Falling in Love Again Read online

  “Why did you not tell me this when we were negotiating the marriage contract?” Mallory asked.

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  Slowly Mallory shook her head. Their financial circumstances had been too dire for her to let John’s questionable lineage stand in the way of the marriage. She hadn’t even been able to observe a decent interval of mourning, since Sir Richard would be leaving soon for a governorship in India and had not wanted the marriage delayed.

  She took another sip of wine. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly. The candlelit room took on a muted glow.

  Lady Craige sat down beside her on the bench. “Look for the good things in John, and your marriage will be a success.”

  “I barely know him.”

  “You were impressed when you learned he was a fellow at All Souls College, weren’t you?”

  Mallory couldn’t deny it.

  Reaching for the decanter on the vanity, Lady Craige poured a bit more wine into Mallory’s glass before adding, “Sir Richard is ambitious for John. With his father’s connections, the Craige title, and his own intelligence, there is no telling how much John may achieve, in spite of his rumored origins. Sir Richard seems to believe John is suited for a career in the Church. And admit it now, Mallory, it doesn’t hurt the eyes to look at him.”

  Mallory found herself smiling. “No,” she admitted self-consciously.

  “Couldn’t you learn to love him just a tiny bit?”

  The heat of a blush crept up Mallory’s cheeks.

  “See?” her mother said, with a touch of triumph. “I thought you found him attractive. You shall both give me beautiful grandchildren, and together you and I will raise them at Craige Castle.”

  On that note, Mallory all but drained her glass of wine.

  “Easy,” her mother warned her. “You are not accustomed to strong drink. Besides, I have a confession to make.”

  Mallory lowered the glass. “In addition to everything else we’ve discussed?” She was suddenly finding it difficult to keep hold of the glass, even using both hands. What was wrong with her? “What is it?”

  “I put a sleeping draught in your wine.”

  “What?” Mallory cried.

  Lady Craige took the glass from Mallory before she spilled the little wine left in it. “I feared you would be upset.”

  “This is no jest?”

  Lady Craige shook her head and kneaded Mallory’s shoulders. “But see? You have grown tense again.”

  Mallory shrugged her off and came to her feet. “Why did you drug me?”

  Lady Craige also rose from the bench, her brows coming together in concern. “I knew you would be upset, but I did it for your own good. You were so obviously disturbed by our talk the other night about what to expect in the marriage bed that I—well…I thought this would make matters easier. It’s what my mother did for me.”

  Mallory brought her hands up to her cheeks. She now realized their heat had nothing to do with embarrassment. In fact, they felt slightly numb.

  A knock sounded at the adjoining door. Mallory looked to it and back to her mother, horror welling inside her. “How could you?”

  “I only meant to relax you. I didn’t anticipate you would guzzle the wine.” Lady Craige took a step, but Mallory stopped her with a raised hand.

  Someone rapped on the door again.

  Mallory dropped her hand, her anger at her mother evaporating. “We have to let him in,” she whispered.

  Lady Craige raised her voice. “One moment, please.” She turned back to Mallory. “No, you will let him in. I must leave. Now, quickly, climb onto the bed.”

  Mallory balked. “I’m not ready!” Apprehension shook her growing lassitude. “I should braid my hair. I always braid my hair at night.”

  “But it looks so pretty down past your shoulders.”

  “I want it braided,” Mallory said, with steel in her voice. It had suddenly become important to her to pretend this night was no different from the others.

  For once, her mother had the good sense not to argue. Mallory quickly plaited her long hair into a straight braid down her back and tied it off with a piece of gold cord.

  Lady Craige crossed to close the window, but Mallory’s voice stayed her. “I prefer it open.” It might help keep her awake.

  Her mother considered her for a moment and then lifted her shoulders in a dismissive shrug. Instead, she stoked the fire in the stone hearth and began snuffing the candles.

  “What are you doing?” Mallory asked.

  “Making the room more inviting.” Her mother left one candle burning on the night table beside the bed. “Now, come. Don’t be afraid.”

  Mallory had no choice but to climb up on the bed, the mattress bending under her weight. The rose scent of the sheets seemed stronger, mingling with the fresh air. As if in a dream, she sank back against the pillows.

  Lady Craige bent forward and kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Be a good wife to your husband and he shall be a good husband to you. Trust in your destiny, Mallory, and believe me when I say everything will look better on the morrow.” With those words, she crossed to the door adjoining the two rooms. She rapped once, apparently a signal that all was well, and then left through the door leading out to the hallway.

  Mallory was alone.

  Outside the castle walls, a spring rain came down with a sudden intensity that drowned out all other sounds. Rain on her wedding day.

  The flickering light from the candle cast an eerie glow that didn’t reach the darkness of the room beyond the large bed. But that wan light did catch and reflect off the smooth old gold and sparkling jewels of her wedding ring.

  A sharp knock, different from the others, on the heavy oak door adjoining her room startled her.

  Her husband.

  For one wild moment, Mallory panicked. She actually stood up on the bed, wanting to run, to hide.

  But she couldn’t. She understood duty, honor…necessity. She would not disgrace her family name.

  Slowly Mallory sank back down on the bed, her night dress billowing around her. Now she was thankful for the drugged wine. The hard edges of reality blurred.

  Clasping her hands in her lap as if in prayer, she called, “Come in.”

  The handle of the door stuck as he turned it. Mallory held her breath.

  With a strong jerk, the latch lifted, the sound of metal against wood loud in the still room. The hinges creaked.

  The small light of the candle beside her bed didn’t reach across the room, but Mallory knew he was there, this tall, quiet man she’d married. She felt his presence.

  His footsteps were silent as he crossed the worn carpet. He stepped out of the darkness and into the circle of light, and Mallory’s breath caught in her throat, part in fear, part in wonder.

  John’s features weren’t classically perfect. There was a hint of ruggedness, of independence, that didn’t seem bred for society drawing rooms—and was immensely attractive. His thick, silky dark hair conformed to no style but his own. He wore it straight and back from his face, but a boyish cowlick at the hairline, his one imperfection, bent a lock of it over one eye. His mouth was wide, even generous, and his cobalt eyes reflected the candle’s flame.

  With his broad shoulders and long, lean figure, Mallory couldn’t imagine him in cleric’s robes. The role of theologian seemed too tame. Despite his youth, this man commanded attention.

  She raised a hesitant hand to touch her long braid lying against her chest. She should have left her hair loose. Now, with him in the room, the braid made her feel childish, foolish.

  He’d removed the black jacket and silver waistcoat he’d worn to the wedding banquet. His stockless white lawn shirt hung loose outside his black breeches. He wore no shoes.

  The sight of his stocking feet suggested intimacy.

  He studied her solemnly for a moment before asking quietly in his low, raspy voice, “Do you know what is to happen between us?”

  Her face floo
ding with hot color, she whispered, “I’ve been told. I’m to do whatever you ask of me.”

  His shoulders dropped slightly, as if she’d placed a great weight upon them, and she remembered that he’d not touched a drop to drink and barely eaten during the wedding breakfast or this evening’s supper. But then neither had she.

  Slowly, with a sense of grim resolution, he straightened his shoulders. “You are so young.”

  “I’ll be seventeen next month. Besides, you are not so old yourself.”

  He didn’t answer, but watched her with wary eyes.

  She shifted uncomfortably in the silence. “Please, I’d like to have this deed done.” Done and over.

  He took a step away from the bed. “Mallory, we don’t have to do this now. We can wait until we know each other better.”

  Her name sounded strange, unusual on his lips, almost like music. Then the meaning of his words hit her.

  He didn’t want her.

  He found her unattractive. Mallory knew it as clearly as if she could read his mind. The wine and tension turned on her, robbing her of the self-restraint and composure so many people expected of her. Tears burned her eyes.

  His heavy eyebrows drew together in alarm. “Please.” The word sounded almost desperate.

  “You don’t want me.”

  “I’m suggesting it would be better if we waited. Until you’ve grown up a bit more.”

  “No!” The word echoed through the room. “Tomorrow, when my mother, your father, and the Reverend Sweeney come to this room, our marriage must have been consummated. It’s the tradition.”

  “But we’ve only just met each other.”

  “I’m your wife.” Feeling the effects of the drugged wine, Mallory slurred the last word. A strange sense of well-being, almost as if she lived in a dream, invaded her senses. She no longer felt the panic she’d experienced only moments before. “We must do this.”

  He laughed, a bitter sound, and muttered something about his father being more of a bastard than he was.

  Mallory didn’t care. “I can’t face the morrow if the deed is not done. It’s a matter of honor,” she added, her voice low, hushed.

  For a second she thought he was going to argue with her, and it made her angry. The blood of warrior kings drummed through her veins. She would not back down from her duty. Boldly, deliberately, she stood upon the bed, reached down and pulled the white batiste nightdress up over her head, and tossed it aside.

  The air between them crackled with tension. Mortified by her own brazen action, Mallory forced herself to face him.

  He stared at her, his expression unfathomable. A dull red stain spread across his features. Mallory thought she could hear his heart hammering in his chest. Or was it her own?

  She gathered her pride around her. “We must do this—now, tonight.”

  To her relief he nodded. She came to her knees and reached for the bedclothes to cover her nakedness. She slipped beneath the rose-scented sheets, their texture silky and cool.

  John began pulling the hem of his shirt up and over his head. She watched with fascination. He was gorgeous, all strong, lithe muscle glowing with vibrant warmth. He seemed more man than boy, more soldier than scholar.

  He folded the shirt and laid it on the end of the bed. His gaze met hers. His mouth tightened as if he found her interest unseemly. “Do you want the candle burning or not?”

  A hard lump formed in her throat. “Perhaps it would be best with the candle out.”

  He walked to the bedside table and blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness, save for the soft glow from the fire in the hearth. The smell of hot beeswax mingled with the cool, rain-drenched air flowing from the window. A log in the fire popped.

  Mallory listened to his movements in the dark, the slide of his breeches down his legs, the soft sound of the material being folded and then tossed on a wooden chair. He lifted the sheet to join her. The mattress gave under his weight.

  They lay separate and apart for several long seconds, then his legs brushed against hers, their rough texture emphasizing the differences between them. He pulled back, as if the brief body contact startled him as much as it had her. Protectively, she pressed the bedclothes around her body and stifled a yawn.

  They lay still, side by side. Mallory’s eyelids felt heavy. “What do we do now?” she whispered, afraid she might fall asleep.

  He reached for her as if to hug her. Mallory stiffened.

  His voice came low in her ear. “Could you relax a bit?”

  “No.” Her voice sounded small.

  With a groan, he lay back on the bed, the space between them seemingly wider than the Channel between England and France.

  Mallory drew in a steadying breath. If she wished to hold the title of Lady of Craige Castle one day, she had to do this with him. “You can try now.” Could he hear how frightened she was? “I’ll relax.”

  John placed a hand on her shoulder. His fingers felt warm against her skin. Slowly, gently, he ran his palm down under the sheet and over her breast. Mallory flinched. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Don’t apologize.” He was angry.

  She didn’t answer. Hot tears stung the backs of her eyelids and she couldn’t say a word without sounding stiff and resentful.

  And then he kissed her.

  It was her first kiss, other than the chaste peck he’d given her cheek that morning before the altar at his father’s hearty insistence.

  The softness of his lips against her closed mouth surprised her. His arm slipped beneath her and gathered her close. Their nakedness no longer seemed to matter. He’d shaved. She rubbed her cheek against his smooth, hard jaw. The light citrus scent of his shaving soap mingled with the smell of roses…and suddenly everything started to feel right. Slowly, Mallory relaxed, curving her body next to his. Here she felt warm, safe. Her nakedness was no longer an embarrassment—and then he pulled away.

  She frowned, wishing he would kiss her again, when to her horror he reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek. “Mallory—”

  “Now. Please.” The strain of the last few minutes made her tremble. If he didn’t act soon, she would disgrace herself completely.

  He murmured something under his breath, the words soft, concerned, but Mallory didn’t pay attention. Instead, she did as her mother had instructed—rolled on her back, and spread her legs in the position necessary for her husband to claim her.

  He came up on one elbow. He seemed to hesitate, a dark shadow looming above her. Mallory stared up at the ceiling, her body pressed into the mattress. Now she was glad her mother had given her the sleeping draught. She wanted to forget the humiliation of what she was doing. She’d never grow accustomed to submitting to her husband like this, not ever.

  He lifted himself up so that he could settle over her body, one knee parting her legs further to better accommodate him. His weight on top of her was not uncomfortable.

  And yes, she could feel something else. His man part. Like any purebred stallion in her father’s breeding yard, he was ready and able. The deed would be done, tradition fulfilled.

  Mallory dug her fingers into the soft feather mattress, closed her eyes, and promised herself she wouldn’t cry out. No matter how it hurt, she couldn’t cry out. Her limbs felt heavier, her movements grew slower, and with a soft, thankful sigh, she escaped into oblivion.

  John attempted to kiss her again before realizing his new wife had fallen asleep in his arms. He shifted his weight off her and leaned back on one elbow, not sure what to do.

  “Mallory,” he whispered. “Mallory?”

  She murmured something unintelligible and curled up like a kitten beside him, her skin warm and smooth.

  John touched her lightly, placing his hand on the feminine curve of her hip. Before coming into this room, his intention had been to talk her out of consummating their marriage this night. However, once she’d brazenly removed the voluminous nightdress, all such thoughts had fled his mind. Even now he wa
s hard.

  But his new wife was sound asleep.

  He rolled out of the bed and onto his feet, uncertain of his next move. The night air sent a shiver across his flesh. He slipped on his breeches and walked around the bed to the hearth. He lit a taper off the fire and used it to light the candle on the vanity.

  The glowing light barely illuminated the bed where his wife lay sleeping. Dear Lord, she looked so young and innocent.

  Even now, his traitorous body reacted to her slim, long-legged beauty and her effortless grace.

  In spite of his almost violent anger with his father, John couldn’t help but admire this young woman he’d been ordered to wed. She’d managed the myriad details of the wedding ceremony and guests with the cool calm of a young queen. Her mother had always been bustling about, but had actually accomplished nothing. No, he was certain Mallory had made all the plans. In fact, he’d seen no hint of her anxiety over this marriage until just now, when she’d cried in his arms.

  Those tears had gone straight to his heart.

  John had few illusions concerning his status in life. He was the result of an indiscretion of his willful mother’s. She’d paid for that lapse of judgment by being banished by her husband to an extreme and lonely part of England. John could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his mother—and he’d cherished each and every one of those visits.

  But he knew he was a bastard. He’d known the truth from the first moment he’d been cruelly taunted by the other boys at school. His father might wish to pretend otherwise, but John was tired of pretending.

  He shot a glance at the woman on the bed. Did she know? Was that why she’d cried?

  Wearily, John sat down on the bench. His gaze settled on the decanter of wine and an empty glass. He poured some and took a healthy swallow. With a sputter, he just as quickly spat the wine back into the glass.

  It tasted funny, cloyingly sweet. He stuck a finger into the decanter, tilting it until he wetted the tip, and raised his finger to his nose.

  Beneath the wine’s natural fruitiness was the elusive scent of something else. He knew enough to realize this wine had been drugged.

  John frowned thoughtfully, scanning the top of the vanity until his gaze rested on a half-full glass of wine. Had his wife been drinking it?