Forbidden (66 page)

The beef and peppers were hot and spicy and served over a saffron rice as beautiful to look at as to eat.

Over a lemon pastry so delectable Daisy ate three while Etienne watched her, amused, she said, "Your cook will have to be allowed her tantrums for this level of skill. What time do we have to be up for breakfast?"

Etienne laughed. "Hopefully it's negotiable. I think she knows her worth though."

"Wherever did you find her?"

"Louis did, actually. He hired everyone. She came, I think, from one of the hotels in town. There weren't any chefs available."

"You've never had a female cook?"

"Louis could answer that better than I. He was in touch with my kitchen staff, but I don't think so. She
is
good, isn't she? Have another," he offered, his smile beguiling.

"I shouldn't."

"You're allowed to indulge yourself, darling."

"I'll get too fat."

"You're on holiday."

She didn't need much coaxing when the lemon pastry tantalized with its fragrant citron aroma, fluted volumes of chantilly creme, and sugar-dusted meringue. "As you can see," she said, reaching for another swan-shaped confection, "the simplest excuse will do in my present frame of mind."

"I've several dozen more excuses when you need them."

They were alone over dessert, Etienne having dismissed the servants for the night so they could linger at table undisturbed.

"Are they a condition of your noblesse?"

"No, with
Maman
's influence, excuses weren't necessary. She always encouraged freedom of choice."

"Yet you stayed in your marriage against her counsel."

"Until I met you, it didn't seem to matter. We had our separate lives."

"Tell me you're happy," Daisy whispered, all the disquieting insecurities hurtling back when he spoke so casually of the separateness of his marriage.

Alone in the lamp-lit dining room at an enormous table too large for only two, the beamed ceiling adding height and dimension to the sizeable proportions of the space, they seemed isolated, Daisy thought, not only in the masculine room decorated with heavy furniture and weapons, but isolated from the world in this mountain valley seven thousand miles from the bright lights of Paris. Would he fall again into patterns so habitual to his nature once he returned to his own milieu? she wondered.

"Happy's too mild a word," he quietly said. "Contentment too. Although I feel them both. I've traveled across the world in some restless quest for an unknown… intangible. Not understanding at the time I was actually searching for you… so I could sit like this, overcome with delight at the sight of you in my nightshirt with rolled up sleeves and tumbled hair and powdered sugar on your lips."

"Good," she said, simply, like a child would, satisfied, the measure of his words chasing away all the old demons. "And I'm glad you like my dinner gown," Daisy said, licking the sugar off her mouth, her smiling words conveying the extent of her own contentment. "I'll wear the Doucet creations some other time."

"Don't ever wear them. I don't care." The Duc was lounging in his chair, relaxed, one hand loosely cupping his cognac glass. "I like you in my nightshirt."

The unadorned white cotton garment flowed around Daisy in great sweeping folds as she sat with her legs tucked under her on one of the oversize chairs, the pristine color accenting the bronze of her skin and the blackness of her hair. Her lips in contrast to the monochrome colors were cherry-red.

"Louis brought more than enough," he said with a grin, "to keep you dressed for dinner indefinitely. Adelaide wouldn't understand, would she?" he quietly added. "Nor would Valentin. They're both inclined to prefer people around them. I like to be alone with you."

"If I didn't have my family to concern myself with, we could fence in the valley and lock out the world."

"I don't want to think about family tonight," the Duc said with a sigh, too aware of the reality of their busy lives, and of Bourges wondering why his telegrams weren't being answered. "Let's delude ourself for a few more hours. Tomorrow we'll have to go into town, however briefly. It's imperative the phone and telegraph lines are begun."

Before going upstairs, Etienne wanted to check his horses on their first night in a new stable. "I'll be right back," he said, sliding Daisy's chair back and helping her up. "I'll come with you."

"We'll find you a long coat then. Your short jackets won't keep your legs warm in that nightshirt."

Finding his wool topcoat in the foyer closet, he held it while Daisy slipped into it. Helping her button the coat up to its velvet collar, he put on a leather jacket and lifted her into his arms. "It's too cold for bare feet," he said. Reaching for the door, he unlatched it with his fingertips and kicked it open.

"And I'm lazy after four lemon pastries," Daisy added, snuggling into the solidness of Etienne's shoulder as they stepped out onto the porch.

"You don't have to come. Wait for me in bed." He half turned to reenter the house.

"No. I'm slipping into one of my moods of utter dependence. Like carry me, hold me, don't ever leave me, tell me you adore every hair on my head, every finger and toe, every breath I take. And kiss me."

He did then, obliging with a teasing smile that shone in the moonlit night.

The journey to the stables was interrupted by several more pleasurable obligations of a similar nature under a night sky brilliant with sparkling stars. Their breath curled in the brisk autumn air, but their hearts were warm with love, their teasing smiles and murmured words of passion and devotion more special somehow away from the world, more private and significant, as if their love could flourish unimpeded in the silent majesty of their mountain valley.

"I love you beyond the starline and the galaxy's boundaries," Daisy whispered, as Etienne set her down on the straw-covered stable floor, the open doorway illuminated by moonlight, the soft rustle of the horses moving in their stalls audible in the quiet night. "And I don't care anymore if a thousand generations of de Vecs roll over in their graves when you divorce."

"You never had to even consider anything so noble," Etienne softly said, enclosing her in his arms. "You're not the reason or cause, only the impetus for a divorce I should have gotten years ago."

"I feel sad at times," Daisy quietly said, "being the agent for your disgrace with certain of your world."

"Lord, Daisy, don't say that, don't even think it." He lifted her chin gently with the pad of his forefinger and said very low, "You're the reason, the heart of any joy I've ever known."

Her eyes were enormous in the moonlight. "You're not marrying me… just… because… of the baby." The consideration overcame her reason at times, although she'd never put her reservations into words before.

"No—never—although I would of course, if I hadn't… Oh, hell. No," he began again, "I'm not marrying you for that reason. I'm marrying you because you're crucial to my life. I can't conceive of living without you." He sighed, his hands drifting down her arms. "Although I hope you have patience. It's going to be endless months yet."

"We could be married tonight," Daisy said, her voice hushed, hesitant at the very last—embarrassed she was pressing him.

"Tell me how," the Duc said without debate, a dream being offered him he wouldn't refuse no matter what the requirements.

"My gods aren't your gods… but they're benevolent spirits."

"Through thousands of years," Etienne softly added, the totems vivid in his mind, their existence integral to all tribal cultures, understanding Daisy was offering him marriage in the way of her world.

"I will take you for my husband. I have said it now and it is so." Her warm breath spiraled up between them, her body close and warm, her face lifted to his, radiant with love.

"I will take you for my wife." His hands slid up to her shoulders and he bent to touch the heated softness of her lips, thanking the benevolent spirits who spoke on the wind and in the blue sky and in the darkness of the night—the gods who protected the Absarokee from unknown demons and known enemies, the gods who loved The People of the northern plains.

"And it is so," Daisy whispered, sealing their troth.

The next weeks were idyllic, a time of holiday and work and ornamented pleasure, a season of flourishing and growing closeness between two people who hadn't realized what infinite nuances of intimacy existed.

They shopped for baby clothes one day, although Daisy had developed a case of cold feet at the very last before entering the fashionable store catering to wealthy parents.

"Tell them you're buying the clothes as a gift," Etienne suggested. "That should be innocuous enough."

But as they left the shop later, carrying their numerous packages, Daisy declared in a faintly anxious tone, "Did you see them whispering as we left? They didn't believe me."

"I wouldn't have either when you stammered and blushed so." His grin was cheerful.

"We should have left."

"But then we wouldn't have all these little embroidered things. It doesn't matter what they think."

Stopping abruptly, Daisy drew in a deep breath. "Father tells me to be less concerned with opinion."

"Excellent advice," the Duc lazily replied. "And now you have the baby clothes you wanted."

"They are darling, aren't they?"

"Absolutely."

"Let's go home and look at them," she said, her voice buoyant with joy.

"Let's," the Duc agreed, taking in the flushed and happy face of the woman he loved. And any of his acquaintances at his Parisian clubs would have been flabbergasted at the notion the Duc de Vec was about to spend his afternoon admiring baby clothes.

They went on holiday for a few days upmountain to Daisy's lodge tucked away in a secluded highland pasture. The weather was ideal, the fall leaves a panoply of color in the valleys below, the sun closer, it seemed, and warmer at the higher altitude, the stars at night so near they seemed within touching distance. They lay in the sun in the afternoons and under the stars at night, their bodies entwined, their hearts in accord, their feelings of contentment and love too pervasive and overwhelming to be neatly contained within the spare perimeters of those two simple words.

They talked of their plans—how Etienne wished to explore buying a mine, how much longer Daisy's counsel would be required in the litigation currently in court. They spoke of the possibility of traveling to Paris before too long.

"Once the divorce is final, we should be married in France," Etienne suggested, "in order to assure our child's inheritance."

"I'm not in need of your money."

"I'm concerned our child—children," he corrected with a smile, "have legal access to my wealth."

"I have money of my own."

"I'd like our marriage legitimate in French courts. Besides, your father's money is shared with the tribe."

"Blaze's fortune is more than enough for the family. As children, we have trust funds."

"If we're not married in France, inheriting not only my estates but my titles could be in question."

At Daisy's skeptical expression, he added, "Why not let the children decide… about the titles? Is that fair?"

She hesitated for a moment, struck with the fact her child would be titled, she too. How odd, she thought, the belief in aristocracy so far removed from the normal pattern of her life. There was no excuse, however, for her own prejudices biasing her children's choices, so she agreed. "It's fair of course. How many titles do you have?"

He shrugged, then smiled, his eyes taking on a playful cast. "Enough," he said, "to fill a nursery… if you like."

"Give me some idea of your plans." Her voice was softly teasing.

"They're not my plans. You wanted more, you said."

"How many titles?" she murmured, lying beside him on a fur blanket, the lodge walls translucent in the afternoon sun.

"Justin has some of them already."

"I understand. How many are left?" She rolled over so she lay partially on his chest, the seductive purr of her voice persuasive and heatedly cordial.