Page 79 of Bride By Mistake
Feeling vaguely superstitious, Luke paid for the shawl without haggling. He returned to his lodgings, climbed the stairs, and opened the door quietly, hoping to find his wife still in the bath. His body thrummed with anticipation.
The room was in semidarkness. His nostrils twitched and he frowned. What was that smell? Sweet, but… He shuddered. Roses, dammit. He could smell roses. He glanced around the room, his hackles rising. But there was nothing, no sign of—
In a dish on the washstand sat a small cake of soap, the soap Isabella had found at the market. He hadn’t thought to check it. He approached it gingerly and sniffed. Rose-scented. Faugh! It was enough to choke a man.
He opened the window and threw the offending soap as far as he could, then washed his hands clean of the stink. He returned to the open window and took several deep breaths of clean air. It was cold, but better fresh air that froze than the warm stink of roses. He left the window open.
He turned to his wife, who’d lain quietly in bed the whole time, not even commenting on him throwing her soap out. His body wasn’t quite as aroused as it had been before the soap incident, but that was all to the good. He planned to take things slowly.
“Isabella?” He leaned over her.
She didn’t move. Feigning sleep, he decided. It would do her no good.
He unknotted his neckcloth and paused to watch her breathing. A deep, even rhythm. Dammit, it was no act. She’d been yawning the last couple of hours.
First she’d refused him, then she’d fallen asleep on him. Luke could hardly believe it. He wasn’t used to female rebuffs; couldn’t ever recall receiving one. And no woman had ever fallen asleep on him, not before he’d made love to her.
He stared down at her peaceful, sleeping face, and a spurt of ironic laughter escaped him. Round one to his wife.
He quietly stripped down to his undershirt and drawers. Her hair was spread out over the pillow. He carefully gathered it up, lifted it out of the way, and placed it so he wouldn’t lie on it and pinch her. He slipped into bed and lay on his side, facing her.
Damp tendrils clustered around her hairline.He leaned forward to touch his mouth to her pale, velvety nape, and his nostrils twitched. Dammit, she smelled of roses. She stirred and muttered something in her sleep.
He turned his back on her and lay on the far edge of the bed, but still the faint scent of roses reached him.He picked up his shirt, draped it over his face, and tried to sleep.
Twelve
Luke tried to resist, to get away from the vile thing, but he was tied hand and foot, trussed like an animal for slaughter, and all he could do was thrash his head and spit defiance.
Arrgh! The blade bit again, searing hot, icy cold. He clenched his teeth against the scream that threatened to burst from him. The smell of blood mingled with the stench of roses.
Roses, always roses, whenever she was here. La Cuchilla. He’d lost track of how long it had been…
“Don’t struggle, my pretty.” Her voice, so warm and caressing. “Give yourself over to the pain. Find the pleasure in it.” She leaned over him, frowning in concentration. Her breasts in the low-cut gown were inches from his face.
Exquisite agony with each slow, deliberate slice of her blade, the blade for which she was named: La Cuchilla. “It’s art,” she told him. “You should thank me. Your friend was not so lucky.” She smiled as she sliced into his flesh.
“Michael? What—” He bit down. The intense pain took him to the edge of fainting, but he would not… give in… Not… give… her the satis… faction…
“Stubborn boy, aren’t you, my love?” The husky tones were almost seductive as she carved another slice in his flesh.
“Where’s Michael?” he managed to gasp.
“Dead.”
Dead? He gave her a wild look and she smiled. “Yes, pretty boy, you failed. Your friend is dead. It was all for nothing…” She leaned back and examined his shoulder, then nodded. “I think that will do. This one is good,n’est-ce pas,René?”
“Sí,Rosa.” A man’s voice.
Rosa. La Cuchilla. Luke tried to fix it in his swirling brain. It might be important. If he survived this.
She took a handful of something. Black… sand? He squinted at it in the dim light. Some new torture?
She saw him looking. “Salt and ashes, dear boy. Nothing but salt and ashes. It is the final touch. I like to leave my favorites with a little gift, a small memento.” She applied a handful of the blackened salt to the open cuts on his chest. “Something to remember me by.”
The salt bit into his lacerated flesh, and Luke’s scream finally escaped…
“Luke? Luke, wake up! You’re dreaming, Luke.” She held him by the shoulders. The scent of roses filled his nostrils. “Bitch!” He shoved her away as hard as he could and—
