by Nancy Gideon
He loved her!
A tremendous conflict tore through her; bliss warring with panic. To have her love returned was an unexpected heaven. To have to deny it, a bitter hell. Because after what she’d just learned, deny it she must. Until she knew for sure.
But Marchand didn’t know of her decision. He was too overcome by his own relief and revelation to notice her lack of animation. He scooped her up against him and moved them both from the door to the pallet they’d shared for protection and comfort and companionship. He had other ideas now as he drew her down upon it until they were seated close in the gathering shadows. He stroked her loose flowing hair, her soft cheeks still chilled from the night, the gentle slope of her shoulders, with enough persuasion to free them of the muslin gown she wore. And his kisses followed, moving against her hair, adoring the arch of her pale neck, the delicate curve of her collarbone.
Her fingers rose to mesh in his hair, knotting, kneading in restless spasms. How he made her heart pound with his insistent passion! How he made her body quake with an anticipation of the unknown and arch in hopes of more intimate contact. She gasped softly as his hands eased up to fill with the underswell of her breasts. Slow, sensuous revolutions of his thumbs had her tense and quivering, certain she would die if he didn’t continue.
Afraid he might die if he did.
Because she not only wanted him with all her heart, she wanted him with all the hunger in her soul.
She’d recognized the danger the moment he’d gotten near her. Recognized it the way she recognized the luring beat of his blood within his veins. She remembered the taste of him, warm and thick upon her tongue, that vital fluid feeding her the way nothing else could. The way nothing else ever would. And she wanted that from him. As much as she wanted his love and his loving.
She caressed his throat, feeling the pulse rush through it even as another detached part of her was enjoying the feel of his warm lips grazing the upper curve of her breast. Though she didn’t fully understand what she was, she feared what she was capable of. She had incredible strength. She could snap his neck with a slight twist. He was a strong, virile man but she sensed a weakness in him, as she did in all the others. They were different, as Bianca had told her. They were unable to help her, even as they were unable to save themselves from her. And she trembled with her first flush of power.
How was it done? Her fingertips rubbed over his neck in agitation as she saw again the horror of her father’s face bathed by an innocent’s blood. The sharp points of his teeth gleaming with bestial whiteness. But hers were small and even, as if in disobedience to her instinct that said bite . . . drink. That vile thirst rose within her, clutching greedily with its demand to be fed. Just as she was clutching like some ravenous predator, enthralled by the thrum of Marchand’s life. Ready to take it, absorb it, destroy it.
“No!” That small anguished cry ripped from her as she pushed him away. “No, Marchand. We can’t do this.”
He sat staring at her, his eyes yet dark with desire, his breath laboring with it. Yet he was held by what he observed, by the change in her eyes from green to gold. From the change in her voice to that unnatural growl. He stared at her and she could feel his uncertainty rise up over his passion. She could feel his love, his confusion, his reluctant fear of her. He recognized her as a threat, but he truly hadn’t guessed how deadly she was, how close he was to dying when he was courting her with kisses.
“Marchand, I’m sorry. I should not have let you believe that this was what I wanted.”
He continued to stare and she watched with a wretched purpose as an agony of understanding came into those dark devoted eyes. “Sorry?”
“I came here tonight to tell you I would not be back.”
The quick, protesting breath he took cut through her like the sharpest steel. “What?”
“I’ve found some friends of my family. They’ve asked that I come stay with them. I came only for the painting . . . and to say thank you and goodbye.”
She laid the purse of coins that Bianca had given her upon the tangle of linens that might have once held them while passion had its way. His gaze was drawn to it, then back to her in question.
“And to repay you for your kindness.”
He blinked hard as if she’d struck him. Then he seized the pouch and hurled it against the wall so that the violence of the gesture made it burst into a clattering gold shower. “I didn’t do it for reward.” That escaped him in a snarl of fury and frustration. He gripped her forearms and she went tense, fighting the urge to yield to the pleasure of his touch. She was trying to protect him, yet he pursued his own destruction with a fierce determination. “I did it for you, Nicole. Because I care for you. I can’t explain how much you’ve come to mean to me—”
“Please don’t!” She couldn’t listen. The pain of it was too great . . . the words too beautiful to resist. But resist, she must.
“I’ve spent my whole life alone, doing for others. You are the first to ever want to do for me. Nicole, we are alike, you and I—”
“No.” She was almost weeping at the impossibility of that suggestion, yet he continued.
“We are! I feel the same passions in you. The same strength. You give ease to my soul and put fire to my heart. Nicole, I—”
“Stop!” She pressed her fingertips to his lips, afraid to hear more, fearing if she did, she wouldn’t have the strength to walk away. “Stop, Marchand. You misunderstand me. Of course I care for you. And your friends. You’ve been very kind to me and I wanted to do for you in return. To repay you out of gratitude. But that was all. I don’t—I don’t love you.”
His features went completely blank, as if the devastation of that truth was too much for him. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to hold him close, to comfort him with the real truth that resided so sweetly in her heart—the truth of her love for him. But that very love made her forge on with the painful task of pushing him away. Because that distance meant safety even as it meant heartbreak.
“You are a good man, Marchand, and I admire you for your courage and commitment, but there is nothing for me here. Look around. What can you offer me? These friends of my family have offered a life of comfort and security. I need that now, not this constant threat of danger and upheaval. You must see that.”
He did. She could see it in his face, that realization of his own limits, of his poverty, of his failings. A stark, angry truth, one he couldn’t change if he wanted to. But pride kept him still when love would demand more of him. What else could he do? He’d bared his heart and was rejected. He’d offered his soul and was denied. A man could stand only so much defeat. Retreat was the only way to salvage the remnants of personal honor. So as she knew he would, retreat he did.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle. I did, indeed, mistake the situation. No, you have no reason to stay. This inane cause is not yours. You’d be foolish to sacrifice your . . . comfort for something you don’t believe in. I applaud your sensibility. If everyone displayed your commendable degree of self-interest, this folly would die out quickly. As for your debt to us for housing you as best we could, consider it paid. You need not look back upon us with anything but . . . fondness.”
Fondness? Oh, how pallid a word to describe what beat in her heart. But Nicole forced herself to smile and accept his summation and his thinly guised criticism. She must pretend to be the shallow creature he now believed her to be. She had to pretend she didn’t see or didn’t care how much she was hurting him. For his own good. She couldn’t have him considering her with anything more than . . . fondness. Loving her was too dangerous.
“I really must go now. My new friends will be waiting.” She stood and he rose with her. For a moment, she was overwhelmed by his closeness. She could feel the heat and strength of him and the way his kiss still pulsed upon her lips. Her gaze filled up with the sight of his masculine beauty, that bri
ef study enough to hurry her heartbeat. She was crazy to leave him. The temptation to return to his embrace was powerful, but so was her awareness of the luring throb in his throat. Not knowing which of these desires she’d succumb to, she chose to withdraw quickly before she harmed him even more.
Painting in hand, she started for the door. She didn’t dare risk another look around the shabby surroundings she’d called home. She’d hoped to slip out without confronting him again but Marchand had other ideas. His hand caught at her elbow. She made herself stare steadily outward into the night.
“If you ever need me—for anything—”
Hadn’t Camille said that to her? And see what had happened to Camille:
“Thank you,” she said in a hushed voice. “But I don’t think I shall.”
His hand opened, letting her go. “No, of course not.”
She’d reached the door and was almost through it when he said her name.
“Nicole—”
She turned with an anxious reluctance as he fit his hand to her cheek. He’d meant to say, “Don’t go,” but he couldn’t force that further humiliation. She wanted to leave, after all. What was the point in begging?
So he kissed her.
For a moment, she melted into it, her lips parting in needy encouragement, one hand rising to clasp behind his head as if to secure him there forever. She even came up on her toes to meet the urgent pressure more fully. Then she tore away, ducking her head so that he might not see the tears upon her face as she raced down the rickety stairs, the painting precariously clutched beneath one arm.
Marchand leaned back against the doorframe, his eyes closed, his breath chugging against the hard current of regret. Mon Dieu, how he’d wanted her to stay. But he was a practical man who was used to applying reason in lieu of emotion and he could understand her choice. But understanding didn’t forestall hurt. Nor did it curb his worry, and he wanted to be sure she was safe. He told himself that was his sole motive.
Because even though she didn’t return his feelings, he loved her.
So he followed her darting shadow, across the Seine to the luxury of the Place Vendome. And there, before an elegant house, he saw her meet with a man who welcomed her with his embrace. The sight staggered his heart. So, she was going to another’s arms. That should have made it easier for him to walk away, but somehow it didn’t. He lingered in the darkness, lost to misery, as his successor slipped his arm about Nicole’s shoulders to guide her into the palatial home.
And against the glare of the inside light, Marchand saw the man stiffen and turn his way, the intensely blue eyes searching the blackness as if to seek him out amid its impenetrable void. Then it seemed he succeeded, for his gaze fixed on the spot where Marchand stood and his smile grew wide and taunting in triumph as he led Nicole within and shut the door.
Chapter Ten
“SO, YOU’RE BACK,” Bianca du Maurier cooed. She lounged in the private salon where Gerard led her, an opulent room draped in various shades of red and highlighted by gilt furnishings and black marble. The effect was a conflict of hot and cold and Nicole realized that these two were very much like that as well.
“I need answers,” she stated bluntly. Bianca smiled, not offended by her directness.
“Sit. Ask your questions.”
Nicole assumed one of the low stools near Bianca’s plush chaise. Gerard slipped up behind her and his hovering there made her uncomfortable. It made her feel vulnerable and she was already well aware that she came to them in a position of weakness.
“I want to know what I am.”
Bianca still smiled. “That I can’t answer.”
“But you said I was like you.”
“Yes . . . and no. We are like your father, but you were made between him and his ordinary bride. You are as much a mystery to us as you are to yourself.”
Nicole began to rise. “You are playing tricks with me. You said you knew.” Gerard’s hands eased over her shoulders, pressing her down firmly. His reply was just as vague.
“We know what you feel. We don’t know what you are. Exactly.”
“Then tell me what you are. And what my father is.”
“Tell her, cara.”
“We are part of an ancient, powerful race. We are gifted with strengths ordinary men cannot understand. Some would call us gods, others devils. They fear our strength and so we must hide our differences from them or else be destroyed. We are powerful, yet we are also weak in many ways.”
This, Nicole believed. She had lived within a house of isolation and fear. She’d been continuously cautioned to act no different than any of those in town and to curb their curiosities as best she could. For suspicion created threat. She was just beginning to understand why.
“We are the victim of superstition and envy,” the chill blonde continued. “Our deeds, our very existence is often misunderstood. We must conceal the truth.”
“And what is that truth?”
“That we are far superior to the mortals who walk this earth. If they had any idea how much so, we would be mercilessly hunted down and killed. Ours is a secret existence. We live out of need among those who hate us and are forced to pretend to be what we are not.”
“What are you?” Nicole asked this with a hush of dread. For what they were, is what she could yet become. “You are human. Aren’t you?”
“We are supernatural. We live beyond the realm of the ordinary, outside human time and space. We are not governed by their laws of convention or morality. We are eternal.”
Nicole absorbed this for a moment in silence. Then she glanced up at Gerard. “You said that earlier. Eternal. What does that mean?”
“We do not age. We cannot die,” he told her with a simple shrug as if this was common knowledge and shouldn’t shock her senseless.
“Is that why my mother grows older and my father appears not to?”
“He will never look any older. Neither will we.”
“But I age,” she murmured more to herself than to them. “Why do I age and for how long?”
Bianca made a helpless gesture. “We don’t know. It is because of the human blood you inherited. There may come a time when you will age no more.”
“When?”
“When you realize your full potential as one of us.”
“And if I don’t wish to be one of you?”
Gerard chuckled softly. “I don’t think you have a choice.”
“You see,” Bianca crooned. “You are already changing. You tried to escape it by running away, but you are back here now. Does this mean you are ready to accept your heritage?”
There was more to that question than the silky way it was proposed. Nicole was cautious. “It means I know I am not like them.”
“And why would you want to be?” Gerard replied. He bent down so that his smooth cheek rubbed against hers. His skin was cool and she could barely contain her shiver. “We are like gods, Nicole. We can do anything and no one can stop us.”
“Gerard,” Bianca called with a warning hiss. “Do not overwhelm Nicole. Give her time to adjust, time to decide for herself what she might be.”
“She is no mortal,” he claimed. “I have felt her power. She could be every bit as strong as we are if she knew—”
“Gerardo!” Black eyes fixed on his with a glittering purpose. After a moment, he relented.
“Forgive me, cara. I am too enthusiastic sometimes. I long to share the beauty of what we are with you. It is something your father always denied us.”
“Why?” Nicole asked.
It was then Bianca rose. She was smiling, but her gaze cut like the sharp edge of black glass. “Gerard, you should go out and see to your supper while I make Nicole comfortable here with us. There is plenty of time to talk over old times. And if Nicole would tell us where we can
find our old friend, perhaps we can get together for a wonderful reunion.”
No!
The word struck her subconscious like a heavy blow. She blinked and pressed her fingertips to her temple.
Tell her nothing about your father.
She glanced to Gerard in confusion, for it was his voice she heard so distinctly within her mind just as if he’d been speaking aloud. He only smiled at her in a bland manner, betraying nothing. And Bianca was waiting, unaware of the silent communication that was also a terse warning.
“I should like to be shown my room,” Nicole said evasively, and Bianca was forced to nod graciously lest she appear too anxious.
Gerard possessed himself of Nicole’s hand and bent over it in a courtly passion. “Grázie, signorina,” came his drawling whisper. “I will explain later when we are alone.”
“Do not mind Gerard,” Bianca told her when he had gone. “What he says is of little consequence.”
“Are you in love with him?” Nicole asked with a suddenness that surprised the other woman.
“No,” she answered at last. “I have never loved him. But then, neither would I ever let another have him. You would be wise to remember that.” She let the menace sink in so there’d be no mistake, before gesturing for Nicole to follow her. As they walked, Bianca’s mood was restored to a cool congeniality. “We must purchase you some decent clothes. What you have may have been suitable for those bohemians but not for our protégé.”
Nicole flushed, humbled by the reminder and at the same time chafed by the woman’s haughty snobbery. “They cannot help the way they are forced to live.”
“But of course they can. No one need be poor if one is intelligent and willing to do what it requires to be rich.”
“And that is?”
“Why anything, my dear. You look shocked. After a while such things will cease to startle you. You were born to privilege and power. Do not disgrace your heritage with sympathy for the less fortunate.”
