Sir Gerald smiled and bowed, showing no sign of chagrin. He whispered something for the Sinclairs, then put on his hat and strode away.
“I do not know what that man wants, but I suspect it is more than simply sparking ire in me,” Lionel muttered, watching him go.
“He… said something aboutPenrose. I cannot decipher what precisely it was,” Cecilia replied in thought.
Lionel looked down at her and patted her hand once more. He led her out of the churchyard to the sound of protest from the Sinclairs, clearly not pleased to be turfed out of Thornhill.
They were a few dozen yards down the path before he spoke again. “I would like to establish some ground rules. I am not a cruel man, and would prefer that you are comfortable during your stay here,” he began. “Frankly, I want to accept that you are not part of this plot to marry into my family, simply a pawn. But trust is difficult for me, as I have repeated many times.”
Cecilia listened, appreciating the kindness that was evidently his motive. They had passed through a lynch gate and were following a path that wound its way towards the castle through a grove of willow and birch. Hawthorn grew in between, still with masses of white blossom on its boughs. A squirrel scurried into the path and paused as they walked slowly along, regarding them before continuing its journey. The castle was frightening but the grounds were green and sunlit, the air warm and the walk pleasant. Lionel could be frightening, but he was also exciting and enticing. Her attraction to him seemed to be intensified since his revelation that he was not to blame for Arthur’s death. It was as though the last barrier to allowing herself to be drawn to him was being eroded. And it was just like when she had set her sights on him the first time they met, all those years ago.
Except now, they shared a similar ambition, and Cecilia was determined that he would tell her exactly who had been responsible.
“I accept that,” she sighed, “and I’m determined to win that trust. As your wife, I should be your closest confidante.”
“You are my wife innameonly,” Lionel shot back harshly.
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, staring directly ahead.
“For now,” Cecilia whispered.
This time, he glanced at her and she smiled with wide, innocent eyes. Lionel’s face was unreadable—until a twitch of his lips, a smile escaping from his iron self-control. It was all that Cecilia needed to fuel her hope for the future.
“You will have rooms in the south wing. My own quarters are in the north. The great hall lies between us—north and south wings are the most distant parts of the castle from each other. I will not trouble you with my company nor require yours. You may come and go as you wish, both within and out of the castle. In due course, when the risk of scandal has passed by and the rumors concerning us become stale, the marriage shall be quietly annulled.”
“I do not wish the marriage to be annulled,” Cecilia hastily put in, “I wish to make it work.”
Lionel eyed her peculiarly. “It cannot,” he continued, “I do not desire a wife.”
“But you desire me.”
She knew that now was the time for brave action. Her future would not be one of frigid loneliness. Not a future of frustration, with the man that she desired living apart from her and counting the days until he could be free. She would not be a shackle on Lionel.
“Do you think so?” Lionel uttered with ice in his voice.
Cecilia knew his objective. To keep her at a distance, to push her away. Shove her into a remote wing of the castle, forget her until the day that he felt safe to divest himself of her entirely. But she had felt the passionate ferocity of his kisses, of his touch. She knew that his coldness was a lie, a defense against being hurt. She wondered why those defenses were necessary. Were those high walls behind which Lionel hid, built in response to an event in his past? Had there been a woman who had broken his trust? She remembered a woman on the day that Arthur had died. Arriving on the arm of Lionel’s acquaintance. Lord Thorpe? Was that his name? What had her name been?
Just then, it came to her—Arabella Wycliff. What had become of her? Aunt Margaret gloried in gossip but Cecilia had always found it to be distasteful. Now she cursed herself for not taking a closer interest in her aunt’s salacious pastime. Had she listened more, she might know what the story of Arabella and Lionel was.
“I know so. I have been in your arms. Have felt your desire for me,” she simpered, stepping closer to him and putting a hand to his chest.
“Perhaps it was the hunger of a starving man. Nothing to do with you at all. Perhaps any woman would have sufficed in those circumstances.”
The words stung, but Cecilia refused to let that show.
He had not backed away from her and she stepped closer again, keeping her hand against his chest. The feel of his steely pectorals was intoxicating. They were slabs of powerful muscle, utterly unyielding and promising fierce, terrifying power. She pressed her fingertips against the material of his shirt, wanting to feel the skin beneath. Her breathing quickened and she felt the flush spreading across her cheeks.
The elaborate and luxurious wedding gown she wore had been provided by Lionel. She still did not know why he had gone to such effort if the ceremony was so meaningless to him—as he so often claimed. The dress covered her from neck to toe and from shoulder to hand. But it also clung to her in a way that only silk could. Her bosoms and hips were accentuated, their shape outlined indecently. It made her feel naked.
“Why did you have this dress made for me?” she asked, “if I mean nothing to you.”
“You deserve beauty in your life,” Lionel replied matter-of-factly, though his voice was laced with a touch of husk.
Cecilia smiled and raised herself onto her tiptoes to brush her lips against his cheek. Lionel did not move at first, neither to lean into the kiss, nor to withdraw from it. But she felt hishands about her waist. His fingers touched her, then his hands pressed into her hips, owning them, and drawing her closer. She kissed him again, this time on his lips. It had not been her intention, she wanted to tease him, to draw his desire out of him a little at a time. But, she could not hold back. The idea that she might be enticing him in order to discover his secrets drove her desire to a peak. The thought of being a courtesan to Lionel was maddening, making her want to press her body against his, to tear the clinging gown from her frame and feel the warm air against her skin. The warm air and Lionel’s hot mouth.
Suddenly, Lionel’s arm went about her waist, picking her up and spinning her around. She cried out as she was carried from the path and into the trees. When they were obscured from the view of the castle, he released her. Cecilia found herself standing with her back to a silver birch, Lionel before her, his body more unyielding than the tree.
His embrace tightened around her like iron bands. She gasped into his open mouth, feeling his tongue exploring hers and reciprocating. His hands gripped her buttocks, making her squeak. Then he was caressing her breasts, stroking, and exploring before gripping and squeezing. Cecilia could not catch her breath. She gasped and squealed, moaned, and whispered his name, her hands ravaging through his tresses, pulling them back so that she could kiss his throat. She bit until he gasped in pain, leaving a livid bruise behind. It pleased her to see it. The mark was a brand of ownership. He could deny that he wanted to be married to her but he could not deny that, for the moment, he belonged to her.
