She blushed prettily. “Thank you, Lord Drake,” she replied, emphasizing the last two words.
He lifted one brow.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a title?”
“It is merely a title of respect,” he said with a shrug. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Keeping hold of her hand, he led her into the hall where the priest waited. “Elena, this is Father Andrew. He will be performing the ceremony.”
Elena smiled tentatively. “Good evening, Father.”
Rising, the priest offered her his hand. “Good evening, my child.”
Elena smiled at the man and woman who were to be their witnesses. She thought they both looked ill at ease. Certainly they didn’t believe the rumors about ghosts in the castle?
Elena tried to concentrate on what the priest was saying, but she couldn’t stop stealing glances at Drake. He was devastatingly handsome in a pair of black trousers, black boots, and a long black coat over a white silk shirt. When he looked at her, a thousand butterflies took wing in the pit of her stomach. Was it fear? Or excitement? Or perhaps a bit of both?
When he squeezed her hand, she realized Father Andrew was waiting for her response. She blinked at the priest. If she said yes, there was no turning back, no changing her mind. How could she marry a man she hardly knew?
Panicked, she looked up at Drake. The calm assurance in his eyes drove her uncertainty away. Lifting her chin, she murmured, “I do.”
A rush of heat warmed her cheeks when the priest pronounced them man and wife. And then Drake was lifting her veil, taking her into his arms, lowering his head to kiss her, and everything else faded into the distance. There was only a pair of strong arms to hold her, a pair of firm lips playing over hers, his tongue teasing her own. She leaned into him, wanting to be closer. A soft moan rose in her throat as she slid her fingers up his nape to curl in his hair.
A cough reminded her they weren’t alone. She moved away from Drake, her cheeks burning with embarrassment when she saw the priest and the witnesses staring at her, mouths agape.
Mortified, Elena turned her back to them.
Moments later, she heard the creak of the front door opening as Drake ushered the priest and the other two people out of the castle.
The sound of the door closing brought a sense of relief, and an unexpected rush of anxiety. She was Drake’s wife now. If he chose not to honor his promise to leave her chaste, there was nothing she could do about it. It was a husband’s right to make love to his wife and no one would condemn him for it. She was his now, for better or worse.
“You have not eaten, wife,” he said when he returned.
“No.”
He gestured at the trestle table in the hall. “Sit,” he said, and left the room.
Already giving her orders, Elena thought with a flash of resentment, but she did as she was told, noting that the table was covered with a clean white cloth. Several vases filled with primroses and yellow daisies were grouped in the center, surrounded by a number of flickering red candles set in wrought-iron holders.
Drake returned moments later carrying a large covered tray. He placed it before her, then removed the lid with a flourish, revealing a roasted hen on a bed of rice, a small loaf of fresh bread, a pot of butter and another of honey. Lastly, there was a bottle of wine and two delicate crystal goblets.
“There’s only one plate and one set of silverware.” Elena looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
“Have you forgotten that I prefer to take my meals alone?”
“No. Why didn’t you tell me you were rich?”
“You never asked.”
“But . . . why do you live here, in this old castle? I mean, it’s lovely, but there’s no plumbing or electricity or . . . or anything.”
“I have other holdings that are more modern,” he said, “but every now and then, I like to come here for a while and meditate.” Sitting in a chair across from hers, he filled the wineglasses, then offered her one. “A toast,” he said, touching his goblet lightly to hers, “to my bride. I give you my oath that I will cherish and protect you for as long as you wish.”
He watched as she lifted the glass to her lips, his gaze moving to her throat as she swallowed. Sipping from his own glass, he could not help wishing that it was his wife’s sweet nectar flowing smoothly over his tongue.
Elena kept her gaze on her plate as she ate her dinner. Nevertheless, she was acutely aware of her husband watching her every move. Perhaps that was what made her so careless as she cut a piece of chicken. She gave a little cry of dismay when the knife slipped in her hand. Blood welled from the shallow cut, dripping down the blade onto her plate.
Drake’s nostrils flared as the scent of warm, fresh blood filled the air. Reaching across the table, he took Elena’s hand in his, lifted it to his lips, and licked the blood from the wound. Sweet, he mused, sweeter by far than the finest wine.
Elena gasped, startled by his action, and by the sensual heat that curled in the center of her being when his mouth closed around her finger. She had licked her own blood before. Who hadn’t? It was a normal thing to do when one received a small cut—a scratch from a thorn or some other minor injury. But to have someone else do it was oddly erotic and slightly repulsive at the same time.
After a last lick, Drake tore a strip from her napkin and wrapped it around her finger.
Murmuring her thanks, Elena stared at him. What kind of man had she married?
It was a question that continued to plague Elena later that night when she went to bed. Lying there, she relived the evening.
After dinner, she had removed her veil, and then she and Drake had danced to music provided by an old-fashioned music box. Elena had never considered herself to be much of a dancer, had never really enjoyed it very much, but all that changed when she was in Drake’s arms. His very nearness caused her whole body to hum with pleasure as they waltzed around the room. She followed his lead as if she had been doing it for years.
“I never knew dancing was so much fun,” she had remarked with a shy smile.
“Neither did I, until tonight, wife.”
“You’re very light on your feet for such a big man.”
He arched one brow. “Do you find that odd?”
“Well, um, yes. I remember watching my uncle dance with my aunt when I was a little girl. He lumbered around the floor like a great clumsy bear.”
“And did he roar, as well?”
“Only when he was angry,” she had replied with a grin. “And he was angry most of the time.”