Follow The Night (Bewitch The Dark) (27 page)

“Of course. I’ll bring around the carriage.”

“Do tidy up a bit first, you wouldn’t want to appear lazy to your lover. Quickly. I’ve an appetite brewing.”

Roxane strode around the chalk circle she’d marked on the hardwood floor before the hearth. Amber flames flickered and shot out fire sparkles. Skyclad, her body sucked in the heat. It felt delicious, rousing, and forbidden. She settled onto her knees in the center of the circle and lit the five white candles she’d placed around the chalk border.

The star-like placement of the candles would invoke peace and sanity. It was a ritual she followed on evenly-numbered days. As she had done every other day for two months.

It was all she could do, for her brother’s madness lived in his soul. She could not influence souls. Her grandmother had taught her the human soul was not something to dally with, being the very essence of a man’s life. It was good and bad. Dark and light. It was all that we are and all that we will become.

She knew there were some witches who practiced dark magic and could manipulate a man’s soul; such power frightened her.

If only she could do more for Damian.

By now she should have returned to the vicomte’s with the grimoire, but she needed time. Distance from the man who tempted while he also frightened.

Did Gabriel comprehend what it meant to live with a black soul? No redemption for him. No heaven.

Bending forward she blew out the candles and carefully scooped the scattered dragon’s blood petals into her palm.

A knock at the door startled her to her feet. Brushing the petals into the fire released a pungent gust of floating ash. Naked, she stood in the center of the chalk circle, momentarily discombobulated. Who would call so late?

Another knock moved her. She tugged her gown from the chair and ran to the door and gripped the pull. “Who’s there?”

“Renan.”

She glanced around the room. The chalk circle on the floor was partially distorted from her scramble to the door. She’d alluded that she had plans to cast a spell for Damian before she had left this afternoon. He already knew she was a witch.

Of course, right now she was a naked witch.

Again the knock. “Roxane?”

“Yes.” Pulling the heavy velvet gown over her shoulders, she was thankful the ancient garb did not require lacing or pinning. A gift from her great, great grandmother, she oft wore the gown when casting; it grounded her spells with the wisdom from the ages.

Fluffing out her hair, she opened the door. Gabriel stood in a long black redingote, a tricorn set upon his dark hair. A wigless head. No lace? And where was the requisite walking stick?

His dark eyes fixed to her from above the narrow blue spectacles, granting him a roguish appeal. Not that the man needed any help with accessories for that.

She smiled at the sight and stepped back. “Come in.”

He did not enter so much as magnetically attach himself to her.

“This gown!” He threaded his fingers through hers and held out her arms from her body as his eyes dripped over her from head to toe. “Why, it’s positively medieval. Where did you find it?”

“It was my great great grandmother’s.” She touched the embroidered leaves that danced about the wide neckline. “It has been in the family for some time. It’s threadbare and simple—”

“It is divine, Roxane. The emerald color makes your eyes darker. Like jewels. And your hair”—he twined his fingers through her unbound tresses—“it falls over the velvet as if an exotic fabric. Monsieur Bousset would gain a fortune if he offered the like in his shop. Lovely, just lovely. You are truly the ice-forest queen.”

“I am quite sure you say as much to all your women.”

“Hmm, perhaps.” He turned and strode a few paces toward the door. “But would I do this for any woman?” He flipped the openings of his great coat and flung it to the floor behind him to reveal—

“
Losh
!”

Removing his redingote
whooshed
a draft up behind his legs. Gabriel managed a regal posture. The look on Roxane’s face was worth the humility.

“You’re wearing a plaid!” she declared in glee.

Toussaint had worked wonders in conjuring the costume in record time. Gabriel obliged by turning, kicking out his heel, and posing. The kilt was actually very freeing. He favored the unique feel of fabric moving loosely over his flesh. Everything beneath swung so…freely.

He slipped a finger behind the fur-edged sporran and waggled it up and down. “Bet you want to know what I keep in here, eh?”

“Actually—” she slipped a hand down his plaid thigh “—I’d love a peek
under
the plaid.”

“There’s not another soul in this world I’d allow to see me in such a costume. A little breezy down there, though not entirely uncomfortable. What do your countrymen do about their, er…danglers?”

“I wager you will. But first…” He crossed to the hearth and looked over the chalk marks on the floor. Guttered candles circled the drawing and a trail of ash swept up and into the hearth. She’d been casting a spell, no doubt about it. “Any luck?”

“I cannot touch my brother’s soul. And it is his soul that requires saving.”

“Did you check on
my
soul in your book?”

“Didn’t have time. I was planning to bring it to you—”

“No worry. We can inspect it later.”

He’d come here with debauchery in mind. No need to stray from his intentions. He spread his arms to display the fabulous costume. “Are you up for a little play?”

“I sought the challenge. A new beginning, perhaps.” He picked at a tuft of beaver fur rimming the curved edge of the sporran. “That wasn’t the only reason I chose to complete the transformation.”

“Gabriel, you can’t mean… I had thought your suggestion last night—”

“A farce? I overheard you telling Toussaint you required a vampire to transform your brother in an attempt to cure his madness. Do you still want to try?”

“You drank blood…to help Damian?”

He nodded.

“I don’t know what to say. You…” She pushed fingers through her hair, and spun away from him. Should she not be stepping into his embrace? Why could she not accept what he offered? “You sacrificed your mortal soul for Damian!”

“Yes, well, at the time, I wasn’t aware of that small detail. Though I am still not sure I am without said soul. I don’t feel lacking. Only your dusty book can tell.” He toed the thick volume.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel, I should have told you more, but I never expected—”

Feeling her pain with every shivering word, he kissed her, silencing further protest. “I do not want you consorting with that killer. You cannot trust him to help you and your brother. Did you actually believe that you could somehow entice Monsieur Anjou to help you?”

She embraced him and laid her head on his shoulder. Her body loosened and hot tears dripped through the thin white Holland shirt Toussaint had insisted the Highlanders wore with the draped plaid that ran from shoulder to waist. Spreading his hands over the burnished green velvet and around her waist, he felt her curves fill his palms. How she filled his empty heart. He could feel Roxane’s relief, yet tainted with tendrils of pain. And he could hear her blood, rushing throughout her body. But the only temptation was that to make her life better.

“You’ve sacrificed much,” she said, looking up into his eyes.

He bent to kiss the palest, sweetest lips he had ever kissed. She opened her mouth and dove inside him. `Twas as if he were being invaded, taken over, his castle gates plundered. Roxane laid siege to his heart. And he surrendered.

“Let me help.” She unpinned the silver leaf broach at his shoulder and, walking around behind him, began to unwrap the ells and ells of blue, green and crimson plaid. “Like unwrapping a gift!”

He twirled out of the plaid, his shirt falling to his thighs and his sporran hanging to conceal what lie beneath. “Och, my lassie, er…well, something like that. Come, vixen, care to take a peek behind the sporran now?”

“On your derriere, my love.” She whimpered as his palm glided to her bare bottom. Smooth and soft, and so in need of a sucking kiss. “No warts. Are you sure you are a witch?”

“I am.”

“Then prove it. Bewitch me.”

TWENTY-FIVE

True, she was half Scottish, thanks to her maternal side, but when in her lifetime had she ever helped a man
on
with his plaid? Gabriel stood with arms out to the side, patiently enduring Roxane’s perplexed study of the situation. She held a clump of plaid, half-wrapped around the man’s waist. Did not this tartan come with instructions?

She felt a blush heat her skin. Maybe she had been whispering sweet nothings about their lovemaking. She’d not known she did such a thing. Surely, he teased her.

She had expected such a reaction. But it didn’t bother her. Roxane had chosen freely to sleep with one of Paris’s most infamous rogues. Far be it from her to expect to tame him in so little time. But, if given opportunity, she did favor continuing with a more permanent form of bewitchery.

“Would you have me as your husband?”

“In an instant.”

“You would?” His eyes switched between hers in such nervous surprise, it made Roxane smile. Perhaps not so much surprise as sheer terror.

“I do love you, Gabriel.”

“And I love you.”

Slipping an arm around her waist he tugged her to him. Dark, his whiskey-brown eyes, but they twinkled with bits of mischief. She touched his upper lip, ran her finger along his soft moustache.

He playfully nipped at her fingers. His voice, soft and husky, touched her very soul. “The past few days I’ve been struggling with whether it was love or simple lust.”

“Lust is never simple.”

“True. I only realized it last night when I walked into this room and saw you standing in that lovely dress.” He pointed to her grandmother’s gown, heaped on the floor before the hearth. “You are the most vivid color in my life. I would be honored to be your husband, Roxane. Will you be my wife?”

So unexpected, yet desired.

He lifted her chin. “Have I completely befuddled you, then?
Mon Dieu
, you don’t know how I yearn for domesticity.”

“To love and be loved. To have a family. To have a partner, a wife I can shower with pretty things and show off at the theatre. Can you be my wife? Would you choose to live with your natural enemy?”

“A vampire and a witch.” She draped the plaid over his shoulder and turned to face the simmering coals in the hearth. Mountains of ash glowed red around the base like a guttered volcano. “It is quite the farce. At some point you are going to crave blood, and the only one around will be me.”

His embrace sent a shiver through her system. Strong arms spread around her torso and his hands gently cupped her breasts. “I would never harm you, Roxane.”