Freedom.
Satisfied, my eyes drifted shut once more, giving myself over to the enchanting melody woven with the mixed strains of rumba and folk. My hips followed the rise and dip of the notes, creating the music with my entire body, not just with the bow.
But though my body synced to the music, the beat in my blood was slightly off—slightly altered by the pulse of desire that wouldn’t subside as long as the scarred stranger haunted my thoughts.
I’d challenged him in his empty church. I’d challenged him, and he’d disappeared.
But I knew it wasn’t the last I’d see of him. It couldn’t be.
And as eager as I was to unravel the secrets built into Notre Dame, I struggled to find them as intriguing as the gorgeous gargoyle who inhabited it. And the secrets he kept.
Esme
It was strange to be given the keys to a church.
And not just any church. A cathedral.
The cathedral.
I drew a deep breath and let myself in through the side entrance of the transept, finding myself in the strange yet familiar, vast cavern of the Gothic sanctuary.
Notre Dame had played such a huge role in my studies and my career, but I’d only been inside the stone megalith a handful of times. Each time, though, was as awe-inspiring as the first.
I felt a warm sense of belonging in the maternal edifice though the building itself held an aged chill. Neither the marbled figures of kings, saints, and bishops that peopled the space, nor the other warning statues of demons and monsters, looked on me as an outsider. Neither judged me for what I was or was not.
A woman. A scholar. A Muslim. A gypsy.
I claimed all those terms for myself. Boldly. Proudly. Unapologetically. As was my right.
The figures guarded me. Their beauty awakened my soul, intrigued my intellect, and let my poor, tired wings take rest, her cavern a safe place to land.
And I relished that rest more than I was ready to admit.
Pulling my equipment behind me, my ankle bracelets chimed like my own personal doorbell, singing sweetly to the stony, ever-onlooking inhabitants.
I made my way to the center of the central nave, stopping in the center to let out the reverent breath pooled in my lungs, and scanned up and down the space, deciding where to start.
And confirming I was alone.
I couldn’t do what I needed to do with any nosy tourists—or anything moving in the space.
Especially grumpy gargoyles who shifted through shadows.
I turned toward the altar, deciding to start in the north ambulatory that curved around the back of the altar. My gaze swung like a tolling bell from one side of the church to another, expecting the guardian of the cathedral to appear at any moment and question my presence once more.
He’d certainly wasted no time finding me in my dreams, though his intentions there were of an opposite nature; in my dreams, the last thing he wanted was to send me away.
I’d been here three days this week. Three days with no sign of the man who’d greeted me in the most unwelcoming way—hot and hard like a brand. Impossible to forget the searing contact nor the goose bumps scorched into my skin.
Granted, I’d been accompanied by other people the previous times. Faculty of the school, contacts at the French heritage society, and, of course, the archbishop of Paris.
I should be afraid to think the gargoyle would only search me out when I was alone.
But I was far too curious for fear.
Rolling my shoulders back, I forced my focus on my task. My huge Pelican case rolled behind me, clicking over each uneven groove in the floor, heavy with the weight of my equipment packed carefully inside. I had a job to do—an incredibly important one for the future of the cathedral and the repairs that needed to be made. A job that didn’t involve the man whose presence filled this space more powerfully than any other ‘person in charge’ I’d met so far.
I stared ahead, the stone gazes lining the walls mocking my resilience as though they could see right through me.
I would not look for him.
Okay, maybe just a little bit… maybe just with everything below my eyes.
My sandal caught on an uneven stone and I tripped forward with a surprised cry, catching myself before I fell, but not before the unmistakable sound of stitches ripping filled the suspended air.
“Dammit,” I exhaled.
I shoved my hair back from where the mass fell over my shoulders, determined to assess the damage to my dress.
Because I’d lectured at the school this morning, where no visible religious signs like my headscarf were permitted, I’d tied my midnight mane back with a deep navy scarf dotted with a tiny, yellow diamond-shaped pattern almost like stars; it complemented the wrap dress I’d chosen—a rich red with large yellow and orange blooms scattered across it.
The V neckline clung as modestly as anything could to my chest with just a hint of cleavage peeking through and, tied at my waist, it flowed down over my hips into a loose skirt that hit just below my knees. It was both suitable for class and lively enough to be able to meet Khal and the gang later to perform.
This week, we made it onto the streets in the late afternoon. However, now that my real work was starting at the cathedral and I had to wait for visiting hours to end, our performances were pushed back into the twilight.
Standing my cases upright, I flattened my palms along my torso, inspecting the fabric for a few seconds before confirming that whatever stitches had popped weren’t critical to the dress’ structure since I could find no tear.
And though I was a poor example of a devout Muslim, I looked up and quickly murmured, “Alhamdulillah.”
Praise be to Allah.
Reaching the ambulatory with no more stumbles and no shadowed strangers, I unstacked my hard equipment cases and checked my watch, determining I had about two hours of good light left—just enough time to unpack everything and maybe get in a few calibration scans before I had to clean it all up and meet Khal and the band.
“Where to start…” I mumbled to myself, planting my hands on my hips, and scanned the imposing space, my eyes clinging to each and every corner, traitorously searching the silent shadows for any sign of movement.
Swallowing the inexplicable well of disappointment, I began to hum a soft tune and set to work.
I unlocked the top box and began to carefully pull the laser machines from their padded protection.
Magic little boxes that would reveal all about the massive space.
I’d been drawn to medieval architecture, specifically cathedrals, because of their beauty. But the more I learned about them, the more I realized just how little academia really knew.
Of course, there were certain facts history provided, and in the art world, there was plenty to dissect about the various pieces to the building: the flying buttresses, the rib vaults—an innovation in Gothic style, and the rose windows. But while much ink had been donated to speculation, there was nothing left that told who built the iconic cathedral nor how they did it.
Two centuries of work left without explanation.
Maybe that was the bit that resonated with me—not really knowing where I came from or how I fit in. But it sparked an idea—a project I’d begun five years ago and finalized last year with the mapping of the National Cathedral. It was incredible, and the world was finally taking notice.
Carefully, I measured out the passage and set up the tripod equidistant from both sides, marking the distance in my notebook.
Before my idea, the only way to measure the structure to figure out how it was built and why things were done a certain way would’ve been to use strings and rulers and plumb bobs. They weren’t efficient or precise.
Unlike my lasers.
Using laser technology to scan the interior and computer rendering to knit all the data together, I would be able to map each piece—each stone—right down to the last millimeter and see how Notre Dame was built.
I was recreating history
in a sense—history we were missing. Like a mathematical movie, the measurements would chart design changes and track every thought process that occurred during the two-hundred-year span it took to build the world’s most famous cathedral. And it would all come together in a three-dimensional archive of the building itself.
Stepping back from where I’d secured the laser to its home atop the tripod, my dress fluttered around my legs as I swiftly placed my set of geolocated targets that the laser would recognize and scan between.
By the time I had everything situated, almost an hour had passed. The light filtering through the windows was tinted red, not only from the stained-glass panels, but because the sun was beginning to set.
Goose bumps littered my skin as my fingers plugged into my laptop the density of information I wanted the laser to collect in the space the targets defined. And then I exhaled slowly. Solemnly.
‘History repeats itself.’ George Eliot came to my mind, knowing these pieces of the past would play a part in the future.
Bright black eyes invaded my mind so swiftly—so suddenly—I hit the start button without intention and the flicker of the green beam shot out.
Damn him.
In rapid bursts, the laser spun on its stand, recording hundreds upon thousands of data points as the light reflected back from every surface it touched.
Placing my fingers against my lips, I made sure I still felt the slight breath caressing their tips. This was, what the French would call, my chef d’oeuvre. My masterpiece. Of all my life’s work, this was what I would be remembered for; and I would finally have a place.
My pulse thrummed as rapidly as the machine processed. This would never get old. Not even the shiver that ran up my spine.
I stepped back, not paying attention, until the heel of my sandal caught again on the uneven stone floor and sent me tumbling backwards.
My squeal of surprise sliced through the air but was cut short—just like my fall. My chest heaved with adrenaline, but my ass never reached the ground.
I realized my body was anchored to something that defied gravity.
Fingers like warm steel rods encased my arms and yanked me up from behind, the force of which tipped me back farther until I was flush against the warm wall that materialized from the shadows.
Before he spoke… before he breathed… I knew it was him.
The beautiful monster.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing back in my church?” the gargoyle growled, the hot rush of his angry breath caressing my ear.
At a distance, it was easy to think of him as a living gargoyle—a living protector of the cathedral. Especially with the marred flesh of his face, even cloaked in shadow, it was the kind of thing many would call grotesque.
But I’d never belonged with the many.
“Tell me.” His grip tightened.
I shivered, my lips parting just enough to trade air for one more moment of life.
Even his voice, with its deep, guttural rasp stretched across raw vocal cords, further painted my impression of him; the word ‘gargoyle’ came from the old French, gargouille, meaning throat.
And, with my back pressed against his chest, he felt like one of the solid stone monsters cornered on the façades. Hard. Unyielding. But hotter… so much hotter.
“My job,” I replied, annoyance mingling with my breathlessness.
I tugged on my arms, trying to release them, but his impossible hold tightened, which meant all my writhing did was rub my ass against a part of him that was just as concrete as the rest. I swallowed down my gasp, feeling heat rush between my thighs. I silently mocked myself for wanting a man who should feel dangerous to me.
But I craved the risk that came at the edge of something unforgettable.
“I don’t believe you,” came the terse reply.
I yelped as he whipped me around to face him and spun us until my back pressed mercilessly against the nearest column, a structure more forgiving than his chest.
My lungs heaved, the rapid beat of my heart sending my breaths into choppy gasps. Strands of my midnight waves tumbled forward onto my chest and against my cheek, one even slicking to the swell of my lip. Still, I notched my chin higher, refusing to let any of it unnerve me—refusing to look away from the twin black depths of his piercing stare that seemed to hold endless amounts of knowledge—like two black holes desperate to suck me inside.
And then, I realized how close we were—and how much other detail I could see… if I chose to look.
My eyes ignored my plea to hold steady, choosing instead to wander like nomads desperate to absorb the details of a face I’d only glimpsed from a shadowed distance.
Even now, the angle of the setting sun kept direct light off of both of us, but with his face hardly a few inches from mine, I could see the secrets I craved.
Some of them.
My gaze rose and fell over his strong nose, a small bump and slight offset from a previous break tampering with the classic aristocratic line. His lips held the most perfect arch I’d only ever seen on idealized statues. Even now, drawn tight in frustration, not used to dealing with disobedience, they made my fingers itch to trace along their caustic curves.
I wondered how they would deal with a kiss.
He was, quite possibly, the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. A strange thought considering half his face was mutilated with scars. But it was the flaw laid next to the flawless that held me captive.
Bold cheekbones stood out on both sides of his face, though, while one cheek tapered like smooth granite with a shadow of stubble down to his cut jawline, the other looked like a marbled mass of flesh, smooth until it puckered, pinched until it was pulled tight. The ragged lineaments creased the damaged skin like fault lines across the earth’s surface, creating a map of mystery over his face—one I wanted to make come undone.
“What is that thing?” He turned his head slightly and leveled his focus on my laser which thankfully, remained undisturbed, its green light shooting out over the interior and gathering my information. “What is it doing to my cathedral?”
I watched the tic of his jaw, both on the stubbled side of his cheek and on the scarred side. And, in that moment, I realized I wanted to know.
Just like I wanted to know about this cathedral—how it was built and by whom—I wanted to know about the man in front of me. I wanted to know who he was and how he’d come to be here.
And how he’d come to be scarred.
Suddenly, the secrets of two centuries held within the walls of this church were nothing compared to the secrets of the two minutes I’d spent holding his gaze.
“Are you going to answer me?” The more irritated he became, the more his French accent thickened the words he spoke in English.
“And if I don’t?” I replied defiantly. “Are you going to kidnap me and lock me in the bell tower?”
With a ragged curse that sounded an awful lot like ‘I’m not the damn hunchback,’ he released my arms, and stepped back, his jaw clenching, pulling the scars even tighter, as his eyes scanned down my body.
I couldn’t swallow. There was a poor chance that the thin summer fabric of my dress was enough to hide the way my body responded to that stare. I wanted him—the man from the shadows who treated me like a trespasser. I wanted to hear the rasp of his voice against my skin. I wanted to lick every inch of that scar and claim it for my own.
Well, for as long as I was here.
I’d never figured out relationships, but sex was a different story. The kind that was raw and a little rough. A little more desperate. The kind that not only belonged in the shadows but enjoyed being there. The kind that would need a whole rosary as penance for even thinking about it within a cathedral.
And the way he’d just held me made me wish he’d come closer… and clutched me harder… instead of stepping away.
My arms folded in front of me so I could rub where he’d grabbed them. His eyes dropped to the center of my chest where my breasts pushed togeth
er and suddenly, the air of something very sinful settled over a space that was meant only for something spiritual.
He was wearing the same thing he’d been the first time I’d seen him. Black.
Black pants. Crisp black button down. I made note that there was no small patch of white in the center of his collar, so he wasn’t part of the ministry—a relief I felt much lower than the part of my mind that registered it.
He wasn’t muscled in the way that Khal was, the way that made it difficult to find clothes that fit. The only way I could think to describe it was that he was made to spec, every inch of him measured and assembled to precise perfection. And, as though hot concrete had been poured inside his clothes and allowed to set.
Wetting my lips, I huffed and brushed away from my face the shorter strands of hair that had fallen from my scarf before I plastered a smile on my face and stepped toward him with my hand extended.
“It seems like we’ve gotten off on both of the wrong feet. My name is Esme. Esme St. Claire,” I introduced myself, much to his surprise. “And that,” I nodded to the tripoded technology, “is my laser.”
“This is private property, Madame St. Claire. You cannot just break in after hours and—”
“Break in?” I scoffed, thoroughly irritated that he’d taken my attempt at an olive branch and insulted me with it. “Break in?” I shook my head, taking a step toward him. “Does that scar affect your hearing, monsieur, or just your manners?”
His gaze widened in surprise—the only other emotion I’d managed to elicit other than dislike. And maybe something else… Straightening my spine, I waited for his reply. Clearly, no one ever attempted to bring up his deformity in public. Or ever. And true, it wasn’t polite to simply call out another person’s injury or disability right to their face.
But neither was it polite to threaten someone and then accuse them of a crime when they had every right to be exactly where they were and doing exactly what they were doing.
“I told you the other day I was allowed to be here,” I continued as his gaze narrowed sharply. “I have a letter from the school and the keys from the government to be able to work in here and that isn’t doing anything to this church except collecting information.”
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 6