elude him, he closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind.

An hour passed.

The distant chimes of the clock in the hallway downstairs indicated the witching hour was upon them.

There was a chance his presence would prevent the perpetrator from acting. Then again, fear was contagious. Having a witness to corroborate the terrifying events would only help to strengthen their cause.

While he tried to piece together what little he knew, he found his thoughts wandering back and forth. Whimsical dreams of Isabella pushed to the fore. Lost in the warm, pleasurable feeling such visions evoked, he must have missed the single chime to indicate it was one o’clock.

However, it was not the chimes for two that captured his attention. The sound of approaching footsteps forced him to sit up. Sliding quietly off the bed, he crept to the door, pressed his ear against it and tried to distinguish any obvious characteristics.

The steps were not the heavy tread of masculine feet, but more a light patter. The short strides indicated a woman of small stature. They stopped outside his door. The hard lump in Tristan’s throat made it difficult for him to swallow. His blood rushed through his veins. Only a fool would open the door.

Turning the handle slowly, he used his other hand to ease the door away from the jamb. Whilst he knew damn well he would not find a ghost on the other side, he did not wish to alert the person of his intention.

But there was no one lurking outside his door.

Gripping the frame, he peered out along the hallway. It was empty, too. Feeling some confusion, he padded down the long corridor. No one lurked in the shadows. There was no sign of a figure moving furtively down the stairs.

He turned and opened the first door to his left, glanced inside but found nothing. As he made his way back to his room, he heard Isabella’s desperate plea.

“Please, stop. Go away. Leave me alone.”

Panic flared.

Tristan raced to her door and tapped twice. “Isabella,” he whispered. “Isabella.”

“No, don’t.”

Without giving the matter another thought, he charged into her chamber.

The dancing flame in the candle lamp on the dressing table cast a faint golden hue over the room. He scanned the shadows for any sign of an intruder. Again the room was empty. The thick red drapes on the large four-poster bed were drawn. He feared someone was hiding inside.

“Don’t,” Isabella cried.

Tristan dragged back the bed hangings to find no one other than an ebony-haired temptress stretched out on the bed. Every soft curve was visible through the thin white nightdress as she writhed back and forth, lost in a distressing dream. He pinched his arm, fearing he was dreaming too.

With trembling fingers, he touched her hand. “Isabella. Wake up. Can you hear me?”

She woke with a start, sat bolt upright, her eyes wide, fearful. “What?” She sucked in a breath, blinked numerous times. “Tristan?”

“You were dreaming,” he said softly as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Tristan!” With a sigh of relief, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “My dream … it was so real. I thought I was alone.”

Dismissing his shock at the affectionate gesture, he ran his palm over her back in soothing, circular strokes, fought the selfish urge to capture her mouth and make her forget all the imagined horrors. “I heard you call out. I would not have entered your chamber had I not thought you were in distress.”

He chose not to tell her about the footsteps along the hall. Being a man of sound rational mind, he knew he would find a logical explanation.

Isabella moved to lay her head on his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re with me. I would rather join the nuns at St. Augustus than stay here on my own.”

Her whispered words breezed across the sensitive skin on his neck. A pleasurable shiver raced through him. Knowing that he had to place some distance between them for fear of losing his mind to the lustful pangs that wracked his body, he eased her arms from around his neck and forced her to straighten.

“I’ll not leave here until we have caught the culprit.”

She sucked in a whimper. “Do you promise?”

The desperation in her voice touched his heart. He cupped her face with both hands. “I promise.”

They stared at each other for the longest time. Her rich brown eyes searched his face. Many times he had lost himself in their dark, unfathomable depths. His gaze dropped to the luscious lips moving closer in mute invitation.

Just one brush would suffice. Just one sweet, chaste kiss.

The temptation proved too great.

He bent his head, eager to taste the only woman he had ever wanted. The erratic beat of his heart hammered in his ears. With his mouth hovering a mere inch above hers, he hesitated. They were so close their breath mingled in the space between them. When she pressed her open mouth to his, he closed his eyes, seared the sensation to memory.

The kiss was slow, tender, the pressure light. Still, the touch of her lips rocked him to his core. It was not a lustful claiming. It was more a soothing caress, a sensual massage for the soul.

She pulled away, just a fraction, yet he could feel her breath breeze across his lips. Disappointment became a sinking feeling of despair. But as his mind scrambled to decide what to do, her mouth recaptured his with a level of raw hunger that belied any outward calm.

Their hesitant tongues touched. The sound of her ragged breathing was music to his ears. He crushed her to his chest, drank deeply, their tongues thrusting wildly in a dance that made every part of him swell. Her frantic fingers found their way into his hair. He pulled her closer, desperate for the heat of her body to warm his cold, lonely heart.

Sweet Jesus. The tips of her nipples brushed against the fine lawn of his shirt, and he knew he would not be able to stop until he had sated five years’ worth of lust and longing.

The sudden tapping noise coming from his room across the hall caused them both to jump back. He forced his gaze away from Isabella’s swollen lips, torn between pulling her back into his arms and going to investigate the suspicious sound.

“Did you hear that?” Isabella clutched his arm. “There is someone in your room.”

He covered her hand with his own. “We would have heard him coming up the stairs,” he said in a bid to reassure her, although there was every possibility that the footsteps he’d heard earlier were made by the same person. “Wait here. I shall be back in a moment.”

“No. I’m coming too. You cannot leave me here alone.”

It was a reasonable request. “Very well.” He stood, shuffled uncomfortably in a bid to ease the throbbing ache filling his breeches, and held out his hand to her. “You must stay behind me but stay close.”

Her dainty palm settled against his. The pleasurable sensation that accompanied the intimate gesture served to bolster his courage. They crept out into the hall, entered his chamber with a level of extreme wariness.

Once again the room was empty, dark.