Page 2 of Her Dark Seduction
Chapter 1
“Wife, remove your clothes.”
Standing in the center of the solar, the cold of the stone floor seeped into the soles of my bare feet. The voice coming from the figure propped up in the bed by the far wall was harsh and showed far greater strength than the hand which had gripped mine when the priest had placed the wedding ring on my finger that morning.
From his bed, my new husband watched me. Clad in a white nightshirt, he looked like a ghostly apparition. His eyes gleamed like two fetid yellow orbs sunken into aging flesh. At that moment he reminded me of an emaciated wolf, hungry and vicious and relishing the anticipation of sinking its teeth into the warm, pulsating throat of a frightened rabbit in its path.
I was that rabbit.
He licked his lips as if to savor my terror, and I curled my hands into fists, fingers tightening against my slickened palms. I focused on the sharp sensation as I dug my nails in, and the effort caused a slight tremor in my arms but achieved its aim by preventing the rest of my body from shaking. I closed my eyes, wanting to hide within the darkness, which had terrified me as a child.
The loss of one of my senses heightened childhood memories. For a moment I was transported, and the smell of burning wood and oil, the sound of flames crackling in the air, enveloped me as I heard the whimpers, cries, and screams that had echoed around my father’s courtyard on that long ago, terrible day.
Coarse and grating, my husband’s voice brought me back to the present. “You will do as I bid, madam, or Monsieur Sawford will do it for you.”
“My Lord.”
A different voice spoke, softly, and I caught a slight movement to my left. A tall shape stepped forward, and in spite of myself, I turned my head.
It was Sawford, my husband’s manservant. He had been standing beside Lord Mortlock when I’d arrived at Mortlock Fort that morning. I had kept my head down as Papa helped me out of the carriage, and then focused on the ground as we followed the steward into the main hall. I’d looked up only once, when we’d approached two pairs of feet.
Two men had bowed to me—one, my betrothed, the other his manservant. I’d held out my hand to the younger man, to Sawford, thinking him to be the one I’d be marrying. But Papa had corrected me by steering me toward the outstretched hand of the older man. “Lisetta, would you humiliate me in front of your new husband?” he’d hissed.
The older man smiled then, curling his lip up and revealing his rotting yellow teeth. “No matter, Baron Shoreton. She will learn respect. She is young yet.”
I was hardly that. At four and twenty summers, I was considered by many as beyond marriageable age. Papa had refused many petitions for my hand, and I’d begun to prepare myself for retirement to the convent near Shoreton, until the news of Lady Mortlock’s death ignited his interest in opening betrothal negotiations. As Lord Mortlock looked older even than Papa, I doubted if my age would matter much to him.
The color rushed to my cheeks then as I kept my eyes downcast and studied the younger hand I had initially reached for. It was large, with long, slim fingers and it bore the tell-tale scars of a warrior, despite the man being a clerk.
Sawford had known I was staring for he flexed his fingers and let out a heavy breath, almost a sigh. I lifted my gaze to his face, but had been unable to meet his eyes. He was tall—considerably taller than I, with thick dark hair that almost reached his shoulders. A faint scar curled across his chin, giving him an air of brutality, and a slight growth of beard surrounded his mouth. His lips were full and sensual, yet exuded masculinity.
I unconsciously parted my own lips as I studied his mouth, running my tongue across my top lip to ease the sudden dryness. For a moment, the ghost of a smile flickered across his features, then slowly turned into a sneer. Lord save me, he’d known my mind. I forced my expression back into the mask I wore, which in the years since my mother’s death had begun to feel like my own skin. It was the mask of indifference and disdain, hiding my true feelings beneath. I’d learned that to harbor any sense of emotion, let alone love, led to one’s downfall. As a girl, I was the property of my Papa—as a bride, the property of my husband. To have feelings for any man and display them, would lead to ruination and death. I would not willingly share my mother’s fate.
“Sawford.”
I cringed at the rise of that ancient, sinister voice. Having successfully disposed of his daughter to secure his alliance with Mortlock, Papa had already left for Shoreton. I was on my own.
I sensed the man standing behind me before light fingertips touched my upper arm. I stepped away from him and, uncurling my fists, took my nightshift in both hands, pulled it over my head, then dropped the garment onto the floor. My skin tightened with a combination of chill and revulsion, but I lifted my head and looked my husband in the eye, swallowing any shame at my nudity. I forced myself to remain calm, despite the fact my stomach churned and threatened to expel what little I’d managed to force down during the wedding feast.
From a distance, my new husband inspected me. The bruises on my stomach from Papa’s last beating were fading but the bridegroom showed no sign of seeing them.
I stood there, naked, expecting to be summoned to join him in the bed, but the order did not come. Instead, I watched as he slipped his hand under the bed fur near his waist. For a moment he gazed at me, then he closed his eyes and gave out a strangled grunt. His hand then reappeared and he wiped it on the fur.
My wedding night.
Papa had told me a wife’s sole purpose was to serve her husband’s needs and yet, the scraps of conversations I’d overheard when the servants at Shoreton gossiped about their lovers told a different story—a story of pleasure.
However, looking at my new husband, it became all too clear Papa was right. There would be no pleasure.
“Come closer.” At my husband’s bidding, I moved toward the bed until he raised his hand.
“Far enough, woman. Sawford, you know what to do.”
From behind me, I heard the sound of material tearing. I looked around in fear, not knowing what horrors my husband had in store for me, and I suppressed a cry as my gaze met the manservant’s for the first time. His eyes were a brilliant, icy blue, radiating a sharp intelligence. I saw a flash of a flame in them before it was extinguished, and he regarded me coldly. My skin tightened at his searching expression, which began to strip away my calm exterior and plunder the depths of my mind until I had nowhere to hide. I could withstand the physical nudity of having my body on display for my husband’s pleasure, but Sawford’s gaze had the power to expose my mind and render me completely naked. I took a step back, unwittingly into the candlelight, widening my eyes at the glint of a knife in his hand, yet he was the one who stopped and murmured under his breath as he looked at me.
A low chuckle came from the bed. “My wife has eyes to drown in, does she not, Sawford?”
The servant said nothing as he held up my shift and continued to tear it into pieces.
