Her Dark Knight (8 page)

She looked at him helplessly, the words stuck in her throat. To admit something was wrong with her would be admitting she was losing her mind.

Christien’s phone buzzed. He cursed and pulled it from his belt to read the text message. “It’s Sabine. I’m sorry, Madelaine, but I need to see to this.”

She nodded, partly relieved she’d been given a reprieve and scared he had to leave her. What if the vision returned and what if, this time, she wasn’t able to pull herself out of it?

“Stay here,” he said. “I want to finish this conversation.”

“I don’t think—”

“But I do. There are things you need to tell me, no?”

Her breath escaped her in a terrified rush. He wasn’t letting her go easily. When he returned, she’d have no choice but to tell him what was happening. Or she could leave. Go back to her apartment where her fears lived.

“Please stay.” As if sensing her thoughts, his fingers tightened around hers. He touched her chin to draw her closer.

He was so close, so warm and secure. If she moved just a fraction she could kiss him. But something kept her from moving, some force held her back when her body longed to feel his lips on hers and her soul cried out for him.

“Madelaine.” His whispered words brushed her skin and slid along her nerves, making them tingle in ways she’d never experienced before.

Slowly she lifted her eyes to meet his. A storm raged inside him, as well. She saw it in the swirling fog of his eyes, in the steel that had become his muscles.

“Don’t leave me,” he said so softly she almost didn’t hear him.

His head inched closer, degree by degree. He was going to kiss her. And this kiss would change her life. Nothing would ever be the same again.

He spoke but they were in words she didn’t understand, in a language she’d never heard before, and yet the cadence was comforting, almost familiar.

“Kiss me,” she said.

He closed his eyes as if he were in pain. For a horrible second she thought he wasn’t going to kiss her. And then his lips were on hers, hot and insistent.

She made a sound deep in her throat of surrender, submission, longing. His fingers moved from her chin to her jaw, to the back of her head, cradling it in a tender embrace.

She put her hands on his broad shoulders and pulled him closer. Their tongues brushed together and Lainie gasped at the unexpected need racing through her.

This is where you should be. This is the way it should be between us.

He pulled away. Something passed through his eyes, something desperate and sad. A grief so sharp it pierced her soul to find an answering grief.

Christien looked away and swallowed. “Stay.” His voice was rough, but not harsh.

“I will.”

He touched her face and the key at her throat. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

He left her sitting on the couch alone in his apartment with the certain knowledge that she’d been right.

That kiss changed everything.

Christien clenched his fists and leaned against the wall of the elevator. He’d been balancing on the razor edge of control ever since he brought Madelaine to his living quarters. Who was he kidding? Since she walked into his club Thursday night he’d been off balance.

The brush of her body, the small sound she made in the back of her throat, her hands on his shoulders urging him forward had nearly tipped him over that edge. Instantly he’d been rock hard and he fought the compulsion to tumble her back on the couch and touch every part of her luscious body, to drive into her and spill his seed until he was a dry husk, spent. And then to do it all over again because once would never be enough with Madelaine.

He groaned and rolled his head against the wall in a combination of misery and fiery need that wouldn’t release its hold. Everything, from the smallest red blood cell in his veins to the tip of his throbbing erection, yearned for Madelaine.

He had to control himself or he’d stride back in there to finish what he started, even if it was the worst mistake he could make. She was confused and frightened and to top it off she’d been lying.

When she pressed her body against his on the River Walk, he felt her shaking, felt the fear coming off her in waves. Yet he didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust
her.
She claimed an asthma attack but she couldn’t look him in the eyes when she said it.

Was this another ruse to get them together? Had Lucheux put her up to this? His body clenched in barely suppressed anger and he pounded a fist against the wall of the elevator. What the hell was going on? What was Lucheux up to?

He didn’t want to think Madelaine was involved, but until he was sure, he would be on guard. Damn his traitorous body. When she touched her throat and the fear clouded her eyes, he had no choice but to go to her and comfort her. Either she was a very good actress, or she was truly afraid. He was betting on the latter because he saw right through her pitiful lies and she hadn’t been lying about being afraid.

He should put a man on his door to be sure Madelaine stayed safe inside his club but that would frighten her more and raise questions he didn’t want to answer.

He had to play this in a way that kept her from questioning his motives and yet also kept her safe. How the hell he was going to do that, he didn’t know.

His phone buzzed again. Sabine wondering where he was. He punched the button for the club level and forced his body to cool down, cursing the ill-timed interruption. He had the impression Madelaine was on the verge of telling him something important, something she was struggling with. Was the guilt eating at her? Did she want to tell him what Lucheux’s motives were? Did she even know?

What if it was none of the above? What if she was nothing but a look-alike caught in circumstances she knew nothing about? If this were the case, Christien vowed he would protect her with everything at his disposal. He would not allow an innocent person to be dragged into this war. But first he had to prove she was innocent.

France, 1307

Madelaine sat on the garden bench and gave in to the tears she’d been holding back. She wrapped her arms around her middle and rocked forward, her sobs so deep it hurt to cry.

The sun had just gone down, vespers was finished, supper complete. The knights filed out of the hall for a final check of their horses and equipment before sleep. She was alone in the silent, shadow-ridden garden and glad of it. She was weary of the trailing gaze of her husband, always suspicious, always present. Weary of having to be constantly alert to Lucien’s presence and dodging his watchful eye and knowing smirk.

’Twas coming to the point she feared Lucien almost more than her husband.

If either of them caught her in the garden… She shuddered to think what would happen. Lucien might very well follow through with the silent threats that were becoming more and more frequent. Her husband would beat her and enjoy it. But she had nowhere else to go. No solitude to be had.

A heavy hand pressed against her shoulder and she leaped up, a scream on her lips. Quickly the hand covered her mouth. “Shhh, Madelaine. It is I.”

Her eyes widened. Surely not. Surely it wasn’t the knight who’d haunted her dreams for these past months. Her heart soared in hope and wonder. A day hadn’t gone by that she hadn’t thought of him, hadn’t relived his generous laugh or the lips that pressed against her knuckles.

He dropped his hand and stepped into a patch of moonlight. Madelaine sucked in her breath.
’Twas him.
Christien. Her heart skipped a beat in joy and she quickly suppressed the smile threatening to break free. Anxiously she looked around. It was wrong for them to be alone in a moonlit garden. If they were discovered it was in her husband’s right to punish both of them.

“No one is about,” he said. “I have checked.”

“Oh.” She brushed at the remainder of the tears on her cheeks, trying to hide the fact she’d been crying, yet knowing it was futile. Certainly he’d heard her sobs.

He laid a hand on her arm. She should shake it off, step away. This knight was a threat to her well-being in more ways than one, yet she couldn’t walk away from the kindness he offered.

“What has happened, Madelaine, to make you so sad?”

She huffed out a laugh and shook her head. Since entering the walls of this castle she had been nothing but sad.

Christien guided her to the bench and waited for her to settle onto it before sitting beside her. For months this man had invaded her thoughts and dreams, had been the bright light in a very dismal existence. When life had become too much, she’d think of him—where he was, the dangers he encountered. As time marched on and he did not return, she worried for him. She listened, aching for a word of his whereabouts, but the other knights said nothing and she could not ask, so she suffered in silence.

“Ah, Madelaine, do not cry,
chérie.
” With his thumb, he wiped the remainder of her tears away. “I wish I could take you away from this, to a place of laughter and light.”

The tears came harder at his soft words of kindness. She cried into her hands.

“Hush, my sweet.” His voice was so close to her ear his breath warmed her chilled skin. “Hush, Madelaine. Someone will hear,
chérie.
”

She hiccupped, sniffed. “I apologize.”

“Nay. There is no need.” His hand continued to stroke circles on her back, relaxing her to the point that she leaned into him and sighed in pleasure. It had been too long since she’d experienced the healing power of touch. For her, touch had come to signify pain and degradation. She shivered, but pushed those memories away. Not now. She didn’t want them intruding on the only peaceful time she’d found in this den of hell.

“Can you tell me what has you so upset? Has someone hurt you?” His voice started out soft, but hardened toward the end and it warmed her to think she might have one ally in the castle. However sporadic his appearances.

It also reminded her of what had sent her out here and fresh tears welled up, but she sniffed them back, willed them away and decided since she had no pride left and this man seemed to honestly care, she would tell him.

“I am not with child,” she said softly, looking down at her folded hands in shame.

Christien drew back, his hand dropped to his side and Madelaine ached for its comforting presence.
“Pardonnez-moi?”

She took a fortifying breath and looked up at the full moon. “My husband. He will be angry to discover once again I am not with child.” She didn’t tell him how shattered she was to discover the same thing. Even though it was selfish, she so desperately wanted a child to love, who would love her in return. Someone to hold and care for. Something bright in the dismal dark of her existence. Yet month after month, even this pleasure was denied her.

Christien slid off the bench and knelt before her, one knee raised, his elbow resting on it as he stared up into her face. “What will he do when he discovers this?”

She blinked away another tear and shrugged. ’Twas hard to tell what mood he would be in and how he would react to this news. He very much wanted an heir to carry on his name and ’twas forever her failing not to give him the one thing he so desired. He would be furious to be sure. He might take his anger out on her or he might not. She never knew.

Christien took her hands in his and squeezed. “Madelaine—” He stiffened, his head snapping to look over his shoulder.

Madelaine went still. Faintly she heard female laughter and a male voice—her husband’s voice. She bolted to her feet, her terrified gaze darting around the darkness, searching for escape. Her heart thundered in her chest, making it hard to breathe.

Christien rose silently, placing a staying hand on her arm. He pressed a finger to her lips in a bid to remain silent. Slowly, with his body, he moved her toward the deeper shadows of the garden, beneath an archway nearly covered in clinging vines.

The voices drew closer.

Madelaine’s heart beat so heavily she was positive her husband would hear it.

In the shadowed recess of the covered arch, Christien stood with his front pressed against hers, his back to the garden. He wore all black and with his black hair it would be almost impossible to see him.

“Breathe, Madelaine,” he whispered into her ear.

His warm breath caressed her, causing shivers to erupt down her spine and pucker her skin. Suddenly she was hot all over, her body straining toward his in a wantonness she’d never expected. She clutched his arms, needing to anchor herself. He steadied her, leaned closer until their bodies touched from the tips of their toes to her shoulders. To her mortification her nipples hardened into tiny points.

“Madelaine,” he whispered.

Oh, this was wrong.

His lips brushed against her cheek and she closed her eyes.

Suddenly the voice was behind Christien. Madelaine stiffened, the need to run so strong she moved her feet. Christien’s grasp on her tightened in warning. But like a rabbit caught in the sights of a prey, she knew she wouldn’t be able to remain still for long. The urge to run was too keen.

“Well, well, well,” her husband’s voice said. “What have we here?”

Present Day

Christien looked down at Madelaine fast asleep on his couch. Her knees were curled to her chest and a hand was tucked beneath her cheek.

His knees buckled and he sank to the floor beside her. Who was playing such a cruel joke on him? Who knew of the one person who could breach his defenses and leave him powerless?

Slowly he uncurled his fingers and pushed a strand of hair off her cheek. Her lids fluttered but did not open, and his heart turned over.

The warrior in him told him to let her go. To take her home and expel her from his life. Her appearance did not bode well for him or for the treasure he was sworn to protect. At best she was a distraction. At worst she was the catalyst that could start the war to end civilization. He shook his head at the thought. All these centuries he’d wondered when it would begin, when evil would make its move on good. Never in all that time had he imagined his Madelaine would come back to life and be caught in the middle of it. He closed his eyes, the pain too great to bear. But bear it he must. He had to look on her as his enemy until he could prove otherwise.

She sighed, drawing his gaze back to her. The key around her neck caught his attention. ’Twas no more than two inches long but beautifully made, wrought in silver with small diamonds surrounding the bow. He sat back on his heels, his mind suddenly racing.

“Only the key will open it.”

His gaze returned to the necklace. Coincidence that she was wearing a key about her neck? Christien didn’t believe in coincidences.

His jaw clenched in indecision. How had Lucheux found her?

His eyes narrowed. If Madelaine had approached Lucheux with this plan that meant she had prior knowledge of the treasure and what she meant to Christien. Theirs had been a great love and even though he was cynical by nature he could not imagine her using their love against him. Which made him wonder if someone else had conceived of the notion to cross Madelaine’s path with Lucheux’s.

He stood swiftly, frustrated by the questions piling up and the lack of answers.

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the guest bedroom.
Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.
He wouldn’t take her home tonight. He would keep her close and when she awoke in the morning he would get the answers he needed.

At least that was what he told himself. Yet when he laid her on the bed his heart beat a little harder, the blood rushed through his veins a little hotter and his mind wasn’t thinking of her as an enemy, but as the woman he loved long ago.

She blinked and looked up at him with sleepy eyes. “Christien.”

“Yes, my love?”

She sighed and her eyes drifted closed. “Just Christien.”

His heart turned over and he knew if he discovered she was consciously using him to get to the treasure it would destroy him.

Madelaine cried out, ripping Christien from a sound sleep. He rolled from his bed, instinctively reaching for a sword that hadn’t been at his side for several hundred years. He was down the hall before he realized where he was and in her room before the sleep cleared from his brain.

She was standing in the middle of the room, her eyes wild with fright, her body shaking so hard it made her teeth chatter.

“He’ll find us.” She turned wide, blank eyes to him.

She was in the grip of a nightmare.

He rounded the bed, cautiously advancing on her. “Who will find us?”

She put her hands on his chest and pushed. The action didn’t budge him. “You must go,” she whispered desperately.

He froze, belatedly realizing she was speaking Norman French. The breath rushed out of him and for a moment he didn’t move. He hadn’t heard his native tongue in many, many years. Hearing it now plunged his mind into the past so fast it made him dizzy and his pulse beat harder.

She spoke the language fluently, with no hesitation. At first he wondered if Lucheux had coached her in it, but her fluency convinced him otherwise. She wouldn’t speak a newly learned language while immersed in a nightmare.

Automatically he answered in the same language, the words he hadn’t used in centuries rolling off his tongue as if he spoke it every day. “Why must I go,
chérie?
”

She muttered under her breath, a disjointed prayer spoken in Latin. He’d heard her murmur this same prayer one other time. A night etched in his memory of a garden and a woman sobbing over a child that was not to be.

Her head whipped around as if something behind her had startled her.

“Madelaine.”

She shrieked, jumped and tried to push him out the door. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against his body. She desperately squirmed to get free, her feeble attempt ineffectual against his hold. She was so small and so soft he was afraid of hurting her.

“Madelaine, stop this.”

She looked up at him with terror-filled eyes, not seeing him. Her pupils were dilated, her breathing rapid. She twisted, slipping out of his hold. He made a grab for her, but she stepped away.

“You must go, before he finds you here. Oh,
please,
leave!”

Christien closed his eyes. An invisible hand squeezed his heart, tearing at the barely healed scars. ’Twas as if he were reenacting that fateful night all over again. How could she know of it? What was she seeing?

“
Mon amour,
you are dreaming. We are safe. Trust me, Madelaine. We are safe.”

He pulled her against his chest and cradled her head to his shoulder. Sobs racked her body until he shook with them. He pressed his lips into her hair, closing his eyes tight to keep his own tears from falling.

He absorbed her tremors while his mind went back to that night in the garden. When they stood this close. When he felt for the first time her body against his and realized they were made for each other. Two halves of a whole—exactly the way it felt now which made his pain even more acute.

She is real.

His heart squeezed. He desperately wanted to believe she was the real thing, but he couldn’t afford to follow his heart. Until proven otherwise, he had to believe she was his enemy.

Her body went rigid and her breathing hitched, but he continued to hold her.

He began to fall in love with her that night in the garden as she sat on the bench and cried. She had been such an innocent in the harshness of Castle Flandres, such a ray of sunlight when it seemed he’d forever been deprived of sunlight. He’d been drawn to her, inexplicably. Certainly unadvisedly.

Theirs had been a romance doomed for failure, but when they were together, it was simply right.

Just like it felt right holding her like this. When she was in his arms he couldn’t believe she wasn’t a miracle, a dream come true, a prayer answered. She
had
to be. Anything else was inconceivable.

He tore himself away from her, leaving her swaying in the middle of the room, a look of confusion on her face. ’Twas dangerous to think that way, to let his heart rule his mind. Whatever nightmare she was having had nothing to do with that night in the garden.

He stepped away, schooling his features, pushing the memories from his mind to become the guardian he was meant to be. “Do you feel better?”

She nodded, head bent, her fall of mink hair hiding her face. He checked the urge to push the hair away and see into her eyes.

Finally she looked at him, a quick glance before she looked away but enough to tell him how scared and confused she was.

He held his hand out to her. “Come. Let us eat breakfast.”

She hesitated, her gaze flying to him before she tentatively wrapped her fingers around his. He led her to his kitchen where a wide variety of breakfast food awaited. Before retiring for the morning he’d instructed his chef to have food sent up in the hope she’d still be here, but even he was surprised at the abundance.

Madelaine stared blankly at the spread. Her hair was in disarray, as if she’d been well loved. The nightmare he’d woken her from still had its claws in her.

She sat at the breakfast bar, her movements wooden, automatic. Christien poured them each a tall mug of steaming coffee from a carafe, nudging hers closer when she didn’t immediately take it.

He waited until she took a few sips, and forced himself to wait until she took a few more. She was looking a little more awake and was eyeing the food hungrily. She slathered a bagel with cream cheese and took a big bite. His gaze followed the movement of the tip of her tongue as it licked the cheese from the corner of her mouth, his body responding with a ferocity he hadn’t felt in a long time.

In fact he remembered the last time he’d felt this type of intense need. ’Twas his last night with Madelaine.

He shoved the thought away because it brought too much pain and heartache. Their entire relationship had been nothing but pain and heartache if he was truthful. They’d been foolish. Stupid, would be a more accurate term. They had no business conversing let alone becoming so well acquainted, yet he wouldn’t trade those times for anything.

“Tell me about the dream,” he said after she finished her bagel.

Her gaze slid away. His anger resurfaced, nearly consuming him. He pushed off his stool to refill his coffee, surprised to see his hand tremble from fury. Damn her. And damn him for wanting to believe in her. She was nothing but a conniving liar. A fake. Suddenly he hated her. Hated her for who she looked like and the memories she’d dragged out of him. Hated her for distracting him at a time when he could ill afford distractions.

But most of all he hated her for making him feel again. And just as quickly as the hate came, it disappeared, leaving him empty and confused.

“Who did you want me to run from?” He took a sip of coffee, swallowing the hot brew quickly and feeling the burn all the way to his gut.

Her face paled and her lips thinned into a tight line. He wanted to shake the answer out of her, but knew that would only scare her and regardless of his anger, he didn’t want to frighten her any more than she already was.

“Don’t you think after all that has happened you can trust me?”

“I trust you.”

He wanted to laugh at her outrageous lie. “Do you?”

She hopped off the stool. Her face went from pale to red in a heartbeat, surprising him. “I’m trying,” she said between clenched teeth. “Can’t you see I’m trying? I don’t know who to trust.” She ran a hand through her mussed hair and stormed out of the room.

He followed slowly, giving her time, intrigued by her display of anger.
I don’t know who to trust.
What an interesting choice of words.

He found her in the living room staring up at the sword hanging on the wall above the fireplace. At one time it had been an extension of himself. He’d carried it everywhere and even slept with it. Many an enemy’s blood had dripped with it. Nowadays he barely looked at it, but looking now he realized he missed the weight of it in his hand, the way it sang through the air toward an enemy’s head. A lot could be said for modern times, but ’twas medieval times he was born to and medieval times he yearned for. Especially when justice was called for.

“Tell me about the dream,” he said casually, taking a sip of coffee.

“Which dream?”

He looked at her sharply. “There’s been more than one?”

She huffed out a shaky laugh and looked at him with haunted eyes. “Oh, yes. Many more than one.” She nodded toward the sword. “That was in my dream.”

He looked up at the sword as if he’d never seen it before. She dreamt of his sword?
It’s not surprising. She was intrigued by it last night so she incorporated it into her dream.

“I dreamt of it before I came here.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His brain went blank and he could do nothing but wait for what she had to say next.

“I dream of you, too.”

The fine hairs on his arms rose. Slowly he put his mug down on the nearest table. The unexpected turn of the conversation left him floundering. A sensation he was unaccustomed to and didn’t like.

“Tell me,” he said softly.

Her eyes filled with tears and her defenses broke under the flood. ’Twas as if he were seeing the real Madelaine Alexander for the first time without pretenses or lies on her lips.

“I saw her,” she whispered. “I saw her in the hall. With a dark-haired knight that looked like you. I was there, yet I wasn’t. I was watching, yet I was inside her, feeling her excitement at speaking to you and her fear of being discovered by her husband. She…” Her breath hitched. Tears raced down her cheeks. “She was drawn to you. Attracted. She knew she shouldn’t be. She knew she’d be punished if her attraction was discovered.”

Christien closed his eyes and bit back a groan of torture. She was describing the night they first met.
Mon Dieu.
What was happening here? Where did these memories of hers come from?

Lucheux?

Had Lucheux planted them in her mind?

“She had no love in her life,” she was saying. “No happiness. No laughter. She missed that the most. The laughter.”

Christien made a low sound. Memories came pouring out. Emotions he’d buried when he buried the treasure and made a pledge to protect it for the rest of eternity. He felt his Madelaine’s pain from so long ago. He’d tried to shield her from it, to give her laughter and happiness, but his visits were sporadic and his attempts had to be covert.

He could do little save whisking her away. But where would he have taken her? He was a landless knight, paid by the Knights Templar and the money he was earning would have disappeared if he’d taken her from the powerful influence of Count Flandres. Not to mention she was cousin to King Philip. Christien would have lost his head if he’d been caught and where would that have left her?

“Her husband found them talking.” She was breathing too fast. “She knew she was going to be punished, but she didn’t regret talking to the kind knight.” A long, low moan escaped her and she pressed a fist to her mouth, her eyes huge, unseeing. Or seeing too much.

“Madelaine.
Arrête
.
 
Stop. Please.”