The Frenchman's Captive Wife
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Frantically she tried to squeeze her thighs together, determined to deny him access, but her reactions came too late and his fingers slid in deep, a triumphant gleam in his eyes when he found her slick and wet and ready for him. He moved his fingers in an erotic dance and she clenched her teeth, willing her body not to respond, but it felt so wickedly good and already she was aware of the first spasms of pleasure tightening her muscles. Her body was on fire and instinct took over so that she moved her hips restlessly as a wave of intense pleasure engulfed her. Still he continued with his intimate caress, faster, deeper, and she sobbed his name, her cries captured by his mouth as he initiated a kiss that went on and on, his tongue mimicking the movements of his fingers until she lay limply against the pillows, utterly spent.
‘So my touch sickens you, does it, ma petite?’ Luc’s dry tone invaded the sensual haze that enveloped her and she winced and closed her eyes against the derision in his. ‘You have a peculiar way of showing it.’ He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood looking down at her, a humourless laugh escaping him when she crossed her arms over her breasts. Her skirt was caught up around her waist and she knew she must look totally disheveled, but he did not appear to have a hair out of place and bore no physical signs of the wild passion they had shared moments before.
It’s good to know you’ve dropped your objections to taking up your role as my wife once more, but we’ll be landing in five minutes. I suggest you tidy yourself up before I introduce you to my staff. You look a little…flustered, ma petite.’
It was impossible to hate a man more than she loathed and detested Luc Vaillon, Emily decided furiously as she scrambled back into her clothes. She would rather move in with the devil than live with him in his château, she decided as she marched back to her seat, her head held high, and the fact that the members of Luc’s staff studiously avoided her gaze only added to her humiliation. She felt like a cheap tart and she was determined not to put herself in that position again, but even as she made the resolution her heart skittered in her chest.
Jean-Claude was awake, sitting on his father’s knee and staring up at him with wide-eyed fascination, and for the first time she truly appreciated the extent of Luc’s power over her. For some reason he had decided he wanted to be a father to their son after all and she did not underestimate his ruthless determination to get his own way. He had told her she could live at the château for as long as Jean-Claude depended on her, but that would be years. At what age did a child no longer need its mother? she wondered. Nothing would ever induce her to leave her son but the cost to her self-respect could be immense, especially if Luc demanded that she resume her role as his wife for the duration of her stay.
He couldn’t force her, she reassured herself, but she’d just proved that he didn’t have to. She was her own worst enemy where her husband was concerned, and from now on she would have to be on her guard.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE LOIRE REGION of France was lush and green, in stark contrast to the rocky, arid landscape that Emily had grown accustomed to at San Antonia. The car followed the route of the river before the road began to climb steeply and she drew a sharp breath as imposing grey stone walls rose up in front of them.
‘You want Jean-Claude to grow up here?’ she queried faintly as they drove through an arched gateway cut into the outer defensive wall and into a wide courtyard. ‘It looks…medieval!’
‘It is. The Château Montiard was built in the fifteenth century although only the outer wall and towers and the wine cellars remain of the original building. And the dungeon,’ Luc added and she threw him a startled glance, searching for signs of humour and finding none. ‘The main residence has been expertly modernised and I designed Jean-Claude’s nursery myself. He will want for nothing,’ he said pointedly, and Emily wondered if he was hinting that she would be expected to sleep in the scullery. ‘The château has been in the Vaillon family’s possession since it was acquired by them in 1506. It is Jean-Claude’s birthright, his heritage—something you should understand when your own family has such strong links with Heston Grange.’
‘How did the Vaillons acquire the château?’ she asked curiously, and Luc shrugged.
‘By force, I imagine. My forefathers were brigands, although history has it that René Vaillon had some kind of hold over the original owner and blackmailed him into allowing René to marry his daughter. The story goes that the girl was distraught at being forced to wed the boorish René and refused to sleep with him. To punish her, he locked her in the highest tower but, rather than give herself to him, she threw herself from the top. Lucky for you that you have no such inhibitions where sex is concerned, chérie.’
‘Poor girl,’ Emily murmured coolly, ignoring his jibe. ‘No woman wants to be married to a barbarian that she has no respect for.’
Luc’s jaw tightened ominously and she waited for his temper to erupt, but instead his mouth curved into a grudging smile. ‘Touché, ma petite. You have developed a clever tongue, but perhaps I should remind you that your position here is extremely tenuous. It wouldn’t do to upset me.’
‘Heaven forbid, I’m aware that you expect your wife to be obedient and biddable.’
‘Then we should get along just fine.’
He just had to have the last word, Emily thought viciously as she watched him stride across the courtyard to greet a multitude of uniformed staff assembled on the steps leading to the huge central doorway. His secretaries and the nanny had followed from the airport in a second car, and as she freed Jean-Claude from his child seat Liz Crawford appeared, her arms outstretched to take her charge.
‘Monsieur Vaillon asked me to take the baby straight up to the nursery while he introduces you to his household,’ she explained apologetically and Emily’s heart sank. During their brief conversation on the flight from Spain she had warmed to Liz, who had explained that she had returned to child care after her husband had died and her daughters were both busy with their own lives. ‘I appreciate that no one can take your place as Jean-Claude’s mother, and of course you want to do everything for him,’ she had murmured sympathetically, ‘but your husband explained that you’ve been ill and babies can be exhausting. I’m here to give you a break when you need it.’
On the surface it sounded reasonable, but Emily had her doubts. Liz was kind and motherly but ultimately she was answerable to Luc and she would follow his orders, even if that meant unwittingly engineering a separation between Jean-Claude and his mother.
She was quaking inside as she crossed the courtyard to where Luc and his staff were waiting and wished she had followed his order to change into something slightly less colourful. As her bright orange skirt danced in the breeze she felt like a peacock at a funeral and Luc’s jaw tightened ominously when she joined him on the steps. If possible, she was even lovelier than when he had first met her, he thought, noting the way the sunlight made her skirt appear almost transparent so that the outline of her slender figure was displayed.
He wasn’t the only one to notice, either, he realised as he subjected a young groom to a fulminating glare. Perhaps his ancestor René had had the right idea by locking his young bride in the tower, away from other admirers, but the thought did not improve his temper and he stiffened as a sudden gust of wind blew Emily’s hair across his face. It smelt of lemons, fresh and enticing, and he fought the urge to wrap the strands around his fingers, tilt her head and take possession of her mouth in a way that would leave the cocky groom in no doubt that she was Madame Vaillon, his wife.
Emily pushed her hair over her shoulders, aware that the members of Luc’s household staff were staring at her curiously. No doubt they had expected his wife to be elegant and sophisticated, but beset by nerves she could only drum up a shy smile when he introduced his butler, Philippe, who together with his wife, Sylvie, and their daughter, Simone, organised the running of the château.
‘You could at least try to act a little more friendly,’ Luc muttered as she followed him into t
he vast, marble-floored entrance hall. ‘Philippe’s family have worked at the château for generations. Their history goes back almost as far as the Vaillons’ and I expect you to treat them with the courtesy they deserve, not to act like a haughty English princess.’
‘I wasn’t being haughty,’ Emily defended herself, ‘but I’m not used to living with dozens of staff. Heston Grange cost so much to run that my parents could only afford to employ our lovely old housekeeper, Betty. I don’t know how you expect me to act, or even what my roll at the château is. You introduced me as your wife, but I still can’t believe you expect me to resume our relationship as if nothing has happened.’
‘Believe, ma petite,’ Luc suggested grimly, his expression unfathomable, and she sighed and glanced around the wide hallway.
Although the château seemed imposing from the outside, inside it was light and airy, with sunlight streaming in through the tall windows to bounce off the mellow oak panelling and creamy-coloured walls. Far from being cold and austere, much care had been taken to make it a comfortable family residence and she warmed to its charm, feeling instantly at home, which was curious when she had always felt uncomfortable at Heston. There was no point in growing attached to the château, she reminded herself, she wouldn’t be staying long.
Her eyes turned to the many portraits that adorned the walls, some of which were obviously very old and no doubt priceless.
‘Meet the family,’ Luc quipped as he followed her gaze. ‘There are paintings of every one of my ancestors, the most recent being this one of my parents.’
Jean-Louis Vaillon and his wife, Céline, stared down at Emily disdainfully and she shivered. Was it simply the style of the painting, or were they really as cold and unfriendly as they looked? Luc bore a strong resemblance to his handsome father but Jean-Louis’s eyes were flat and devoid of any emotion while Luc’s burned with fire—usually brought on by anger at her, Emily conceded sadly, although there had been times in the past when he had looked at her with an expression that she could almost believe was tenderness.
‘Do your parents live here at the château?’ she asked apprehensively, but he shook his head.
‘They’re both dead. As you might have guessed from the painting, it wasn’t a happy marriage, more of a business arrangement between two wealthy families. My mother’s family owned the vineyards that are now part of the Vaillon estate.’
‘But they didn’t love each other?’ Emily murmured, and Luc gave a harsh laugh.
‘Definitely not. My father was a cold, remote man and my mother was sensitive and for the most part deeply unhappy. She was fascinated by the story about old René and his tragic wife, so much so that she felt compelled to re-enact history.’
His words took a few seconds to sink in and Emily frowned. ‘You mean your mother jumped to her death from one of the towers?’ she queried, unable to disguise the shock in her voice. ‘How terrible! How old were you?’
‘Fifteen or so,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘I don’t remember exactly.’
But the bleakness in his eyes told a different story and Emily guessed that every detail of the tragic event was etched on his brain.
‘That’s awful,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe a mother would leave her child.’ At fifteen Luc would still have needed the love and protection of his parents. Her heart ached for him, knowing in his eyes she’d kept his son away from him, too. Was the tragedy of his past a reason for his reluctance to show his emotions? she wondered, her heart aching for him. ‘It must have been grim for whoever discovered her,’ she added, and Luc stared at her, a nerve jumping in his cheek.
‘Yes, it wasn’t a pretty sight.’
‘You mean you…Oh, Luc!’ It didn’t matter that they were sworn enemies. All Emily could picture was Luc as a teenager, a boy on the brink of adulthood with his emotions all over the place. His mother’s horrific suicide must have marked him for life, yet from the look of his stern father he would have received little sympathy or understanding for his terrible loss. ‘Why did you never say anything?’ she murmured, reaching her hand out to him in an involuntary gesture, wanting to comfort him. ‘In all the months that we were married, you never mentioned your parents.’ And she had been too shy, too unsure of him, to pry into his private life.
Luc glanced down at her hand on his arm, his expression so coolly aloof that she withdrew, her face burning. His body language could not have shouted more loudly that she was invading his personal space. He neither expected nor wanted her sympathy and her blood chilled. She had been an outsider when he’d married her and nothing had changed. She would do well to remember that fact.
‘Revealing the curse of the Vaillon wives hardly seemed appropriate on our wedding day, chérie. Marriages in my family seem to have the unhappy knack of ending in tragedy. For Jean-Claude’s sake, let’s hope ours doesn’t suffer the same fate.’
‘It already has,’ Emily pointed out. ‘Cupid’s arrow was way off target when he brought us together, and now it’s damaged beyond repair.’ She gave a sigh of frustration when Luc made no reply and simply stared at her as if intent on reading her mind. ‘This isn’t going to work, Luc. There’s too much bitterness and mistrust between us to try and kick-start our marriage. Perhaps I should start looking for a house in the village for Jean-Claude and me. Somewhere close enough for you to visit him easily.’
‘Forget it,’ Luc told her bluntly, and she watched impotently as he strode towards the wide staircase. ‘You can look for a property in the village by all means, but my son stays here, and he certainly won’t be alone. I intend to make the château my permanent base, both to live and work. Believe me, from now on Jean-Claude will have my undivided attention.’
‘But what about your travels, your endless commitments and meetings in every corner of the globe?’ Emily queried, a note of panic entering her voice. ‘You can hardly take him into the boardroom with you.’
‘I’m cutting right back on my travels. I admit I’m not finding the art of delegation easy but it’s a small sacrifice when I have my son.’
‘A sacrifice you refused to make for me,’ Emily accused bitterly. ‘Have you any idea how lonely I felt during our marriage? You dumped me in the middle of a big city where I had no friends and the only time I ever saw you was in bed. We never talked, Luc,’ she said miserably. ‘We never did all the normal things most couples do, like…I don’t know, go to the supermarket together.’
‘I employed an excellent housekeeper to take care of the running of the penthouse so that you didn’t have to,’ he snapped. ‘And what’s romantic about shopping for groceries?’
‘At least it would have been better than those agonising dinner parties Robyn arranged. The few times we could have spent the evening together were hijacked by entertaining your business associates.’
‘I thought you would appreciate the chance to socialise,’ he muttered. ‘You had unlimited access to my credit cards to go shopping for new outfits—and most women like to dress up,’ he added in a tone that patently spoke of his frustration that he did not understand her.
And therein was the root of many of their problems, Emily thought sadly. She was nothing like Luc’s previous lovers. It was a mystery why he had ever married her and his determination to keep her his wife was even more puzzling.
‘You can’t force me to stay here,’ she warned and he shrugged, as if he was bored with the whole subject.
‘No, but I can ensure that you never set a foot outside the château with my son,’ he said coldly, and the implicit threat in his voice caused a shiver to run the length of her spine. He knew she wouldn’t leave her baby. It was emotional blackmail of the worst kind and she was trapped.
Luc continued with his journey up the stairs, rounded a corner and disappeared from view, but Emily stumbled after him, halting before a huge canvas that took centre stage at the top of the first main flight of stairs. The portrait was of a woman, the style of painting and her clothing suggesting that the picture was a r
ecent addition to the Vaillon archives, but something about her face captured Emily’s attention. She, whoever she was, was the most beautiful woman Emily had ever seen, with classically sculptured bone structure and luxuriant black hair that gleamed like raw silk.
Was she one of the cursed Vaillon wives or a relative from Luc’s own side of the family? Certainly she had the air of disdainful hauteur that hinted at her French aristocracy, her dark eyes as cold and lacking in emotion as the painting of Luc’s parents. To Emily, the woman summed up everything she was not. She was elegant and exquisite and she looked as though she belonged in the château, which only emphasised the point that she herself, in her cheap, colourful clothes, was a rank outsider. She had no place here, and living in a remote French château would in many ways be even worse than when they had lived in the Chelsea penthouse. She would have no chance to make friends or have a life of her own. She would be totally dependent on Luc and the idea terrified her.
She hurried up the stairs that Luc had taken minutes before and arrived on a long landing where a window at one end allowed sunlight to stream in. It was like a scene from Alice in Wonderland, she thought hysterically as she ran the length of the landing, finding that the doors on either side of her were firmly shut. The last one had been left slightly ajar and she pushed it open, her breath catching in her throat as she glanced around the vast room.
With its dark wood floor, panelling and ceiling, the room could have appeared gloomy, but the whole of one wall held the same enormous windows that she had noted on the landing. On the opposite wall was a magnificent fireplace and above it a stunning tapestry that she guessed was a priceless antique from the château’s past. It was not the décor or the artwork that made Emily stare, however, but the sight of the huge, ornately carved four-poster bed that stood on a raised platform in the centre of the room. Instinct told her the bed was an intrinsic part of the château and her eyes were drawn to the coat of arms that had again been worked in tapestry and which hung around the top of the bed above the rich velvet drapes.