The Courtesan

by Susan Carroll

  “And what the devil will you do with all this power after you get it? I doubt power ever kept anyone warm at night, made them feel any less lonely or happier.”

  “I never looked for warmth or happiness,” Gabrielle said in a small voice. “But if I was mistress of all France, I promise you one thing. No witch-hunter would ever cross our borders again.”

  She added more fiercely, “And I would put a stop to all fighting. No woman would ever have to grieve for the loss of a husband or son in some stupid, pointless battle.”

  “Do you really think it would be that easy, Gabrielle? To banish evil by royal decree? That a mere command will turn swords into plowshares? If so, you know very little of the dark nature of men, my dear. But I don’t think your attempts to push me away have anything to do with a hunger for power or being a king’s mistress. This is about that bastard Danton. Since I realized what he did to you, you have been scarce able to look me in the eye.”

  Gabrielle tried to refute his claim by staring boldly at him, but she found she could not. Remy closed the distance between them. Crooking his fingers beneath her chin, he forced her to look up at him.

  “Gabrielle, when a man behaves like a beast, it is his shame, not the woman’s.”

  Gabrielle could only gaze at him in disbelief. Rape was always accounted to be a woman’s ruin, a woman’s shame. Her worth diminished, despoiled goods. Yet Remy continued to look at her with such tenderness, such understanding, such—such love Gabrielle found it unbearable. She shied away from him.

  “If you only knew,” she choked. “You have never seen me for what I am. You are trying to make some sort of wronged angel out of me. What happened in the barn that day was my fault.”

  Her throat tightened so painfully, it was a moment before she could continue. “I was infatuated with Danton. When he led me into that barn, I didn’t even try to resist. I had never been kissed by a man before and I longed to know what it would be like. When Danton drew me into his arms, it was exciting at—at first.

  “I had never felt such a strange warm rush. I didn’t even protest until he—he wanted to do more than kiss me.” Gabrielle hung her head, her cheeks burning. “I tried to ease away from him, but he became rougher, more aggressive. I grew frightened and begged him to stop, but it was too late.

  “I had enticed him past all bearing. He—he—hurt me.” Gabrielle drew in a deep breath. “I had been foolish enough to think he’d loved me, that he might want to marry me. But after he had done with me, he said that all I was fit for was to be a whore.”

  “The son of a bitch,” Remy growled. “You should have let me kill him.”

  Gabrielle shook her head bleakly. “As much as I hated Danton for what he’d done, I hated myself even more. Because I realized he was right.”

  “Oh, Gabrielle,” Remy groaned. Before she could resist, he gathered her up in his arms, cradling her head beneath his chin. “Of course you would be excited by your first kiss. You were a passionate young girl, but a maiden still. Any man of decency would have been the first to draw back. Instead of respecting your innocence, Danton took advantage of it to satisfy his own selfish lust.”

  “That may be true,” she said sadly. “But it was my own choice to continue down the path he set me upon, to become exactly what he accused me of being.”

  “Because he’d robbed you of your self-respect.”

  “He said that he couldn’t help himself. That I bewitched him.”

  Remy’s savage oath showed exactly what he thought of that notion. “Sweetheart, you have bewitched me for years. No man could have been more inflamed than I was that afternoon in my bedchamber. But when you asked me to stop, I managed to do so.”

  “But you are extraordinary. I have never in my life known any other man so honorable, so chivalrous, so gentle.”

  “Oh, yes.” The bitterness of Remy’s laugh surprised Gabrielle. She drew away, troubled to find his eyes filled with a dark self-mockery.

  “You claim I have never seen you for what you are. I might say the same of you. You have built me up into this impossible image. The great hero. The Scourge.” Remy pronounced the sobriquet with deep loathing. “What did you think of me today when I was preparing to take Danton’s head?”

  “Well, I—” Gabrielle stammered, disquieted by the memory of that frightening look on Remy’s face. “You were seeking to defend my honor. You were angry—”

  “I was beyond angry. There is a darkness that gathers like poison to surge through my blood. I’ve felt it before. Every time I set foot on a battlefield. When I first gaze out across the field, over a sea of brave faces, many of them lads who haven’t yet sprouted their first beard, the thought of the slaughter and loss of life to come revolt me.

  “But once the fighting begins, I am as much a beast as the next man. Lusting for blood, filled with a dark hunger to destroy my enemy. And I am good at the killing, Gabrielle. Far too good. Why do you think I have such blasted nightmares?”

  “Because of—of St. Bartholomew’s Eve. All the friends you lost—”

  “Those faces haunt me right enough, the people I failed to save. But there are other specters as well, the ghostly images of the men I slaughtered, the lives I cut short with my blade.”

  Remy turned abruptly away from her, bracing his arms against the washstand. “You have told me your worst secret. Now I’ll tell you mine. You asked me who the man is in my nightmares, the demon whose face is hidden behind the visor. If I am lucky, I wake before I have to see. But the nights I am not so fortunate, I yank up the visor and that hideous demon is me. It is the brutality of my own face that I see, my hands and sword that are drenched in blood. My soul is far more stained than yours.”

  Remy fell silent. Gabrielle realized this confession had been as difficult for Remy as her own about Danton. She longed to wrap her arms comfortingly around him, but she was held back by the remnants of the past, old fears that had dogged her for so long.

  The risks involved in giving way to love and desire were great, opening one up to pain, disappointment, and heartbreak. It was far easier not to feel anything, to place faith in the prophecy of some long-dead astrologer. Let the stars dictate your destiny and there were no difficult decisions, no mistakes to make. Gabrielle gazed out her bedchamber window at a moon just shy of being full, surrounded by a scattering of those small mysterious satellites. She was once more reminded of her mother’s words.

  “Your fate is not writ in some distant stars, my dear heart, but rests entirely in your own choices.”

  Looking back on her choices of these past few years, there were very few Gabrielle could regard without regret. She was aware of him anxiously watching her now as though trying to discern her thoughts. When she turned toward him, he offered her a wearied smile.

  “Perhaps you are right after all and it is hopeless. Perhaps our separate demons are too great to be conquered.”

  “But Sir Nicolas, you have always been very good at fighting dragons.” Though her heart beat wildly, she gathered up her courage to approach him. “We both are flawed people, stained by our regrets of the past. But maybe it is possible, we—we could wash each other clean.”

  Picking up a clean cloth, she dipped it into the water, then wrung it out. Her fingers trembled as she turned to Remy and began to wipe it over him, starting at his shoulders, working down to the broad span of his chest. Remy quivered at her touch, his breath quickening. But he held himself still, as though she was some wild creature and his slightest move would be enough to frighten her away.

  It very well might have. There was nothing of the bold courtesan about her now. She felt as timid and tentative as a bride on her wedding night. Easing the medallion aside, she caressed the cloth over his golden mat of hair, stroking more gently each time she came to a scar as though those cruel marks must still cause him pain.

  It hurt her to look upon them, those harsh reminders of all that he had suffered. Nicolas Remy was a brave soldier who had fought as he had been t
rained to do, and fought well. Other men might be able to leave the horrors of the battlefield behind them, but Remy carried those dark memories in the weariness of his eyes and in his dreams. He was far too sensitive, this man who had been so misnamed the Scourge. She lingered over the worst of his scars, the jagged raised line just below his shoulder. She cleansed it with the cloth, then bent, pressing her lips to his damp flesh.

  Remy hissed between his teeth, catching her shoulders to ease her gently away. “Ah, please. Don’t do that, Gabrielle. My wounds are far too ugly for that.”

  “My scars are as harsh as yours, just not as visible,” she said. “Yet you do not cringe away from me.”

  “I love you. How could I possibly—”

  Gabrielle silenced him with a kiss. “Then you must allow me to love you, too. All of you.”

  Slowly, she proceeded to kiss all of his scars one by one, her mouth lingering as though she could draw out all his painful memories, take them into herself. How she wished that she could. Her eyes blurred, the salt of her tears mingling with the tang of Remy’s skin. His chest rose and fell more quickly with each kiss. He caressed her hair, stooping to drop a kiss on the top of her head. He plucked at her hairpins until her hair tumbled loose about her shoulders. His fingers moved on to the fastenings of her gown, his hands no more steady than hers.

  Somehow he fumbled through the layers of her clothing and worked the apparel off her shoulders, baring her to the waist. He took the cloth from her and moistened it again. He bathed her, beginning with her face, wiping away her tears, then trailed the cloth down her neck in a sensual path that caused Gabrielle to shiver. Down, down to the valley between her breasts, Remy worked the cloth in slow circles around each breast.

  The circles getting smaller, tighter until Gabrielle felt her body tightening in response, her nipples hardening at the faint abrasion of the cloth. A trickle of water escaped from the scrap of linen and Remy bent swiftly to catch it with his lips. His mouth and tongue flickered over her bared flesh, moving up the globe of one breast.

  His mouth fastened over one nipple, laving it with the warm heat of his tongue. Gabrielle gasped, clinging to the broad strength of his shoulders. Like someone who had been lost too long in a frigid winter landscape, she felt as though her numbed flesh tingled painfully back to life.

  She sighed, burying her fingers in his hair as he suckled her breast. Her fingers roved over his back with a mounting urgency. The washcloth dropped unheeded from Remy’s fingers. He straightened to gather her into his arms, the soft sensitive globes of her breasts flattening against the hard wall of his chest. Cass’s medallion came between them, the cool feel of the metal striking an odd shiver through her.

  Remy tugged the chain over his head and discarded the amulet before drawing her back to him, skin pressed to skin, beating heart to beating heart. His mouth captured hers in a kiss that was fiery and tender, his tongue coaxing and stroking hers in a heated mating. Gabrielle clung to him, kissing him back just as eagerly. Somehow, she scarce knew how, Remy stripped away the rest of her garments.

  She stood naked and vulnerable in his embrace. His lips wooing hers, he ran his fingers down her back, his large callused hands settling over her buttocks. He cupped her to him. Despite the barrier of his trunk hose, he left her in no doubt of the extent of his arousal, his hunger for her. Though she fought to quell it, she experienced that old familiar flutter of panic.

  This was the point where she always beat a retreat, her mind detaching to flee to some safe distance. But she was held fast by Remy, his kiss, his touch, his adoring eyes weaving gentle, unbreakable bonds about her, allowing her no escape.

  She pulled her lips from his and turned away, trembling. At least she could douse the candles and find some small measure of security in darkness. Grabbing up the snuffer, she moved toward the tapers burning atop the mantel.

  Remy stepped quickly after her, his hand closing over hers. “No, Gabrielle, don’t. I have waited far too long. I need to see you.”

  Gabrielle reluctantly surrendered, setting the snuffer down. Facing Remy again, fully exposing herself to him, was one of the hardest things she had ever done. She raised her arms instinctively to cover her breasts, but Remy caught her hands. Gently holding her arms away from her body, his gaze roamed over her. Never had any man’s eyes combined so much tenderness with desire.

  “You are beautiful,” he said hoarsely.

  She had been told how lovely she was so many times. She was fully aware of the perfections of her own body in a detached sort of way, cataloguing them as a soldier might take stock of his weapons. But until this moment, she had never actually felt beautiful, not until Remy worshipped her with his eyes. She blushed and trembled and suddenly was consumed by the need to see all of him as well.

  Her fingers felt wooden and clumsy as she struggled with the fastenings of his trunk hose. With his help, she managed to get him undressed. Her gaze traveled shyly over him, the bold contours of his chest, his narrow waist, his lean hips, the hard muscles of his thighs. She skimmed over the size of his erection, unable to still a small shudder.

  Remy must have noticed her response. He cradled her face between his hands, brushing her lips with a kiss. “It will be all right, Gabrielle. I would never hurt you.”

  “I—I know that,” she said, but she trembled all the same. Her apprehensions had no basis in reason, but were far too real, nonetheless. Danton’s legacy.

  “We’ll take this very slowly. You can stop me whenever you wish,” Remy promised, kissing her again. He led her over to the bed as tenderly as any bridegroom could have ever coaxed his virgin bride. Drawing back the covers, Remy stretched himself out on the sheets, easing her down beside him.

  They lay side by side, her forehead nestled against his shoulder while he breathed kisses against her hair. Remy had ever been a man of few words. He was not the sort of lover to whisper pretty declarations or endearments. He spoke with the intensity of his eyes, the warmth of his touch, the heat of his kiss.

  He tipped her face up toward him, kissing her brow, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, his mouth settling over hers in a kiss that was long, deep, and slow. Despite the nervous thudding of her pulse, Gabrielle could not help but respond, parting her lips for the bold thrust of his tongue, warmth spreading through her veins.

  Patient . . . he was so very patient. She could only marvel at his forbearance when his own need was so evident. She could feel the brush of his hardened shaft against her thigh, a sensation that both stirred her own desire and alarmed her at the same time.

  Kissing her again and again, Remy’s hands roved over her, fondling her breasts, teasing her nipples until they ached, sending spirals of heat through her. But when Remy’s fingers skimmed downward over the plane of her stomach, inching toward the nest of curls between her legs, she tensed anew.

  She clamped her knees hard together, easing his hand away. Mouth clinging to his, she began to stroke him almost feverishly. She had learned the tricks of pleasing a man, how to satisfy him without surrendering anything of herself. It was even possible to bring a man to climax without his ever being inside her.

  Almost desperately, she began to practice those wiles on Remy, scoring his chest with her fingertips, her mouth. Her hand closed over his shaft, teasing him with her fingertips. Remy emitted a sharp gasp, his fingers tightening around her wrist. “No, Gabrielle. Not—not so fast. Not until I have pleasured you.”

  She shifted on her back and stared up at the canopy of her bed, not wanting him to see her doubt, her fear that no matter how much she loved Remy, it would never be possible for her to feel the ultimate pleasure in any man’s touch. He took several deep breaths as though fighting to stem the tide of his own arousal. He braced himself above her, renewing his tender assault upon her senses, striving to stir her to passion. Her body ached to respond to his kiss, his caress, to blossom into full-blown desire, but the old fears clung to her, getting in the way. The dark memory of Danton seemed embedded b
eneath her skin.

  The faint stubble of Remy’s beard abraded the tender flesh of her stomach as he kissed her, his mouth moving dangerously lower. His hand sought to part her thighs. Gabrielle’s breath snagged in her throat. In spite of all her best resolve, she felt her mind struggling desperately to slip away. None of her other lovers had ever noticed before.

  But his breath warm upon her thigh, Remy suddenly stilled. The bed creaked as he shifted position. Laying his hand alongside her cheek, he said in a ragged voice. “Ah, Gabrielle, don’t. Please don’t pretend me away.”

  “I—I am sorry,” she whispered. “This first time, could you just take me quickly and—and—”

  “But I am not going to take you.” Remy stroked the hair from her brow, his smile at once tender and mysterious. “You are going to take me.”

  Before she could ask what he meant, he shifted on his back and tugged her with him until she rested on top of him, his powerful body pinned beneath hers. Gabrielle’s eyes widened when she realized what he was prepared to let her do. As a courtesan, she should have been familiar with any sort of lovemaking. But she had never had a partner who had not preferred the dominant position with the woman submissive beneath.

  She was embarrassed to confess, “Remy. I have never—I am not sure I can please you this way—”

  “This is not just about my pleasure, but yours as well. Do you not trust me, Gabrielle?”

  “With my life.”

  “Then trust me with your heart as well.” Remy kissed her, positioning her legs so that she straddled his powerful body. She could feel the heat pouring off his flesh, arousing her in spite of all her fears.

  His hands moved over her arms, her breasts, and the curve of her waist as though he was a sculptor, lovingly molding every inch of her. When his fingers eased between her legs, caressing her most intimate places, she squirmed at the sheer pleasure of it, feeling herself grow hot and moist. Desire like a dark tide threatening to engulf her. Remy caressed her hair back over her shoulders, clearly needing to see her face.