He licked and sucked her juices, stopping every once in a while to torment her swollen clit. To drive her mad. Keeping her in sensuous agony, skillfully holding her on the edge of orgasm.
And wavering to and fro.
Just when she couldn’t bear any more, his mouth swooped in on her clit and he gently bit down. She screamed, vaulting into ecstasy, euphoria flooding through her veins. Her body shuddered and convulsed. Gripped by powerful spasms, her feminine walls wildly clenched and released.
Jésus-Christ. Jules hadn’t had this fiery woman in weeks. But it was worth enduring every agonizing moment that led to this. He had to fuck her. Feel her silky cunt gloved around his cock again. Or lose his mind.
Gently, he lifted her legs off his shoulders and set them back down on the ground. He was on his feet in an instant and caught her around the waist as her knees buckled. Holding her up, he moved around her and pulled her back against his front.
Standing on a slight incline, their bodies were perfectly aligned, his prick nestling along the seam of her luscious derrière.
He brushed her hair back to reveal her graceful neck. “I’m not done with you yet.” He kissed the nape of her neck, drawing her soft skin between his lips.
And drove his cock into her quivering core.
Her sultry sound eclipsed his groan. Her sheath throbbed, drawing on his motionless shaft.
Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes. She was so slick, so hot, so tight after her orgasm it was mind-numbing. “You have a cunt to die for.”
He withdrew and slid back in with the most decadent glide. She moaned and squeezed around him. Any vague thoughts of moderation vanished. Tightening his hold on her hips, he began to thrust, hard, fast, pulling her to him each time he drove forward. Her legs grew steadier.
“Don’t stop.” He heard her soft tortured plea. There was no way he could. This was perfect passion. He’d found perfect bliss. She pressed hard against him, and arched her back. His cock wedged deeper. Guttural groans escaped him. He was hammering at her womb. He couldn’t stop. She had him on fire. She gasped with each solid thrust, pushing back, meeting every one, matching his wild tempo.
“Jules, I’m going to . . . I’m . . . Oh!”
“Come,” he growled. “Dieu, do it.”
Rapture erupted from her throat. Her delicate muscles contracting around him, milking his thrusting cock, sent him over the edge.
He reared, tossed his head back, a long throaty groan roaring up his throat as come shot out of him with stunning force. Hot spurts of semen spewing to the ground until he’d purged his prick. The last dollop dragging a final feral sound up his throat.
Sabine’s knees finally gave out. His arms were about her instantly. His strong arm around her waist to hold her up, he untied her wrists.
With infinite care he placed her down on the blankets and removed her blindfold. His handsome face was the first thing she saw. A slight smile graced his lips.
He massaged her wrists, her arms. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, her body still trembling in the aftermath.
His smile grew slightly. He stretched out on top of her and smoothed a lock of her hair off her cheek. “It was intense. And perfect.” So was he. Softly, he kissed her. A knot formed in her throat. She slipped her arms around his neck, needing to hold him, to be held by him. Soft emotions she couldn’t quell surged from her heart.
As she let his unhurried kisses soothe her, calm her, she made a startling discovery. “You’re still . . .”
“Hard?” he supplied. Shifting his hips, he slid his shaft into her. She gasped, her sheath ultrasensitive from her recent releases. “I’ve waited a long time to have you again. One orgasm isn’t going to be enough.” His smile grew to a heart-fluttering grin.
Buried deep inside her, he remained still while he plied her with more gentle, stirring kisses.
“You are so very beautiful. And so desirable,” he said in the softest voice. “I’m going to have you all night long. You’re going to take my cock again and again. Get used to it, my beautiful forest fairy.”
His words elated and scared her. What if she did get used to it? To him? What then?
Agnes snickered. With a stern look, Sabine lightly elbowed her in the ribs, but it didn’t silence Agnes. As the older woman glanced at Jules, a louder giggle bubbled out of her. She’d been like this since they’d stopped just outside Paris not more than an hour ago to don their disguises.
Keenly aware of Jules’s presence beside her, Sabine turned to Louise and Vincent—who sat across from her in the moving cart—looking to them for help. Sabine instantly saw she’d get none there. Vincent was doing a poor job at hiding his mirth behind his hand, and Louise, though biting her lip, was blatantly tittering.
And they called themselves actors.
Sabine glanced at Jules, dressed in his peasant garb, hoping somehow his and Luc’s conversation about the Marquis d’Argon had been enough of a distraction, making them unaware of her family’s amusement at their expense.
Jules’s frown instantly told her not only that was he aware, but that he knew the cause of their hilarity.
“Don’t be angry with them,” Luc said, sitting across from Jules. “You do look ridiculous. And dirty.”
Jules looked away, ignoring Luc’s ribbing.
“You both look like peasants, which is how you want to look if you are to move about Paris without your peers recognizing you,” Sabine reasoned. Their hair covered with powder and ash, their faces altered by makeup and smudged with dirt for good measure, they’d been made to appear older than their years and every bit the “dirty peasant” no Aristo would glance at.
If only she could do something about their physiques and comportment. Both screamed, Nobility.
Though Agnes had altered the commoners’ clothing they wore to fit loose on purpose, their powerful bodies were still evident. Moreover, the Moutier men carried themselves with an inherent sense of authority that was difficult to hide.
Their peasant disguises, their cart, and the nag they’d obtained from a peasant en route, for Jules’s carts and horses were too fine, all lent credence to the ruse. Everything that could be done had been done to make them unrecognizable to anyone acquainted with them in the grand city.
The clatter of hooves over cobblestone snatched Sabine from her thoughts.
Paris. She tensed.
Their cart moved into the chaos and confusion. The city streets were congested with Aristos and commoners, a clash of brilliant colors and the drab. Of luxurious carriages and humble carts. Of palaces known as hôtels for its exalted citizens, and barren alleys for its beggar-born.
Twisting and turning, she realized she was scouring the midafternoon crowds as if she’d spot Isabelle walking along the narrow store-lined streets, if she looked hard enough.
Warm fingers closed over her cold hand.
Jules brought her palm to his lips and kissed it. “If she’s alive, we will find her.”
“She’s alive.” Strangely, she felt it even stronger now that she was in Paris.
He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. Sabine rested her head on his shoulder and for a moment closed her eyes, savoring his warmth and strength. She floated through the noise of the city. Floated between worries and wonderment.
All those years ago, she’d vowed to return to Paris and win over her Dark Prince. And here she was, reentering the city with Jules de Moutier. Her most ardent, glorious lover.
Unlike before, she no longer dwelled on dreams, or the future. She was living in the moment, seizing fistfuls of bliss while she could.
The sounds of horses’ hooves, several of them, a fast approach, grabbed her attention. A four-horse carriage thundered by.
“Raymond, turn the cart around and follow that carriage!” Jules ordered.
“Why? Who is it?” Luc asked, craning his neck.
Jules smiled. “It looks as though good fortune is with us today,” he said as Raymond tur
ned the cart, already in pursuit. “If that sorry excuse of a horse can keep up, we’ll speak to Valentin shortly, for that, Luc, was his carriage. And I just spotted him in it. Alone.”
22
Raymond drew the cart to a halt a discreet distance from where Valentin’s carriage was parked.
“We’ll walk from here,” Jules said as he jumped down and quickly aided the women off. The thought of a meeting with the Marquis sooner rather than later made his heart race. “We must get into the Marquis’ carriage. We need to distract the driver.”
“We’ll take care of the distraction.” Louise smiled and glanced at Vincent.
“My ankle! O-O-O-O-H-H-H . . .” Vincent’s cries and moans as he lay on the road in front of the Marquis’ horse drifted to the back of the carriage where Jules and Luc hid. Waiting.
Vincent’s feigned fall had been highly convincing. Louise, Sabine, and even Agnes supported the theatrics as they carried on distressed and distraught.
“Move him this instant,” the driver demanded. “He is blocking the way. This carriage belongs to the Marquis d’Argon.” With Vincent on the ground in front and another carriage parked in back, the driver knew he was stuck.
“I don’t care if it belongs to the King himself,” Sabine shot back. “We cannot lift him! If you want him moved, then get down and help us.”
A smile pulled at the corners of Jules’s mouth. That was his feisty forest fairy. He’d reward her heroics later—in all her favorite amorous ways.
Spotting Raymond parked down the street, Jules gave him a nod. Without further ado, Raymond knew exactly what Jules required of him and rolled up alongside the Marquis’ carriage.
“My dear husband . . . My poor, poor husband,” Louise wailed.
“My friend, you’d better move that man,” Raymond said to the driver. “It looks as though your master approaches.” He indicated the Marquis with a jerk of his chin.
The moment the driver saw his employer descending the stairs, he jumped down with a curse to help move Vincent.
“Now,” Jules said to Luc. They moved between the cart and the carriage and slipped inside the plush interior, unnoticed, quickly drawing the curtains shut.
With the dwindling light of day, inside the carriage it was dark.
“Monsieur le Marquis!” the driver exclaimed. The quick shuffle of feet told Jules the man was rushing to aid his master.
“Straight home,” said a familiar voice, the same calm, even tone Jules remembered.
Poised, he waited.
The latch turned. The carriage door opened.
The moment the Marquis stepped up and leaned forward, Jules yanked him in and slammed the door shut. The Marquis landed on the seat opposite Jules and Luc.
His eyes widened. “Who—Who are you? What—What do you think you’re doing?”
“Valentin, it’s Jules de Moutier and my brother, Luc.”
“Monsieur!” The driver pounded on the door, unable to open it while Jules held it shut. It had been jerked from his hands, alerting the man that something was amiss. “Monsieur le Marquis, are you all right?”
Speechless, Valentin stared back at his unexpected guests. He sat up and peered closer, his gaze traveling from Jules to Luc and back again. His expression changed from surprise to shock.
“My God,” he breathed. Reaching out, he grasped both Jules’s and Luc’s hands and squeezed. “What has become of you?” His voice quavered with emotion.
“Monsieur!” The pounding persisted. “Please, are you all right!”
Valentin cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
“Valentin,” Jules said. “We must speak to you. Somewhere private.”
In the Hôtel d’Argon, in the Marquis’ private apartments, the distinguished Aristo took in the trio before him, his expression aggrieved.
Light from the flickering flames in the hearth, the silver wall sconces and torchères revealed the extent of Jules, Luc, and Sabine’s beggared appearance.
But Jules wasn’t embarrassed. The importance of this meeting blanketed whatever personal discomfort Jules might derive dressed as a pauper before Valentin.
Sabine shifted her weight from one foot to the other. At Jules’s behest, she’d been admitted in the Marquis’ carriage.
Surrounded by lavishness, she stood between Jules and his brother, her eyes uncharacteristically downcast. Every so often she touched her frayed skirts. Clearly, she didn’t share his indifference to their appearance, but was embarrassed by her mode of dress and diminished status, especially since she’d learned in the carriage that Valentin had been an acquaintance of her father’s.
“Disguises or not, you are of noble birth, of superior bloodlines. It grieves me to see you like this,” Valentin said, the sincerity of his words reflecting in his benevolent eyes. “You wouldn’t have gone to such lengths unless you were in dire straits.” He moved to his writing desk, stacks of his beloved books covering most of its surface. “I’ll advance you funds.”
“Valentin—” Jules began but the Marquis held up his hand to stop the flow of his words.
“I insist. Think nothing of it, son. Now then, how much will you need?” He picked up his quill and glanced at Jules, then Luc.
“We didn’t come here for money,” Luc said.
Valentin dropped the quill back into the crystal inkwell. He stepped around his desk, concern etched on his visage. “Then why do you risk your freedom? Your life? You know the consequences you face if either of you is caught in Paris. What has happened?”
“Valentin.” Jules paused, grappling with his words. The Archbishop had been the Marquis’ friend. He hated being the bearer of bad news, being the one to cause the tenderhearted man distress.
So different from the other Aristos Jules knew, the Marquis d’Argon, who disliked darts and dice. Who preferred prose over promiscuity—it was common knowledge he’d never been unfaithful to his wife. Even Jules’s father, who’d held himself to a higher standard of conduct than most of his peers, had had mistresses—though he never flaunted them.
“Five years ago you took a great risk to help us,” Jules began. “You were the only one who didn’t believe my father was a traitor to the Crown. It’s something my brother and I will never forget. We are forever in your debt.”
Valentin waved off Jules’s words, looking embarrassed by them. “I simply did what was right.” The man was as modest as he was decent. “I couldn’t sit back and watch you and Luc meet with the same fate as your father. There had been enough injustice already. I’m sorry you lost everything,” he said, rueful. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”
“There is something more you can do,” Luc injected, his impatience showing. “We need information.”
“Information?”
“Yes, Valentin, my brother is correct.” Jules briefly tossed Luc a stern look, cautioning him to watch his outbursts. They had to broach this gently. “I loathe to ask for more of you, but you’re the only one we can turn to.”
“But I have told you all that I know,” the Marquis assured them. “Making inquiries is difficult and dangerous. Even now. Your father hasn’t been forgotten or forgiven. I want to see your lands and title restored. But there is nothing more I can do. Especially now. I’m in negotiations with the Duc de Talon over the marriage contract between his son and my Marguerite. I cannot jeopardize her future—”
Jules approached. “We don’t wish to place you in peril or risk disgracing your family . . . We came here looking for information regarding your friend, the Archbishop of Divonne.”
“Bailloux? What about him?”
Jules’s silence was saturated with reluctance.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said at last. “I’m sorry, but he is . . . dead.”
“Dead?” Ashen, Valentin simply stared back at him in stunned disbelief. “H-How . . . do you know this?”
“We found him in his chapel, hanging from a rope.” Jules pulled out the Archbishop’s letter f
rom inside his doublet and handed it to him. “We found this near his body.”
The older Aristo’s hands slightly trembled as he read the contents. When he finally met Jules’s gaze, his eyes glistened with tears. “I—I cannot believe it . . .”
With care, Jules explained the events that led to the discovery of the Archbishop’s body and the scene in the chapel.
The Marquis slowly sank into a nearby chair as though the weight of the news was too great for his legs to bear.
Jules placed his hand on the Marquis’ shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes . . . No . . . I—I don’t know . . .” His anguish resonated with Jules. He’d been no less grief-stricken when he’d learned his father had lost his life swinging from a rope.
He hated pressing Valentin when he looked so shaken, but had no choice. “Valentin, I must ask you: Did you know he was in love with the Comtesse de Tonnere?”
The older man’s gaze dropped back down to the note. “Yes . . . He is”—Valentin swallowed—“was a good friend and confided as such . . .”
“Were you aware of the animosity the Archbishop felt toward my father?” Jules asked.
Valentin remained silent, blankly staring at the note. Jules thought he hadn’t heard the question, but then he answered, “I knew Bailloux was angry and upset with him . . . but I never knew why. Neither of them would say. They didn’t wish to place me in the middle of their dispute.”
“Then you never heard anything about my father blackmailing the Archbishop?” Jules asked, tossing a glance at Luc.
“Blackmailing Bailloux?” Valentin scrubbed a hand over his face, his other hand still clutching the note. “No.”
“Nothing about my father threatening to expose the Archbishop’s affair with the Comtesse?” Luc pressed.
“No. Why would you say such a thing?”
“My brother found a letter in the Archbishop’s study,” Jules explained. “He’s convinced it’s authentic. Signed with my father’s name, its contents threaten to reveal the Comtesse’s adultery to her husband.”
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