Dawn Song (17 page)

and I'll wear the brooch for the duration.' She drew a breath. 'But when I

leave I intend to return it.'

Jerome's brows snapped together. 'Return her gift?' He shook his head. 'You

couldn't insult
madame
in such a way.'

She said steadily, 'That's why I've decided to return the brooch to you.' She

paused. 'After all, it came from your family originally. Didn't it?'

He shrugged again. 'Undoubtedly. If it had been a de Brissot family piece,

Henri would have sold it and gambled the proceeds.'

She nodded. 'So I'll just be sending it back where it belongs.'

His frown deepened. 'That is quite unnecessary. The brooch is yours now.

Keep it.'

Meg shook her head. 'I can't do that.'

Jerome twisted the pen in his fingers, his dark face sombre. 'Is it because of

what I said to you before dinner?' He moved restlessly. 'I had no right...'

Meg lifted a hand. 'There are other reasons too,' she said quietly. 'Please

don't ask me to explain.'

'Very well.' He was silent for a moment. 'Is that why you came down

here—just to tell me about the brooch?' There was an odd note in his voice.

'I told you—I heard a noise.' Meg was defensive.

'From your room to this?' Jerome asked derisively. 'That's ridiculous.'

Not half as idiotic as the real reason, Meg thought. She said shortly, 'Well,

something woke me, anyway.'

'Without doubt,' he said. His tone was bitter, his eyes brooding. 'Probably the

same thing,
ma belle,
that's kept me from sleep since our first meeting.' He

flung down the pen, and got up, coming round the table towards her.

Meg retreated to the door. She said hurriedly, 'I'm sorry if I've disturbed you.

You—you can get back to your work now.'

'Disturbed me?' He gave a short, harsh laugh.
'Dieu,
if that were all. Don't

you know what you've done to me, my beautiful, immoral, treacherous little

bitch?'

She said shakily, 'How dare you speak to me like that?'

He flung his head back. 'Oh, I dare,' he mocked. 'Because I've been in hell,

my lovely Margot. You've turned my life—my plans—into chaos. I know

what you are, and it makes no difference. I try to despise you, and I end up

wanting you even more.'

He topk a step nearer. 'And it's the same for you,
mon amour.
Don't pretend.

That's why you're here tonight. Because you can't keep away.' He drew a

ragged breath. 'I said I'd make you come to me, and here you are.'

'No.' Meg sobbed the word. 'It's not true. You're crazy...'

'Yes.' He sounded almost meditative. 'Yes, I think I am, a little. My battle

was against you, but, God help me, I've ended up fighting myself.'

She said hoarsely, 'I'll go away. I'll tell
madame
I have to go back to

England—a family crisis— anything...'

His smile was a travesty. 'Back to your lover— to pick up the pieces, if you

can?'

She shook her head wildly. 'I have no lover.'

'No,' he said. 'That is probably the truth, at last. Poor Margot.'

'And don't call me that.' She swallowed. 'Jerome, there are things about me

that you have to know.'

'I know them already. Before you ever set foot in France I knew. I intended

to take you, to prove that you were worthless—
une petite salope,
who'd

belong to anyone.'

'What do you mean?' Meg stared at him in angry incredulity. 'What are you

saying?'

'The time for pretence is past,
ma belle.
Now let's be honest with each other.'

His voice was harsh. 'I'm caught in my own trap, Marguerite. You've

bewitched me too—got under my skin, into my bones.' He paused, his eyes

raking her. 'But if I take you maybe I'll be free again, and sane.'

'No.' The word seemed to strangle in her throat. She turned to run, but her

foot tangled in the trailing edge of her robe, and she stumbled. In that instant,

Jerome caught her. His hands were hard as he pulled her to him—held her

crushed in his arms. For a moment she resisted rigidly, fists clenched against

his chest. She felt the heated grind of his body against hers through the thin

layers that separated them, the supreme male hardness seeking the surcease

that only she could offer. Was aware, too, of the small shock-wave of

response inside herself, the feminine core of her dissolving, melting...

As he held her, he began to touch her slowly, as if rediscovering some once

familiar journey. His fingertips circled the shape of her face, feathered

almost tentatively across temples and cheekbones, outlined the fragile arch

of her brows, and the sweet, blunt corners of her mouth.

And, as he did so, the grimness in his own face began to fade, to be replaced

by taut yearning, while the hard glitter in his dark eyes steadied to a tingling

flame.

'Marguerite.' He spoke her name as if it had been wrenched from some deep

wellspring of emotion. And, as if she were turning to the sun, she lifted her

face to his.

When he kissed her, it was the merest brush of his lips across hers, yet it

tantalised, with a promise of undreamed-of sensation to come. Meg lifted a

hand and stroked his cheek, feeling the faint dampness of sweat across the

high, powerful bone. She could feel the thud of his heartbeat pulsing through

her own body. The raggedness of his breathing was echoed by her own.

His fierce grip had relaxed. Now, it seemed, he was barely holding her at all,

and she could choose to go—to walk away—if she wanted. But her legs felt

heavy, languorous, her body ached as if it still bore the impress of his, and

the blood in her veins was slow and thick, like warm honey.

When she moved at last it was only to put her mouth and, delicately, her

tongue against the triangle of warm, hair-roughened skin at the neck of his

shirt. She breathed him into her, as if absorbing him through every pore and

fibre, luxuriating in the scent, the taste of him, recognising a pleasure that

intensified sight and touch.

Jerome began to caress her, his lean fingers tracing the supple length of her

spine, and the cleft between her buttocks, before lifting to delineate the

smooth curve of her hip, sliding the silky fabric of nightgown and robe

against her flesh.

She began to tremble, softly, deliriously. She felt her breasts swell, the

nipples hardening into sensuous peaks as Jerome's fingertips whispered

across her abdomen, pausing to release the knot of her sash. The robe sighed

apart, then fell, pooling round her feet.

He looked at her, his fierce gaze dismissing the thin veil of the nightgown,

his face taut with need. A shiver, partly excitement, and partly reaction to the

chill of the night air on her overheated skin, ran through her. She tried to

control it, but he saw, and his mouth twisted in acknowledgement.

He said softly, 'No, not here—not like this.'

He lifted her into his arms, as if she were a featherweight, and carried her

back through the shadowy house to the darkened intimacy of her bedroom.

He put her down on the bed, and leaned across to switch on the lamp. It was

like being caught in a spotlight, she thought, lifting a hand to shield her face.

Down in the tower room it had all seemed so right—a natural progression of

events. But the factwas she'd never been naked in front of a man in her life,

and she felt an unexpected wave of shyness engulf her as Jerome slipped

down the straps of her nightgown.

She shifted restlessly with a faint murmur of negation. 'Please—the light...'

His hands stilled instantly, as his eyes searched her flushed face with wry

comprehension. He said, on a little shaken laugh, 'Ah,
Dieu,
Marguerite,

don't deny me now,
ma belle.
I have dreamed of you—like this.'

Gently, he freed her breasts from the tiny cups of the bodice, taking their

rounded softness into the palms of his hands, cherishing them there as his

dark head bent to adore them. Meg's lips parted in a gasp of delight as she

felt his mouth suckle each rosy peak, coaxing them to throbbing excitement

with the stroke of his tongue. His hands brushed down her body, carrying

her nightdress away as if it had been the merest thread of gossamer. His

mouth travelled downwards too, planting tiny kisses like a trail of sweet fire.

Where he touched, her body blossomed, came to unimagined life.

When his hand eventually parted her thighs, Meg tensed in spite of herself.

She was unprepared for the precise sensations which this exploration of her

most intimate self would engender.

'Doucement
.' Jerome's voice soothed her, but she could hear his surprise. 'It's

all right,
ma bien aimee.
I-won't hurt you.'

He caressed her without haste, every movement of the long fingers a

pleasure to be learned and savoured. His eyes never left her face, watching

each minute reaction, every flicker of her lashes, every quiver of her parted

lips and tiny sobbing sigh which signified her slow, almost bewildered

abandonment to delight. She was silk, she was flame, her body opening to

him like the unfurling petals of a rose.

His mouth possessed her, his tongue creating tiny whorls of acute sensation.

Her mind was empty to everything but this delicate glory of feeling. She

searched out blindly into some region of unknowing, and felt her body

convulse, implode into rapture.

She floated slowly back to reality, saying his name, reaching for him.

'I'm here,' he told her softly. He took her in his arms, and she felt the warmth

of his naked skin against her own. She pressed herself against him, touching

him lightly, feverishly, as her hands roved, learning the strength of bone and

muscle that created him.

'You're enjoying yourself?' His grin was amused, tender, as he lay back

against the pillows watching her under his heavy lids.

'You're beautiful.' Her voice was husky.

'Du vrai!
I've never been told that before. And you,
ma belle,
look like Eve

on the first day of Paradise.'

He drew her hand to his mouth, kissing her fingertips, grazing them softly

with his teeth, then guided her with gentle certainty down his body. She was

tentative at first, afraid of hurting him as she caressed the proud shaft, only

reassured when she heard the first harsh groan of pleasure tear from his

throat. Shyly daring, she bent her head, offering him the warm delight of her

mouth, feeling his whole body shudder in response, wanting to give him the

same release that had been bestowed on her.

Jerome moved restively, his breathing quickening. He said hoarsely, 'Ah,

no, my lovely witch,' and lifted her over him, his hands on her hips as he

brought her down to join with him.

She hadn't bargained for the pain. Had imagined, in fact, that it was more a

myth devised to promote chastity than a physical fact. Now, suddenly, she

knew better, and she cried out as her shocked muscles locked in protest

against his invasion.

'What's the matter?' Jerome's voice was urgent with astonishment.
'Cherie,

what's wrong?'

Meg sank her teeth into her lower lip. 'I didn't know.' Her voice shook, near

to tears. 'I've never...'

Suddenly he was still, staring up at her. 'What are you saying?' His voice

grated with sudden harshness.
'Mais, c'est impossible, ga.'

She felt the first scalding tears on her face. 'I'm sorry—I'm so sorry. Don't be

angry with me— please.'

He was silent for a moment, then he said quietly, 'I'm not angry.' He lifted

her back gently against the pillows, stroking the hair back from her forehead,

wiping the dampness from her cheeks with the edge of the sheet.

Meg lay, eyes closed, one clenched fist pressed against her trembling mouth,

aware of the shift of the mattress as he left the bed.

When at last she ventured to look for him, he was standing by the window.

He'd pulled on his dark trousers, but his chest was bare. He'd parted the

curtains and opened the shutters, and was staring out where the first faint

streaks of light had appeared in the eastern sky. In reality, he was only a few

feet away, but she felt as if she was looking at him across the distance of the

universe.

When he spoke, his voice was almost contemplative.
'Oi deus, oi deus, de

I'alba tan tost ve!'
He gave a brief sigh, then turned to her. 'Now,' he said.

'Tell me who you really are.'

THE silence in the room seemed endless.

'I am waiting.' The quiet voice might have belonged to a stranger. 'Clearly,

you are not Margot Trant, so who are you?'

Dry-mouthed, she said, 'Her stepsister. I—I'm Margaret too—Margaret

Langtry. I tried to tell you downstairs, but you said—you made me think that

you knew...'

'Ah, yes,' he said reflectively. 'But we were at cross-purposes.' He paused.

'And what was the purpose of this masquerade?'

'Margot—couldn't get away. She asked me to take her place.'