Midnight Pleasures Read online

  He lifted one brow. "Why, I live here, miss."

  "But I thought Lord Rayven had gone."

  Bevins cocked his head to one side, and she had the strangest impression that he was listening to a voice only he could hear.

  "Bevins? He is gone, isn't he?"

  "Yes, miss. He left soon after you departed for Paris."

  "You didn't go with him?"

  "No, miss. My place is here."

  "Is he… Will he be coming back, do you think?"

  "I cannot say, miss. Might I ask why you left Paris?"

  "My father died. I came home for the funeral."

  "I am sorry, Miss Rhianna. Please accept my condolences."

  "Thank you, Bevins." With a sigh, she turned to go, and then she paused. "Are you quite certain he's not here?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "No reason. I mean, that is, I thought I heard him call my name."

  Bevins blinked at her, astonishment evident in his eyes. "You heard his voice?"

  Rhianna nodded. "At least I thought I did. He… he sounded so sad. I suppose I must have imagined it."

  "Yes, miss."

  "Well, I'd better be going. If you hear from Lord Rayven, please give him my best, and my thanks for being so kind to my family."

  "I will, miss. And may I say that Paris must have agreed with you, for you have blossomed into a lovely young woman. I know Lord Rayven would be pleased."

  "Thank you, Bevins. Good night."

  "Good night, miss."

  Shoulders sagging, Rhianna walked down the steps to collect the horse. It was sheer nonsense, of course, thinking she had heard his voice. It was only that she had missed him so much these past four years. Missed him, and dreamed of him.

  Standing at the side gate, she looked up at the windows of the east tower. "Rayven," she whispered, "I know you're here."

  Hidden in the shadows of a lonely tower room, a man clad in the darkness of the night heard her plea, and wept bloodred tears.

  She went back the next night and the next, wandering through the gardens for an hour, hoping he would come to her, hoping she would feel his presence and know he was there.

  But he did not seek her out.

  Sometimes, as now, she sat on one of the stone benches, lost in thought as she gazed up at the east tower, wondering where he was, what he was doing, wondering at the overpowering urge that brought her to this place night after night, the certainty that he was nearby. Strange, she had no desire to come here during the day. Was it because she had never seen Rayven when the sun was up? What a puzzle he was, a man as dark and mysterious as the night itself.

  Rising, she walked toward the maze, her heartbeat increasing as she drew nearer.

  "There's nothing in there to be afraid of." She spoke the words aloud, hoping to bolster her flagging courage. "There's nothing there in the darkness that isn't there in the light." Yet, even as the words left her lips, she wondered if that was true.

  Straightening her shoulders, she took a deep breath and stepped into the maze. Greenery rose all around her, enfolding her, embracing her. Feeling as if she were being guided by an unseen hand, she went steadily onward, anticipation quickening her footsteps, until she reached the heart of the labyrinth.

  She came to an abrupt halt as she glanced around. She had expected the roses within the maze to be dead, like the ones in the gardens, but the bushes here were full and green. Her gaze lingered on the statues, the bronze wolf and the black raven captured forever in metal and marble.

  Shivering, she wrapped her arms around her waist. There was something ominous about the statues tonight. She had the eerie feeling that the wolf and the raven were watching her, waiting for a chance to pounce.

  She was turning away when she saw a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. She glanced over her shoulder, her mind telling her that she was imagining things again.

  But it wasn't her imagination this time.

  Rayven materialized out of the shadows near the statue of the wolf, the moonlight shining in his thick black hair, his cloak enfolding him like a living thing.

  "My lord," she murmured, suddenly breathless.

  "Good evening, Rhianna." His tongue lingered over her name, drawing it out, making her shiver, as though he had caressed her.

  "You're here." She glanced at the statue of the wolf. It looked different somehow. "Bevins said you weren't here."

  "Why are you here, sweet Rhianna?"

  "My father…"

  He shook his head. "I know why you have come home. Why are you here?"

  "I missed you, my lord. Being here, on the castle grounds, made you seem less far away."

  "You missed me?"

  Rhianna nodded. "You find that so hard to believe?"

  He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. "I find it impossible to believe."

  " 'Tis true, nonetheless. I am sorry if it displeases you."

  "It does not displease me, sweet Rhianna," he replied quietly. "How long will you be here?"

  "At the castle?"

  "In Millbrae."

  "Oh. I've come home to stay."

  "No. You must not."

  Rhianna looked up at him, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. "It seems my presence displeases you as much as my honesty, my lord."

  "Nothing about you displeases me, sweet Rhianna. It is only your well-being I am thinking of."

  "My lord?"

  "Your future, Rhianna. I would see you wed to a man worthy of you, not some farmer who will make you old before your time, who will plant a babe in your womb every year, and see you to an early grave."

  "You wish me to marry?"

  "Is it not your wish, also?"

  "Yes, of course, but…"

  His gaze held hers. "But?"

  "I don't want to marry for wealth, my lord, but for love."

  "Love." The word was a whisper, a wish unfulfilled, a dream unborn.

  "Have you never been in love, my lord?"

  Slowly, he shook his head, his dark eyes filled with such pain, such stark loneliness, that she wanted to weep. Was it only her imagination, or did his cloak seem to wrap more closely around him, as if to comfort him?

  "And you?" he asked. "Have you, in your few short years of life, found love?"

  "Aye, my lord, though I fear he does not return my affection."

  "Then he is a fool!"

  A faint smile curved Rhianna's lips. "On that, at least, we are agreed."

  Rayven fought back his anger. The urge to destroy the cur who failed to return her love rose up within him, and with it an all-consuming jealousy. "Who is this man?"

  "Can you not guess?" Rhianna replied, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

  Rayven closed his eyes, pain ripping through him. If he survived another four hundred years, he would never forget this moment, the love shining bright and clear in her eyes, the wonder of it.

  A long shuddering sigh escaped him, and then he opened his eyes.

  "Go away from here, Rhianna," he said, his voice brusque, his eyes as cold as black ice. "Leave my house and never come back."

  She recoiled as if he had slapped her, the hurt in her eyes scorching his soul.

  "Be gone," he said. "Pray I never see you again."

  "As you wish, my lord," Rhianna said, and turning on her heel, she fled his presence without a backward glance.

  Behind her, a black wolf lifted its melancholy cry to the night.

  Chapter Nine

  She cried for hours after she returned home, and all the while she berated herself for her foolishness. He had never led her to believe he was anything more than mildly fond of her. She had amused him with her naivete, nothing more. She had laid her heart bare, and he had scorned it, and her.

  She would not humiliate herself in such a fashion again. And she would marry for love, or she would not marry at all.

  Clinging to that thought, she fell asleep.

  The maze rose up in the night, a twisting wall of greenery th
at separated her from the rest of the world. Drawn into its heart, she collapsed near the statue of the bronze wolf. She drew a deep breath, and her nostrils filled with the scent of roses. Only then did she notice that they were no longer red.

  Dozens of blooms grew on the trees, but they were all black.

  Curious, she picked one, gasping as a thorn pricked her finger. A drop of bright red blood oozed from the wound, and suddenly Rayven was there, towering over her, his dark eyes ablaze with an unholy light as he took her hand in his and slowly licked the blood from her finger…

  "No!" The sound of her own horrified cry roused her from sleep and she sat up, glancing wildly around the room. "Only a dream," she whispered as she snuggled under the covers again. "Only a dream."

  The familiar words hovered in the back of her mind.

  "Only a dream…"

  She closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. With a restless sigh, she sat up and gazed out the window, her mind filling with images of Rayven as she had seen him last, his fathomless black eyes filled with torment. He was lonely, so lonely. Why? He was a handsome man. A wealthy man. Why did he not marry and raise a family? Why did he live in that cold, lonely castle? Why had he sent her away?

  She had learned much in the four years she had been away. She had, on rare occasions, flirted with young men. In Paris, she had learned the power of a coy glance, a shy smile, a come-hither look. She knew when a man wanted her. And Rayven wanted her. He had wanted her from the beginning. Why, then, had he turned her away? Why had he bought her in the first place? She had assumed he had wanted her to warm his bed. She wondered now if he had bought her simply for companionship. But surely a man like Rayven had no need to purchase feminine companionship.

  She thought of all the strange rumors she had heard about him, about his peculiar habits. Since returning home, she had overheard other things, stories told in hushed whispers that hinted at evil, at bargains made with the devil. Was it possible that the people of the town believed such outrageous tales? Her friends and neighbors were a humble, superstitious people, frightened of what they didn't understand, of what couldn't be easily explained.

  Snuggling under the covers once more, she closed her eyes. As much as she had loved Paris, she was not going back.

  This was her home. This was where she belonged, and she would not let anyone, not even the master of Castle Rayven, chase her away.

  The next day was market day. With her mother's list in hand, Rhianna took the carriage Rayven had bought for her family and went into town. It was good to see familiar country faces again. Because of Rayven's generosity, she was able to purchase fresh bread, prime cuts of meat, and a bottle of fine red wine.

  She was sitting in the window of a tearoom, wondering if Rayven would haunt her thoughts forever, when she saw Dallon Montroy. He saw her at the same time. Tipping his hat, he crossed the road, a broad smile on his face. He was as handsome as she recalled. Several women turned to stare at him, their gazes frankly admiring. He wore a coat of dark green broadcloth trimmed in black velvet, buff-colored breeches, and black boots. His linen was impeccable; a diamond stickpin sparkled in his cravat.

  "Good afternoon, Miss McLeod." He bowed over her hand. "May I join you?"

  "Please do."

  "It's been a long time," Dallon said. His gaze moved over her, warm with affection and approval. "Your stay in Paris seems to have agreed with you."

  "Thank you, my lord," Rhianna replied, acutely aware of the admiration in his eyes.

  "I was sorry to hear about your father," Montroy said. "Is there anything I can do for you or your family?"

  "No, thank you. Lord Rayven has been most generous."

  "Indeed." Montroy sat back in his chair. "Are you returning to France soon?"

  Rhianna shook her head. "No. As much as I loved Paris, I've decided to stay here. It's home, after all." And Rayven is here.

  A slow smile spread over Montroy's face. "That's good news indeed," he said. "There's a new play at the theater. I'd like very much to take you."

  "Would you?"

  Montroy chuckled softly. "If you'd like to go. And if you think you could tolerate my company for the evening."

  "I should like that very much indeed," Rhianna replied. In truth, it would be no hardship to spend time with Montroy. With his dark blond hair and blue eyes, he was quite the most blatantly handsome man she had ever met, and she had met many during the last four years.

  "Good. I shall pick you up Saturday at six."

  "I'll be ready."

  "Very well." Rising to his feet, he took her hand in his. "I hate to leave you, but I have a business appointment." He kissed her hand. "Till Saturday next, Miss McLeod.".

  "Till Saturday."

  Montroy arrived at six o'clock sharp. Rhianna grinned openly as she introduced him to her sisters. One and all, they stared at him, hardly able to speak coherently as he bowed over their hands.

  Even her mother seemed awestruck.

  "I'm sorry about my family," Rhianna remarked later, in the carriage. "They've never met anyone quite like you. My youngest sister asked me if you were a prince."

  "And what did you tell her?"

  "Why, I said you were, of course."

  Dallon laughed softly as he took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. "Hardly that."

  For a time, they rode in silence. Montroy studied the girl beside him. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Four years at school had refined her, given her an aura of self-confidence that she had lacked before. It occurred to him that it was past time for him to marry and father an heir.

  He thought of little else during the play. None of the ladies he knew could hold a candle to the young woman sitting beside him. True, she came from a poor family, but he was a wealthy man and the fact that she had no dowry mattered not at all. There was only one drawback that he could see, and that was the fact that everyone in the valley knew Rhianna's father had sold her to Rayven, that she had lived in his house. Dallon didn't care a whit what the people of Millbrae Valley thought, but it would likely cause a stir should his family ever find out.

  But he would jump that fence when he came to it.

  After the play, he took her out for a late supper. She continued to charm him with her openness, her candor. Flirting came naturally to her; it wasn't something she had learned at school, or studied in front of her looking glass.

  By the time his carriage drew up outside her home, his decision had been made.

  "Thank you for a lovely evening," Rhianna said.

  "It was my pleasure," Dallon replied gallantly. He kissed her hand and then, unable to help himself, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.

  Rhianna closed her eyes as his lips touched hers. It was a pleasant kiss, gentle, tender. Unbidden came the thought that, while Montroy's kiss was pleasurable, it had no fire. Comparing Montroy's kiss to Rayven's was like comparing the warmth of a firefly to the warmth of the sun.

  His arm tightened around her briefly before he let her go. "Will I see you tomorrow night?"

  "If you wish."

  "Seven?"

  Rhianna nodded.

  "Good night, Miss McLeod."

  "Good night, my lord."

  He came for her promptly at seven the following evening, and every night for a week thereafter. They went to a ball at Lord Tewksbury's, to supper in the city, to another play, to the opera.

  As much as she enjoyed Montroy's company, she couldn't help feeling that she didn't belong in the crowd he associated with. They dined with barons and counts. Once, she found herself dancing with an earl. On the outside, she knew she looked as though she belonged. The gowns Rayven had bought her were every bit as costly and fashionable as those of the other women. Thanks to the training she had received at the convent, she knew how to behave at the dinner table, which fork to use with which course, but on the inside, she was still a country girl, unsure of herself, in awe of the highborn men and women who were Montroy's contemporaries.

 
; She said as much one night, at supper.

  "Nonsense," Montroy exclaimed. "There's no shame in being born poor."

  "But…"

  "I'll hear no more of it," Dallon said firmly. He took her hand in his. "You're more beautiful than any of them, Rhianna. You have no need to feel inferior simply because your father was a farmer and not an earl. Don't forget, Gaskell wasn't always an earl. Not all of us are born to our titles."

  Rhianna smiled at him, reassured, at least for the moment. "Will I see you tomorrow night?" she asked.

  Dallon shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I've agreed to meet Tewksbury and Rayven at Cotyer's."

  The mere mention of his name caused a sharp pain in her heart.

  "Is something wrong?" Montroy asked. "You look pale of a sudden."

  "I feel a headache coming on," Rhianna said apologetically. "Would you mind if we went home?"

  "Of course not." He summoned the waiter, took care of the bill, and wrapped her cloak around her shoulders.

  Minutes later, she was comfortably settled in his coach, a blanket over her lap. She closed her eyes to discourage any conversation and all the while, in the back of her mind, she heard Montroy's voice telling her he was meeting Rayven tomorrow night. She wished she had the nerve to follow Montroy to Cotyer's so that she might see Rayven again, if only from a distance.

  She bid Montroy good night and went into the house. Standing at the window, she watched his coach pull away. Overcome by a terrible sadness, she removed her cloak and went into the bedroom she shared with Lanna. Montroy cared for her. He might even ask for her hand in marriage, but she knew she would never love him as she loved Rayven.

  Why had he sent her away? After living at the convent in Paris, she understood what it was like to be lonely, to be different from those around you. She knew, from the rumors she had heard, from things Rayven himself had said, that he felt estranged from society, though she didn't understand why. Was there some incident in his past that made him feel inferior?

  She told herself it didn't matter, that she didn't care. He had sent her away, first to Paris, and then away from the castle, sent her away and told her, nay, warned her, never to return.