Stormfire (68 page)

When the countess
de Vigny
swept into the room and curtsied gracefully before him,
Artois
knew why Louis's usual, clerklike timidity had disintegrated. The young woman's incredible beauty was like that of a subtly perfumed winter rose. The ermine-lined hood, lowered in respect for his prestige, revealed an exquisite face with skin so translucent the pulse of her throat was a faint blue beneath the skin. Ebony satin hair swept up in a sleek chignon emphasized her hypnotic eyes. No trace of the impudent girl in the park was apparent now. An aristocrat of the
ancien régime
stood before him, vintage of lineage apparent in refinement and regal pride of carriage. What a queen she would have made, he thought regretfully as he murmured his greetings. Although he assumed she would shortly begin a plea for her father, happily, the young countess seemed disinclined to discuss the viscount, and conversed with quiet intelligence about the new regime in France.

The ten-minute audience stretched. As there would be no second interview,
Artois
found himself reluctant to dismiss her. Her claret velvet gown was strikingly effective against the gray stone walls with their heavy, dour tapestries. He detested Edinburgh, and the dank castle in particular. Presbyterians were a grim lot. Catherine
de Vigny
was like a breath of Parisian summer, warm and lulling to the senses. Even her skin seemed subtly sun warmed. As a man, he was interested; as a prince, he was wary. Undoubtedly, the girl was her father's tool, and
Artois
knew enough of Enderly's guile to suspect a cobra under the velvet; but her directness and absence of flirtation gave him pause.

He heard himself offering to take her cloak. Her head inclined gracefully as he removed the fur-lined pelisse from her shoulders. A tempting nape and shoulder urged a man to brush them with his lips. A slender, swanlike throat and
delicate
collarbones curved above lovely breasts, creamy and silken in their low
décolletage.
It had been a long time since
Artois
had desired a woman at first sight, yet this one had something indefinable. The mouth and the way she moved suggested a deep and conscious sensuality. She appeared to be a woman for whom men held no secrets, yet who would draw them like a flame, promising realization of secret longings, not all of them of the body. A madonna. A woman. How could the frigid loins of an Enderly produce such a creature? She sensed his keen scrutiny and turned to gaze up at him. Eyes a man could kill for, if only to see himself alone reflected in their depths. She seemed to know what he was thinking, yet while there was reserve, there was compassion, too. "I see now, Catherine, I was foolish to propose you as a mistress to my son," he remarked quietly in French. "A tsar, perhaps; an autocrat; but never Louis."

"Louis is a nice boy," she replied gently.

"Yes, the princess will suit him well." He studied her. "You must resent the offer being withdrawn."

"I never knew of it, Your Grace, so there was no disappointment."

Artois's eyebrows lifted slightly. "I assumed your father would encourage the match. I would have married you to a duke: Guise, probably."

"The viscount was honored by your consideration, as was I upon learning of it recently, after acceptance was impossible. I have been absent from England for the past three years, you see."

"Without communication with your father?" he asked, startled.

"I preferred then, as I do now, to keep those years private from everyone."

He became blunt. "Even at the cost of your reputation,
Comtesse?"

"Even so."

No cub of Enderly's could so completely lack ambition. His wariness mounted.

Deliberately, he changed the subject as he guided her through the royal apartments, pointing out masterpieces of art among the appointments. He paused casually by a
Louis XIV clock.
"Your father obtained this piece for me. Is it not magnificent?"

She touched the fine inlay of the case. "Forgive me, monsieur, but Mother was a gifted collector; she taught me a great deal. The dark wood in this inlay comes from the South American interior; it was unknown in Europe until about fifty years ago." She turned. "An obvious discrepancy to a dealer, monsieur. The viscount would never present such a piece to you. There must be some mistake."

"There is no mistake. Lesser pieces, presented at auction in London, were so obviously fraudulent the dealers nearly caned the auctioneer senseless." He watched her, waiting to see which way she would jump.

"The viscount may be desperate for money, but he's not idiot enough to try to gain it this way. Fortunes may be recovered; reputations, rarely." She looked at him levelly. "Possibly you know him well enough to realize that power far more than money lures him. He has little real interest in possessions, only in the position they support."

Artois
answered with equal frankness, "You defend your father's reputation well, Countess. How do you defend your own?"

"I offer no defense, monsieur. I have nothing to regret."

"Even though you may shortly be unable to retain any semblance of position?"

She smiled slightly. "I prefer obscurity."

"What do you want of me?" he asked softly, his hooded eyes unreadable.

"My life, monsieur."

He frowned. "Are you in danger?"

"This December twenty-third I become sole heiress to the
Vigny
fortune. I have reason to believe John Enderly murdered my mother to retain that inheritance. He might even murder me. He's not my real father; exposure of that fact will remove him from all claim to my estate."

"I see." His tone was skeptical, but he was intrigued. Though the tale was wild, his experience of Enderly's ruthless cunning led him to believe it held more than a thread of possibility.

"Without his knowledge, I married two years ago. Although I separated from my husband without scandal, I am now with child. That child must be protected."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Extend Enderly some reassurance of friendship and proof of regard for me. Under your protection, I would be invulnerable. No amount of money would lead him to risk your wrath if he thought his future depended on your favor. If he also believes my child is yours, the baby and I would be safe forever."

He marveled at her cool audacity. "And if I refuse?"

"Then, if I should die before the age of twenty-one, I ask you to make public my parentage; also to become executor of my estate."

He let out a faint whistle. "You ask a great deal. How do I know this tale isn't some incredible concoction to reestablish your father's position? My own honor would be forfeit."

"My death will provide proof, monsieur."

"You wager for high stakes, Countess," he said slowly. "What have you to put on the table?"

She offered her lips. Without hesitation, he crushed his mouth down on hers.

He kept her the night. He was an expert lover, but with none of his many mistresses had he felt this need to infuse his soul into a woman's body as he drew both pleasure and tenderness from her. This woman was sad; he knew it and that he could do nothing to dispel it. So, he had loved her with his man's body and heart. For the time, the prince had been gone; only warmth and need had remained. When she had cried out softly, he knew she had not been pretending. She had loved and been loved. Now she gave without reserve, without cheating.

By the morning light, their faces showed the effects of passion and lack of sleep, flesh drawn against the bone.
Artois
watched Catherine use his brush to untangle her hair, sending it into a cloud about her naked shoulders. Her spine was straight, the slender back curving to small buttocks. She was pale, mouth still swollen from his kisses. Her breasts lifted as she shook out her hair and began to twist it up into a chignon. As she pinned, he kissed her nape. "I took you many times and I still want you, yet you haven't asked whether I shall give you your desire."

"You fulfill my desire, Charles," she answered quietly. "As for the other, you will or will not help me. You owe me nothing."

"Would you have given yourself to me if your life and fortune weren't at stake?"

Catherine was silent for a moment. Sooner or later, she must ask for her beloved's life. To try to conceal Sean's importance to her was pointless;
Artois
was no fool. More important, she had already come to respect him too much to treat him like one. "I love another man; I always will. We can never join in flesh as you and I have. He is forever denied to me, while you may fill my nights, my days with life, perhaps love." She carried his hand to her cheek. "I want you to want me. I need you as a man."

"The child is his, isn't it?"

"Yes."

He turned away. "As a man, I wish you were more capable of lying. It seems I must be content with scraps from another man's feast." She said nothing. He touched her mouth. "Isn't your life worth a small deceit?"

"His safety as well as mine depends on your help. He may be imperiled even now, perhaps dead. Before coming here, I was prepared to both lie and whore to save him. Now, knowing you, I can only beg for him and my child, for I love them more than my life."

"Scruples are ill-suited to whores, Countess," was the bitter reply. His hawkish faced resumed its usual polite mask. "However, my compliments to the fellow. He's a most fortunate man."

"No," she whispered. "He's not lucky at all."

A white glare of light needled under Sean's lashes. He stirred, unwilling to leave the quiet, protecting dark, then more restlessly, feeling restraints on his limbs. His back began to sting annoyingly and he jerked weakly twisting his head to see what held him. Leather straps bound his wrists, loosely chained to an iron bed; his ankles were strapped as well. He strained at the fetters, rattling the bed. Then, feeling the heavy, ominous bandage at his groin, the Irishman moaned in his throat like an animal. He went limp, silent, helpless sobs welling up.

A shadow moved against his closed eyes and a hand touched his shoulder. Sean's streaming eyes flew open, his teeth bared in a snarl. "Damn you, butchers! Kill me and be done with it!"

"Easy, lad." A brown-haired, middle-aged man with spectacles pushed him down, not ungently, although Sean could not have fought him. The fight was gone. He lay inert, face averted to hide tears he was helpless to either stop or wipe away. Like a woman, he thought hopelessly; not even that.

"It's not so bad as you think," the man said. "My name is Thatcher Marcus and I've been medical officer in several prisons. Sergeant Worthy knows his business; he's nearly as deft a surgeon as I am, for all those meaty fists of his. You're lucky to be alive. Many men die of shock or hemorrhage; some simply resolve to die. I had a fight, pulling you through."

"Do you expect gratitude? Do you think I
want
to live like this?"

The hand was at his shoulder again. "Do you think I like seeing men treat other men like beasts? I cannot unshackle a man's body, I can only heal it. His degraded spirit must be left to God."

"God!" The man on the bed laughed hoarsely. "God is a fiend! There
is
no difference between God and the devil. He's the arch neuter, uncaring, unfeeling . . ." His laughter dissolved into a strangled groan.

"You're not a neuter. Haven't you realized why you're still alive?"

The dark head turned slowly. "Worthy cut into me. I felt it."