by Lisa Kessler
Protecting himself.
Rita lifted her head from his chest. Her flushed skin, mussed hair, and blissful smile made his chest tighten. He reached up to cup her cheek.
She turned and kissed his palm. “May I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
Her fingertips traced the crescent-shaped scar on the left side of his chest. “Who did this?”
His hand covered hers, pressing it over the smooth scar.
“I fought a demon who threatened my people. She nearly tore my heart from my chest.”
He closed his eyes and a flash of memory seized him—wrestling with the demon in the jungle, fighting to save his brothers and his people. A battle he would never win.
Rita’s lips brushed his cheek, pulling him back to the present. “I did not mean to bring up painful memories.”
“The demon was the beginning of the end for my people.
She is the reason I came to France.” Rita rested her head back on his chest, and he leaned up to kiss her hair. “She cannot be killed, only caged. I never should have attacked her, but I had to do something. My anger made the decision for me.”
“Does she still pursue you?”
He shook his head letting his eyes drift closed. “No. We trapped her deep beneath the Yucatan jungle. She can no longer cross into the world of man.”
“So you saved us all.”
The shadow of loss twisted in his abdomen and the ghost of failure taunted him. “It was our duty as gods. We should have figured out how to stop her sooner, perhaps we could have saved more lives and been able to stand against the Spanish.”
“Cortez attacked your people.”
“Yes. My brothers and I were forced to separate and take the memories of the Maya with us to the four corners of the earth.”
“A witness to their existence.”
He kissed her hair. “We continue on as shadows of what we were.”
He held her close, admiring the way her body fit into his arms. When her breathing slowed into sleep, he carefully rolled over, laying her onto the bed and pulling up the bedding to cover her. His lips caressed her forehead, and he stood. Bitterness spread through him. He didn’t want to leave her.
Ever.
The thought sobered him. He pulled on his pants and quietly left the room. When he reached his office, he groaned.
Gerard had tidied his desk again.
Kane sat down, shuffling the neat stacks of paper around in search of his ink well. Candlelight filled the hallway as Gerard approached.
“I did not mean to wake you.” Kane didn’t look up from his desk when Gerard entered the room.
“Can I assist you?”
Kane sighed and finally glanced up at his drowsy manservant. “I truly wish that you could.”
Gerard placed his candle on the corner of the desk and sat in the chair facing Kane. “Did you enjoy your evening with the lady?”
Kane sat back in his chair. “She baffles me. I have never in my life wished for more time. In fact, saying it aloud sounds ludicrous. But when I am with her, I want time to stop. I want to learn everything about her so that I will always know how to make her smile. I want to protect her and give her everything.”
Gerard grinned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, betraying his age. “It sounds like love to me.”
Kane shot up in surprise, sending the chair toppling over behind him. “Love?” He started pacing the room like his jaguar paced inside of his underground sanctuary. “There is no room in my existence for love.”
Gerard stood and retrieved his candle. “Love will find a way.” He walked toward the door. “Your inkwell is in the top right drawer. And Monsieur?”
Kane stopped, glancing over at Gerard.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau seems lovely…different from the ladies who usually seek to court your favor.”
Kane nodded, lost in thought. “I have never met another woman like her.”
Gerard gave a small bow and disappeared down the hall.
Kane righted his chair and found his inkwell where Gerard said it would be. He dipped the tip of his pen and quickly wrote his letter.
Outside, the sky lightened as the sun threatened to end the night. Kane made his way down the hall, sliding the note under her door.
He didn’t trust himself to peer inside the room. Leaving her once tonight had been more than enough.
Lifting the stone from the floor of his bedroom, he retreated into the darkness below his home.
Chapter Eight
Rita stretched in the soft bed. Her body felt sore, and the memory of making love to Kane warmed her all over again. For the first time in years, she felt cherished and safe.
Although she knew Kane would be gone, hiding from the sun, she still caught herself wishing the rest of the bed wasn’t empty.
Pulling a shift over her head, she wrapped herself in a heavy robe and went to the door. A crease marked her forehead as she bent to pick up the folded note that bore her name. She opened it and smiled, seeing Kane’s name signed at the bottom.
Dearest Rita –
I wish I could be with you when you open your eyes.
You make me wish for many things.
Until nightfall…
Kane
She folded the note, trying to keep from noticing the way her heart flipped while she read his words. She’d given him one night. She wouldn’t allow herself to imagine there could be more. There was almost enough gold to take her cousin and flee from Antoine forever. Giving up now was out of the question.
Marguerite placed the note on her bureau with a wistful sigh.
There was much to do.
Turning her back on romance, she opened the door. The scent of fresh bread assaulted her senses until her stomach grumbled. A smile pulled at her lips when she neared the dining area and heard Gerard and his wife sparring in the kitchen.
“If you know so much about croissants, perhaps you should be the one folding the dough.”
Gerard’s laughter echoed. “I am wise enough to stay out of your way in the kitchen. I only mentioned adding the fruit compote as a suggestion.”
“If I wanted to make a tart, I would make a tart.” She burst through the door and stopped short when she noticed Marguerite at the table. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle. I hope we did not wake you.”
“Mais non, you did not.” Marguerite shook her head.
“It was the delicious scent of fresh croissants that awakened me.”
Gerard’s wife was shorter than Marguerite, with a sturdy stance and a wide smile, her graying hair tied up in a bun. She clasped either side of her flour-dusted apron with her strong hands and curtsied. “I am pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle. I am Marie.” She shot Gerard a playful glare.
“I believe you already met my husband.”
“Oui.” Marguerite bowed her head toward her. “I am honored to meet you, Marie.”
Part of her ached inside. These people had been kind to her. What would they think after she abandoned their Master? She buried her emotions deep. There wasn’t time to dwell on disappointment for what could never be. Callia depended on her to stay the course.
Marie grinned and bustled back into the kitchen, returning with a fresh, flaky croissant and a kettle of tea. A knock at the front door had Gerard rushing off to answer it, while Marguerite took a bite of her croissant, swooning as the buttery layers caressed her taste buds.
Her bliss was short-lived.
“I must insist you wait until my Master returns.”
Marguerite and Marie looked up at the sound of Gerard’s stern tone.
A stranger answered. “We have a legal warrant for the arrest of Marguerite Rousseau.”
Boots clicked down the hallway. Marie’s eyes widened when the officers rushed into the room. Marguerite’s heart slammed against her ribs, but she maintained eye contact, her chin held high.
Gerard rushed in behind them. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle. These gentleman…” His voice oozed with
sarcasm. “… pushed past me.” He walked to her side. “I am pleased to introduce Marguerite Bordeaux. Obviously there has been a mistake, and I would be happy to accept your apologies on behalf of my Master Kane Bordeaux.”
Marguerite tried not to react to hearing Kane’s last name added to her own, and did her best to improvise with Gerard.
The Commissionnaire de Policia stepped forward. “You match the description of Marguerite Rousseau who stands accused of robbery and treachery.”
“There must be a mistake.” She kept her voice even while her stomach knotted with fear. “I can assure you, I have been within these walls. My husband will be home soon, and he can testify to my whereabouts.”
The Commissionnaire nodded to his men, and they descended on her. Gerard did his best to shield her. Marie batted at a couple of the police with her rolling pin, but the kitchen staff was no match for the sheer number of the officers.
Marguerite fought, kicking, biting, and scratching, until they restrained her hands behind her back and turned her to face the lead officer. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he twitched his thin moustache. “You will come with us now.”
Two officers held Gerard back. “My Master will see that all of you are punished for this unlawful invasion and attack on his bride.”
The officer grabbed the back of Marguerite’s hair, yanking her so close she could smell his sour body odor beneath the sweet scent of his cologne. “I have longed for this day…Le Voleur D’or.”
Panic fluttered in her chest, but she kept her mouth shut.
Anything she said now would be twisted and used against her. Instead, she did her best to maintain what was left of her composure and glanced toward Gerard. “Kane will come for me.”
Gerard nodded. “I will see to it.”
“Very well.” She straightened as much as possible with her hands bound behind her back. “May I get my shoes?”
The officer shoved her so hard she nearly fell to the ground. “You will not need them where you are going.”
Marguerite bounced around inside the black prison wagon.
The interior boasted no cushioned seats and no windows.
The horses trotted through the cobblestoned streets, turning, stopping, and starting, until her stomach roiled with motion sickness.
It didn’t help that the interior still reeked of a recent traveler’s illness.
Closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe through her mouth. Her bare feet were numb with cold and a tear spilled down her cheek. She’d been too confident, too brazen, and certain the police would never catch her. Now she found herself in the back of a prisoner’s wagon, being transported for questioning. The Bastille had been destroyed during the French Revolution, so she would avoid that horror, but the new prison was not something she cared to explore.
Panic seized her throat until a sob escaped. She tried to envision Kane’s face, his glorious smile, his blue eyes.
He would never let them keep her.
The carriage stopped. She opened her eyes and raised her chin, steeling her resolve. They would not see her as a broken criminal, and she would not give them the pleasure of her tears.
The back door creaked open, and blinding light filled the dark carriage. Marguerite winced, unable to raise her bound hands to shield her eyes. The officer yanked her from the carriage. Her bare feet slapped on the hard cobblestoned street, jarring her for a moment. Marguerite blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light.
She recognized this place.
Marguerite screamed. Scraping the bottoms of her feet, she resisted the officers dragging her toward Antoine’s door.
“No! I beg you!” But the officers showed no signs of slowing. Her head swiveled toward the group of people gathering on the street to watch. “Please. I have done nothing. This man will kill me. Someone help me!”
But the people stayed back, whispering to one another as Marguerite shrieked.
When the heavy front door closed behind her, her heart sank. There would be no help, and Kane would never find her before Antoine killed her.
Her struggles ended when the officer shoved her inside a tiny room where Antoine stored his art supplies. A key turned, locking the door. Pressing her ear to the wood, she heard retreating boot heels against the stone floor. The familiar sound of the large front door opening filled the hall, followed by the thud of it closing.
Once silence settled in, she turned around, feeling her way in the dark for anything she might use to open the lock on the door. Art brushes, palette boards, easels, nothing to jam into the lock.
“Marguerite?”
Her heart leapt into her throat at the sound of her cousin’s voice. She bent to the keyhole. “Callia?”
“Yes, I am here, but I cannot find the key. The officer must have taken it with him.”
Marguerite closed her eyes hard to keep from crying.
“Leave me, Callia. Go back to the kitchen and keep away from Antoine.”
“No. He is angry, Cousin. I fear he will kill you this time.
You have to get away before the sun sets.”
“If you help me, he will hurt you too, Callia.” She shook her head in the darkness. “Go. It is not a request.”
Callia slapped the door. “You cannot ask me to leave you to die.”
Marguerite heard her cousin’s footsteps running farther from the door until silence surrounded her again. She didn’t want to die, but condemning her cousin to death was unthinkable. Her fingertips grazed over the brushes and tools again. Surely he had a blade of some sort in his supplies. Anything she could use to fish in the lock and open the door.
Footsteps approached again. She held her breath, pressing herself against the back wall. Could it be nightfall already?
Something slid into the lock, but the latch didn’t turn.
“Merde!”
Marguerite almost smiled hearing her cousin curse under her breath. “Callia. What are you doing?”
“He has hidden the key, but I have a hairpin.” More clicking and scratching came from the lock. “The lock will not lift.”
Marguerite pressed her forehead against the door. “You are sweet to try, but you must go now.”
“There is not much time left.” The hairpin moved feverishly in the lock. “He will be here soon.” Her voice trembled. “We have to get you out or…” She gasped. “I think he is coming.”
“Run, Callia!” Marguerite bent close to the lock. “Run and hide. Now!”
Chapter Nine
Kane frowned when he lifted the stone and entered the master bedroom suite. Gerard’s scent lingered in his room, and someone paced outside his door. He pulled on a pair of pants and yanked the door open to find Gerard wringing his hands.
“Forgive me, Master. I went to wake you, but you were gone from your bedchamber. I would have alerted you sooner, but I could not locate you.” He made eye contact.
“They took her.”
“Took who?” Kane frowned. “What are you talking about, Gerard?”
His manservant lowered his gaze to his hands.
“Marguerite. The Commissionnaire de Policia came with a warrant for her arrest. I tried to stop them. I told them she was your wife, not Mademoiselle Rousseau, but they took her anyway.”
Kane clenched his fists and went back into his room for a shirt. Rushing to the jail looking like a half-dressed madman would not free Rita. He needed his wits.
And his money.
Since the fall of Napoleon and the destruction of the Bastille, a healthy purse influenced justice faster than being truly innocent. And if money didn’t solve the problem, he wouldn’t hesitate to use force.
A few minutes later, fully dressed with his money purse tied to his belt, Kane rode off on Kukulkan toward the jail in Paris.
The door splintered, opened without unlocking or turning the knob. Candlelight flickered behind him, leaving Antoine’s face drenched in shadows.
Only his sharp teeth gleamed white.
“Y
ou have broken my heart, Marguerite.” He grabbed her upper arm in a bruising grip and spun her around, snapping the rope that bound her wrists.
“You have no heart, Antoine. Not anymore.” His cool fingers circled her wrist, turning her back toward him.
Marguerite tugged her arm, trying to jerk free from his grasp.
“Not true.” He tsked and pulled her in close. His breath reeked of blood and death. “I love you enough to offer you one more chance. You wanted to marry me once, remember?”
Tears welled, but her voice remained strong. “The artist I once cared for died the night you sold your soul for immortality.”
He dragged her into his studio, and she gasped. “What have you done?”
Callia sat with her hands and feet bound to a chair, and a tear-stained gag tied around her mouth. Her dress was torn, exposing one breast covered in bite marks. Puncture wounds also marked her arms and legs, yet she remained conscious.
“You animal!” Marguerite slapped him with her free hand.
He mocked her with a feigned look of shock. “I thought you would be pleased with my self-control. Perhaps you would rather I drank my fill while you watch the life fade from her body?”
“Let her go, Antoine.” She met his gaze, forcing back her fear. “Please. There is no reason to hurt this poor girl.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” Pain shot up her arm when he tightened his hold on her wrist. “I know who she is.
I know what you were planning. How do you think I had you arrested ma petite?”
He walked her to his easel beside Callia, and gripped a brush. “Every time I drink from you, your memories become mine, mi amour. I saw the men, the trinkets, the schemes.”
Dipping the tip of his brush into one of Callia’s seeping wounds, he started stroking the canvas with her blood. “I know this girl is your cousin. I know you planned to leave me. She helped you.”