Dredging up an artful sigh, he opened his eyes. “Reine? Don’t go,” he said in husky appeal. “Could I…Might I have a sip of water?”
Marguerite erupted from under the sheet, struggling up on her knees beside him. “I’ll get it! Let me get it!”
Her foot tangled in the bedcovers as she reached toward the bedside table. She fell across his chest. He drew a hissing breath between set teeth as pain struck into his side like a burning lance.
Reine whirled with a wordless exclamation, sending the white batiste of her night robe and matching nightgown billowing around her along with the thick curtain of her unbound hair. She reached to pluck her daughter from the mattress, swinging her free in the same fluid movement.
Marguerite screamed and began to kick and flail in a frenzy. Reine, grim of face, took a firmer grip and turned toward the door.
“Don’t take her away,” Christien said through set teeth. “What?” She swung back to face him.
Keeping his gaze rigorously above Reine’s neck, away from the soft globes of her breasts outlined under her nightclothes where Marguerite was pressed against her, he tried again. “She didn’t mean—didn’t know…”
“She should not be here,” Reine said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for her, we all have. I can’t believe she was hiding from me. Yes, or that you were aiding her in it.”
Christien could barely hear her above the child’s heart-rending cries. His side ached, his head was pounding and he was laid up in bed when he should be at his strongest. It was suddenly too much. Unclenching his jaws, he spoke in firm reproof.
“Marguerite, enough!”
The girl fell instantly silent. She ceased struggling. Hanging in her mother’s arms, she gave him a look of wide-eyed shock that turned slowly to misery. Above her head, Reine’s face was set, her gaze watchful and without warmth.
Despite the strained atmosphere between them, it was a curiously intimate tableau there in the lamp-lit room with the rain falling beyond the windows. They might have been a family already, man, woman and child, all ready for a night of sleep in one another’s arms. The rightness of it was like a blow to the chest for Christien, one far more agonizing than any mere gunshot wound. He wanted it, needed it to be real. What it took to make it so he would do, he swore in silent resolve, whether it meant courting Reine’s father, mother, brother, daughter or, especially, the lady herself. He had lost his family once. This one, he would keep.
It was an instant before he could speak, and then he held his voice even only by the most stringent effort. “I didn’t know anyone was searching for her until just a second ago. As for her hiding, it was meant to be a surprise.”
Reine set her daughter on her feet, though the grim expression did not leave her features. If she believed a word of what he said, there was no sign of it. “I told her plainly not to bother you.”
He divided a wan smile between the two of them. “She is no bother. At least, as long as she doesn’t jump around.”
“You have fever, you know,” Reine informed him with something close to accusation.
“It’s the rule with these things.” He paused, more aware than he wanted to be of the throbbing that continued in his wound. Shifting a little in an attempt to ease it, he asked, “How bad is it?”
“You’ll recover, barring blood poisoning. That is the considered opinion of Dr. Laborde. I sent Paul for him, and it was he who removed the ball from your side. He seemed competent.”
“I’m familiar with his work,” Christien said dryly. “He’s thorough, though lacking in tenderness.”
“It’s as well that you weren’t conscious while he was attending you.”
“Just so.” Laborde was the physician called out most often by the sword masters as he had an excellent reputation for healing wounds. Had the good doctor mentioned that he had seen him earlier, when called to Barichere? Surely not, or Reine would have mentioned it. Another reason for Laborde’s popularity was his discretion. No doubt it was a coincidence that he had been chosen, or else Paul knew of his connection to those in the Passage de la Bourse.
“Did you see…that is, do you know who did this to you?” Reine spoke with distracted curiosity, her gaze on Marguerite. While they spoke, the child had wriggled from her grasp. She was climbing the bed steps once more, though she chose to sit near Christien’s feet this time.
He gave a small shake of his head. “I saw nothing except the flash of the powder before the shot struck. Being so near River’s Edge, I suppose my guard was down.”
“You have no idea who might want to harm you.”
“Not at the moment,” he continued at once, before she could question the evasion. “To whom do I owe my gratitude for being brought to the house?”
“I found you, if that’s what you mean. I heard the shot. By the time I reached you, the assailants were gone.”
“Without finishing me off.”
“I suppose they thought—thought there was no need.”
She didn’t look at him as she spoke but settled her gaze on the crystal water carafe on the bedside table, which had a matching glass turned over it as a cover. Recalled to his earlier request, perhaps, she moved around the bed, lifted the glass and filled it with water.
“Assailants, you said. You think there was more than one?” He watched her movements, noting without comment her reluctance to speak of his supposed death.
“It seems unlikely one man would venture to attack someone of your renown,” she said with a small shrug.
“With a sword, you mean. A pistol evens the odds amazingly.” He was not certain whether her implied compliment came from the truth, flattery or sly jib, but was gratified all the same. “I take it no one else saw the attack?”
“Not that I am aware.” She set down the pitcher, then leaned over the bed and slid her hand beneath his pillow to lift his head. As he parted his lips, she held the glass to them.
He drank, but came close to strangling. Her scent of roses, violets and her own sweetness invaded his senses with stunning force. Feverish and supine on linen sheets he might be, but he was still aware of burgeoning heat and fullness in his groin. Her nearness set his brain rambling down paths far better left unexplored. It was just as well they had a small duenna sitting on guard, watching with bright, inquisitive eyes.
He signaled that he’d had enough water. As she straightened and replaced the glass on the bedside table, he spoke again. “I really am grateful for your timely appearance, you know, and for your care.”
“You mustn’t give me all the credit. It was Alonzo who directed the hands to bring you to the house on a shutter. He also undressed you and put you to bed.”
“I did wonder,” he said in a dry tone.
Her color increased in a fashion that made him wonder if Alonzo might not have had an assistant in removing his clothing. The idea was definitely stimulating. Before he could ask, however, she went on again.
“He will naturally be nearby while you are abed. You have only to ring for him.”
“That’s good to know.”
Her lashes flickered, but she still didn’t raise her eyes to meet his. “Dr. Laborde will be looking in on you to check your progress and change your dressing. He desired me to tell you that you should move as little as possible while you heal. You must not think of leaving your bed for at least three days, possibly more.”
About that, Christien had reservations. It was his experience that wounds were less sore and mended faster if he moved around. But other matters were more important at the moment.
“As for your head, you have a mild concussion. He left a tincture of laudanum for headache as well as for the pain in your side. I will bring—”
“Thank you, no.”
That got her attention, at least to the point of frowning at him.
“Truly, it will be—”
“No.”
Her lips firmed and she looked away again. “As you please.”
He eyed her with suspicio
n. He had not expected so easy a victory. It would not surprise him if she waited a short time and renewed the attack. A diversion might be useful.
“What about the wedding?”
“It’s as well that plans for it have not been set.”
“We will not put if off too long, I hope.”
She sent him another flashing glance. “No.”
He studied the wild rose color that stained the fine-grained skin over her cheekbones. It was a virulent reminder of the night in the smoking room and the stunned, deep rose-red that suffused her face after he had given her such unexpected pleasure. For an instant, the gripping ache in his groin was more distracting than the other aches he held at bay. It spurred his thoughts, giving him the glimmer of an idea.
“I’ve no patience with lying abed in the meantime. However…”
“Yes?”
“Enduring it would be easier if there was someone to read me the news sheets or even a novel or two. I mean, given that my head pounds like Thor’s own hammer every time I move and my eyes feel as if they’re crossing? A hand or two of cards might while away an hour or two, as well.”
“Cards,” she repeated, her voice flat.
It was a mistake to mention the last. He waited to be told it was impossible, or that he must apply to her father as the card player.
“I can play with you,” Marguerite said with hope in her small face.
An ironic smile curved one corner of Reine’s luscious mouth. “So she may, since she’s no bother to you. My father has taught her all the more innocuous card games.”
It wasn’t precisely what Christien had in mind. Yet to disappoint the little one at the foot of his bed was impossible. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Marguerite. I will look forward to your fair company.”
The child dimpled at him, a coquette in the making. Reine’s face softened as she watched them, though it lasted only an instant. Stepping around to touch her daughter’s shoulder, she said, “That must wait until morning. It’s time you were in bed.”
“But, Maman!”
“Monsieur Christien is tired now and should rest. Run along, chère.”
A petulant scowl pushed out the child’s lower lip. “You must come, too.”
“In a moment.”
“Now,” she insisted.
“Marguerite,” Christien said, his gaze direct.
He thought for a moment that the girl would ignore him. She stared at him with mutiny in her small face, but finally heaved a dramatic sigh and climbed down from the bed. Her footsteps dragged as she left the room. The door closed behind her with a definite slam.
In the quiet that followed her departure, the rain thrumming on the roof and splashing from the eaves seemed louder, more insistent. Distant thunder made a dull counterpoint. The murmuring sound seemed to close them in together, in that house where everyone else had retired for the night.
A draft, left perhaps from the closing door, stirred the folds of Reine’s nightclothes. Christien looked away, being more aware than was comfortable of her shadowed curves within the layers of fine lawn. It would not do to be caught ogling his future bride, however much he might be tempted.
“I must ask you not to do that,” Reine said abruptly.
“Pardon me?”
“Impose your authority in that way. You are not Marguerite’s father.”
“Not yet,” he corrected.
“She is my child. Even when—after—we marry, I would prefer that you leave her care and discipline to me.”
Anger stirred in his chest. It was not because she refused to allow him the right to command Marguerite, but because her stricture placed him firmly outside her tight-knit family circle. “She will become my responsibility as surely as if she were of my blood. If I must accept that, then I should have some say in her upbringing. No, wait,” he said as Reine opened her mouth to refute the claim. “My purpose just now was not to override your authority. It was, rather, to reinforce it. To stand behind you will always be my object.”
The anger drained slowly from her features. In its absence she looked suddenly weary. The pale and tender line of her throat moved as she swallowed. “I have managed these five years without your support.”
“So you have, but why should you continue when I will be at hand?” He hesitated, then went on since he had no idea when an opportunity might come again.
“On this subject, will you consider allowing the big bloodhound to be in the nursery with Marguerite?”
Confusion rose in her eyes. “Chalmette? But why?”
“It seems he may be some protection for her.”
“Protection.”
Ignoring the flatness of Reine’s voice, he said, “She thinks this apparition she calls the loup-garou haunts only her. If she can be persuaded the dog will alert the house to his presence or even keep him at bay, her mind may be easier.” He waited for her answer, though half-afraid she would reject the suggestion merely because it came from him.
Reine stared at him for long seconds. Her lips firmed then, and she gave a brief nod. “It’s little enough for the chance of a decent night’s sleep, for all of us as well as for her. I will see to it.”
“Excellent.” He didn’t smile, but he feared the sound of it was in his voice.
She turned toward the door as if she meant to call Chalmette inside at once. Pausing, she swung half around again, studying him from the corners of her eyes. “I really must ask again if you have any thoughts on who might want you out of the way. Yes, and would go to such ends to achieve it.”
“Thoughts, possibly,” he allowed, “but no conclusions.”
“You are quite certain it doesn’t come from some—some incident in your past? You are sure an enemy hasn’t found you, some gentleman you may have bested in a duel or given other cause to wish you ill?”
He watched her while doubt rose inside him. It almost sounded as if she knew more about him than she should. “None that I am aware of.”
“I don’t ask out of mere curiosity, you understand. My concern is for Marguerite and the rest of my family. If you are pursued by enemies, if you bring that danger to River’s Edge, then the agreement between us must be ended.”
His damnable reputation, that was the source of her doubts. To be required to defend his integrity went against the grain, but it appeared he must make the effort. “I have no string of deaths behind me that may require retaliation, despite what you might think,” he said evenly. “If by chance there are those who feel obliged to take me to task for past deeds, then I believe I am capable of defending not only myself but your family, which will naturally become my own.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“You may rely upon it,” he said, his voice dropping to a deep and grating register. “No one touches those who belong to me. No one.”
15
After days of steady stitching, Reine was almost finished with Christien’s shirt. She plied her needle along the remaining few inches of the hem while holding it to the last rays of sunset through the French doors. Now and then she glanced up, stretching the kink between her shoulder blades caused by bending over her work, also resting her eyes by allowing them to linger on her patient. He was asleep with his arms relaxed at his sides and his head turned toward her on the pillow.
The sun’s golden glow slanted across his features, giving them a bronze sheen like the mask of some ancient god. The coloration was fascinating, as was the thick fringe of his lashes, the strong line of his nose and pronounced cheekbone ridges of his Indian heritage.
The contrast between his skin and hers had been particularly marked that evening in the smoking room. Three days ago—almost four it must be now—how strange to realize when it was so fresh in her mind. Strange also to consider the two of them might never have met if he had not set out to win River’s Edge. Propriety would have required that she ignore him even if their paths had crossed. Since circumstances had conspired to throw them together, she was free to see his attraction. Oh, yes, a
nd feel it inside her.
Wanton, she had been so wanton during those moments of closeness between them. He had done his best to persuade her otherwise, but she knew better. For proof, she had only to consider how very affecting it was to trace the firm contours of his lips with her eyes now. Her body below the waist flooded with warm arousal at the mere thought of his mouth on hers once more. That she could feel such a thing in spite of his injuries and her misgivings concerning him was beyond disturbing.
He had proved a stoic patient, something she had seldom met with before. Her father lost his good nature when ill, damning all doctors as quacks. Her mother was inclined to moaning in self-pity while certain she required more treatment than she received. Marguerite was fractious to a point, but became limp and unresponsive in the grip of a fever. As for Theodore, he had been irritable and demanding, able to think of far more aids to his comfort than any one person could supply. He also had no tolerance whatever for pain.
No two men could be less alike.
Christien was immovable in his decisions; that much she had discovered on the first day. Unlike her father, he did not rant or bluster. Nor did he make extravagant threats as Theodore had once done. He simply said what he would do and then did it.
It was disconcerting. It was also infuriating when she wished him to do otherwise, as with the laudanum. Yet it could not be said that she didn’t know where he stood.
At first, she thought he might be correct in saying he didn’t need the tincture, was better off without it dulling his senses. He seemed to heal with amazing swiftness, going from supine weakness to sitting in a chair on the first day. By the next, he was walking around the bed, and she suspected him of walking longer and farther when she was not about. The cuts on his face had begun to heal almost at once. The bruising had faded away and the scabs became less every day.
His headache had not improved, however. Dr. Laborde insisted the laudanum would help. She had offered every treat she could think of in exchange for his compliance, but to no avail.
That had been her mistake; she should never have introduced the notion of rewarding him. He had taken up the suggestion so quickly she’d had no time to marshal a defense. She shook her head as the memory bloomed in her mind.
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