by Jackie Ivie
And before the sensation had fully ebbed, he moved. Taking a kiss. Matching his body to hers. Breathing with her. Altering the elements. Shifting his weight. Moving into position to replace his fingers with the painful part of him.
She had to somehow absorb it...
He didn’t give her any time!
She stiffened for the barest moment against remembered hurt…and felt nothing but heat and pressure and hard strength. And then a hint of the same sensory pleasure she’d just experienced. It sparked into being, and then flamed into breath-stealing reality. And at its core was Gillian. Filling her. Again and again, their movements rocking the bedstead beneath them. Stronger. Deeper. Creating a commotion within her, and then ratcheting everything higher. Faster. Taking her right to the precipice and then sending her over it
Helene careened into wonder, her cries filled with joy as exquisite torment tore through her, grabbing onto her and taking her into a realm that had solid bliss at its center. Gil had been grinning, his blue eyes so filled with warmth she could see it even after she slammed her eyes shut. Her heart hammered in her ears. Her mind careened into clouds. Heaven. Complete ecstasy. And still he moved, matching his thrusts to the mews of sound she made. The wonder ebbed. Her body finished shuddering. She opened her eyes…and his gaze was there to catch her.
And then he winked, dropped a kiss to her nose, hooked an arm about her, and rolled. The bed swayed, the mattress shifted, and then everything righted, only she was astride him, with all sorts of reactions happening from where they were connected. Helene stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed. And he wasn’t any help. Everything felt sensitive and odd and tinged with new experiences, while her limbs rocked and swayed and shivered.
He bucked slightly up into her, and that sensation had her gasping and grabbing his shoulders for stability. He did it again.
“Need help?” he asked.
“I…”
The word wasn’t even audible, but his amusement was. And that traveled somehow through his entire frame to reach hers, sending an even more amazing feeling. His hands slid along her legs to her hips, went about her waist, and then he tightened his fingers. That gave him a handhold to lift her, before slamming her back down.
“Oh…my!”
The exclamation held pleasure. Surprise. Enjoyment. And a squeal as he did the move again. Lifting her. Slamming her back down. Lifting her…and on the third one, she added her legs to the fray. Meeting him thrust for thrust. They got harder. Faster. To a pounding strength that seemed to lift the bedstead with it. And she wasn’t just crying, it was a solid scream that escaped as absolute fire ignited at her core and spread, rinsing across everything.
And then he joined her, curving upward so he could shove as deeply as the groan that accompanied it. Helene watched, spellbound, as his body quivered and pulsed beneath her, and then relaxed, dropping both of them back to the mattress and reality.
Helene collapsed atop his chest, and just lay there, existing, rising and falling with his every labored breath, wondering if she’d ever dare to tell him how much she loved him…again.
***
Gillian was strangely distant on the voyage across the Channel, asking her, at one point, if she was considering leaping overboard, because she spent so much time at the rail.
That hadn’t occurred to her, but when they drove up the overgrown road to Chateau Montriart two days later, it did. Anything would’ve been better than sitting beside Gil in a carriage, clinging to the side for fear of pitching over into the same dirt where her nightmare began. She’d turned aside after the first glimpse. She didn’t need to see. It hadn’t changed much, although more of it had been standing back then. Now it was just jagged spears of masonry, bereft. Solitary. Standing silhouetted against an endless blue sky.
“I see the walls are still standing,” Gil commented, “although the upper floors appear to have fallen in. What do you think, Helene? Would it be salvageable if the regime restored it properly?”
She gagged and tried not to show it, and she must still be a considerable actress, because he kept talking, completely unaware of her distress.
“The back doesn’t appear to have fared as well. Only the lower floor stands. That was probably the kitchens, wasn’t it?”
She could’ve nodded, but she wasn’t sure. The smell of gingerbread cakes assailed her nostrils as if the ovens still held such wonders for the comte’s granddaughter.
“Look there. The stables actually survived. I guess even rabble-rousers have their standards.”
He chuckled at his own wit, but his face looked strangely drawn as he stopped the carriage at the elaborately carved wooden doors and leaped easily down before helping Helene alight.
“Oh. Bother. I suppose I’ll learn eventually.”
He managed to pry open a door. Blue sky met his exploration of the gaping back half of the building. She kept her face blank and concentrated on standing immobile. Not moving. Not seeing. Not remembering.
“Such destruction. You all right, darling?”
“Pray, pay me no....” She was on her knees, retching into the grass before she could finish.
“Helene?”
Such consideration didn’t belong to her, and she knew it, but nobody would know how much it meant to collapse into his arms and wait for the warmth of the sun to send the shuddering away.
“I’m sorry I brought you. Truly. I should’ve had an agent check for us. Hindsight. I keep failing at it. You, all right?”
“I...I’ll be fine, My Lord. It’s just...the smoke covered it before. I...I didn’t see it very well. And…it was on fire.”
“You’re not going to spout the story again, and expect me to believe it, are you?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Fair enough. I’ll bargain with you. Perhaps I’ll believe you tonight…when we reach the inn, what was it called? The Petit Fleur, wasn’t it? Yes...I believe that’s the place. When we’re there, and I have you locked in my arms…well. That’s when you should probably tell me the story again. I’ll probably believe anything you say. It won’t even be difficult.”
She stiffened before he finished. And then grew angry. And that emotion helped strengthen and fortify. She pushed away and stood, albeit shakily.
“Here, Helene. I’ll assist you. Come. We’ll need to hurry to reach the Small Flower Inn before nightfall.”
He lifted her back into the conveyance, entered and sat beside her, then picked up the reins.
“I hope the Small Flower doesn’t live up to its name. I don’t know about you, darling, but that name didn’t inspire any confidence.”
She made a sound he took for agreement, because he continued prattling, filling the emptiness of the road with his chatter. It helped mute some of the melancholic atmosphere. But nothing stopped the dread that sat in her belly like a stone that kept getting heavier and more dense. He was taking her to Paris.
CHAPTER TWO
“I don’t suppose you’d care if the countess calls on us…would you, My Lady?”
Gil’s voice broke through her reverie. Helene nodded without thinking.
“Exellent. We’ll look forward to it, Madame.”
Gil flicked the reins and maneuvered around several vendors using what was supposed to be a thoroughfare as an avenue for business.
“The countess seems on familiar terms with you, My Lord.” Helene couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Well, she is a blond,” he responded.
She would’ve gasped her shock and outrage, but that reaction belonged to the girl she’d been before he brought her here. Now, if she showed the least inclination for or against something, that was exactly what he made her see and do.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
She sniffed, and looked out at the fronts of palatial homes she’d never been near before. If he was planning on a reaction to the apartment she’d stayed in with Sherry, he’d be better suited going to the Rue de Concorde, but she wouldn’t tell him.
“Look. There’s the Louvre. I believe they’re considering it for a museum instead of using it as an official residence.”
“Good heavens! How could anyone consider such a monstrosity a residence?” Helene blurted before she could stop herself.
“My thoughts exactly. I’m assured the late monarchy used it, with an even more elaborate one at Versailles. Would you like to tour it? I can probably arrange it.”
She shook her head. It might prove too poignant a reminder of what had happened to the late monarch, his wife, his entire court, and almost everyone else possessing an ancient title. And she didn’t need any more reminders.
“I believe we’re staying at the former residence of the Blouet family. I’ve been told there are two other couples in residence, but it’s very spacious. The late due liked his comfort above all.”
Helene couldn’t help shuddering. “Must you go on and on about it?”
“About what, pray tell? You’ve got to develop a thicker skin, My Lady. Ah, here we are. Look. They’re expecting us.”
He might put such a frivolous inference on the small group of soldiers standing at the front staircase, but she knew better. The emotion clutching her heart had fear at its core. Napoleon Bonaparte had just been a general when Sherry sent her away with little more than instructions, but Helene suspected the red-jacketed soldiers had frightened Sherry so much she’d refused to shelter the Comte Montriart’s granddaughter another day. That fear was shared and it was deep-rooted.
Helene was proving it with every sharply-inhaled breath. And the twist of her gloves in her fingers.
There were only five soldiers, standing smartly at attention as Gillian gave the reins over to a groom and stepped down, smiling pleasantly. Helene watched him continue to grin, looking fairly stupid as the soldiers eyed him.
“I believe your hopes are premature, My Lord.” She smiled wanly as he turned back to her. “It appears we aren’t the least bit expected.”
“I beg to differ with Madame,” a voice said from behind Gillian, speaking in clipped, heavily accented English. “Allow me to introduce myself. Colonel Fontenelle. At your service.”
Gil didn’t seem affected at all by the small man at his elbow, showing by his words how closely he’d listened to intimate conversation. Helene didn’t share Gillian’s ignorance, but she had prior knowledge.
Colonel Fontenelle was an arm of the new regime’s secret web of spies. Helene blanked every expression while the man looked her over. And then he smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’re a survivor of the late Montriart family, are you not, Madame? I welcome you wholeheartedly to our fair city. The First Consul requests the honor of your presence at the opera tonight. It’s a special occasion. He is celebrating. I trust you won’t be too tired to attend?”
He bowed, but Helene knew a command when she heard it.
“My wife is a trifle weary, Colonel,” Gil said. “I haven’t allowed her much rest. I do hope you’ll understand. Thank you for the invitation. My wife and I are extremely honored, and we’ll make every effort to attend the First Consul’s celebration.”
“A carriage will arrive at nine for you, Monsieur.’’
Helene smiled slightly at Gil’s affronted expression.
“Merci, Colonel,” Helene said in pure aristocratic French. “Please convey our gratitude for the honor. Now please allow me to rest. I must look my best. Good day.”
The man’s eyes widened a bit before he shuttered them again. Gillian didn’t realize what was happening, but it was clear Helene and the colonel did. The colonel nodded.
“Well then. We finished?” Gil inserted. “Oh! And would you be good enough to see that our trunks are unloaded, my good fellows?”
He was acting pompous. Conceited. Portraying a fairly good imitation of how her uncle acted. And he was good. Helene almost giggled as she watched the soldier’s reactions. They loosened their stiff stance and exchanged glances, before peering up at Gil with impudence worthy of the best French patriot.
She remembered that, too.
“Well, come along then, My Lady. Allow me to provide an escort.”
Gil lifted her from the carriage and held out his arm. Helene placed a hand atop it, while the other lifted her skirts. She didn’t realize how closely they were being watched until one of the soldiers became their doorman, opening the portal or them.
The Blouet family had been guilty of extreme extravagance. Just under the quickly redecorated main hall, the marble floor spread out in peacock-like splendor. The mobs couldn’t have defaced that or they would have. That floor was mute testament to the money and power the Blouets had once possessed. Even the Ionic columns holding up the halls overhead had a peacock theme. The marble fit together so precisely, it was difficult to see the seams on fans of teal, bright blue, and gold.
Gillian spent a bit of time commenting over the use of materials and how much they probably cost. He went on so long that Helene wondered what he was doing, although the soldier following them looked at him with snide superiority. She wondered if Gil realized the effect he was having. One glance told her he did. He was better than she suspected.
“Imagine, My Lady,” he told her. “We’re going to the opera with the First Consul! Why, I believe Sir Dunfield and the Duke of Raleigh haven’t even received that much honor. I hope we packed enough essentials to make a good impression.”
She pulled her cheeks in and looked to the peacock themed floor for a moment. He was doing a splendid job of acting like a rich, spoiled, arrogant Englishman. She was proud of him.
Their rooms were almost the size of the entire hunting lodge owned by Gil’s grandmother. From the door, Helene took a few moments to become accustomed to such wasted space before she entered the apartment. The ceilings towered over two stories overhead, while an immense bed was dwarfed by the parquet floor on which it stood.
“This must be your room, My Lady. I haven’t seen such frippery in a masculine abode before. Oh? I’m to follow you? Very good. Madame.” He bowed over her hand before following their guide across the floor, both men looking small in comparison to the door, and then a maid dressed in black passed by them, intent on Helene.
“Madame Tremayne? Good day. I’m to assist you in dressing for the evening.”
The woman spoke decent English, but as she curtsied, Helene found herself wondering what occupation she’d had before the revolution. It was a passing thought and the woman quickly covered any insolence as she unstrapped Helene’s trunk.
“Merci. That would be wonderful,” Helene replied. “I’ve decided to rest until six. At that time, I’d like a bath drawn and my black evening gown ironed.”
“Black, Madame? But the First Consul likes vivid colors.”
“I’m dressing to please myself.” Helene replied in her aristocratic-tinged French, using such a haughty tone that even her grandfather, the imperious Comte Montriart, would’ve been impressed.
“Tres bien.”
The maid acknowledged the order and left.
***
The sound of empty space made it impossible to sleep. It was impossible to do anything other than fret. Worry. Postulate. Listen. Shiver. It was a relief when the maid returned to wake her. Too many ghosts inhabited the palace. Helene began to think she could hear their anguish over their fate. She knew she was being fanciful, but that hadn’t altered anything.
She sat through the curling and arrangement of her hair, watching her reflection in the full-length cheval glass mirrors. And then it was time to dress. Her black gown wasn’t truly black. It was more silvery charcoal, striped throughout with silver ribbon that glinted when light fell on it. The dressmaker had outdone herself with the design, although the bodice gave her a moment of worry. And then she remembered the gauze gown the countess had been wearing from this afternoon and reassured herself. The new regime wasn’t in a modest frame of mind. She’d heard about Napoleon’s mistress, Josephine’s love of see-through material. It wa
s even gossiped that she rouged her nipples to make them more obvious through her gowns! But the only reason Helene knew that was because every inn they’d stayed at seemed filled with general populace that hadn’t any reserve toward their superiors and no restraints on gossip. And they’d wrongly assumed that both Lord and Lady Tremayne didn’t understand the language.
There was a ribbon threaded through her curls and adorning her gown, fashioned in bright white, contrasting starkly with her gown and coloring. It would be impossible to miss her.
“I’m to take you to His Lordship once we’ve finished, Madame. He’s awaiting you in the red room.”
Helene inclined her head and followed the maid back across the monstrosity of floor, along an open hall that overlooked the front foyer, the entire time trying to mute the chill she experienced as they walked. She wondered what Madame Blouet must have felt walking along this balcony, overlooking such beauty and space.
She banished the thought, even from herself.
She wasn’t as successful at hiding her awe when she was shown into an antechamber resembling her personal vision of hell, with blood-red walls and ceilings. It wasn’t at the room. Gillian was looking over a collection of bric-a-brac arranged on a table. He was in full evening attire. She knew he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. It didn’t seem fair how his attire enhanced it.
And then he turned his head, his jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. At her?
“Good heavens, My Lady! You’ll eclipse them all. I don’t think my little present will do well against such a backdrop. Come, my good man, and show the lady what I bought for her today.”
A footman came forward and held out a box. Helen couldn’t help gasping as she looked at the diamond necklace inside.
“Oh, Gillian.”
She lifted the gems from their bed and watched it sparkle, highlighting the intricacy of the design.
“Took us all deuced day to find it, didn’t it, Henri?”
Gil laughed like the pompous ass he was imitating. Helene watched the necklace tremble with her shaking.
“Will you clasp it, My Lord?” She held it against her throat, ignoring Henri.