Awakened by a Kiss

by Lila DiPasqua

  “I was just leaving,” Claire said after exchanging pleasantries with Tristan, and left the room.

  A half-smile on his lips, he approached. Her insides danced with excitement. He stopped before her and slipped his fingers under her chin. “Have I kissed you good morning?” he asked.

  She couldn’t hold back her smile. “Yes.” He’d done a lot more to her than kiss her that morning.

  “Good. Because it’s afternoon.” Then his lips were against hers, his tongue possessing her mouth, and her arms by their own volition drew around him. She moaned.

  She could make him a good wife. He would make her an excellent husband.

  She’d failed to convince him to keep the workers and gardeners she’d sent, but she couldn’t fail in any part of her plan tomorrow.

  This hunt was too important.

  So much hinged on its success. Briefly, she wondered if she should wear her lucky boots. Then Tristan’s hand caressed the curve of her breast and her thoughts turned as heated as her body.

  6

  Claire peered into the streaming river at the water’s edge. “Have I told you how much I don’t like this idea?”

  The sun was high in the sky. Standing in the glen, Elisabeth could hear the voices and laughter coming from the King and his party as they drifted down into the narrow valley. The hunt had ended an hour ago. Elisabeth and her entourage had arrived just in time for the feasting and gaiety that were afoot.

  Tristan was up there. It had taken well-placed words and kisses to convince him to join the escort that would take her to the picnic after the hunt—not that she minded the kissing. Or the amorous encounter that ensued. Only when she lay weak from the second intense orgasm in a row did he advise her—with the most devilish smile—that he’d had every intention of seeing her personally delivered to the hunt all along.

  How could any woman be angry at a man who was so wickedly charming and had just melted her with his carnal talents?

  “Yes, Claire, I believe you’ve mentioned it more than a dozen times.”

  “Why do I have to be the one who falls into the river? Why can’t it be you?”

  “Because I’ll look like a drowned rat. Not an enticing way for Tristan to see me.”

  Claire clamped her mouth shut, and frowning, glanced back at the river streaming past. “You think it’s cold?”

  “I’m sure it’s not.”

  Claire shook her head. “This is definitely not going to be as much fun as the time we hemmed nasty Cecile de Brun’s gown up an inch each night to make her think she was growing at an alarming rate after she relentlessly teased me about being short.”

  Elisabeth patted her sister’s shoulder. “No time to reminisce about our girlhood pranks. You’re a strong swimmer, Claire. You’re going to be fine. I promise you, you won’t be in the water long. Now then, Agathe is up there on the top of the glen to your left. Do you see her by the large walnut tree?”

  “Yes,” Claire said, spotting Elisabeth’s trusted servant. Agathe stood well apart from the King’s party. In point of fact, she was the only person in sight. The others were far from the edge of the glen.

  “I will give Agathe the signal, then she will signal to you. When you see her nod, you jump in and start screaming. Tristan will be along shortly to save you.”

  “Fine,” Claire said tightly. “Make certain he gets here quickly. I’m only doing this because I know you would do it for me.”

  “You know I’d do anything for you.” Elisabeth’s words rose from her heart.

  “I hope this works, Elisabeth.”

  So did she.

  “The sex must be excellent.” Gabriel smiled as he stood beside Tristan looking out at the royal gathering before him.

  Tristan muted his irritation and kept silent. He could clearly hear the mischief in his brother’s tone. Without glancing Gabriel’s way, Tristan kept his gaze fixed on the crowd of men and women clustered in a giant group around the King, mostly praising His Majesty’s abilities in the successful hunt.

  Gabriel chuckled. “You heard me well, but I’ll repeat myself nonetheless. I said, the sex must be quite good. You told me you wanted nothing to do with these people ever again and here you are, at the King’s hunt—because of a woman.”

  Not just any woman. A very unique woman. For a very long time Tristan had wanted never to see Versailles again. Now he wasn’t so sure. There was someone at Versailles that he wanted to see a lot more of.

  Elisabeth.

  “She’s the King’s darling. I felt it necessary to escort her.” Not to mention Tristan wanted to prolong his time with her. But he wasn’t going to tell his brother that. He’d never hear the end of Gabriel’s ribbing. Especially if he knew Tristan’s interest in Elisabeth went beyond the physical.

  Upon arriving with her entourage, she’d promptly brought him before the King. It pleased Tristan that His Majesty was glad to see him. Had seemed delightfully surprised, actually. Clearly, the King had expected Tristan to be far less mobile and agile. Tristan had exchanged pleasantries with him, then moved to the outer perimeter of the gathering, where he presently stood. A habit for a man whose job it was to keep a watchful eye from a distance, making certain he and his men maintained a safe radius around the King and his family at all times.

  What dismayed him was that his replacement, Balzac, was mixing in with the group, parading about, usually at Veronique’s side, when he should be maintaining a professional decorum. Just as disturbing were the sidelong glances and discreet smiles Veronique was giving Tristan. He knew what she was after. What message she was conveying. That he could fuck her if he wanted to, and she was doing this while Balzac panted at her side.

  He couldn’t believe that woman had ever held any kind of appeal.

  “Sir.”

  Tristan glanced at the man addressing him. One of his former lieutenants, Valesque.

  “It is good to see you, Commander,” Valesque said.

  “Not ‘Commander,’ ” Tristan corrected.

  “Of course. Forgive me. An old habit, I’m afraid. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to tell you that the men and I are delighted to see you again.”

  Tristan glanced past Valesque’s shoulder. Every Musketeer he could see, all standing well apart from the King’s party, had their eyes on him. He looked at them one by one, as each gave a deep nod—an expression of respect.

  “Lieutenant, tell your men to keep their eyes focused on the royal gathering,” Tristan said. The men had a job to do and Tristan didn’t want to be a distraction.

  “Of course, Comm . . . er . . . sir. Sadly, that is an order that should be coming from Balzac, but I’m afraid he doesn’t take matters seriously enough.”

  That was painfully obvious.

  Valesque gave Tristan a short bow. “Good day, sir.”

  “Good day.”

  Valesque turned to leave.

  “Lieutenant Valesque,” Tristan called out.

  The man turned back around.

  “Please tell the men I’m delighted to see them also.”

  Valesque smiled. “Yes, sir. And, sir, when the men learned the Duchesse was in need of an escort to your château, well, suffice to say, it caused quite a commotion among the Musketeers. Every man wanted to be in the entourage that would escort Madame la Duchesse to your abode.” Valesque gave him a bow and walked away.

  Tristan felt his chest tighten. He was touched. And grateful to one very spirited, beautiful favorite royal daughter.

  Had she not come to his home, bold as could be, he’d likely still be in his château, feeling sorry for himself. She’d brought him back to life after he’d slipped into a dark hole. He’d enjoyed his time with her immensely. Not just in his bed. But her company in general.

  He even delighted in providing her with lessons in fencing.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he remembered their second lesson. Determined not to drop her sword again, she’d shown up in the gardens, one of her silk scarves b
inding the blade to her hand. With determination etched on her lovely features—her goal, he knew, was to best him—she made improvements by leaps and bounds.

  He loved her spiritedness—both in and out of bed.

  Tristan scanned the crowd, looking for Elisabeth. She’d been with the King not long ago. Now she was nowhere to be found. The cooking fires were well in the distance surrounded by cooks hard at work preparing the meal. But he doubted Elisabeth would be there.

  “Where are Elisabeth and Claire?” Gabriel, who’d been uncharacteristically silent, voiced the very question running through Tristan’s mind.

  Where could they be?

  Moving his gaze from face to face in the distant throng, he suddenly spotted her emerging from the crowd. Smiling, she approached, looking far more alluring than any woman should. She made his heart race.

  She stopped in front of him. “Are you enjoying yourselves, gentlemen?”

  Since they’d become lovers, whenever she greeted him, she touched him. Though he understood why she couldn’t at the moment, he hated it nonetheless that her hands were folded before her and not on him.

  “I’m enjoying myself immensely,” Gabriel answered with his usual smile.

  “And what about you, Tristan? Are you enjoying yourself?”

  He couldn’t stop himself from luxuriating in the vision she made. In her pale gown, she looked ravishing. The décolletage accentuated her lovely breasts ever so deliciously. He was starved for the taste of her sweet nipples. Though he’d had her that morning, he wanted nothing more than to take her into the nearby forest and have her again. “I’d say the gathering has suddenly much improved now that you’re here.” Her presence would improve any gathering, regardless of how arduous it was.

  “Why, thank you, Tristan.” She blushed slightly, her eyes telling him his compliment pleased her. “I don’t suppose either of you have seen my sister?”

  Tristan frowned. “She wasn’t with you?”

  “No. I don’t know where she is.” Elisabeth tugged at her ear.

  Tristan looked the crowd over again. “I don’t see her.”

  “I wonder where she could be?” Gabriel said, scanning about, trying to spot her.

  “I don’t know. I’m a bit concerned. I haven’t seen her for a while.” Elisabeth tugged her ear again.

  “Is there something wrong with your ear?” Tristan asked.

  She dropped her arm down to her side. “No.”

  A scream ripped through the air. Tristan turned in the direction of the startling sound. More screams. They were coming from the glen.

  Half running, half limping, he tore toward the edge. The moment he saw Claire flailing in the river below, his blood chilled. Vaguely, he heard Elisabeth’s cry.

  Without a thought, he ran down the hill as best he could, jarring pains stabbing through his leg along the way. Somehow he managed to reach the river’s edge before anyone else. Somehow he’d made it without falling.

  Tristan tossed down his cane, threw off his justacorps, and dove into the river after Claire. She was screaming and thrashing when he caught her around the waist. “Calm down, Claire. It’s all right. I have you.” She quieted the moment he turned her onto her back. Swimming toward the shore, where Elisabeth and a number of Musketeers were waiting, Tristan pulled Claire to safety.

  Arms reached out and dragged Claire out of the water. Two of the men lay Claire carefully down onto the grass, while two others pulled Tristan onto the shore. Elisabeth immediately dropped to her knees and wept against her sister’s cheek.

  Tristan rose and accepted his cane from one of the Musketeers. Raking a hand through his wet hair, he glanced up to the top of the glen. The King and the rest of the gathering stood in a line, witness to what had transpired.

  The crowd burst into applause.

  His Majesty locked gazes with Tristan and gave him a simple nod of thanks.

  Just then Balzac came racing down to the shore line.

  Elisabeth shot to her feet. “Where were you!” she shouted at him.

  Balzac, two years Tristan’s senior, stopped short. He glanced up at the audience on the top of the glen, then back at Elisabeth.

  “My sister could have drowned!” she continued. “Are you or are you not ultimately responsible for the safety and well-being of the royal family?”

  Balzac looked gray, clearly embarrassed by the very public dressing-down. “Y-Yes, madame, I am.”

  “And yet it was left to the Comte de Saint-Marcel”—she gestured at Tristan—“to rescue my sister because you were nowhere to be found.”

  Balzac tossed a nervous glance at the King. “Madame, perhaps one should examine what your sister was doing in the river in the first place.”

  Tristan mentally cringed. That was an imbecilic mistake. Balzac’s comment suggested Claire was to blame for ending up in the river. One didn’t blame members of the King’s family for anything—whether they were at fault or not.

  Elisabeth placed her hands on her waist and jutted out her chin. “I’ll tell you what she was doing. She was drowning in it—while you, sir, were enjoying the fresh summer air.” She turned toward two Musketeers. “Please take my sister to my carriage.” As Claire was being helped away, Elisabeth turned to Tristan.

  “Thank you for saving Claire.”

  Tristan noted that Elisabeth didn’t have any tears in her eyes. Nor did her eyes look red from crying—even though she’d been sobbing against her sister. She spun on her heels, grabbed her skirts, and marched up the hill to the top of the glen, straight for her father, glimpses of black boots appearing and disappearing as her skirts swayed.

  Jésus-Christ, she was wearing her boots beneath her gown.

  Tristan couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut. One that suggested all was not as it appeared.

  “Go ahead and say it . . . I was brilliant.” Claire giggled as she lay in the middle of her large bed. Back in Versailles, in Claire’s private apartments, Elisabeth sat on the edge of the bed, holding her sister’s hand.

  “You were brilliant.” Elisabeth smiled warmly at her. “I am forever grateful.”

  “Well, it was worth it. I think it worked. Did you see Balzac when you yelled at him? I think he may have soiled his breeches.” Claire burst into a fit of giggles, her laughter contagious. She added as soon as she was sober enough to speak, “Veronique’s face was precious. She was scowling, furious over the spectacle made of her lover.”

  “He has no business holding such an esteemed position as Captain of the King’s private Guard. He is incompetent. I told the King as much.”

  Claire sat up, her eyes wide. “And? What did the King say? Is he going to dismiss him?”

  Elisabeth sighed. “I don’t know. I know he was impressed by Tristan. It is heartening that he insisted Tristan return to the palace with the rest of us. At this point, I will remain guardedly optimistic.”

  Her father had allowed her only a few private words after the river incident. The King was a difficult man to read. She had no idea what he was thinking. Or what he wished to do.

  Moreover, she had the added problem of Veronique. Elisabeth hadn’t missed the sultry looks she’d cast Tristan today. Veronique would shamelessly welcome both Balzac and Tristan into her bed. One of them was sure to be Captain of the Musketeers, and she wanted to make certain that man was her lover. She’d aggressively chase Tristan if she needed to.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Agathe entered with a member of the King’s Guard. “Madame, this gentleman wishes to speak to you.”

  The Musketeer stepped into the room and bowed. “Madame, mademoiselle,” he greeted. “The King has summoned both of you. He wishes to see you straightaway.”

  Elisabeth rose. Her stomach clenched. Claire was being summoned, too? A cold sense of foreboding sank its teeth into her. She didn’t like the sound of this. She couldn’t quell her unease.

  With a smile fixed to her face and a strong and steady stride, Elisabeth entered the
Hall of Mirrors and made her way to the opposite end. Though she’d lectured Claire en route about walking with confidence, Claire scurried along beside her looking every bit like a frightened mouse. At the end of the long corridor, His Majesty, Veronique, and Tristan awaited them. Seeing Veronique looking spiteful was no surprise. But seeing Tristan standing to the King’s left beside her half-sister unbalanced Elisabeth.

  Feeding her trepidation was the fact that the Hall of Mirrors was empty, and the doors that led to the gardens, closed. The Hall of Mirrors was always filled with courtiers and Musketeers. That the King wanted a private audience unsettled her further.

  By the time Elisabeth reached the end of the long hall, her anxiety had swelled considerably, leaving her legs feeling wobbly.

  She and Claire stopped before the King and curtsied low.

  “Your Majesty,” Elisabeth said, thankful that her voice hadn’t quavered. Standing before his solid silver throne, several carpeted steps above her, her father looked every bit the monarch of the most powerful nation in all of Christendom, his tall red-heeled shoes lending to his grandeur.

  Elisabeth could see Tristan from the corner of her eye. His expression was tight and unreadable.

  “Go ahead and admit the truth.” Veronique stepped toward Elisabeth.

  Elisabeth turned to Veronique. “The truth?” she responded coolly, though the pounding of her heart was so hard and fierce now, she worried the others could hear it.

  “Yes. Tell the King that today’s ‘drowning’ was contrived, meant to fool His Majesty.”

  Claire shifted her weight next to her, her nervousness tangible. Yet Elisabeth gave no indication of her agitation and dragged her gaze away from Veronique and to her father. Dear God, Veronique was making yet another attempt to ruin her before the King.

  “Your Majesty,” Elisabeth began. “I have no idea of what she speaks.”