by Kat Ross
He lay still, hands loosely clasped around her waist, his gaze roaming over her chemise. One strap slid down over her shoulder and Gabriel stared at it with a frozen expression.
Anne lowered her mouth, brushing his lips until he made a guttural sound of longing. Then he stiffened and turned his face away.
“Anne,” he murmured.
A terrible suspicion arose in her. “What, Gabriel?”
“I want you as my wife.”
“And by want you, you mean….”
He gave her a helpless look. “I want to wait.”
“Oh, my God.” Irritation flooded her, though it was tempered with fondness. “You planned this, didn’t you?”
His lips curled in that half smile she remembered all too well. “I didn’t.”
“You’re still punishing me,” she said accusingly.
He stroked her cheek, his eyes warm. “You, never. But it means something.” His voice roughened. “I want you to be mine, Anne. Forever. No secrets, no … violent partings. We’ve waited this long. What’s one more day?”
“What’s one more day?” she muttered. “Here’s a counter proposal. Let’s get married right now. Julian used to be a priest, didn’t he? I’ll make him do it. I don’t care if he hates me.”
Gabriel laughed. “He’s asleep.”
She sat up and adjusted the errant strap of her chemise. “I have no compunctions about waking him up—”
Gabriel seized her around the waist and wrestled her back down. His breath warmed her cheek as he pinned her arms to the bed. “Poor little beast.”
She glared up at him. “I thought you’d learned mercy!”
Gabriel’s shoulders shook with silent amusement. “I lied.” His lips brushed her cheekbone, feather light. “But I promise to be worth the wait.” She squirmed as his mouth traced a path of fire down the tender skin of her neck. “Hmmm, yes, you’ll discover how truly merciless I can be.” A gentle flick of the tongue. “Tomorrow.”
And with that, Gabriel rolled over and pretended to go to sleep. Anne knew he hadn’t, she could tell from his restless breathing. But she’d be damned if she slept alone tonight. If she had to suffer, he would as well.
So Anne gave him her back, ignoring the heat radiating from his body mere inches away, and passed the long hours plotting her own revenge.
In exquisite, excruciating detail.
12
Auvers-sur-Oise was a picturesque town in the countryside twenty miles north of Paris. Cows grazed in green fields dotted with old stone farmhouses and neat rows of cypress trees. Julian had recommended a local inn called the Auberge Ravoux, which sat opposite the town hall and was walking distance from the train station. To Gabriel’s chagrin, it turned out to be bursting at the seams with Dutch and American painters.
“They come from Paris to paint the scenery,” Monsieur Ravoux explained with an apologetic shrug. “But I can give you the attic room. Only four francs for the night.”
Anne had no objection. They carried their bags to the top floor and looked over the tiny space, which had a single bed, table and built-in cupboard.
“It’s like a ship’s berth,” she said.
Gabriel reclined on the narrow bed and watched as she brushed her hair out and pinned it up.
“We’re getting married tonight.” Anne glanced down at her stout boots, scuffed from hard use.
“Yes.”
The languid warmth in that single word sent a tingle up her spine.
“All I have is black.”
“I like you in black.” Gabriel’s lips twitched. “Besides, it’s traditional for a necromancer’s bride.”
“Of course, silly me.” She stuck the last pin in her hair. “Isn’t there supposed to be a great ebony coach pulled by hellish steeds snorting fire to carry us to the altar?”
“Yes, but I know you prefer your feet.” He rose and offered her his arm. The cedarwood box was tucked under the other. “You look beautiful, Anne.”
The skies had clouded over and a spattering of rain began to fall as they strolled down the main street and followed the road east to the outskirts of town. The Church of Notre Dame de l’Assomption sat on a promontory overlooking the Oise bridge. It was far more magnificent than she’d expected, with a soaring nave and ribbed vaults in the gothic style. Rain washed down the tall arched windows as they entered the deserted chapel. Gabriel strode to the altar and knelt, bowing his head, as Anne walked down the central aisle.
Votive candles flickered in niches along the walls. Despite her own lack of faith, Anne could feel the weight of history in the bones of this place. It had to predate the brutal Hundred Years War, yet she saw no signs of damage. During the day, the church would be filled with sunlight, but now it was thick with lengthening shadows.
She heard footsteps and a priest appeared from one of the side chambers. He had thick grey hair and wore a black cassock. Gabriel stood. “Père Darracq?” he asked.
“I am,” the priest responded in French. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Gabriel D’Ange.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “I thought you might be.” He glanced at Anne. “And this is…?”
“My betrothed, Anne Lawrence.”
Père Darracq regarded Gabriel for a long moment with sharp blue eyes. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Then he nodded to himself. “Come,” he said.
They followed him through a heavy door into a small windowless chamber off the north transept. A reliquary sat in the center of the room, the lid engraved with Latin words. Gabriel eased the lid back with a scrape of stone against stone. He reached into the recess and withdrew a long linen bundle, the cloth half-rotted away.
“We have guarded the blade for centuries,” Père Darracq said quietly. “I know of your Order. I believe it belonged to you once. So I return it to you freely, although I cannot say I fully understand … what you are, Monsieur D’Ange.”
“It will be used in the service of God,” Gabriel said quietly. He unwrapped the sword with great care and drew it halfway from the sheath. The blade gleamed, the edge bright and spotless. “Have you cared for it?” he asked with a slight frown.
“No. I never opened the casket.”
Gabriel slid the sword back into the scabbard. Then he put the cedarwood box inside the casket and replaced the stone lid. “I would leave you with another relic, equally precious. Care for it as you did the sword.”
Père Darracq gave a solemn nod. “What is it, if I might ask?”
“A rose cross blessed by the Virgin Mother herself.”
The priest’s eyes widened a fraction. “I will guard it with my life and everlasting soul,” he said hoarsely.
“Thank you.” Gabriel paused. “I have one last indulgence to ask. Will you marry us?”
Père Darracq blinked in surprise. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
He frowned. “We need a witness.”
“God is my witness.”
“But the law requires—”
“Men’s laws don’t matter to me.”
Gabriel’s voice was mild, but Père Darracq swallowed. “Of course. It will be done, Monsieur D’Ange.”
They returned to the nave, the priest locking the heavy door behind them with a large iron key he kept on a chain around his neck. Anne suppressed a smile as lightning flashed through the great round window, followed by a deep peal of thunder in the hills. Suddenly, she didn’t mind getting married in a church. Not when it was all so deliciously gothic.
“Do you have a ring?” the priest asked.
Gabriel patted his pocket. He caught Anne’s eye and grinned like a schoolboy.
“Stand next to each other, just there.” Père Darracq cleared his throat. “I will speak the vows and then you repeat them,” he told Gabriel.
Rain beat down, shadows danced, lightning forked again, and Anne reached for Gabriel’s hand, twining her fingers with his.
Moi, Gabriel D’Ange, je te prend, Anne Lawrence,
pour être mon épouse,
pour avoir et tenir de ce jour vers l'avant,
pour meilleur ou pour le pire,
pour la prospérité et la pauvreté,
dans la maladie et dans la santé,
pour aimer et chérir;
jusqu'à ce que la mort nous sépare.
Then it was Anne’s turn, Père Darracq gently prompting her when she stumbled.
“…jusqu’à ce que la mort nous sépare,” she finished, abashed and rather horrified to find tears in her eyes.
Gabriel was right. It did mean something.
He reached into his pocket and took out a plain gold band. He must have bought it that morning before they left Paris. Gabriel slipped the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand.
The priest gave them a final blessing and discreetly turned away as Gabriel pulled her close for a kiss.
“Take care of the sword,” Père Darracq said with a wry smile. “And your new bride.”
He walked them to the doors and peered into the stormy darkness. “Don’t you have a horse?” he asked. “It’s a terrible night.”
Gabriel laughed, his eyes bright. “My wife likes to walk.”
They ran through the downpour. By the time they reached the inn, both were soaked to the bone. When they reached the door to the attic room, Anne laid a hand on his arm.
“Wait,” she said, her face grave.
Gabriel blinked, his lashes spiked from the rain. “What is it?”
Anne swept him into her arms. “Since you made me marry you in a church, I get to carry you across the threshold.”
Gabriel burst into laughter as she nudged the door open, stepped through and deposited him gently on the other side.
“Will you deflower me now?” he asked.
“Most certainly. But I promise to be gentle.”
His grin died. “You don’t have to be.”
They locked eyes as he peeled off his coat and tossed it aside. “Turn around,” he murmured.
She felt his hands in her hair, pulling out the pins one by one. Then he reached around, his fingers deftly working their way down the buttons of her dress. Gabriel gave it a tug and the sodden gown dropped to the floor. He kissed the place where her neck joined her shoulder.
“I missed you,” she said softly. “More than life itself. I’m so sorry—”
“All of it was my fault.”
“Not all.” She turned and met his eye. “I shouldn’t have done what I did.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “I wouldn’t have left if you hadn’t, Anne. I was beyond reason.”
“We both were.” She cupped his face. “I don’t want to change you. I just want something more than … this.” She hesitated. “I want the man I knew at the Chateau de Saint-Évreux.”
“I prefer that man, too,” Gabriel said quietly. “But if I stop killing, I’ll die.”
“I know. And I accept that. But I want you to promise me that you’ll take some time off every now and then. Think of it as a holiday.”
He smiled. “A holiday. I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those.”
“Hmmm. Maybe we should start now.” Anne sat down on the edge of the bed and struggled to pull off her wet chemise, but Gabriel moved her hand away. “I like looking at you like this,” he murmured.
She lay back on the narrow bed. Gabriel made a low purring sound in his throat and slid the straps of her chemise down. He rubbed his cheek against her and his beard scraped the tender skin. It was almost unbearable.
“I’ll die if you don’t make love to me right now,” she whispered.
He laughed. “Die? No, no, we can’t have that.”
Gabriel ran a light hand down her side, then lowered his head to kiss each rib through the chemise. “I had too much time after I left,” he murmured. “Too much time to think about you.” His hand closed around her ankle, bending her knee. “I would get so angry. But then I would remember how sweet you can be. And I would think of all the things I wished to do that I had never had the chance to.”
“What things?” she managed.
He didn’t reply, but Anne bit her lip as she felt fever-hot breath against her knickers. Her hips shifted in a restless movement. “Take them off,” she whispered.
A long pause. “No.”
The word was uttered quietly but with the same note of total inflexibility she’d heard when Gabriel refused to tell her why he was holding her prisoner or what he intended to do with her.
She tried to sit up, indignant, and he pressed her back down.
“But—”
“Hush. Let me….”
And then she could no longer speak because he was doing things to her through the knickers, the gentle chafe of the cotton eliciting an erotic agony that left her dizzy and unmoored.
“I can taste you through it,” Gabriel said thickly.
Her head fell to the side, her breath shallow. “You’re a vindictive man…. Oh, heavens, do that again.”
She buried her hands in his hair, beyond any ability to control herself. When release finally came moments later, he locked his mouth against her until the violent shudders ebbed. Then he stood and stripped to the skin. He was so beautiful, hard in all the places she was soft. There was no hint of smugness in Gabriel’s face as it loomed over her, only a lust that was almost frightening in its intensity.
“Now I’ll take them off,” he muttered.
He pulled the knickers to her ankles and tossed them aside, settling his weight between her limp thighs, pushing them apart with his knees. She felt utterly frayed, hanging by a thread.
“You have one second left,” she breathed. “Or I will die and then you’ll be sorry—”
Gabriel’s eyes darkened. He cupped her bottom, lifting her up to meet his hips.
“My God, Anne,” he whispered, his voice shaking with unspent need. “I can’t….”
She pulled his mouth down to hers, her hands roving over the warm silk of his skin. She could feel Gabriel’s struggle to hold himself together. He’d once told her he couldn’t get enough and she understood what he meant now, the mindless craving to be closer, deeper, more.
“You drive me crazy,” he muttered with quiet desperation. “A thousand times more than anyone else, ever. It’s like a sickness. Je t’ai dans la peau….”
Gabriel lowered his head, his mouth finding the rapid pulse of her throat, and held himself still, murmuring words she could hardly comprehend. It seemed hours she lay in his arms, poised at the brink, and then he slowly started moving again, his hot breath in her ear, begging and commanding both.
“Come for me, Anne. Come for me, ma coeur….”
She felt his own passion building uncontrollably,
“Now… with me….”
His head bowed, strands of damp gold brushing her lips, and Anne surrendered to his voice. Gabriel’s entire body went rigid as they locked in a tight clasp, for an endless moment not two but one.
Sweat slicked them both from head to toe. She felt boneless, incapable of anything but the most languid movement. And yet somehow, impossibly, ridiculously, when he kissed her, she wanted him again.
Like a sickness.
She muffled a laugh against his shoulder.
Yes, that was it exactly.
The sounds of the world came drifting back, the steady wash of rain against the tiny attic window, the distant murmur of voices in the restaurant downstairs. Gabriel pressed his forehead to hers, elbows bent to support his weight.
“My wife,” he murmured with a note of wonder. “I love you so much it hurts sometimes.”
Anne’s throat tightened with a sudden rush of tenderness for this complicated man sprawled on top of her. She wondered how often in his long life Gabriel had been touched with a gentle hand, and thought it was far less than he deserved.
“Je t’aime,” she whispered and he laughed in delight.
“You’ve been practicing,” he said, rubbing his nose against her nose.
His whole body felt loose and relaxed now. She rested her palm on the curve of his ribs.
“A little with Jean-Michel,” Anne admitted. “But I’ve never been as quick with languages as my brother. He’s fluent in dozens….” She realized her error too late and trailed off, expecting Gabriel to stiffen, but he sounded amused when he replied.
“Yes, he cursed me quite eloquently in French at the Picatrix Club.”
Anne grinned. “You must have made him very angry. Alec is usually reserved. He never swears.”
Gabriel arched an eyebrow. “Reserved? I missed that part.”
“Oh, Alec’s a stiff, though I love him.” She stroked Gabriel’s hair, pressing a palm between his shoulders. “I can take your weight, it’s all right. I won’t break.”
He sank down and her breath caught a little. He wasn’t especially tall or large, but nor was he light. Gabriel rolled to his back and settled her on top of him. “Better?”
“Mmmm, yes.” She bent her legs around his hips and he gave a small moan.
“Anne?”
“What?” She kissed the side of his neck.
His voice was slurred like a drunk. “We’re going to hurt ourselves.”
“I don’t care.”
He swelled under her and Anne gasped as he positioned her with a single deft maneuver.
“Good,” Gabriel murmured. “Me neither.”
Some hours later, he talked the landlord into giving him a slipper tub and dragged it upstairs, filling it with hot water. Anne soaked for a while, drawing a sharp breath as he dried her off with his shirt. “Gentle with the nether regions,” she muttered, teeth sinking into her lower lip, and Gabriel let out a low laugh of commiseration.
“I hope she recovers soon,” he said, kneeling to press a soft kiss against her inner thigh. “Perhaps I should send flowers.”
“Nom de dieu.” Anne knotted her fingers in his hair. “Don’t worry, I think she’s well on the mend.”
Gabriel lit a candle and they slid between the sheets.
“Read to me, Anne,” he said drowsily. “Just for a little while.”