She sighed again and sank a little deeper into the water. “I could stay in here forever.”
Isabelle’s eyes flew open. Her own words seemed to jolt something profound inside her. Emotions warred on her sunlit face; Adam knew she was reliving the arrangement they’d struck almost a month earlier.
You must stay here as my mistress. For as long as I demand. Maybe forever...
Water dripped from Adam’s fingers as he lifted them from the water and grazed her cheek. She clasped her slender fingers around his suspended wrist, her eyes fixed on his own. They gazes clung. Searched. The chemistry between them was electric... far beyond anything he’d ever imagined. Even his darkest fantasies had paled in comparison.
His heart burst with emotion; it took every bit of his willpower not to scoop Isabelle in his arms and devour her lush, crimson lips. Blood rushed to his groin as perspiration and beads of water trickled down her neck and into the creamy valley between her breasts. He both cursed and thanked the rippling water, which prevented him from seeing her luscious curves and concealed his rock-hard arousal.
Her hand moved away from his wrist, and she tentatively slid her fingers across his jawline... over the normal side of his face... then across his disfigurement.
How can she bear it?
Her lips parted, and she elicited a sensual sigh. The sound stirred the blood in his veins, heating it to a steady boil.
He had to touch her. Adam waded forward, closing the scant distance between them, then slid his palm over Isabelle’s abdomen. Steam rose from the spring and plastered the curls against her flushed cheeks. He felt her ribs beneath his palm, felt as her stomach contracted with each labored breath. Her skin was silky soft. Smooth. Their gazes intimately slammed together. He heard her quick intake of air. Adam pulled his hand away and swallowed deeply. Every bit of him burned. Hummed. Throbbed. Once more, he ached to thrust her against the side of the spring and devour her lips in a soul-searing kiss.
“Tell me more about your adolescence,” she whispered while her fingers resumed their daring exploration across the two sides of his face. She pushed back his forelock, exposing his withered left ear. “Tell me everything...”
At that moment, Adam could deny her nothing. Relishing the feel of her damp fingertips, he spoke about his past while veiling his true identity. Her laughter sounded like pure music as he recalled the mischief he’d gotten into; the adventures Sébastien had helped him achieve. He even spoke of his mother and father—of the love they shared and little Rosemary. She reminisced about her own childhood in turn; he savored each word, every tiny detail, as he caught himself falling in love with her again and again. Seconds slipped into minutes, and the minutes blossomed into a full hour.
I am losing myself to her.
Isabelle’s fingers slid down his neck and over his fluttering pulse... down his sternum and the rapid beat of his heart. His head swam. Every nerve ending caught fire. She made him frantic with passion. Below the water’s moving surface, she caressed his skin, each scar, the tops of his thighs and biceps.
At such close proximity, Adam detected a honeyed scent at the base of her throat. Roses. She’d clearly gathered some from his garden and garnished her bath water with their sweet petals. He inhaled the intoxicating fragrance, which mated flawlessly with the natural aroma of her skin. Delectable. Mouthwatering. Suddenly he yearned to press his lips against the center of her throat, rip away her chemise, and drag his mouth and tongue all the way to the tips of her toes. How easy it’d be to nudge her slender thighs apart, to bridge the distance between them and bring his body flush against her feminine core.
What would it feel like to lose myself in such beauty and softness?
He yearned to bend his head, to kiss her shoulder, her neck, her chest. He’d tangle his fingers in her silky hair and whisper endearments against her flushed cheeks. Ever so lightly, he’d catch her earlobe between his teeth... He’d move lower and tease her pulse point with his lips and mouth... move down to the lush rise of her breasts... He’d give her nipples the same attention as her earlobe; he’d gently take them between his teeth and lips... swirl his tongue around that taut peak and bundle of nerves... He’d pull both Isabelle and himself into oblivion with loving tugs and slow, sweeping licks—
Insecurities be damned; he couldn’t fight off his desire any longer. Passion and blazing want caused his muscles to tremble. He needed to touch her, just as he needed air to breathe.
His quaking hand broke through the tepid water. Dragging a slow, deliberate caress down her smooth stomach, he traced the small dip of her belly button, circled around it... touched her hips and legs through the wet, billowing chemise, relishing how the material swished against his palm. Isabelle’s audible moan encouraged his caresses and increased the beat of his heart. His fingers skated across the wavering fabric in a daring stroke, and he felt her muscles contract beneath his touch. Hardly thinking or able to breathe, he cupped his palm around her slender thigh and coaxed her legs apart. She visibly shuddered as he rested his fingers between her soft, parted thighs; the chemise’s material barricaded his caress and whispered against his fingers. Below the fabric, he felt a dense spring of curls—just barely...
His soul caught fire. He strived for sanity, for rational thought; the scent of her skin and hair overwhelmed him, while the feel of her silky-smooth thighs wound erotic imagery inside his mind. He dipped one finger past the pantalettes’s slit and gently grazed her opening. She emitted a trembling moan as his thumb joined in the caress and grazed her feminine cleft. Back and forth. Up and down. He applied a little more pressure... watched with a shared ecstasy while her eyes closed and her thighs shifted farther apart in an erotic invitation...
“Adam...” She sighed his name, releasing the word on a husky exhale. Then she drew in a long breath, regarded him through hooded eyelids, and rested her head on the shelf of rock.
A heartbeat later, he forced his hand away and fought to breathe normally. Blood rushed past his eardrums and set his veins ablaze. Her eyes seized his in an intimate perusal. Whatever she encountered in his own expression appeared to captivate her.
“How can you allow me to touch you? How can you touch me?” he whispered, gesturing toward the marred skin of his face and neck. “How could you bare to touch this?”
Sighing, Isabelle merely smiled and shook her head. “Things aren’t always as they appear to be, I suppose.”
That night, Adam observed as Isabelle read a book before the hearth. She was snuggled up like a quaint kitten with a secretive smile curving her red lips. A whirlwind of dark curls cushioned her porcelain face and tumbled over her shoulders.
Her mouth stirred with incantations as she mutely read from the page. A riot of emotions battled inside him while he studied her graceful movements... how her slender fingers eagerly flipped the pages and her fine brows scrunched together. She was utterly absorbed in her story; the rest of the world seemed to have fallen from her notice.
Stranger pushed past his legs and limped into the drawing room. Adam silently cursed the beast as Isabelle flipped her book shut, then greeted the dog with inaudible endearments. Her eyes rose to where he stood—and their gazes crashed together. A vision of her in the hot spring flashed through his mind: dark, damp curls plastered to her glistening skin, morning’s light illuminating her flushed cheeks, the feel of her abdomen rising and falling beneath his palm...
Adam shoved away the imagery and eased into the drawing room. His eyes flickered to the Delacroix coat of arms and his house’s unveiled words; he’d removed the fabric the previous night.
Nutrisco et extinguo.
“Adam... come sit with me,” she urged, her voice musical and airy. He did as she commanded, again finding he could refuse her nothing. Idly she scratched Stranger behind his long ears. Captivated by the sight, he nearly felt Isabelle’s fingers sliding across his naked skin in a slow, passionate exploration...
“Glad to see you’re making use of the library. The b
ook,” he murmured, gesturing to the volume and adjusting his body in the chair. “What are you reading?”
She gave another thoughtful smile, then flipped the cover shut and recited the title aloud. “Frankenstein. One of my absolute favorites.” Her eyes came to life, and Adam found a reflective joy spark inside his own heart. The reaction caught him off guard. He cleared his throat and fought to disguise the ever-growing power she held over him. Dieu, his nerves were in tatters, and he feared she could hear the wretched pounding of his heart. “Have you read it before?” she asked.
Silently he shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. Isabelle’s smile grew as she tossed the cover open again. “Well, it’s very good! It touches upon many of France’s enlightened ideas.”
She gazed down at the book, her intelligent eyes sharpening. Adam battled the urge to latch on either side of her face and draw her into a slow, sensual kiss. He’d toss the book from her fair hands, climb onto the wingback chair, and encase her body with his arms...
The temperature seemed to increase by one hundred degrees. His heart thundered. Both palms grew hot and clammy. He held tight to the arms of his chair while his nails embedded in the faded fabric.
Looking quite flustered, she flipped the book open and scanned the page. “‘You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I—’”
“What, pray tell, are you doing?”
“Why, reading to you, of course,” she said, flashing him a playful look that heated his blood again. “Now, no interruptions, monsieur.” Adam’s grip on the arms of his chair loosened, and he felt his grin expand into a full-blown smile. “Just relax and close your eyes,” she fairly purred, her soft voice washing over him like the waterfall. He did as commanded—falling fast and completely under her spell. The horrors of his past life floated away, leaving only the two of them in the world.
The hours flew by while the gentle lull of her voice carried him into a lush dream world. And for once in so many years, the nightmares never came.
Chapter Eighteen
Sébastien stood before Chateau de Dumont, staring up at the sweeping buttresses and intricate carvings in a state of disbelief. The family’s noble coat of arms, which boasted a pair of roaring lion heads, was carved into the wooden door. A shiver coursed down his backbone as those shining, golden predators echoed his apprehensive glare.
Perhaps this is a mistake. Maybe I should forget this folly and turn back.
Sébastien dumbly scratched the stubble on his chin, then reached for the lion heads and gave the knocker a solid thrust. The sound reverberated despairingly inside the chateau’s walls.
Almost immediately the front door wrenched open, exposing a rather pinch-faced looking footman. Sébastien guessed he was quite younger than he appeared, though judging by the leather-like skin and deep wrinkles, the man could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty-five. Sébastien yanked the bowler cap from his head and bowed his face in what he hoped was a proper formality.
“Bonsoir, monsieur. I am Monsieur Villeneuve. If it’s not too much trouble, I would be honored to make the vicomte’s acquaintance.”
The footman raised sparse, tightly knit brows, the one telltale sign of his alarm, then spouted, “And what, precisely, shall I say this is in regards to?”
Sébastien hesitated for a moment, wishing he’d come armed with a better plan in place. Finally he opted for the truth. “Why, I have information regarding his charming fiancée—Mademoiselle Rose.”
This piqued the footman’s interest. He nodded and even showed a ghost of a smile, exposing a gap between his two front teeth. Smoothing down his livery, he stiffly swept aside and ushered Sébastien into the grand foyer. Sébastien scrunched his shoulders as the footman pried away his coat and tucked it inside a closet that was larger than a small drawing room.
Indeed, he wasn’t used to such formality or grandeur. Not for several decades.
“Monsieur le Vicomte is presently consumed with a business affair. I shall alert him of your arrival and collect you when he is through.” Sébastien nodded and nervously scrubbed his hand over his face. “In the meantime, shall I show you to the receiving room? Perhaps bring you a fresh pot of tea?”
“Oh, I’m quite comfortable here. Merci, monsieur.”
The footman gave him a scrutinizing look. “Very well, monsieur.”
As the footman made a quick bow and slipped down a long, connecting corridor, Sébastien found himself in awe of the chateau’s looming and ornate beauty again. Overhead, twin chandeliers shined bright, drinking in the sunrays that burst through rows of large arched windows. A glorious, flowered wall mural covered a portion of the wall, and elegant, gold-gilded scrollwork rimmed the ceiling.
The marble flooring echoed as he tracked forward, each of his steps amplified in the colossal room. The hollow sound of his footfalls seemed to reiterate his heartbeats. With each step, a nagging guilt and regret seeped into his marrow; the grand foyer reminded him of another fortress—one that had housed a line of kings and queens through the ages, and now stood in a lonely, desolate ruin in the middle of Demrov’s most picturesque province.
Sébastien held his breath, half-expecting to see Adam, just emerging from his clumsy toddler years, bounding down the long hall, his youthful laughter ringing like a bell...
Desperately needing a distraction, Sébastien turned his gaze to an impressive display of portraits. The countless framed paintings were strategically grouped together in the popular salon wall fashion. Sébastien craned his neck back and examined the stern faces that seemed to glare down at him. Those fine ladies and gentlemen were clearly from the same bloodline; they all boasted the same placid expression, and their hair color typically ranged from a light brown to an almost stark-white blond. Sébastien drew closer in spite of himself as King and Queen Delacroix’s faces materialized in his torrential mind; he blocked out the queen’s wretched expression and the disappointed, disapproving look in her gaze.
Sébastien strained his eyes, noticing that a tiny inscription lined the bottom of each gilded frame. One showcased a beautiful young woman in the prime of life; she couldn’t have been older than twenty years, and her hair was much darker than the surrounding ladies and gents. Her delicate features, creamy complexion, and mane of decadent curls seduced Sébastien’s thoughts to those of another young woman... one he’d briefly met nearly a month earlier...
She’s the reason for my visit. That thought set fire to his resolve and helped bar ancient memories from his mind.
Sébastien turned away from the portraits, needing to escape their collective gaze, and stole down the long foyer. His reflection shined in the medallion-patterned flooring. Despite being surrounded by beauty and elegance, he felt strangely cold. Hollow. As if he was being led down a dangerous path and desperately needed to find a way back.
I’ve already come too far to turn back now. I must think of the girl—I must focus on what’s right.
Alas, since he was an adolescent, he’d made it a nauseating and tiresome habit... doing the right thing. Or at least what he perceived to be the right thing.
Muffled talking ensnared his attention. Sébastien glanced over his shoulder at the empty corridor, then followed the distant voices. Drawing toward the distinct sound of a heated conversation, he was careful to be lighter on his feet as he approached. Sébastien came to a dead standstill outside an arched doorway, whose door was slightly ajar.
“I cannot even bear to look at you, Raphael. You are a constant disgrace.” He spoke the words in a deep, condemning tone that contained a slur. “Ever since your first breath, you have brought nothing but shame and disappointment upon our name! To think I expected greater from you this time around.”
Silence seized hold like an iron fist. Sébastien edged closer to the archway and attempted to peer inside the withdrawing room.
After a minute had slipped by at a painfully slow crawl,
a second voice joined in the conversation. “How dare you? Mother would turn in her very grave at your words.” There was a distinct sadness in that voice. Sorrow. Hurt. And a powerful desperation. “Alas, she’s turning in the grave you put her in,” the man spat with a slight tremor. He was bursting with emotion, though visibly battling to remain tempered and in control of his wits. Yet with each word, Sébastien detected that the young man slipped further away—as if he were drowning in the waters of a past misery. “I grow weary of your condemnation, of your attempts to make me feel inferior to you and your precious fucking title.”
Another silence prevailed. Tension rose in the air; it poisoned the atmosphere with an ominous taint. He slipped forward, his curiosity overwhelming all good sense, and peered inside the exquisite withdrawing room.
It was as magnificent and regally decorated as the rest of the chateau—and equally cold and hollow despite the blazing hearth and flickering sconces. Two men sat in adjacent wingback chairs. They looked remarkably similar, though one was at least two decades the other’s senior. An unspoken challenge floated between them, and Sébastien felt his spine stiffen at the hatred in the younger man’s eyes.
“Mother always—”
“Your mother was a whore. Just like that low-class wench who’s somehow vanished into thin air. At first, I was rather glad about the turn of events. But the wagging tongues have changed all that.”
Sébastien observed with a tinge of empathy as the vicomte scrubbed a trembling hand up and down his face. His other hand grasped a glass of liquor; he brought it to his lips and downed a swig, and the sound of tinkling ice cubes penetrated the quiet. “I have told you again and again. She shall return soon. I know—”
Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1) Page 24