“Sweet Jesu, help me,” she whispered. “Somebody help me.”
Then past Danton’s shoulder she caught a glimpse of something that dazzled her eyes. Sunlight glinted off a full suit of shining armor. Gabrielle blinked, slowly bringing into focus the shadowy figure of a man, a tall proud warrior with dark gold hair, trim beard, and eyes the tender shade of night.
“R-remy,” Gabrielle breathed, her heart lifting with a surge of desperate hope. “Ah, Remy. Help me, please.”
To her horror, Remy merely gazed down at her dispassionately, then his lips curled with scorn, his eyes going cold and hard. He turned away from her in disgust, melting into the sunlight.
“No, Remy. C-come back. Please, come back—”
Gabrielle’s ragged sobs woke her at last. Her eyes flew open and she stared wildly about the room, trying to regain her bearings, convince herself she truly was safe here in her bedchamber in Paris, not trapped on the floor of that barn.
Heart thudding, she drew sharp quick breaths, willing the nightmare back to the shadows of her mind from whence it had come. But the dream clung to her like a gritty layer of silt.
Gabrielle sat up, realizing that both her nightgown and the sheets were soaked in sweat. The feel of her own clammy skin revolted her and she fought aside the covers, stumbling in her haste to scramble out of the bed.
She tugged and yanked at her fine lawn nightgown, nearly tearing the damp, clinging fabric as she wrenched it off over her head. Gabrielle staggered over to the washstand and splashed water from the blue-trimmed enamel ewer into the bowl. Snatching up a piece of scented soap and a sponge, she proceeded to scrub herself as vigorously as she had that day after Danton had finished with her.
Her fingers trembled so badly the soap slipped from her grasp, plopping back into the washbowl. She could scarce keep a grip on the sponge either and let it go, bracing her hands along the sides of the washstand, breathing hard in an effort to steady herself.
She had not had that horrid dream for such a long time, Gabrielle had finally hoped she was done with it. The nightmare had always been far too vivid, forcing her to relive every dreadful moment of that day in the barn. But it wasn’t what Danton had done to her that left Gabrielle so shaken this time. No, it was Remy’s intrusion into the dream, Remy refusing to help her, Remy turning his back on her in disgust.
“Oh, God!” Gabrielle groaned, biting down hard on her lip to still its trembling, hot tears leaking from her eyes, splashing down her cheeks. She sniffed hard, taking a shuddering breath.
“Get hold of yourself, girl,” she admonished herself. “It was only a dream, only a bloody dream.”
But it wasn’t, her heart whispered back. Remy did regard her with disgust. He did despise her now and he likely would not ever lift one finger to come to her aid. Gabrielle swallowed hard to stifle a wrenching sob. All the hurt she had refused to let herself feel over Remy’s rejection welled up inside her in such an aching flood, it threatened to bring her to her knees.
She felt chilled to the bone, shaking so hard that her teeth chattered. Gabrielle stumbled about the room until she managed to locate her dressing gown. Somehow she got it on, wrapping the silk folds tightly around her naked body, but still she trembled.
Her gaze lit upon an object left on the window seat, the moonlight pouring through the glass panes glinting off the steely length of the sword, the same one Gabrielle had dropped in the courtyard earlier . . . Remy’s sword.
When Bette had come upstairs to clean up the debris of shattered bottles, she must have left the sword for Gabrielle to find. Gabrielle lurched across the room and snatched up the weapon, her fingers gripping the hilt as though it was the last possession of any value left to her.
She clutched it desperately, hoping to feel some of the old protective strength she’d always sensed from Remy’s sword. Remy who now hated her, who regarded her with such contempt. Ah, that was because he had finally seen the terrible flaw in her, Gabrielle thought, tears streaming down her cheeks. All the shameful stains on her soul left by her degradation at Danton’s hands.
But it had all been her own fault. She remembered sitting there on the rough floor, clutching her torn bodice over her bruised skin. She had confronted Danton with a hurt and dazed look. “How—how could you do this to me, Etienne? I thought you were a man of honor.”
“I am a man of honor,” he’d muttered, avoiding her eyes as he hitched up his trunk hose. “Whatever I did, you made me do. You bewitched me past all bearing.”
It had been then that Gabrielle had realized the harsh truth about herself. Beyond the artistry of her deft fingers, her skills with paint and brush, she possessed a far darker magic, the ability to drive a man out of his senses with desire, even to the point of committing unspeakable acts.
And in that moment, Gabrielle had felt that the part of her that could see beauty in every leaf, every blade of glass, the part that could breathe life into unicorns or put fairy lights in a little girl’s eyes . . . that part of her had withered and died.
As the hot tears blurred her vision, Gabrielle blinked hard and lifted her head, catching a glimpse of her own reflection in the windowpanes. She saw a wild-eyed woman clutching a sword, her damp hair hanging lusterless about her shoulders, the set of her mouth looking bitter and old.
Lord, Gabrielle sighed. She truly was ugly. She wondered why Remy hadn’t seen it sooner. Rubbing the tears from her eyes, she stared down at the sword she had clasped by her side, wondering what she should do with the thing.
She should find out where Remy was staying and have it returned to him, but something inside her rebelled at the thought. No, damn it, why should she return the sword? Remy had obviously wasted no time in acquiring another and Gabrielle might well have need of this one. Considering how Remy had threatened her . . .
Gabrielle raised the blade of the sword before her and laughed, to think of herself proposing to cross swords with the mighty Scourge. But the sound was a little shrill, unable to lighten the heavy ache in her heart.
She had realized that she and Remy could no longer be friends, but never in her worst nightmares had she ever thought they could become bitter enemies. But what else had she imagined would happen, Gabrielle chided herself. After she had so foolishly announced her intentions of seducing Navarre and keeping him in Paris. The king that Remy considered it his duty to rescue. And heaven knows nothing ever came between Nicolas Remy and his duty.
Gabrielle lowered the sword and propped it in the corner. Nothing would ever come between Gabrielle Cheney and her ambition either, she thought, squaring her shoulders. No matter how hard Remy might seek to prevent it, Gabrielle would have Navarre. Had not the great Nostradamus himself predicted it?
Gabrielle sat down on the window seat, and drawing her knees up to her chin, she hugged them close and peered out the glass panes. The sky that had been so misty earlier in the evening was now sharp and clear, the stars themselves seeming to chart the way to Gabrielle’s future.
Oh, she knew very well what her mother would have said to such a notion. Evangeline Cheney had been skeptical of Nostradamus’s predictions even when the seer was alive. Maman had had even less faith in astrology.
“Your fate is not writ in some distant stars, my dear heart,” Maman had once told her. “It rests entirely in your own choices.”
Gabrielle had made her choice that long-ago day when she had left Remy standing alone on the riverbank. Even before that, she reflected sadly, when she had let Etienne Danton take her by the hand and lead her into that barn.
Once she had accepted the dark magic inside herself, Gabrielle had learned to use her charms and outward beauty, honing her very body into a weapon capable of ensnaring any man, even a king. Never again would she feel so weak and helpless as she had been that day she’d lost her innocence.
She would be powerful and strong, as formidable as the Dark Queen. At least she would tomorrow. But as she stared up at that vast cold sky, tonight all Gabrielle felt w
as very small and alone.
She ached desperately for someone’s strong arms to steal around her, comfort her, hold her close. But those would never be Remy’s arms. He would never want to touch her again.
Instead, Gabrielle felt herself longing for Ariane. Her older sister had often driven Gabrielle to distraction with her attempts to mother, to teach and protect. But now Gabrielle wanted nothing more than to be back on Faire Isle, to bury her face in Ariane’s lap and pour out her woes while Ariane stroked her hair.
But her older sister despised her as much as Remy did, Gabrielle thought bleakly. As the Lady of Faire Isle, full of a great healing magic, wise, gentle, and good, Ariane was the sort of woman who inspired love in men, not lust. She had the respect of the people on the island and beyond, the admiration of all other daughters of the earth and the adoration of her Comte de Renard.
Gabrielle despondently rested her chin upon her knees. There was no way her older sister could ever understand her. Just like the life she led, Ariane was perfect.
Chapter Seven
The Château Tremazan perched at the crest of the hill like some stone-faced warlord surveying the valley below. The turrets and crenellated battlements bore the aspect of a grim and forbidding fortress. But the bedchamber located on the highest level of the keep more resembled a room in a prosperous farmhouse. The lime-washed walls were as unpretentious as the polished wood floor, the surface scattered with braided rugs.
The furnishings were likewise simple, some sturdy chairs, a few tables, a heavy chest situated at the foot of a four-poster bed curtained in a blue silk the same shade as the cloudless summer sky. A breeze drifted through the open windows, stirring the bed curtains and carrying with it the scents of the world far below, freshly cut meadow grass, a hint of rose petals, and an earthier tang emanating from the stableyard.
The breeze was soft and warm as it whispered over the heated flesh of the two lovers entangled in the sheets. Ariane Deauville, the Comtesse de Renard, lay naked beneath her husband, her chestnut-colored hair fanned across the pillow, her gray eyes narrowed to hazy slits. Her breath issued in quick sighs as Justice Deauville braced himself above her, his mouth blazing a hot trail of kisses along the curve of her neck.
The comte was a formidable figure in all respects, large, well over six feet of raw bones and hard muscle. His face, with his hooded green eyes, lantern jaw, and battered nose was enough to frighten many a brave man, especially when the comte was angered. But as Renard hovered over his wife, taking great care not to crush her beneath his massive frame, his harsh features were softened by a flush of passion and tenderness.
“Ma chère,” he said huskily, his sun-streaked light brown hair tumbling forward as he kissed her lips, teasing her with the hot thrust of his tongue.
As Renard settled himself between her legs, Ariane closed her eyes and wrapped her arms about his neck, drawing him close. But Ariane’s arousal eluded her, her mind consumed by one thought, one wish, one prayer.
“Oh, please, dear God, let this be the time. Let Renard fill me with a child.”
She could feel Renard’s hardened shaft teasing against the nest of curls between her legs, prolonging their joining with tantalizing slowness. Ariane reached between them, guiding him in with an impatient upward thrust of her hips. Mouth set in a determined line, she began to rock against him in a pulsing rhythm.
“Chérie.” Renard’s gasp was part endearment, part protest as Ariane quickened the pace. He stiffened his body in resistance, whispering kisses across her brow.
“Chérie, there . . . is . . . no . . . need . . . for such haste. We have . . . all . . . afternoon.”
Ariane only tightened her grip and drove him harder, panting from her efforts. She worked at him with ever-increasing urgency, returning his kisses with something akin to desperation while her thoughts urged him to fulfillment.
Renard kissed her again and again, the heat of his tongue mating with hers as he breathed words of love against her lips. Ariane could tell he was doing his best to slow the pace, to bring her to the brink of arousal. But she refused to allow that, urging him on with a single-minded purpose.
A child . . . a little daughter. Grant me a girl child.
Ariane wrapped her legs tighter around Renard, pressing her heels against his hard, flat buttocks, using them like spurs to drive him on. Showing no mercy until she broke Renard’s resistance. With a groan, he pumped harder and harder until at last Ariane felt him shudder with his release. Though he took care not to collapse on top of her, Renard was breathing as hard as a mighty destrier winded after a battle.
“Sweet Jesu, woman!” he gasped, resting his forehead against her shoulder. Her own heart pounding hard, Ariane caressed the damp strands of his hair. She released a shaky breath, torn between triumph and doubt. Had she succeeded this time? Had the miracle of conception occurred?
Renard lifted his head to brush a quick kiss against her lips. He levered himself off of her, collapsing on his back, blowing out another gusty breath.
“Mon Dieu! That was . . . certainly . . . vigorous.”
Ariane only smiled, carefully arranging herself, keeping her knees drawn, her pelvis tilted lest one precious drop of Renard’s seed escape her. He shifted to his side, reaching out to draw her back into his arms, cradle her close to his heart.
Ariane resisted, pushing his hands away. “No, let me remain like this awhile longer. It might help, give your seed every chance to move deeper into my womb.”
Renard flopped onto his back again. “Your pardon, ma chère. I forgot. We were not making love. We were making a babe,” he said in a flat, disappointed tone.
Ariane was dismayed to see the frown creasing Renard’s brow. “But you know that I have been carefully charting my monthly courses and when the time was right—”
“Yes, yes,” Renard grumbled. “It is only that I am starting to feel a bit like a stallion put to stud.”
Ariane chuckled, striving to lighten his mood. “And a truly magnificent stallion you are.” She skated her knuckles over the hard plane of his sweat-dampened chest.
“I did give you pleasure, did I not?” she demanded.
Renard caught her hand and carried her fingertips lightly to his lips. “But of course, chérie. When have you ever not?”
He released her hand and rolled to his side, raising himself onto one elbow so he could peer intently down at her. “The real question is, did I pleasure you?”
“Why . . . why certainly,” Ariane lied, seeking to avoid his eyes.
Renard seized her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His frown deepened.
“No. I thought as much.” He sank back down on his pillow, flinging one arm across his brow, looking annoyed and frustrated.
Ariane silently cursed the old witch of a grandmother who had taught Justice the art of reading eyes, something that only the daughters of the earth were supposed to know. Renard was far too infernally good at it.
“All right,” Ariane said. “So perhaps I did not quite reach my—my usual peak. I was looking for fulfillment of a different sort. My pleasure didn’t matter—”
“Didn’t matter!” Renard growled, sitting bolt upright. “Didn’t matter? Perhaps not if you were some hired wench who was only concerned with the size of my purse. But I would like to think that my wife found more satisfaction in my arms than that.”
“Oh, Justice—” Ariane cried, but Renard shoved to his feet and stalked over to the washstand, his broad back and hard buttocks toward her. After pouring the contents of the ewer into the washbowl, he splashed the water over his face, using both hands.
Ariane sighed, torn between her need to remain positioned as she was and her desire to go to Renard and soothe his wounded male pride. For all that he claimed to have the hide of an elephant, her mighty husband was as vulnerable as any man when it came to his prowess in the bedchamber.
She watched as Renard scrubbed himself in terse silence, no doubt preparing to get dressed and return to
his afternoon chores. Ariane gingerly rose from the bed. Stealing up behind him, she brushed the damp strands of brown hair away from his neck.
Renard stiffened a little at her touch, but otherwise ignored her, scrubbing the sponge up the long reach of his sinewy arm. A tall woman herself, Ariane still had to stretch a little to press a kiss to the nape of his neck.
“Justice, you know I love you,” she murmured. “I feel great joy each time you touch me, even at your slightest caress.”
“So you say, milady.”
Ariane ducked around him and wriggled in between him and the washbasin.
“Here, let me do that,” she coaxed, reaching for the sponge. Renard resisted for a moment, then surrendered the sponge to her.
He stood, legs braced slightly apart, hands on hips, staring fixedly at some point above her head as Ariane lathered the sponge across the broad region of his chest. She worked slowly, lovingly, trying her best to make it up to him for her lack of response before. Her gaze roved admiringly over her husband’s large, masculine frame.
Although Ariane found him almost shatteringly beautiful, Renard did not view himself as an attractive man. He was not classically handsome, his skin not white and smooth like many elegant noblemen who seemed like they had been cut from some skilled tailor’s silken cloth.
With his half-peasant ancestry, Renard was more like a man who had been fashioned from the earth itself, all flesh and bone and sinew. As Ariane dipped the sponge lower, she felt a responsive quiver in his loins. His male organ stirred beneath her hand and he drew in his breath with a gasp.
“No more of that, milady,” he said, seizing her wrist to stop her. “I have done my duty by you and I have other matters that require my attention.”
Ariane straightened, her cheeks stinging with hurt and embarrassment. “Why—why you talk as if I was some rapacious female out to use you for my own ends.”
Renard merely arched one eyebrow in expressive fashion, then stalked away from her, snatching up a linen towel to dry himself. Ariane plopped the sponge back in the washbowl, vexed by her twinge of guilt. Damn it! She was not acting to satisfy some rampaging lust, but for a child, their child, a blessing for both of them.