Demon's Bride by Zoe Archer Page A

we wait a little. Get to know each other more.”
    “Oh.” Relief poured through her. Relief and ... disappointment. Mainly, however, she felt a great burden lift.
    He settled deeper under the covers, and it felt very odd, sharing a bed with a man—the size of him, his weight upon the mattress. Several inches separated their bodies, but she felt his ambient heat. Caught the traces of his skin’s own scent.
    If this weren’t so strange, she might enjoy sleeping beside him. Unless ... he didn’t want to share a bed at all. She began to slide out from beneath the bedclothes, but his hand stopped her once more.
    “Where are you going?” he demanded.
    “To my bedchamber.”
    “This is your bedchamber.”
    Even in the darkness, she blinked at him. “I don’t have my own bedroom?” Her parents slept apart. If her circle of friends was to be believed, all husbands and wives did.
    “The idea that a husband and wife should sleep apart is ridiculous,” he rumbled. “That’s for aristos, not peasants like me.” He tugged on her wrist, and she had no choice but to edge back beneath the covers. “Whatever our arrangement for now, know this, Anne. You are my wife. I am your husband. We will always share a bed.”
    Simple words, yet her heartbeat raced when she heard them. “As you like.”
    He released his grip on her, and exhaled. “Don’t like it at all. Not now. But I will ... at some point. Now sleep.”
    He continued to baffle her. Yet he was her husband, and according to the law and to the Church, that made him her master. “Good night, Leo.”
    “Good night, Anne.”
    He rolled over heavily. Within a few minutes, his breathing slowed and deepened. He slept.
    Leaving her alone and awake, staring into the dark.
     
     
    It didn’t surprise Anne to wake up alone. She had slept alone her whole life, and to stretch in bed and find the space beside her empty was no different than any other morning. Except, as she stretched, her arms wide, her fingers did not meet the edge of the bed. And the sheets smelled of tobacco and spice, not lavender.
    This was not her bed. She suddenly remembered: she was married now. Married, but a virgin. Leo had touched her, and it had been both wonderful and terrible, until fear had overtaken her with humiliating ferocity. He’d been kind, and stopped. They had then spent the whole of the night together, chaste as schoolfellows. Now he was gone.
    Her eyes opened to images of menacing flowers and vines tipped with thorns. The bed hangings. She pushed the fabric back to reveal the room. Someone had come in during the early hours to tend the fire, but now Anne was by herself. The drawn curtains kept the chamber dark, and it seemed that shadows congealed in the corners, trying to take shape.
    She shook her head at her foolishness. Merely an adjustment to life in a new house.
    The gilt bronze clock on the mantel showed the time to be well after nine. Not an unusual time for her to awaken, but perhaps Leo liked to rise earlier. He probably waited for her to join him for breakfast downstairs. Though their marriage had begun in a rather ... unconventional manner, she did not want him thinking her indolent and spoiled. He was a man of business, of industry. As his wife, she should be just as industrious.
    Anne slid out of bed. As she padded toward the closet to make use of the close stool, the chill of the floor seeped into her feet and up her legs. Baffling, that. The fire should have taken the cold from the room.
    After tending to her needs and washing up, she emerged from the closet and found the curtains pulled back and an apron-wearing girl waiting for her.
    “Good morning, madam.” The girl bobbed a curtsy. She couldn’t have been more than a year younger than Anne. “I’m Meg, your maid.”
    Anne had always shared a maid with her mother, as the family could not afford the expense of two, so to have one all to herself seemed a tremendous luxury. It seemed odd, though, that Meg had