by Nora Roberts
He smiled, a slow, confident smile, more unnerving than a furious retort, and turned his mount back toward the château.
The return ride was accomplished in silence, broken only by Christophe’s occasional instructions. They had crossed swords again, and Serenity was forced to admit he had parried her thrust easily.
When they reached the stables, Christophe dismounted with his usual grace, handing the reins to a groom and moving to assist her before she could copy his action.
Defiantly, she ignored the stiffness in her limbs as she eased herself from the mare’s back and Christophe’s hands encircled her waist. They remained around her for a moment, and he brooded down at her before releasing the hold that seemed to burn through the light material of her shirt.
“Go have a hot bath,” he ordered. “It will ease the stiffness you are undoubtedly feeling.”
“You have an amazing capacity for issuing orders, Monsieur.”
His eyes narrowed before his arm went around her with incredible speed, pulling her close and crushing her lips in a hard, thorough kiss that left no time for struggle or protest, but drew a response as easily as a hand turning a water tap.
For an eternity he kept her the prisoner of his will, plunging her deeper and deeper into the kiss. Its bruising intensity released a new and primitive need in her, and abandoning pride for love, she surrendered to demands she could not conquer. The world evaporated, the soft Breton landscape melting like a watercolor left out in the rain, leaving nothing but warm flesh and lips which sought her surrender. His hand ran over the slim curve of her hip, then up her spine with sure authority, crushing her against him with a force which would have cracked her bones had they not already dissolved in the heat.
Love. Her mind whirled with the word. Love was walks in soft rain, a quiet evening beside a crackling fire. How could it be a throbbing, turbulent storm which left you weak and breathless and vulnerable? How could it be that one would crave the weakness as much as life itself? Was this how it had been for Maman? Was this what put the dreamy mists of knowledge in her eyes? Will he never set me free? she wondered desperately, and her arms encircled his neck, body contradicting will.
“Mademoiselle,” he murmured with soft mockery, keeping his mouth a breath from hers, his fingers teasing the nape of her neck, “you have an amazing capacity for provoking punishment. I find the need to discipline you imperative.”
Releasing her, he turned and strode carelessly away, stopping to acknowledge the greeting of Korrigan, who trotted faithfully at his heels.
Chapter Five
Serenity and the countess shared their lunch on the terrace, surrounded by sweet-smelling blossoms. Refusing the offered wine, Serenity requested coffee instead, enduring the raised white brow with tranquil indifference.
I suppose this makes me an undoubted Philistine, she concluded, suppressing a smile as she enjoyed the strong black liquid along with the elegant shrimp bisque.
“I trust you found your ride enjoyable,” the countess stated after they had exchanged comments on the food and weather.
“To my utter amazement, Madame,” Serenity admitted, “I did. I only wished I had learned long ago. Your Breton scenery is magnificent.”
“Christophe is justifiably proud of his land,” the countess asserted, studying the pale wine in her glass. “He loves it as a man loves a woman, an intense sort of passion. And though the land is eternal, a man needs a wife. The earth is a cold lover.”
Serenity’s brows rose at her grandmother’s frankness, the sudden abandonment of formality. Her shoulders moved in a faintly Gallic gesture. “I’m sure Christophe has little trouble finding warm ones.” He probably merely snaps his fingers and dozens tumble into his arms, she added silently, almost wincing at the fierce stab of jealousy.
“Naturellement,” the countess agreed, a glimmer of amusement lighting up her eyes. “How could it be otherwise?” Serenity digested this with a scowl, and the dowager lifted her wineglass. “But men like Christophe require constancy rather than variety after a time. Ah, but he is so like his grandfather.” Looking over quickly, Serenity saw the soft expression transform the angular face. “They are wild, these Kergallen men, dominant and arrogantly masculine. The women who are given their love are blessed with both heaven and hell.” Blue eyes focused on amber once more and smiled. “Their women must be strong or be trampled beneath them, and they must be wise enough to know when to be weak.”
Serenity had been listening to her grandmother’s words as if under a spell. Shaking herself, she pushed back the plate of shrimp for which her appetite had fled. “Madame,” she began, determined to make her position clear, “I have no intention of entering into the competition for the present count. As I see it, we are incredibly ill matched.” She recalled suddenly the feel of his lips against hers, the demanding pressure of his hard body, and she trembled. Raising her eyes to her grandmother’s, she shook her head in fierce denial. “No.” She did not stop to reason if she was speaking to her heart or the woman across from her, but stood and hurried back into the château.
The full moon had risen high in the star-studded sky, its silver light streaming through the high windows as Serenity awoke, miserable, sore, and disgusted. Though she had retired early, latching on to the inspiration of a fictitious headache to separate herself from the man who clouded her thoughts, sleep had not come easily. Now, just a few short hours since she had captured it, it had escaped. Turning in the oversized bed, she moaned aloud at her body’s revolt.
I’m paying the price for this morning’s little adventure. She winced and sat up with a deep sigh. Perhaps I need another hot bath, she decided with dim hope. Lord knows it couldn’t make me any stiffer. She eased herself from the mattress, legs and shoulders protesting violently. Ignoring the robe at the foot of the bed, she made her way across the dimly lit room toward the adjoining bath, banging her shin smartly against an elegant Louis XVI chair.
She swore, torn between anger and pain. Still muttering, she nursed her leg, pulling the chair back into position and leaning on it. “What?” she called out rudely as a knock sounded on her door.
It swung open, and Christophe, dressed casually in a robe of royal-blue silk, stood observing her. “Have you injured yourself, Serenity?” It was not necessary to see his expression to be aware of his mockery.
“Just a broken leg,” she snapped. “Pray, don’t trouble yourself.”
“May one inquire as to why you are groping about in the dark?” He leaned against the doorframe, cool, calm, and in total command, his arrogance all the catalyst Serenity’s mercurial temper required.
“I’ll tell you why I’m groping about in the dark, you smug, self-assured beast!” she began, her voice a furious whisper. “I was going to drown myself in the tub to put myself out of the misery you inflicted on me today!”
“I?” he said innocently, his eyes roaming over her, slim and golden in the shimmering moonlight, her long, shapely legs and pure alabaster-toned skin exposed by the briefness of her flimsy nightdress. She was too angry to be aware of her dishabille or his appreciation, oblivious to the moonlight which seeped through the sheerness of her gown and left her curves delectably shadowed.
“Yes, you!” she shot back at him. “It was you who got me up on that horse this morning, wasn’t it? And now each individual muscle in my body despises me.” Groaning, she rubbed her palm against the small of her back. “I may never walk properly again.”
“Ah.”
“Oh, what a wealth of meaning in a single syllable.” She glared at him, doing her best to stand with some dignity. “Could you do it again?”
“Ma pauvre petite,” he murmured in exaggerated sympathy. “Je suis désolé.” He straightened and began to move toward her. Then, suddenly recalling her state of dress, her eyes grew wide.
“Christophe, I …” she began as his hands descended on her bare shoulders, but the words ended in a sigh as his fingers massaged the strain.
“You ha
ve discovered new muscles, yes? And they are not being agreeable. It will not be so difficult the next time.” He led her to the bed and pressed her shoulders so that she sat, unresisting, savoring the firm movements on her neck and shoulders. Easing down behind her, his long fingers continued down her back, kneading away the ache as if by magic.
She sighed again, unconsciously moving against him. “You have wonderful hands,” she murmured, a blessed lethargy seeping into her as the soreness disappeared and a warm contentment took its place. “Marvelous strong fingers; I’ll be purring any minute.”
She was not aware when the transition occurred, when the gentle relaxation became a slow kindling in her stomach, his objective massage an insistent caress, but she felt her head suddenly spinning with the heat.
“That’s better, much better,” she faltered and made to move away, but his hands went quickly to her waist, holding her immobile as his lips sought the soft vulnerability of her neck in a gentle feather of a kiss. She trembled, then started like a frightened doe, but before she could escape, he had twisted her to face him, his lips descending in possession on hers, stilling all protests.
Struggle died before it became a reality, the kindling erupting into a burst of flame, and her arms encircled his neck as she was pressed against the mattress. His mouth seemed to devour hers, hard and assured, and his hands followed the curves of her body as if he had made love to her countless times. Impatiently, he pushed aside the thin strap on her shoulder, seeking and finding the satin smoothness of her breast, his touch inciting a tempest of desire, and she began to move under him. His demands became more urgent, his hands more insistent as they moved down the whisper of silk, his lips leaving hers to assault her neck with an insatiable hunger.
“Christophe,” she moaned, knowing she was incapable of combating both him and her own weakness. “Christophe, please, I can’t fight you here. I could never win.”
“Do not fight me, ma belle,” he whispered into her neck. “And we shall both win.”
His mouth took hers again, soft and lingering, causing desire to swell, then soar. Slowly, his lips explored her face, brushing along the hollows of her cheeks, teasing the vulnerability of parted lips before moving on to other conquests. A hand cupped her breast in lazy possession, fingers tracing its curve, tarrying over the nipple until a dull, throbbing ache spread through her. The sweet, weakening pain brought a moan, and her hands began to seek the rippling muscles of his back, as if to accentuate his power over her.
His lazy explorations altered to urgency once more, as if her submission had fanned the fires of his own passions. Hands bruised soft flesh, and her mouth was savaged by his, the teeth which had nibbled along her bottom lip replaced by a mouth which ravaged her senses, and demanded more than surrender, but equal passion.
The hand left her breast to run down her side, pausing over her hip before he continued on, claiming the smooth, fresh skin of her thigh, and her breath came only in shuddering sighs as his lips moved lower along her throat to taste the warm hollow between her breasts.
With one final flash of lucidity, she knew she stood on the edge of a precipice, and one more step would plunge her into an everlasting void.
“Christophe, please.” She began to tremble, though nearly suffocating with the heat. “Please, you frighten me, I frighten me. I’ve never … I’ve never been with a man before.”
His movements stopped, and the silence became thick as he lifted his face and stared down at her. Slivers of moonlight slept on her pale hair, tousled on the snowy pillow, her eyes smoky with awakened passion and fear.
With a short, harsh sound, he lifted his weight from her. “Your timing, Serenity, is incredible.”
“I’m sorry,” she began, sitting up.
“For what do you apologize?” he demanded, anger just below the surface of icy calm. “For your innocence, or for allowing me to come very close to claiming it?”
“That’s a rotten thing to say!” she snapped, fighting to steady her breathing. “This happened so quickly, I couldn’t think. If I had been prepared, you would never have come so close.”
“You think not?” He dragged her up until she was kneeling on the surface of the bed, once more molded against him. “You are prepared now. Do you think I could not take you this minute with you more than willing to allow it?”
He glared down at her, the air around him tingling with assurance and fury, and she could say nothing, knowing she was helpless against his authority and her own surging need. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, fear and innocence shining like beacons, and he swore and pushed her away.
“Nom de Dieu! You look at me with the eyes of a child. Your body disguises your innocence well; it is a dangerous masquerade.” Moving to the door, he turned back to survey the lightly clad form made small by the vastness of the bed. “Sleep well, mignonne,” he said with a touch of mockery. “The next time you choose to run into the furniture, it would be wise if you lock your door; I will not walk away again.”
* * *
Serenity’s cool greeting to Christophe over breakfast was returned in kind, his eyes meeting hers briefly, showing no trace of the passion or anger they had held the previous night. Perversely, she was annoyed at his lack of reaction as he chatted with the countess, addressing Serenity only when necessary, and then with a strict politeness which could be detected only by the most sensitive ear.
“You have not forgotten Geneviève and Yves are dining with us this evening?” the countess asked Christophe.
“Mais non, Grandmère,” he assured her, replacing his cup in its saucer. “It is always a pleasure to see them.”
“I believe you will find them pleasant company, Serenity.” The countess turned her clear blue eyes on her granddaughter. “Geneviève is very close to your age, perhaps a year younger, a very sweet, well-mannered young woman. Her brother, Yves, is very charming and quite attractive.” A smile was born on her lips. “You will find his company, uh, diverting. Do you not agree, Christophe?”
“I am sure Serenity will find Yves highly entertaining.”
Serenity glanced over quickly at Christophe. Was there a touch of briskness to his tone? He was sipping his coffee calmly, and she decided she had been mistaken.
“The Dejots are old family friends,” the countess went on, drawing Serenity’s attention back to her. “I am sure you will find it pleasant to have company near your own age, n’est-ce pas? Geneviève is often a visitor to the château. As a child she trotted after Christophe like a faithful puppy. Bien sûr, she is not a child any longer.” She threw a meaningful glance at the man at the head of the long oak table, and Serenity used great willpower not to wrinkle her nose in disdain.
“Geneviève grew from an awkward pigtailed child into an elegant, lovely woman,” Christophe replied, and the affection in his voice was unmistakable.
Good for her, Serenity thought, struggling to keep an interested smile in place.
“She will make a marvelous wife,” the countess predicted.
“She has a quiet beauty and natural grace. We must persuade her to play for you, Serenity. She is a highly skilled pianist.”
Chalk up one more for the paragon of virtue, Serenity brooded to herself silently, miserably jealous of the absent Geneviève’s relationship with Christophe. Aloud, she said, “I shall look forward to meeting your friends, Madame.” Silently, she assured herself that she would dislike the perfect Geneviève on sight.
The golden morning passed quietly, a lazy mid-morning hush falling over the garden as Serenity sketched. She had exchanged a few words with the gardener before they had both settled down to their respective tasks. Finding him an interesting study, she sketched him as he bent over the bushes, trimming the overblown blossoms and chattering, scolding and praising his colorful, scented friends.
His face was timeless, weathered and lined with character, unexpectedly bright blue eyes shining against a ruddy complexion. The hat covering his shock of steel-gray hair was black, a
wide, flat-brimmed cap with velvet ribbons streaming down the back. He wore a sleeveless vest and aged knickers, and she marveled at his agility in the wooden sabots.
So deep was her concentration on capturing his Old World aura with her pencil that she failed to hear the footsteps on the flagstones behind her. Christophe watched her for some moments as she bent over her work, the graceful curve of her neck calling to his mind an image of a proud white swan floating on a cool, clear lake. Only when she tucked her pencil behind her ear and brushed an absent hand through her hair did he make his presence known.
“You have captured Jacques admirably, Serenity.” His brow rose in amusement at the startled jump she made and the hand that flew to her heart.
“I didn’t know you were there,” she said, cursing the breathlessness of her voice and the pounding of her pulse.
“You were deep in your work,” he explained, casually sitting next to her on the white marble bench. “I did not wish to disturb you.”
Ho, she amended silently, you’d disturb me if you were a thousand miles away. Aloud, she spoke politely: “Merci. You are most considerate.” In defense, she turned her attention to the spaniel at their feet. “Ah, Korrigan, comment ça va?” She scratched behind his ear, and he licked her hand with loving kisses.
“Korrigan is quite taken with you,” Christophe remarked, watching the long, tapering fingers being bathed. “He is normally much more reserved, but it appears you have captured his heart.” Korrigan collapsed in an adoring heap over her feet.
“A very sloppy lover,” she remarked, holding out her hand.
“A small price to pay, ma belle, for such devotion.”
He drew a handkerchief from his pocket, captured her hand, and began to dry it. The effect on Serenity was violent. Sharp currents vibrated from the tips of her fingers and up her arm, spreading a tingling heat through her body.
“That’s not necessary. I have a rag right here.” She indicated her case of chalks and pencils and attempted to pull her hand away from his.