“You don’t understand… What you have done is…very wrong. We must return straightaway.” Before he found out she was in France.
She scanned the room for her missing headdress and shoes, but the quick movements of her head only made her feel worse, forcing her to stop and rest her forehead in her palm.
By the time she finally looked up again, she found him sitting patiently in the chair Marta had occupied, quietly studying her. Although the pose was casual, his scrutiny was not. She felt as though he could read her every thought—know her every secret. Adding to her distress was his closeness. She could detect the appealing scent of his soap, making her feel further flustered.
“What is your full name, Angelica?” Hearing her name from his lips sent an odd tingle down her spine.
She could lie. She could select any name to tell him. She could barely focus with this horrible throbbing in her head, much less invent any believable stories for this tall, dark stranger.
“Angelica?” Leaning forward, he slipped his fingers beneath her chin. She froze. His unexpected touch was gentle and warm as he held her face and her complete attention. “It is just your name,” he said, clearly reading her reluctance. “Surely, you can share it.”
No, she couldn’t. Nor was she about to.
*****
Simon gazed at his moonlight angel. Jésus-Christ, she had the sweetest face and the most beautiful moss-green eyes he’d ever seen. In fact, from the moment they’d first touched upon him at the doorway, he felt it down to his groin. Just like last eve, his unruly cock was fully alert to her presence. And eager to please.
He couldn’t believe how powerfully attracted he was to this woman.
She remained silent, much to his regret, intent on remaining a mystery.
She was as perplexing as she was bedazzling. Even with the bruise on her cheek, dressed in that unflattering gray garb, she was dangerously alluring, possessing the kind of beauty that could bring a man to his knees. It didn’t help that her adorably curly chestnut-colored hair, was sensuously tousled, as if she’d spent some time at carnal play.
If he’d been intrigued by her before, he was doubly so now. He wanted to know everything. He supposed he could ask her friend, but he wanted to learn the information from Angelica directly.
In truth, he wanted more than just information about her.
He wanted to know the taste of her lips, her skin. Her speaking voice was so silky smooth and just as entrancing as her singing had been. He wanted to know the sultry sounds she’d make in the throes of passion. Dieu. He wanted to fuck her so badly—a woman whom he considered untouchable.
Reluctantly, he drew his hand away, keeping his expression mild, giving no indication of the havoc she was wreaking on his libido. She’d been through an ordeal and was understandably disquieted. Confident that in due time he’d gain the answers to the questions he had about her, he didn’t see any reason to press her now.
“Why have you brought my friend here?” she asked, breaking her silence.
He sat back before he spoke, needing some space between him and his moonlight temptress. “Gabriella assisted me when you were injured and insisted I bring her with me also. She is well and safe. You are safe here too. I know this is overwhelming, waking up in a strange place, but I am not your adversary. Let us be friends. I gave Gabriella my word that I would assist you both in whatever capacity you need.”
She looked down at her hands. He took the opportunity to admire her profile. She had the softest skin. He itched to touch her once more.
“I know you don’t understand, but we must return to the convent,” she said. “Transportation there is the only assistance we require.”
Back to that. “You are correct. I don’t understand.”
“It is our home.”
Did she know how beguiling her eyes were? “Then it’s a miserable one.”
“It’s been my home for ten years.”
Mentally, he groaned. Hidden in a convent for that much of her life made her more innocent than he could comfortably accept. Though his eager cock didn’t take exception to the news, his conscience was another matter. He still had a few scraps of honor left. No matter how desirable she was, he was not going to prey on her virtue.
“Why have you been there so long?”
He watched her give careful consideration to whether or not she should answer him.
“My parents are dead,” she said at last. “I’ve been part of the orphanage in the convent ever since.”
“Orphanage? An orphanage is for children. You are not a child.” His eyes dipped briefly to her breasts, the curves of which were visible despite her attempts to hide them with the bed linen and that drab garment she wore.
“I help the Sisters with the children there.”
“I see,” he said, feeling frustrated by the situation he’d created for himself. “I’d be pleased to return you and Gabriella to any family member or friend you wish. However, I won’t return you to your convent and put you at risk for more abuse.” The thought was abhorrent to him. And the last thing he wanted was to be a party to more suffering.
She opened her mouth, ready to object. A knock at the door stopped her.
“Enter,” he ordered.
Henri stepped in. “Captain, the physician is here. Shall I send him up?”
“Yes, and bring something for the mademoiselle to eat.”
The servant gave a curt bow and left. Simon moved toward the door.
“Wait!” she called out.
He stopped and turned toward her.
“You have no right to decide where I or Gabriella should live. If you are willing to deliver us anywhere, then the convent is no more of an inconvenience to you.”
He could make no sense of it. She appeared to be an intelligent woman. Why wasn’t she elated to be out of that deplorable convent? Why the hell would she wish to return to a place that would subject her to such ill treatment?
The light rap at the door drew his attention. Simon opened it and allowed the physician in. Although smaller in stature, he was of a similar age and coloring to Simon. They exchanged polite greetings.
“Mademoiselle.” The physician smiled at his comely patient and moved toward Angelica before Simon could make introductions. “You’re awake. Excellent. I am Bernard Toussaint, a physician.” The French words tumbled from his mouth.
Her eyes darted from Toussaint to Simon.
Simon instantly read the uncertainty in her eyes as ignorance of the language. “Sir, the young lady doesn’t speak French. In Italian, please,” he told the physician in his native tongue.
“Ah, yes. Of course. Signorina, I can speak Italian. How are you feeling?”
She turned those expressive eyes to Simon once more as he watched her bite her bottom lip, looking unsure and completely engaging. Oh, how he wanted to do the very same thing to that pretty bottom lip. She was driving him mad with the simplest, most innocent act. And he was beginning to resent this untamable effect she had on him.
“I have a horrible headache,” she replied.
“That is understandable.” The physician was grinning at her like a besotted fool. “I’ve been told you have a rather nasty bump on your head. If I may, I’d like to look at it.”
Simon knew he should leave, but his boots were fixed to the floor, and he hadn’t the ability to move them.
She lowered her head to allow Toussaint to examine her.
The physician carefully began to move her hair, touching her head gently with his fingertips. Simon placed his hands on his hips and looked away, trying not to think about how silky her gorgeous tresses had felt between his fingers. Or how much he wanted to dive his hands into those soft, loose curls, tilt her head back with a sensual tug, and feast on that perfect mouth of hers.
“Well, it would appear that you are a fortunate woman,” Toussaint said. “I don’t believe your injuries are serious.” The physician eased her down onto her back. She lay stiffly, watching Toussaint wa
rily. Her hands still clutched the bed linens to her chest.
From Simon’s vantage point, he could easily appreciate her form with the discerning eye of a libertine. Against his will, his mind flitted through the various ways in which he could coax the stiffness from her body. The various ways to make her warm and yielding—just for him.
“I would advise you to stay abed a few days. I shall leave you some headache powders to help with your pain.” Toussaint’s gaze lingered on Angelica’s face, more of a perusal of her fine features than an assessment of injury.
Simon strode over to the door and snatched it open. “Thank you.” He didn’t miss Toussaint’s look of surprise at the abrupt dismissal.
“Yes…well, you’re quite welcome.” Turning to Angelica, the physician picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. “It was my pleasure.”
*****
Alone at last in her chamber, Angelica took in a fortifying breath. She was going to have to flee from France. Having escaped these borders before, she knew she could do it again. She was accustomed to overcoming challenges. She hadn’t survived this long without that skill. Securing Simon de Villette’s help would make things easier. However, with or without the stranger’s assistance, she would gather Gabriella and leave the realm for good. She could not—would not—remain here.
It was far too dangerous.
Men like Nicolas Fouquet didn’t change, no matter how many years passed.
Nicolas Fouquet did not forgive.
Or forget.
Chapter Four
Domenico Dragani leaned over toward his friend Armand Rancourt seated comfortably in the velvet chair next to him in the library of Château Arles.
“Armand?”
“Yes?”
“Did he”—Domenico indicated Simon with a motion of his chin —“just say convent? Two women?”
Seated behind the large ebony desk, Simon tightened his jaw. “Yes, that is exactly what I said. Convent. Two women.” Merde. He felt like a complete imbecile telling two of his top commanders and closest friends about the guests he’d brought with him from the Republic of Genoa. But he could hardly hide the women indefinitely.
Domenico sat back. His lips twitched, his sorry attempt to hold in his mirth. “Ah…Simon? Have you run out of women that you now pluck them out of convents?”
“I think we’ll move on to more pressing topics.” Simon took a drink from his goblet of brandy and set it down on the desk.
Domenico leaned toward him. “Do they have warts and whiskers?” He grinned.
Simon frowned.
“What possible difference could any of this make?” Armand questioned their Italian friend, Armand’s blond hair and light eyes a sharp contrast to Domenico’s darker coloring. “Just as Simon mentioned—we have more important things to concern ourselves with. Fouquet. Thomas’s death. The fate of Gilbert and Daniel. And the imminent arrival of our ships. Or have you forgotten about those, Domenico?”
“Of course not. But, Armand—a convent. Women with warts and whiskers.” Domenico shuddered in mock horror.
“Excuse me…” Gabriella interrupted from the doorway, looking nervous and unsure.
The old servant, Henri, reached the door in a great rush. “Your pardon, Captain. I will return the mademoiselle to her chambers straightaway.”
Simon waved Henri away. “Gabriella, come.” He rose, momentarily surprised to see her out of her religious garb and dressed in a pale blue gown. He’d ordered that a chest of women’s clothing, captured from one of the Spanish ships, be offered to the two women. From the way Gabriella kept smoothing her hand over the skirt of the gown, he could tell she very much liked the garment made for aristocracy. One of the servants had clearly helped her dress. Her auburn hair was arranged in a fashionable coiffure of ringlets.
What would Angelica look like in such finery? His blood warmed at the mere thought.
Gabriella stepped forward. “I-I’m sorry to disturb you. I would like to see Angelica.”
“She is asleep at the moment,” Simon said. “She was awake earlier and was seen by a physician. He advises that with some rest, she will be well in a few days. If you wish, you may see her when she awakens.”
She brightened. “I would like that very much. I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”
Simon brushed off the comment. He could hardly look at his action as a good deed when his conduct had been initially motivated more by a disreputable inclination than a gallant one. “Allow me to introduce you to two of my commanders. Gabriella Santino, this is Armand Rancourt.” Armand gave her a nod and a bow. “And this is Domenico Dragani.”
Domenico approached with a smile, took her hand, and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” He gave her a sweeping bow.
Gabriella blushed and beamed. Simon shook his head, amused.
Armand leaned toward Simon and asked sotto voce, “Does she speak French?”
Simon had asked her that very question onboard the ship. “No.”
Turning to Domenico, Armand inquired in French, “Do you detect any warts? Or whiskers?”
Domenico smiled. “Not a one,” he responded in kind, his look indicating approval of her feminine qualities.
“Domenico, why don’t you show Gabriella the gardens?” Simon suggested, noting her instant pleasure over the prospect.
Needing no further encouragement, Domenico tucked Gabriella’s hand in the crook of his arm and left the room, boasting about his knowledge of the botanicals on the château’s grounds.
Gabriella looked pleased to be out of the convent and content to keep it that way. If only Simon could understand why her friend felt such a compulsion to return.
*****
“Angelica… Where is my little Angelica?”
She was six and giggled as her father called out to her from the grand foyer of their country estate, his voice drifting up the stairwell to her small ears. Quickly, she dashed down the stairs, her small shoes tapping on each step in her rapid descent.
“Papa!” She jumped into the outstretched arms of the man she loved the most and looked into his adoring eyes, then at her mother who stood by smiling as she watched their loving exchange. Her long, dark curls flounced about as he spun her around. And around. She squealed happily, hugging his neck with fierce affection; his laughter filled her world with joy. Her surroundings blurred. Objects became indistinguishable. And the laughter suddenly changed then from gaiety to harshness. Cruelly taunting her.
Her world stopped revolving at once.
Laughing down at her was the face of another man her mother had called husband, yet Angelica could only call him “Evil” in the quiet of her fourteen-year-old mind.
Angelica jolted awake to find herself sitting up in bed, her heart pounding. Her head balked at the sudden movement, punishing her promptly with a sharp pain.
Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to knead away the ache. She hadn’t had a nightmare like that in years. No doubt it had occurred because she was in France. Near Fouquet.
She suppressed a shudder.
Her stepfather came from one of the most distinguished, powerful parliamentary families in the realm. Fouquet had influence. And authority over her. If he ever found her, she’d be at his mercy.
And he had none.
Never again would she allow herself to be in his clutches. Cunning, manipulative, ambitious, Fouquet had had different faces, one for her and her late mother and another for everyone else. Most had no idea of his malicious nature. For so long his malevolent conduct had been limited to savage words, mostly directed at her poor mother, but shortly after her mother’s death, one horrible night, his wickedness had progressed beyond the lash of a vicious tongue.
On that night, she saw what the future held for her. And ran.
She’d been away from France a very long time. She’d no idea how many friends her stepfather had or how far-reaching those friendships were.
She had to re
turn to her safe haven.
She knew she could convince Madre Paola to take both her and Gabriella back. Madre Paola’s bad temperament was the lesser of the two evils—by far. In the last six months since Madre Paola had become the new Mother Superior, Angelica had had no serious conflicts with her. As long as she abided by the rules, she’d avoid further discord. And she was going to swear never to break the rules again. How she missed the former Mother Superior, dear, kind Madre Caterina—her tender face. Her gentle ways. Her death had drastically altered Angelica’s world.
Or so she’d thought until yesterday.
Yesterday, her world had turned completely upside-down. All because of one man.
Simon de Villette.
The servant had called him Captain. That meant he had to be an officer in the King’s Navy—as only nobles were granted such commissions in the realm’s official navy. He certainly had a commanding presence.
Not to mention the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
She tossed the covers off, dismayed by her thoughts. Who cares what color his eyes are? Or that he was handsome. None of that mattered.
The only thing that mattered was getting out of France.
Simon de Villette not only could but should return her and Gabriella safely to Genoa. Though her sweet friend had always been easily discomposed, she had to have been significantly overwrought over Angelica’s condition for her to have aided Simon the way she had. She hated having caused Gabriella such distress. She was anxious to find her, reassure her she was all right. That everything was going to be fine.
And return with her to the only real home Gabriella had ever known.
Carefully, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, the ache in her head a manageable discomfort. Her equilibrium passed a second test when she stood on her own two feet. Pleased, she let out a sigh.
She was going to speak to the man responsible for bringing her to France—determined to leave its borders forever before the next sunset.
Just then something yellow on the bed caught her eye—a brocade gown, garnished with gold ribbon and lace. It was beautiful, reminding her of a gown she’d owned long ago. Reaching out to touch the rich fabric, she stopped short.
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