Destiny's Kiss (6 page)

“Should I?” Her words quivered as his hand wandered along her back, keeping her against him.

“No, but do you find it unpleasing?”

“No, it is not unpleasing.”

“Pleasing?”

“Philippe, please … kiss me again … please.”

As his arms tightened around her, she knew this was madness. Letting him hold her would make her heartbreak worse when he pushed her out of his life, but pushing him out of her arms was unthinkable.

Each slippery texture of his mouth urged her to be more daring. Not a bit of it escaped her eager exploration. His breath seared her mouth, blazing as it merged with hers. Fire flowed through her, from his lips, from his fingers, from his body pressing hers back toward the floor.

She wanted to touch him. Her fingers sought beneath his collar to stroke his shoulders. His mouth moved to highlight her face with his ravenous kisses before seeking the crescent shape of her ear.

“Come with me,” he whispered. “Let me give you the rapture you shall give me,
ma coeur
.”

With a soft cry, Lirienne pulled away. She jumped to her feet, fighting to keep tears from showering from her eyes.
Ma coeur
! That was his name for Charmaine Fortier. As he stood, she shook her head. “Stay away.”

“You are my wife.” He put his hand on the bed. “You belong here with me.”

“But you do not want me! You want!”

“Wife—”

“My name is Lirienne!” She clutched the ruined fabric of her skirt. “Can't you recall that when you hold me?”

He swore vividly. “Wife, it is time for bed.”

“Find someone else to give life to your fantasies of Charmaine Fortier.” She sat on the chair. “I shall not.”

With a growl, he scooped her up into his arms. She had no time to react before he dropped her on the bed. She screamed as he leaned over her. With a curse, he pulled away.

She stared up at him. Murderous rage flared in his eyes, and she remembered how he had struck the wall. When he raised his hand, she cowered against the musty pillows.

He held her face between his fingers. “You shall tell anyone who asks that I was with you all night.” Releasing her, he buttoned his shirt.

“Where are you going?”

He snatched his coat from the back of the chair. “I think I shall heed your advice and find someone else who is more interested in the ecstasy we could have shared.”

“Philippe, let me explain.” She slid from the bed. “Give me a chance to be honest with you.”

“Honesty is not what I want from you.” When her cheeks burned, he laughed icily. “Sleep well, wife.”

The door slammed.

“Philippe,” she whispered.

Dropping to the bed, she ran her hand along the mattress and thick pillows. How often she had imagined sleeping in such a bed! But her fantasies had never suggested that she must surrender her soul to the devils haunting Philippe.

Maybe she feared he would divorce her in the morning. Then her only choices would be to return to the Fortiers', where she would have to watch Madame Fortier seduce Philippe as she did her other lovers, or she could choose to starve along this country road.

She was not sure which would be worse.

Four

When Philippe opened the door at the top of the dusky staircase, Lirienne said nothing. She stared at the room. Its simple furniture was arranged in front of a plain hearth. Although the apartment was finer than the room for the scullery maids, she had expected Philippe's Parisian house to be grander than Madame's country home. These two rooms would suit a poor storekeeper rather than a
vicomte
.

“It's very nice,” she said uneasily.

“It's horrible.” Philippe unbuttoned his coat.

He pushed past her to light a candle, which swept aside the few fingers of twilight that reached through the narrow window. Gazing at the bare floors and unadorned walls, she tried to stifle a yawn. They had been traveling since before dawn. During the long ride, Philippe had offered only gruff comments whenever he looked up from the newspapers that their host had given him. He did not share the news with her, but she could tell that the tidings were dreary from his bleak expression.

He shrugged off his coat. “We must maintain a certain low standard while in Paris during this visit.”

“I didn't mean to complain.”

“You didn't complain.” He grimaced as he tossed his coat aside. “You never do. All you do is look like a lost child.” Glancing about the cheerless room, he mused, “I'd prefer to stay elsewhere, but my Paris house must be crawling with those ready to denounce me as they did my brother.”

Lirienne stared at him. Denounced his brother? Was that what this was all about? “Your brother—”

“Was betrayed to the mob.” His lips grew so tight that white puckered at each corner. “I intend to discover who gave Lucien's name to them.”

She put her hand on his arm, but he brushed it off without looking at her. Wanting to soothe him, she said nothing. If she spoke of how she had mourned for her own brother who had died nearly six years before, he would chide her for speaking of her past.

She drew off the cloak Vachel had given her. Tossing it onto the settee, she grimaced as a cloud of dust rose. She walked to the hearth and saw an iron arm hung over the cold and stinking ashes. It would be possible to cook simple meals, although she saw no hint of an oven.

Hearing Philippe's curse, she whirled. He stood by a second door. She edged around the wobbly table. “What is wrong?”

“A beast is sleeping on the bed.”

“Beast?”

He pointed at a shaggy lump in the center of the mattress. “There!”

“That's no beast. It's just a dog.”

“And her litter.” He grimaced. “I prefer not to sleep where she's whelped.”

“They're nothing but pups. They—” She screamed as she was jerked back at the same time the dog lunged at her, snapping viciously.

“Fool!” he shouted over the dog's vicious growls. “She thinks you're threatening her pups.” When Philippe pushed her out of the bedroom, he slammed the door behind him. “Don't go in there until I have the creature removed. Do you think you can show that much sense?”

No wonder he thought she was witless. She so wanted to impress him that she was acting stupid. Trembling, she whispered, “I won't go back in there.”

“Wait here while I get the concierge.” Leaning toward her, he tilted her face back. “I need you alive. Don't do something stupid like getting yourself mangled by some mongrel.” He released her and strode out without looking back.

She repeated the curse he had spoken. His insults cut through her more viciously than a dog bite. He cared nothing for her, except as a tool to complete his task in Paris. And why should he? He was not the one haunted by a heart that yearned for love. She fought the coldness inching outward from her heart. In his arms last night, she had dared to believe that love was possible between them.

The door opened. Her half-spoken greeting faded when she saw Philippe was not alone. The skinny man was no taller than she was. Wearing a stained shirt, he scratched his ribs as he stared at her and smiled.

“Ah,
qu'elle est belle
! So you're the tidbit old Sukey wished to nibble upon,” murmured the man whose forehead was covered with more perspiration than hair. “I must say that the old cur has good taste.”

“Just get the dog and her litter out of here!” Philippe ordered. Going to the bedroom door, he sent it crashing open.

“Don't order me about like some fancy lord.”

“Forgive him,” Lirienne said before Philippe could betray himself. “He's distressed that the dog almost bit me.” She walked to Philippe and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I think it's charming that he's so protective of his new wife. Don't you?”

She did not dare to meet Philippe's eyes, for tension ran along his arm. When she heard the concierge chuckle, she closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer. She stood by Philippe as the skinny man herded the dog out and carried the half-dozen squirming pups in his arms. With another lascivious grin in her direction, he stomped down the stairs.

“He said there were clean linens on the shelf over the bed. Why don't you remake the bed?” Philippe went to close the door.

“Yes, Philippe,” she whispered. If she spoke louder, she might expose her exasperation at his lack of gratitude for how she had mollified the concierge. His foolish fury could have ended his stay in Paris before it began.

“I'll get some wood for a fire. With the food you purchased, we should be all right for tonight.”

She nodded, tired of saying
Yes, Philippe
and
No, Philippe
to each of his orders. If he would treat her kindly, she might be more willing to cooperate. But what choice did she have? She needed him now as much as he needed her to survive this visit to Paris.

Lirienne stitched the cuff of Philippe's shirt. He had torn it while bringing in the wood. She doubted if he had ever carried wood before, but he had not complained. Not much, she corrected as she glanced from her work to where he sat next to her on the settee. He was reading another newspaper, and his frown drew deeper lines into his face with each turn of the page. Since their arrival here yesterday, he had not smiled once. Maybe he had while she was sleeping in the other room. His gracious offer to let her use the bedroom had amazed her. Then she had realized, he intended to maintain his cultured manners in spite of the changes around them.

Or maybe he had just wanted to be sure he was not tempted into seducing her with more of his fiery kisses.

The cushion bounced as he shifted, and she gasped when the needle pricked her finger. She dropped the shirt and popped the finger into her mouth.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Not badly.” She finished the last stitches and handed him the shirt.

“You're very skilled,” he said, putting down the paper so he could examine her work.

“Maman taught me to sew before she lost her sight.”

“How did that happen? In an accident?”

“No.” She gathered up the thread and needle she had bought that morning. “She strained her eyes for too many years doing needlework for the Fortiers. She—”

“Enough, wife. I've told you that I've no interest in hearing tales of your past.” He stood, setting the couch to bouncing again. “Is this what's ahead of us? A lifetime of pleasant conversations in a hovel?”

She rose. “This is hardly a pleasant conversation. I know you hate what's happening in the streets, but must you bring that hatred into our home?”

“Home? This?” He laughed. “When I look at these filthy walls, I long for my real home.”

His pain struck her again. “Then let's leave Paris.”

“Not until I find the cur who ordered Lucien's death.”

Lirienne gasped and glanced toward the door. “Philippe, lower your voice. If someone hears, he could kill you, too.”

“I tire of having to hide the truth.” Reaching for his coat with the tricolor on its white lapel, he said, “Stay here. I have some business to attend to.”

As he turned toward the door, she whispered, “Please be careful, Philippe.”

He smiled as he had not in days. Cupping her chin in his hand, he kissed her. When her hands slipped up along his back, he hugged her to him. The kiss deepened. As her body slanted toward his, he explored her lips as if he had never tasted them before. She sighed when his mouth moved along her chin to sample the warmth of her neck.

Against her ear, he murmured, “I did not guess you would worry so much about me.”

“You are my husband.” She bit back the words that came from her heart. He had protected her that magical night years ago, and she wished she could help him now. “Philippe, be—”

He put his finger over her lips. “Rest assured I shall be cautious.” With a swift kiss, he released her and went out the door.

Philippe did not look back as he hurried down the steps and turned up his collar, even though the evening was hot. No one amid the eddies of people swirling through the streets must identify him.

As he strode along the avenue he knew well, he wondered if his hasty marriage had been an error. Lirienne possessed a sensuality that beguiled him. It was intoxicating and lured him to sample her lips again and again. Even the disgusting reports in the newspaper could not tear his mind from how lovely she looked sitting beside him. He had considered this marriage a simple way to get what he wanted, but he might have been wrong.

“She's just a serving wench,” he muttered, stamping each word on the stones of the street. This was no more than a business arrangement, to get him what he wanted and her what she needed. But what he now wanted was her in his arms again.

With a curse, he surveyed the street. Much of the city was unchanged. The sewers stank. The streets were clogged with people. Voices resonated off the buildings leaning over the narrow streets.

Only its heart had altered. What once had been joyous now beat with a yearning for self-destruction. The tricolor was everywhere. As he heard a crowd chanting for the death of the queen and the royal family, he hurried along the street. Glancing back, he saw others joining in.

A shiver cut along his spine. It was too late to preach restraint. The dream of democracy born in America had spread across the Atlantic and been perverted.

As he climbed the steps leading up to the building where the meeting had been called, he gazed through an alley to see the sunset turning the Seine into a bloody wound. He wished he could believe that the worst was behind them.

Philippe pushed the door aside. He nodded to a man who said, “Good evening, citizen.”

Swallowing his curse, Philippe followed him into a huge room that was lined with benches along the wall. They were empty because the men had congregated in the center.