Spellbound (15 page)

He drew a breath. “You
don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, Raven. I admit
I’d like to know everything there is to know about you but I’ll not
pressure you.”

She turned her head to look
up at him, a smile twisting her full lips. “How very magnanimous of
you, Tristan Cramshaw.” A feather light kiss followed these words.
Then she turned her face away.

“It is only fair, I think,
to tell you. I forced you, after all, to exorcise your own personal
demons.”

Settling herself more
comfortably in his arms, she began with her earliest memories. He
listened, fascinated, at this inner glimpse of the woman he
loved.

After a moment, he began to
frown. He interrupted her recitation. “Do you realize, pet, that
your early childhood is alarmingly absent of memories?”

“What do you
mean?”

“Well, think back to the
very first thing you remember. How old were you?”

“Honestly, I think was
three. I remember this orange kitten that my father gave me…” Her
voice trailed off, a perplexed frown marring her brow. Speaking
slowly, thinking the memory out as she gave it voice, she said,
“The kitten was Monsieur Boots. He had four white paws. He was
given to me on my fifth birthday. The funny thing was, my father
wouldn’t let me keep him.”

She twisted around again to
look at him. “Why would he give me a gift and then not let me keep
it?”

Tristan had no answer to
that. It was odd to say the least. “You were five?” he asked,
catching the hidden detail in her tale.

She started. “I suppose I
was. I had thought I was younger.” She shrugged, frowning. “Father
gave me a locket, too, but I lost it.”

Tristan sensed the pain in
this admission. “What else do you remember?”

Her brow furrowed. “A boy.”
Her eyes shot wide. “Why would I remember a boy?”

He shook his head, as
baffled as her. “Did you have a brother?”

“No…”

“…
But…?”

“He was a beautiful boy,
darkly fine. Black unruly hair and black eyes. We were very close.
I wonder who he was?”

“Rae, none of this makes
sense.”

Raven grimaced. “You don’t
have to tell me. I know.”

Shaking herself out of her
confusion, she continued where she’d previously left
off.

It soon came to light the
reason behind her odd question about her conscience. Tristan was
amazed to learn a former actress had been raised in a
Methodist-like home. The only difference seemed to be that her
parents were not as straight-laced as most. They allowed gaiety and
fun; they simply stressed the importance of chastity. It was
actually something he could admire.

She told him her choice in
acting was not made lightly. She had realized then the enormity of
her decision but she was determined to remain chaste in honor of
her parents’ memories if for no other reason.

“It was,” she admitted, “my
unfortunate appreciation for the male form that truly brought me
low. Adam was determined to have me and I was equally determined to
resist. But it was all for naught.” She stopped, the pain too much
to bear.

“Never mind all that,”
Tristan told her bracingly, part of him so desperate to avoid this
particular subject he would grasp at straws. “Why do you still feel
guilty for your past encounters?”

She gave him a look that
bordered on incredulity. “It is not those encounters so much as the
most recent ones that bother me, my lord. Not to mention the ones
yet to occur.”

His heartbeat picked up a
beat at her salient admission. Then it stopped altogether. She felt
guilty about them. She was miserable because they’d been
together.

But why…?

It struck him like a bolt
of lightening. Because they were not married. He, in his
overweening pride and conceit, had somehow forgotten that the
legalities of their union were in question. It was clear to her
that they were not married; he was beginning to have doubts about
everything. Her reciting of her memories were odd, to say the
least.

He squeezed her a little
tighter. “I’m sorry, Rae. I didn’t realize.”

It wasn’t difficult to
determine what he was talking about. She had watched his face the
last few moments, marveling at how revealing his features could
be.

But at the heartfelt
apology in his face and eyes, she thought she might break down and
cry again.

Fighting for sanity, she
told him, “None of it is your fault. I am to blame. It is my
wantonness and lack of self-control, my lord, that—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted
briskly. Suddenly feeling chilled, as he should having sat in the
cold as long as they had, the duke stood, bringing Raven to her
feet as well.

“We must return to the
house, my dear. It is nearly time for luncheon and I am
famished.”

Raven stared a little
strangely at him. “I have not finished with my
confession.”

A smile threatened. “I am
not a priest, Raven. You have no call to confess to me.”

“My lord, Tristan, please.
There are things I must tell you.”

He sighed. “Very well. Join
me in the library. We can be reasonably private there without the
threat of our base urges taking advantage.”

“Thank you,” she replied
sincerely.

The library, vast chamber
that it was, had an eerie haunting quality to it. Raven reveled in
it, matching her mood so well as it did.

The duke led her to a far
table, seating her with aplomb nearest the crackling fire. With a
bow, he disappeared into a room at the back, only to reappear
moments later with Mr. Muffton in tow.

“Muff will send a maid for
our lunch, if you don’t mind eating here.”

She acquiesced with relief.
Somehow, she felt at ease, calm, at peace within these book-lined
walls. Her smile was sincerely pleased.

“Do you mind if I peruse
the shelves while we wait?”

He agreed, going so far as
to offer his arm. “Allow me to show you areas that may be of
interest to you.”

She gave a mock groan.
“Please, no plays, my lord, I beseech you. I have had enough of
acting for the nonce.”

He chuckled. “Indeed no, my
love. I have something far more…ladylike to interest
you.”

Thoroughly intrigued, she
followed him to a shelf near the middle of the north-facing wall.
He pulled a slim volume from a shelf, handing it to her with a
flourish.

Taking it, Raven glanced at
the title. “The Romance of the Forest,” she said, laughing. “Could
you not have picked something less prosy and more realistic?” she
asked. Her face was aglow with amusement.

He caught his breath. His
own mouth tilted up, mirroring her expression. “I admit the
supposition that you would react thusly influenced my choice.
However, you may be interested more in this.”

So saying, he handed her
another tome, thicker, bound in calfskin. Raven saw the title and
glanced up at him in awe. “Ivanhoe? Do you have publishers send you
books as they become available, then?”

He shook his head. “Open
it.”

Inside was an inscription.
Windhaven, here is the latest. Enjoy. Scott.

She grinned at him. “Walter
Scott is a personal friend of yours, is he?
How…surprising.”

He laughed. “Not really, I
assure you. And I heard a little rumor that our new king will be
honoring Scott with a baronetcy.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Raven
said with some feeling.

They returned to their
seats, Raven studying the book as if it were the holy grail.
Tristan smiled to have pleased her in so simple a
matter.

The servant entered
presently with their repast.

Watching his lovely
companion set the book aside with obvious reluctance, the duke
couldn’t help but laugh.

“You are fond of Scott,
then?”

Raven smiled. “I admit I
am. Next to Shakespeare, I think Mr. Scott may be the best
storyteller to ever live.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on
your compliment,” the duke told her solemnly, going on to ruin the
effect with a very un-dukely chortle.

This, Raven thought
suddenly, this was what she wanted. This ease with the man she
loved. Only…she wanted the permanence of marriage to go along with
the ease.

Catching her melancholy
expression, Tristan said soothingly, “Perhaps it is time you
unburden yourself, my dear.” At her uncertain look, he added, “As
you can see, it helps.”

He was right, she realized.
He did seem more at peace within himself. He had even sat with her
at the lake’s edge, a place she knew he loathed quite
fiercely.

“Very well.” Taking a deep
drink of her wine to fortify herself, she said, “I may as well tell
you the worst of it. My latest protector, an affair that ended some
two years ago, met and married a wonderful girl of superb golden
beauty and immense riches. I tried to discredit her, ruin her, and
prayed for her demise, determined to help her along if the need
arose.”

“Help her
along?”

“I withheld a critical
piece of information that almost killed her. It certainly did
destroy her peace of mind. In the process—and this is the worst of
my sins—my selfish actions nearly cost a little girl her life. A
child who had done nothing to deserve the fright she received when
her own blood father held her for ransom.”

“Did you know that he would
do something so heinous?”

“Of course not. I did not
claim an acquaintance with the man. But gossip did tell me that he
was an acquaintance of hers. And instinct told me he was
dangerous.”

He waited for her to
continue. She didn’t. She just sat there, staring into her wine,
awaiting his judgment.

Then she tilted her head up
and back slightly. “It was quite the stupidest thing I have ever
done, to be sure. I can only conclude I am sick, mentally unstable.
I was so eaten up with jealousy I saw no other way to appease my
desire for…ease.”

Tristan reached out and
took her hand. “You were upset, Rae. I’m sure you didn’t mean her
any real harm.”

A spurt of laughter escaped
her compressed lips. It had a hysterical quality to it. “Do you
think, my lord? I wish I could be so sure. I had nothing but hatred
for Aurora. And do you know what? She offered me friendship.
Friendship when I wanted her dead.”

“Rae…”

“That’s not the worst of
it, Tristan, not really. I realized it wasn’t Aurora or Levi I
hated. It was me. I hated me, the me I’d allowed myself to become.
I was just another whore actress who couldn’t keep her skirts
down.”

“Rae—”

She speared him with a
look, the will not to cry drawing gasping little breaths from her
throat. “A whore, my lord duke. Which is the sole reason you found
it so easy to hire me for your insidious little
charade.”

Clamping her lips shut, she
bit her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Determinedly chanting
the mantra she’d used since she was a child, Raven eased her mind
and body back into that calm, composed place, the glue that held
the frayed threads of her life together.

Tristan watched this
transformation with some awe. He’d always wondered at her ability
to seem utterly unaffected by mind-numbing events and crises. Now,
watching her lips move silently, he saw that her poise was a mere
shield. She felt chaotic at times; she had simply devised a way to
control her urge to scream at life in general.

Except when he was the one
in danger. He had heard her screaming fit to wake the dead when he
fell through the ice. Her poise had completely deserted her
then.

Opening her eyes suddenly,
she said quietly, “It was after I came to my senses, so to speak,
that I realized what I had almost done. It was then that I did
this,” She pointed at her wrist.

Tristan leaned forward,
gazing at the slender appendage she held out to him. An ugly, faded
scar ran the length of her wrist, a few smaller scars slashing
across it. It was with a sick feeling in his stomach that he
realized where it had come from.

He glanced up at her calm,
composed features. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, a
waiting expression that caught him in the middle, robbing him of
words and breath.

She expected him to condemn
her.

He stood, drawing her up
with him. Placing his lips gently to the scarred flesh of her
wrist, he murmured, “You poor dear girl. What were you
thinking?”

There was enough concern
and exasperation in his tone to snap her out of a little of her
poise.

She jerked her hand away.
“I was thinking I deserved to die. What does one usually think when
they try to take their own life?”

He smiled, albeit a trifle
woodenly. “Indeed.”

The door was thrown open
then to admit a flustered footman, gasping for breath.