Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) (20 page)

Sérolène’s eyes danced with curiosity. “Oh? Well do enlighten me, great philosopher.”

Nicolas kissed her forehead, not at all minding her playful tone. “We think to find meaning in our lives after we die, as if heaven were the answer for everything we suffer or experience on this earth. But I know what heaven is. It’s right here in this moment, in those beautiful blue-grey eyes, those wondrous sweet lips. There is no greater thing in life than loving you and being loved by you in return.”

Sérolène felt his words pierce through her heart and light it with warmth. She sighed with longing. Nicolas made her feel so loved. She never knew she could feel as happy as she did when she was with him. An uncontrollable urge came over her to kiss him again, a compulsion to which she at once submitted. Whenever they were together, the sadness she had so often experienced in her childhood was unable in any way to trouble her. For the first time in her life, she felt joyously, unambiguously, unconquerably happy.

“That’s the most beautiful thing I believe I’ve ever heard, Nico.”

“Not nearly as beautiful as the letter you wrote to me. I only received it from Francis on the day of the accident in the Cap. Just a moment after I read it, the team of horses surged past me. I don’t know what compelled me to give chase when I did. Perhaps your spirit and your love called me to ride to your aid.”

“So that explains why you didn’t reply earlier! I had worried perhaps my words did not please you, or you had forgotten me.”

“Forgotten you? Such a thing must be impossible. My heart is yours. My soul also, and anything else you would have of me. I have need for only you…”

Nicolas bent down to kiss Sérolène again, their lips lingering together for a sweet eternity. A cry of alarm suddenly cut short their stolen moment of bliss. The cry had come from Julienne. Sérolène broke away to rush to her
cousine’s
side.

“Julie! Julie! What’s happened?”

When Sérolène reached her
cousine’s
side
,
Julienne sat on the grass, holding onto her foot. Francis knelt beside her. Julienne winced in pain.

Sérolène was of breath from running “What happened, Julie?”

Julienne grimaced. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, but it seems I’ve slipped and twisted my ankle.”

Nicolas ambled over from the swing to join the party, his cane sinking deep into the soft ground as he followed after Sérolène.

“Nicolas, will you wait here while I run back and fetch a light carriage to ferry her back down to the house?” Francis asked.

“Of course. Can you stand on it at all? Perhaps if we assisted you back to the swing, you might be more comfortable,” Nicolas suggested.

“I think I can make it that far,” Julienne agreed to try.

Once Julienne was helped to the swing, Francis set off at a brisk trot to bring help, which arrived nearly thirty minutes later in the form of a two-person light carriage driven by Francis from the twin seat, and pulled by a single horse. Julienne was bundled into the calèche alongside the comte, and the emergency conveyance set off for the château at once, leaving Nicolas and Sérolène to follow behind on foot. Above them, the sky had begun to fill with ominous clouds. A rainstorm threatened to catch them out if they did not hurry and find shelter. From the heights of the overlook, Nicolas surveyed the swiftest route back to the château.

“Just our luck to be caught out in a squall. We’ll need to make a slight detour and take the left-hand route down toward the fields. The way we came up will be impassable if the sky opens up as it looks to. Let’s hurry, Séro. There are some old refinery buildings along the route once used for processing sugar. We might need to shelter in them to avoid being drenched.”

Nicolas started off with the aid of his cane. Sérolène took Nicolas’ arm to lend him support.

“Nico, will you be able to make it without exerting yourself too much?”

“I’ll be fine, my love. Mind your way on the descent, the ground is very soft in some parts.”

They made their way down as far as the branching path Nicolas had pointed out, just as the first warning droplets sprinkled down from the clouds. Nicolas pressed on toward the refinery, reaching the concrete shelter of an abandoned shed before the winds rose and the rain began to fall in earnest. He stood outside under the small overhang of the rusting tin roof, coaxing Sérolène further inside amidst the old tools and parts to avoid the many leaks in the roof. Removing his jacket, Nicolas draped it over Sérolène’s head and shoulders, then returned to the doorway in just his shirt and waistcoat, the rising wind leaving him partially exposed to the incoming torrent.

Nicolas watched the coming storm in silence. He wondered how long they might be trapped by the weather and how best to make their present location known to the rest of the household. A pair of long, delicate arms wrapped themselves around his torso to draw Nicolas back from his musings. The soft press of Sérolène’s body as she hugged him from behind, derailed all considerations beyond the threshold of their connected flesh. Nicolas grasped Sérolène’s hand, raising it to his lips to bathe it with a tender homage of kisses.

“You’d best stay well back if you want to stay dry, Séro. It’s going to come down hard.”

A clap of thunder added an exclamation point to his prediction. Nicolas felt Sérolène tremble. He turned and enfolded Sérolène in his arms, the shelter of his huge torso providing comfort against the storm.

“I don’t like being back there on my own. It’s dark and unpleasant and teems with crawling things. Won’t you keep me company, Nicolas? Besides, you’ll be drenched if you stand here.”

“I can’t go back with you. It wouldn’t be proper,” Nicolas said.

Sérolène gazed up at him, the motes in her eyes the same color as the darkened sky. She regarded Nicolas with doubt and worry in nearly equal parts.

“Proper? You’ll be soaked to the bone where you’re standing. Have you forgotten you’re still recovering from a serious injury? If you don’t come further inside, I’m going to stay here with you.”

A gust of wind sent horizontal sheets of water in toward them. Nicolas used his bulk to shield Sérolène, stroking her cheek as he tried to reason with her. “Please, Séro. I know you mean well, but you must take more care. Your reputation might be questioned if we were found inside together. I could not possibly risk such a thing. If you love me, then please do me the honor of allowing me to protect you. I beg you.”

She finally yielded to him. “I shall yield, Nicolas. But on one condition. You must kiss me first. And not those brotherly pecks you’ve been giving me up to now. Show me how you really love me and I’ll stay back there.”

“Séro…”

“That’s my condition, Monsieur. Take it or leave it.”

Nicolas extended his arms to take Sérolène’s face in his hands. Rivulets of water streaked down his forehead, spilling droplets which melted across his brow. He drew her nearer until less than the space of a breath separated them, leaving them both poised on the thin lip of desire. Then he let himself fall. His mouth pressed against hers—soft, sweet, ardent. He traced the outline of her lips with the tip of his tongue, taking his time, savoring the taste of her, still holding back, letting the aching want build for both of them till it rose up like a great wave and he could no longer ride it, but tumbled helplessly down, swept forward by the force of his need.

His tongue plunged into her mouth—scalding hot, burning a path of molten want from her mouth straight down to her loins. She arched back, consumed in the inferno of his longing. Her blood bubbled with sweet want—hips, loins, mons, pressed against the sinewed rock altar of his body. Her arms fell away—limp, powerless. Her whole body melted and rose skyward, till she was no longer flesh but the essence of light, need, desire, love. Her soul yielded itself up like a pagan sacrifice—the containing vessel of flesh immolated on a pyre of pure unimaginable ecstasy.

When he pulled back from the brink of sweet oblivion, it felt like a small death. Nicolas stumbled backward toward the entrance to let the rain lash and slap at his face. He craned his head back toward the heavens, breathing in short chafing bursts, like a bellows gasping for air.

Sérolène leaned back against the wall of the shed—panting, breathless, her legs trembling—still lost in the brief glimpse of heaven to which Nicolas’ kiss had taken her. She watched Nicolas as he stood by the doorway, his garments soaked through—a second taut skin which now exposed rather than covered, the magnificent chiseled form underneath. She pressed her head against the cool dark concrete of the shed, her eyes feasting on the chevalier.
Dear God, can there be anything more beautiful?

“That was sublime, Nico. I felt the breath of heaven on my face, its touch upon my lips...” 

Nicolas turned to look at Sérolène, saw the want still smoldering in her eyes. The chevalier knew then, beyond any doubt, that the fire burning in his chest would never be extinguished as long as the vicomtesse was alive. Both it and he would forever burn for this raven haired muse, the invocation of all his desires. He was doomed to be held in thrall and no power on earth could break the chain of bondage, for no implement divine nor conceived by man, had ever been fashioned which could shatter the self-forged shackles of love. A part of him was wary enough to be afraid of this. He ignored it. Because to be bound to this woman was to submit wholly to the perfection of love. And what, under all the heavens, could equal so sublime a state of being? 

Sérolène looked through the wells of deep green, whose beauty belonged in stained cathedral glass and not in the eyes of any man, and read the meaning of his desire. She understood the vastness of the empire she now administered. It was a realm of two indivisible souls. A realm in which she reigned supreme, because of his own free will, he was hers, wholly hers. She would let nothing tear it asunder, no matter the consequences. Her heart soared with joy, and the turn of her mouth began to show it.

“What’s so amusing?” Nicolas said.

It was just something to say while he watched her, wanted her, staggered drunk with love, still barely able to stand.

Sérolène pointed at the wisps of rising vapor above his head. “You’re steaming.” 

Nicolas closed his eyes, turning his face toward the torrent. “Is it any wonder? Now you see how I burn for you.”

Her eyes drifted along his body. She noticed the gentle curve in his breeches below the waist. Her body responded in kind, small points rising under the fabric of her dress, a moist warm want growing in her loins, rising to tug the strings of her heart, a feeling only awakened since she had met Nicolas…and sampled the wonder of his sweet kisses. “Oh my dearest heart. Yours isn’t the only fire burning.”

Nicolas came forward and took her hand, his passion still strong but no longer a wild thing—under his control now. A flash of lightning split the air with a loud hiss and then a crackling, popping sound. A clap of thunder followed, rumbling across the valley. Sérolène tensed in fear. Nicolas raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “It’s all right, my love. I won’t let anything harm you. I promise.”

Adrift in a roiling sea of want, Sérolène felt becalmed. Nicolas was a man who kept his promises. Large ones and small. There was a noise in the distance. Nicolas turned his head in search of the source.

“Horses, my love, we’re in luck. I worried we might be stranded here for some time. It’s difficult to make the climb to the overlook in such weather, but Francis must have anticipated we’d take the route down toward the refinery and sent a coach to meet us. Wait here and I’ll go and flag it down.”

“Must you leave me alone? There are spiders and other things in here,” Sérolène pouted, a nervous edge to her voice.

“I promise I shan’t be gone long. I’d prefer to remain with you but we can’t stay out here much longer. I’ll leave you my cane as defense against the crawlers.”

Nicolas pressed his lips against Sérolène’s, not in farewell but as a mark of encouragement. Before she could protest, he set off running. As he had expected, there was a vehicle at the edge of an open field, framed in silhouette against the horizon. Nicolas ran as fast as he could to close the distance, his boots making loud squishing sounds as he trudged through the high grass and mud.

“Hollaaaa!” Nicolas shouted, waving his arms to catch the attention of the driver.

The storm swallowed his cries. The driver of the coach neither slowed, nor turned. As he ran, Nicolas could see the vehicle was not one which belonged to the estate. The coach was shabby and in need of repair and a pair of thin and very sorry looking horses were pulling it.

Despite his efforts, Nicolas was making little progress in hailing the driver of the coach, or in closing the gap between them. A bolt of lightning struck a tree he had just run past, splitting it in half with a loud crack and setting fire to the trunk. The coach plodded on, making a slow turn away from him and the now burning tree. Nicolas stopped running. Sérolène would have seen the lightning strike from her higher vantage point and might be worried about him. The burning ache in his lungs and the soreness in his weakened legs persuaded him to abandon the chase. He bent over to catch his breath, then turned to make his way back toward the shed, when he heard a shout. He looked over his shoulder. The coach had stopped. The driver must have at last seen the burning tree and Nicolas standing nearby.