by Kat Ross
pour aimer et chérir;
jusqu'à ce que la mort nous sépare.
Then it was Anne’s turn, Père Darracq gently prompting her when she stumbled.
“…jusqu’à ce que la mort nous sépare,” she finished, abashed and rather horrified to find tears in her eyes.
Gabriel was right. It did mean something.
He reached into his pocket and took out a plain gold band. He must have bought it that morning before they left Paris. Gabriel slipped the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand.
The priest gave them a final blessing and discreetly turned away as Gabriel pulled her close for a kiss.
“Take care of the sword,” Père Darracq said with a wry smile. “And your new bride.”
He walked them to the doors and peered into the stormy darkness. “Don’t you have a horse?” he asked. “It’s a terrible night.”
Gabriel laughed, his eyes bright. “My wife likes to walk.”
They ran through the downpour. By the time they reached the inn, both were soaked to the bone. When they reached the door to the attic room, Anne laid a hand on his arm.
“Wait,” she said, her face grave.
Gabriel blinked, his lashes spiked from the rain. “What is it?”
Anne swept him into her arms. “Since you made me marry you in a church, I get to carry you across the threshold.”
Gabriel burst into laughter as she nudged the door open, stepped through and deposited him gently on the other side.
“Will you deflower me now?” he asked.
“Most certainly. But I promise to be gentle.”
His grin died. “You don’t have to be.”
They locked eyes as he peeled off his coat and tossed it aside. “Turn around,” he murmured.
She felt his hands in her hair, pulling out the pins one by one. Then he reached around, his fingers deftly working their way down the buttons of her dress. Gabriel gave it a tug and the sodden gown dropped to the floor. He kissed the place where her neck joined her shoulder.
“I missed you,” she said softly. “More than life itself. I’m so sorry—”
“All of it was my fault.”
“Not all.” She turned and met his eye. “I shouldn’t have done what I did.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “I wouldn’t have left if you hadn’t, Anne. I was beyond reason.”
“We both were.” She cupped his face. “I don’t want to change you. I just want something more than … this.” She hesitated. “I want the man I knew at the Chateau de Saint-Évreux.”
“I prefer that man, too,” Gabriel said quietly. “But if I stop killing, I’ll die.”
“I know. And I accept that. But I want you to promise me that you’ll take some time off every now and then. Think of it as a holiday.”
He smiled. “A holiday. I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those.”
“Hmmm. Maybe we should start now.” Anne sat down on the edge of the bed and struggled to pull off her wet chemise, but Gabriel moved her hand away. “I like looking at you like this,” he murmured.
She lay back on the narrow bed. Gabriel made a low purring sound in his throat and slid the straps of her chemise down. He rubbed his cheek against her and his beard scraped the tender skin. It was almost unbearable.
“I’ll die if you don’t make love to me right now,” she whispered.
He laughed. “Die? No, no, we can’t have that.”
Gabriel ran a light hand down her side, then lowered his head to kiss each rib through the chemise. “I had too much time after I left,” he murmured. “Too much time to think about you.” His hand closed around her ankle, bending her knee. “I would get so angry. But then I would remember how sweet you can be. And I would think of all the things I wished to do that I had never had the chance to.”
“What things?” she managed.
He didn’t reply, but Anne bit her lip as she felt fever-hot breath against her knickers. Her hips shifted in a restless movement. “Take them off,” she whispered.
A long pause. “No.”
The word was uttered quietly but with the same note of total inflexibility she’d heard when Gabriel refused to tell her why he was holding her prisoner or what he intended to do with her.
She tried to sit up, indignant, and he pressed her back down.
“But—”
“Hush. Let me….”
And then she could no longer speak because he was doing things to her through the knickers, the gentle chafe of the cotton eliciting an erotic agony that left her dizzy and unmoored.
“I can taste you through it,” Gabriel said thickly.
Her head fell to the side, her breath shallow. “You’re a vindictive man…. Oh, heavens, do that again.”
She buried her hands in his hair, beyond any ability to control herself. When release finally came moments later, he locked his mouth against her until the violent shudders ebbed. Then he stood and stripped to the skin. He was so beautiful, hard in all the places she was soft. There was no hint of smugness in Gabriel’s face as it loomed over her, only a lust that was almost frightening in its intensity.
“Now I’ll take them off,” he muttered.
He pulled the knickers to her ankles and tossed them aside, settling his weight between her limp thighs, pushing them apart with his knees. She felt utterly frayed, hanging by a thread.
“You have one second left,” she breathed. “Or I will die and then you’ll be sorry—”
Gabriel’s eyes darkened. He cupped her bottom, lifting her up to meet his hips.
“My God, Anne,” he whispered, his voice shaking with unspent need. “I can’t….”
She pulled his mouth down to hers, her hands roving over the warm silk of his skin. She could feel Gabriel’s struggle to hold himself together. He’d once told her he couldn’t get enough and she understood what he meant now, the mindless craving to be closer, deeper, more.
“You drive me crazy,” he muttered with quiet desperation. “A thousand times more than anyone else, ever. It’s like a sickness. Je t’ai dans la peau….”
Gabriel lowered his head, his mouth finding the rapid pulse of her throat, and held himself still, murmuring words she could hardly comprehend. It seemed hours she lay in his arms, poised at the brink, and then he slowly started moving again, his hot breath in her ear, begging and commanding both.
“Come for me, Anne. Come for me, ma coeur….”
She felt his own passion building uncontrollably,
“Now… with me….”
His head bowed, strands of damp gold brushing her lips, and Anne surrendered to his voice. Gabriel’s entire body went rigid as they locked in a tight clasp, for an endless moment not two but one.
Sweat slicked them both from head to toe. She felt boneless, incapable of anything but the most languid movement. And yet somehow, impossibly, ridiculously, when he kissed her, she wanted him again.
Like a sickness.
She muffled a laugh against his shoulder.
Yes, that was it exactly.
The sounds of the world came drifting back, the steady wash of rain against the tiny attic window, the distant murmur of voices in the restaurant downstairs. Gabriel pressed his forehead to hers, elbows bent to support his weight.
“My wife,” he murmured with a note of wonder. “I love you so much it hurts sometimes.”
Anne’s throat tightened with a sudden rush of tenderness for this complicated man sprawled on top of her. She wondered how often in his long life Gabriel had been touched with a gentle hand, and thought it was far less than he deserved.
“Je t’aime,” she whispered and he laughed in delight.
“You’ve been practicing,” he said, rubbing his nose against her nose.
His whole body felt loose and relaxed now. She rested her palm on the curve of his ribs.
“A little with Jean-Michel,” Anne admitted. “But I’ve never been as quick with languages as my brother. He’s fluent in dozens…
.” She realized her error too late and trailed off, expecting Gabriel to stiffen, but he sounded amused when he replied.
“Yes, he cursed me quite eloquently in French at the Picatrix Club.”
Anne grinned. “You must have made him very angry. Alec is usually reserved. He never swears.”
Gabriel arched an eyebrow. “Reserved? I missed that part.”
“Oh, Alec’s a stiff, though I love him.” She stroked Gabriel’s hair, pressing a palm between his shoulders. “I can take your weight, it’s all right. I won’t break.”
He sank down and her breath caught a little. He wasn’t especially tall or large, but nor was he light. Gabriel rolled to his back and settled her on top of him. “Better?”
“Mmmm, yes.” She bent her legs around his hips and he gave a small moan.
“Anne?”
“What?” She kissed the side of his neck.
His voice was slurred like a drunk. “We’re going to hurt ourselves.”
“I don’t care.”
He swelled under her and Anne gasped as he positioned her with a single deft maneuver.
“Good,” Gabriel murmured. “Me neither.”
Some hours later, he talked the landlord into giving him a slipper tub and dragged it upstairs, filling it with hot water. Anne soaked for a while, drawing a sharp breath as he dried her off with his shirt. “Gentle with the nether regions,” she muttered, teeth sinking into her lower lip, and Gabriel let out a low laugh of commiseration.
“I hope she recovers soon,” he said, kneeling to press a soft kiss against her inner thigh. “Perhaps I should send flowers.”
“Nom de dieu.” Anne knotted her fingers in his hair. “Don’t worry, I think she’s well on the mend.”
Gabriel lit a candle and they slid between the sheets.
“Read to me, Anne,” he said drowsily. “Just for a little while.”
She longed for sleep, but she couldn’t refuse him. Anne rummaged in her valise and took out a book.
“I have just the thing,” she said. “Quite possibly the worst book I’ve ever read. You’ll love it.”
He smiled with his eyes closed. “What is it?”
“A roman à clef by Lady Caroline Lamb after Lord Byron threw her aside.” She cleared her throat. “It’s called Glenarvon. There are so many characters you can’t keep track of anyone. And the plot makes no sense at all. But it’s wicked entertainment when you know that the villainous rake Ruthven is meant to be Byron, and poor, innocent Calantha is Lady Lamb herself. It caused quite a scandal when it was published.”
Gabriel made a small, happy noise. “Is there swooning?”
“Oodles.”
“Wanton ravishing?”
“Every other paragraph.” She opened the book. “I’ll skip the preface, it’s essentially a ridiculous denial that the novel has any basis in fact.” Anne flipped the pages. “Frailty of human nature, et cetera. Here we are. Chapter One.”
She settled back against the pillow, Gabriel’s warm body curled against her side.
“‘In the town of Belfont, in Ireland, lived a learned physician of the name of Everard St. Clare. He had a brother, who, misled by a fine but wild imagination, which raised him too far above the interests of common life, had squandered away his small inheritance; and had long roved through the world, rapt in poetic visions, foretelling, as he pretended, to those who would hear him….’”
She read until the candle burned low and Gabriel’s breathing settled to a deep, regular rhythm. Anne laid the book aside, using his black ribbon to hold the place. Then she kissed his sleep-soft lips and smoothed the damp hair from his brow.
“Je t’ai dans la peau,” she whispered.
I have you in my skin.
Chapter 13
The newlyweds returned to Paris early the next morning and caught a direct train to Brussels, where the four other members of the Order of the Rose waited at a cheap, anonymous hotel near the station. The city seemed downright sleepy after the madness of the Exhibition. With most of the day still ahead, Gabriel left with Julian and Jacob to meet the Belgians, while Anne accompanied Miguel and Jean-Michel to scout the sniper point.
They walked the short distance to the main entrance of the Royal Museum of Ancient Art. Miguel stood in thought, looking around intently like a hunting hound. His gaze finally fixed on a tall building beyond the Parc de Bruxelles about half a mile away. “Ese,” he muttered.
Anne and Jean-Michel followed as Miguel strolled across the park and up the Rue Ducale. The three of them drew stares from everyone they encountered. Brussels was a white city, even more so than Paris, and any mixing of races was apparently unheard of.
“It’s because you’re both so devastatingly handsome,” Anne muttered as a woman craned her head to follow their progress down the street. “Poor things.”
“Es verdad,” Miguel replied, flashing white teeth. “It’s why I carry a vial of smelling salts. For when their knees buckle.”
Jean-Michel smiled absently, but she could see he didn’t enjoy the attention they were drawing. She sensed that it wasn’t simply the hostility. He’d expected that. But they were in Bekker’s territory now and needed to keep their heads down.
The building Miguel selected had a sweets shop on the ground floor and what looked like offices above. Anne and Jean-Michel browsed the windows as he disappeared around the corner.
“Where did he learn his sharpshooting skills?” she asked.
“In the army. Miguel was their top marksman. He killed many men for Heureaux.”
“It’s funny, he doesn’t seem the type.”
Jean-Michel laughed. “I know what you mean. But Miguel is different when he’s behind the sights. Infinitely patient. He can stay awake and focused for hours, like a tiger in tall grass.”
Anne bought them a box of chocolates to share, ignoring the surly attitude of the shopkeeper. They waited for Miguel under the awning outside.
“What kind did you get?” Anne asked, biting into an almond praline.
“Hazelnut,” Jean-Michel replied, chewing thoughtfully. “They make good chocolate here.”
“Best thing about Brussels. Much better than those little cabbages.”
He gave her a quizzical look.
“Trust me,” Anne advised. “They’re revolting.” She held out the box as Miguel sauntered up.
“Oooh, chocolates,” he murmured. “Gracias.” He picked one and popped it into his mouth. “There’s a rear service entrance. We’ll break in tonight for a look around, make sure it has roof access, but the line of sight should be ideal.”
They returned to the hotel and passed the afternoon playing chess at one of the tables in the rear garden. As she expected, Jean-Michel’s style was measured and cunning. Miguel, on the other hand, played with reckless panache and tended to fall into traps. They kept glancing at her wedding ring, but were too polite to say anything.
“We got married,” Anne said at last.
They had obviously deduced this, for neither seemed surprised.
“Riñen a menudo los amantes, por el gusto de hacer las paces.” Miguel grinned. “Lovers often quarrel for the pleasure of making up. I wondered when you would.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Painfully,” Jean-Michel said.
“Gabriel was angry at me when I first arrived in Bermuda,” Anne admitted. “I didn’t tell you the truth when I said he and my brother are friends. They hate each other.”
Miguel looked puzzled. “And your brother is still alive?”
“They’ve settled their differences.” Sort of. “They each stole something of great value from the other and I was caught in the middle. The whole thing ended badly but not as badly as it might have.” She paused. “Besides which, my brother wouldn’t be easy to kill. Not even for Gabriel.”
Anne watched them carefully, but both men looked blank. Gabriel had kept her secret. So had Jacob and Julian. She wasn’t sure what drove her to reveal it now. Anne wasn�
�t usually trusting of strangers. But they were all in this together and she liked them.
“My brother isn’t human,” she said bluntly. “Neither am I.”
Miguel eyed her uncertainly. Then he laughed and shared a look with Jean-Michel. “You almost had us there.” His smile died as Anne gazed at him. “Truly?” he whispered.
“We’re daēvas. There aren’t many of us anymore. I’m like you in most respects, but I can … do things. Magic.”
Neither man scoffed. They knew about magic — but only the magic of necromancy.
“What kinds of things?” Jean-Michel looked wary.
Anne glanced around. The garden was empty. She lifted a pawn from the board with air and let it hover for a moment. They gaped like awestruck children as she let it drop. Chairs scraped back a few inches, but they didn’t run. She gave them credit for that.
“All things are made up of four elements,” she explained. “Earth, air, fire and water. I can’t touch fire, but I can work the other three.”
No one spoke for a long moment. Then Miguel cleared his throat. “Did you learn this?”
Anne shook her head. “I was born with the ability.” She didn’t mention how long ago that was. One shock at a time.
“Thank you for being honest,” Jean-Michel said, studying her with curious eyes. To her relief, he seemed untroubled. “You didn’t have to.”
Anne smiled. “Well, I hope we’re friends for a long time so you might as well know.”
“Will you help?” Miguel asked. “On Saturday?”
She looked away. “I want to very much, but Gabriel says I can’t. Bekker carries a talisman that would warn him if my powers are used. I’d only put you all in greater danger.”
“Damn.”
“That’s what I said.” She tapped the pawn on the table, suddenly restless. “And what about you? Why are you here?”
They exchanged a quick look.
“Never mind,” she said quickly. “That was an impolite question. You don’t have to answer.”
“No,” Jean-Michel said. “I don’t mind.” He sat back, stretching out his long frame. “My great-grandmother was born into slavery, but her owner was no ordinary man. He was a sorcier. A necromancer. When the uprisings swept the countryside and the plantations began to fall, many died trying to get to this man. Somehow D’Ange learned of it. He came to Haiti and killed him. The insurgents would have won regardless, but he saved lives. Only a sorcier can kill another sorcier.”