This Other Eden (75 page)

He
nodded soberly. With an air of largess he said, "You shall have her."

Marianne
looked up, not certain she'd heard what he'd said. "I beg your
pardon?"

"I
said you shall have her. She'll be yours." 

Bewilderment
mounting, Marianne laughed. "I'm not certain I understand what you mean,
milord."

He
left the chair as though mildly angry. "I said you shall have her,"
he repeated, as though for a dense child. "You'll need a woman, so Jenny
Toppinger shall be yours."

She
watched him, then could no longer restrain from laughing. "Where do I keep
her chained, milord?" she asked, amused by his conception of ownership.

It
was his turn to look puzzled. Apparently hearing her laugh only served to
increase his anger. "What I meant to say was that her duties will entail
only looking after you," he snapped. "She will be at your
command."

In
mock seriousness, Marianne shook her head. "Oh, I don't think that Jenny
could function at all under that arrangement. Sweet Heavens, she's spent her
life teaching me to look after myself."

"You
don't understand," he said, striding back to her chair. "Your
position is changed now. You must sever all ties with your friends in the
kitchen. A new relationship must be established."

"Why?"

He
cast his eyes heavenward, as though seeking Divine Guidance. Marianne gazed
into his face. When it seemed he would never answer, she left her chair and
walked behind him, suggesting softly, "Milord, I would suggest that we leave
my relationships with my friends exactly as they are. They've worked very well.
They need no tampering."

In
clear anger, he whirled on her, demanding, "Do you have any conception of
your elevation? Do you realize the heights to which you have been lifted?"
He made a motion toward the room itself and shook his head, as if she were
beyond help. But then he seemed to recollect. "It will take time," he
said, apparently striving for understanding. "It will be easier if you let
me guide you."

Repentant,
though still smiling, Marianne said, "Of course, milord. I'm grateful for
all your assistance. And I hope that in time you will come to rely upon my
assistance as well."

He
frowned down on her. "With what? How do I need assistance?"

Somberly
she shook her head. "One always needs to rediscover oneself. You are a
human being, and as such, you are flawed—"

"How?"
he demanded, obviously wanting to know.

"Please,
milord," she suggested quietly. "This is not the time nor the
occasion," and returned to her chair.

But
he merely followed after her, his face in turmoil blended with horrified
curiosity, as though stunned by her conception of him as flawed.

"
No
,"
he said sternly, "I want to hear. Tell me of my flaws. I want to know
now."

She
heard petulance in his voice, almost a childlike quality. Regretfully she
murmured, "I'm sorry I mentioned it, milord. Please, let's not pursue
it."

"No,"
he commanded. "We
will
pursue it. You made an accusation. Now I
have a right—"

"It
was not an accusation, milord. I merely stated that—"

"—that
I was—flawed." The word seemed to come out with difficulty as though even
the mere pronouncing of it was painful. "Now, all I'm asking is for you to
be specific, tell me—"

She
shook her head, finding it difficult to believe the whole silly subject. When
she failed to speak, he gave a dry little laugh of derision. "Perhaps you
spoke in haste," he said, smiling, providing her with a way out

"I
did not speak in haste, milord."

"Then
tell me," he demanded.

She
looked directly at him, feeling a small flare of anger of her own. "It is
inconceivable to me that you find the news so startling."

"Tell
me," he demanded again.

She
shook her head.

"Then
you refuse?" he asked, his face as gloomy as she'd ever seen it.

"It's
not a matter of refusal," she murmured. "It's just that—"

Suddenly
he turned and strode toward the door, his head erect, all self-doubt gone.
"Then I shall leave you alone, madame," he announced imperiously. "My
flaws must be so offensive to you that you cannot form words—"

"Thomas-"

"
No
,
say nothing more, madame. I would not dream of contaminating such a pristine
presence with my offensive flaws." The sarcasm in his voice was heavy and
she hated it Still, she could not quite bring herself to believe that he was leaving.
"Thomas, I—"

"Sleep
well, madame," he said from the door. "I shall corrupt you in no way.
In fact, I shall retire to my chambers now to—contemplate my flaws!"

With
that he was gone, taking his angry hurt face with him, slamming the door behind
him. She stared, unbelieving, at the closed door. She rejected the idea of
following him. Instead she stared glumly into the fire and listened to his
heavy tread in the corridor.

She
leaned closer to the fire. She had envisioned all sorts of conclusions to the
evening, but this was not one of them. She looked quickly over her shoulder, as
though perhaps he might have returned.

But
he hadn't. She was alone in the grand chamber, prepared for a wedding night and
all the turbulence that that entailed. Yet now it was over before it had even
begun.

She
sat there, listening. She heard the watchman call every hour until three
o'clock. Then, wearily, she settled back in the chair, choosing to leave the
bed empty.

As
the watchman cried out four o'clock, her thoughts took a different turn. She
was a wife now, and as such, had certain obligations. She must learn to hold
her tongue. She sat up, wide awake, not quite comprehending her pensive
thoughts. Then what was her goal now? As long as she was here, the only goal that
made sense was a good marriage. Under the best of circumstances, considering
the distance of birth between them, that would be difficult. Under the worst of
circumstances, like now, it would be impossible.

Then
perhaps. . . Suddenly she glanced toward the door, as if the door had spoken to
her. She knew the way to his chambers. She sat a moment longer in silent
deliberation, then quickly she left the chair. Twice during the short passage
from chair to door, she stopped, doubt still plaguing her. Perhaps she
shouldn't. Yet someplace beyond the dark corridors, there was a husband
brooding, hurt, alone. And she was alone.

The
hint was clear enough. On that final and determined conviction, she opened the
door.

Sleeplessness
was a general plague that night. Thomas too sat brooding in his chambers.

Flawed!
Why hadn't she told him? In what way? Her arrogance galled him.

Flawed!
What a cheerless word! Still, perhaps he had been hasty. There were faults, a
few of them, but he thought he kept them well concealed.

Flawed!
Her word, not his. Harsher than mere faults, perhaps incurable. If he offended
her, then he would stay away from her.

So
went his thoughts until the early hours of morning. Still, he could not adjust
to the fact that she was so near and "legally" his. A husband, even
in a charade, had rights.

Outside
his window, he heard the watchman cry "Four o'clock." Without losing
too much face, he could always check on her safety and well-being. After all,
that wing of the castle was far removed and deserted.

Flawed!
How the word hurt though.

He
rose from the chair, where he'd sat slumped in anger and self-pity all night

Flawed!
Then so be it. The hunt had been too long and arduous to surrender now.

Flawed!
Perhaps he had too much pride. Then he would seek to curb his pride and
perhaps, in the process, mend a flaw.

On
that note of self-comfort, he flung open the door.

In
silence she made her way through the dim corridors, feeling the chill of damp
stone walls. Perhaps she should have kept to her chambers. Had she taken a
wrong turn? One gray corridor looked exactly like all the rest, and from her
earlier days at Eden Castle, she was not as familiar with the upper regions as
she was the lower. Still another turn, and then another. God, it was a cold
gray place, like a graveyard really. How unhappy a child who passed a youth
here!

Suddenly,
at the end of the long corridor, she saw a figure. She stopped, silently
praying, shivering, a voice she scarcely recognized as her own, calling out,
"Who is it?"

He
was hurrying toward her, providing her with a sense of relief at his first
spoken word. "Marianne?" he called, increasing his speed until he
stood directly before her, his face knitted with concern. "I thought I
heard something," he lied. "I was coming to check."

"I
heard it too," she lied. "The rooms are so far apart."

"You're
chilled."

"I
thought I was lost."

Their
words tumbled out over each other, interrupting, trying to explain their
presence in the dark corridor.

Both
fell silent. She was aware of him standing close, looking down on her. Quickly
he bent over and scooped her up in his arms. She did nothing to resist.

A wife,
she thought, shivering again, but not from cold. He was moving with her,
carrying her back to his chambers. Once she felt an urge to speak and stilled
it. Words had no place here. Let it happen. Let her please him.

He
closed the door and lowered her from his arms back to the floor until she was
standing before him. To her surprise, he merely looked at her, as though unaware
of her readiness, as though still out of long habit, he approached her warily.

The
lavender robe she was wearing was joined at two points, with narrow satin
ribbons at her throat and waist. Slowly she released the ribbons and pushed the
robe backward off her shoulders. Then she would be the seducer. Standing before
him, she said, "I am your wife, Thomas."

When
he still seemed hesitant, staring at her as though in a trance, she stepped
close to him and gently lifted his hand to her breast.

Then
he moved. He clasped her to him with such force that she lost her balance, and
again she felt herself being lifted and carried toward the bed, as at last he
took the lead. Nothing like this lack of control had ever attended her in the
past. It was not resignation she felt, or alarm, but merely acceptance, calm in
the face of his increasing ardor.

He
left her for an instant, standing before the bed. Then, his own robe discarded,
his arms moved around her and locked under her breasts. His mouth was close
against her neck and she understood that she had entirely misjudged him, not
only as a lover, but as a man. His grip told her that he was beyond pleading
with, that the hours of discourse and conversation and waiting were over.

She
was on the bed then, his mouth pressed to her breast. The sensation was one
she'd never felt before, like small strands of connecting nerve ends stretching
between her nipples and the pit of her stomach. To her surprise, she was
kissing him strumpet fashion, using her thighs and fingers like a trained
mistress, coaxing her lover into a giving mood.

In
truth, he was already clearly in a giving mood, but as though to postpone the
sweetness and make it last, he fell to exploring her with his lips and hands,
the one seeking her mouth and neck and hair, the other her breasts, back, and
thighs. His movements were in leisurely contrast to the frenzied impatience he
had shown earlier, and he went about it as though he were assessing what was
his in an unhurried way.