Page 26 of Marrying Bluebeard

“This is…” I spin in a circle, arms stretched wide as I take in the grand room Bertrand and I will be staying in. “Unbelievable.” I drop my arms to my sides as I face him. “It’s beautiful, Bertrand, but I would have been content with less.”

“I know.” His gaze warms my skin as it roams, caressing every inch of me. “But I want to make you the happiest woman in the world. At least”—his expression shutters—“as long as it’s in my power to do so.”

“Hmm.” I narrow my eyes. “That’s both incredibly sweet and oddly cryptic.”

His mouth ticks up in a crooked grin that practically begs me to kiss him. “What can I say? You’ve married a complicated man.”

“So I’m discovering.” The urge to lean in, to give myself over to the pleasures his mouth promises is strong, and yet… “We’ll arrive at your home tomorrow.” I focus on his necktie, occupying my hands as I loosen the bit of black silk.

His lips ghost my hair. “That’s right.”

“You haven’t really said much about it.” I glance up at him and find some of the warmth drained from his face, replaced by an edge of tension. I swallow. “What’s it like?”

His hands settle on my hips, drawing me in as he bites the soft flesh of my earlobe. “Big.”

Why does that feel so good? A moan builds in my chest, but I stamp it down. Do not let yourself be distracted. “Surely you can do better than that,” I protest, pressing my hands against his chest as he works his way down my neck. “I’m going to live there, after all. I’d like to know a little something about it.” About you.

He rests his head on my shoulder with a sigh. “Fine. Château de Montragoux has belonged to my family for the entirety of its existence, built by some great-great relative or another. To be honest, I never paid much attention to my tutor’s history lessons. I prefer reading fiction, the more outrageous the better. I have a small but loyal staff who mostly keep to themselves with the exception of Ricard, my valet, who has a tendency to skulk about in the shadows wherever I go. The building itself is cold and drafty, and I keep a significant portion closed off as I have no use for either it or the larger staff that would be required to maintain it.”

He lifts his head and gives me a pleading look. “Now, is that enough to satisfy your curiosity for tonight? Because I had a rather different activity in mind, Madame de Montragoux. One that involves less interrogation and more”—his hands slide up my waist, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts—“stimulation.”

There are a dozen questions or more perched on the tip of my tongue, but my mouth fills with sawdust as he peels off his jacket and tosses it to the side, those dark eyes holding mine captive as he slowly unbuttons his shirt. When that, too, hits the floor, and I’m left facing a wall of lean, sculpted muscle, any further questions are scattered like dust in the wind.

It hardly matters, anyway. We’ll be there tomorrow, and I have an entire carriage ride to learn about my future home. I bite my lip as his trousers fall to the floor. Oh yes. Questions can definitely wait.

The trip the next day is, in fact, quite long, and would have been the perfect opportunity to learn more about Bertrand and Château de Montragoux had Bertrand not clammed up the moment the wheels started turning. Hours later, he has yet to utter more than a few words in response to my slowly thinning questions. His brooding silence is wreaking havoc on my nerves.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I had Whisper with me. My lap feels empty without my ghostly companion curled there, but I have yet to see her since running off from Madame Gossard’s. I glance at Bertrand, who’s taken to gripping his flask as he stares out the window, and recall the way Whisper hissed at him in the orangery. I wonder why she doesn’t like him. Because he’s a man? Or perhaps she resents sharing my attention? Either way, I’m left without my dearest friend.

I trace the silver threads woven into my fancy new dress as I try to come up with something to say, but it’s Bertrand for once who breaks the silence.

“We’re here.”

We’re here. I take a deep breath as I scoot closer to the window and squint in the waning light. The road winds along a cliff, steadily sloping downward as our carriage rattles precariously close to the edge. As if on cue, a splatter of rain pings the roof, followed by another. When it begins to rain in earnest, I feel certain one of the horses is going to slip over the side, dooming us to die as we crash into the rocks below.

They don’t, and the carriage draws to a stop on a narrow scrap of beach located at the base of the cliff. A moment later the door swings open to an ominous crack of thunder, and the driver’s craggy face appears.

“High tide, Monsieur. The land bridge is completely submerged. You’ll have to take the dinghy.”

I gape over his shoulder at the tiny rowboat tethered to a post in the water. He’s not serious?

Bertrand gives him a terse nod as he climbs out into the rain, unfazed by the turn of events. “Take the carriage back to Lentville stables, and see that the horses are properly cared for. You can bring them along tomorrow morning when the passage clears.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bertrand turns to me. “There’s an umbrella in the compartment beneath your seat. I apologize for the messy arrival, but I promise I’m an excellent rower. We’ll be quite safe.” A flash of lightning illuminates his face, and there’s something in the way he avoids meeting my eyes that makes me doubt that last bit.

You always said you’d die if you were to marry a boring man. I lift the bench and pull out a black umbrella before accepting Bertrand’s outstretched hand. Let’s hope marrying an exciting one doesn’t result in the same outcome.

The wind does its best to steal my umbrella away as I struggle to get it open. Bertrand and the driver have already moved to the boat, and Bertrand is stationing himself at the oars as the driver unties the thick rope securing it to the post. I hurry toward them as I clutch my umbrella, angling it the best I can against the wind and rain. Now that I’m free of the carriage, I can see the silhouette of a building rising up from the water, and as another bolt of lightning flashes, my jaw hinges at the sight of it.

It looms over the tiny island like a vulture, with sharp turrets stabbing the stormy sky above. Just looking at it makes me feel cold. A château? No, this dark sentinel isn’t a château. Châteaus are whimsical, beautiful buildings. This—this is a bloody castle. I fold myself into the boat, back rigid as I stare across the wooden dinghy at my husband. The streaks in his beard stand out even in the dark, and his expression is grim as he turns the oars, propelling us out into the choppy water. Taking us to his castle.

Bluebeard’s Castle.

I’m properly soaked by the time Bertrand ushers me up the steps leading to the looming building. A single light punctures the darkness, hovering at the top of the hill like a fairy luring us to our deaths. Don’t be so dramatic, Adelaide. You’re letting the storm get you worked up over nothing.

Indeed, as I trudge up the final steps, all I find at the top is an old man in a fraying suit holding a lantern. His wrinkled mouth is puckered, and I suspect he’s missing most of his teeth. Still, his smile is warm and inviting as we approach, and I breathe a bit easier as he lets us inside.