Angel Hands (15 page)

Mireille heard a half-sob of relief and was halfway up the stairs before she realized the sound had come from her. Her breath was coming hard, and darkness ringed a narrowing field of vision. With another sob, she flung herself into the waiting arms, barely able to support her weight on shaking knees.

Warm arms came around her, holding her closely and with such tender care that she had to dig her fingers around the lapels of the fine black coat he wore to keep from bursting into tears. She buried her face against his chest and fought back the dizziness that threatened her. She felt gentle hands pull the cap from her head and stroke her hair to looseness about her face and shoulders. Lips brushed the top of her head, and the arms around her rocked her slightly back and forth.

"Don't worry," a voice purred in her ear.

She sucked in a shocked breath so hard that it burned her throat. No! No, not that voice! Dizzily, she looked up into blue eyes and a cruelly-pale half-face.

"I've got you, Mireille," he said, his arms suddenly turning into iron bands around her. He smiled down at her in a mockery of tenderness just before he used that damnable neck pinch again on her. One day, she would figure out how to use it on him, but not before she gave him a piece of her mind and told him exactly….

Darkness.

19. Of Droits and Seigneurs

“Are you awake, my darling wife?”

The first groggy thought of consciousness was that she was hearing Raymond speak, for that was the last thing she remembered. Or, maybe not. She had confused ideas of things being moved, the sound of clothing, a voice, and odd visions of candlelight. She was not sure now if they were real or if they were dreams.

“Ah. You are awake.”

That voice
.

Wait.

What had he just said a moment ago?

Wife?

Wide awake, she sat up, noting she was in the same bed as before, but the room around her was strangely empty.

“Good morning, dearest little wife,” he said pleasantly, though his smile was anything but friendly.

"Wife?" Mireille sputtered, rallying herself to struggle out of bed, only to discover she was once again wearing nothing but a man’s shirt. His shirt. She quickly pulled her legs back under the covers. "Wife? What wife? You don't have a wife!"

"Ah," he said with a chuckle. "I beg to differ with you, Madame de la Persie."

"I never married you! I think I would remember that!" she hissed.

"You do not remember?” His one visible eyebrow rose. “How sad, for every young lady should remember the most special moment of her life.”

“When did I marry you?” she challenged, pushing the inky panic that was beginning to stain her thoughts. “I have been nowhere but that damned brothel and here since you kidnapped me!”

“You willingly met the carriage I arranged. It was not kidnapping.”

She brusquely waved away his words, glaring at him as best she could from her indecorous position.

“There was no point at which I could have married you,” she insisted, determined to cling to the one fact she knew to be true.

He shook his head sadly, and his expression was infuriatingly condescending. “Ah, well, it is to be expected. You have been a bit feverish the past two days.”

Two days? Mireille was struck silent, running through all the images and impressions in her mind, more confused than ever as to what was a dream and what was reality.

“While it was admittedly unconventional for a woman in mourning to wed, the priest most generously understood that a poor, friendless girl is often left with few options."

"You!" she started to yell, only to feel that bloody pinch at her neck and then nothing else.

***

Familiar or unfamiliar? She couldn't quite decide as the darkness began to fade from her mind. She breathed in the heavy, almost dank smell in the air mixed with candle tallow. She heard the muted singing of a violin.

Her eyes flew open, but for once, her mind caught up to her actions and stopped her from rising. She simply lay where she was, giving no sign of being awake other than her eyes being open. She listened to the music.

The violin's music was sweet, unbearably sweet. It crooned and yearned, dipped, and looped in a lyricism of despair. There was such longing in every note that she felt her heart tear and bleed just a little.

Lying there, completely still, her mind found an undiscovered trail of thought to follow.

His pain.

Huh.

His pain must truly have been terrible, she mused, wondering at how this could be the first time she had even thought of it. Up ‘til now, he was a man, a worthy adversary, a potent challenge and equal to her. She had not even really seen his mask for what it hid. It was just his mask, part of his clothing as much as the gloves or boots or cape. She did not think of how he lived under the opera house as a refuge. It was simply where he lived. She had not seen him as anything other than a strong and capable man.

Perhaps that is what he had wanted her to see? Maybe that is all he had ever wanted anyone to see. Too well, she knew that one could surfeit on pity, that it had a way of choking one. Who wanted pity when there was respect, success, love, passion, and autonomous agency to be had in life?

Yet...perhaps he merited a measure of compassion, not pity. Whatever the mask hid must have been truly grotesque. The deformity must have been enough to make him shunned by society, driven him to a shelter that shouldn't even exist by rights. She had a flash of instinctive understanding of how one could become a ghost in one's own lifetime.

He was a great musician, no doubt. She knew that for a fact, though she was no musician herself. But there was no denying the genius of the score of his
Don Juan
and the skill of his playing. He was a brilliant strategist and a talented inventor. Suddenly, she understood.

Only one thing, one terrible deformity kept him from taking his place in the light of day, of living in the sun and being recognized for the man he was in his mind and in his heart. Condemned to shadows and phantoms. Never to know kindness, compassion, respect, admiration...or love.

Part of Mireille's mind piped up and said this was a very good and important discovery to use against him in terms of escaping. She shushed those thoughts back for a moment, though acknowledging their truth.

She breathed steadily and calmly regarded her situation. She was trapped, homeless, penniless, and friendless. A brilliant man with a crushed soul was determined to keep her and use her. She had just made a very interesting discovery about that man's character and needed to test her hypothesis to see if it was true. Oh, and she had to resolve the small detail of his claim of being married to her.

She needed more information before she could make a plan. For once, there was no production to frantically work toward, no social obligations to rush to. If anything, for once, time was the one thing she had plenty of, though very little idea exactly how to use it.

Slowly, carefully, she got out of bed, biting back her temper and her words at being reminded that once again, he had undressed and dressed her. She thought about looking for a shawl or dressing gown, but instinct decided against it. His physical desire for her was evident, and while she was loath to play that card, she was no innocent after Philippe de Chagnard, and she would do what she had to if it came to it.

With measured steps, she walked down the flight of stone stairs and over to the great organ where he was playing the violin. He had divested himself of the limiting coat, vest and cravat. The neck of his shirt was open and the sleeves rolled up. He looked younger to her. His face was caught up in an expression of grief, wonder and longing as his body swayed to the music.

Mireille sat down quietly on the organ stool and watched him until the song was finished. The last note lingered in the air and squeezed her heart until she thought she would cry tears of blood.

He slowly lowered the violin and stared at the bow still clutched in his hand.

"That was beautiful," she said simply.

His shoulders tightened, as if he was braced for a more acid follow-up to her remark, and she felt a twinge of guilt that she had conditioned him to expect that of her.

"Your playing could make even me weep," she added, hoping to lighten the mood with a compliment that was still flavored with some of her trademark wit.

He huffed a grim chuckle, then carefully put the violin back in its case. Turning around, he caught sight of her, and his eyes widened a fraction to see her sitting there, the shirt practically falling off her shoulders.

His gaze grew heavier, and Mireille bit her lip and tugged one of the shoulders up, only to have the other shoulder slide down more. Pulling them both up forced the neckline down to new perilous depths. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks and burning in the tips of her ears.

There was a quick sensation of iron around her waist, and then the hard bite of keys against her bottom and back. She realized that he had grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her onto the organ, leaving her arms and legs no purchase except for him.

"Hello, wife," he purred, grinding his hips against hers, forcing her to wrap her legs around his waist in order not to slip off the keys. She clutched at his arms, fisting the linen of his shirt.

"You look beautiful," he growled.

"T-tell me the truth," she panted, squeezing her eyes shut and praying for resolve and sanity or something when he oh—skimmed his fingers along her thigh.

"What truth do you want?" His hips circled and ground into her center again, forcing a gasp from her and causing her to arch her back off the keys, pushing her against his solid chest.

"Are we truly married?"

His rich, deep chuckle reverberated through her chest as he cupped the back of her head, taking in a fistful of hair and yanking her head back to expose her neck.

His warm, hot tongue trailed up from the dipping neckline of her shirt to nip her ear lobe. Her body cried out for more, and she keened out her frustration.

"Yes, my dear," he whispered, now tracing the shell of her ear with his tongue. "We are married in the eyes of God and the law, and I am well within my rights to do this and much...oh so much more to you."

She was drowning. Definitely drowning. There was simply no more oxygen to be had. Dark fantasies filled her head of being taken roughly on the keys of the organ, of the Punjab Lasso holding her in ways she could only barely imagine while he teased and pleasured her, of tasting him and tormenting him in the way only a woman could.

One last rational thought floated to the surface like a last gasp of air.

"Why don't I remember?"

Suddenly, she stumbled from the keys, landing hard on her hands and knees, his warm, supporting presence gone. She scrambled to her feet, gasping and trying to pull herself away from the raging, unfulfilled tide of need that threatened to drag her out to sea.

He stood over at the far edge of the organ platform, eyeing her coldly.

"Perhaps," he said. "It is because you don't want to remember."

20. Of Choices and Chances

"Well, that's the whole bloody point!" Mireille shouted, the cold of the stone floor freezing against her bare feet and angering her even further. "I want to remember because if I were ever idiotic enough to do something like marry you, I would most definitely want to remember it so I could yell at myself accurately afterwards!"

She stamped her foot, not caring that she looked like a little girl throwing a tantrum.

"So, marrying me is...idiotic?"

His voice was colder than the floor, but Mireille's temper was hot enough for both of them.

"Yes! It's downright insane!" she snapped back.

"Because of what I am?" His voice was now very, very quiet, and he stood with his back turned to her.

"Yes!"

"A monst-"

"A liar, a cheat, a murderer, an embezzler, and worst of all, a Nosey Parker who can't keep his sticky little fingers from interfering with my opera house!" She marched right up to him and poked him ferociously in the back.

"Ah, but with a face like mine, how could I be anything but such a...monstrous creature?"

"Oh, don't give me that!" Mireille spat. "Your face, whatever is wrong with it, has nothing to do with what you are."

He whirled around, candle smoke carried on the air. Seizing her shoulders, he drove her back against the rock wall and shoved his face up to hers.

"It has EVERYTHING to do with it!" he roared.

Oddly enough, now that she had gotten him worked up, Mireille felt no need to continue being angry. She relaxed under his grip and sighed.

"No," she said simply. "It doesn't."

"Pray explain to me your precious little theory of how I am not a monster," he snarled, not budging an inch.

"We become monsters from the choices we make, not from how we look."

"Says a woman with a whole face."

"Says a man who has not had to work with Monsieur Carcasonne."

"I had no choice in the things I did," he ground out, his fingers digging into her shoulders. "I learned, the hard way, that the world values appearances more than fact...that, in fact, appearances make the man."

"If you let them," Mireille shot back. "After all, at least you're a man. Try being a woman, and a plain one at that. Then come crying to me."

"You have no idea how I...plain?" The growl suddenly melted into a tone of genuine surprise, and his eyes widened. "Do you think you are plain?"

"I know I am, Monsieur de la Persie," Mireille replied drily. "Do not change the subject. You are what you choose to become."

"Then there is no hope for me," he said, but the fight had gone out of his voice.