Glancing at the Archbishop’s arms, Jules noticed bruising peering out from beneath the man’s long loose sleeve. Pushing up the sleeve, he revealed a long narrow contusion across the top of the right wrist.
Shoving the other sleeve up, Jules turned the stiffened arms to examine them thoroughly. The left had identical bruising, except it was across the inside of the wrist.
Luc crouched beside him. “What do you have there?”
“Peculiar markings.” Jules showed him the bruises. “They’re the kind of bruising a man might sustain if his wrists are bound together with a rope.”
“Well? Out with it,” Agnes demanded the moment Jules, Luc, and the men had returned to the camp. “I’m an old woman and this suspense isn’t good for my health. Is the Archbishop ready to talk to Sabine? Did he have any information about Isabelle?”
“Yes, tell us,” Louise pressed.
“The Archbishop is dead,” Jules said.
Sabine’s heart plummeted.
“Dead?” Vincent repeated, the word screaming inside Sabine.
Jules’s jaw tightened. “We found him hanging by a rope, made to look like he took his own life.”
“You don’t believe he killed himself?” Sabine asked.
Jules cast a glance at his brother. “I don’t.”
“I do,” Luc countered. “The Archbishop’s assistant let you read the love letters between the Comtesse de Tonnere and the monsignor. And he told you how devastated the Archbishop was to learn of her death from smallpox. Gaubert and every servant we questioned confirmed the monsignor hadn’t been himself since the Comtesse’s death. He killed himself. And with him died our chances of regaining favor.”
“No,” Jules said firmly. “It’s not over. You saw the bruises on his wrists.”
“The bruises prove nothing. We have no way of knowing how he got them. There’s no real evidence, not even in his private documents, to indicate foul play. Why delude ourselves?”
“It’s not a delusion. Whoever murdered the Archbishop also brought down our father, a man of good standing,” Jules insisted. “We’re dealing with someone clever enough to cover up his misdeeds.”
“Dieu, Jules, I want my life back as much as you do, but you must face the truth. The Archbishop despised our father. Enough to betray him and have him hanged. He thought he could take your wealth and your life, too. When he failed, given his melancholy, he killed himself.”
“No. It doesn’t make sense. There are too many unanswered questions.”
“Such as?”
“None of the Archbishop’s men survived the attack. How, then, did he get word he’d failed? And so quickly? How did a man who’d become a virtual recluse and who was as forlorn as the monsignor had been over the death of the Comtesse pull himself together enough to arrange an ambush in the first place? I refuse to accept his ‘suicide.’ Someone has used the monsignor to make us believe he was involved. Whoever killed the Archbishop forced him to write the note and knows the truth of what happened to our father. We’ll pursue this further. With the utmost caution.”
Luc swore. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. We’ll ask Simon for more men. Amass armies to guard us.” His tone was saturated with sarcasm. “We’ll search for evidence that doesn’t exist and entertain every possible theory of what led to our father’s arrest, no matter how ridiculous. We’ll lay blame at everyone’s feet, except our most blameless, flawless father.”
Jules’s body tensed. “Careful . . .”
Luc gave a hollow laugh. “Why, for once, can’t you admit that he wasn’t perfect? That he may not have been as innocent in all this as you claim—”
Jules grabbed his brother’s doublet with both fists. Sabine gasped.
“You dare call him a traitor?” Jules’s voice was low and rimmed with rage.
Sabine’s gaze darted to Raymond. He didn’t look inclined to intervene.
Luc glowered at his older sibling. “I don’t believe he was a traitor any more than I believe he was a saint. You, Jules, were his heir. I endured a side of him you did not.”
Jules released Luc. “So you’ve said. If he treated me differently, it was because he knew I accepted my duty to my family while you would not.”
“Jésus-Christ, I will not join the Knights of Malta. Can you imagine me taking a vow of celibacy—for the rest of my life?”
“You think sacrifices are not required of the firstborn son?”
Luc let out a sharp sigh and pulled out a folded parchment from inside his doublet. “I wasn’t going to show you this, but I now believe you need to see it. When Gaubert wasn’t looking, I took this from the Archbishop’s private papers in his library.”
Jules opened the letter and scanned its contents.
“It is written by our father’s own hand,” Luc said.
“It’s meaningless.” Jules tossed the letter with a flick of his wrist, sending it fluttering to the ground.
Luc’s eyes widened. “You believe bruising on the Archbishop’s wrists is proof of murder, yet a letter written by your own father’s hand is meaningless?”
“That letter could be a forgery, regardless of the signature and penmanship.”
“It even has our family seal on it,” Luc exclaimed.
Jules lifted a brow. “So did Isabelle Laurent’s letter and the letters that were used to condemn our father at his trial. Apparently everyone was using our seal.”
Sabine snatched up the letter and opened it.
I grow weary with your reluctance. Need I remind you of Marie-Claire’s perilous situation? If you don’t do as I have asked of you, I’ll expose your romantic involvement with the sweet vulnerable Comtesse de Tonnere to her volatile brutish husband. Do not make me wait any longer.
Charles de Moutier
“Jules, that is our father’s writing. He was forcing the Archbishop to do something the monsignor didn’t wish to involve himself in. It proves the Archbishop had good reason to do what he did to him. It proves that our father wasn’t a man of impeccable character.”
Jules pointed a finger at Luc. “Enough.”
Sabine quickly interjected. “What about the silver? Did the Archbishop have it?”
Jules let out a sigh. “No. We searched. There was nothing. The servants claim that no one came to the château with a chest of any kind.”
“What do we do now?” Sabine asked.
“I’d like to speak to Valentin, Marquis d’Argon. He was friends with my father and the Archbishop.” Jules raked his hand through his hair. “There is also the late Comtesse’s husband, the Comte de Tonnere, and the Comte de la Rocque—a recent visitor to the Archbishop’s château. There was also an unknown visitor . . . Perhaps they’re involved . . .”
“Then let us seek out these gentlemen!” she said with renewed hope.
“It is not that simple. Valentin and Tonnere and Rocque are in Paris, preferring the city to their country estates. Luc and I are forbidden to enter Paris. We’ll be arrested on the spot and tossed back into prison.”
“Valentin wasn’t able to help our father, but did what he could to help Jules and me,” Luc explained. “If it wasn’t for him, we’d still be rotting in prison. The last time the Marquis was barely able to influence our release. This time, we may never get out.”
“Which leads to the second problem,” Jules said. “Even if we sent Valentin a note asking him to meet us outside of Paris, the Marquis is skittish. He would likely decline. Understandably, he fears that further involvement in any of this will result in his own family falling into disfavor. That’s the last thing we’d want to do to Valentin.”
Sabine felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. She glanced at Louise and Vincent and could tell by their smiles they were of like minds.
“No problem,” Sabine assured. “We can get you into Paris and give you a way to move about undetected so that the risk to you and the Marquis d’Argon is minimal.”
Sabine walked over to one of the carts, threw open the lid of on
e of the trunks, and shifted the clothing around until she found what she sought.
Holding up a worn sackcloth shirt and breeches, she said, “You’ll have no trouble at all entering and exiting Paris in these.”
Luc burst out laughing. “You jest.”
Jules’s brows shot up. “That’s peasant’s clothing.”
“Correct. All the costly costumes were sold, but we have some peasants’ attire left over from the theater.”
“I’ll not wear peasants’ clothing,” Jules said. “Nor will I act as one.”
“I must agree with my brother here and decline,” Luc concurred.
She responded, unfazed by the two stubborn Aristos in front of her. “As I see it, you don’t have any other option—if you want to uncover the truth. Think of it as a role, with Paris as your stage. You can either enter the city with a troupe of actors, dressed as peasants, or you can remain as you are. For another five years. Or indefinitely.” Sabine held the commoners’ clothing up a little higher. “What say you, gentlemen? Shall we be donning these tomorrow?”
“Sabine.” She started at the sound of Jules’s voice.
Darkly beautiful, he held out his hand. Her heart danced. She recognized that look. It was the prelude to pleasure. All day she’d been anticipating nightfall. Her body hummed with desire.
She silenced all the sensible reasons to decline. Told herself she could give her body to Jules and withhold her heart.
Then she placed her hand in his, and rose.
He linked his fingers with hers, and led her away from the campfire and into the woods to a clearing, his touch sending tingles up her arm.
A small fire had been built, blankets spread close by.
She smiled up at him. “This looks familiar.” She was so happy he’d done this. That he’d come to her first. It spoke of the extent of his own need for her. A need that equaled her own.
“It won’t be like last time.” Grasping one of the ties to her bodice, he pulled it loose. “This time there’ll be no deceit. This time I’m having Sabine Laurent.” A thrill quavered through her. His practiced fingers loosened her lacings. “And you’re going to give yourself over to me. Completely, aren’t you?” Her bodice dropped to the ground.
His scent, his proximity, bedazzled her. She could scarcely breathe. “Yes.” She was so shamelessly eager. And she didn’t care. She’d missed him. She’d missed this.
At the moment, she’d agree to just about anything.
“Good.” His eyes took on that seductive glint that made her knees weak. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, the press of his body, sheer rapture.
“Just for tonight,” she said.
She simply had to have one more taste of bliss with this man.
“There you’re wrong. We’re going to have each other again and again until we’re fully sated.” Delving his fingers into her hair, he lowered his head until their mouths met. She fisted his shirt. His kiss was slow, delicious. He eased his tongue into her mouth, giving hers swirling caresses.
Hungry for more, she laced her arms around his neck and rubbed herself against the bulge in his breeches. His groan of approval reverberated in his chest, sending sensations rushing through her breasts. Her eager sex clenched.
He kissed along her jaw to her ear, teasing the lobe with his teeth. She shuddered.
She closed her eyes, keenly aware of the slick moistness between her legs. This time would be different. Elise was gone. She could enjoy this sensual man as herself, without pretense.
He stepped back. Her skirt ballooned down to her feet. She hadn’t realized he’d undone the fastenings.
She was just about to reach for him when he removed his shirt and tossed it onto the ground. His skin was a warm hue from the firelight. His sculpted chest and powerful arms were breathtaking. And his magnificent erection, evident by the impressive bulge in his breeches—his body’s reaction to her, Sabine—made her shudder. He knew exactly how to use that part of his male anatomy, with wicked mastery. He had such virile appeal. She was powerless to resist it. She always had been.
A slight smile teasing the corner of his mouth, he placed his hands on her hips and slid her chemise up her legs, to her waist, along the sides of her breasts, the tantalizing rise setting her on fire. She raised her arms. He slipped it off. A quick tug of the ties on her caleçons and they joined her skirts on the ground.
He gave her a seductive perusal. “In your bed, I’ve had more than a few dreams of you standing in all your naked glory before me, drenched in moonlight. My very own forest fairy, bound for my pleasure.”
Her heart lost a beat. Oh, God. Did he say bound? A fresh wave of arousal hit her hard. The mere mention of it at the inn had had her undone.
His smile returned, with those disarming dimples. “What say you, Sabine?” He picked up a long sash she hadn’t noticed before off the blanket. She recognized it from the trunk of costumes they’d brought.
He dipped his head until his lips hovered over hers, his breath heating her sensitized mouth. “Give me your wrists and I give you my word, you’ll love every moment.”
21
Sabine watched as he carefully bound her wrists together, nervous excitement mounting by the moment.
When he was done, he rubbed his thumb over the sash around her wrists. “Is it too tight?”
She shook her head, unable to muster words. Don’t think. Or be cautious. For once, just leap!
“If at any time you wish to stop, you need only say so.” He raised her bound wrists above her head and secured them to a branch above.
She tested the bindings with a tug. They held her soundly. Never had she allowed herself to be so vulnerable. Seized by anticipation, she didn’t dwell on it. Delirious with desire, she didn’t care.
She knew he wouldn’t hurt her. Lord knows she’d made him angry enough in the past and never once had he done her any physical harm.
She wanted this.
She wanted to completely acquiesce and surrender to this delicious desire between them.
His gaze wandered over her once again. “Dieu. You look so good. Like every man’s fantasy.” He stroked the curve of her bottom. She jerked. Her body felt oversensitive.
She twisted around, the better to view him, but he placed his hands on her waist, halting her, and pulled her back against his chest. Skin against skin. She closed her eyes.
“Be still,” he said against her ear. “Try not to move.” He stepped away, leaving her bereft.
He reappeared before her, holding a smaller sash. “For your eyes,” he explained.
It was maddening enough not to touch him. She wanted to see him at the very least. “Jules—”
“Shhh.” He stepped closer and pressed his fingertips to her lips. “Trust me.” He placed the sash over her eyes and tied it. “When your eyes are covered like this, your other senses heighten.”
She hardly needed a sash to heighten her senses. They were heightened anytime she thought of him. Anytime he neared.
Her eyes covered, her world narrowed to the sound of the crackling of the fire, the night sounds of the forest. And him. She could sense him. Though he wasn’t touching her, heat radiated from his body.
She heard movement to her left and then the snapping of a twig behind her.
She couldn’t tell where he was, or what he was doing. Her pulse raced.
“Ju—” She was suddenly yanked forward, her breasts crushed against his chest. He claimed her mouth, sealing his name on her lips. His kiss was hot, demanding, taking her breath away, driving his tongue into her mouth on her gasp.
Oh, yes. Finally. And he was naked, too. She matched his heated intensity, rejoicing in the feel of his generous sex pressing against her belly.
Then his mouth was gone. Before she could protest, his lips burned a path down her neck. With a moan, she pressed her forehead against her arm, giving him better access. Being deprived of sight was doing exactly what he’d predicted it would do—heighteni
ng her fever. She was overly aware of the texture of his lips and tongue against her skin, the sound of her breathing. The slickness of her sex.
He moved lower still, down her breast—so tantalizingly close to her hardened nipple. Silently, she willed him to take her into his mouth. His tongue lashed across the sensitive tip. She shuddered.
“I’ve missed the taste of these pretty nipples,” he said and sucked one into his hot mouth.
She cried out. He sucked on her greedily, his fingers capturing her other nipple, assailing it with perfect pinches and pulls. The double stimulation had her mewing and writhing as each muscle-melting sensation lanced to her core.
His hot mouth moved down her belly, lower and lower. Her body wept for more. Slowly he swirled his tongue around her navel, then released her.
Over her short sharp breaths she listened for sounds, movement.
He stroked his hands down the outside of her thighs. She jumped in surprise and delight. Sensing he was kneeling in front of her, she waited, gripped by anticipation. Her sex drenched. And aching for him.
“Come here,” he growled, impatience tainting his tone. Her feet suddenly left the ground. She gave a startled gasp. He’d scooped her legs up and thrown one over each broad shoulder.
His strong hands gripped her bottom. She wiggled, realizing her intimate flesh was open and inches from his mouth.
“Don’t move.” He tightened his hold. His warm breath against her moistened folds was delicious torment.
She dug her heels into his back, bracing herself for the sensual siege. He stroked his tongue along her feminine folds. She lurched and whimpered.
“You like that, don’t you, Sabine?”
She was breathing so hard, she felt light-headed. “Yes . . .”
“You want more?”
“Yes!”
His tongue grazed over her private flesh. She tossed her head back and arched to him, straining against the bindings on her wrists.
“Your responses are as delicious as you are.” His voice was low and so seductive. “Cry out for me again.” He gave her another luscious stroke of his tongue and she involuntarily complied.
A Midnight Dance Page 24