Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1)

by Samantha Kaye

  “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.

  The driver stood on the riding board, waving his hat to attract Nicolas’ attention. Mustering up his last reserves of strength, Nicolas ran hard to reach the coach. In his current weakened state, it was not much faster than a trot, and it took him several minutes to make it to the vehicle. By the time he reached it, he was thoroughly drenched and out of breath, his boots covered in mud, breeches splashed with it—chest, side and head throbbing from his exertions.

  The coach carried a female passenger, but she did not appear familiar to Nicolas. Nicolas spoke to the black driver, as it would be both impolite and presumptuous of him to speak to a lady without a proper introduction. Nicolas nodded with courtesy to the shabbily dressed driver, though it was clear that there was a vast social gulf between them. Still it was Nicolas’ way to be courteous with everyone, regardless of station or hue.

  “I thank you for stopping. I am Nicolas de Montferraud, Chevalier d’Argentolle. I became stranded in the storm with my cousine, Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire. She’s up the hill sheltering in a shed to avoid the storm. I gave her my coat to keep her dry. Would your mistress be so kind as to do me the service of conveying the vicomtesse back to our estate in your carriage?”

  The black driver dismounted and walked around to the other side of the coach to explain the situation to his mistress, though this was of course just a formality, since the lady had heard the entire conversation. Nicolas bowed to her in greeting. The lady was as poorly turned out as the coach and horses, her garments well-worn from overuse. She stared at him with open curiosity, as if she knew him, though his salutation was not in any way returned or even acknowledged. So much for my vaunted celebrity, Nicolas mused. Of course Sérolène wasn’t really his cousine. At least not yet. But there was no other tactful way to explain how they might have come to be out of doors alone and unchaperoned, without calling the honor of the vicomtesse into question.

  The driver motioned to Nicolas as he returned from speaking with his mistress. “Mount up, Monsieur.”

  Nicolas hid his surprise at the driver’s offer, his concern for the vicomtesse outweighing for the moment, the discourtesy of the carriage’s owner, who had refused to offer him a seat inside the coach, despite his explanation of who he was and the sword hanging from his left hip, which denoted his rank as a gentleman. Such conduct would be understandable if the lady were young and unmarried, but it was clear that the lady in the coach was neither. Nicolas filed away the slight. The welfare of the vicomtesse trumped all other concerns, including his injured pride. Hauling himself up with help from the driver, Nicolas pointed the way back to the shed.

  The driver turned the pair of old nags around, setting off at his best pace, which was not much faster than Nicolas had been able to jog. They approached the lightning strike, the tree still burning despite the rain. As they passed the trunk, Nicolas became anxious for Sérolène’s safety. He wished the driver would hurry his horses, but then considered that going any faster with such poorly conditioned livestock might kill the beasts outright.

  “Lucky for the fire, otherwise I wouldn’t have seen you, Monseigneur. My name’s David, your magnificence,” the driver said.

  Nicolas couldn’t help but grin at David’s oddly constructed salutation. But though the chevalier tried to project an air of undisturbed calm, he was beginning to feel the impact of his exertions. His mother had been right, he wasn’t yet as strong as he had hoped.

  “May I ask the name of your mistress, David?”

  “Madame Dupluie, Monseigneur.”

  “How fitting. She fears not the element whose name she takes,” Nicolas quipped.

  The driver laughed.

  “Straight up the hill,” Nicolas directed, quickly surveying the ragged retinue of his hostess.

  Madame Dupluie traveled without a footman or any other type of escort. It was very unusual for any lady of quality to go out without at least a maid and an escort of footmen. He filed the information away.

  “You see the slight rise over there? The shed is just behind it. Please hurry. My cousine has only me for her protection.”

  The driver nodded, inspecting Nicolas out of the corner of his eye, as he hurried along his team.

  “You the one who saved them ladies back in town, Your Lordship?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was there that day. Damnedest thing I ever saw! Beg pardon, Your Worthiness,” David said, tipping his hat to excuse his swearing. “Helped ’em lift the wagon off you. So much blood. Figured you was dead for sure. We done ran you in a stretcher three blocks to find the doctor. Never did think you was gonna live.”

  Nicolas looked at the man, trying in vain to suppress a grin at the string of unusual honorifics, and to jog loose a memory of his face. “Sorry. I don’t remember much about it, but fortunately most of the blood belonged to the dead horses. Thank you, though, for coming to my aid.”

  David grinned, proud to be thanked by such a man as sat next to him—a genuine hero, and a real gentleman—not just another white man with a fancy title and a head full of pretensions. He applied the whip in earnest to his tired horses, eager to hurry them. They pulled up as near to the shed as they could manage with safety, the coach remaining at a suitable distance to allow for the slope of the hill.

  “Have you any cloak or shawl I might use to shield the vicomtesse?” Nicolas asked.

  David shook his head, drawing attention to the soaked-through nature of his own threadbare clothes. His wide brimmed leather hat provided the only protection he had from the elements, which in the driving rain, was none at all.

  Nicolas dismounted and began to walk up the slope toward the shed. “Very well, then. I shall go and bring her out. Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire! It’s Nicolas. I’ve returned with help!”

  Nicolas moved past the flimsy half-open door and found Sérolène standing in the back corner of the shed to avoid the leaking roof. The vicomtesse was avidly laying about her with Nicolas’ cane, attacking the webs which dangled overhead and stabbing at anything that skittered near her from below. Nicolas wondered if the many-legged crawlers had eyed Sérolène’s voluminous skirts as a vast dry haven in which to take shelter from the rain. As soon as Nicolas entered the shed, Sérolène rushed into his arms.

  “Nico! At last you’re back.”

  Nicolas kissed Sérolène’s brow in greeting. The shed concealed them from the prying of outside eyes. “It seems the day is yours. The spiders have beaten a retreat. Come now. I’ve brought help.”

  Nicolas was completely soaked and exhausted. Sérolène’s eyes filled with concern.

  “I was beginning to worry. I saw the fire and feared something might have happened to you. Oh dear. Just look at you, Nicolas, you’re soaked through and through and you look feverish.” Sérolène pressed her hand to Nicolas’ forehead, as though to gauge his temperature, but he shrugged away her concern.

  Nicolas took his jacket from Sérolène’s shoulders, shielding her with it as he prepared to lead her out. “I’ll be fine. We need to go out now and get you into the carriage. Your hostess is a Madame Dupluie. Come, I shall do my best to keep you dry.”

  Sérolène walked carefully in his footsteps as Nicolas led her around to the door of the coach, holding onto his waist so as not to lose her footing. After helping Sérolène into the dry but very bare confines of the third-rate vehicle, Nicolas then made the introductions between the vicomtesse and her hostess.

  “Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire, may I present to you Madame Dupluie.” Nicolas bowed to both ladies before closing the coach door and rejoined David on the driver’s seat.

  “Thank you for your generosity in sharing your coach, Madame. I do believe you have saved us from drowning!” Sérolène said to her hostess.

  Madame Dupluie nodded wi
th courtesy to Sérolène, no doubt thrilled to be in the unexpected company of her social betters. “I am pleased to be able to render you a service, Mademoiselle.”

  Madame Dupluie tapped twice against the side of the coach to signal the driver they were ready to move off. David put the whip to his nags and the coach lurched forward through the mud. Madame Dupluie eyed Sérolène up and down. She seemed to pay particular attention to the state of her guest’s dress and demeanor, her gaze raking across the vicomtesse, alert for anything out of place. “Have you no other company than that person? I trust you have not ventured this way alone, with no one else to rely on for your surety?”

  Sérolène found the question both impertinent and insulting. She sniffs the air like a street cur, in search of a morsel of scandal to chew on. I suppose Nicolas was right to insist he remain outside the shelter.

  “My cousine, Mademoiselle de Salvagnac, and Monsieur le Comte de Marbéville were also with us. We had all gone for a walk to admire the grounds, but my cousine injured her ankle and Monsieur de Marbéville was forced to send for a calèche to take them back to the château. The chevalier and I were surprised by the storm, which prevented another vehicle from reaching us and forced us to descend from our walk by this alternate route. I was able to take refuge from the rain in the shed, while the chevalier attempted to find someone to come to our aid. I’m sure by now, the steward has sent riders to look for us, but it is likely they may also have been delayed by the weather.”

  Madame Dupluie appeared to accept Sérolène’s explanation, though like any true meddler, she was not to be satisfied until she had either uncovered or made all the mischief she could. “You would do well to better mark your society, Mademoiselle. The malicious are inclined to talk. How fortunate you were it was I who came upon you and not someone who perhaps might wish you, or your reputation ill.”