by Danice Allen
“That is impossible,” he quickly interjected.
She sighed. “Yes, I know. Which makes it all the more strange for me to feel so at home with you. And when you kissed me …”
The firefly, as if cued, hovered near Renard’s lips. They were finely molded, firm and sensuous. “Yes?” he prompted her softly. His lips stayed slightly parted. Anne imagined the feel of them on her own lips, trailing down her neck, lingering in the hollow under her ear.
No, that was Delacroix! She shook her head to clear it of the intrusive image, but only succeeded in making her head ache worse. “When you kissed me, it felt so natural, so right. So exclusive.”
“Exclusive, eh?”
“Yes, as if you were—”
“As if I were the only man for you.”
She’d made her point. Eagerly: “Yes.”
“If that is so, cher, then I must conclude you have never felt the same in any other man’s arms, n’est-ce pas?”
Once again Delacroix’s image intruded. Those dark eyes, the thick lashes, the wicked smile. She remembered the kisses in the alley. She’d felt exactly the same in his arms as she had in Renard’s. Just as natural. Just as right Just as exclusive. She had to tell Renard the truth.
“The truth, mademoiselle,” Renard prompted, as if he’d again read her thoughts.
“There has been one other man with whom I’ve experienced similar feelings.”
“But you don’t love this man?”
“No, I don’t love him,” she said, the words rather too strongly underscored with feeling. Then, less emphatically, “I can’t love him. I deplore his lifestyle. He is a slave owner.”
“Is this your only objection to the fellow?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
Another long pause. “Oui. It is enough. But what if he weren’t a slave owner?”
“There are other objections.” Irritably, her head pounding like the drums on Congo Square, she said, “But why do you ask me about this man? He means nothing to me. Less than nothing.”
“I ask because he and I are the same—”
“The same?”
“—the same in that we both make you feel strong emotions. How can you love me and not love him?”
Anne had no reply. She took reprieve in complaining about her headache. In truth she was beginning to feel quite overpowered by it. “My head aches abominably.”
Instantly Renard was alert. “Mon Dieu, I’m such an imbecile. I talk while you suffer. Un moment, cher.” He moved to the cupboard, opened a door, and pushed around bottles and dishes. “First I will get you some water, and some food if you’re hungry. And then a cup of tea, laced with Armande’s special headache remedy.”
“Armande?” Anne remembered the two men on Camp Street. Armande was the tall one, the one she’d also seen at the cemetery the day she ran across Delacroix. Her brain was trying to pull together some disjointed thoughts. Something just out of reach was taunting her. “I know an Armande.”
Renard stopped his busy movements abruptly, looking over his shoulder. His face was fully in the light of the candle, but Anne’s vision seemed to be getting worse; everything was a blur. His wary stance seemed oddly at variance with his casual tone of voice. “You know an Armande? One of Madame Grimms’s banker friends, I suppose.”
“No. I don’t exactly know him. He’s a mulatto, I think.”
Suddenly the room capsized and went black in splotches. Anne fell back on the pillow and tried unsuccessfully to hang on to consciousness. The next thing she knew, Renard was sitting on the side of the bed, holding a cup of something. The mosquito netting was draped over on itself, uncovering the details of the room. Renard had put the candle on the table by the bed, and she could see the color of his eyes. Dark, dark chocolate. “Here, cher. Drink this, and you’ll feel much better.”
Anne wanted desperately to feel better. Then maybe she could think straight. Things were eluding her, things that would be eminently clear and logical when she was feeling more herself. She felt weak but sat up so she could drink. Something seemed to shift inside her head, and the pain throbbed harder than ever. Renard supported her neck. She held on to the cup, but his hand covered hers. The long fingers, the curve of the wrist looked familiar.
“Your hands…”
“Drink, Anne.” She took a sip from the cup. It was tepid and tasted like black tea laced with something bitter, with a generous measure of sugar added to counteract the bitterness.
“Drink more.” Renard tipped the cup higher. Anne complied, completely trusting him.
“Now lie back against the pillows and rest.”
Again she obeyed, closing her eyes and easing down into the pillows. But when she felt the bed lift under her, she opened her eyes and caught Renard’s wrist before he could stand up completely. “Stay with me.”
“I can’t.”
“I won’t rest unless you sit beside me. Please?”
He hesitated. “I have to move the candle.”
“I don’t care, as long as you come back.”
He repositioned the candle, setting it on the mantelpiece where it had been before. He came back and stood over her for a minute, then sat down. His face was in shadow. She reached up and touched his mouth. Warm breath spilled over her fingers, sending a tremor down her spine. He removed her hand and put it on the bed, pressing it flat for a minute as if emphasizing his next words. “Don’t touch me, Anne. I can’t bear it. Touch me, and I’ll have to leave.”
Anne felt suddenly flushed. “I’m hot.” She tugged at the front of her jacket. “This is too confining.” She fumbled with the buttons. Exasperated, she let her hand plop to the bed.
Renard’s cool palm pressed against her forehead. “It’s probably the effect of the medicine making you feel hot, though it’s certainly a warm enough night to begin with.” He began to undo the buttons, his fingers nimble and quick. The way they brushed against her skin was distracting. And very pleasant. She felt her nipples pucker against the soft muslin of her chemise.
With the jacket open, relatively cool air whispered across Anne’s exposed neck and chest. She felt much better already, although she wasn’t sure if it was the medicine or the loosened buttons or the man sitting next to her that was doing the magic. But then Renard withdrew, apparently intending to put the mosquito net between them again.
She stopped him by catching hold of his hand. “What are you going to do with me?”
“I’m going to take you home as soon as you’re up to the ride. Rest now, and let the medicine work.”
“You know all about me. You know where I live. You know who my aunt is. You know my name. You even know everything I feel about you … but I know nothing about you.”
He sighed. “It is for the best, cher. I wish you understood. Now please rest, Anne.”
“Only if you stay.”
“I said I would.”
“Inside the netting.”
“Only if you lie still, and … don’t touch me.”
“Won’t you please just hold my hand?”
Another hesitation. “Just.” He took her hand. “Now be quiet and go to sleep.”
As Anne held on to Renard’s hand, she couldn’t resist running her thumb along the fine bones and ridges. They felt beautiful, maybe as beautiful as Delacroix’s. She wished she could see them.
Later, when she opened her eyes, she realized she must have slept for a while; the candle had burned down some. She felt marvelous. The medicine had obviously worked wonders. Her headache was gone.
The lone firefly hovered and hummed just outside the netting. Anne smiled. It had attached itself to them like a minuscule pet. She felt warm breath on her ear and turned her head, finding herself nose to nose with Renard. He was asleep, his head on the pillow, one leg bent on the bed, the other hanging to the floor. He still had hold of her hand, their fingers laced on the pillow between them.
It was the natural thing to do
. She moved closer. And she kissed him.
Chapter 12
Lucien had succumbed to sleep only after promising himself that he would keep one foot on the floor. His reasoning was simple, if possibly self-deceptive. He told himself that if he didn’t actually lie down beside Anne, he’d remain in control.
Keeping his boot sole pressed to the wood planks of the cabin floor represented Lucien’s last holdout against temptation, but it was a damned uncomfortable position. He’d had to twist his torso at an unnatural angle to lay his head on the pillow beside Anne while at the same time keeping that blasted foot on the floor. He awoke to a distinctly unpleasant sensation in his lower back. Pain. And something else …
Anne’s lips shyly, tentatively touching his. He groaned and pulled her against his chest, burying his face in her fragrant neck. Her breasts were firm and round beneath him. He could feel the nipples—as hard as pebbles—even through the material of her borrowed jacket. Her arms convulsed around his back, pulling him closer.
Now there was no question about it; the foot-on-the-floor exercise had definitely been self-deceptive, and a dead failure. His control had slipped through his fingers like a length of cool, sleek silk—trembling fingers that reached reflexively for Anne’s braided hair. He wanted the pins out. He wanted them out now, damn it. At this point, only the toe of his boot maintained contact with the floor, an apt metaphor for the amount of control he had left. Next to nothing.
“Shall I help you?”
Lucien’s hands stilled. Anne’s shy question recalled his derelict conscience. She was too innocent and too willing. She had no idea what she was getting into, and he had no right to touch her. His hands dropped to her shoulders. He waited for his breath to slow, his leaping pulse to settle into a more natural rhythm.
“Please don’t stop,” came Anne’s sweet plea, so close he felt her breath caress his ear. “I want you to kiss me. Please kiss me, Renard, just as you did last night.”
Lucien groaned and sat up, turning his back to her. The foot was firmly in place again, from heel to toe, flat on the floor. “God, Anne, don’t tempt me.”
The bed creaked as she pushed up on the pillows. Her palms rested on his back, warm and soft. “Why not? Don’t you want to kiss me again?”
“Of course I want to, but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is different. This time things could get … carried away.” Her hands began moving, making little circles of pressure on the tight muscles of his back. It felt wonderful.
“What if I told you I wanted things to get carried away?”
“Then I’d say you’re a fool.” His tone was purposely derisive. “Why can’t you realize how dangerous it is to be connected with me in any way? Especially like this.”
He felt her hands lift away from his back. He was glad. At least one part of him was glad—his conscience. The rest of him felt bereft. He yearned for her as he’d never yearned for another woman. So many times he’d imagined her beautiful hair rippling over the pillow like a river of gold, her arms outstretched, welcoming him, beckoning him to settle into her warm softness. Tonight it could be that way.
Lucien’s jaw tightened. Yes, maybe it could be that way, but with one big difference. He’d never imagined making love to Anne as Renard the outlaw, and in the dark. He wouldn’t be able to really see her, to worship her with his eyes as well as his hands.
Lucien rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. There was no question that he couldn’t allow her to see him. But how could he accept Anne’s love dressed like some damned thief, mask and all? Maybe it was appropriate, though … given the circumstances. Wouldn’t he be stealing something that didn’t belong to him, could never belong to him as long as he pursued his present life?
Without turning around, he asked her, “How do you feel, Anne?”
“I feel wonderful.” Her tone was rich, seductive, very sure.
“Good. Then you’re well enough to ride?” His own voice had none of her confidence. He seemed rooted to the spot; afraid to turn and look at her, but loath to stand up and begin the grueling process of separation. The long ride home with her fitted between his thighs, the heat of her, the intoxicating, womanly scent of her would be an exquisite torture. And, in the end, he’d still have to send her into the house and up to bed alone. Without him. Lucien’s heart felt as though it had been squeezed dry.
There was a soft, tinny sound behind him. Plink, plink. Pins. Anne was loosening her hair.
Slowly Lucien turned. He had no choice. He had to see.
There was just enough light from the candle for Lucien to see far too much for his tenuous self-control. She’d lain back against the pillows, her hair fanning out on all sides, muted candle-glow gilding the multitude of waves. Stars of reflected light shone in her eyes, too. Her arms were raised, beckoning him, just as in his dreams.
“Anne, I can’t …”
“You can.” She lifted one hand and tugged playfully on his shirtfront. She smiled, her lower lip quivering slightly. She was adorable. She was half-woman, half-child. “You must, cher. I love you.”
Lucien cursed himself even as he gave up the hard-fought battle against his own desire. He wanted her more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. She was offering him heaven, and he couldn’t refuse it.
Lucien bore Anne down into the cool, plump softness of the pillows. He caught and plundered her willing mouth. She kissed him back with trembling eagerness. Her slender frame arched against him, and her arms wrapped around his neck.
“Sweet Anne,” he murmured, his lips trailing down her throat. “Sweet Anne, what have you done to me?”
She sighed softly, her hands sliding up the taut muscles of his back to the nape of his neck. “I’ve loved you. Will you love me back, Renard?”
Who could resist such a plea, such an invitation to paradise? But by giving in to what they both wanted, was he condemning her to a kind of hell?
He pushed up on the heels of his hands and looked down at her. The candle was sputtering, its last flicker of light about to extinguish. Anne’s face was obscured by shadows. He could just see the pale shining of her eyes; the delicate, classic features of her face; the curve of her cheek. Her lips were parted, her quick, sweet breath stirring the air between them. With a shaky hand, he tenderly brushed away a tendril of hair that had caught against her lower lip. “I can’t promise you anything, Anne. I don’t know yet what will happen when I—”
She lifted her hand and laid her fingers lightly against his mouth. “I don’t want promises, cher. I just want tonight.”
He claimed her mouth again, possessive, passionate. He would give her exactly what she wanted, what they both wanted. Tonight he would love her with the fervor of weeks of denial. He’d make sure she would never forget and never regret the next few hours together. He would make her his for all eternity.
His hand reached up and covered her breast, his thumb and forefinger catching the tight nipple and rolling it gently through the muslin of her chemise. She gasped, and an answering thrill coursed through him.
Again he pulled back, straining to see her. But even as he did, the candle went out completely. Dark. Everything was dark, except for the frail glow of moonlight that sifted through the threadbare curtains at the windows. The dark was a curse and a blessing—a curse because he couldn’t see her, but a blessing because she couldn’t see him. Did he dare take off his mask?
“Renard?” Her hand reached up to touch his face, the delicate fingers trailing an inquisitive path down the tightly fitted mask. There was a soft intake of breath as her fingers came to the edge, where flesh touched flesh. The smooth nail of her forefinger lightly grazed the stubble along the sharp angle of his jaw, then rested on his lips. He could feel her pulse in the pads of her fingers. Her heart was tripping a light, frenzied beat, like the capering dance of his own heart.
He swallowed, tamping down his escalating need, trying
to ignore the heaviness in his loins. He wanted to go slow with Anne, to pleasure her.
“I was just wondering how best to remove your trousers, cher.” His voice was a raspy whisper, but with an edge of excitement, like a thirsty man approaching a cold, fresh-flowing stream. “It seems you’ve got them pinned to your chemise.”
Her soft laugh floated in the air. “Yes. Sorry to inconvenience you, my love, but I was afraid they’d fall off.”
He smiled, her fingers still resting lightly on his lips. She traced his smile, dipping with slow luxuriance into all the curves. Then she took one of his hands and lifted it to her own lips, where there was an answering smile.
“You have a beautiful mouth, Renard,” said Anne. After a slight hesitation, she added, “I’d like to touch the rest of your face. Would you … take off your mask?”
Lucien stiffened. He wished nothing more than to take off his mask, along with the rest of his clothes. “I don’t know, Anne.”
“It’s too dark to see you. If you really don’t want me to know who you are—”
“I don’t,” he interjected quickly. “It would be too dangerous.”
She sighed. “Are you afraid I might expose you?” She sounded hurt.
“No, of course not. It’s for your own protection. It’s best you don’t know who I am.”
There was another pause. “Do I know you?”
“No,” he answered, telling himself it was the truth. She didn’t really know him. She didn’t know Lucien Delacroix. She only knew the Dandy, his cursed masquerade.
“I understand if you don’t want to take off your mask, but—”
“But what, cher?” His hands slid slowly along her collarbone and over the cap of each shoulder.
“Will you … will you take off the scarf you’ve got tied around your head? I want so much to feel your hair.”
