The Broken Heart

by Lancaster, Mary

  “That is enough, Monsieur le Maire!” she uttered.

  But he had regained his balance, and her violence, instead angering him, seemed to inflame him. “Why, madame, you are a fiery creature! I believe I shall enjoy overcoming your reluctance.”

  “You won’t,” she said grimly as he advanced toward her. With deliberation, she withdrew a pin from her hair. “I’m leaving now, and you will not try to impede me.”

  The mayor laughed and kept coming. Isabelle marched toward the door, but Levigne swerved to intercept her, and then the door flew open and a man marched in.

  Armand.

  Levigne spun about in irritation, which was nothing to the fury that shook him when he beheld Armand.

  “Ah, madame, there you are!” Armand exclaimed. “I’m afraid the town treasures must wait until next time, for your husband is looking everywhere for you.”

  She brushed past Levigne. “Why, what is wrong?” she demanded, only half-convinced that he was making it up.

  “A message from the other Madame Renard. Her husband appears to have taken a turn for the worse.”

  “Oh, no. Forgive me, monsieur,” she flung over her shoulder. “I wish you the happiest of birthdays, but I must go home.”

  She whisked out of the door, and Armand closed it firmly behind them before seizing her by the hand and running as though they were both children.

  “It’s a lie,” he said before she could ask. “But now we need to seize your husband and depart before Levigne and Lucie compare notes.”

  “Lucie?”

  “She’s dancing with your husband again.”

  A breath of laughter escaped her as she flew down the massive curved staircase with him. “Oh no! You should have found a different excuse.”

  “What? Such as if you don’t come this instant, I’ll defenestrate the mayor?”

  “At least it would have been honest.”

  “It would,” Armand said grimly. He pulled her back at the curve. Once they turned it, they would be visible to the occupants of the hall beneath. “Dignity.” He placed her hand on his arm and they descended as though they had every right to be there, worried and clearly in a hurry. “Madame’s cloak, if you please,” he flung at the servant at the foot of the stairs. “One moment, madame, I’ll fetch your husband.”

  He simply strode onto the dance floor straight to Dain and Lucie. A quick bow of apology, a word to Dain, and then he was escorting them both off the floor. Isabelle, forcing herself to action before hysterical laughter took hold of her, hurried around the dance floor to meet them. A servant presented her cloak, which Armand seized while they exchanged a flurry of alarmed farewells with Lucie and then they were outside in the blessedly cold rain.

  “What a bloody awful evening,” Dain muttered in English as they marched across the square together. “It seems I owe you another debt, le Noir.”

  “No,” Armand disputed. “Not if you allow me to sweep your wife off for a more pleasant evening.”

  Dain frowned at him in irritation. “Why would I do that? The town is clearly dangerous enough, and you are worse. Like it or not, I’m the only protection she has.”

  Although he glared at Armand, it was clear to Isabelle that he knew perfectly well he could not stop her. Nor had Armand needed to ask his permission. It was a politeness, to win his cooperation.

  “No,” Armand said. “I will protect her with my life.”

  “From yourself?” Dain asked.

  “If necessary. Damn, I will take you for dinner with us if it would make you happier.”

  “It won’t,” Dain snapped and strode around the corner alone.

  Isabelle blinked after him. “I think that was permission.”

  “No,” Armand said ruefully, “that was warning. Come.” He led her to the side of the square where a short row of hired carriages awaited. He called the name of an inn to the driver and handed her in.

  As he landed beside her and the carriage was pulled onward, a rush of awareness struck her. The lanterns on the carriage lent a faint glow to the interior, an intimacy that was both exciting and dangerous.

  It seemed to have been building for so long, this hunger, this…lust. Born of attraction and obsession and nurtured by their secret walks and embraces. His kisses. Dear God, his kisses…

  The tension tightened between them. But he only took her hand and kissed it. “There is an inn just outside the town, where we can have a private room and the tastiest supper in Normandy. And then I will take you back.”

  She turned to search his face. “Something is wrong.”

  “Apart from you wandering off with the mayor, like a fly into his web?”

  “I had my trusty hair pin,” she retorted. “Against which no man may prevail. But yes, apart from that.”

  His lips quirked. “I can hide nothing from you. I thought we might enjoy this evening first.”

  “Before you tell me?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell me what?” she asked.

  He sighed. “That I have been summoned to Paris, by military authority this time. I have to go.”

  Her throat constricted. “When?”

  “I can stretch it to the day after tomorrow if I ride like the wind.” His fingers tightened. “You might want to consider leaving shortly after that. My men will come with me, and I don’t like to leave you here without protection. You have a way back?”

  She nodded, unable to speak. It was all coming to an end, her idyll of love. The feeling was real, the rest mere fantasy.

  He touched her cheek. “Don’t look like that,” he said softly. “Let us enjoy the last of our time together.”

  She smiled a little shakily. “Distraction?”

  “Actually, I think this time Paris is the distraction. Look, we are here.”

  He handed her down, paid the driver, and led her inside.

  The innkeeper greeted him by name and with great delight, ushering them at once into the private supper room he asked for. A cozy fire burned in the grate and a table sat before it. The innkeeper bustled away to fetch wine and order their supper.

  “How many other women have you brought here?” Isabelle wondered aloud as he removed her cloak and hung it on the stand by the door.

  “None,” he said, clearly surprised, though whether at her question or his answer was moot. “I’ve had a few convivial evenings with my fellow officers, no more or less.” He came and pulled out a chair for her, then sat in the one at right-angles to hers. A smile flickered across his lips. “There have been other inns, other women. I have never been an angel. Since I met you, no other woman interests me. There is only you.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Why me?”

  “I don’t know,” she repeated. “I can think of all the reasons I like you. That you make me laugh, that I never know what you will say or do next, that you are quick-witted and loyal and interesting, strong and handsome… The love comes from something deeper, something I cannot explain. It is as if we are bound, you and I.”

  He took her hand, pressing it to his lips. “That is what I feel,” he said hoarsely. “What I have always felt.”

  She reached up to cup his rough cheek, then let it fall as their wine was brought in.

  It was a wonderful evening, as he had promised. Excellent food and drink combined with fun and laughter and the glow of acknowledged love.

  “Does it bring back memories?” he asked once. “The speech, the tastes and smells of France?”

  “Not really memories, since I left when I was so young. It is more like…echoes, elusive familiarities that I cannot trace to anything definite.”

  “But you like being in France?”

  Her smile faded. “This isn’t being in France. St. Sebastien is like an isolated outpost, my life here one of pretense that could end in disaster at any moment. It isn’t real.”

  He searched her face. “Am I not real?”

  She laid her head on his shou
lder. “Only you are real.”

  He banished her pain with a kiss, and then pastries were brought in along with a sweet, thick wine that threatened to go to her head.

  She could have stayed there with him all night.

  “Shall we go?” he said at last, and her heart thundered.

  They need not go. The night could be spent here with him, a night of love such as she had never known. A night to seal their bond.

  And their inevitable farewell.

  “Yes,” she got out. “We should go.”

  And he stood and fetched her cloak, placing it delicately around her shoulders.

  Somehow, there was a hired carriage waiting to take them back to town. And this time as they drove through the darkness, close together on the seat, their fingers linked, there was a sort of desperation to the intimacy.

  He handed her down in the Rue l’Église and paid off the driver before escorting her to the door.

  “I’ll come in if I may,” he said abruptly, “and speak to…your husband.”

  The darkness could be hiding anyone, she supposed as she opened the door with her key and walked inside.

  The house was silent, although a lamp burned in the hall and another in the sitting room. Which was empty.

  “I think he might have gone to bed,” she said, nervous for some reason she couldn’t grasp. She had been alone with him for most of the evening, after all. “Would you like a brandy while we wait and see if he comes back?”

  She poured it and brought it to him on the sofa. He caught her hand, drawing her down beside him.

  “We do not need to part,” he said with unusual difficulty. He took a gulp of the brandy, then met her gaze. “There is a way for us to be together. Come with me to Paris.”

  Her breath caught. Her heart leapt. But that, too, was fantasy. “I can’t. I can’t leave the Dains here alone.”

  “Then come when they are gone.”

  “How can I? You will probably already have left on some other commission.”

  He almost threw the glass on to the table beside him. “Which is the greater madness?” he demanded. “For us to live apart? Or for us to be together?”

  “There has always been more than us to consider.” She clung to his hand. “You could come with me, Armand. Torbridge would make it right, welcome you with open arms. You need betray nothing and no one. By the time he realizes it—”

  “Stop it,” Armand said violently. “I would still be a traitor. I would know it. You would know it. It will never happen. I will never leave France. You had no choice in leaving. You were a child and your parents’ lives were in danger. This is a different France now, where you would not be the enemy. England is not your home, Isabelle.”

  “It is the only home I’ve known. And I can make my way there. I always have.”

  “You could make your way here.”

  “Sitting alone waiting for you? I have had enough of sitting at home waiting for a husband.”

  As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She bit her lip, but they could not be taken back. Only explained. “I do not mean—”

  “You would compare me to him?” he interrupted. “After everything, it comes down to that?” He sprang to his feet, almost tearing his hand from hers so that he could pace angrily up and down the room that was too small to hold him.

  He threw back his head. “You are right. Damn it, you are right. It is impossible. I will not go and you will not stay. There is nothing for us but memory. Except, perhaps, the end of the war. Goodbye, Isabelle, my sweet love.”

  He had called her that once before, in mockery when he had first come across her here. There was no mockery now, only pain, but before she could realize it properly, he had scooped her up into his arms, crushing her mouth beneath his in a hard, passionate kiss that melted her bones. With a sob, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  At last, he wrenched his mouth free, almost throwing her from him so that she stumbled back onto the sofa. He stormed out of the room before she could speak, before she could rise and take more than a step after him. From instinct, she ran, but the front door opened and closed, leaving nothing but a blast of cold air where he had been.

  Just like that, he was gone.

  And her life crumbled.

  She leaned against the front door before her legs refused to support her. She could not even hear his footsteps. He had run from her.

  It was over.

  It’s for the best. We will both recover. It’s for the best.

  No, it isn’t.

  She became aware of dampness on her face and wiped the tears aside. They would help no one.

  Something scratched the other side of the door. Her heart seemed to stop.

  Her mouth dry, she lifted the latch, opened it a crack, and then wide.

  Armand stepped over the threshold, staring at her as she closed the door once more. He opened his mouth, but she pressed her fingers to his lips. Then she took his hand, and in silence, led him to the stairs.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They didn’t speak until she closed the bedchamber door and turned to face him. She was trembling.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “My damnable temper. I will not waste this time with you, if you agree to share it with me.”

  “Would I have brought you here to rail at you and send you away?” she managed.

  He reached out and took her hand. His was not quite steady either. “I never know what you will say or do. It’s one of the reasons I like you.”

  “Just like?”

  His lips curved. “I thought we were already agreed that the love is something else entirely.” He stepped closer and cupped her face between his hands. “I have wanted this since the first moment I saw you.”

  “So have I,” she confessed, and his smiling mouth came down on hers, slow and gentle and unspeakably tender.

  Somehow, she had expected more urgency, more demanding haste. But his seduction was soft and exquisite, every caress of hands and lips sweeter than the last. He undressed her with such care that she might have doubted his passion had she not looked into his clouded, dark eyes and read there every wild lust she could have imagined and a few she could not. The combination of that untamed desire and the gentleness of his touch almost undid her.

  She moaned, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and kissing his chest, his shoulders, his throat. She had never been so aroused in her life. And they had barely begun.

  When she stood before him naked and he touched the tip of his tongue to her nipple, her knees gave way. He caught her and carried her to the bed, where he laid her as if she were priceless porcelain that might break at any moment. When he kicked off his loosened pantaloons and underclothes, she could not breathe. Her arms lifted for him, desperate to touch, to hold. And he came to her, worshiping her body from head to toe, his tender fingers ever bolder as they reached her most intimate places, playing her like a musical instrument.

  Lost in him, in wonder, she absorbed every instant of growing bliss, loving him with her lips and hands until his breath came faster than hers, and he smiled as he entered her body and took her the rest of the way to the most intense ecstasy she had ever known.

  She wept with joy when he reached his own pleasure in her. Though he left his seed outside her body, and that made the tears come harder.

  “God, I love you,” he whispered, kissing the dampness from her face. “Tell me that is joy and not regret.”

  “You know it is.”

  He smiled and kissed her, and they both closed their eyes and slept.

  *

  Armand woke to movement in the house, and the realization he was curled around a softly feminine, warm, naked body. Remembering where he was and what he had finally done, intense happiness soared up from his toes, even before he opened his eyes to the sweet curve of her cheek and the wild mass of her beautiful, golden hair.

  After a moment, he eased himself up on one elbow and watched her as she slept. Her
loveliness made him ache. For she was both his and not his.

  They had today, tonight if she would have him again, and then he would have to bolt to Paris, leaving her alone here. Before then, he must speak to Dain, encourage him to go as soon as they were able. Such as tomorrow night.

  She stirred, sighed, and they smiled together while she stretched luxuriously. Armand’s lust, already at morning attention, consumed him. He loomed over her, and she came into his arms with such eagerness that he took her at once. As if to make up for last night’s delicate seduction, this lovemaking was urgent and wild, as if they had both agreed to it. Certainly, it swept them both along like an unstoppable tide, and leaving her body in time felt like the most heroic act of his life.

  When he could speak, he whispered in her ear, “Shall I climb out of the window?”

  A breath of laughter shook her. “No,” she said and kissed his chest. “You will breakfast with us.”

  They shared the washing water. He helped her with her laces. She brushed down his uniform. The intimacy, a hint of how things would be were they together, caused him both delight and pain. Like children, they listened at the bedchamber door, crept along the passage past the other bedchambers, and fled downstairs. They hid behind coats as Madame Vosges hurried toward the kitchen.

  Then Isabelle reached for the front door, and he thought she was ejecting him after all, But she only closed it again with a decided snap, smiled at him, and led him across the hall to the dining room.

  “Captain le Noir is joining is for breakfast,” she said boldly.

  Mrs. Dain, both alarmed and surprised, eyed him warily as though he had come to arrest them. Sir Marcus Dain frowned for quite other reasons, as though he knew full well Armand had not just arrived. But there was no jealousy about him. The man was trying to protect a friend, a motive Armand respected absolutely. But last night… Quite aside from the beauty and pleasure of what they’d shared, last night had been necessary to them both, and he would never regret it.