“Why do you ask?”
“I know we’ll be made very comfortable at the Inn With No Fleas, but if you aren’t too tired, we could travel on another hour and call in at the Castillo de Rasal.”
Bella had been looking forward to a hot meal and a bed, but at the prospect of seeing the Marqués de Rasal again, she felt her energy renewed. “Oh yes, do let us go on. I’d love to see themarquésagain. He was my father’s dearest friend, and like an uncle to me when I was a child.”
Satisfied, he gave a brisk nod, and they continued on their way.
He’d hardly said a word all day. Bella had been observing him quietly. Physically there was a new ease between them, but whether that came from Luke or herself was another question.
In the darkest hour of his torment he’d turned to her instinctively, seeking her body, her comfort, to help drive out his demons… The dark, desperate violence of his need for her had pierced her heart. And her body still thrilled with it.
And that dreadful tale… He’d never told it to another soul, not even his oldest friends.
He might not love her, but instinctively, he’d trusted her.
Even his offering to stay at a place he did not know, with people he did not know, was a small sign of trust. It was an indirect apology for his refusal to let her visit there last time. The knowledge filled her with quiet warmth.
She glanced across at him, riding toward the deepening lilac sky, his face grave and drawn, like that of a man contemplating his doom. It wasn’t the air of a man who’d bared his soul. Instead of exhibiting the lightness and relief she’d always felt from sharing a terrible secret, it was almost as if his shame had increased.
Still, probing now would only make him clam up further.
Bed was the place to talk. After he’d taken her, in that period when it seemed two people could get no closer, when the barriers between them were soft and transparent and the world had shrunk to just one bed, a place of sated bodies, quiet murmurs, and slow, soft touches.
She had not known that place existed.
She understood now why married women talked about when they were girls, even after a month of two of marriage. It had always seemed to her to be an affectation, a way of lording it over their unmarried friends. Now, only a handful of days into her marriage, her real marriage, she knew it was not.
She was not the girl she’d been a few weeks ago. It was not simply being part of someone else—that wasn’t quite right; she was herself and he was a separate being, very separate at times. But she was a different person now, with insights into her own nature—and his—that she’d never dreamed of.
The feeling, when he took her body, of being subject to the deepest animal instincts, of letting go all that was civilized, all that was schooled… The power of his body as he thrust into her again and again, the strength of her as she took him in, the racking build of pleasure, the deep, sweaty joy in the act.
And the freedom of being able to let go, to scream, to bite and scratch and let out the wildness she’d tried to hide all her life, and he liked it. More than liked it. Gloried in it.
Being married was like coming out of a cocoon, splitting the old carapace, and finding the world was full of rainbow colors. And that you could fly.
She glanced across at her grim-faced husband.
Or not.
Seventeen
The Castillo de Rasal was an imposing stone building rising high above the surrounding landscape, a fortress that made no bones about domination. Even as darkness fell, its silhouette towered darkly above them, blotting out the night sky and the stars.
Luke handed his card to the servant who answered the door. Isabella had written something on the back. Normally he preferred to travel as Señor and Señora Ripton—it was wiser not to let people know you were rich—but in this case, he brought out his title. The servant took the card, asked them to wait, then glided away.
This was not like Isabella’s former home; Castillo de Rasal was ancient, but far from shabby. Everything that could be polished gleamed, the entrance was lit by flaming torches, the light catching on rich tapestries and precious metals and flickering over gilded frames surrounding glowing works of art. Generations of wealth were represented here.
They did not have to wait long. Themarquéshimself came to greet them, saying, “Isabella, my dear, dear child, what a delightful surprise. We thought you were forever lost to us. And now, look at you, all grown up and the image of your dear mother.”
He was more than sixty, a tall, spare, handsome man with silvering dark hair, a scimitar of a nose, and a small goatee. He embraced Isabella, kissing her on both cheeks and giving her a warm hug, before turning to greet Luke.
“Isabella’s husband? How very pleased I am to meet you, dear sir.” He gave Luke a searching look. “You have a treasure here, Ripton, I hope you know.”
“I know it, sir.” Luke glanced at Isabella, who was looking flushed, glowing, and, to Luke’s eyes, utterly beautiful.
Themarquéscaught the exchange and smiled. He clapped Luke on the back. “Excellent, excellent, I’m glad to hear it. Come in, come in, dinner will be put back half an hour—no, no, you are not holding us up. My wife has been out all day and has only just returned.”
“Yourwife, Tío Raul?” Isabella exclaimed.
