Raphael made sure to stop and say a few words or give a nod to each man. He paid them generously, but it was important that they see him and know he took care of them as well.
They were guarding her life.
It was an hour later when he finally made his way back to the inn. He looked for her first in the private dining room, but it was empty. She must have already gone up to their chamber.
He mounted the stairs and found Valente and Ubertino sitting on stools outside the room. They stood when they saw him.
He halted. “Is my duchess inside?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Ubertino said. “She retired half an hour ago.”
Raphael nodded. “Have you eaten?”
Ubertino grinned. “I sent Ivo to get us some dinner. Bardo said he’ll send men to relieve us at midnight.”
“Good.” He pushed the door open.
The room was dimly lit, only the fire and one candle on a small table providing light, and for a moment he didn’t see her.
Alarm raced through his veins.
Then he noticed the mound in the bed.
Softly Raphael shut the door and slid home the bolt. He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at her.
Iris lay there, her eyes closed, her golden hair spread on the pillow, half-turned toward him.
She must’ve been exhausted to have fallen asleep so swiftly.
The candlelight sent shadows spilling from the tips of her eyelashes, made her brow and cheeks glow, and left the valley between her breasts in darkness. She was so lovely it felt like a hook digging into his heart, tearing a jagged hole.
He turned and went to his traveling trunk, then knelt to open it. Inside, under a layer of folded banyans and pairs of breeches, he found his sketchbook and pencil case. Then he picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down next to the bed.
And began to put on paper what he couldn’t say in words.
Iris woke to the sound of a rooster crowing.
She blinked, for a moment confused at the unfamiliar bedroom, until she remembered that they’d stopped at an inn.
At the same moment she felt the weight of an arm slung over her waist, the heat of a body—an obviously male body—against her own. Raphael might not want to bed her during the day, but his body betrayed him in sleep: she could feel his erection against her hip.
She inhaled, but before she could even think of what to do he was moving away.
“We should rise,” Raphael said, his voice deep with a morning rasp. “Best we resume our journey as soon as possible.”
She sat up and turned to see him pulling on his breeches, his broad back bare, the muscles in his shoulders shifting as he worked. Had he slept next to her in only his smalls?
She shivered at the realization and mourned her foolishness in not having woken earlier.
He scooped up a pile of clothes and his boots before finally turning to look at her, his jaw shadowed by morning stubble, his crystal eyes unfathomable. “I’ll dress in the next room.”
And then he was gone.
Well.
Iris rose and set about her meager toilet with the help of one of the inn’s maids, who arrived with hot water, all the while contemplating her husband and his possible reasons for not wanting children. Then she went down into the private dining room and ate a solitary breakfast of eggs, buns, and gammon. The meal was probably quite good, but she couldn’t taste it. Instead she sat staring at the ruby ring. She put aside her fork and took off the ring, laying it on the table. It was so small—a thing easily lost. Perhaps she should give it back to Raphael.
Perhaps she should stop tilting at windmills.
No.
She could not give up her dream of children—of a baby—without a fight. Previously she’d thought that he was physically repulsed by her, but that kiss he’d given her among the daffodils had put paid to that notion. Raphael might not want to admit it, but he wasn’t at all repelled by her. That meant her only problem was simply that he didn’t want children.
He said he didn’t want to continue his line, but that was ridiculous. His father might’ve been a disgusting, dissolute roué, but Raphael wasn’t. As far as she could see there was absolutely no reason he shouldn’t father children, if that was his only argument.
Really their marriage would be much more content if Raphael took her as a husband should a wife. Certainly she would be much more content.
Now she only had to convince him of that fact.
Iris put the ruby ring back on with a decisive twist.
When she went out to the inn yard she was disappointed to find that Raphael had decided to ride with his men. She spent the morning all by herself in a jolting, lurching carriage.
But after they’d stopped at midafternoon for luncheon at an inn, he met her at the carriage.
He bowed as she neared, and held out his hand to help her into the carriage. “I hope you found the luncheon to your liking, ma’am?”
She smiled sweetly as she took his big hand. “I did indeed.”
Since she’d dined alone she’d had plenty of time to think.
And plot.
As if sensing her thoughts he eyed her smile a trifle cautiously as he handed her up. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He stepped inside, knocked on the roof to signal the drivers, and sat across from her.
Iris busied herself settling a lap blanket across her knees as the carriage lurched into motion.
Then she looked up and beamed at her husband. “Have you had many lovers?”
His crystal eyes widened. “I … What?”
“Lovers.” She gestured airily with one hand. “I’m given to understand that many gentlemen sow their wild oats, as it were, before marriage—or indeed afterwards, though I do hope you shall not, for I do disapprove of infidelity. It leads to deep unhappiness in most cases, I think.”
His black brows were knitted, rather as if she were speaking in a foreign language he was trying to decipher. “I don’t plan to break my marriage vows.”
“Lovely,” she said. “Neither do I. I’m so glad we’re in accord on that subject.”
He cocked his head and said in a voice that sounded very like a growl, “Are you mocking me?”
“Oh, I would never,” she said very earnestly. “But you haven’t answered my question.”
“Which was?”
“Lovers? How many?”
He stared at her for a very long moment. “None.”
Oh … this was unexpected. She kept herself from showing surprise only by the strongest of self-control.
She cleared her throat delicately. “You’re a virgin?”
“No,” he snapped, “but the women I’ve bedded would not fall into so romantic a category as lovers.”
“Ah.” Iris could feel heat on her cheeks, but determinedly kept her gaze locked with his. Her marriage depended on this conversation, and she wasn’t about to be put off by missishness over the subject matter. “And were there many?”
He arched an eyebrow. He looked rather formidable, sitting so motionless across from her, his eyes frosty and his arms folded across his chest.
“B-because.” She lurched into speech when it became evident that he wasn’t going to answer her. “I wondered if you’d perhaps had a bad experience with an unwanted pregnancy?”
“No.” The single word was without inflection. “I made very sure the women would not have my children.”
How? She was dying to ask, but didn’t quite dare.
A woman with less courage—or perhaps with more sanity—would have given up at this point.
Not she.
“That’s quite interesting,” she babbled. “I myself have never taken a lover, even when I was widowed, so my experience in such matters is rather limited, as you can understand. But my friend Katherine had a different view on the subject.” She inhaled, shoving down the part of her that was terribly scandalized that she was talking about this with him. They would never have a normal marriage
if she couldn’t make herself be brave. “Katherine took many lovers and she used to enjoy telling me about … her escapades to try and shock me.”
“And did she?” He was lounging back against the squabs, listening to her with as much polite interest as if she were discoursing on literature or the weather. Good Lord, why hadn’t he stopped her yet?
“Sometimes.” She raised her chin, suddenly feeling as if he’d challenged her. “When she described a lover’s genitals. I’m afraid Katherine could be quite, quite crude, you see. She did like to see me blush. She called it a man’s cock.”
His eyes narrowed on the word.
Her voice lowered as if she were imparting secrets. “We would take tea in her sitting room and she would describe her latest lover’s cock—what it looked like erect. How his cock felt in her hands. How his cock felt in her mouth.” Her voice had become a bit breathless. “I’m afraid I was quite naive. When she first told me about putting a man’s cock in one’s mouth—of licking the head and playing with the foreskin—I was appalled. I’d never imagined such a thing. But over time I became accustomed to the idea. I even thought …”
She stopped and swallowed, for her throat was suddenly dry.
“You thought what?” His voice was a whisper of dark smoke.
She inhaled, feeling hot. “I thought that someday, when I married again, I might want to do that with my husband. Take his cock between my hands. See what it feels like.” Her breath was coming faster, but she met his half-lidded eyes—and then let her gaze drop to the bulge between his legs. She had the idea that it might have grown larger. “I’ve never done that. Never studied a man so closely. Never touched a man’s cock with my lips. Never held him on my tongue.”
Her eyes darted back to his face as she waited anxiously for his response.
He closed his eyes and swallowed. His hands had fallen to his lap. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I …” She cleared her throat, beating down the disappointment that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to try. “I wanted you to know that I don’t have very much in the way of experience in that area. But I would like to. I would like to find out how to please a man. I would like to discover what makes bedsport so enjoyable that Katherine took many lovers. I would like to do that with you.” She inhaled and made her voice firm. “I would like to do everything with you.”
He opened his eyes, but his head was turned. He looked out the window, refusing to meet her gaze. “I cannot do this.”
The mortification and disappointment that washed over her at his rejection—his third rejection—was near all-encompassing.
Still she kept her head held high. “Why?”
“I’ve already told you why I choose not to have an heir. My reasons are—”
“Your reasons are patently ridiculous!” She’d raised her voice, but she couldn’t find it within herself to care. “You say you desire women, you kiss me twice, you have no struggle in becoming hard—”
He closed his eyes again, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. “Madam. Quit this line of questioning now, I beg of you, for if you do not, I shall not be responsible for the consequences.”
Iris watched him and saw a man with his temper barely leashed, his jaw hard as a rock, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched, his entire aspect so frozen he nearly shook.
He’d told her to stop. And she had—twice before. “I cannot quit my questions—I’m married to you. I have no other choice but you if I want to have children—and I do—therefore please explain to me why you won’t bed me. Why you think we shouldn’t make a child together.”
She had known that he could move quickly. Still it was a shock when she found herself pressed against the back of her seat, his face inches from hers.
“God’s blood, woman, how much control do you think I have?” he whispered, his clove-scented breath brushing her face. “You must think me a saint by the way you harangue me despite my warnings. Listen and listen well: I am no saint.”
“But I don’t need a saint,” she breathed, her voice trembling. “I don’t want a saint. I want you.”
“God forgive me,” he snarled, and pulled her mouth to his.
His kiss wasn’t gentle. He opened her lips with his tongue, invading her angrily. Passionately. How had she ever thought this man uninterested in bedding her?
His big, hot body pressed her against the seat and he scraped his teeth over her bottom lip.
But just as she felt herself melting, he was gone.
Iris opened her eyes to find him banging on the carriage ceiling, signaling for it to stop. He was out the door before they’d even properly halted.
The carriage started again.
Alone once more, her body cold after his warmth, Iris put a single fingertip to her lip.
It came away stained with blood.
Chapter Nine
“The flinty shades have stolen my sister’s heart fire and she is dying,” Ann said. “You must wrest it from them.”
“What will you give me in return?” asked the Rock King.
Ann’s eyes widened. It had not occurred to her that she would have to pay the Rock King for his labors. All she had was the pink pebble.
He raised a brow. “Have you riches?”
“No,” she replied.…
—From The Rock King
Raphael shut the door to the inn bedroom and strode to the stairs that night. He’d ridden the rest of the day after fleeing the carriage. Tomorrow he’d have to start the day on horseback—he saw no other solution. Not if he didn’t want to spend a third day arguing with his duchess. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could last with her constantly by his side. Constantly tempting him to do more than simply kiss her.
God. She’d tasted of oranges and honey and he’d felt her shake beneath his hands. He’d wanted to strip her right there in the carriage with his men riding outside.
She was driving him mad. He couldn’t look at her anymore without feeling the pull. And yet he could not send her away—everything inside him rebelled at the thought. She had to stay with him so that he could protect her.
So that she could illuminate his darkness just a little.
She must think him a foul, unnatural beast by now.
He made the lower floor and turned toward the back of the inn, slamming his fist into the wooden beam of a doorway as he strode through. Damn it! What was he supposed to do when she started talking to him like that? Speaking of cocks and her tongue with those pretty pink lips? He’d been hard. He’d wanted her. And he couldn’t have her.
He found himself in a dark passage that led to the kitchens, where he startled the maids. They stifled shrieks and pointed the way to the stables. He nodded his thanks, ignoring their stares, their whispers.
He had long been inured to the reactions to his face.
At last he stepped out the back door and into the night air, which cooled his temper a little.
He tilted his face to the moon and the stars overhead.
He’d sworn, on all that he believed in, on all that he loved, on his very soul, that he’d never become his father. And yet today he’d argued with his duchess. Had threatened her. Had made her go pale.
Was he no better than an animal?
Worse.
Was he no better than his father?
Raphael shook his head and made for the stables, a low building enclosing the yard on three sides. He ducked to enter under the ancient, thick wood lintel, inhaling the scent of horses, hay, and manure. Most of his men still tended to their horses, and Bardo called a greeting. Raphael nodded to his men as he walked along the rows of stalls, stopping to caress a glossy equine neck now and again. The stables were lit with flickering lamplight, but as he walked along he came to an unused portion with empty stalls that was dark. He paused and then found another door to the yard.
Here, away from the lights of the inn, the stars lit the sky the brightest, glowing like pearls strewn on black velvet. He threw back his head, gazing, all
thought pushed from his mind for the moment.
Almost at peace.
And then he heard a rustle and turned just in time to see the glint of a knife descending.
Iris glanced around the inn room wearily. She wasn’t sure she could endure another day of arguments followed by abandonment in that carriage.
She went to the table where a maid had put a hearty supper earlier and sat down. Roast chicken and vegetables swimming in gravy lay before her, but she hadn’t any appetite. A glass of red wine was by the plate and she took a sip.
She’d lived three years with her first husband, hardly talking, watching as he walked away whenever the discussion became uncomfortable for him. It had been a miserable marriage. James had been kind and good—and had hardly noticed her at all. She might have been one of his hunting dogs—left to the care of his gamekeeper, taken out whenever he remembered her and felt the urge for a ramble at his small country estate.
Otherwise forgotten.
He’d never loved her, never cherished her, and never spoken to her as an equal. She hardly held out hope for the first two from Raphael, but he’d spoken with her, not to her. Surely that was something she could build upon?
Hugh had been the husband of a friend and then a friend in his own right. She’d considered marriage to him because of his motherless boys and because she liked him.
She hadn’t thought about her own wishes with either man. With James she’d married for her mother. With Hugh she’d thought about marriage for his boys and their dead mother, her best friend.
Now … now she wanted something for herself. She wanted children. She wanted a husband she could talk to without arguing. She wanted long morning walks and evenings by gentle fires and companionship.
And damn it, she wanted a physical relationship with Raphael.
Maybe she was being selfish to want all those things. To place her desires above any other’s.
Certainly her stance couldn’t be called modest or what most people considered feminine and ladylike. And yet … she would stand by her desires and feelings and needs. Was she not as deserving as anyone else of happiness? Why should she dutifully push aside her dreams simply because it was not ladylike?