Page 27 of Marrying Bluebeard

And then I hear it.

Mournful wails vibrate through the walls, and I freeze, bracing myself for the inevitable rush of spirits. When none appear, I turn to Bertrand with wide, questioning eyes. He gives his head a subtle shake, glancing at the old man who seems oblivious to the spectral noises. All right. I’ll hold my questions—for now. But later I’m going to need answers, damn it. I try to convey as much with my eyes, but from the way Bertrand’s lips twitch—the first sign of a smile all day—I suspect the feeling I’m giving off is more angry kitten than menacing. I’ll have to work on my glare.

Bertrand rests a hand on my lower back as he turns to the old man. “Edgar, I’d like you to meet my bride, Madame Adelaide de Montragoux. Adelaide, this is my butler, Edgar Durand.”

“A pleasure to meet the new mistress,” Edgar says, taking my dripping umbrella with a bow.

“The pleasure is mine,” I reply, attempting to keep my voice even despite the keening sound that continues to fill the entry hall.

Edgar turns to Bertrand. “I expect you’ll want her to clean up before heading to the tower. I’ll have Louise prepare a bath in her room.” He glances at my soaked dress and adds, “There should be an assortment of clothes in there, as well. I’m sure she can find something suitable to use until your trunks arrive.”

And apparently I’m the equivalent of a house pet for all this man is concerned. Wonderful. And what’s all this about a tower? I open my mouth to ask that very question, but Bertrand beats me to it.

“Actually, Edgar, Adelaide will be sharing my room, so you can tell Louise to prepare the bath in there. As for the tower, it’ll have to wait. The trip was long, and I’m tired.”

“But, sir.” Edgar pales, his round eyes darting up the stairwell. “You’re expected…”

“It. Can. Wait.” Bertrand gives the butler a look that forbids any further discussion on the subject.

Edgar swallows. “As you say, sir.”

“Now then.” I let out a squeal as Bertrand scoops me into his arms, and he returns my surprised gaze with a wink. “It’s high time I showed you the master suite.”

I vaguely note Edgar clucking with disapproval as Bertrand carries me up the stairs, but it’s the weeping ghosts I’m more concerned with. It must show on my face, as Bertrand dips his head, lips brushing my ear as he whispers, “They’ll settle down soon. It’s the storm stirring them up, is all. They’re really quite harmless, I promise.”

I nod against his chest, my arms wrapping around him. I have nothing to gain by doubting him, so I choose to trust instead. To believe that everything is going to be fine, just fine.

18

ADELAIDE

For the next three days, we remain sequestered in Bertrand’s—that is, our—chambers. The storm that struck upon our arrival persists, with the howling wind and pounding rain blending seamlessly with the moans that drift through the walls each night, to the point where the sounds have become almost soothing. And while I’m curious about the rest of the castle, its exploration can wait. Draped over the chaise lounge in nothing but a silk robe with Bertrand’s skilled fingers and industrious tongue between my legs, I’m content to linger in our love nest for the time being.

As Bertrand feasts on me like a man half-starved, my own cries join the cacophony, and it isn’t until the last wave of pleasure ebbs that I hear the persistent knocking. I blush as I secure my robe. How long has someone been standing out there? It seems too much to hope my unrestrained noises might have been lost amid the din.

Bertrand licks his lips as he stands. “Stay right there,” he commands, grinning wickedly. “I’m not even close to being done with you.”

I sink into the chaise, hands layered over my burning face. “Bertrand, please. They’ll hear you.”

“Too bad for them, because I’m not planning to share.”

“Bertrand. The door.”

He smirks, giving me a last, lingering look before turning to admit our visitor. “Yes to the cakes but no on the tea. I think we’d both prefer wine tonight,” he says, looking far too tempting with his mussed hair and low-slung pants. I wish he’d put a shirt on first. Louise, the maid who’s been attending us, is young and delicately beautiful. I can’t help but feel a stab of jealousy when I see the two of them together, which is ridiculous seeing as they haven’t shown even an ounce of interest in each other. I clench my fist, the urge to push Bertrand aside and scratch the girl’s eyes out for daring to look upon him in his current state making me tense.

What is wrong with you? She’s just doing her job.

A man’s gruff voice interrupts my unsettling thoughts. “You know damn well I’m not here to bring you any bloody cakes.”

I know that voice. It belongs to Bertrand’s valet, Ricard. I met him briefly the morning after we arrived, when he came to see if Bertrand needed anything. After which they’d proceeded to hold a hushed conversation in the hallway that ended with Ricard stomping off in a huff. He’s awfully bold for a servant, I muse. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a valet speak so brazenly before.

Bertrand, however, seems unperturbed by his man’s lack of decorum. “If you’re not here to feed us, I suggest you bugger off. My wife and I are occupied at the moment.”

“That’s why I’m here, sir.” Ricard’s voice drops, and I can barely hear his next words. “It’s been three days, and you’ve yet to bring her up to the tower.”

Bertrand’s reply is a low growl. “We’re busy.”

“The stores are empty,” Ricard persists in a hushed whisper. “There won’t be any refills until you do.”