Remy was completely naked.
Muttering something incoherent, he levered himself off her. Springing from the bed, he groped about the floor until he found a pair of breeches. Gabrielle struggled up more slowly, trying to do the modest thing and avert her eyes. She had had many lovers and never any desire to look at any of them.
But their bodies had been weak and soft compared to the hard frame of a man who had spent his life soldiering. Remy had his back to her as he eased the fabric up over his sinewy thighs and the taut curve of his buttocks. Gabrielle could not help staring.
Remy darted a furtive look back at her. He finished doing up his breeches, then stalked over to the washstand, splashing so much water over his face, it was as if the man was trying to drown himself. Slicking back his hair, he wrenched the shutter open, letting the morning breeze play over his face and bare chest.
The eruption of sunlight into the room caused Gabrielle to blink. She shaded her eyes with her hand to peer at Remy. He braced one arm against the window frame, his face half-averted from her, but she noted the dark stain of red that began at his neck and crept all the way up into his cheeks.
An awkward silence ensued and Gabrielle sought for something to say. She was supposed to be capable of coming up with a witty rejoinder to cover any situation. Not just sit here, blushing like some foolish virgin.
Nervously twisting one strand of her hair, she said, “G-goodness, Remy, there is no need to be so embarrassed. It is not as though I have never seen a man naked before.”
She winced as soon as the words were out of her mouth, realizing that was not the best thing to remind him.
“I know that,” he replied. “And it is not as though I have that much modesty. It wasn’t you seeing me naked that bothers me. It was . . . the other thing.”
“What other—” Gabrielle began, only to break off as the realization struck her. It was her bearing witness to his vulnerability in the wake of his nightmare. That was what shamed Nicolas Remy to the depths of his proud warrior’s soul.
She understood all too well that raw feeling that came from exposing too much of one’s heart to a stranger. But she wasn’t a stranger. Despite everything that divided them, she was still very much his friend. Gabrielle followed him to the window. He tensed at her approach, presenting her with the rigid line of his back.
She rested one hand on Remy’s shoulder with a gentleness she rarely displayed. “Remy, everyone has bad dreams.”
“Soldiers don’t.” He added, in a voice laced with self-disgust, “At least if they do, they are not supposed to quake like a mewling boy.”
“No one would ever mistake you for a boy.” Gabrielle tugged at his arm, coaxed him round to face her. Remy shifted reluctantly and Gabrielle’s breath caught in her throat, the sunlight revealing to her what she had not noticed before.
Remy’s chest was a mass of scars, some only faint streaks, others jagged lines of white flesh that marred the smooth surface of his skin. Gabrielle clapped her hand to her mouth to smother her cry of horror.
Remy’s mouth tightened, but he attempted to jest. “Not a pretty sight, is it? I expect I look a lot better from the rear. If you’ll just hand me my shirt?”
Gabrielle scarcely heard his request. Remy was a man who’d fought in many battles and he’d always borne a few scars to prove it. But nothing like this. She traced the outline of one that was crueler than the rest, a harsh ridge that began at his shoulder and ended perilously near the region of his heart. She was able to picture too clearly the sword that had left this harsh mark upon him, tearing through skin and muscle. She could almost feel the cold sharp bite of the weapon piercing her own shoulder.
“Oh, Remy,” Gabrielle whispered, splaying her fingers over his chest, needing to feel the strong reassuring beat of his heart.
“It’s nothing to get so distressed about, my dear,” he said gruffly. “Just marks from a few old wounds.”
“The scars are from that night, aren’t they? St. Bartholomew’s Eve. And that is what you were dreaming about.”
“Perhaps. I don’t remember my dreams after I wake.”
He was lying. The memory of that nightmare was still etched in the lines that bracketed his mouth, in the shadows that haunted his eyes.
“You kept muttering something about a demon. A man whose face was hidden from you. A man you didn’t want to see. Who was it?”
“I have no idea. It was only a dream, a foolish dream.”
“But—”
“Just forget about it.”
Gabrielle recognized the note of finality in his voice, like a door being slammed closed in her face, because she had done it so often herself, fiercely guarding the raw places in her heart. She had just never experienced before how hard it was to be the one shut out.
She caressed his chest with both hands as though somehow she could rub out the scars, smooth away the painful memories as well. Remy’s flesh quivered as she continued her reckless exploration, becoming less aware of the scars and more aware of the man, the bold contours of his chest and arms, the powerful sculpting of muscle, the fine dusting of golden hair that disappeared beneath the band of his breeches.
She heard Remy’s breath quicken, realized the heat that surged into his face no longer had anything to do with embarrassment.
“I could take him to my bed, seduce him,” she had told Catherine.
Gabrielle was dismayed to realize it had not been an empty boast. How easy it would be to carry out that pledge, the more so because Gabrielle wanted Nicolas Remy in a way she had no man for a long time. Perhaps ever. The thought filled her with the familiar panic, made her afraid to meet his eyes.
She forced herself to do so and discovered him staring at her, the faint stubble of beard that roughened his jaw making him look lean and dangerous. But it was his dark, brooding expression that took her aback. His arousal was readily apparent but tempered with wariness.
He seized hold of her wrists and held her hands away from his chest, demanding, “What are you doing here this morning, Gabrielle? And how did you get in?”
This was hardly the greeting she had anticipated after helping Remy to see Navarre last night. She didn’t expect Remy to be grateful, but she thought they had reached a truce of sorts, that Remy might have come to trust her a little. Although—she wincedas she remembered the bargain she’d made with Catherine—there was not the least reason why he should.
Gabrielle yanked her hands free, whipping them almost guiltily behind her back. “I came in as one usually does, through the door. The door that you failed to lock.”
“I did lock the damned thing, but it’s broken. It doesn’t always catch.”
“Then I suggest you have it fixed. Because I noticed you haven’t asked me the most important question yet.”
“And that would be . . .”
“How did I know how to find you?”
“How did you?”
“Catherine very kindly furnished me with your address, even the false name you used to rent your lodgings. She had you followed when you left the palace last night.”
Remy received Gabrielle’s information with astonishing aplomb, his agitation only betrayed by the muscle that tightened in his jaw. Retrieving a discarded shirt, he dragged the white linen over his head.
“Then the Dark Queen knows—”
“Pretty damned near everything,” Gabrielle told him tersely. “She had us spied upon and is fully aware of the little meeting I arranged for you with Navarre.”
Remy eased his arms into the sleeves and then shrugged. After the hellish night she had spent fretting over him, terrified for his life, the man’s calm was maddening. Storming in front of him, Gabrielle placed her hands on the flat of her hips. “Remy! Did you hear what I am telling you? Catherine knows. You can’t risk staying here in Paris another day. It would be better if you were miles away from here.”
“Better for who?” Remy retorted. “If the Dark Queen knows everything, then why am I not de
ad? Or at least arrested. And you too.”
Because I pledged my soul to the woman and yours as well.
“I—I am not really sure,” Gabrielle hedged. “I believe I managed to convince her that you no longer pose a threat to her interests.”
“That must have taken some damned clever convincing.” Remy eyed her suspiciously. “Exactly how did you manage to do that?”
“I am a good liar. Besides, if she martyred you a second time, it would only add fuel to tensions between the Catholics and Huguenots. Catherine is finding civil war a costly business. She will likely want you back at court where she can keep an eye on you. You will be safe enough, but only for the moment.”
As long as she convinced the Dark Queen that she had Nicolas Remy under her spell, beneath her control and in her bed. But Gabrielle could well imagine Remy’s reaction if she told him that.
Instead she stretched one hand out to him in a pleading gesture. “Oh, Remy, please. Even you must see it is too dangerous for you to remain. You have to leave. Now.”
“I appreciate your concern,” he said tersely. “But I’ll stay and continue to take my chances.”
Ignoring her outstretched hand, he stepped around her, continuing to dress, tightening the drawstrings of his shirt. Gabrielle let her hand fall awkwardly back to her side. When she had parted from Remy on the backstairs of the palace, there had been something approaching the old warmth between them.
But there was an edge to Remy this morning, even a hint of hostility, and Gabrielle believed she knew the reason for it. He must have failed in his efforts at convincing Navarre to try and escape. She wasn’t that surprised. Despite his indolent manner, Henry was shrewd, a pragmatist who had only survived this long by never taking unnecessary chances.
Henry remaining in France was exactly what Gabrielle desired to further her own ambitions. But she found she could not rejoice over Remy’s failure. She suspected that Remy wanted Navarre to be a second King Arthur, imbued with all that legendary monarch’s courage and ideals, a man that Remy could serve and follow to the death. Just as Remy had once imagined her to be perfect, flawless and chaste.
It was astonishing that a soldier like Remy, who had seen so much of the ugliness in the world, the brutality of war, could still retain his own impossibly high standards of honor and expect others to do likewise. It was his most endearing and exasperating trait and made her long to wrap him in her arms and shield him from the disappointments he was doomed to suffer.
Although she doubted he would welcome any sympathy from her on the subject, she said softly, “So I am guessing from your grim demeanor that your meeting with Navarre did not go well. You weren’t able to persuade him to attempt the escape.”
Remy inspected his unshaven jaw in the small cracked mirror above the washstand. “No, he agreed.”
“What!” Gabrielle gasped.
“Navarre consented to let me arrange his escape, but only under certain conditions. All of them, of course, concerning you.” He turned from the mirror long enough to cast a bitter look at Gabrielle. “Congratulations. You have the man completely bewitched. He won’t return to Bearn unless I find a way to fetch you with us.”
Recovering from her initial shock, Gabrielle said tartly, “That is never going to happen. I told you before that my future is here in Paris. And Henry’s as well.”
“It seems that Henry has his own plans for your future. He intends to find you a husband.”
“A husband!”
“Yes, he’s got some damned notion that it will make your liaison with him more respectable if he gets some poor sot to wed you. A lawful lord and master to help keep control over you and insure you do exactly as the king wishes. Navarre believes a husband could order you to leave Paris with him.”
Gabrielle swore roundly and took an agitated turn about the room. As if her life wasn’t already complicated enough between trying to keep Remy from getting himself killed and steering her own way through the treacherous vipers at court and the Dark Queen’s wiles. Now Henry must get this fool idea into his head.
It was not unusual for some lord to accept the charge of a king’s mistress in wedlock, the man being well rewarded with lands, wealth, and titles. But Gabrielle had no wish to be burdened with some simpering ass of a courtier as her husband.
“Marvelous,” she muttered. “And did Henry happen to mention exactly what poor sot he has in mind for me?”
Remy picked up his razor from the washstand, although from the way he looked at it, Gabrielle wasn’t sure if he was contemplating shaving or slitting his throat.
“Me. The king wants me to marry you.”
Gabrielle listened in stunned silence, certain Remy could not be serious. But he obviously was. She had to stifle a mad urge to break into hysterical laughter at the sheer irony of it. At roughly the same time Gabrielle had been promising the Dark Queen to seduce him, Navarre had commanded Remy to marry her.
But one glance at Remy’s grim expression robbed her of any desire to laugh. No wonder he was so tense around her, looking like someone had flung mud at his family escutcheon. He would have found the idea of marrying a soiled woman like her an intolerable insult. That it should be so hurt Gabrielle more than she would admit.
But she gave a proud toss of her head. “You marry me? How utterly ridiculous. No doubt you refused with the proper amount of moral outrage.”
Remy said nothing, his gaze sliding away from her.
“You did refuse, didn’t you?”
When he continued silent, she prodded, “Remy?”
He flung the razor down and snapped. “No. I said I would do it. I pledged to marry you.”
Gabrielle’s jaw dropped. She was speechless for a moment, then cried, “Are you quite mad? You do understand the nature of the arrangement Navarre is proposing?”
“Oh, yes, I understand that all too well.”
“Then why on earth did you ever consent?”
Remy regarded her with a mix of frustration and some other emotion she couldn’t read. “Why the devil do you think I would agree?”
“I have no idea.”
“Because—” Remy whipped away from her, studying his reflection in the mirror, the set of his jaw rigid. “Because my king commands me. That’s damned well why.”
Gabrielle swallowed hard. Perhaps at one time Remy might have had a far different reason for wanting to wed her, before he had learned the truth about her and knew what she was. But now— What else had she expected him to say? Still, the thought that he would accept her out of his infernal sense of duty hurt and angered Gabrielle more than if he had rejected her outright.
“Well, what a loyal subject you are, Captain,” she said icily. “Ready to fall on your sword for your king or wed his mistress. It’s all one to you, isn’t it?”
Remy flinched at her sarcasm, but he replied, “You were the one, Gabrielle, who insisted that I abide by whatever he decreed.”
“I was talking about his decision regarding your escape plans. Not some absurd matrimonial arrangements.”
“There is no need for you to get so perturbed. After all, it does take two people to consent to a betrothal.”
Gabrielle glanced at him sharply. So that was what Remy was hoping for, that she would refuse and he would be freed from a duty he obviously found distasteful. But she would be damned before she made it that easy for him.
“Well, why not?” she said, pasting a brittle smile on her face. “It sounds like a good idea to me.”
She waited for Remy’s reaction to her agreement, expecting shock and dismay. But he maintained a posture of stoic resignation, his spine so rigid it could have been made of iron instead of bone. No doubt that was how the man looked right before a battle when he stared into the mouth of enemy cannons.
Determined to provoke a response from him, Gabrielle continued, “It is always good to have a little additional security in case the king should tire of me. Not that I will ever allow that to happen.”
S
he took a savage satisfaction in the way Remy’s lips tightened. “The marriage will be good for you as well because Navarre is certain to reward you handsomely. Marrying me should be good for an estate and a title at the least. Would you settle for a knighthood or are you hoping for a barony?”
“Gabrielle . . .” The dangerous note in Remy’s voice should have silenced her, but it only made her more reckless.
“Just think . . . all those years of devoted service, risking your neck on the battlefield and the most you acquired was a captaincy. But all you really needed to do was give the king’s whore the honor of your name.”
“Gabrielle, stop it,” Remy growled and she knew if she had any sense, she’d heed his warning. She’d witnessed the Scourge’s temper before.
But she was too angry and hurting to care. She sashayed closer. “How would you like to seal our betrothal, Captain? With a handshake like two merchants signing a contract? Or would you prefer a kiss?”
She wound her arms around his neck and gazed defiantly up at him. His gaze darkened and he gave a low curse. She expected him to fling her from him, but Remy’s mouth crashed down on hers with a fury that drove the breath from her body. She tensed before his assault before she responded ferociously in kind until they were not kissing so much as making war upon each other, a fierce battle of lips, a heated duel of tongues.
Remy offered her no quarter, his body hard and unyielding. He forced her back toward the bed. Gabrielle scarcely knew whether he flung her onto the tangled blankets or she yanked him down with her. They tumbled to the cot, grappling in a fiery volley of kisses and roving hands. Remy tugged ruthlessly at the lacings of her gown and wrenched the fabric down her shoulder, baring one of her breasts, cupping it with his callused palm. Gabrielle countered by thrusting her hands beneath his shirt and scoring her nails over the smooth skin of his back.
With a low growl, Remy blazed a path from her neck to the swell of her breast, his unshaven jaw abrading her tender skin. His mouth fastened over her nipple, suckling her, tugging with his teeth until a low moan escaped Gabrielle, her anger spilling into the darker currents of desire. The kind of passion she’d long been afraid to experience, strong, aching, out of control.