by Nora Roberts
Arms banded around her again, hands abandoning their explorations, and breath flew away and was forgotten in the new, crushing power. Soft breasts pressed against the hard leanness of his chest, thigh straining against thigh, heart pounding against heart, and Serenity knew she had taken the step from the precipice and would never return to the solidity of earth.
He released her so abruptly, she would have stumbled had his hand not gripped her arm to steady her. “We must go back,” he stated as if the moment had never been. “It grows late.”
Her hands reached up to push the tumbled curls from her face, her eyes lifting to his, wide and full of confused pleading. “Christophe.” She said his name on a whisper, unable to form any other sound, and he stared down at her, the brooding look familiar and, as always, unfathomable.
“It grows late, Serenity,” he repeated, and the underlying anger in his tone brought only more bewilderment.
Suddenly cold, her arms wrapped around her body to ward off the chill. “Christophe, why are you angry with me? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Haven’t you?” His eyes narrowed and darkened with familiar temper, and through the ache of rejection, her own rose to meet it.
“No. What could I do to you? You’re so infuriatingly superior, up there on your little golden throne. A partial aristocrat like myself could hardly climb up to your level to cause any damage.”
“Your tongue will cause you endless trouble, Serenity, unless you learn to control it.” His voice was precise and much too controlled, but Serenity found discretion buried under a growing mountain of fury.
“Well, until I choose to do so, perhaps I’ll use it to tell you precisely what I think about your arrogant, autocratic, domineering, and infuriating attitude toward life in general, and myself in particular.”
“A woman,” he began, in a voice she noted was entirely too soft and too silky, “with your temperament, ma petite cousine, must be continually shown there is only one master.” He took her arm in a firm hold and turned away from the sea. “I said we will go.”
“You, Monsieur,” she returned, holding her ground and sending him a look of smoldering amber, “can go whenever you want.”
Her exit of furious dignity took her three feet before her shoulders were captured in a viselike grip, then whirled around to face a fury which made her own temper seem tranquil. “You cause me to think again about the wisdom of beating a woman.” His mouth took hers swiftly, hard and more punishing than a fist, and Serenity felt a quick surge of pain, tasting only anger on his lips, and no desire. Fingers dug into her shoulders, but she allowed herself neither struggle nor response, remaining passive in his arms as courage fled into hopelessness.
Set free, she stared up at him, detesting the veil of moistness which clouded her eyes. “You have the advantage, Christophe, and will always win a physical battle.” Her voice was calm and carefully toned, and she watched his brows draw close, as if her reaction puzzled him. His hand lifted to brush at a drop which had escaped to flow down her cheek, and she jerked away, wiping it away herself and blinking the rest back.
“I’ve had my quota of humiliations for one day, and I will not dissolve into a pool of tears for your benefit.” Her voice became firmer as she gained control, and her shoulders straightened as Christophe watched the transformation in silence. “As you said, it’s getting late.” Turning, she walked back up the path to where the horses waited.
The days passed quietly, soft summer days filled with the sun and the sweet perfume of flowers. Serenity devoted most of the daylight hours to painting, reproducing the proud, indomitable lines of the château on canvas. She had noted, at first with despair and then with increasing anger, Christophe’s calculated avoidance of her. Since the afternoon when they had stood on the cliff above the sea, he had barely spoken to her, and then only with astringent politeness. Pride soon covered her hurt like a bandage over an open wound, and painting became a refuge against longing.
The countess never mentioned the Raphael, and Serenity was content for the time to drift, wanting to strengthen the bond between them before delving further into its disappearance and the accusation against her father.
She was immersed in her work, clad in faded jeans and a paint-splattered smock, her hair disheveled by her own hand, when she spotted Geneviève approaching across the smooth carpet of lawn. A beautiful Breton fairy, Serenity imagined, small and lovely in a buff-colored riding jacket and dark brown breeches.
“Bonjour, Serenity,” she called out when Serenity raised a slim hand in greeting. “I hope I am not disturbing you.”
“Of course not. It’s good to see you.” The words came easily because she meant them, and she smiled and put down her brush.
“Oh, but I have made you stop,” Geneviève began in apology.
“You’ve given me a marvelous excuse to stop,” she corrected.
“May I see?” Geneviève requested. “Or do you not like your work viewed before it is finished?”
“Of course you may see. Tell me what you think.”
She moved around to stand beside Serenity. The background was completed: the azure sky, lamb’s-wool clouds, vivid green grass, and stately trees. The château itself was taking shape gradually: the gray walls glowing pearly in the sunlight, high glistening windows, the drum towers. There was much left to complete, but even in its infancy, the painting captured the fairy-tale aura Serenity had envisioned.
“I have always loved the château,” Geneviève stated, her eyes still on the canvas. “Now I see you do, as well.” Pansy eyes lifted from the half-completed painting and sought Serenity’s. “You have captured its warmth, as well as its arrogance. I am glad to know you see it as I do.”
“I fell in love with it the first moment I saw it,” Serenity admitted. “The longer I stay, the more hopelessly I’m lost.” She sighed, knowing her words described the man, as well as his home.
“You are lucky to have such a gift. I hope you will not think less of me if I confess something.”
“No, of course not,” Serenity assured her, both surprised and intrigued.
“I am terribly envious of you,” she blurted out quickly, as if courage might fail her.
Serenity stared down at the lovely face incredulously. “You, envious of me?”
“Oui.” Geneviève hesitated for a moment, and then began to speak in a rush. “Not only of your talent as an artist, but of your confidence, your independence.” Serenity continued to gape, her mouth wide open in astonishment. “There is something about you which draws people to you—an openness, a warmth in your eyes that makes one want to confide, feeling somehow you will understand.”
“How extraordinary,” Serenity murmured, astonished. “But, Geneviève,” she began in a lighter tone, “you’re so lovely and warm, how could you envy anyone, least of all me? You make me feel like a veritable Amazon.”
“Men treat you as a woman,” she explained, her voice faintly desperate. “They admire you not only for the way you look, but for what you are.” She turned away, then back again quickly, a hand brushing at her hair. “What would you do if you loved a man, had loved him all of your life, loved with a woman’s heart, but he saw you only as an amusing child?”
Serenity felt a cloud of despair envelop her heart. Christophe, she concluded. Dear Lord, she wants my advice about Christophe. She stifled the urge to give a shout of hysterical laughter. I’m supposed to give her pointers on the man I love. Would she seek me out if she knew what he thinks of me … of my father? Her eyes met Geneviève’s dark ones, filled with hope and trust. She sighed.
“If I were in love with such a man, I would take great pains to let him know I was a woman, and that was how I wanted him to see me.”
“But how?” Geneviève’s hand spread in a helpless gesture. “I am such a coward. Perhaps I would lose even his friendship.”
“If you really love him, you’ll have to risk it or face the rest of your life as only his friend. You must tell �
�� your man, the next time he treats you as a child, that you are a woman. You must tell him so that there is no doubt in his mind what you mean. Then, the move is his.”
Geneviève took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I will think about what you have said.” She turned her warm eyes on Serenity’s amber ones once more. “Thank you for listening, for being a friend.”
Serenity watched the small, graceful figure retreat across the grass. You’re a real martyr, Serenity, she told herself. I thought self-sacrifice was supposed to make one glow with inner warmth; I just feel cold and miserable. She began packing up her paints, no longer finding pleasure in the sunshine. I think I’ll give up martyrdom and take up foreclosing on widows and orphans; it couldn’t make me feel any worse.
Depressed, Serenity wandered up to her room to store her canvas and paints. With what she considered a herculean effort, she managed to produce a smile for the maid, who was busily folding freshly laundered lingerie into the bureau drawer.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” Bridget greeted Serenity with a dazzling smile of her own, and amber eyes blinked at the power.
“Bonjour, Bridget. You seem in remarkably good spirits.” Glancing at the shafts of sunlight which flowed triumphantly through the windows. Serenity sighed and shrugged. “I suppose it is a beautiful day.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle. Quel jour!” She gestured toward the sky with a hand filled with filmy silk. “I think I have never seen the sun smile more sweetly.”
Unable to cling to depression under the attack of blatant good humor, Serenity plopped into a chair and grinned at the small maid’s glowing face. “Unless I read the signs incorrectly, I would say it’s love which is smiling sweetly.”
Heightened color only added more appeal to the young face as Bridget paused in her duties to beam yet another smile over Serenity. “Oui, Mademoiselle, I am very much in love.”
“And I gather from the look of you”—Serenity continued battling a sweet surge of envy of the youthful confidence—“that you are very much loved.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle.” Sunlight and happiness formed an aura around her. “On Saturday, Jean-Paul and I will be married.”
“Married?” Serenity repeated, faintly astonished as she studied the tiny form facing her. “How old are you, Bridget?”
“Seventeen,” she stated with a sage nod for her vast collection of years.
Seventeen, Serenity mused with an unconscious sigh. “Suddenly, I feel ninety-two.”
“We will be married in the village,” Bridget continued, warming to Serenity’s interest. “Then everyone will come back to the château, and there will be singing and dancing in the garden. The count is very kind and very generous. He says we will have champagne.” Serenity watched as joy turned to awe.
“Kind,” she murmured, turning the adjective over in her mind. Kindness is not a quality I would have attributed to Christophe. Letting out a long breath, she recalled his gentle attitude toward Geneviève. Obviously, I simply don’t bring it out in him.
“Mademoiselle has so many lovely things.” Glancing up, Serenity saw Bridget fondling a flowing white negligée, her eyes soft and dreamy.
“Do you like it?” Rising, she fingered the hem, remembering the silky texture against her skin, then let it drift like a pure fall of snow to the floor.
“It’s yours,” Serenity declared impulsively, and the maid turned back, soft eyes now as wide as dark saucers.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle?”
“It’s yours,” she repeated, smiling into astonishment. “A wedding present.”
“Oh, mais non, I could not … it is too lovely.” Her voice faltered to a whisper as she gazed at the gown with wistful desire, then turned back to Serenity. “Mademoiselle could not bear to part with it.”
“Of course I can,” Serenity corrected. “It’s a gift, and it would please me to know you were enjoying it.” Studying the simple white silk which Bridget clutched to her breast, she sighed with a mixture of envy and hopelessness. “It was made for a bride, and you will look beautiful in it for your Jean-Paul.”
“Oh, Mademoiselle!” Bridget breathed, blinking back tears of gratitude. “I will treasure it always.” She followed this declaration with a joyful stream of Breton thanks, the simple words lifting Serenity’s spirits. She left the future bride gazing into the mirror, negligée spread over apron as she dreamed of her wedding night.
The sun again smiled sweetly on Bridget’s wedding day, the sky a cerulean-blue touched with a few friendly white wisps of clouds.
As the days had passed, Serenity’s depression had altered to a frigid resentment. Christophe’s aloof demeanor fanned the fires of temper, but determinedly, she had buried them under equally haughty ice. As a result, their conversations had been limited to a few stony, formally polite sentences.
She stood, flanked by him and the countess on the tiny lawn of the village church awaiting the bridal procession. The raw-silk suit she had chosen deliberately for its cool, untouchable appearance had been categorically dismissed by a wave of her grandmother’s regal hand. Instead, she had been presented with an outfit of her mother’s, the scent of lavender still clinging, as fresh as yesterday. Instead of appearing sophisticated and distant, she now appeared like a young girl awaiting a party.
The full gathered skirt just brushed bare calves, its brilliant vertical stripes of red and white topped with a short white apron. The peasant scoop-necked blouse was tucked into the tiny waist, its short puffed sleeves leaving arms bare to the sun. A black sleeveless vest fitted trimly over the subtle curve of breast, her pale halo of curls topped with a beribboned straw hat.
Christophe had made no comment on her appearance, merely inclining his head when she had descended the stairs, and now Serenity continued the silent war by addressing all her conversation exclusively to her grandmother.
“They will come from the house of the bride,” the countess informed her, and though Serenity was uncomfortably aware of the dark man who stood behind her, she gave the appearance of polite attentiveness. “All of her family will walk with her on her last journey as a maiden. Then, she will meet the groom and enter the chapel to become a wife.”
“She’s so young,” Serenity murmured in a sigh, “hardly more than a child.”
“Alors, she is old enough to be a woman, my aged one.” With a light laugh, the countess patted Serenity’s hand. “I was little more when I married your grandfather. Age has little to do with love. Do you not agree, Christophe?”
Serenity felt, rather than saw, his shrug. “So it would seem, Grandmère. Before she is twenty, our Bridget will have a little one tugging on her apron and another under it.”
“Hélas!” the countess sighed with suspicious wistfulness, and Serenity turned to regard her with careful curiosity. “It appears neither of my grandchildren see fit to provide me with little ones to spoil.” She gave Serenity a sad, guileless smile. “It is difficult to be patient when one grows old.”
“But it becomes simpler to be shrewd,” Christophe commented in a dry voice, and Serenity could not prevent herself from glancing up at him. He gave her a brief, raised-brow look, and she met it steadily, determined not to falter under its spell.
“To be wise, Christophe,” the countess corrected, unperturbed and faintly smug. “This is a truer statement. Voilà!” she announced before any comment could be made. “They come!”
Soft new flower petals floated and danced to earth as small children tossed them from wicker baskets. They laid a carpet of love for the bride’s feet. Innocent petals, wild from the meadow and forest, and the children danced in circles as they offered them to the air. Surrounded by her family, the bride walked like a small, exquisite doll. Her dress was traditional, and obviously old, and Serenity knew she had never seen a bride more radiant or a dress more perfect.
Aged white, the full, pleated skirt flowed from the waist to dance an inch from the petal-strewn road. The neck was high and trimmed with lace, and the bodice was
fitted and snug, touched with delicate embroidery. She wore no veil, but instead had on a round white cap topped with a stiff lace headdress which lent the tiny dark form an exotic and ageless beauty.
The groom joined her, and Serenity noted, with a near-maternal relief, that Jean-Paul looked both kind and nearly as innocent as Bridget herself. He, too, was attired traditionally: white knickers tucked into soft boots, and a deep blue double-breasted jacket over an embroidered white shirt. The narrow-brimmed Breton cap with its velvet ribbons accentuated his youth, and Serenity surmised he was little older than his bride.
Shining young love glowed around them, pure and sweet as the morning sky, and the sudden, unexpected pang of longing caused Serenity to draw in her breath, then clutch her hands together tightly to combat a convulsive shudder. Just once, she thought, and swallowed against the dryness of her throat, just once I would have Christophe look at me that way, and I could live on it for the rest of my life.
Starting as a hand touched her arm, she looked up to find his eyes on her, faintly mocking and altogether cool. Tilting her chin, she allowed him to lead her inside the chapel.
The château’s garden was a perfect world in which to celebrate a new marriage, vivid and fresh and alive with scents and hues. The terrace was laden with white-clothed tables brimming over with food and drink. The château had laid on its finest for the village wedding, silver and crystal gleaming with the pride of age in the glory of sunlight. And the village, Serenity observed, accepted it as their due. As they belonged to the château, so it belonged to them. Music rose over the mixture of voices and laughter: the sweet, lilting strain of violins and the softly nasal call of bagpipes.