Midnight Pleasures Page 4

  "Because, my lord," she replied candidly, "I was thinking of you."

  "Indeed?" Surprised by her candor, delighted to know he had been in her thoughts, he took a step closer. "What were you thinking?"

  "I was wondering what I had done to displease you."

  "You please me very well, Rhianna." Far too well for my peace of mind, he mused, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers to keep from reaching for her, from taking that for which he hungered.

  "I've not seen you in months, my lord." She should have been glad of that, she thought, for he was most mysterious, and, sometimes, a little frightening. And yet the few short hours she had spent in his presence had been intoxicating.

  "You should be glad you've not had cause to see me," he replied brusquely.

  "Should I?"

  He gazed deep into her eyes, probing her thoughts, feeling her loneliness, her confusion.

  She was a young girl on the brink of womanhood, yearning for something she did not fully understand. Like a finely crafted violin, she awaited the touch of the master's hand to bring forth the music locked within her.

  Drawn into the depths of her eyes, he moved slowly toward her. Needing to touch her, steeling himself to be rejected, he pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside. A gasp—or was it a sigh?— escaped her lips as his hand stroked her cheek.

  "My lord?" He heard her uncertainty in the trembling of her voice.

  "I will not hurt you," Rayven said, praying he spoke the truth. "I want only to touch you. Your skin is so soft, sweet Rhianna. So soft…" Bending his head, he brushed her lips with his. "Sweet," he murmured, "as I knew you would be."

  She stared up at him, caught in the web of his gaze, in the shivers of pleasure that undulated through her. There was fire in his touch, magic in his kiss, that it could make her feel so changed.

  With a low groan, he took a step back, the twin talons of hunger and desire clawing their way to life.

  Taking her hand, he started walking toward the maze.

  A sense of dread filled Rhianna's heart as they reached the entrance. With a wordless cry, she tugged on his hand.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "The maze." She shook her head. "It frightens me."

  "There's nothing to fear."

  She looked up at him, her eyes luminous in the moonlight. Her hand was small and warm in his.

  He could see the pulse racing in her throat.

  "Come, Rhianna," he whispered, his voice low and seductive. "Don't be afraid."

  As though mesmerized, she fell into step beside him. Her gaze darted nervously from right to left as they went deeper into the maze. Soon, tall hedges rose on every side, cocooning her in a silent world of greenery.

  She lost track of time until it seemed as though she had been walking through the maze for hours. Rayven was a tall, dark figure beside her. The moon cast silver highlights in his hair. His black cloak floated from his shoulders like thick black fog. She had never seen a cloak like his. It seemed alive somehow, moving when he moved, surrounding him in protective folds. His profile was sharp, all hard planes and angles, yet curiously beautiful. She wondered if this was what death looked like, dark and seductive.

  It took her a moment to realize he had stopped walking. Glancing around, she saw what had once been a rose garden, though all that remained now were a few dead plants. In the center of the small garden was a bronze statue of a snarling wolf, and beside it, the figure of a raven carved in black marble.

  A shiver of unease tiptoed down her spine. An odd choice of ornamentation for a garden, she thought.

  Conscious of Rayven's gaze, she turned to face him. "I… I'm sure it must have been very lovely, once."

  He raised one dark brow, his lips curved in wry amusement. "Do you think so?"

  "I don't know. But it could be."

  He turned away from her and stared at the statues, felt the darkness rise up within him, heard the wildness calling to him, bidding him to shed the thin veneer of humanity and run wild and naked through the night.

  "My lord?"

  Her voice, the underlying fear, drew him from the edge of darkness. Feeling as though he, too, were made of cold marble, he turned to face her once again.

  "Could you work a miracle here, sweet Rhianna?" he asked softly. "Could you change this ugliness into beauty?"

  Rhianna looked into his eyes, wondering if he was talking about the garden, or himself.

  He placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up. "Could you, sweet Rhianna?"

  "I'll try, my lord."

  "Would you kiss me, girl?"

  "If you wish."

  "No, Rhianna, not as I wish. I want you to take me in your arms and kiss me of your own free will."

  He was lonely, she thought, as lonely as she.

  Time slowed, and she became acutely aware of her surroundings. She felt the cool dampness of the grass beneath her feet as she stepped toward him, until their bodies were almost touching. His cloak was soft beneath her fingers as she placed her hands on his shoulders. Her nostrils filled with his scent, a wild musky scent that made her think of damp grass and rain.

  And then she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. His lips were cool and firm. When she started to draw away, his arm curled around her waist, holding her close against him. She felt the tremors that shook his body, sensed that he was keeping a tight rein on his emotions, sensed the underlying strength that dwelt in him.

  Her eyelids fluttered down as his tongue traced her lower lip, then plunged into her mouth. Heat and fire exploded within her, radiating outward, until she felt as though she were melting in his arms. Distorted, disjointed images flickered in her mind—a wolf crouching over its prey, an enormous black bird drinking blood from a crystal goblet, a thick gray fog moving through the darkened streets of the village.

  She heard Rayven swear under his breath as he let her go.

  Like a slate wiped clean, the images disappeared, and she blinked up at him, feeling dazed and suddenly bereft.

  "Rhianna? Rhianna!"

  "Aye, my lord?"

  "Are you all right?"

  "I… I don't know. I thought I saw…"

  "What?"

  She shook her head. "I don't remember."

  Cursing softy, he pulled her into his arms, his chin resting lightly on her head. "I beg you to forgive me, sweet Rhianna," he whispered hoarsely.

  "Forgive you, my lord? But why? What have you done?"

  "I hope you never find out," he replied, his voice suddenly harsh.

  He held her for a long while, letting his power move over her, calming her. She closed her eyes, soothed, like a child, by the steady beat of its mother's heart beneath her cheek.

  He knew the moment sleep claimed her. Murmuring her name, he gathered her into his arms. With her eyes closed and the moonlight shimmering on her face, she looked like a princess in a fairy tale.

  A wave of tenderness swept through him as he carried her out of the maze and into the silent darkness of the castle.

  In her room, he put her to bed, still fully clothed, and drew the covers over her. She was innocence personified, he thought, and for the first time in years, he hated who he was, what he was, because it denied him all hope of a normal life, of love. He would never have a wife, never know the quiet joy of holding a child he had fathered.

  Tenderness turned to regret, regret turned to anger, and anger burned into a hot fierce rage. He had resigned himself to his lonely life shortly after he'd been made. Knowing such things would be forever denied him, he had put all thought of a home and family out of his mind, his heart.

  He had thought himself content, happy even, until Rhianna. Seeing her, holding her, had awakened feelings and desires that had lain dormant within him for centuries.

  With a low-throated growl, he bent over her, hating her for the power she had over him, for the weakness he felt when he looked at her. His hand brushed a lock of hair from her neck.

  Her sce
nt filled his nostrils, stirring his hunger, kindling his desire. If this was all of her he could have, then so be it, he thought, and let loose the beast that dwelt within him.

  Chapter Five

  I look into her eyes

  and find forgiveness there

  and for a moment—

  one brief, sweet shining moment,

  I see an end to my despair.

  It had been a mistake to touch her, to kiss her. Having once tasted of Rhianna's sweetness, he could think of nothing else. He sought her out at supper, sipping from his wineglass while he watched her eat, listening with rapt attention while she told him how she had spent her day. She had a bright mind, a keen intellect, and a delightful sense of humor. Bevins had told him she was a quick study, that she was making remarkable progress.

  Rayven saw the results for himself each night when she read to him, as she was doing now.

  He sat in his favorite chair, staring into the flames of a fire that did little to warm the coldness within him, listening to her read. The sound of her voice washed over him like silken sunshine, softer than eiderdown, hotter than the flickering flames that danced in the hearth. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he watched her, wondering how it was possible for her to grow more beautiful with each passing day. Her cheeks bloomed with color, her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed with youth and life. The firelight cast golden shadows on her profile. Mesmerized like a love-struck youth, he basked in her nearness, in the breathy sound of her voice.

  Several minutes passed before he realized that she had stopped reading, that she was staring back at him.

  "Is something wrong, sweet Rhianna?"

  "No, my lord."

  "Why have you stopped reading?"

  A faint smile played over her lips. "I stopped some time ago."

  He frowned. "Will you tell me why?"

  "Because the story is over, my lord."

  He looked at her for a long moment, feeling quite the fool, and then he laughed.

  Rhianna stared at him. She had rarely seen him smile, never heard him laugh. It was a wondrous sound, deep and rich. And contagious. She felt a wave of answering laughter rise up within her, mingling with his, until the walls echoed with the sound.

  And then, without knowing quite how, he was kneeling before her, and the laughter died in her throat.

  "Rhianna." He took her hands in his and kissed each one. "Do you know how long it's been since I laughed like that?"

  "No, my lord."

  "A very long time," he replied, his gaze burning into hers. "Longer than you can imagine."

  "Then I'm glad I made you laugh."

  "What can I give you in return?"

  "My lord?"

  "A new dress to match the color of your eyes? A chain of fine gold?"

  "I want nothing, my lord. You have already given me too much. And I…" She looked away. "I have given you nothing in return."

  Guilt, sharper than the thorns on the roses she loved, pricked his conscience. She had given him far more than she imagined. More than he had any right to take.

  "Name your prize, sweet Rhianna. You have but to name it, and it's yours."

  "Anything I want? Truly?"

  "Truly."

  "I should very much like to have a mirror in my room."

  He sat back on his heels, his dark eyes suddenly shadowed and cold. "A mirror?"

  She nodded, her expression eager. "You've given me so many fine things. I want to see how I look."

  "Very well," he said, his voice tight. "You shall have one."

  "Did I say something wrong?" she asked, her eyes filled with confusion.

  He shook his head, then rose slowly to his feet. "Go to bed, girl."

  She stood up. As always, his size surprised her. He moved with such stealth, spoke with such quiet, she often forgot how very big he was. Tall and broad shouldered, he towered over her. "Will you not tell me what I've done to displease you so?"

  He turned away from her to stare into the fire. "Go to bed." His voice was brittle, like frozen glass.

  "Very well, my lord."

  He listened to the sound of her footsteps, muffled by the thick carpet, as she crossed the floor.

  "Good night, my lord."

  He could feel her watching him, waiting for a reply, heard her sigh as she opened the door and left the room.

  Rayven stared into the flames. He could sit in this room and pretend he was a man like any other. He could pretend she was his, that she was there because she wished it. He could surround himself with riches, but he could not hide from the truth any more than he could walk in the sunlight, or see his reflection in a mirror. Such simple things, forever denied him.

  The mirror that Bevins delivered to Rhianna's room the following afternoon was quite the most exquisite thing she had ever seen, a full-length looking glass set in a frame of burnished oak. And in the top corner, etched in spidery script, were her initials.

  "Oh, it's beautiful," she murmured. She ran her hands over the wood, traced the letters of her initials.

  "Lord Rayven will be pleased that you approve."

  "Oh, I do! Is he home? I must thank him."

  "He is unavailable, miss."

  "He's never here during the day," Rhianna said, pouting. "Where does he go?"

  "I'm sure I don't know, miss."

  "You don't?"

  "No, miss." The hesitation in his voice told her he was lying. "Will you be coming down for dinner, miss?"

  "No, I don't think so." She turned away from the mirror. "I think I'll take a nap."

  "Very good, miss." With a slight bow, Bevins left the room.

  Rhianna went to the window and stared down into the gardens. She'd been here for months, and only now had she realized she had never seen Rayven during the day. Why had Bevins lied to her? Was Rayven here? Upstairs, perhaps?

  Curious, she crossed to the door, opened it, and peeked out. There was no sign of Bevins. Tiptoeing from her chamber, she made her way down the corridor toward the east tower.

  Her footsteps echoed loudly in her ears as she climbed the narrow winding stairway. Ninety-nine steps. She was breathless when she reached the top.

  Pausing to catch her breath, she glanced down the long corridor. There was no light up here save for what little filtered through the shuttered windows set in the thick stone walls.

  On tiptoe, she made her way down the hallway. She stopped at the first door, her hand trembling as she reached for the latch. The door opened without a sound.

  Peering inside, she saw that the room was filled with furniture—brocade sofas, chairs covered in faded embroidery and horsehair, curved settees covered in damask. There were tables in all sizes and shapes, chairs made of rich dark oak and mahogany, delicate stools and marble-topped commodes. All were covered with a layer of dust, as if they had not been used for decades.

  Closing the door, she crossed the hallway to the opposite room. It, too, was crowded with the furniture of another era.

  The next room was filled with works of art: statues, paintings, bronze figures, vases made of crystal and porcelain, china figurines, a huge sculpture of a raven hewn in black wood. These, too, were covered with dust and cobwebs.

  Ahead was the tower room itself. She knew, without knowing how she knew, that this was Rayven's personal lair. Moving cautiously, she approached the door. She pressed her ear to the smooth wood, and when she heard no sound from inside, she put her hand on the latch.

  Heart pounding, she opened the door and stepped inside. There was no light at all in this room. Heavy black velvet draperies covered the windows. Crossing the floor, she drew back the curtains, then turned and looked around. The room was empty.

  Puzzled, she let the draperies fall back into place. Why had Rayven forbidden her to come here? What possible reason could he have for not wanting her to see rooms filled with old furniture, or this empty tower?

  From out of nowhere came the chilling sensation that she was not alone. Unreasoning panic rose up within her, dr
iving her out of the room.

  She ran down the hall, down the stairs, a silent sob rising in her throat as images of darkness and death swirled through her mind.

  She ran blindly through the castle until she reached her chamber. Inside, she locked the door, flung the windows wide. Sitting on the bed, she clutched a pillow to her chest and stared at the sunlight pouring through the window, hoping it would dispel the darkness that seemed to enfold her like thick black smoke, permeating her very soul. And in the center of that darkness, she sensed a loneliness so deep it broke her heart.

  Rayven sat across the table from Rhianna, idly swirling the liquid in his goblet, watching the crystal catch the candlelight. "We're going to the opera next week. I want you to go out and buy something suitable to wear."

  "My lord, surely I have no need of more gowns."

  "Do it to please me. Something blue, to match your eyes, I think."

  "Very well, my lord, if it will please you."

  "So, what did you do today?"

  Rhianna swallowed hard, her gaze sliding away from his. "Today, my lord?"

  "Yes, today."

  "I… Bevins brought me a new piece of music."

  "Will you play it for me?"

  "If you wish, though I've not yet mastered it."

  "You are a most biddable creature, sweet Rhianna."

  "My lord?" She looked at him askance, not knowing if he was praising her or complaining.

  Rayven considered her over the rim of his glass. He had never kept a woman who was so agreeable, one who asked for nothing, who seemed to take genuine pleasure in his company. It stroked his male vanity to think she cared for him, even a little. The others had done his bidding, but he had been ever aware of the fear in their eyes, the lust for what his wealth could buy. He had given them whatever they asked for, had smothered them in gifts—jewels, furs, costly raiment—deeming it a small price to pay for what he took.

  He tilted his head to one side, regarding her through half-lowered lids. He had sensed her presence in the tower, had smelled the lingering fragrance of her perfume, her very essence, when he woke that evening. He had never kept a woman who dared defy him. For that act of courage, he would buy her a sapphire necklace to match her new gown.