Taming the Beast (24 page)

“You only want to be with him,” Michaela supplied.

Hugh nodded. “It is enough for me. Him and Leo. Perhaps you are not so stupid, after all.”

“But if you know that he will never—why can you not let me have a chance to make him happy, as a woman can? As Roderick wants?”

“Womanly affection—bah,” Hugh scoffed. “Overrated. You don't know that's what Roderick wants.”

“I do. He's shown me, in his chamber, and mine,” Michaela said gently. Oddly, she no longer wanted to hurt Hugh, but he must know that Michaela would not give Roderick up. She loved him, too.

He looked toward the long windows of his chamber, dark save for the shocking flashes of lightning. “What are you going to do then, Miss Fortune? Out me? Tell Rick my sordid little secret so that he might loathe and detest me and throw me from Cherbon? Would you see me ruined to the very end?”

“He wouldn't,” Michaela said. “He cares for you too much, Hugh. But, no, I will not disclose your secret.”

Hugh glanced at her again, and Michaela thought he no longer looked like the smooth, polished man she had known him as. He looked lonely and shaken and sad, and Michaela felt his rejection from where she sat.

“Thank you, Miss Fortune.”

“But I will not stop trying to win him,” Michaela said. “We are to be married, and I would have him as my husband in truth. Perhaps the three of us, you and I and Leo, we could give him the happiness, the friendship he deserves?”

“Perhaps,” Hugh said. “But you know it would never work for long.”

Michaela frowned. “I don't understand.”

“One man, two lovers—messy business.” Hugh let his sardonic smile slip onto his face briefly. “He must choose one of us.”

“I agree,” Michaela said. “And when he does, we must honor his choice.”

“You're saying that if Rick sends you away, you'll go?”

“I'll go,” Michaela promised.

“Even though it means the ruination of your family, and that Rick will likely be forced to leave England with Leo and me?”

“I'll go,” Michaela repeated solemnly. “But you must agree that, if he chooses me, you will no longer try to interfere in our relationship, or sabotage my efforts with him. I would not see you turned away from Cherbon for what you've done for Roderick and Leo, but should you force my hand, Hugh…”

Hugh gave her a sad smile. “I'll not force your hand, Miss Fortune. I do have
som
e pride left.”

Michaela rose and stuck out her hand. “We are agreed, then?”

Hugh clasped her fingers and looked directly into her eyes. “You weren't supposed to fall in love with him,” he said quietly, and then released her hand. “But we are agreed. Now, how are we to go about finding out about his…you know.” Hugh did a shuffling dance.

But Michaela was already on her way toward the door, and unwilling to tell Hugh the nature of her desperate mission. She paused, her hand on the latch, to look back at him. “You'll mind Leo if I'm not back before he wakes?”

Hugh frowned. “Of course. I daresay I've been doing it longer than you have and am leagues better at it, any matter. I'm rather surprised he has not come for me already because of the storm.”

Michaela smiled. “Thank you, Hugh.”

“Miss Fortune,” Hugh called as she was just slipping into the corridor, and she paused. “What are you going to do?”

Michaela closed the door softly.

The corridor was black, icy and damp, but beneath her gown, the link was warm against her skin. Had Michaela withdrawn it on its long chain, she would have seen its glow.

The storm beyond the thick walls of the keep was worsening and every stone-jarring boom of thunder caused her already-pounding heart to shudder in her chest. There were no windows in the dark corridor, but for once, Michaela was glad of it. She thought that if she was made to look upon the startling, dazzling lightning, she may just die of fright.

Michaela had the distinct feeling that this was no normal storm. She could feel its malevolent heaviness creep through the corridor along the inky seam of floor and wall, as if watching her with gray eyes, trailing her, waiting for the opportune moment to strike, to stop her from doing what she intended.

In a moment, she stood before Roderick's door. She laid her cheek against the wood, her eyes closed, straining for any sound from beyond. But the thunder was coming in waves now, thwarting her. Like the relentless hoofbeats of a hundred horses carrying their vengeful riders from the darkness, it crashed louder with each report, perhaps now only as far away as the black bend of the corridor.

She let her fingertips skitter down the smooth wood to the latch of the door and opened it in the masking silence of the thunder.

Roderick let the lightning lash him as he lay on his bed, as if the white-hot flashes would cleanse him of his damned uncertainty, of his fear of his own life waiting for him beyond his safe chamber—what he was, what he was becoming.

His nonexistent left foot itched madly again, and it took everything he had not to spring his body together on the mattress and claw at his boot, or dig his heel into the coverings. It was madness,
madness
, and he knew it.

He had still not removed his boots, and now he was afraid to. More afraid of it than he had ever been in the whole of his life. He was fairly certain of what he would find if he did: the same thing that had been there when he pulled the boot on.

Nothing, of course.

But what frightened him was the possibility that once he removed the boot, the sensations he'd felt for the past two days, the increased mobility he had, would vanish. As if, by taking off the boot, he would renege on his part of the bargain he had unknowingly entered into with some dark force.

He could not lose his leg again. Not when he was just beginning to feel like a whole man once more. He didn't know how he was going to explain it to Hugh, who would surely interrogate him. Hugh was the only soul at Cherbon who knew the terrible secret of Roderick's left boot, and Roderick could not put his friend off for long.

What of Michaela Fortune? When and how would he ever tell her? Would he even be forced to? It was madness, he knew, to consider that his leg was…regenerating. Madness! But Roderick could
feel
it—the flesh, the bone—and it gave him the insane idea that one day, one day, he could mayhap be the husband to Miss Fortune that he wanted to be. A father to Leo. Cherbon's lord.

Roderick threw his forearm over his eyes with a cry as another blinding flash of lightning stuttered across his bed. He wanted his mother. A woman he had not seen in a score of years, whose memory was soft about the edges, whose features were blurred by time and pain. He could see her lying in her bed—she was forever in her bed—her long hair caught under her shoulders, her face pale, her eyes dim. She had been Roderick's only source of comfort in all the early years of his young life, even as constantly ill as she was. But his mother had been wrong in her convictions all along…and Magnus had been right, once again. Roderick
was
weak. He felt the madness turning in his brain, catching in his chest like a heavy sob, and the itch, the constant itch…

 

“You're a big boy now, Roderick, I know,” she said to him. “But not so grown that you mayn't come and sit with me, hmm?”

He climbed readily upon her bed, a large lad for nine years, and lay down carefully next to her. She was so slight, smaller even than Roderick himself, and he was mindful of her frailty.

But she raised her pale white hand and laid it along his face, gave him a rare smile—her strength was so little now.

“You are my most cherished possession,” she whispered. “My greatest accomplishment. I love you so very, very much.”

The lightning flashed and thunder growled menacingly, as if something black—or mayhap only gray—was biding its time beyond the curtained bed.

“If I must go away, will you be all right?”

“Where are you going, Mother?”

She stroked her thumb lightly along his cheek—and to Roderick it felt like a soft, budding leaf, cool and fragile.

“Your father is a hard man, Roderick, this you know. And though he thinks you weak, like me, I know differently. You are strong. A strong boy, who will be a strong man. Stronger than Magnus.”

“Stronger than Father?” Roderick didn't think that was possible. Magnus was a mountain, a world unto himself.

Dorian nodded, her hair making a shushing sound against the pillow. “He senses that your strength is different from his and it frightens him. Magnus is strong in his body, in his will. You, my love, my beloved, are strong of heart.” She touched her forefinger to his bony chest. “And that sort of strength can change not only Cherbon, it can change the whole, whole world.”

His mother drew a shallow breath. “If I must go away, do not think unkindly of me.
I am
as your father accuses—weak. And I am so very tired, my love. I cannot bear another…I cannot bear it, you see.”

Roderick did not see. “Where would you go, Mother?” he asked again. “May I come, too?” He did not like this conversation—it frightened him. He wanted to lie here, in the soft quiet of his mother's presence forever. It was the only place in his world he felt safe. If she were to go away, he would be left only with his father, and Harliss the Heartless….

“One thing you are to remember always: I love you.
I love you,
Roderick, as God loves you. Wholly. And perfectly. And should you one day wonder that I did not love you enough, would that you think of God to remind you. And if ever you think God has forsaken you, would that you call me to mind. One day, you will understand this.”

Roderick didn't understand it at all, but he nodded anyway, so as not to upset his mother. She needed her rest.

She smiled at him again. “Now”—she reached her arm farther across his body and Roderick felt her weak tug. He aided her by moving closer, so that their bodies touched and they lay eye to eye on her pillow. She stroked his hair away from his forehead, over and over. “Let me look at you for a while. You may sleep if you like.”

Roderick nodded, snuggled down into the pillow that smelled of the soap the maid used on her hair, and also her tangy, sour illness. His mother slid her head forward and pressed her lips to his.

Roderick smiled at the happy feeling in his belly, and although he tried very hard to keep his eyes open, to look into his mother's eyes and hold on to that happy feeling, she was stroking his hair again, and he could feel himself sinking down into sleep….

The crashing thunder shook him awake with a child's cry of “Mother!” and he looked around the dark bed.

Dorian was gone, the blanket that had covered her now tossed over Roderick's legs, the mattress, the pillow still carrying the slight impression of her body, her head.

His mother had gone away.

And Roderick would never see her again.

 

The lightning flashed over his mumbled cry, his tormented writhing. Why would he call to mind such a terrible memory, tonight of all nights? He had not thought of Dorian Cherbon's last hours on earth for many years, and tonight his mother's words haunted him in time with the throbbing itch of his left foot.

She had been the only person in the whole of his life to say she loved him.

Until Leo. And Michaela Fortune.

He had failed them all.

Roderick threw his fists into the mattress at his side and gave a ragged howl of pain, his eyes squeezed shut against the horror that swooped around him like the storm flying beyond the keep.

“Roderick,” a woman's voice whispered, and he thought for a moment that madness had at last fully claimed him.

But when he opened his eyes, the lightning stuttered across one half of Michaela Fortune's face as she leaned over him.

“It's all right,” she said, climbing onto the mattress, across his body. She kissed his cheeks. “I'm here now. I'm here.”

Michaela didn't know if Roderick had been dreaming, but as she lowered her head to next kiss his mouth, the lightning showed her his face and his eyes were wild. She touched her lips to his gently. He didn't fight her, but neither did he respond.

She was straddling him awkwardly, her skirt pulled tight over his abdomen and around her thighs, but she didn't want to move just yet—he needed to get used to her touch, the weight of her body atop his.

“I'm here for you,” she whispered in his ear. “For all of you.”

“You're making a mistake,” he growled back, an animal so weary from his ensnarement that the worst he could do was a frightening sound.

She shook her head. “No. I have made many mistakes before—some I admit were with you. But not this night.”

“I can't love you. Not like you want me to. I don't even think I can love Leo.” His voice caught, as if he would weep.

“I want you to love me—and Leo—however you can. That is enough.” Then she kissed him again, more deeply. He still did not respond. She raised her head only slightly, whispering the words into his mouth as the thunder crashed around them. “And until you can, I will love you both enough for all of us.”

This time when she kissed him, he kissed her back.

Michaela let her hands come up from the mattress to frame his face, allowing the weight of her upper body to sink onto Roderick's chest. He felt thick and hard and strong beneath her, and it filled her with an odd sense of power, to have this giant of a man beneath her, almost at her mercy.

Almost.

Roderick's hands came gently, hesitantly, to Michaela's rib cage and she wondered if he could feel her heart thrashing against his palms. His fingertips began a gentle exploration of her sides, to the sensitive areas under her arms and at the curve of her breasts.

She was nervous to her very core. In all her wild imaginings of what her first time with a man would be like, she never thought it would be she playing the aggressor. It was as if she was taking her own virginity, and again she felt the headiness of power.

She raised up, sitting fully on his hips now, and after giving him a moment to protest—which he did not—she eased one side of her wide, scooped bodice down over her shoulder. She slid her arm from the gown and then pushed the other side down. In a moment, the upper part of her gown was gathered around her waist, and her nipples puckered in the chill of the dark room.

The lightning flashed again, revealing her nakedness, and beneath her, Roderick gasped.

“You are beautiful,” he said, his voice full of wonder and despair, too. “Too beautiful for me.”

Michaela shook her head, and then reached down for his hands. She placed them on both her breasts, closing her eyes at the contact. His skin was so hot on her chilled flesh that she expected to hear a sizzle. After a moment, she commanded him, “Raise up, my lord. Take off your shirt.”

He froze for a beat of time, but then used his elbows and then his hands to bring his face to hers. He jerked his shirt over his head and had seized Michaela's arms and pulled her back down to the mattress with him before his shirt had time to hit the floor.

If she had thought his hands on her bare breasts was delicious, the sensation of his naked torso pressed against her transported Michaela into another world. The hair of his chest and trailing down his stomach felt like soft grass on warm, solid earth. And when he kissed her again, she could feel each twitch of his powerful muscles, each thrum of blood in his veins. His arms around her felt as immense and solid as the very sky, the storm raging around them, certain and relentless and, yes, frightening.

She broke away from his mouth with no little effort and struggled to the side of him, placing a hand on his chest when he would have risen. In a moment, she had shimmied out of the rest of her gown and kicked it from the bed into the dark. Her hands went boldly to the ties at his waist.

“What are you doing?” Roderick asked gruffly, a hint of amazement in his voice.

“What do you think I'm doing?”

“Making a mess of my laces likely,” he said.

Michaela chuckled and flung the long ties up onto his stomach. “You do it, then.”

In the murky darkness, she could see him shake his head. “This is a mistake, Michaela.”

“No, it isn't.” She was tired of waiting for him. Reaching behind her toward his right boot, she felt for the cold hilt of his hidden dagger.

Roderick became instantly alarmed as she moved to his feet. “No—stop—”

But she had the blade in hand before he could rise, and with one swift flick of her wrist, she drew the dagger's sharp edge up the center of the ladder his laces created. Aided by his erection, his breeches pulled apart soundlessly, save for the whoosh of breath that came from the Lord of Cherbon, himself.

Michaela tossed the blade over the edge of the bed and it disappeared into the darkness with a clang.

The lightning flashed again, two, three times, rattling the blackness of the bed. Michaela glimpsed Roderick's face, pale and creased and worried, yet drawn with intense passion and need.

“I can never be the man you want me to be,” Roderick warned her, each word wracked with pain and shame.