by Nora Roberts
A shout rang out behind her, and she turned in the saddle to see Christophe coming after her astride the black stallion. As she turned, her foot connected sharply with the mare’s side, and Babette took this as a command and streaked forward in a swift gallop. Serenity was nearly unseated in surprise, and she struggled to right herself as the horse raced down the path with unaccustomed speed. At first all of her attention was given to the problem of remaining astride, not even contemplating the mechanics of halting the mare’s headlong rush. Before her brain had the opportunity to communicate with her hands and give them the idea to rein in, Christophe came alongside her. Then, reaching over, he pulled back on her reins, uttering a stream of oaths in a variety of languages.
Babette came to a docile halt, and Serenity’s eyes closed in relief. The next thing she knew, she was gripped around the waist and dragged from the saddle without ceremony, with Christophe’s dark eyes burning into hers.
“What do you hope to accomplish by running away from me?” he demanded, shaking her like a rag doll.
“I was doing no such thing,” she protested through teeth that chattered at the movement. “I must have startled the horse when I turned around.” Her own anger began to replace relief. “It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t come chasing after me.” She began to struggle away, but his grip increased with painful emphasis. “You’re hurting me!” she stormed at him. “Why must you always hurt me?”
“You would find a broken neck more painful, ma petite folle,” he stated, dragging her farther down the path and away from the horses. “That is what could have happened to you. What do you mean by riding off unescorted?”
“Unescorted?” she repeated with a laugh, jerking away from him. “How quaint. Aren’t women allowed to ride unescorted in Brittany?”
“Not women who have no brains,” he returned with dark fury, “and who have been on a horse only twice before in their lives.”
“I was going very well before you came.” She tossed her head at his logic. “Now just go away and leave me alone.” She watched as his eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward her. “Go away!” she shouted, backing up. “I want my privacy. I have things to think about.”
“I will give you something else to think about.”
He moved swiftly, gripping her behind the neck and stealing her breath with his lips. She pushed against him without success, fighting both him and the whirling dizziness which flew to her brain. Gripping her shoulders, he drew her away, his fingers digging into her flesh.
“Enough! C’est entendu!” He shook her again, and she saw by his face that the aristocrat had fled and there was only the man. “I want you. I want what no man has had before—and, by God, I will have you.”
He swept her up into his arms, and she struggled with a wild, primitive fear, beating against his chest like a trapped bird beating against the bars of its cage, but his stride remained steady and sure, as though he carried a complaisant child rather than a terrified woman.
Then she was on the ground, with his body crushing down on hers, his mouth savaging hers like a man possessed, her protests making no more of a ripple than a pebble tossed into the ocean. With a swift, violent motion, her blouse was opened, and he claimed her naked skin with bruising fingers, his lovemaking filled with a desperate urgency which conquered all thought of resistance, all will to struggle.
Struggle became demand, and her mouth became mobile and seeking under his; the hands which had previously pushed him away were now pulling him closer. Drowned in the deluge of passion, she reveled in the intimacy of his masculine hardness, her body moving with the ageless rhythm of instinct beneath him. Urgent and without restraint, his hands traced trails of heat along her naked flesh, his mouth following the blaze, returning again and again to drink from hers. Each time, his thirst grew, his demands taking her into a new and timeless world, the border between heaven and hell, where only one man and one woman can exist.
Deeper and deeper he led her, until pleasure and pain merged into one spiraling sensation, one all-consuming need. Helpless under the barrage of shimmering passion, the trembling began slowly, growing more intense as the journey took her further from the known and closer to the unexperienced. With a moan mixed with fear and desire, her fingers clutched at his shoulders, as if to keep from plummeting into an eternal void.
His mouth left hers suddenly, and with his breath uneven, his cheek rested against her brow for a moment before he lifted his head and looked down at her.
“I am hurting you again, ma petite.” He sighed and rolled off her to lie on his back. “I tossed you on the ground and nearly ravished you like a barbarian. I seem to find it difficult to control my baser instincts with you.”
She sat up quickly, fumbling with the buttons of her blouse with unsteady fingers. “It’s all right.” She attempted but failed to produce a careless-sounding voice. “No harm done. I’ve often been told how strong I am. You must learn to temper your technique a bit, though,” she babbled on to hide the extent of her pain. “Geneviève is more fragile than I.”
“Geneviève?” he repeated, lifting himself on his elbow to look at her directly. “What has Geneviève to do with this?”
“With this?” she answered. “Oh, nothing. I have no intention of saying anything to her of this. I’m quite fond of her.”
“Perhaps we should speak in French, Serenity. I am having difficulty understanding you.”
“She’s in love with you, you big idiot!” she blurted out, ignoring his request for French. “She told me; she came asking for my advice.” She controlled the short burst of hysterical laughter which escaped her. “She asked for my advice,” she elaborated, “on how to make you see her as a woman instead of a child. I didn’t tell her what your opinion was of me; she wouldn’t have understood.”
“She told you she was in love with me?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing.
“Not by name,” she said shortly, wishing the conversation had never begun. “She said she had been in love with a man all of her life, and he regarded her as a child. I simply told her to set him straight, tell him that she was a woman, and … What are you laughing at?”
“You thought she spoke of me?” He was once more flat on his back and laughing more freely than she had ever seen. “Little Geneviève in love with me!”
“How dare you laugh at her! How can you be so callous as to make fun of someone who loves you?” He caught her fists before they made contact with his chest.
“Geneviève did not seek you out for advice about me, chérie.” He continued to hold her off without effort. “She was speaking of Iann. But you have not met Iann, have you, mon amour?” He ignored her furious struggles and continued to speak with a wide grin. “We grew up together—Iann, Yves, and I—with Geneviève trailing along like a little puppy. Yves and I remained her ‘brothers’ after she grew into a woman, but it was Iann she truly loved. He has been in Paris on business for the last month, only returning home yesterday.” A small jerk of his wrists brought her down on his chest. “Geneviève called this morning to tell me of their engagement. She also told me to thank you for her, and now I know why.” His grin increased as amber eyes grew wide.
“She’s engaged? It wasn’t you?”
“Yes, she is; and no, it was not,” he answered helpfully. “Tell me, ma belle cousine, were you jealous when you thought Geneviève to be in love with me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she lied, attempting to remove her mouth from its proximity to his. “I would be no more jealous of Geneviève than you would be of Yves.”
“Ah.” In one swift movement he had reversed their positions and lay looking down at her. “Is that so? And should I tell you that I was nearly consumed with jealousy of my friend Yves, and that I very nearly murdered your American Tony? You would give them smiles that should be mine. From the moment I saw you step off the train, I was lost, bewitched, and I fought it as a man fights that which threatens to enslave him. Perhaps this slavery is freed
om.” His hand moved through the silk of her hair. “Ah, Serenity, je t’aime.”
She swallowed in the search for her voice. “Would you say that again?”
He smiled, and his mouth teased hers for a moment. “In English? I love you. I loved you from the moment I saw you, I love you infinitely more now, and I will love you for the rest of my life.” His lips descended on hers, moving them with a tenderness he had never shown, lifting only when he felt the moistness of her tears. “Why do you weep?” he questioned, his brow creasing in exasperation. “What have I done?”
She shook her head. “It’s only that I love you so much, and I thought …” She hesitated and let out a long breath. “Christophe, do you believe my father was innocent, or do you think me to be the daughter of a thief?”
His brow creased again with a frown, and he studied her silently. “I will tell you what I know, Serenity, and I will tell you what I believe. I know that I love you, not just the angel who stepped off the train at Lannion, but the woman I have come to know. It would make no difference if your father was a thief, a cheat, or a murderer. I have heard you speak of your father, and I have seen how you look when you tell of him. I cannot believe that a man who earned this love and devotion could have committed such a crime. This is what I believe, but it does not matter; nothing he did or did not do could change my love for you.”
“Oh, Christophe,” she whispered, pulling his cheek down to hers, “I’ve waited all my life for someone like you. There is something I must show you.” She pushed him away gently, taking the letter from her pocket and handing it to him. “My father told me to listen to my heart, and now it belongs to you.”
Serenity sat across from him, watching his face as he read, and she felt a deep peace, a contentment she had not known since her parents had been taken from her. Love for him filled her, along with a strong sense of security that he would help her to make the right decision. The woods were silent, tranquil, disturbed only by the whisper of wind through the leaves, and the birds that answered it. For a moment, it was a place out of time, inhabited only by man and woman.
When he had finished reading the letter, Christophe lifted his eyes from the paper and met hers. “Your father loved your mother very much.”
“Yes.”
He folded the letter, replacing it in its envelope, his eyes never leaving hers. “I wish I had known him. I was only a child when he came to the château, and he did not stay long.”
Her eyes clung to his. “What should we do?”
He moved nearer, taking her face in his hands. “We must take the letter and show it to Grandmère.”
“But they’re dead, and she’s alive. I love her; I don’t want to hurt her.”
He bent down and kissed shimmering lashes. “I love you, Serenity, for so many reasons, and you have just given me one more.” He tilted her head so their eyes met again. “Listen to me now, mon amour, and trust me. Grandmère needs to see this letter, for her own peace of mind. She believes her daughter betrayed her, stole from her. She has lived with this for twenty-five years. This letter will set her free. She will read in your father’s words the love Gaelle had for her, and, equally important, she will see the love your father had for her daughter. He was an honorable man, but he lived with the fact that his wife’s mother thought him to be a thief. The time has come to set them all free.”
“All right,” she agreed. “If you say this is what we must do, this is what we will do.”
He smiled, and taking both her hands in his, he lifted them to his lips before helping her to her feet. “Tell me, cousine”—the familiar mocking smile was in place—“will you always do as I say?”
“No,” she answered with a vigorous shake of her head. “Absolutely not.”
“Ah, I thought not.” He led her to the horses. “Life will not be dull.” He took the reins of the buckskin in his hand, and she mounted without assistance. He frowned as he handed her the reins. “You are disturbingly independent, stubborn, and impulsive, but I love you.”
“And you,” she commented, as he moved to mount the stallion, “are arrogant, overbearing, and irritatingly confident, but I love you, as well.”
They reached the stables. After relinquishing the horses to a groom, they set off toward the château with linked hands. As they approached the garden entrance, Christophe stopped and turned to her.
“You must give this to Grandmère yourself, Serenity.” He took the envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Yes, I know.” She looked down at it as he placed it in her hand. “But you will stay with me?”
“Oui, ma petite.” He drew her into his arms. “I will stay with you.” His mouth met hers, and she threw her arms around his neck until the kiss deepened, and they were only aware of each other.
“Alors, mes enfants.” The countess’s words broke the spell, and they both turned to see her watching them from the edge of the garden. “You have decided to stop fighting the inevitable.”
“You are very clever, Grandmère,” Christophe commented with a lift of his brow. “But I believe we would have managed even without your invaluable assistance.”
Elegant shoulders moved expressively. “But you might have wasted too much time, and time is a precious commodity.”
“Come inside, Grandmère. Serenity has something to show you.”
They entered the drawing room, and the countess seated herself in her regular thronelike chair. “What is it you have to show me, ma petite?”
“Grandmère,” Serenity said as she began moving in front of the countess, “Tony brought me some papers from my attorney. I didn’t even bother to open them until he left, but I found when I did that they were much more important than I had anticipated.” She held out the letter. “Before you read this, I want you to know I love you.” The countess opened her mouth to speak, but Serenity hurried on. “I love Christophe, and before he read what I’m giving you, he told me he loved me, as well. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to know that before he saw this letter. We decided to share this with you because we love you.” She handed the letter to her grandmother and then seated herself on the sofa. Christophe joined her, and he took her hand in his as they waited.
Serenity’s eyes were drawn to her mother’s portrait, the eyes that met hers full of joy and happiness, the expression of a woman in love. I have found it, too, Maman, she spoke silently, the overwhelming joy of love, and I hold it here in my hand.
She dropped her eyes to the joined hands, the strong bronzed fingers intertwined with the alabaster ones, the ruby ring which had been her mother’s glowing against the contrasting colors. She stared at the ring on her own hand, then raised her eyes to the replica on her mother’s, and she understood. The countess’s movement as she rose from her chair interrupted Serenity’s thoughts.
“For twenty-five years I have wronged this man, and the daughter whom I loved.” The words were soft as she turned to gaze out the window. “My pride blinded me and hardened my heart.”
“You were not to know, Grandmère,” Serenity replied, watching the straight back. “They wanted only to protect you.”
“To protect me from the knowledge that my husband had been a thief, and from the humiliation of public scandal, your father allowed himself to be branded, and my daughter gave up her heritage.” Moving back to the chair, she sank down wearily. “I sense from your father’s words a great feeling of love. Tell me, Serenity, was my daughter happy?”
“You see the eyes as my father painted them.” She gestured to the portrait. “She looked always as she looked then.”
“How can I forgive myself for what I did?”
“Oh, no, Grandmère.” Serenity rose and knelt in front of her, taking the fragile hands in her own. “I didn’t give you the letter to add to your grief, but to take it from you. You read the letter; you see that they blamed you for nothing; they purposely allowed you to believe that they betrayed you. Maybe they were wrong, but it’s done, and there can be no
going back.” She gripped the narrow hands tighter. “I tell you now that I blame you for nothing, and I beg you, for my sake, to let the guilt die.”
“Ah, Serenity, ma chère enfant.” The countess’s voice was as tender as her eyes. “C’est bien,” she said briskly, drawing her shoulders up straight once more. “We will remember only the happy times. You will tell me more of Gaelle’s life with your father in this Georgetown, and you will bring them both close to me again, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui, Grandmère.”
“Perhaps one day you will take me to the house where you grew up.”
“To America?” Serenity asked, deeply shocked. “Wouldn’t you be afraid to travel to so uncivilized a country?”
“You are being impudent again,” the countess stated regally as she rose from her chair. “I begin to believe I will come to know your father very well through you, mignonne.”
She shook her head. “When I think of what I allowed that painting to cost me! I am well pleased to be rid of it.”
“You still have the copy, Grandmère,” Serenity corrected. “I know where it is.”
“How do you know this?” Christophe asked, speaking for the first time since they had entered the room.
She turned to him and smiled. “It was right there in the letter, but I didn’t realize it at first. It was when we were sitting together just now, and you held my hand, that it came to me. Do you see this?” She held out her hand where the ruby gleamed. “It was my mother’s, the same she wears in the portrait.”
“I had noticed the ring in the painting,” the countess said slowly, “but Gaelle had no such ring. I thought your father merely painted it to match the earrings she wore.”
“She had the ring, Grandmère; it was her engagement ring. She wore it always with her wedding band on her left hand.”
“But what has this to do with the copy of the Raphael?” Christophe questioned with a frown.
“In the painting she wears the ring on her right hand. My father would never have made such a mistake in detail unless he did it intentionally.”