A/N: Thank you for all the reviews and the interest! :) I'm sorta in foreign water here, so I'm glad you guys are enjoying my weak attempts at a paranormal PotO romance...
XIII
She did not fear him. She did not. Indeed, the emotions that had flowed through her veins felt far absent from fear, her desire to draw closer to him compelling her actions. The wild look in his eyes when he had turned to her confused her thoughts and made her suddenly uncertain…but she did not fear him.
Though fear had been part of what she read in his eyes. Fear and shock. Disbelief and – anger?
Had her words about the erstwhile Angel upset him, perhaps to be so foolishly mistaken for such a frightening and glorious creature? Frightening to a child of seven, indeed, but now that she was a woman, she knew no angel's voice could have addressed her in the chapel…only a man, and by Meg's words, a disturbed individual.
Despite that knowledge, despite that over a decade had passed, she'd never forgotten him. He had made too great an impact on her young life, giving her all she wanted and needed at the most troubling time of her childhood.
Christine quickly made her way to the room appointed her for the night. Before entering the chamber, she peeked around the door of the room in which the priest rested to see how he fared.
By the swift rise and fall of his chest that the woolen blanket covered, she could see he yet lived and breathed and silently said a prayer of thanks. Noting his slumber was deep, she had no wish to disturb him and left the door ajar, as before. She then went to the chamber two doors down, the only chamber with the door standing wide. All others in this corridor were closed to her.
A four-poster bed, a wardrobe, and a vanity dresser of dark wood composed the room. Soft buttery yellows, pine green, bronze, and gold gave a bit of cheerful relief to the otherwise austere chamber. No paintings graced the walls, no knickknacks sat atop the dresser. One recessed window stood absent of all adornment of drapery. She moved to its ledge, wide enough for her to sit, and stared out the panes of glass into the courtyard below. Above its curtain of enclosed walls, she could dimly see the dark forest that enclosed the castle. It was likely only her present mood that had her imagine she saw yellow eyes peer from the trees toward the fortress, seeming to stare directly at her.
With a little shiver, Christine moved away. She glanced at the door, noting there was no lock and nervously removed her slippers and dress. Quickly she untied the pouch of her personal things from around her waist and set it on the dresser. A second time, she looked with wary regard toward the closed door before removing her petticoats.
She had no choice but to trust that the Count wouldn't enter her bedchamber, uninvited. He certainly behaved as though he had no wish to ravish her again, almost jumping out of his skin and pulling away when she barely touched him, and certainly he no longer wanted her near, almost barking at her to go.
He ran hot as flame then cold as ice, for no apparent reason that she could discern.
The Count cel Tradat was a man cloaked in layers of mystery Christine would never unravel. Soon she would leave this dismal region, somehow, and he would remain only a bittersweet recollection of her distressing sojourn in Berwickshire.
She removed her corset and practically dove beneath the covers, shivering in her chemise and drawers and grateful for the thick plush warmth of the gold comforter.
x
Though she assumed she would not sleep, Christine found herself awakening, with the dawn streaming through the uncovered window and washing the foot of her bed in pale white light.
Recalling that she sojourned at Castle Dragan and her reason for being there, Christine quickly dressed, tying her pouch over her petticoats before again donning her black day gown with the embroidered red and gold flowers. It was the loveliest dress she owned; the others she had left behind at Montmarte, along with her carpetbag. Perhaps it had been foolish to leave her things, but at the time all she could think about was to escape quickly on horseback without being burdened down.
Before heading downstairs, she poked her head into the priest's room, surprised to see him awake.
"Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you," she amended, ready to dart away.
"Please, don't go." His words came weary, but legible.
Christine stepped softly to his bedside. "Good morning, pere, er, um…Father. Are you feeling any better?"
"I am, in great part thanks to you. And you may call me Father Kiley. It was a brave thing you did, my dear, in these dangerous times. It isn't safe to leave one's doorstep, especially at night. Had not old man MacClodden required my services, I would never have attempted to ride, though my poor horse bore the brunt of my misfortune."
She was alerted to his words. "You remember what happened then?"
He looked puzzled. "Happened? I only meant that the shire has fallen on perilous times these last months."
"Of course." Christine managed a faint smile. For whatever reason he had forgotten the details of his own encounter near death, and perhaps that was for the best. He was no longer hysterical with panic, but with the dawn had become calm and lucid. She had half expected to enter his room and find him feverish from his wounds, as had happened to the stagehand with the shattered bone. But instead, though weak and in pain, after a few minutes more of talking with Father Kiley, she was relieved to note the priest was improved. Greatly so…more than she would have imagined possible.
Promising she would find a servant and pass along the message that Father Kiley would like breakfast, Christine descended the stairs to the main floor.
A stir at the entryway leading to the courtyard caught her attention. Her heart wrenched from her body and plummeted to the ground seeking a crack to fall through at the sound of a familiar raised voice.
"Where is she – where's my grandniece? Get out of my way, damn it – I know she's here!"
Christine's first impulse was to fly back up the stairs and hide herself in the bedchamber she'd been given. Before she could undertake such a desperate attempt, she felt a familiar presence come up behind from a chamber beyond the stairs.
"I will deal with this," the Count said quietly near her ear as he walked past and in front of her to confront the unwelcome guest.
Christine felt paralyzed, yet felt she had no choice but to follow. It seemed cowardly to secret herself away and allow the Count to fight her battles for her, if indeed that was his intent. She truly did not know how he felt toward her, not after last night's bizarre encounter, but this morning he no longer seemed upset with her. Instead, his antagonism was directed elsewhere…
Once she came within the earl's view and two of his men who'd accompanied him – brutish servants who had never acknowledged her in any way, except to leer – the earl narrowed his eyes at her in angry disgust. He glared at the formidable man near her side but did not lash out at Christine as she expected.
"So – I was right! What you have done is unconscionable, sir, and I demand satisfaction!"
Beneath the mask, the Count's lips twisted into a half smile of scorn. "A duel then. Name the time and place."
The pudgy earl looked suddenly ill at ease as he took in the trim and towering figure before him, who even to the untrained eye suggested that he would excel in skills with weaponry. Assured and confident.
"No-no that's not what I meant," the earl swiftly backtracked. "I speak about the fate of my ward."
"I refuse to hold a discussion in the foyer," Erik said darkly. "If you will follow me into the parlor."
His was not a request but a command. He looked at Christine, the fire in his eyes softening to a warm glow.
"Mademoiselle, if you would join us?"
A bit flummoxed by his genial manner toward her, almost tender, she walked with the men to what she now thought of as the throne room. Indeed, the Count acted like a king to his peons. He looked toward her in silent question if she wanted to be seated. When she shook her head no, he regally took the throne and regarded her uncle, while she drifted a short distance away, wishing she could separate herself from the entire proceedings.
"You have ruined the girl's reputation by keeping her here with no chaperone. If Lord Lomax hears of this, and in this small district it is likely the scuttlebutt has already begun, he will break our contract. Your transgression must be rectified. I demand that you marry my niece and fulfill Lord Lomax's promises, including the sum of twenty-thousand pounds agreed upon."
Christine could not believe what she was hearing – a bride price? Was that archaic principle even continued in this century – in this remote corner of the world? Or was it solely her avaricious uncle's idea?
"I will not marry Christine by your order or any other," the Count replied, his voice quiet but lethal. "No man tells me what to do, and if you are quite finished, it is time for you to go."
His first words caused the oddest dull twinge in her heart though she detected a thread of sadness in his tone and glanced at him curiously. Something her uncle said came to mind and caused her to speak.
"But there was a chaperone upstairs. A priest."
"A priest?" The earl parroted in confusion, swinging his irate gaze her way.
"Yes – Father Kiley. He was injured last night on his journey to the village and stayed in a room upstairs."
A stir to her right had her look toward the entrance. Gregor stood in the doorway and nodded to the Count. The master of the castle rose from his throne.
"If you will excuse me." He walked across the room to join his servant and the two men left the room.
Christine stared where the Count had last been in nervous curiosity. Suddenly her arm was grabbed in a bruising grip, and the earl whirled her around to face him, his face beet red.
"You little trollop – how dare you disrupt my plans!"
Before she could respond, the sting of his hand sent fire racing up her cheek and she flinched, tears glossing her eyes. She pressed a hand to her wounded face.
"I have no wish to marry Lord Lomax – he's a disgusting, old, perverse man. Please, only let me return to Paris. I vow that you'll never see me again."
He sneered at her plea. "And why would I do that when Lord Lomax's desperation for a beautiful young bride to give him an heir has led him to agree to my terms. Your rake of a Count has refused your hand. And so you will marry Lord Lomax, and I will deliver you to him with all haste - today!"
"I won't!" Bitter desperation forced her words. "I won't go with you! I'd rather die first!"
"You will do as I say and leave with me now, even if I have to beat you into submission – do not think I won't refrain from teaching you your place."
As he spoke he swiftly raised his open hand, ready to strike a second time. Christine squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the impact. When nothing happened, she opened them slightly.
A large hand was clamped around the earl's wrist, the tall bearer of that hand glaring down at the shorter man with eyes that blazed a message written in fire.
"If you ever raise a hand to her again, you will most decidedly regret it."
How he had moved so silently and swiftly, Christine had no clue, but she was extremely grateful for his intervention.
"She is my ward and under my authority!"
"And you are in my home, where my word is law. Let her go…"
The Count's voice came low but reverberated more deadly than the earl's shouted claim.
With a grimace of disgust, the earl released Christine's arm. The Count then did the same with the earl's wrist, holding it a few short seconds in warning before pausing to shake it from him as though it were rubbish. The earl rubbed his wrist vigorously, as if it greatly pained him.
"I will speak with Christine alone," the Count announced then looked at her. "If you will accompany me, mademoiselle."
The rage in his eyes had mellowed as he turned to her, and she nodded, though again, his was not a question but a command.
"She is still my ward. If you think to help her escape me, I will have the magistrate on you for abducting my grandniece."
The Count's jaw hardened to stone. He looked across the room toward his servant who had also returned to the parlor chamber. "Watch them."
"Yes, my lord."
The earl and his men studied the old, stooped butler with arrogant scorn. The earl nodded once to his men to grab Christine as she walked beside the Count. The moment they began to advance, Gregor lifted a long-barreled pistol from where he had concealed it behind him, aiming the weapon their way.
The earl's men stopped in their tracks and slowly retreated, putting their hands in the air.
"You will pay for this," the earl growled. "The law is on my side – you will see...!"
Christine looked back over her shoulder at him, her brow furrowed in concern. She felt long fingers clasp her elbow, gently prodding her forward, and directed her attention toward the Count. He did not seem the least bit apprehensive of his potential arrest, ignoring the earl all the while the disagreeable man continued to hurl threats his way.
x
The two entered the music room, and the Count motioned Christine past the grand piano and the chair by the hearth, to the opposite side of the room, further out of hearing of those in the adjacent chamber. An upholstered bench in rose satin with curved legs of scrolled dark wood, looking like something from a former century, stood just out of sight where the walls made a shallow dip that formed an alcove. She sank to the firm cushion at the sweep of his hand toward it and watched as he lit the candle in a sconce on the wall, giving them a small radiance of light.
He did not speak, instead seeming to glare at a painting near her, though she doubted he truly saw the vision in oils of what appeared to be sprites dancing and playing instruments on a grassy knoll of a forest clearing. He appeared solidly immersed in thought, barely glancing at her, where she clutched her hands together in her skirts between her knees. He seemed to be having a confrontation within his mind, and by his expression, it wasn't pleasant.
All of this was her fault. He did not want her here, had never wanted her here, and now, because of his chivalrous act to ensure her well-being, he'd found trouble. Perhaps even with the law, as the earl had threatened more than once.
"I'm sorry –" She went on to apologize, when suddenly he turned from the painting and spoke.
"I offer you marriage, but not in the customary fashion."
She stared up at him, uncertain she'd heard correctly. His golden eyes were grave but in earnest. Once the shock of his words at last registered, she shook her head in confusion and managed to utter a strained reply.
"What exactly does that mean?"
"I will take you as my wife and give you my name, my home, and my protection. However, I do not expect you to fulfill the duties of a wife, chiefly those that involve the marriage bed. This arrangement will be in name only, giving us both something we want."
Her face heated with rosy color at the candor of his words. "And what is it that you want?"
"Three things I will give; three things I will ask."
She nodded faintly. "Go on."
"I demand your absolute loyalty."
Reasonable enough, regardless that this bizarre proposal of marriage made no sense.
"I demand your respect – to obey my word as final."
She looked at him with doubt laced in suspicion. "Obey you in what?"
"To begin with, to allow me to keep my secrets and not intrude into areas I would prefer you did not enter. Certain rooms of the castle for instance."
He noticed the apprehension cloud her eyes at his mention of secrets kept and thinned his lips.
"You need not fear me, Christine. When I found you in the fog on our second meeting, you told me then that I would not harm you. You spoke in truth. I would never ask anything of you that could wound or that would give you a moment's regret. On this you have my word. I seek only to offer protection, but I will be obeyed in this."
She considered his conditions. "What is the third thing you would want from me?"
He took a deep breath, as if this was the most monumental of all he asked.
"I wish to become your instructor in voice and teach you to sing."
She blinked in shock, never having expected that.
"You- you want to teach me?" she breathed in amazement.
The offer was as startling as the proposal. She did not doubt that he could instruct her, only that he would wish to.
"Your voice, while requiring hard work to reach its peak of magnificence, is one of the most lovely I've heard, and I have observed many singers perform during my time on this earth. Long have I desired to train and mold a voice such as yours, to take pleasure in the triumph such an accomplishment would produce – so that you may one day star in the opera I have created."
She gasped, though it hardly surprised her that a man with his musical prowess would compose his own opera – only that he would wish her to play the lead.
Was she dreaming?
His steady eyes shimmering in gold assured her that she was not.
"Until that time, I wish for us to remain here, at my castle. Upon our arrival to Paris a year from now, I will grant your freedom if you wish it."
"Freedom?" Was that squeak of a voice hers? Softly she cleared her throat.
"To dissolve the marriage with an annulment."
"Oh."
When she said nothing more, he continued. "To a degree, you will have the freedom to do as you please. I am away on business most days, but you may roam freely throughout the castle and enter any rooms that are not locked. You will, of course, have your own private bedchamber. Should you wish a change of rooms, you may have any of the guest rooms you desire to make your own."
"What if I wish to leave the castle? To go to the village, for instance?"
"Gregor will take you wherever you want to go."
"So you do have a wagon and could have taken me last night, as I asked!" she said in disgruntled triumph, half exasperated with his implication that he owned only a wild stallion.
He clucked his tongue in irritation. "Gregor was busy with important errands and absent from the castle when you first arrived. Should you wish him to drive you to the village, so that you may seek travel to Paris, I'll not stop you." His grim words surprised her, his eyes just as grave. "Keep in mind, however, that your uncle is not a man to surrender easily. He will likely follow you to France and force his hand. As you are his ward, the authorities will side with him, and you might again find yourself the victim of his plan."
He was right, she knew he was right, but it was so wretchedly frustrating – that the society in which she lived saw a woman as property, even chattel, always needing to be dependent on a man. Father, guardian, husband; it failed to matter. At least what the Count offered was the most preferable of the two choices – to flee to Paris, to stay at the castle – and he wanted to teach her to sing! She would be surrounded with his beautiful music…
Still she hesitated, a matter that puzzled needing clarification.
"My uncle told me you wanted nothing to do with me. You told me, to my face, that you never wished to see me again. What has changed? Why would you make such an offer that will tie us together for such a prolonged time?"
"I cannot stand to see you under your uncle's tyrannical thumb one moment longer. Nor do I wish for you the damnable fate he has planned."
She shook her head. "But that's nothing new. He has never made a mystery of his plans for me. Plans I told you. Yet, when last we spoke, you made it crystal clear that you didn't ever again want to speak with me – didn't even want me to approach you."
"I have reconsidered my directive. Is that not enough?"
She supposed it must be, but with his mercurial shifts of mood, it wasn't.
"And when you tire of my presence or grow angry with something I've done, how do I know you won't boot me out of the castle and insist to have nothing more to do with me?"
"A vow is sacred," he said with weary emphasis. "Once I make you my wife, you will be mine, in name - The Countess cel Tradat. That name holds power, Christine. You need never again fear what others may do to you here in Berwickshire, indeed, anywhere you travel in the world. I vow that I'll never leave you or order you away again. I'll not betray you in that manner. Castle Dragan will be your home for as long as you wish it."
It all sounded too perfect. Too frightening. Too unbelievable.
He kept his distance from her for weeks, and up until they entered this room a short few minutes ago, he had shown no change of heart, initially telling her uncle he wouldn't marry her.
"I would like a few minutes to think about this." She would prefer a week, a month, a year, but doubted her uncle would be so considerate of her feelings to allow even one hour.
"As you like."
Christine watched him stride through the doorway, wishing there was a door there to allow more privacy. She heard the murmur of voices, her uncle's harsh in demand, followed by the Count's clipped order for silence.
She desperately yearned for a safe haven away from her uncle and that she need never deal with his interference in her life again. The Count offered that and more, asking in return only to teach her to sing, which though he may not know it, had long been a desire – for someone of musical excellence to instruct her. He required her loyalty and respect, both of which she felt able to give. He had saved her a handful of times, saving her from herself, saving her from danger. She could trust him.
What niggled at her mind was his unsolicited presence in her bedchamber on the night of the ball. Passion had spiraled between them, heavy and sweet, but he offered her a passionless, dry marriage. The last time they met near the forest, he kissed her with the thirst of a man who'd found an oasis in her embrace. So he was not unaffected by her presence…
And yet, he offered her a clinical marriage, in name only.
Could she trust him to honor his word? Could she marry absent of love, which went against every grain of what she'd always wanted, even if it was only to be for a year? Could she truly enter into such a cold, methodical arrangement?
And once the year was complete, could she actually seek annulment when Mama Valerius had so often told her that marriage was sacred?
Christine sank with a sense of desperation and despair to the piano bench, nowhere nearer to arriving at a decision than when the Count had left the room minutes ago.
xXx