“Two crowns, Monsieur,” she laughed breathlessly, and rolled over onto her back, trembling in anticipation. When he kissed her, she felt her body go limp and the smile fade from her face. She closed her eyes and let her knees fall wide, waiting, quivering. Nothing. What the devil was he waiting for? Half annoyed, her eyes flew open to see him above her, shaking his head.
“No, ma chère, not yet!” he chuckled. “You have more than earned your two hundred crowns—but I shall win them back again!” He began to caress her, his hands and mouth teasing, arousing, until she thought she must go mad; he made love to her slowly, enjoying her pleasure as much as his own. And each time she felt her senses raised to a peak beyond which she could not endure, he would touch, kiss, in some secret place, waking her body to ever more wondrous delights.
“No more!” she gasped at last, and gave a cry of ecstasy as he possessed her, her frenzy dissipating in one brief moment of exquisite joy.
And truly she was possessed—body, heart, soul—his forever.
She snuggled in the circle of his arms, her head pressed against his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart as it slowed to a normal beat. His skin was warm and slightly damp, and when she lifted her head and kissed his chest, she tasted the tang of sweat on her lips; but it was the dearest pillow in the world to her. She sighed in contentment.
“And did you really always love me?” she asked timidly.
“Yes.”
“Truly?” Oh the wonder of it!
“Yes, truly. When I carried you up the stairs after the riot at Soligne, I wanted to spirit you away to Chimère on the spot!”
“You loved me! I did not know my own heart until the loneliness of being in Poitou without you.” She shook her head in amazement. “Yet you loved me always!” She sat up suddenly, her eyes wide with dismay. “Despite my wickedness?”
“You were not wicked,” he said in reassurance. “A child, perhaps, in many ways…”
“And you married the child who tried your patience!” She bit her lip, suddenly contrite.
He pulled her back down into his arms. “I married the child, but loved the woman who lurked in the shadows of your beautiful eyes!”
“Why did you never tell me? So many times I was lost, lonely, needing…who knows? Words of love?”
“I thought they would be wasted, because of your feelings for André!”
“Pooh!” she said. “I never really loved André!”
“But at the crossroads it was André you asked for!”
“I feared Marielle would die without seeing him again.”
“And your jealous tears at Vilmorin when André appeared?”
“I was jealous! I thought that you would never love me as André loves Marielle. And all that time…” She clucked her tongue in annoyance. “You should have told me!”
They fell silent, thinking. At last Jean-Auguste grunted. “I’ll wager I made many mistakes,” he said. “I should have made a practice of chastising you from the first, as Aunt Marguerite suggested, to keep you from folly!” His hand caressed her bare bottom in a gesture that was more loving than reproachful. “Mayhap it would have saved a lot of grief!”
She giggled and cuddled closer to him. “But of course you could not have!”
“And wherefore not?”
“You are too gentle-natured. I always knew it. Mayhap it is why I tried you so!”
“Then why did you offer the riding crop to me tonight?”
“I wished you to know how sorry I was. It seemed a fine gesture!”
“Especially as you knew I would not use it!”
She smiled coyly. “Of course!”
His face darkened and he sat up suddenly, pushing her away from him. “Now upon my faith I grow tired of your deceit!”
“What? What do you mean?”
“You came tonight to tell me you love me—but you came as a child, still playing a game!”
“It was not intended…!”
“No. It was only a small dishonesty—you have long since become blind to the habits of a lifetime. But if you want my love—and my trust—there must be no more games, no more tricks, no more lies!”
Burning with shame, she reached out to touch him. Ah Dieu! Even Vacher and Dominique had more wisdom than she! What was it Simon had said about playing games with a man’s heart?
Jean-Auguste turned to her, his eyes like cold steel. “Fetch me the riding crop!”
She laughed nervously. “Jean-Auguste. My love. You are jesting, of course—only to frighten me—n’est-ce pas?”
“Fetch it!”
Her eyes opened wide, panic clutching her insides. “No!” He glared fiercely at her. “N-n-no,” she said more timidly, her courage deserting her. She was near tears now. “Please, Jean-Auguste! No one has ever beaten me! Ever! I should die.”
He folded his arms across his chest, his eyes cold and implacable. With a sob, she stumbled out of bed, groping in the corner of the room until she had found her riding crop, frighteningly aware of her nakedness, the fragile unprotected flesh that awaited his anger. She returned to the bed, one hand holding the whip, the other attempting to cover her buttocks, as though she would protect herself until the last moment. He held out his hand; shaking, she handed him the riding crop, knowing, even as she did so, that to disobey him now would be to destroy their love. And he would beat her anyway, his anger at her willfulness adding strength to his arm. For a long moment he stared at her; then he grasped the riding crop in both his hands and snapped it easily in two, handing the pieces back to her.
“Keep it,” he said, “as a reminder henceforth that trust is as fragile, easily broken—and difficult to mend.”
She clutched the pieces to her bosom, feeling pain more sharp than if he had struck her. Weeping, she turned away and crossed to the window, looking through the leaded panes at the soft night, the quiet river below. The air was sweet and filled with the placid sounds of midsummer—the rhythmic croaking of frogs along the banks, the splashing of an occasional fish in the dark waters. Home, she thought. Home at last. Safe and secure. And loved. Her heart swelled within her breast, praying to be worthy of his love. God willing, a seed had been planted tonight. It was suddenly important to give him his son…his Gabriel.
“Dry your tears,” he said softly behind her, “and come back to bed.” She turned. He was smiling gently, lovingly, his hand outstretched to her.
She sniffled, her violet eyes sparkling behind their crystal drops, and smiled shyly. At the look in his eyes—welcoming, forgiving, adoring—she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. For the first time in her life, she felt tall. She was his lover, his wife.
His woman.
“As you wish,” she said softly.
More from Sylvia Halliday
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In this French dungeon, a love illuminates the darkest shadows in two hearts. Marielle will not only face her deepest fears, but change her life forever.
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