Bride of the Beast by Sue-Ellen Welfonder Read Free Book Online Page B

needn't fear de la Hogue, my lady." Marmaduke held her gaze, his own cares, his disappointments, forgotten. "He will regret the day he drew his first breath if he dare so much as look at you. On that, I give you my solemn oath."
    Averting her gaze, she stared into the darkness, the brisk sea wind whipping his cloak about her legs. "T hank you," she said, her pride doing visible battle with her need of him.
    Marmaduke struggled with his own battered pride. "I came here to help you, but if it is a husband you seek and you will not wed me, then what it is you would have me do?"
    "Your men," she said, looking back at him. "I beseech you to persuade one of them to marry me. A marriage in name only ... to protect Dunlaidir and my stepson."
    Marmaduke frowned at the rekindled hope rising in his breast upon hearing her words.
    "Fair lady, I must disappoint you." He hated the way her face fell, loathed himself for seeing his own good fortune in the crushing of hers.
    She looked down. "They are already wed," she said, correctly guessing the reason for his denial.
    "All save Lachlan , the youngest. And even he is spoken for. The lad left behind a much-loved maid who eagerly awaits his return."
    She closed her eyes for a moment. "Then there remains only you."
    Marmaduke nodded, his throat too thick to speak.
    "Then so be it," she said, the moon's pale light falling full on her face and leaving no doubt about her distaste for the notion. "But a marriage in name only."
    Easing his cloak from her shoulders, she handed it to him, then slipped through the half-opened door before he could stop her.
    Or warn her he meant to win her heart.
    He took a step forward, but already she was gone, swallowed up by the darkness of the stairwell, leaving him alone.
    Alone with the cold night and the heavy weight of his mantle, still warm from her body heat, indelibly branded with her scent.
    For a long while, Marmaduke remained where he stood and looked out at the sea, the cloak clutched in his arms. The moon was higher now and, may God forgive him for taking advantage of her plight, so were his spirits.
    Lifting a calloused hand to his face, he retraced the path of her fingers. Saints, he'd almost swear his scar yet tingled from her touch.
    He knew his heart was still affected.
    A marriage in name only.
    Marmaduke blew out a long breath. He wanted more, so much more. He wanted to love again ... and to be loved.
    But a marriage in any form was better than none at all. It was a start ... a beginning.
    More than he'd dared hope for a scant hour before.
    Once more, his fingers strayed along his scar, moved gingerly over the ever-tender lid of his bad left eye.
    A dark oath welled up inside him, but he willed it away. Now was not the time for pity. And in truth, his scars were paltry compared to the deep ones Lady Caterine carried inside.
    His were on the outside for all to see, while hers were hidden within.
    Unseen and grave, but by no means permanent like his.
    Hers could be erased.
    Banished with time, care, and the abiding love of a man willing to give her his heart.
    And able to conquer hers.
    Squaring his mail-clad shoulders, Marmaduke made a pact with the silent night. "I will vanquish her scars and win her love," he vowed, the distant stars and the impervious sea his only witnesses.
    "And none shall stop me," he said to the darkness in his heart as much as to the blackness surrounding him.
    Not even her own sweet, proud self.
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    in the gloom of earliest morn, nothing stirred in Dunlaidir's cobbled bailey save thick tendrils of mist curling along the ground and drifting between the stronghold's deserted outbuildings like a phalanx of spectral sentries.
    Naught disturbed the breaking day save the hiss and zing of Marmaduke's sword arcing through the silence. A furious onslaught aimed at the demons e'er lurking along the darkest edge of his soul.
    Vile miscreations endlessly eager to mock him with every disappointment,