Hearts Beguiled (16 page)

"Need?" the cure` squeaked.

"Yes." Max drew Gabrielle into his arms. "I need you to marry me to this woman."

"Now?" Gabrielle exclaimed.

The cure` sneezed; it was an awesome sound. "I ... many?"

"Father?" one of the villagers interjected.

"Shut up!" the cure` barked.

"Now," Max said to Gabrielle. "Before you change your mind."

The cure` pushed a tremendous snort out of his deformed nose. "Impossible. Where's the contract, eh? Have the banns been posted? I'll need ten days at least to complete the necessary paperwork."

Max's eyelids slitted closed and his voice dropped to a soft, silken purr. "Perhaps, Father, I should put it in terms you can better understand. Unless I am married to this woman this afternoon, a grave sin will be committed this night." "

The cure` paled and licked his thick lips. "Surely you can't mean . . . sin?"

"Sin. Fornication, to be precise."

A strange sound—like the death cheep of a strangled bird-popped out of Gabrielle's mouth. Red with mortification, she glared at her husband-to-be, trying to tell him with her eyes just what she would do to him for this latest humiliation when next they were alone together.

But she also had to admit he spoke the truth. For, married or not, she would lie with Maximilien de Saint-Just this night.

"The consequences will be on your head," Max said to the priest. Then he flashed his sudden, mocking smile. "On the other hand, if you marry us within the hour, I'll pay you a hundred livres."

The cure` flung out his arms and bellowed "Begone with you!" so loudly that a flock of pigeons in the nearby pines was scattered into flight. Gabrielle wondered if the priest truly thought she and Max were devils and was now attempting to perform an exorcism.

But he was simply shooing his own flock back to the village. "Leave the heathen beast where it is," he ordered as the field slowly emptied, although one or two of the men glared back over their shoulders.

In the ensuing silence the cure` sneezed, then cleared his throat. "A man of the cloth cannot be bribed," he admonished sternly. "However, a charitable donation to the church is always welcome." He gave his squashed nose a vigorous rub. "I am Father Etienne Benoit, cure` to the village of Chenaie-sur-Seine. And you are Monsieur ..."

"Saint-Just."

"Surely not the comte de Saint-Just? You are far too young. You are, perhaps, the comte's son?"

Max looked at Gabrielle. His face tightened, and the old bitter cynicism glinted in his eyes. "Yes, I'm the comte's son. His bastard son," he said harshly, as if daring her to love him still, now that she knew his shame.

"Ah," the cure` said, imbuing an entire society's contempt for illegitimacy into that one sound.

But Gabrielle didn't care how Max came to be born. She believed he had been put on this earth for her to love, and she told him so by taking his hand and giving him the same sweet smile she gave to Dominique when he was hurt and needed comforting.

For a moment Max just stood there, as stiff and unyielding as a stone wall. Then she felt him sigh, and the smile he gave back to her reached all the way to his dark gray eyes—eyes that were for once free of all emotion but happiness.

Father Benoit had looked from Gabrielle to Max and back to Gabrielle again. "And is this marriage your wish as well, my daughter?" he asked, his voice suddenly kind.

Gabrielle opened her mouth, but her throat froze and for a moment nothing could come out. "Y-yes," she finally stuttered.

The cure` sneezed. "Then it shall be done."

❧

It was an old church.

It smelled of musty pews and mildewed missals. Streams of sunlight pushed through the narrow windows that lined the nave, showing the dust motes dancing in the air. A path was worn in the stone floor leading up to the altar, testimony to the many feet that had over the years come forward to receive the body of Christ.

Father Benoit left them before the communion railing and disappeared into the sacristy. Soon a volley of violent sneezes echoed throughout the church as he indulged his snuff habit.

Max slipped an arm around Gabrielle's waist and planted a kiss on her cheekbone. Her body responded immediately, seeming to melt into him like snow on a hot hearth.

She pushed halfheartedly against his chest. "Max, we are in a church."

His hand moved up her waist to cup her breast. "Uh-huh," he mumbled as his lips trailed up into her hair and he rubbed her nipple through the stiff material of her bodice. "In church. About to be married."

She groaned, turning her head so that he could lick her ear. "That's no excuse."

"I don't need an excuse."

"Ahem!"

Gabrielle jerked out of Max's arms, blushing furiously under the curd's stern eye.

Father Benoit straightened the sacramental stole around his thick neck as he waddled up to them. "I believe a session in the confessional would be in order," he said.

Gabrielle's blush deepened, and Max made a face.

"Before receiving any of the sacraments, particularly the sacrament of marriage," the cure` intoned, wagging a fat finger under Max's nose, "your soul must be in a state of grace. Can you assure me, my son, that your soul is washed clean of all sin?"

"No," Max said with such haughtiness that Gabrielle made a surreptitious sign of the cross to ward off any stray lightning bolts.

The priest tsked and shook his head. "The worst sin of all, my son, is pride."

Max held the priest's eyes for a long moment before looking down at his bare feet. The priest looked down as well, then back up to Max, his eyebrows raised.

"It's a long story," Max said.

The cure's jowls twitched. "I imagine so. Don't bother to relate it to me, however." He looked at Gabrielle and gestured at the confessional box. "Shall we proceed, my child?"

"That didn't take long," Max said to her when she emerged a few moments later.

"I didn't have much to say," she told him smugly. And then she blushed, for her only sins this last week had been thoughts of committing lewd and lascivious behavior with him.

Max was in the confessional for a long time. Gabrielle paced back and forth down the nave trying not to think, for if she pondered too much about this crazy, impulsive thing she was about to do, she would never go through with it.

She shouldn't have even gone to the Jardin de Plantes this morning. She'd only done so because Max had asked her so sweetly, and she couldn't bear the thought of disappointing him. But it had been a terrible risk to show her face at such a public event. And then she had made matters worse by drawing everyone's attention to her by climbing into the aerostat with Max. Everyone saw her, and she could have so easily been recognized—

Louvois . . . Her chest felt tight with sudden fear. Louvois himself could have been there!

Mere de Dieu, what was she thinking? She could never marry Max. If they weren't already, all of Paris would soon be talking about the mad scientist Saint-Just and his crazy experiments with balloons filled with inflammable air. And she understood Max well enough by now to know he enjoyed his notoriety. He was also the kind of man who'd want to parade around the Palais Royal with his new wife on his arm. How could she explain to him that their marriage must be kept a secret, that no one must know of her? How could she tell him that without telling him everything? And if she told him everything, what would he-Don 't think about it. Don't—

"Think about something else," she whispered aloud. Sighing, she clutched her hands together in nervousness and felt the sharp edge of the sapphire ring. For a moment the sight of it, and the memories it evoked, were almost her undoing.

Quickly she pulled the ring off her finger and put it in the pocket of her skirt.

She stared at the closed doors of the confessional box. What was taking him so long? Surely even a rake like Max couldn't have that many sins on his conscience.

A soft smile transformed her face. He might be a rake, but he was an adorable one. I'm a bastard and I've no desire to be reformed, he had warned her the night they went out to look at the stars. Her smile faded. Would marriage reform Max? She doubted it. He was a man who enjoyed women and the pleasure they could bring him. He might fancy himself in love with her now, but how long would it be before he came to regret this day's impulsiveness? I'll lie to you and I'll probably use you, he had said, and I'll most definitely end up hurting you—

The door to the wooden box squeaked open and Max emerged. He started to smile, and then he saw her face and his lips tightened and his heavy lids dropped to obscure his eyes.

"Are you regretting your answer already, Gabrielle? The door is right back there. You are free to use it."

She flung her head up, challenging him. "Are you, perhaps, regretting the question?"

She waited, but Max said nothing. The church was so silent she could hear the rustle of bats in the eaves. Neither of them made a move toward the door.

She wondered what he really felt for her. Surely it was love that had brought him to this church, to this moment? "What's happened to the priest?" she finally asked when she could no longer bear the silence.

He produced a smile. His mocking one.

"He insisted I enumerate all my sins and so I did. I fear he now needs a few minutes to recover from the shock."

Gabrielle laughed, remembering suddenly all the many reasons why she loved him. "Oh, Max, you are incorri—"

Just then the cure` stumbled out of his side of the confessional box. His face was as white as the lawn of his stole, and he looked at Max as if he expected him to sprout horns and a pair of cloven hooves at any moment. "We will need . . ."he started to say, but his voice shook so badly he had to begin over again. "We will need two witnesses."

Max went outside and came back with two of the villagers, both with badly battered faces. They must have borne no grudge against him, however, for they grinned and slapped his back before slipping into a nearby pew.

To Gabrielle, the wedding Mass seemed interminable. She knelt beside Max before the altar, her hand in his, and let the drone of the priest's voice—interrupted by an occasional sneeze—wash over her. She slanted a look at Max. His head was bent, his eyes half shut, and she thought he was praying until she realized he was leering down the low-cut bodice of her dress. She smiled to herself as he began to caress the inside of her wrist in slow, sensuous circles. Only minutes from absolution and already he was sinning.

It all seemed so unreal, as if it were happening to someone else and she was looking down on it all from a great height the way she had looked down on the world as she floated across the sky in the balloon. She tried not to think of how selfish she was being—to wed Max when she could only bring him tragedy and pain. It would have been better to have lain with him in sin, to snatch a few glorious, love-filled nights and then disappear with Dominique into the streets of Paris the way they had disappeared before. But loving Max as she did, how could she hurt him so? No, that was not quite the truth of it, for she would end up hurting him anyway. And as for Dominique, what was she trying to save him from—a childhood of pampered luxury, a future of almost unlimited wealth and power? No, the truth was she hadn't the courage to give up either Max or her son. Not on her own, not without being forced to. Or not until they, discovering the truth, left her ...

She realized with a start that the priest was waiting for her to repeat the vows of matrimony. It still wasn't too late.

And then it was.

When it came time to anoint the rings, Max surprised Gabrielle by removing a heavy gold signet ring from a chain around his neck. It was a man's ring, but it must have been cut down once, for it fit her finger perfectly.

Then at last it was over. The priest made the sign of the cross over their heads, blessing them and pronouncing them husband and wife.

They arose together. She looked at her husband. He seemed so serious and subdued now, almost sad. She wondered if already he was regretting this impossible marriage.

After what felt like the longest moment in Gabrielle's life, Max bent his head and gave her a controlled but gentle kiss on the mouth. Then he turned to the priest, and his lips danced into his wicked smile. "You have my gratitude, Father. And now can you tell me—where is the nearest empty bed?"

The two witnesses burst into loud guffaws.

Father Benoit's jowls turned a vivid purple. "But, but, but," he sputtered around a sneeze, "you need to sign the register. And there are forms to be filled out . . ."

"My dear Monsieur le Cure`," Max drawled in his haughtiest nobleman's voice, "you see before you a man and woman—a married man and woman—who have been tempted to the limits of their endurance." He scooped a laughing, blushing Gabrielle up into his arms. "Dammit, man, we need abed!"

"I see," the cure` said. "That is, I don't see, being a priest, of course, but I could see if— Oh, confound it all!" He flapped his arms, and his roars sent the bats flapping in the belfry. "There's a good, clean inn on the road to Paris. Go, go, go! The register can wait."

Max carried Gabrielle down the aisle and out the church door. He paused at the top of the steps, letting his eyes adjust to the bright sunlight.

She hugged his neck and planted a hard kiss on his mouth. "Max, you're a terrible man. You positively scandalized that poor priest."

"I'll be scandalizing the entire village of Chenaie-sur-Seine soon if I don't find a bed." He looked down into her face, and she saw tenderness and desire and, yes, she saw love in his eyes.

"I want you, Gabrielle, my wife and love of my life. So damned bad I ache and, by God, I'm not waiting another minute to have you."

"And I want you, my husband."