A Promise of Tomorrow

by Aston, Alexa

  Both men suppressed smiles and shook their heads. Donatien looked to Ashby and said, “If it’s not the way the Bouchards did it a hundred years ago, then it will never occur at Branais. Pierre is more set in his ways than an old man such as Robert Bouchard. Now mind you, the Bouchards produce a fine merlot and a very decent cabernet but our way at Monteville has always been to continue to strive for something better.”

  Ashby inclined his head to the trio gathered around him. “I understand. I do thank you for hearing out Lord Montayne’s proposal.” He slipped the scroll under his arm. “I think I will return to the Bouchards now. Nothing else holds me here.”

  He looked at Jean-Paul and added, “Please give my best to Marielle. I know she is still resting. I would not want to disturb her. She was an excellent hostess during my stay. I hope to see you all again someday.”

  Jean-Paul walked him to the stairs. “You are welcome any time, fitz Waryn. Lord Montayne, as well. I remember him from his trip to France several years ago. He knew nothing of the grape when he arrived in Bordeaux. He left with quite a bit of knowledge.”

  “I will pass along your compliment, Comte. Good day to you.”

  Ashby went up the stairs and packed the few items he brought with him. Most of his belongings had remained at Chateau Branais during his quick visit to Monteville. He hated leaving without wishing Marielle goodbye but he thought it best. Marc obviously had seen nothing untoward or he would have spoken to his brother by now. Ashby thought it easier to leave quietly without drawing any further attention his and Marielle’s way.

  He also knew if he saw her again, his willpower would crumble. He would take her into his arms and do much more than kiss her. He wanted to possess her. That one kiss had already catapulted him into eternal damnation, for he now coveted another man’s wife—and would until his dying day. He would even go to Hell gladly, the taste of Marielle always with him, for there could be no Heaven for him without her by his side.

  Ashby wondered if he was forever condemned to be attracted to other men’s wives. Madeleine had been married to Henri de Picassaret when he first met her. Not that she let that little tidbit escape. No, without knowing whom she spoke with on a deserted road to London, she boldly told him and Garrett that she was wife to Lord Montayne, not realizing that Garrett was Lord Montayne.

  She might as well have been wed to Garrett. Ashby had never seen his friend become so intrigued and so possessive of a woman in such a short time as he did with Madeleine. Ashby hadn’t stood a chance with Madeleine and had, in fact, moved aside with haste in order to enjoy watching Garrett’s pursuit of the mysterious French maid.

  Yet despite his deep friendship with Madeleine these last few years, Ashby increasingly found himself attracted to her in recent months. It was one of the reasons he leaped at the chance to come to France and put distance between them.

  Now he’d met another French wife and fallen madly, utterly in love with her. He wondered if he always wanted the unattainable or if it was simply a strange quirk of fate. Regardless, he was gentleman enough not to act upon his impulses, no matter how they sang through his veins at the moment. Marielle’s life was at Monteville with Jean-Paul de la Tresse, be it for better or worse. He would not come between the husband and wife.

  Mayhap he should have joined the Church after all, he mused. That would have ruled out the possibility of marriage forever.

  Ashby took one final glance about the room where he had savored thoughts of Marielle most of last night. He closed the chamber’s door behind him and turned only to find his way blocked.

  “You would leave? Not even say au revoir to me?” Marielle’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  His mouth grew dry. All flippant remarks died upon his lips. God in His Heaven, he wanted this woman.

  She looked in both directions then slipped her hand past his side, opening the door he’d just shut. He knew what she intended yet he was powerless to stop her. Ashby willingly backed into the empty chamber. Marielle followed him and eased the door closed behind her.

  He dropped the satchel in his hands and moved toward her, pulling her into his arms even as his mouth came down hard upon hers.

  Chapter Nine

  Marc had accused her of playing with fire but Marielle suddenly knew what he meant. Her body was ablaze at Ashby’s touch, molding itself to him as desire rushed through her. He groaned deep in his throat, causing shivers to dance up her spine.

  He tore his lips from hers and trailed fiery kisses down the column of her throat. Her head fell back and he greedily took in more, then brought her even more tightly to him.

  Breathless, Marielle wanted to tell him she loved him, wanted to shout it from the watchtower over the valley below. Yet his mouth was on hers again as he turned them. He pushed her against the door, his feet straddling her on both sides, trapping her, dominating her, causing her very blood to sing. His hands moved to her waist, the fingers slowly kneading her like a cat before they crept up to her breasts.

  At his touch, the nipples flared to a life of their own, standing erect, aching for his hands on them. He moved over them gently yet firmly, his touch expert. What was she to expect? A man like Ashby fitz Waryn must have had many lovers over the years yet he was the kind of man who would please as much as he wanted to be pleased.

  Slowly his thumbs began a circle that lingered lovingly, magically. They would have driven her mad had it not been for his mouth still on hers, his tongue probing, dancing, smooth as silk against her own.

  Then, as suddenly as his onslaught had begun, it ended, his hands releasing her, his body moving away. Marielle’s knees buckled without his support. He caught her before she fell, bringing her against him again, murmuring nonsense against her hair, stroking it, assuring her.

  Finally, he stopped. He gripped her elbows and pushed her slightly away from him, studying her with a look of sadness no woman should ever have to face.

  “Oh, Sweet Jesu,” he whispered, his eyes roaming over her, as if he were memorizing her every feature. He bent and softly brushed his lips against hers once more and then stepped back.

  “Forgive me, Marielle,” he said, his words so low she strained to hear them. “God forgive us both.”

  With that, he reached down and retrieved his things and left the room.

  Ashby was gone.

  Shaken, Marielle stumbled to the bed he’d slept upon. She lay upon it, wanting her head to touch where his had rested. His fresh, clean scent assaulted her nostrils. The lump in her throat rose until she wouldn’t have been able to speak if spoken to.

  Gently, Marielle brought her fingertips to swollen her lips. She ran them over and over where he had kissed her. She longed to cry but, strangely, no tears fell. It was as if she floated through a dream world.

  Silently, she stood and collected herself before she moved toward the door. She opened it carefully and looked out. She saw no one in the dim hallway. She made her way back to her own chamber without being seen and crawled into bed.

  Dry-eyed, she stared at the ceiling and wished her husband were dead.

  *

  Two days had passed since Ashby fitz Waryn’s departure from Monteville. To Marielle, it felt more like two decades. She did not come down that first night, thankful the healer ordered bed rest after her fall. Jean-Paul chose not to visit her and she was grateful for his absence by her bedside. She didn’t want his image to dispel Ashby’s. Marielle spent the night concocting wild daydreams of her and Ashby together, forever, living with adoring children surrounding them and the goodwill of all.

  She awakened from a restless sleep to an ache that was more than physical. She thought it would be simpler to rip her heart from her breast than experience the pain she experienced. To make matters worse, Jean-Paul arrived in her chamber that afternoon. Her head pounded from lying abed. He opened the door that connected her chamber to the solar and inquired politely after her health.

  Could he not look at her and see she was dying inside?


  She courteously responded that she was better without much thought. Then he’d snapped his fingers and a chill rushed through her.

  “I am so happy you have fully recovered, ma chère.”

  His endearment sickened her as much as the gesture. When her husband snapped in such a manner, he wanted her physically.

  Wordlessly, as if following her executioner, Marielle left her bed and joined him in his. At his first touch, she withdrew in mind and spirit. She lay there, unmoving, unemotional, while he rutted away, oblivious that she was miles away. She had never loved him and, after years, no longer even cared for him. He simply fulfilled his needs, using her, with no thought to her pleasure.

  After he finished, he rolled off her. “You seem in much better health now. I will expect you to join Marc and me at supper tonight.”

  With another wave of his hand, she left him and returned to her chamber. She immediately called for hot water and scrubbed herself raw everywhere he had touched.

  Now she sat upon the dais, a wooden smile plastered across her face. Not that Jean-Paul would notice it. He talked and drank and ate without needing any response from her or Marc. Marielle nodded occasionally, which was all Jean-Paul asked of her.

  Before the servants brought the last course, she asked him, “Would you mind if I retire early? I still am feeling out of sorts.”

  He studied her a moment before answering. “You do seem a bit pale. You must not rush things, Wife. Get abed now and in the morning, I am sure you will have regained your full strength.”

  In a surprising gesture, he kissed her on the cheek and added, “I know how you love your tapestry-weaving. I would not want to keep you from it too long.”

  Marielle held her sanity and gave him a vacuous smile. If she had her way, she’d run through the castle this very minute and rip down every tapestry on its walls. Instead, she curtsied and left the great hall.

  Once in her bedchamber, she undressed and climbed into bed, despite the fact that she knew sleep would be impossible. Her bed was fast becoming a refuge for her, an escape from the world. Maybe Hell would be living this day over and over again for eternity—the emptiness inside, enduring Jean-Paul’s touch, the mindless supper.

  She must have drifted off because she woke with a sudden start. Jean-Paul moaned, loudly enough for her to hear from the next room. Marielle tossed on a dressing gown and padded softly over to listen at the door. Another groan sounded and she knew her husband was in severe pain. She tightened the dressing gown about her and opened the door to go to him. A candle still glowed next to his bed. Marielle could see a fine sheen of sweat across his brow.

  “What ails you, Jean-Paul?” she asked gently.

  “Nothing,” he growled back, his disposition sour. Since they’d been wed, he’d only fallen ill twice. He’d been surly and mean both times so Marielle kept her distance and let the healer tend to his complaints. Only afterward, when he was weakened by the effects of fever and vomiting, had she ventured to sit by him.

  Tonight looked to be much of the same.

  “Shall I call the healer to look in on you?”

  He winced with pain. His stomach gurgled loudly. “No!” he roared. “It’s just some stomach ailment. I will simply sit upon my chamber pot and let it flow forth from me. Be gone. I have no need of you or any healer.”

  Marielle flinched at his harsh words but tried not to take them to heart. Her father was much the same as her husband, not one to abide pain well or treat those around him with decency when ill.

  “Call if you have need of me.”

  She backed away and returned to her own room, leaving the door slightly ajar so she could hear him if he cried out for her. She doffed her dressing gown and climbed into bed, lying there listening for him. She heard grunts and groans for over half an hour before the sounds subsided. Marielle crept back and peeked through the slit in the door.

  Jean-Paul lay on his back, snoring softly, his face still contorted with the remaining pain he must feel. She was reassured that the worst of his discomfort had passed and shut the door completely before returning to bed.

  Exhausted, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

  A sudden shaking roused her. Marielle opened eyes heavy with sleep to find a dark shape hovering over her. A faint light came from Jean-Paul’s room.

  “He is dead,” the shadowy figure hissed at her. “I hope you are satisfied.”

  Marielle sat up, pulling the bedclothes tightly around her. She was very aware that it was Marc that stood next to her bed and that he held her dressing gown in his hands.

  “Put this on.” He tossed the wrap at her but made no move to turn away. Awkwardly, Marielle tried to bring it under the covers so she could slide it about her. In disgust, he finally walked away, back into Jean-Paul’s solar.

  Marielle quickly slipped on the dressing gown and tied its belt about her waist. She followed Marc and gasped when she entered the room.

  Jean-Paul still lay on his back, his tongue protruding from his mouth, thick and discolored. His eyes were wide, staring blankly, fear etched into them. Marielle bit back the scream that threatened to fight free. She went to her husband’s bedside and silently said a quick prayer as she drew the sheet over him.

  “What happened?” Marc demanded.

  “I . . . I do not know,” she stammered. “He came to bed with stomach pains last night. He was irritable, as usual, when he was in less than full health.”

  She pushed a hand through her hair and shook her head. “He was up awhile with the pains and then he fell asleep. He was snoring peacefully when I last looked in on him.”

  Her brother-in-law looked at her grimly. “You know it was poison.”

  Marielle’s heart lurched. She had guessed Jean-Paul’s heart had finally given out. “Are you certain?” she asked.

  “They will think it was you, Marielle.”

  “Me?” A thousand thoughts that whirled through her mind came to a screeching halt. “I did not kill my husband, Marc.” She swallowed. “I did not kill him.”

  “It won’t look like that to the world, my dearest sister. You have never cared a whit for my brother. You flirted outrageously with fitz Waryn. I would think that some might even surmise you broke your marriage vows for the Englishman.”

  She felt her face grow hot. “No! I did not!” she denied, but guilt poured through her. She may not have coupled physically with Ashby, but even to have allowed him to kiss and touch her was a sin. Jean-Paul considered her his property. To violate her in any way would have been just grounds for him to lock his wife away for all time.

  Marc contemplated her words. “Mayhap there is a way out,” he said cautiously.

  “What?” she asked, sounding overeager even to her own ears.

  “You would ask my help?” He studied her leisurely. Marielle’s blush grew hotter. She clasped the dressing gown more tightly about her.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice but a whisper.

  “I do not think you will be accused outright,” he said slowly. “I would think Jean-Paul would be laid to rest before the rumors would rise in full force.” He clucked his tongue. “Rumors can be so nasty, you know. It only takes a breadcrumb of truth before they spread.”

  A chill ran through her. Marc was now the comte, which made him all-powerful. Still, she couldn’t appear weak to him, despite feeling more vulnerable than she ever had.

  “Rumors are not facts, Marc,” she said simply. “No proof can be produced that I poisoned Jean-Paul simply because I did not do so. You can attest to that. You are Comte de la Tresse now. If you vouch for me—for my innocence—then no one will dare cross you.” Hating to grovel, she added, “I would so appreciate your support.”

  His eyes gleamed and, for a moment, Marielle thought he might have gone mad. Then she realized he merely gloated with the power that had been bestowed upon him with Jean-Paul’s sudden death.

  “Why would I proclaim your innocence, Marielle?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?
” she countered boldly though panic flitted through her.

  “Should I explain what will happen to you if I claim you poisoned my beloved brother?” he demanded sharply, causing her to wince.

  “You were a common woman. Not one of the aristocracy. Mayhap I will proclaim you are a witch who placed a spell upon my brother, forcing him to wed you. Would you care to burn at the stake?”

  Marielle wrapped her arms tightly about her, trying to stop the abrupt shudders that had begun with Marc’s threats.

  “Or I could say you were merely a commoner who married far above her class, seeking wealth and position,” he mused. “Who are you really, Marielle? The low-born daughter of a carpet trader. A woman who has produced no sons for her husband. One who was plucked from obscurity in order to bring Jean-Paul the heir he longed for. Yet no children resulted from your marriage. One in which you were unfaithful. Not only with fitz Waryn but perhaps a score of others.”

  His tone, full of malevolence, frightened her beyond measure.

  “I can summon the magistrate, Marielle. You said so yourself. I am the powerful Comte de la Tresse now. I share the tale I wish with the magistrate. What will it be? One of unfaithfulness, malice, and murder? Or one of support for my beloved brother’s poor, youthful widow? The choice is yours.”

  He took a step closer to her and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. Marielle stood her ground, not backing away from him.

  “I think it best to protect you—and the estate—we should marry immediately.”

  “What?” His words blindsided her. “Are you mad?”

  He smiled, the light playing shadows across his features, making him more ominous than ever before. Suddenly, Marielle’s heart told her that Marc had poisoned his own brother.

  All to claim her and Monteville.

  He took her chin in hand and said, “Oh, yes, I’m quite serious, Marielle. Never more so.”

  “But . . . but . . . there would be talk. I mean, if we were to wed so soon after Jean-Paul’s death.”

  Marc held her chin firmly. “There might be some but it would die down. As long as things continue to run smoothly as they have in the past, most people will be perfectly content to continue as they have before.”