Not giving Latrec time to answer, he gave his opinion of anything else the servant might say by turning his back and walking to the tub. As he stepped into it, he shivered, for its contents was indeed very cold. Kneeling, he splashed water onto his chest and arms, holding the locket around his neck aside and carefully avoiding getting his hair wet, though the riband was spattered slightly. When he climbed out, Latrec held up a huge towel and wrapped him in it, impersonally rubbing his backside and chest.
“I daresay I’ve a right to know about madame’s intimites,” the servant went on, as he knelt to dry Marek’s legs and feet. “I warm her bed when she’s between lovers.”
A flat matter-of-fact statement that explained a lot, especially the odd glances and protective looks.
“You’re a thrall, then?”
Latrec nodded.
“Madame found me on the streets, liked my looks, and took me home and seduced me. Afterward, she offered me the opportunity to serve her forever.” There was a flicker of a smile. “With occasional forays into her bedchamber.” He got to his feet, folding the towel. “I’ll tell you this, m’sieu, though it betrays a confidence.”
He placed the towel beside Marek’s clothes on the bed.
“I trust you’re discrete, sir?”
“I don’t brag about my conquests, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s nearly seven years since Madame had a new lover.” He looked embarrassed. “I confess I was beginning to hope she’d never find another, so I might become permanent. I think you’re going to be the one she wishes for a mate, even if you are as woolly as a bear. Truly, she’s never acted this quickly.”
“Sweet Oracle.” Marek looked disturbed. “She’s not in a cycle, is she?”
The last thing he needed was for his mission to be sidetracked by a female wishing to breed and perhaps seeking matrimony to follow. He expected this to be only a single night’s pleasure for both of them.
“Not that I’m aware, sir, but you’d know more about that than I, wouldn’t you?”
“I sense nothing,” Marek admitted.
Latrec nodded, picking up a dressing robe lying on a chest at the foot of the bed. Draping it around Marek’s shoulders, he went on quietly, “May I ask, if you don’t desire to be her mate, at least refuse her gently. I’ve no wish to see her hurt.”
“By the Oracle, you love her, don’t you?”
“As much as a human can, sir.” Latrec lowered his gaze, dejection in the movement. He gathered Marek’s clothing. “Shall we go?”
He led Marek by another route down a different set of corridors and up a flight of stairs, the heels of his shoes tapping sharply on the marble while Marek’s bare feet made scarcely a sound.
“Forgive me for taking you up the backstairs, my lord, but it’s the quickest way to my lady’s chamber. I thought you wouldn’t wish to be paraded through the entrance foyer in such deshabillez.”
Other than to give a grunt of agreement, Marek didn’t answer. He was allowing anticipation of being alone with Madame to overtake him, obscuring all else. When at last they came to a white and gold door in the center of a row of similar doors, Latrec paused with his hand on the handle.
“One last thing, sir. Madame likes acts done in a specific sequence. She’ll tell you what to do and when.”
Marek didn’t answer, just looked pointedly at the hand holding the door handle.
Pushing the door open, Latrec called out, “Le Marquis, Madame,” and stepped back to allow him entry.
Chapter 42
They were in a little alcove. From where he stood, Marek could see the room was dark but for the flicker from the hearth and the glow of two lamps situated on tables on either side of the sheer-paneled bed. La Marquise was nowhere in sight.
Marek turned to Latrec. “Go.”
The servant stiffened. “I take orders from Madame,” he replied, in a sharp whisper. “Not you.”
“You’ll take orders from me tonight,” Marek answered, “or it may be quite painful for you.”
Latrec appeared to think about that, then bowed, and withdrew. Marek stepped into the room and la Marquise’s sight. Wrapped in pale and diaphanous fabric covering her fully while revealing everything, she sat on yet another chaise. She held out one hand. He took several steps toward her and stopped, feeling like a fool, standing clothed only in a dressing gown while taking her hand as if they were formally being presented to each other.
“M’sieu le Marquis, please sit beside me.”
This was obviously the game. He saw it all now. He was supposed to be the visitor, then she’d engage in more verbal seduction before allowing him to carry her to the bed. A travesty of their first, oh-so-formal meeting.
Marek took another step toward her.
Oh, to hell with this.
With a single movement, he pulled la Marquise to her feet and into his arms, kissing her even more roughly than he had before.
Definitely not following her little ritual. Definitely not being gentle, nor a gentleman.
Without taking his mouth from hers, he backed her to the bed and deposited her on it, releasing her only long enough to toss aside the robe before throwing himself upon her. She dodged, hands striking his shoulders so solidly he found himself on his back, arms outstretched and pinned to the bed as she grasped his wrists and straddled his body, thighs vise-tight about his hips.
He’d forgotten how strong aventurieri females were, as she did something no female from the Decebral would ever have dared. She was able to restrain him easily.
Looking toward the door, she called out, “Latrec!”
“Oui, madame?”
The domestique appeared, hurrying to the side of the bed where he placed something on the little table. Marek tossed Madame aside and rolled under the sheets. She bounced and sat up, not bothering to cover herself, but beckoned with one hand.
“Come, Latrec.”
The servant took a step forward, one hand pulling at his cravat.
“Stop, Latrec!” Marek snarled.
Latrec froze. His hand dropped.
Marek looked at la Marquise. “Explain yourself, Madame.”
“It’s nothing so complicated.” She appeared confused by his demand, as well as his expression. “On occasion Latrec joins my lover and myself for un amour de trois.”
She nodded at the servant. He took another step toward her.
“I told you to leave,” Marek said.
“And I told you I obey only La Marquise,” Latrec replied, looking nervous but not moving.
“Get out.”
“Madame?” Latrec looked past him to his mistress. “Should I go?”
She stared at them both as if perplexed.
“I don’t require help in making love to a woman.” Marek’s voice was so low it was a growl. “Nor will I be a peepshow for a lascivious servant.”
“Sir!” an insulted Latrec protested. “I’m not…”
“Yes...you...are.” Marek turned a furious gaze on him. “Because that’s the only way you can stay in your mistress’ bed.”
Biting his lip, Latrec didn’t reply.
“It’s your choice.” Marek looked over his shoulder at la Marquise. “Either you send him away, chérie, or I go. How much do you want me?”
She didn’t answer
“Very well.” He glared at Latrec who took a hasty step backward. Tossing the sheet aside, Marek swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Latrec, go.” Her tone held a surprising tinge of defeat.
The domestique goggled. Bobbing his head in a bow, he ran from the room. La Marquise watched him go, making certain the outer door was shut before turning back to Marek. Wrapping her hand in his hair, she pulled him backward onto the pillows and resumed her former position above him.
“A male who does things his way. I like that.”
She leaned forward to kiss him, the thin gown parting, allowing her breasts to swing freely against his body. Lips grazed down his chest, tongu
e teasing a nipple.
“You must follow some of the rules, however, or I’ll have to punish you, amour.”
“How do you plan to do that?” he challenged, arching his back and pressing upward against her.
“With that.” She nodded at one of the tables.
He turned his head, peering at the thing Latrec had placed upon it…a small, black hand-whip.
“My fouet de amour.”
Sight of the thing sent cold spiraling through him. It was so like the whip Anastacza had used. The memory of being held down on a bed, her hand grasping the back of his neck while he struggled and screamed seared through his mind.
“Not if I can help it.” He heaved upward, wrists coming out of her clasp to roll her over so he was on top, and she was the one pinned down, her arms imprisoned.
“You don’t follow the rules at all, do you?” Not understanding why he was reacting so, she pursed her lips and looked piqued.
Her expression chased away the memory, making him laugh. Seizing both Madame’s wrists in his left hand, he pulled them above her head while he kissed her again. Her only answer was a soft little groan dwindling into an even softer sigh as she settled under him and spread herself for his penetration.
* * *
They fell asleep in the exhaustion of a long and strenuous bout of love-making, Madame with her cheek pillowed against Marek’s breast, her short locks mingling with the curls on his chest. Placing one arm across her shoulders, he cuddled her close as he lost consciousness.
A few moments later, the bedchamber door opened. Latrec tiptoed to the foot of the bed, looking at the two sleeping bodies. Nodding in approval, he pulled up the sheets, tucking them around his mistress and le Marquis. Then he placed Marek’s clothes on the chaise at the foot of the bed.
* * *
“Good evening, Monsieur, Madame. I trust you had a pleasant sleep?”
Marek opened his eyes to a blurred image hovering above him. With a snarl he sat up, lunging at the figure, only to have soft hands grasp his shoulders as his target leaped out of range.
“Marek, mon cher. It’s only Latrec.”
“Latrec?”
“Oui. With my awakening repas.”
Marek blinked, the image coming into focus. “My apologies, Latrec. In my homeland, servants knock before entering a sleeping aventuriera’s rooms.”
“I consider myself chastened, sir.” The servant bowed. Looking slightly shaken, he attempted to steady the tray he held so its contents wouldn’t slide onto the floor. “In future, I’ll remember that.”
His attitude had definitely changed since the previous night.
“See that you do.” Recovered enough to sit up, and grateful the sheets had somehow gotten pulled over them during the night, Marek turned his attention to the tray Latrec held. “What did you say this is?”
“Breakfast,” Madame explained. “Chocolat et croissants.”
The crescent-shaped rolls were fresh-baked and fragrant. There were little bowls of soft, whipped butter and jams as well. It was the petite tasses of dark brown liquid Marek found more interesting, however.
“Chocolat, you say?” He hadn’t had a decent cup of coffee since leaving Vienna. None of the inns along the way had anything stronger than brown-colored water.
“That’s right.” She took the cup Latrec offered.
“Is it like café?” he persisted, having no desire to drink a cup of the stuff and find himself totally aroused in the domestique’s presence. Latrec would probably find that most amusing.
“In a way,” Latrec answered for la Marquise. “Chocolat’s a product of…”
“Don’t tell me.” Marek accepted the other cup, though he held it and made no attempt to drink. “…of the New World.”
“That’s correct, sir. Made from roasted beans that are pulverized and then boiled.”
“Hm. Like coffee. Does it act upon the system as coffee does?” That was the most delicate way he could think to ask.
“Yes, but it takes much, much longer.” Thankfully, Madame understood. She placed her cup in its saucer and held it out to Latrec who filled it again. “I like it diluted with much milk and honey, so drink, mon cher...and don’t worry.”
Under Latrec’s approving eye they drank their chocolate and fed each other croissants slathered with butter and strawberry jam. As the cups were handed back to the domestique, he placed them on the tray, exchanging Madame’s for a small bowl of dark, thick liquid.
“What’s this?” Marek asked. “Pudding?” An odd dish for breakfast.
“Sirop de chocolat.” She dipped a forefinger into the bowl. Holding it upright so none dripped off, she touched the tip of her finger to his nipple. Her head bent, tongue flicking out to lick it away. “Délicieux!”
“Madame, please!” Something like this was definitely not what he wanted Latrec to see, especially as it sent a delightful frisson of pleasure through him.
“Céline, mon cher. You must call me Céline now,” she whispered, touching her finger to the syrup again and painting a little design on his shoulder.
“Céline...”
Her tongue grazed his flesh, making a slick little sound as it lapped the chocolate. To his dismay he felt blood rush through his cheeks.
“Not in front of le domestique.”
“Oh, look, Latrec,” Céline cooed, as if she were speaking of an infant. “Even after last night, he still has enough innocence to blush. Charmant.”
Despite the heat in his face, rapidly transferring itself to his body, Marek managed to look offended, pushing la Marquise away and sitting up. He took the saucer from Latrec’s hand, setting it on the bedside table with a loud and deliberate crack, thinking he’d probably fractured the delicate porcelain.
“We’ve been over this before, but it appears I must repeat myself. You… Leave… Now.”
Latrec looked from Marek to la Marquise and back again. He bowed, and as he had the night before, retreated with as much stiff-backed dignity as he could muster. As the door shut, Céline turned on him angrily.
“So! Because you go to bed with me, you think that gives you the right to order my servants?”
“I didn’t hear you stopping me,” Marek answered. “Do you always put on a show for your domestique’s benefit? And possibly his approval?”
“How dare…” As Marek shrugged and looked away with a careless air, she broke into a thoughtful laugh. “I’ve never looked at it that way. I seem to have given Latrec too much freedom. Perhaps all my servants need a male’s ruling. Stay with me, mon cher.”
“We’ll talk of that later. Just now, I wish to investigate this chocolat more.”
He kissed her again, tongue flicking against hers. He could taste the sirop’s dark after-flavor on her lips, letting it arouse him, making him want more of Céline and the heavy sweetness. When he released her, it was to reach for the little saucer.
* * *
In his château in Auvergne, Micea Ravagiu spoke with the soldati captain replacing Vasili.
“I’ve been to the Markgraf von Blitzensturm’s town house many times. Unless his wife and their two sons are in residence, there should be thirty people there, including Karl-Josef.”
“But to attack a Sectiuna?” the captain dared to question. “Surely he'll be well-guarded.”
Mircea stood in front of a breakfront wine cabinet selecting a bottle as he spoke. Splashing wine into a crystal goblet, he went on, “These European Sectiuni are arrogant. They’re so far from the Motherland they think themselves little kings, too powerful to be attacked. They keep their guards at their country estates. Why do you think you and your men didn’t come with me to Vienna?”
“Forgive my ignorance, sir.”
Mircea took a sip of the wine, savored it and held the goblet up to the light, studying its clear blood-red glow.
“You’ll have half your men attack the Graf’s residence, the other half that of the Strigoisti. Kill everyone in both places with the exception of the g
irl Ruxanda. She’s to be brought to me.” Mircea smiled, and gestured at a canvas rucksack lying on a nearby table. “Use those.”
The captain opened the sack, peering inside. “Wooden stakes, Master?”
“Afterward, you’re to behead the bodies.”
“If we do that, it’ll be thought they were attacked by vampire hunters, and…”
“Yes?” Mircea’s smile was cold.
“It…it may bring true hunters down on the entire Viennese aventurieri community.”
“If that happens, well and good.” There was an elaborate shrug showing Mircea’s lack of concern for his Austrian brethren’s fate. “I don’t particularly care. All I wish is the destruction of these two households. Bring the twins’ heads to me as proof.”
“What about the crippled one?”
“Don’t bother.” Dan’s fate was decided with a negligent wave of the hand holding the goblet. “I’ve heard it mentioned that one’s a froth. Take a few of your men similarly inclined and let them have a little pleasure with him before they kill him.”
Mircea took a folded parchment from an inner pocket.
“You’ll be flying over Switzerland. Here.”
The captain took the parchment.
“A map of the region showing snow caves in the mountains. Hide your men in those when the sun rises. Then continue on at dusk. Now go!”
Gathering the rucksack, the captain bowed again, and left his master.
At last. Mircea gave a short triumphant laugh. Only a few short days stood between him and the obtaining of a goal stretching more than seventeen years. He could barely believe it. No more failure. No more living in disguise.
“I think I may miss the Strigoisti,” he said, with an icy chuckle. “A little.”
In the meantime, he had tasks at the château to distract him…re-opening the estate, having the grounds checked to make certain security stations were intact, and doubling the gardi in them, setting the vanjosi about their duties. He had to do it all. Elsabeta was becoming absolutely useless in running his household.
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