Finally, the grip of his bliss abated, and he folded forward in blind relief, resting his forehead against the door with a thump.
Alexandra’s humming died away at the sound, and soft footfalls padded toward the door. “Piers?” A tentative invitation painted his name, and his still-pounding heart accelerated. “Have you returned to … would you like to come in?”
Trying to regain a semblance of wit, he reached for the door.
And threw the lock.
“Not tonight, pet,” he managed.
She hesitated. “But aren’t you … you’re in need of … you still have your third prize to claim, if you are so inclined.”
Despite what he’d just done, his cock twitched at the offer.
Piers placed a hand against the cool wood of the door, picturing her doing the same.
Oh, he’d claim his prize. Of course, he would. But not until he could regain some of his lost self-control. Not until the scent and sight of her didn’t whip him into an unprecedented, animalistic monster. Until he could be other than this rutting beast he’d only just become, aching to mount her like a prized mare.
Wondering who’d mounted her first.
That thought was enough to push him away from the door. There would always be a barrier between them, wouldn’t there? A secret. A past.
Hers. His. Someone else’s. It didn’t matter.
“Get some rest,” he rumbled, battling a hollow ache in his chest.
“If … if you’re certain.” Was it disappointment or relief in her careful voice?
He couldn’t tell through the door.
Berating himself, he promised that he could no longer toy with desire without giving in to it completely. He had to wait. Had to keep his hands, his mouth, all the parts of him that hungered for her to himself.
“Good night, Doctor.” He injected as much kindness as he could into his voice before he went to the basin to wash, assuming she’d shuffled off to bed.
“Good night, husband,” she called softly, pausing once more. “And … thank you.”
What exactly had she thanked him for? he pondered as he undressed, washed, and settled into his cavernous, lonely bed.
Her pleasure? His company?
Or for leaving her alone?
CHAPTER TWENTY
For four days, Alexandra almost forgot she had killed a man.
That she’d been raped by one.
That someone perhaps wished her ill, or worse.
For four blessed, busy days, she’d buried her troubled memories in the familiarity of a crypt. She’d toiled alongside her husband to unearth the bones of his celebrated ancestor.
Instead of focusing on her own grave concerns, she spent a great deal of time enjoying her husband’s company.
And lamenting the fact that he didn’t attempt to drag her into any more dark alcoves. That he hadn’t so much as kissed her since that night on the veranda.
Why that bothered her, she couldn’t tell, but it did.
It bothered her with increasing frequency and intensity.
He’d teased her, flirted with her. Tormented her, even, with scalding looks and brief, if titillating physical contact. A brush of his hand. A stroke of her hair. A memory of what they’d already shared. A promise of what was to come.
But nothing more.
They dined together. Drank together. Laughed and chatted and socialized. Every moment in his company had been naught but a delight. And, from what she could tell, he enjoyed her company also. Despite his brutal features and intimidating moniker, he’d won over students and servants alike with his unabashed wit and unpretentious nobility. It wasn’t just his title that she could take pride in, but the man, as well.
Alexandra woke every morning less and less astonished to find that she felt enthusiastic, impatient even, to dress and hurry downstairs. Not only to begin her work at the catacombs, but to find her husband awaiting her at the bottom of the stairs, offering his elbow to escort her to the site.
She went to bed every night alone with nothing but a kiss on her knuckles as a token of his esteem.
It kept her up at night, the why of it.
She’d asked him about it the night before last. Invited him into her bedroom.
His hand had tightened on hers, but his mouth was no less gentle as he pressed it to her knuckles.
Blue flames had threatened to singe her as he’d replied. “Five days.”
This morning, after awakening no less than a hundred times in the night plagued by a restless and terrible feeling, Alexandra capitulated to the idea that she’d get no more sleep and had dressed uncharacteristically early.
Three days now, she’d realized as she all but skipped down the stairs awash with a new, optimistic fervor and a smile in her heart. Three days and the state of her empty womb would be confirmed.
Three days and he’d be one step closer to trusting her. In this respect, at least.
She’d reached the lobby before her husband did, and was called over by the desk clerk.
“A note for you, Your Grace.” He extended a small ivory envelope with a solicitous smile.
An envelope identical to the one she’d dreaded nearly every month for the last decade.
It might have been another lovely day, Alexandra mourned as a flush of hot panic ignited little pinprick fires over her skin.
If she’d never killed a man.
She knew the author of the letter before her unsteady fingers grappled it open.
Her sin had followed her to Normandy.
It followed her everywhere, didn’t it? Wherever she’d escaped to on the globe, her blackmailer had known. Had found her. And a letter had arrived like a clockwork nightmare.
You’ll bring the money to the Redmayne tomb tomorrow night.
Stomach churning, she read the note again and again, scanning it as she always did for something. Some clue as to who had written it.
It was never any use. The writing was always different. Very brief. No signature.
Tears blurred the letters and Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut, despair threatening to pull her under.
She might have known. Because she’d let herself relax if only for a moment. She’d taken shelter in the shadow of her oak-sized husband, allowed him to shade her from the oppressive glare of the truth beneath which she’d perspired for so many anxious years.
She’d known that her moments of peace would be tainted, eventually, but she thought she’d have another month. At least a chance to return to Castle Redmayne and receive her duchess stipend before she had to worry about where to send the money.
Alexandra barely kept herself from crumpling the paper in her fist as her dread heated to a helpless fury. Why must she be the one to suffer, to pay for the loss of her innocence? To be condemned for a torment thrust upon her?
Why did her frantic decision, made in the mind of a traumatized girl, have to follow her throughout her entire life? Would her children be made to pay for de Marchand’s death? Her grandchildren?
When would it end?
She turned the envelope over, wondering how many postmarks it would carry this time. Usually the demands would originate from a telegraph office somewhere rather exotic. Morocco, perhaps. Or Berlin. Then it would make its way through a few countries to wherever she was.
She’d followed the trail before, even finding the originating telegraph office, but no one had been able to divulge who’d commissioned the message.