by Nora Roberts
“Christophe,” she called on impulse, wanting inexplicably to clear the air between them. He turned back, brow lifted in question, and she took a step toward him. “Can’t we just be friends?”
He held her eyes for a long moment, so deep and intense a look that she felt he stripped her to the soul. “No, Serenity, I am afraid we will never just be friends.”
She watched his tall, lithe figure stride away, the spaniel once more at his heels.
An hour later, Serenity joined her grandmother and Christophe at breakfast, with the countess making the usual inquiries as to how she had spent her night. The conversation was correct, if uninspired, and Serenity felt the older woman was making an effort to ease the tension brought on by the previous evening’s confrontation. Perhaps, Serenity decided, it was not considered proper to squabble over croissants. How amazingly civilized we are! Suppressing an ironical smile, she mirrored the attitude of her companions.
“You will wish to explore the château, Serenity, n’est-ce pas?” Lifting her eyes as she set down the creamer, the countess stirred her coffee with a perfectly manicured hand.
“Yes, Madame, I would enjoy that,” Serenity agreed with the expected smile. “I should like to make some sketches from the outside later, but I would love to see the inside first.”
“Mais, oui. Christophe,” she said, addressing the dark man who was idly sipping his coffee, “we must escort Serenity through the château this morning.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Grandmère,” he agreed, placing his cup back in its china saucer. “But I regret I shall be occupied this morning. The new bull we imported is due to arrive, and I must supervise its transport.”
“Ah, the cattle,” the countess sighed and moved her shoulders. “You think too much about the cattle.”
It was the first spontaneous statement Serenity had noted, and she picked it up automatically. “Do you raise cattle, then?”
“Yes,” Christophe confirmed, meeting her inquiring gaze. “The raising of cattle is the château’s business.”
“Really?” she countered with exaggerated surprise. “I didn’t think the de Kergallens bothered with such mundane matters. I imagined they just sat back and counted their serfs.”
His lips curved slightly and he gave a small nod. “Only once a month. Serfs do tend to be highly prolific.”
She found herself laughing into his eyes. Then as his quick, answering grin pounded a warning in her brain, she gave her attention to her own coffee.
In the end, the countess herself escorted Serenity on her tour of the rambling château, explaining some of its history as they moved from one astonishing room to another.
The château had been built in the late seventeenth century, and being in existence for just slightly less than three hundred years, it was not considered old by Breton standards. The château itself and the estates which belonged to it had been handed down from generation to generation to the oldest son, and although some modernizations had been made, it remained basically the same as it had been when the first Comte de Kergallen brought his bride over the drawbridge. To Serenity it was the essence of a lost and timeless charm, and the immediate affection and enchantment she had felt at first sight only grew with the explorations.
In the portrait gallery, she saw Christophe’s dark fascination reproduced over the centuries. Though varied from generation to generation, the inveterate pride remained, the aristocratic bearing, the elusive air of mystery. She paused in front of one eighteenth-century ancestor whose resemblance was so striking that she took a step nearer to make a closer study.
“You find Jean-Claud interesting, Serenity?” the countess questioned, following her gaze. “Christophe is much like him in looks, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes, it’s remarkable.” The eyes, she decided, were much too assured, and much too alive, and unless she were very much mistaken, the mouth had known a great many women.
“He is reputed to have been a bit, uh, sauvage,” she continued with a hint of admiration. “It is said smuggling was his pastime; he was a man of the sea. The story is told that once when in England, he fell enamored of a woman of that country, and not having the patience for a long, formal, old-fashioned courtship, he kidnapped her and brought her to the château. He married her, of course; she is there.” She pointed to a portrait of a rose-and-cream-fleshed English girl of about twenty. “She does not look unhappy.”
With this comment, she strolled down the corridor, leaving Serenity staring up at the smiling face of a kidnapped bride.
The ballroom was huge, the far wall being opened with lead-paned windows adding to the space. Another wall was entirely mirrored, reflecting the brilliant prisms of the trio of chandeliers which would throw their sparkling light like silent stars from the high-beamed ceiling. Stiff-backed Regency chairs with elegant tapestry seats were strategically arranged for those who merely wished to look on as couples whirled across the highly polished floor. She wondered if Jean-Claud had given a wedding ball for his Sabine wife, and decided he undoubtedly had.
The countess led Serenity down another narrow corridor to a set of steep stone steps, winding spiral-like to the topmost tower. Although the room they entered was bare, Serenity immediately gave a cry of pleasure, moving to its center and gazing about as though it had been filled with treasures. It was large and airy and completely circular, and the high windows which encompassed it allowed the streaming sunlight to kiss every inch of space. Without effort, she pictured herself painting here for hours in blissful solitude.
“Your father used this room as his studio,” the countess informed her, the stiffness returning to her voice, and Serenity broke off her fantasies and turned to confront her grandmother.
“Madame, if it is your wish that I remain here for a time, we must come to an understanding. If we cannot, I will have no choice but to leave.” She kept her voice firm and controlled and astringently polite, but the eyes betrayed the struggle with temper. “I loved my father very much, as I did my mother. I will not tolerate the tone you use when you speak of him.”
“Is it customary in your country for a young woman to address her elders in such a manner?” The regal head was held high, temper equally apparent.
“I can speak only for myself, Madame,” she returned, standing straight and tall in the glow of sunlight. “And I am not of the opinion that age always equates with wisdom. Nor am I hypocrite enough to pay you lip service while you insult a man I loved and respected above all others.”
“Perhaps it would be wiser if we refrained from discussing your father while you are with us.” The request was an unmistakable command, and Serenity bristled with anger.
“I intend to mention him, Madame. I intend to discover precisely what became of the Raphael Madonna and clear the black mark you have put on his name.”
“And how do you intend to accomplish this?”
“I don’t know,” she tossed back, “but I will.” Pacing the room, she spread her hands unconsciously in a completely French gesture. “Maybe it’s hidden in the château; maybe someone else took it.” She whirled on the other woman with sudden fury. “Maybe you sold it and placed the blame on my father.”
“You are insulting!” the countess returned, blue eyes leaping with fire.
“You brand my father a thief, and you say that I am insulting?” Serenity retorted, meeting her fire for fire. “I knew Jonathan Smith, Countess, and he was no thief, but I do not know you.”
The countess regarded the furious young woman silently for several moments, blue flames dying, replaced by consideration. “That is true,” she acknowledged with a nod. “You do not know me, and I do not know you. And if we are strangers, I cannot place the blame on your head. Nor can I blame you for what happened before you were born.”
Moving to a window, she stared out silently. “I have not changed my opinion of your father,” she said at length, and turning, she held up a hand to silence Serenity’s automatic retort. “But I hav
e not been just where his daughter is concerned. You come to my home, a stranger, at my request, and I have greeted you badly. For this much, I apologize.” Her lips curved in a small smile. “If you are agreeable, we will not speak of the past until we know each other.”
“Very well, Madame,” Serenity agreed, sensing both request and apology were an olive branch of sorts.
“You have a soft heart to go with a strong spirit,” the dowager observed, a faint hint of approval in her tone. “It is a good match. But you also have a swift temper, n’est-ce pas?”
“Evidemment,” Serenity acknowledged.
“Christophe is also given to quick outbursts of temper and black moods,” the countess informed her in a sudden change of topic. “He is strong and stubborn and requires a wife of equal strength, but with a heart that is soft.”
Serenity stared in confusion at her grandmother’s ambiguous statement. “She has my sympathy,” she began, then narrowed her eyes as a small seed of doubt began to sprout. “Madame, what have Christophe’s needs to do with me?”
“He has reached the age when a man requires a wife,” the countess stated simply. “And you are past the age when most Breton women are well married and raising a family.”
“I am only half-Breton,” she asserted, distracted for a moment. Her eyes widened in amazement. “Surely you don’t … you aren’t thinking that Christophe and I … ? Oh, how beautifully ridiculous!” She laughed outright, a full, rich sound that echoed in the empty room. “Madame, I am sorry to disappoint you, but the count does not care for me. He didn’t like me the moment he set eyes on me, and I’m forced to admit that I’m not overly fond of him, either.”
“What has liking to do with it?” the countess demanded, her hands waving the words away.
Serenity’s laughter stilled, and she shook her head in disbelief even as realization seeped through. “You’ve spoken to him of this already?”
“Oui, d’accord,” the countess agreed easily.
Serenity shut her eyes, nearly swamped with humiliation and fury. “No wonder he resented me on sight—between this and thinking what he does of my father!” She turned away from her grandmother, then back again full of righteous indignation. “You overreach your bounds, Comtesse. The time of arranged marriages has long since passed.”
“Poof!” It was a dismissive exclamation. “Christophe is too much his own man to agree to anything arranged by another, and I see you are too headstrong to do so. But”—a slow smile creased the angular face as Serenity looked on with wide, incredulous eyes—“you are very lovely, and Christophe is an attractive and virile man. Perhaps nature will—what is it? Take its course.”
Serenity could only gape open-mouthed into the calm, inscrutable face.
“Come.” The countess moved easily toward the door. “There is more for you to see.”
Chapter Four
The afternoon was warm, and Serenity was simmering. Indignation had spread from her grandmother to encompass Christophe, and the more she simmered, the more it became directed at him.
Insufferable, conceited aristocrat! she fumed. Her pencil ran violently across her pad as she sketched the drum towers of the château. I’d rather marry Attila the Hun than be bound to that stiff-necked boor! She broke the midday hush with a short burst of laughter. Madame is probably picturing dozens of miniature counts and countesses playing formal little games in the courtyard and growing up to carry on the imperial line in the best Breton style!
What a lovely place to raise children, she thought, pencil pausing, and eyes softening. It’s so clean and quiet and beautiful. A deep sigh filled the air, and she started. Then realizing that it had emitted from her own lips, she frowned furiously. La Comtesse Serenity de Kergallen, she said silently and frowned with more feeling. That’ll be the day!
A movement caught her attention, and she twisted her head, squinting against the sun to watch Christophe approach. His strides were long and sure, and he crossed the lawn with an effortless rhythm of limbs and muscles. He walks as if he owns the world, she observed, part in admiration, part in resentment. By the time he reached her, resentment had emerged victorious.
“You!” she spat without preamble, rising from the soft tuft of grass and standing like a slender, avenging angel, gold and glowing.
His gaze narrowed at her tone, but his voice remained cool and controlled. “Something disturbs you, Mademoiselle?”
The ice in his voice only fanned the fire of anger, and dignity was abandoned. “Yes, I’m disturbed! You know very well I’m disturbed! Why in heaven’s name didn’t you tell me about this ludicrous idea of the countess’s?”
“Ah.” Brows rose, and lips curved in a sardonic smile. “Alors, Grandmère has informed you of the plans for our marital bliss. And when, my beloved, shall we have the banns announced?”
“You conceited …” she sputtered, unable to dream up an appropriately insulting term. “You know what you can do with your banns! I wouldn’t have you on a bet!”
“Bon,” he replied with a nod. “Then we are at last in full agreement. I have no desire to tie myself to a wasp-tongued brat. Whoever christened you Serenity had very little foresight.”
“You’re the most detestable man I have ever met!” she raged, her temper a direct contrast to his cool composure. “I can’t abide the sight of you.”
“Then you have decided to cut your visit short and return to America?”
She tilted her chin and shook her head slowly. “Oh, no, Monsieur le Comte, I shall remain right here. I have inducements for staying which outweigh my feelings for you.”
The dark eyes narrowed into slits as he studied her face. “It would appear the countess has added a few francs to make you more agreeable.”
Serenity stared at him in puzzlement until his meaning slowly seeped through, draining her color and darkening her eyes. Her hand swung out and struck him with full force in a loud, stinging slap, and then she spun on her heel and began to run toward the château. Hard hands dug into her shoulders and whirled her around, crushing her against the firm length of his body as his lips descended on hers in a brutal, punishing kiss.
The shock was electric, like a brilliant light flashed on, then extinguished. For a moment, she was limp against him, unable to surface from a darkness teeming with heat and demand. Her breath was no longer her own; she realized suddenly he was stealing even that, and she began to push at his chest, then pound with helpless, impotent fists, terrified she would be captured forever in the swirling, simmering darkness.
His arms banded around her, molding her soft slenderness to the hard, unyielding lines of his body, merging them into one passionate form. His hand slid up to cup the back of her neck with firm fingers, forcing her head to remain still, his other arm encircling her waist, maintaining absolute possession.
Her struggles slipped off him as though they were not taking place, emphasizing his superior strength and the violence which bubbled just beneath the surface. Her lips were forced apart as his mouth continued its assault, exploring hers with an intimacy without mercy or compassion. The musky scent of his maleness was assailing her senses, numbing both brain and will, and dimly she heard her grandmother describing the long-dead count with Christophe’s face. Sauvage, she had said. Sauvage.
He gave her mouth its freedom, his grip returning to her shoulders as he looked down into clouded, confused eyes. For a moment, the silence hung like a shimmering wall of heat.
“Who gave you permission to do that?” she demanded unevenly, a hand reaching to her head to halt its spinning.
“It was either that or return your slap, Mademoiselle,” he informed her, and from his tone and expression, she could see he had not yet completed the transformation from pirate to aristocrat. “Unfortunately, I have a reluctance to strike a woman, no matter how richly she may deserve it.”
Serenity jerked away from his restraint, feeling the treacherous tears stinging, demanding release. “Next time, slap me. I’d prefer it.”<
br />
“If you ever raise your hand to me again, my dear cousin, rest assured I will bruise more than your pride,” he promised.
“You had it coming,” she tossed back, but the temerity of her words was spoiled by wide eyes shimmering like golden pools of light. “How dare you accuse me of accepting money to stay here? Did it ever occur to you that I might want to know the grandmother I was denied all my life? Did you ever think that I might want to know the place where my parents met and fell in love? That I need to stay and prove my father’s innocence?” Tears escaped and rolled down smooth cheeks, and Serenity despised each separate drop of weakness. “I only wish I could have hit you harder. What would you have done if someone had accused you of being bought like a side of beef?”
He watched the journey of a tear as it spilled from her eye and clung to satin skin, and a small smile tilted one corner of his mouth. “I would have beat them soundly, but I believe your tears are a more effective punishment than fists.”
“I don’t use tears as a weapon.” She wiped at them with the back of her hand, wishing she could have stemmed the flow.
“No; they are therefore all the more potent.” A long bronzed finger brushed a drop from ivory skin, the contrast of colors lending her a delicate, vulnerable appearance, and he removed his hand quickly, addressing her in a casual tone. “My words were unjust, and I apologize. We have both received our punishment, so now we are—how do you say?—quits.”
He gave her his rare, charming smile, and she stared at him, drawn by its power and enchanted by the positive change it lent to his appearance. Her own smile answered, the sudden shining of the sun through a veil of rain. He made a small, impatient sound, as though he regretted the momentary lapse, and nodding, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Serenity staring after him.
During the evening meal, the conversation was once more strictly conventional, as if the astonishing conversation in the tower room and the tempestuous encounter on the château grounds had not taken place. Serenity marveled at the composure of her companions as they carried on a light umbrella of table talk over langoustes à la crème. If it had not been for the fact that her lips still felt the imprint, she would have sworn she had imagined the stormy, breathtaking kiss Christophe had planted there. It had been a kiss which had stirred some deep inner feeling of response and had jolted her cool detachment more than she cared to admit.