"If you're well enough to be out cayorting around the countryside, then you can join me for supper this evening," he said, although he made it sound like a command.
She gave him her sweetest smile. It had some effect, for she saw a vein begin to throb in his temple. "If you wish," she said. She smiled again. "I haven't had a chance to thank you for all the lovely gowns and things."
"There's no need. I'm your husband and it's my duty to provide for you. If you are going to go cavorting around the countryside, I won't have you doing so dressed as a beggar—" He cut himself off, but it was too late. The were both remembering the condition he had found her in, and how she had come to be that way.
He turned away from her. "I'll tell Guitton to have us served informally in the small dining room. We'll begin with a glass of brandy in the library."
❧
At the sound of a door opening and closing upstairs, Max quickly knocked back his fourth glass of brandy. There was a pleasant hum in his head and his fingertips were starting to feel numb. It was just the state he wanted to be in—drunk enough to be as cruel as it would take to survive the coming battle.
That it was going to be a battle he had no doubt. The only question was the nature of the enemy. The worst enemy, he had decided, was his own treacherous body. How had he allowed himself to get to such an impossible state where only one woman on earth was capable of satisfying him? And what fiendish god had decreed that the woman would be Gabrielle?
Gabrielle.
Lying, deceiving, falsehearted Gabrielle. He refused to believe he still loved her. He refused to let himself love her. The minute he did she would hurt him again. Leave him, probably, or take a lover. Only a man who enjoyed suffering would deliberately let himself in for that kind of pain.
A part of him wanted to flee to the other side of the world, where he would be sure of being out of reach of that damned spell she could cast with just one of those sweet smiles. On the other hand, she was his wife, which meant he could avail himself of her body, that glorious, sensual body, whenever he felt in the mood. And tonight he was definitely in the mood.
The door opened.
She stood with the oil lamps in the hall backlighting her hair, so that it blazed like the sun. Her gown was of flesh-colored vaporous silk and in the flickering light he thought he could almost see right through it to her naked body. She had laced her bodice so tightly that, as she breathed, her breasts rose and quivered, threatening to spill over the top of the deep decollete, and the lace that trimmed the edge of it was so sheer he had a hard time telling where it left off and her bare skin began.
Max set his teeth to bite back a groan. How was he ever going to win this war when the enemy possessed such formidable weapons?
He splashed more brandy into the glass, spilling a good portion onto the ruby and blue Aubusson carpet. He lifted the glass to her in a mock toast and fought back with the only weapon he had—words.
"You shouldn't wear that gown in public, ma mie. You're liable to start a revolution."
A blush spread slowly across her cheeks, then she raised her head to stare proudly at him. "I had hoped you would be pleased with the dress, Monsieur le Vicomte. Since it is you, after all, who has paid for it."
"Actually, I charged everything to my father's accounts. I hope it was outrageously expensive."
"Oh, but it was!" Her eyes crinkled at the corners and she laughed softly. Max emptied half the brandy snifter down his throat.
He went over to the sideboard to refill his glass and pour one for her. She glided into the room as if on a bubble of air. She paused to look around her, taking in the lustrous mahogany and gilt furniture, the shelves of books bound in gold-embossed leather, the wainscoted walls broken up by double French doors that led to the gardens. Max glanced at her.
She walked over to the fireplace, gazing up at a portrait over the mantel of a stern-looking man in a uniform dripping with gold braid. "Your father," she stated. "I can tell. You have the same arrogant nose."
"Do we?" Carrying both brandies, he came to stand close enough to her that the sleeve of his shirt brushed her bare arm. The fine hairs rose on the back of her neck and he smiled to himself. She might have the ability to drive him half mad with desire, but at least he'd always had the same effect on her.
He pressed one of the brandy glasses into her hands, allowing his fingers to linger in hers, smiling again as he heard her breath catch. She smelled wonderful—of spring flowers and sun-drenched meadows.
He looked down. She was breathing rapidly and he could see her nipples pressing against the lace of her bodice, like two dark red rosebuds . . . Jesus, he wondered. Had she rouged them?
He jerked away from her. He stumbled stiff-legged over to a chair by the window and flung himself down on it. Draping one leg over the chair arm, he cradled his brandy glass in his lap to hide the hard bulge in his breeches. His hands were trembling.
She had noticed the other portrait opposite the one above the mantel and she went now to study it. This one was of a woman with rich chestnut hair and glowing hazel eyes, and a melancholy smile on her full lips that left just the hint of a dimple in one cheek.
"My mother, the whore," Max said.
Gabrielle looked at him in surprise.
"The comtesse, the real comtesse, has been banished to the attics." He got up and went to stand before the portrait. The bulge in his breeches was still there; he decided not to care if she noticed it. "The real comtesse died, you see, and my father thought to go looking for his other wife. He found her in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, walking the streets, and me"—his lips curled into a bitter smile—"doing things you don't want to know about. I was twelve. He brought us back here and she died six months later." He waved his glass at the portrait, and brandy slopped over the rim. "Since then the old bastard's convinced himself she was the one true love of his life."
"Perhaps she was." Gabrielle had spoken in such a strained voice that he barely heard her.
"He had a strange way of showing it then, didn't he? Abandoning her to a life of prostitution. But maybe I'm a sentimental fool when it comes to marriage and love."
The color drained from her face and he felt a spasm of self-disgust. To quench it, he finished off what was left of the brandy in his glass.
She tilted her head back to look again at the portrait. "I was wondering where I had seen her before . . . You have a miniature of her in the apartment back in Paris."
"Ah, yes, I'd forgotten about that day you stole into my apartment and rummaged through my drawers. I never did discover what you were really looking for. But never mind telling me now, Gabrielle. Anything you said would probably be a lie and, besides, I find the air of mystery that always surrounds you to be something of an aphrodisiac. It seems I'm never making love to the same woman twice."
As she turned to face him, he saw tears glinting in her eyes. Even as he watched, one spilled over and rolled down her cheek.
"Damnation!" he exclaimed, hurling his empty brandy glass across the room.
She brushed the tear impatiently away. "If you're trying to make me pay for what I did, Max, then you are succeeding. What will it take for you to forgive me?" To his horror she fell to her knees before him. "I beg—"
He seized her arms, hauling her to her feet. "Don't do that, for Christ's sake!" He shook her and her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth fell open. He started to lower his head, stopping himself in the second before his lips touched hers.
He flung her away from him and, whirling, fled from the room and the sight of that white, hurt face, and the knowledge that he had loved her then, loved her now, would always love her, no matter what.
No matter what.
❧
Two days later, Gabrielle stood before the full-length mirror that hung on the armoire in the rose bedroom, not knowing whether to laugh or to swear. She hadn't dared to light a candle, and in the dawn light of a cloudy day, she could barely make out her reflection. What she did see looked rid
iculous. When she had imagined fleeing the chateau in a male disguise she had pictured herself looking like a dashing cavalier, not a court jester.
The clothes—Max's clothes—were much too big for her. Why hadn't she anticipated that? His breeches spilled out the tops of his floppy boots, and she had to hold them up by looping a tasseled cord from one of the window curtains around her waist. His tricorn hat fell down to the bridge of her brows, and she kept having to push it back, only to have it fall forward again. It seemed that two of her could have fit into his coat.
Well, it would just have to do, she thought; she had come too far to turn back now.
So far, except for this slight miscalculation with the clothes, her plan had fallen out just as she imagined it. Dominique stood beside her now, muffled in a thick coat, a sack of food clasped tightly in one fist. Beside her was a cloak bag stuffed with several changes of clothes for both of them. In the pocket of her coat was a purse full of coins, and a pistol. The world was full of men like Balue, and she was determined this time to be prepared for them. Of course, she had never fired a pistol before, but what could be so hard about it?
She had stolen all these things yesterday afternoon from Max's room while he was out in the paddock with Dominique, playing the part of a father by teaching him how to ride that nasty cinnamon-colored horse with the gray muzzle. In a moment she would steal that horse and one for herself. True, her one experience at riding a horse had been something of a disaster, but she refused to believe she couldn't master a thing the rest of the world seemed able to do almost by second nature.
She had no qualms about stealing these things from Maxwell, not too many qualms. She reminded herself that it was either do this or stay here and live with a man who didn't love her. A man who'd made it obvious he would never care for her again except, perhaps, as a means of slaking his lust. In all those years alone, struggling to support herself and her son, she had never resorted to selling her body. Now she would be damned before she would allow Max to make her his whore.
They crept down the stairs and out the French doors that led into the gardens from the library. It had started to rain, a steady, icy drizzle that made Gabrielle glad that she had Max's big, thick coat.
Dominique had told her that the cinnamon-colored horse was a "lady horse," but Gabrielle didn't believe it, for surely only a male of the species would be so contrary. The stupid beast refused to stand still long enough for Gabrielle to get the saddle on her back. She bared a pair of wicked-looking teeth and made so much racket banging her hooves against the stall that Gabrielle expected the stables to become full of curious grooms at any minute.
Finally Gabrielle was forced to give up on the saddle. She also decided against taking two horses. One was obviously going to be almost more than she could handle.
It was Dominique's idea to coax Marthe out of the stables by offering her one of their precious apples from their food sack. The mare was obviously a treacherous beast, just like her master, because once through the stable door she got a whiff of freedom and jerked away from Gabrielle, almost tearing her arm out of its socket and knocking off her hat.
Gabrielle watched with dismay as the mare cantered away, tossing her head and flicking her tail. The sound of her hooves clattering on the pebbled drive drowned out the noise of the horse and rider that emerged from behind the stables.
Until she heard a familiar voice, drawling with suppressed amusement, say "Are you going somewhere, Gabrielle?" and she turned to look up into a pair of mocking gray eyes.
"You look ravishing this morning, ma mie. Although it's a trifle early in the day, isn't it, to be going to an opera ball?"
Gabrielle whipped back around to glare at her son. "You told him!"
"I didn't!"
"He didn't," Max said. He sat at ease on an enormous black horse, his wrists crossed over the saddle pommel. "Did you think, my devious little wife, that I would fail to see that someone had rifled through my drawers again, stealing my pistol? Speaking of which, I'll have it back now if you don't mind. It's loaded and you're liable to shoot your foot off."
Gabrielle took the gun from her pocket, but she didn't hand it to him. Instead she pointed it at his chest. "Let us go."
His face tightened and his hands jerked involuntarily on the reins, causing the horse to back up a step. "Oh, no, Gabrielle, you're not running away again. You're my wife, and my wife you will stay. Willingly or unwillingly."
"Let us go, or I'll shoot you."
He threw back his head and laughed.
She shot him.
Chapter 18
The horse reared up and came down again with a clash of hooves. The sound of the shot bounded across the fields, muffled by the misty air. A bright red stain appeared on the sleeve of his buff-colored coat.
"Maman, you shot Papa!" Dominique exclaimed.
She hadn't meant to shoot him. The heavy pistol just seemed to go off of its own accord. It startled her so much that she flung it away from her with a scream, as if the ball had hit her, not Max.
He touched his arm, then stared in astonishment at the hand that came away bloody. He raised his brows at her. "I didn't know you were such a good shot."
"I missed. I was aiming for your treacherous heart," she lied.
He laughed and the horse danced sideways, its ears back and its eyes showing white. He kicked out of the stirrups, slipping off its back to slap it on the rump, sending it toward the stable, where a half dozen goggled-eyed grooms were already spilling from the doors. One look told them that the vicomtesse had shot the vicomte, and they decided that what happened next would be something they would be better off not witnessing.
Dominique stared from one to the other of his parents, his eyes as round as carriage wheels. "Papa, Maman shot you."
"Dominique, go inside."
"But, Papa—"
"Now."
Gabrielle had never seen her son obey with such alacrity. He abandoned her to be murdered by his precious papa without even a backward look.
Max took a step toward her.
She backed up. "W-what are you going to do?"
He kept coming. "It's time you were taught how a wife is supposed to behave, Gabrielle. For instance, a wife is not allowed to leave her husband. Nor is she allowed to shoot him-"
"You laughed in my face!"
"—no matter what the provocation."
She stopped backing up and stood her ground, lifting a quivering chin into the air. "You don't own me, Maximilien de Saint-Just."
He thrust his face so close to hers that she could see the fine lines around his eyes and the stubble of the beard he had yet to shave off that morning. He peeled his lips back in a nasty smile and she backed up two more steps.
"Oh, but I do own you," he said, his voice silky, dangerous. "The law is most specific on that point. My authority over your property and your person is absolute."
"And who were those laws written by? Men! Men, who-"
"Be quiet. I haven't finished dealing with this matter. In fact, I have only just begun. As your husband and master—"
"Master!"
"Master, dear wife. It is my moral duty to instruct you in all the wifely virtues of obedience, submissiveness, and humility, and I intend to do so. Come here."
She shook her head no, but her treacherous legs obeyed him of their own accord. When she got within striking distance, he seized her around the waist and hefted her upside down over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The laughter of the men in the stables followed them as he carried her up the sweeping steps of the chateau.
She kicked her feet; he pulled off the big boots easily, flinging them aside. She pummeled his back with her fists; he smacked her backside. She was so angry she was crying. "How dare you! Put me down this instant—ow!" she cried as he smacked her again.
"That didn't hurt. Yet. But if you don't quit fighting me, it will be many a week before you're able to sit in any comfort."
Gabrielle went rigid. He wouldn't dare!
Would he? According to the law he could, as her husband, beat her as much and as often as he liked, as long as he didn't endanger her life. And what would the law say to the fact that she had shot him? Oh, mon Dieu . . .
He carried her all the way upstairs and into the bedroom, his bedroom. He flung her down on the big tester bed. She started to sit up and then she saw his face and she lay back down again. She bit her lower lip to stop its trembling. She noticed the muscle begin to throb in his jaw, and she hoped he was trying to master his temper.
He kept his eyes on her as he removed his coat, grimacing a little as he pulled on his wounded arm. There was a lot of blood on his shirt, and Gabrielle felt sick with guilt and shame. She deserved everything that he was going to do to her.
"Max? About the pistol ... It was something of an accident. I didn't mean—"
"Take off those ridiculous clothes."
She flinched as if she'd already been dealt the first blow. Then she sat up and with trembling fingers worked at the buttons on the coat. She took it off and handed it to him. He dropped it on the floor. The shirt came next. She had to stand up to pull down the breeches.
She stood before him stripped to her own sheer cambric chemise.
"That, too," he said, his voice a rough burr.
He stood tall, looking down at her from beneath heavy eyelids, and she knew in that moment it was not a beating he was going to give her.
She yearned for him to take her—with every breath, every thump of her heart. But pride kept her stiff before him and pulled the words from her mouth. "I'll not be a wife to a man who doesn't love me. I'll not let you—"
"Shut up." He yanked impatiently at the jabot around his neck, and his shirt fell open, baring half his chest. "You'll be what I say, and you'll do as I say."
She lowered her head. His manhood, hard and swollen, pressed against his breeches. There was a slight tremor in his rigid thighs, and his shirt fluttered with his breathing. Whatever he said, he could not control what he felt.
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