Hearts Beguiled (31 page)

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Two days later, Gabrielle stood before the full-length mirror that hung on the armoire in the rose bedroom, not knowing whether to laugh or to swear. She hadn't dared to light a candle, and in the dawn light of a cloudy day, she could barely make out her reflection. What she did see looked ridiculous. When she had imagined fleeing the chateau in a male disguise she had pictured herself looking like a dashing cavalier, not a court jester.

The clothes—Max's clothes—were much too big for her. Why hadn't she anticipated that? His breeches spilled out the tops of his floppy boots, and she had to hold them up by looping a tasseled cord from one of the window curtains around her waist. His tricorn hat fell down to the bridge of her brows, and she kept having to push it back, only to have it fall forward again. It seemed that two of her could have fit into his coat.

Well, it would just have to do, she thought; she had come too far to turn back now.

So far, except for this slight miscalculation with the clothes, her plan had fallen out just as she imagined it. Dominique stood beside her now, muffled in a thick coat, a sack of food clasped tightly in one fist. Beside her was a cloak bag stuffed with several changes of clothes for both of them. In the pocket of her coat was a purse full of coins, and a pistol. The world was full of men like Balue, and she was determined this time to be prepared for them. Of course, she had never fired a pistol before, but what could be so hard about it?

She had stolen all these things yesterday afternoon from Max's room while he was out in the paddock with Dominique, playing the part of a father by teaching him how to ride that nasty cinnamon-colored horse with the gray muzzle. In a moment she would steal that horse and one for herself. True, her one experience at riding a horse had been something of a disaster, but she refused to believe she couldn't master a thing the rest of the world seemed able to do almost by second nature.

She had no qualms about stealing these things from Maxwell, not too many qualms. She reminded herself that it was either do this or stay here and live with a man who didn't love her. A man who'd made it obvious he would never care for her again except, perhaps, as a means of slaking his lust. In all those years alone, struggling to support herself and her son, she had never resorted to selling her body. Now she would be damned before she would allow Max to make her his whore.

They crept down the stairs and out the French doors that led into the gardens from the library. It had started to rain, a steady, icy drizzle that made Gabrielle glad that she had Max's big, thick coat.

Dominique had told her that the cinnamon-colored horse was a "lady horse," but Gabrielle didn't believe it, for surely only a male of the species would be so contrary. The stupid beast refused to stand still long enough for Gabrielle to get the saddle on her back. She bared a pair of wicked-looking teeth and made so much racket banging her hooves against the stall that Gabrielle expected the stables to become full of curious grooms at any minute.

Finally Gabrielle was forced to give up on the saddle. She also decided against taking two horses. One was obviously going to be almost more than she could handle.

It was Dominique's idea to coax Marthe out of the stables by offering her one of their precious apples from their food sack. The mare was obviously a treacherous beast, just like her master, because once through the stable door she got a whiff of freedom and jerked away from Gabrielle, almost tearing her arm out of its socket and knocking off her hat.

Gabrielle watched with dismay as the mare cantered away, tossing her head and flicking her tail. The sound of her hooves clattering on the pebbled drive drowned out the noise of the horse and rider that emerged from behind the stables.

Until she heard a familiar voice, drawling with suppressed amusement, say "Are you going somewhere, Gabrielle?" and she turned to look up into a pair of mocking gray eyes.

"You look ravishing this morning, ma mie. Although it's a trifle early in the day, isn't it, to be going to an opera ball?"

Gabrielle whipped back around to glare at her son. "You told him!"

"I didn't!"

"He didn't," Max said. He sat at ease on an enormous black horse, his wrists crossed over the saddle pommel. "Did you think, my devious little wife, that I would fail to see that someone had rifled through my drawers again, stealing my pistol? Speaking of which, I'll have it back now if you don't mind. It's loaded and you're liable to shoot your foot off."

Gabrielle took the gun from her pocket, but she didn't hand it to him. Instead she pointed it at his chest. "Let us go."

His face tightened and his hands jerked involuntarily on the reins, causing the horse to back up a step. "Oh, no, Gabrielle, you're not running away again. You're my wife, and my wife you will stay. Willingly or unwillingly."

"Let us go, or I'll shoot you."

He threw back his head and laughed.

She shot him.

T
he horse reared up and came down again with a clash of hooves. The sound of the shot bounded across the fields, muffled by the misty air. A bright red stain appeared on the sleeve of his buff-colored coat.

"Maman, you shot Papa!" Dominique exclaimed.

She hadn't meant to shoot him. The heavy pistol just seemed to go off of its own accord. It startled her so much that she flung it away from her with a scream, as if the ball had hit her, not Max.

He touched his arm, then stared in astonishment at the hand that came away bloody. He raised his brows at her. "I didn't know you were such a good shot."

"I missed. I was aiming for your treacherous heart," she lied.

He laughed and the horse danced sideways, its ears back and its eyes showing white. He kicked out of the stirrups, slipping off its back to slap it on the rump, sending it toward the stable, where a half dozen goggled-eyed grooms were already spilling from the doors. One look told them that the vicomtesse had shot the vicomte, and they decided that what happened next would be something they would be better off not witnessing.

Dominique stared from one to the other of his parents, his eyes as round as carriage wheels. "Papa, Maman shot you."

"Dominique, go inside."

"But, Papa—"

"Now."

Gabrielle had never seen her son obey with such alacrity. He abandoned her to be murdered by his precious papa without even a backward look.

Max took a step toward her.

She backed up. "W-what are you going to do?"

He kept coming. "It's time you were taught how a wife is supposed to behave, Gabrielle. For instance, a wife is not allowed to leave her husband. Nor is she allowed to shoot him-"

"You laughed in my face!"

"—no matter what the provocation."

She stopped backing up and stood her ground, lifting a quivering chin into the air. "You don't own me, Maximilien de Saint-Just."

He thrust his face so close to hers that she could see the fine lines around his eyes and the stubble of the beard he had yet to shave off that morning. He peeled his lips back in a nasty smile and she backed up two more steps.

"Oh, but I do own you," he said, his voice silky, dangerous. "The law is most specific on that point. My authority over your property and your person is absolute."

"And who were those laws written by? Men! Men, who-"

"Be quiet. I haven't finished dealing with this matter. In fact, I have only just begun. As your husband and master—"

"Master!"

"Master, dear wife. It is my moral duty to instruct you in all the wifely virtues of obedience, submissiveness, and humility, and I intend to do so. Come here."

She shook her head no, but her treacherous legs obeyed him of their own accord. When she got within striking distance, he seized her around the waist and hefted her upside down over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The laughter of the men in the stables followed them as he carried her up the sweeping steps of the chateau.

She kicked her feet; he pulled off the big boots easily, flinging them aside. She pummeled his back with her fists; he smacked her backside. She was so angry she was crying. "How dare you! Put me down this instant—ow!" she cried as he smacked her again.

"That didn't hurt. Yet. But if you don't quit fighting me, it will be many a week before you're able to sit in any comfort."

Gabrielle went rigid. He wouldn't dare! Would he? According to the law he could, as her husband, beat her as much and as often as he liked, as long as he didn't endanger her life. And what would the law say to the fact that she had shot him? Oh, mon Dieu . . .

He carried her all the way upstairs and into the bedroom, his bedroom. He flung her down on the big tester bed. She started to sit up and then she saw his face and she lay back down again. She bit her lower lip to stop its trembling. She noticed the muscle begin to throb in his jaw, and she hoped he was trying to master his temper.

He kept his eyes on her as he removed his coat, grimacing a little as he pulled on his wounded arm. There was a lot of blood on his shirt, and Gabrielle felt sick with guilt and shame. She deserved everything that he was going to do to her.

"Max? About the pistol ... It was something of an accident. I didn't mean—"

"Take off those ridiculous clothes."

She flinched as if she'd already been dealt the first blow. Then she sat up and with trembling fingers worked at the buttons on the coat. She took it off and handed it to him. He dropped it on the floor. The shirt came next. She had to stand up to pull down the breeches.

She stood before him stripped to her own sheer cambric chemise.

"That, too," he said, his voice a rough burr.

He stood tall, looking down at her from beneath heavy eyelids, and she knew in that moment it was not a beating he was going to give her.

She yearned for him to take her—with every breath, every thump of her heart. But pride kept her stiff before him and pulled the words from her mouth. "I'll not be a wife to a man who doesn't love me. I'll not let you—"

"Shut up." He yanked impatiently at the jabot around his neck, and his shirt fell open, baring half his chest. "You'll be what I say, and you'll do as I say."

She lowered her head. His manhood, hard and swollen, pressed against his breeches. There was a slight tremor in his rigid thighs, and his shirt fluttered with his breathing. Whatever he said, he could not control what he felt.

Slowly her hands went to the ribbons of her chemise.

His eyes watched her. His harsh breaths thundered in the room. Through the veil of her lashes she thought she could see his heart beating against the brown skin of his chest.

He made a sound, almost like the hiss of a cat and, shoving her hands roughly aside, he grasped the delicate material of the chemise and ripped it down the middle. "You were taking too damned long," he said, and she shuddered violently as if it was her flesh he had rent.

His arms went around her waist as he fell onto the bed, bringing her with him. He lowered his head to her breast, opening his lips wide around the nipple, sucking it hard into his mouth, and so he missed the look of triumph that flared in her purple eyes.

He pinned her to the bed with his weight. Mine, he thought. Goddamn you, you are mine.

He felt like a starving man suddenly confronted with a banquet of food. His mouth went from her breast to her lips to the pulse in her neck and back to her mouth again. His hands were everywhere, stroking her soft slopes and firm curves. He was gorging himself on her, trying to possess all of her at once.

His hand went around her back, crushing her tighter against him as if he could merge their flesh, and pain lanced through his arm. Perversely he welcomed it, as if he should suffer, deserved to suffer, for this weakness of the flesh, for needing her so desperately.

He reminded himself that he could possess her body without surrendering his soul, and forgot it instantly when she fastened her mouth onto his to kiss him hard and hungrily. He entangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back so that he could probe deep into her mouth with his tongue. Her hand pressed against his stomach, pulling at the waistband of his breeches, and his muscles clenched as tight as a fist.

He rolled off her and sat up.

He had trouble getting his boots off—they were wet and slippery with mud, and he was in a hurry. He felt her move against his back and her leg swung around—

"Stay," he said. He hadn't meant for it to sound so much like a command, but she took it as one, straightening her legs and lying back down.

At last his boots and stockings were off. Standing up, he kept his back to her as he peeled down his breeches. The muscles in his buttocks tightened, for he could feel her eyes on him.

He kept forgetting to breathe, until his lungs began to burn for air, and his jaw throbbed from the pressure of keeping his teeth clamped so tightly shut. Never had he felt so big, so hard. He felt enormous. He was near to exploding, and if she so much as touched him he would spill his seed.

He turned and looked at her.

She lay fiat on the bed, her arms at her sides, her legs spread slightly apart. The sacrificial virgin, he thought; it didn't make him smile. Her hair was spread over the pillow, a pool of fire. He had seen skies at night over the ocean that were the purple of her eyes. I would die for you, he thought. I would grovel at your feet. How could he worry about the loss of his pride when with her he'd never had any pride to lose?

Her eyes glowed; her voice was a tiger's purr. "Come here," she said.

He knelt between her legs. He kept his eyes riveted onto her face as he lifted her thighs, bringing them up over his shoulders, raising her pelvis off the bed. He hung poised above her for the space of a heartbeat, and then he drove into her.

A harsh moan burst from her throat, and her legs tightened around him. He pushed in deeper and her slick inner muscles enveloped him. He pulled out again, almost immediately, until only the tip of him was still inside her. He watched her face, and she watched him, as he plunged his length in again, then out, again and again, until he saw her eyes flare wide and her mouth go slack, and she arched her back as the tremors shook her.

He throbbed inside her, letting the passion course through him, draining him, emptying him, consuming him. Mine, he thought in triumph. And through his clenched teeth the words were torn from him in a harsh cry.

"Christ, Gabrielle ... I love—!"