The Frost of Springtime

by Rachel L. Demeter

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sunlight bathed the ground in dancing shafts. Curving in and out of the various trees, rosebushes, and trellises, the cobblestone walkway offered a path through paradise.

  Arm in arm, Aleksender and Elizabeth strolled through the chateau’s gardens at a leisurely stride. Apart from his detachment, everything was bright, brilliant and wonderfully full of cheer. And Elizabeth was no exception.

  Shielding her complexion from the dreaded sunrays, Elizabeth clutched onto her parasol for dear life. Laughter beamed from her eyes. A silk bonnet fluttered atop her curls, fondled by a gentle breeze, its fine material accenting the delicate arch of her brows.

  “Oh, dear me …”

  Aleksender bellowed an exasperated groan. Somehow, someway, they’d wandered into the infamous hedge maze. How could he have been so distracted? Aleksender blamed Elizabeth’s constant chatter. Near to fuming and not in the mood for infantile games, he glared at Elizabeth and bit back a curse.

  Did she dare to smile?

  “Elizabeth—”

  “Bet you cannot catch me!” she exclaimed, eyes sparkling with mischief. Tossing Aleksender a playful backward glance, she chucked the parasol over a hedge and hiked up her skirts. “Come on now,” she cried over her shoulder, “whatever are you waiting for?”

  Mesmerized, annoyed, and a bit perplexed, Aleksender observed as her bonnet was swept away. An abundance of golden curls was freed and tossed about by the wind. Elizabeth ran from him, her slender form appearing smaller and smaller with each step. Robust laughter filled the air. “Come and get me, Alek!”

  Aleksender paralyzed, questioning his own sanity. He blinked once. Twice. No, it was not an illusion. Elizabeth appeared to be fifteen years-old. Indeed, the mature curves of her body had been replaced with gangly and undeveloped limbs.

  She was fifteen and very immature, he quickly concluded. She’d vanished from his sight to dart around one of the maze’s clever corners.

  Aleksender reached the spot of her disappearance in a few quick strides. He encountered an endless pathway around the bend. Parallel rows of hedges went on forever, stretching into eternity.

  And yet Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen. The phenomenon betrayed the laws of logic.

  Damnation—it betrayed common sense.

  “Impossible,” Aleksender muttered under his breath. Such a thing simply could not be. Had he finally gone mad? The notion certainly held a twisted appeal. In a way, madness was a sort of luxury.

  A delicate hand interrupted his thoughts before he could further contemplate his questionable state of mind.

  Ah, Elizabeth …

  He turned to the soft touch.

  Aleksender swallowed a generous intake of air. She was dressed scandalously—inconceivably so—donning no more than a flimsy nightgown and wicked smile. And those curls were loose and wild, draping over the tempting curves of her breasts like two sensual waterfalls. She had the decency to blush beneath Aleksender’s hardened stare.

  “Sofia? How—”

  She pressed an index finger to his lips. “Hush now.” For the life of him, Aleksender couldn’t stir a limb. Couldn’t speak. The irrationality of the moment became moot. Her simple touch inflamed his mind and body. From head to toe he was coarse as stone, behaving like a randy lad ravenous with lust.

  “My dear,” Sofia purred, “we really mustn’t have her suspect anything.”

  “You should not be here.” His menacing voice vibrated against her nude fingertip.

  “Silly Aleksender,” she chided, wagging her finger in mock scolding. “Don’t you see? This,” gesturing the towering hedges, “is a maze. Finding a way out is near to impossible. Just give in.”

  The flesh of his mouth grated her finger with each word. “Ah, but you are wrong, ma chérie. You see, this is built as a labyrinth. It has but a single path—nothing more. It’s only an illusion. An illusion designed to appear as a maze.”

  “Well. Even so …” Her lips widened into a grin as her eyes brazenly peered southward. She stepped closer till her bosom skimmed the expanse of his chest. Her thumb absently traced over Aleksender’s lips. The opposite hand cupped his groin—fondling his rigid arousal through the trousers.

  “N-No. You—” his objection broke off into a pitiful stammer. “You must not—” Aleksender hissed between clenched teeth as she increased the pressure of her caress.

  “Aw, why so?” Eyes fallen to half-mast, he studied the pale arch of her shoulder. Near to bursting, he fought an excruciating desire to nip at that delectable, ivory flesh. As if she’d been denied her after dinner sweets, Sofia’s lips drooped into an adorable and almost childish pout. “Is my touch truly so abhorrent?”

  “You know damn well—” Pressing down on Sofia’s wanton hand and shamelessly grinding against her palm, he moaned. “That I burn for you.” The words were spoken between sharp thrusts and choked breaths, rasped and guttural. Sofia’s eyes glittered, taking a perverse delight in Aleksender’s loss of control.

  “Tell me, amour. How many nights have you lain awake and aching, fantasizing about my lips, my touches? How many nights have you seduced your body, imagining my caresses? How many whores—how many mistresses—have you taken in my name? How many times have you made love to your wife thinking of me?”

  She began to unclasp the front of his trousers, her voice lowering to a husky alto. Aleksender gave a hard moan as her fingers brushed over his swollen flesh. “Tell me—how many nights have you dreamed of this moment?”

  A painful ache settled inside Aleksender’s chest. Where was his sweet, wide-eyed ward? Where was his little Sofia? No. This was neither his dream nor heart’s desire.

  This was nothing more than another shade of his reality.

  Panting and gasping for air, Aleksender stumbled backward and speared all ten fingers through his glossy locks. “Play with fire, you get burned.” Trapped and entirely alone, he scanned the fortress of hedged walls, vainly searching for some way out. It was useless. Without knowing the correct pathway, even a labyrinth could imprison a man.

  Just give in …

  Sofia’s nimble fingers teased the fastenings of her nightdress, unbuttoning each one, working at a maddening pace. With a sensuous moan, her pink tongue swept across her bottom lip, moistening the fleshy seam. She provocatively pried her nightdress open and bared her breasts to Aleksender, revealing herself inch by inch. “Then let us burn.”

  He woke with a violent start. His hands trembled like that of an addict’s, temples slick with perspiration. Revolted with himself, Aleksender spouted a curse—discovering that other regions also felt damp.

  He threw back the coverlet. Reality and his dreams had collided once more. Indeed, shameful proof of his suppressed passion had invaded his marriage bed. Down below, his nightshirt bore a large slick spot, branding the region that he’d come to despise most. How humiliating. At thirty-six years, he was nothing more than a little boy who’d wet the bed.

  Deeply shamed and ridden with guilt, Aleksender flipped onto his stomach with a groan. Beside him, streams of moonlight danced across Elizabeth’s unconscious and tranquil features. All the time-burdened imperfections seemed to melt away, leaving the unblemished innocence of a fifteen-year-old girl in its wake. Staring down, he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “You don’t deserve this—any of this.”

  Aleksender turned away and buried his face in the mattress, unable to stomach the sight.

  •

  Bête Noire’s sleigh bells tinkled in greeting. The room shrank three full sizes as a shadowy figure crossed the threshold.

  The place had undergone very little change since Aleksender’s last visit. Years had passed, and yet the floorboards were still splintered, windows veiled, and the chandelier weeping. And Aleksender felt strangely at home.

  Business was clearly slower than it had ever been. A handful of whores were spread out on the two chaises and immersed in mindless chatter.

  Aleksender pounded at the gol
den bell, cringed at its sleazy melody, and nodded when Madam Bedeau finally appeared.

  “It has been a long time, indeed, monsieur.” Flat and painfully tight, her voice had lost nearly all of its innate sensuality. “Tell me—what is your desire tonight?”

  Aleksender signaled to one of the whores—an appealing, slender brunette. She was young and bright-eyed, likely in her early twenties. Her bodice was a deep red, astonishingly low cut, and overflowing with the swell of her breasts.

  “A worthy choice, monsieur.” Madam Bedeau offered a smile and called out to the girl. “Esther. Kindly show this gentleman to the rooms.”

  “Yes, madam.” Esther threw her friends a small grin before departing to the counter. Her fingers curled around Aleksender’s arm as she led him down the darkened hall. “Come along. This way, monsieur.”

  •

  The match came to life with a hiss. Esther lit a pair of candles, bathing the room with gentle glows. Regardless, the surrounding shadows remained thick and impenetrable, obscuring everything.

  Esther inhaled a sharp breath as her client’s broad form stalked behind her. He came intimately near. Strong hands wrapped the shaft of her neck in a feathery and teasing touch.

  Indeed. Most of her patrons were either drunks or homely-looking fellows—more often than not, a little bit of both.

  But no—not this man.

  This man’s eyes were clear and pristine, every inch of flesh handsomer than sin. It was strangely unnerving. His finely tailored clothing and distinguished accent suggested that he was a gentleman—and Bête Noire hardly received gentlemen. Granted, Esther had been working only a few months—but she knew the establishment had lost its prestige many years ago. Like the rest of Paris, it had fallen victim to the shadow of despair.

  The features of the man’s face were hidden by an askew hat and impossible to decipher. And that voice …

  His voice was an instrument of pleasure—a low rumble, rich and sultry. “Take down your hair.”

  Esther untied the coiffure, her nimble fingers unusually clumsy. Dark ringlets fell down her back in vast waves, creating a satin barrier between her and the mysterious man. She shuddered as elegantly long fingers brushed across her temple. A cluster of curls were swept aside, exposing her nape to the elements. The heat of the man’s breath drew close, wafting against her in a molten sting. The other hand found the ties of her bodice and loosened them one by one. Within moments, the front of her dress puckered forward, wide and gaping. Each sleeve slid away from her shoulder, exposing smooth slates of flesh.

  The heat of his body shifted. Esther glanced over her shoulder. Apparently he’d found a moment to remove the hat. Hair, blacker than the night, shone beneath the illumination. He stood at the foot of the bed, dark, menacing and purely male.

  “Come here.” He waved his hand in a suave and elegant gesture.

  Esther obeyed. “Onto the bed.” Staring into his eyes, she eased onto the mattress. The whole affair—everything about this gentleman—was strangely discomforting. His slow sensuality, transient touches, deep gaze and hypnotic, lukewarm voice.

  “This really isn’t necessary, monsieur,” Esther said. “I—”

  “Shh. Don’t speak.” Every muscle tensed as he settled next to her. A deep crater indented the mattress as it was manipulated by the pull of his weight. “Don’t look at me.” Esther turned her eyes away. His lips descended in one, sweet swoop and skirted across her neck—down one side and up the other. His hands—those strangely gentle, callused hands—discarded her bodice.

  He rolled away in an urgent movement. An unbearable pain lined the depths of his eyes. A single word was chanted beneath a choked breath. Sorrelli … no, no—Sofia? Did he whisper Sorrelli? Or had it been Sofia? Esther wasn’t sure.

  “Monsieur? Are you all right? Is … is something amiss?”

  “I must go.”

  He replaced the hat, dug a hand inside his cloak and laid a fistful of francs upon the pillow. Without a backward glance, he vanished into Bête Noire’s shadows.

  •

  Lost in silent contemplation, Aleksender stood before the hearth as he absorbed its heat. He bowed his head and wrapped his hand around the meticulously carved mantel.

  Tonight, the truth had emerged. He could no longer lie to himself. He’d been forever changed.

  Sofia had touched something deep inside his heart, which he’d believed was longtime dead and buried. Her beauty, her kindness, their unified and kindred spirit … had awoken a dormant tenderness within his soul.

  And now he was falling deeply in love with his ward—hard and fast. Such a thing was inevitable. He’d always felt more alive and worthy in her presence. The emptiness didn’t seem to matter as much with Sofia by his side. Or, perhaps, the dark void had merely been filled with light and laughter.

  Unblinking, he stared into the flames as the firewood perversely crumbled, split and blackened.

  Now, only one question remained. Could Aleksender protect Sofia from himself?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  March 26, 1871

  Once upon a time, Paris had been a renowned mecca of art and culture. Now, the alleyways whispered tragic secrets. Suffering souls of all ages infested each corner. Barricades obstructed many of the streets, reinforced by restless members of the National Guard and Commune. Mountains of wrecked debris and broken carriages stood as Paris’s sole defense, pitifully warding off attacks from the army of Versailles. Without a sou to their name, many homeless Parisians were forced to consume sewer rats or worse, lest they go hungry.

  For Christophe, starvation wasn’t an imminent concern. He’d managed to secure a handful of odd jobs, most of which were given to him out of pity, and had taken residence at some dumpy inn. Mining coal was a taxing affair. Most evenings he lost himself within a drunken stupor, tumbled a whore or two, and rolled onto the god-awful plank that was his mattress.

  But tonight was no ordinary evening.

  Christophe wandered the length of the Rue de la Paix, hands tucked inside his ratty pockets. A cannon glared out from its barricade as he rounded the corner. Christophe cocked a brow and peered straight down the throat of its muzzle. A fierce shiver coursed through his veins. The thing was black and bottomless. A mouth into hell. A small cluster of National Guardsmen stood nearby, rifles and cigars in hand. Taking notice of Christophe, they exchanged mumbled words and tipped their navy-blue caps in greeting.

  One of the men propped the rifle over his shoulder and stepped forward. “You’re headed in the right direction, monsieur.” Christophe responded with a curt nod.

  With growing uneasiness, he continued down the pathway at a quickened stride. Everything was hollow and silent. A plague of death had steadily devoured the sleepless town and tragedy had taken its course. Thick shadows crept over the cobblestone walkways, manifesting in the form of demons. Relief flooded Christophe’s body as he finally reached his destination.

  Newspaper leaflets danced all around him, harmoniously tossed about by the wind. Whirling and twirling, they skirted in front of Café Roux, carried by the spring air. Muffled talking could be heard within the walls. And a placard was tacked upon its door:

  Vive la Commune! Come one, come all!

  For a democratic and social republic!

  Commune meetings and election tonight.

  Christophe was disturbed greatly by the sight. All life had been sucked out of the beloved cafe, and in its ashes stood a morbid crypt. The atmosphere was grave, thick with sorrow, and gloomier than a funeral parlor. Every person appeared to be in attendance. From wall to wall, men, women and children were solemnly strewn about.

  Hundreds of bodies filled the moderate space. Members of the National Guard, the barber and the baker, the village gossip and renowned rake. Even their damned children were present.

  For many, it was the birth of a revolution. For the others, it was a premature death sentence. For Christophe, it was nothing. Everything had been turned down since his return. Being
kept as a prisoner of war and losing everything tended to have that effect.

  A cluster of gruff-looking men was huddled about the bar, none of them drinking and all of them focused on the speaker who was seated before them. Christophe drew his eyes to the rough faced boy leading the discussion.

  He was seventeen years going on forty. A cigar was clenched between his teeth, bobbing up and down as he passionately lectured. Christophe had once known this boy—this Elliot Francois.

  His mother had been scandalously murdered, he gravelly recalled, and within the same year, his father had drunk himself into an early grave. Elliot had always idolized him—Lord only knew why.

  It was quite tragic. Within the course of two years, all of Elliot’s youth and boyish charm had been spirited away. Far more than a little rattled, Christophe shook away his thoughts and wandered to the bar. Stinging alarm flushed through his body. Every voice hushed to a whisper. Every pair of eyes was attentively fixed on him.

  “Messieurs,” Christophe greeted, “as always, a pleasure.”

  “Sweet Mother Mary! If it isn’t the great Christophe Cleef.” Grinning ear to ear, Elliot hopped down from his stool and slapped Christophe’s back in an elaborate show of masculine affection. “Fine thing to have you returned to us in once piece.”

  “Ah, afraid that’s a bit debatable.”

  Elliot smiled wide and signaled to one of the prettier barmaids. “Be a dear and help Monsieur Cleef to his brandy.” Wearing a decadent smile, the barmaid smoothed out her apron and did as commanded. She slid the glass down the counter once it was full and brimming. It was a true brush with death. In ridiculously seasoned style, Christophe caught the drink mere seconds before it flew from the bar. Amused with the veteran’s suaveness, her lips curved into a smile. “Nicely done,” she praised, a hint of seduction tinting the words.

  Christophe’s eyes twinkled as his lips lifted into a beguiling grin. “My lady.” He raised the glass in a mock toast.