Midnight Pleasures Page 5

  "What else did you do today?" he asked silkily.

  Fear rose up in her throat. He knows, she thought frantically. He knows what I've done, and now he'll punish me.

  "You've been here some time now," he remarked in that same deceptively mild voice.

  "Yes."

  "I trust you've gone exploring."

  "You said I might have the run of the castle, my lord," she replied, a definite quaver in her voice.

  "So I did. Save for the east tower."

  Rhianna nodded, unable to speak past the fear coagulating in her throat.

  "You remember my warning?"

  She nodded, then crossed her arms lest he see her trembling.

  "See that you do not disregard my wishes again."

  "Yes, my lord."

  He smiled at her over the rim of his goblet as he drained the glass. Rising, he offered her his hand. "Come," he said. "I wish you to play for me."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  His brow lifted in a gesture she had come to recognize as mild amusement. "For what, my sweet Rhianna?"

  "For not being angry with me. For being so kind."

  "Kind?" He laughed softly, the rich full sound filling her with sensual pleasure. "Of a truth, no one has ever called me that before."

  "Indeed, my lord?"

  "Indeed, my sweet."

  "Then I shall do so often, if it would please you."

  "You please me," he replied. And so saying, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his, kissing her with an intensity that drained the strength from her limbs even as it seemed to draw all the air from her lungs.

  She stared up at him, feeling strangely lightheaded, when he drew his lips from hers.

  Rayven smiled down at her, his dark eyes burning. "Never doubt that you please me very well."

  Long after Rayven had left her, she could feel the heat of his lips, the urgent hardness of his body against hers. Though she had never known a man, she was not totally ignorant in the ways of men and women, but she had never dreamed that such pleasure was part of it. The women in the village whispered of putting up with a man's base nature, of enduring the hardship of the marriage bed. They had never mentioned the wonder of it, the fluttery feeling in one's stomach.

  Earlier, he had listened to her play, dismissing her mistakes with a wave of his hand. It had been an easy piece; normally, she would have played it without hesitation. But she couldn't forget his touch, couldn't keep her hands from trembling with the memory of being in his arms, of touching him. Even now, it seemed as if the imprint of his long lean body had been burned into hers.

  It seemed an effort to move, yet at the same time she seemed to be floating over the floor, up the stairs.

  In her room, she removed her shoes and stockings, dropped her gown over the back of a chair, and slipped into bed.

  She dreamed of him that night, dreamed that he was there, in her room, sitting beside her on the bed, his dark cloak floating over her like a shroud as he bent his head toward her. In the uncertain light of her room, his eyes seemed to glow like smoldering coals. She felt his hands grip her shoulders, felt his lips at her throat, felt the familiar lassitude steal over her as his teeth grazed the tender skin of her neck. Sensual pleasure mingled with pain. She moaned softly as his hands tightened on her arms. And then his voice, whispering in her ear.

  "Only a dream, sweet Rhianna," he murmured, his voice hypnotizing her with its power. "Only a dream…"

  Her eyelids fluttered down, but not before she saw him rise from her bed like a dark mist. She blinked once, and he was gone, as if he'd never been there.

  But, of course, it was only a dream.

  Chapter Six

  Her touch has rendered me helpless,

  her trust weakens the chains of the past.

  Dare I believe in the love she offers?

  Have I found an end to this darkness at last?

  Rhianna's eyes widened as she stepped into the opera house. Except for the occasions when Bevins had taken her shopping in the neighboring town, it was the first time she had been out of the sheltered valley where she had been born, the first time she had been to the city. She couldn't help staring at the women, as beautiful as butterflies in their flamboyantly colored gowns of silk and satin.

  She lifted her chin defiantly, trying to pretend she was one of them, that she belonged there. Her gown was just as fashionable, just as costly. The sapphires at her throat were fit for a queen. But, try as she might, she couldn't help feeling like a serving girl playing dress up in her mistress's clothes.

  Once her initial awe wore off, she realized people were staring at Rayven. She heard snatches of conversation as Rayven escorted her up the stairs to his private box.

  "It's Rayven…"

  "Haven't seen him here in years…"

  "… a new mistress…"

  "… so young…"

  "She's lovely…"

  "… odd… he never changes…"

  She was certain her cheeks were red with embarrassment by the time they reached their box. Sitting there, she hid her face behind her fan.

  "Pay them no mind, sweet Rhianna," Rayven said. Taking the seat beside her, he settled back in his chair, a bored look on his face.

  "They're talking about us."

  "Let them. Did I tell you how beautiful you look in that gown?" And indeed, she did. The deep blue velvet complemented the creamy smoothness of her skin and made her eyes seem darker.

  Rhianna nodded, wishing she could just disappear. Never before had she been the object of so much discussion, so much speculation. She hadn't had to hear the words to know they thought she was Rayven's mistress.

  She risked a glance at the box across from theirs, shrank back as she recognized the tall, blond man. He had been at Cotyer's the night her father auctioned her to the highest bidder.

  He had seen her, too. Smiling, he inclined his head in her direction and then blew her a kiss.

  She heard Rayven mutter something under his breath and then, to her relief, the curtain parted and the opera began.

  Rhianna had never seen or heard anything like it—the costumes, the actors, the music, the dancing. Even though she couldn't understand the language, she had no trouble following the story of a rich young man in love with a peasant girl.

  At intermission, Lord Montroy appeared at their box. He sketched a bow in Rayven's direction, then bowed over Rhianna's hand.

  "Good evening, my dear," he said, and she heard the hint of a smile in his voice. "How well you look."

  "Thank you."

  Montroy dropped into one of the chairs, his long legs stretched negligently before him. "Can't remember the last time I saw Rayven at the opera," he remarked. "You must be a good influence on him."

  "I…" She shook her head. "It was Lord Rayven's idea, not mine." A smile lit her face. "But it is wonderful, isn't it?"

  "You're enjoying it, then?"

  "Oh, yes, it's a wonderful play. I've never seen anything like it."

  Rayven sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, as Montroy conversed with Rhianna. His detachment rapidly turned to anger as Montroy began flirting with Rhianna, complimenting her hairstyle, comparing the blue of her eyes to the sapphire necklace she wore. He watched Rhianna's cheeks turn scarlet as she murmured a polite thank you. His hands clenched into tight fists, the mild anger he'd felt quickly turning to fury as she laughed softly at something Montroy said.

  "Enough." The word, softly spoken, cut across Montroy's flowery compliments like a knife through butter.

  With lazy grace, Montroy stood up, murmuring his farewells as he bent over Rhianna's hand, then turned to Rayven. "Will we see you at Cotyer's later, my lord?"

  "No."

  Montroy looked at Rayven with what could only be called a smirk. "A foolish question, indeed," he said. "Good night, my lord."

  "Montroy."

  Rhianna fanned herself, not daring to meet Rayven's gaze. She had not missed the hint of anger in his vo
ice, though the reason for it eluded her.

  She was grateful when the performance resumed.

  Rayven had seen the opera many times, and it was Rhianna's face he watched during the last act. As he had suspected, she wept when the heroine killed herself rather than face life without the hero, though why a woman would want a weak-willed man like the hero was quite beyond him.

  When the curtain came down, he offered her his handkerchief. "Dry your eyes, sweet Rhianna. It was only make-believe, after all."

  "But it was so sad. They loved each other so much."

  "Rubbish! If he'd loved her, he would have disobeyed his father and married her instead of shackling himself to a woman he didn't love."

  "Yes," Rhianna murmured, "I suppose he would have."

  Gaining his feet, Rayven draped her cloak over her shoulders. "Ready?"

  With a nod, Rhianna stood up and placed her hand in his. She held her head high as they left the box and made their way outside.

  It was a beautiful moonlit night. A bright yellow moon hung low in the sky. She stood beside Rayven, conscious of the people nearby, aware of their curious stares, their whispered words as they speculated on her relationship with Castle Rayven's dark lord.

  She was relieved when Bevins arrived with the carriage.

  As Rayven helped her inside, she was aware of his hand at her arm. His touch was firm, cool. She settled her skirts around her as he entered the other door and took the seat beside her. There was something vastly intimate about being alone with a man in a closed carriage. Rayven's hard-muscled thigh brushed against hers as he shifted in the seat. The scent of his cologne tinged the air.

  He rapped on the roof, and the carriage lurched forward. They drove in silence for several minutes. Rhianna glanced out the window, admiring the moonlit countryside.

  "Montroy finds you quite attractive, my sweet."

  Rhianna turned her head to look at him, surprised by his blunt remark. "My lord?"

  "Don't play coy with me, girl. I saw the way he looked at you. The way you looked at him."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "Don't you?"

  Rhianna met his gaze, confused by the carefully banked anger in his eyes, by the hard edge of jealousy in his voice.

  "If you have any plans for meeting him on the sly, put them out of your mind."

  "My lord, you misjudge me!" Rhianna exclaimed, shocked that he would even think such a thing. "I have no interest in the man."

  "No?"

  "No."

  "Forgive me, sweet Rhianna," he murmured, astonished by his reaction to the thought of her with another man. Never before had be been possessive of the women he brought home, but then, none had been as lovely, or as innocent, as Rhianna McLeod.

  "Please don't be angry with me, my lord."

  Rayven blew out a long breath, then reached for her hands, kissing first one and then the other. "I could never be angry with you. Nor Montroy, either, I suppose. One can hardly blame the man for being attracted to you."

  He kissed the back of her right hand again; and then, ever so slowly, he removed the glove from her right hand, bent his head and licked her palm. Rhianna gasped as a rush of potent heat shot up her arm.

  Heart pounding, she met his gaze, felt the fire burning in his eyes engulf her. "My lord…"

  Slowly, inexorably, he drew her into his arms until his face blotted everything else from her sight. Slanting his mouth over hers, he kissed her, his teeth grazing her lips, his tongue exploring the soft inner flesh of her mouth, until she was breathless, almost dizzy from the tumult of emotions swirling through her. Her skin felt tingly, every nerve ending vitally alive.

  Hardly aware of what she was doing, she leaned into him, a soft moan rising in her throat as her breasts were crushed against his chest.

  "Rhianna, ah, Rhianna." He groaned softly. "Do you know what you're doing to me?" His hands slid up and down her back, erratic as the beating of her heart.

  He drew her more fully against him, his lips raining kisses on her eyes, the tip of her nose, the curve of her cheek. His tongue laved her neck, she felt his teeth nibble at her earlobe, then graze the tender flesh beneath her ear.

  A low groan rumbled deep in his throat and then, abruptly, he pushed her away.

  Dazed, she blinked at him, then leaned toward him, wanting him to kiss her again, to continue the strange magic his touch wrought upon her senses.

  "Don't." The tone of his voice had the effect of a slap.

  With a muffled cry, she scooted into the corner, her heart pounding wildly—not with desire, but trepidation. What had she done? Why was he looking at her like that, his eyes burning yet cold?

  The rest of the journey passed in silence. Rhianna kept her gaze downcast, her hands tightly folded in her lap.

  When they reached home, Rayven practically flew out of the carriage. She stared after him, wanting to call him back, but he was swallowed up by the darkness so fast it was almost as if he had vanished completely.

  Bevins handed her from the carriage, then preceded her into the castle, lighting the lamps in the downstairs rooms.

  "Would you care for a cup of tea, miss?" he asked, "or some cocoa, perhaps?"

  "Cocoa, please. I'll take it in the parlor."

  "As you wish, miss."

  Removing her cloak and remaining glove, Rhianna went into the parlor and sat down on the sofa, trying to comprehend what had happened in the carriage. She was new to desire, but certainly she had not been mistaken in thinking Rayven wanted her. Heaven knew she had wanted him, would have surrendered her virtue there, in the carriage, had he not thrust her away. Had she done something to displease him, and if so, what?

  "Would you care for a fire, miss?" Bevins asked. He handed her a cup of hot chocolate.

  "Yes, please. It's quite chilly in here."

  Bevins nodded, then turned away to see to the fire.

  "Has Lord Rayven come in yet?" she asked.

  "No, miss. I shouldn't wait up for him if I were you."

  "Do you know where he's gone?"

  Bevins hesitated. "No, miss. Will that be all?"

  "Yes, Bevins. Thank you."

  "Good night, then."

  "Good night."

  Staring into the flames, Rhianna sipped the cocoa, feeling it relax her. Funny how life turned out, she mused. She had been afraid to come to this place, afraid to leave home, afraid of Rayven, yet all her fears had proven groundless. There was nothing to fear in the castle. She had food to eat and beautiful clothes to wear. She had learned to read and write, to appreciate poetry, to play the pianoforte, to paint. Even her fear of Rayven had been unjustified. Until the last few weeks, she had hardly seen him at all. Sometimes, it seemed as though he were afraid of her.

  Putting the cup aside, she tucked her feet beneath her. Why had Rayven brought her here? If he didn't want her for his mistress or a housemaid, what did he want her for? So far, she had done nothing to earn the money he had paid for her.

  Rayven. Why wasn't he married? He was rich. He was handsome. Even the scar on his cheek couldn't detract from his roguish good looks. Just being near him made her come alive, made her blood run hot and her stomach quiver with longing. Surely bedding him would not be a hardship in spite of what her mother had said about such things…

  Heat that had nothing to do with the warmth of the flames suffused her cheeks at her wayward thoughts. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, summoning his image to mind, the high wide forehead, the finely shaped nose, his beautiful dark eyes that could burn her with a look, his full lips…

  She felt her body tingle in every place where he had touched her. If only he hadn't pushed her away…

  Rayven stood at the foot of the sofa, watching her sleep. Her hair had come loose from its pins and fell across the arm of the sofa like a river of gold silk. She sighed in her sleep, her sweet pink lips curving into a smile that was both sweet and seductive. Of what, or of whom, was she dreaming?

  Unable to resist, he knel
t beside her, staring at the slow steady beat of the pulse at the base of her throat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of her. She smelled of soap and perfume and powder, of the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding she had eaten for dinner, of cocoa. He placed his fingertip over the pulse in her throat, felt the blood thrumming through her veins, felt his mouth water as he remembered the warm, sweet, coppery taste.

  Even before he opened his eyes, he knew she was awake and watching him. He heard the change in her breathing, the escalation of her heartbeat.

  "My lord," she murmured. "I'm sorry if I did something to offend you."

  "Offend me?"

  "In the carriage."

  "You did nothing amiss, sweet Rhianna."

  "Then why…"

  "It is not my wish to hurt you, Rhianna."

  "You weren't hurting me." Heat climbed up her neck and into her cheeks. "Quite the opposite, my lord."

  "Ah, child," Rayven murmured, stroking her cheek. "If you only knew."

  "Knew what?"

  "Nothing. I would not frighten you with my past, or bore you with my present."

  "I don't understand."

  "There is no need for you to understand. All you need know is that you please me very well."

  "Then won't you kiss me again?" She saw the refusal in his eyes and pressed her fingertips over his lips. "Just one kiss, my lord."

  Taking her hand from his mouth, he kissed her palm. When he looked at her again, there was a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "Would it please you so much?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "One kiss, and then you must go to bed."

  She nodded, her eyelids fluttering down as his lips met hers. There was such sweetness in his kiss, such longing. Unwilling for him to leave her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, hoping he would know how much she wanted him.

  His arms tightened around her, and he lifted her off the sofa, cradling her in his lap, his mouth ravishing hers in a most delightful way.