Velvet Is the Night

by Elizabeth Thornton

  As she grew to womanhood, the specter of her birth cast a shadow on Claire's life. Though they tried to conceal it, it was borne in upon her that her parents watched her anxiously. She knew that, apart from her blue eyes, she closely resembled her natural mother. Were Maman and Papa afraid that she resembled her mother in other ways? Were they afraid that she, too, might prove to be susceptible to the blandishments of some unscrupulous degenerate who was cut from the same cloth as her natural father? Their fears were groundless. She would prove it to them. There wasn't the man born who could get around Claire Devereux.

  There were two kinds of men, she had discovered good ones, like Leon Devereux, and the other sort. She could be charming to men, she could be nice when she wanted to be. But she had only to smell the scent of a predator, someone who brought to mind the image of the man who had fathered her, and she would annihilate him with her barbed tongue or freeze him out with her ice.

  She had proved her immunity to the male of the species to such a degree that, far from setting her parents' fears to rest, their anxiety increased tenfold. It was unnatural, her mother gently remonstrated. But Claire could not help herself. Her contempt for men was immutable. She could not even bear the touch of a man . . . until last night.

  In a flurry of motion, she threw herself from the bed. Clutching the coverlet around her, she stalked to the windows and flung them wide, savoring the frigid air that assaulted her. She breathed deeply. The man's scent disgusted her. She would clear him from her nostrils, then she would scrub him from her skin.

  The water in the pitcher on the washstand was cold. Claire was glad of it. Now was not the time to pamper herself with warm water and the rose-scented soap which had pleasured her senses the night before. With a coarse washcloth and lye soap, she attacked herself furiously, relishing the punishment to her sensitive skin. She deserved to be punished for her iniquitous conduct.

  Her hand stilled as she noted the purplish bruises against the white of one shoulder. There were others on her thighs. Oh God, what sort of man would inflict pain on a helpless female? He was a fiend! Her entreaties, her tears, her shamenothing had moved him, not even the bite of her sharp teeth when she had clamped them on his shoulder. He had laughed softly in sheer masculine triumph. There was a recklessness in Philippe Duhet that she would not have believed.

  "Tigress," he had called her, but that was later, much later, when he had swept away every vestige of modesty, every remnant of resistance. The scratches and bites she had inflicted, then, were not the result of panic. It was passion that had moved her.

  She almost gave in to the tears of self-pity that threatened to spill over. It was the thought of the man's return that sobered her. How could she face him after last night? What would she say to him? What would he say to her?

  With trembling fingers, she quickly dressed herself. Only then did she turn her attention to the bed. She had one thought in her mindto make up the bed as though it had never been slept in, as though what had happened the night before was only a figment of her imagination. She pulled back the covers and froze.

  Adam walked in when Claire was on her knees in front of the fire. In her arms, she clutched a bloodstained sheet. With a comprehensive glance, he took in the opened windows and the made-up bed. He tried to bite back the chortle of laughter and almost choked.

  One look from those brimming half-guilty, half- reproachful blue eyes and everything inside Adam melted. Sternly, he reminded himself that he must never relax his guard. He was Philippe Duhet, a cold and unfeeling monster.

  Only, he wasn't his half-brother. He was Adam Dillon. And he had just spent the most memorable night of his life with the woman who was kneeling on the floor. Henceforth, all women must be compared to her, to their detriment. She was too inexperienced to know it. She should be gloating. She looked as though one unkind word would shatter her into a thousand pieces. He could no more have stopped himself than he could have turned back the tide.

  "Tigress," he said under his breath, and crossing to her he fell on his knees beside her. The smile in his eyes was reflected in his voice. "What are you trying to do? Destroy the evidence?"

  Pride stiffened Claire's spine. "I have no wish to become the object of gossip belowstairs," she retorted, and there began a tussle as each tried to wrest the sheet away from the other.

  It was Adam who won the battle. Holding the sheet aloft like a trophy, he said gently, "I can't let you do this, Claire."

  She pulled herself to her feet and stalked to one of the windows. With her back to him, she flung over her shoulder, "If you think for a moment that I shall stand idly by while you blaze youryouryour virility to the world, you'd better think again."

  The girl didn't have red hair for nothing, thought Adam, not for the first time, and was delighted that she had not disappointed him. Like a man marooned in the desert dying for water, he thirsted to know more about her.

  "Blaze myvirilityto the world?" He preserved a grave face. "How might I do that, may I ask?" He gave a cursory glance at the sheet in his hands, then looked innocently at Claire.

  Claire had a horrible vision of the sheet flying from the flagpole or flapping on the washing line in the hotel's courtyard. The amusement reflected in those glittering green eyes told her that the commissioner had correctly read her mind and judged it fanciful.

  In a more subdued tone, she asked, "Then what are you going to do with it?"

  A slow, wicked grin touched his lips. "I thought I might keep it as a memento, you know, paste it in my scrapbook for future reference."

  Her cheeks flamed scarlet. She would have run from the room if she'd had anywhere to go.

  "Claire!" He flung the balled sheet into a corner and crossed to her in two swift strides. With both hands he framed her face, bringing her head up. There was not a trace of the amusement he'd barely kept in check moments before, but Claire wasn't to know that. Her gaze was deliberately averted.

  "Look at me!" He exerted enough pressure with his long fingers to arch her head back. Softly, he said, "I won't let you burn it because you'll set the chimney on fire. Leave it for the maid. She'll launder it. It's what she's paid to do."

  Her blue eyes were as cold as an arctic ocean.

  "Claire, what is it? What's wrong?" he murmured.

  She tried to shake free of his grasp, but his fingers only tightened, biting into her flesh. "I have no wish to reveal my shame to anyone," she said.

  "Shame?" Adam felt the faint stirrings of annoyance. His hands dropped away and he took a step back. Millot's words came back to him. She was an innocent with no experience of men, let alone men of his stamp. She was fragile and he could easily break her.

  What Millot had neglected to mention, thought Adam irritably, was that he had no experience of girls of her stamp. To his utter confusion, he'd discovered that what he knew about innocent young girls could be written on the head of a thimble. And if his performance last night was anything to go by, it was he who stood in some jeopardy, not the girl.

  Shame. He tested the word gingerly and decided he didn't like it. Women found pleasure in his arms, not shame. And he'd made damn sure that this woman was no exception. She should be thanking him, not testing the limits of his patience.

  "You enjoyed what happened between us last night." He couldn't believe the tone of voice he had employed. He sounded like a sulky schoolboy.

  She gave him one of her haughty stares. "You hurt me." She didn't know why she was trying to make this man squirm. As she well knew, men of his kidney didn't have a conscience.

  A tide of color rose in Adam's neck. "Only the first time," he said. God, why was he justifying himself? "It was inevitable. But later . . ."

  Not wishing to think about what had happened later, she quickly cut in, "I'm covered with the bruises you inflicted."

  His voice rose. "And my back and shoulders are a mass of bites and scratches you inflicted. It will be a wonder if I don't come down with a case of blood poisoning."

  She
bit down on her bottom lip and hurriedly looked away. "Perhaps you should . . ."

  "What?" He was bristling with masculine outrage.

  She looked fearfully at him. "Perhaps you should send for the physician?"

  Her suggestion floored him. He knew he had behaved like a crazy man when she had finally given in to him, but, oh God, surely he hadn't hurt her that badly? "Physician?" He said the word cautiously.

  "Those . . . ," she had to search for the right words, ". . . injuries you sustained? Someone ought to have a look at them."

  At her tremulous words, the tension went out of him. Smiling whimsically, he said, "It's too embarrassing. How should I explain my . . . injuries . . . to anyone?"

  She hung her head. Adam knew he was a knave. He was playing on her innocence but he couldn't seem to help himself.

  He flexed one shoulder and let out a muffled groan. When her eyes flew to his, he gave her a pained smile. Massaging his shoulder, he said, "I've managed pretty well to doctor myself. But there are few scratches I can't quite reach."

  It was a moment before she took the hint and offered diffidently, "Would you . . . that is . . . I could help you, if you would permit it?"

  If he would permit it? The thought of those soft, lily white hands moving over his body acted on Adam powerfully. He swiftly found a jar of sweet- smelling salve and thrust it into her hands. His coat and shirt were quickly discarded. A moment later, he was seated on a chair.

  "If you would be so kind?" he said lazily, smiling at her over his shoulder.

  He was going to stand by his word to Millot, he promised himself. He wasn't going to bed the girl again. He hadn't made any promises about a light flirtation.

  He smelled the roses on her skin as she bent over him.

  "Hell and damnation!" he bellowed. He started to his feet and glared down at her. The jar of sweet- smelling salve was nowhere in evidence. In one hand she held a decanter of brandy and in the other a coarse linen washcloth.

  "What the devil do you think you're doing?" he roared.

  She might have been a nurse addressing one of her small charges. "There, there," she said consolingly, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

  Claire replaced the decanter on a small side table against the wall. Her back was to Adam. As she fiddled with bottles and glasses, Adam pulled on his shirt. He looked up and caught sight of Claire's reflection in the looking glass. Something was different about the girl, some small change that he could not put his finger on. Her head moved slightly, bringing her chin up. And then he saw themdimples, winking at him like lights on a ship out at sea.

  At that moment, their eyes met in the mirror and held. There was an odd silence.

  "Oh!" said Claire. The dimples faded and she expelled a long, ragged breath.

  Laughing, Adam crossed to her. "Tigress!" he said, but tenderly, and cupped her face with both hands. This girl was truly a delight to him. His lips sank into hers. "Was it so very bad last night, Claire?" he asked softly.

  Her hands closed around his wrists. "You know it was!"

  "It was good. I pleasured you." He kissed her again. "Tell me! I want to hear you say it."

  "No! You made me!"

  "What's this?" Tears were standing on her lashes.

  "You made me! I didn't want it. You know I didn't want it!"

  "Yes, I made you." He studied her set face. "So you found pleasure in my arms. Why is that so bad?"

  Blue fire flashed in her eyes. "It wasn't part of our bargain."

  Bargain. Adam was beginning to detest the sound of that word. It reminded him that the woman had not given herself to him, but to Philippe. Adam Dillon meant nothing to her.

  But in their coming together, there had been . . . something different, something extraordinary. The pity of it was the girl was too inexperienced to know it. He smiled ironically. No. The pity of it was there could be no repetition of what they had shared. Not only had he given Millot his word on it, but his affairs were too desperate at present to allow for distractions. And this girl would be more than a simple distraction. No, thought Adam, there must be no repetition of what had happened last night, else he might find himself truly caught.

  Releasing her, he picked up his coat and shrugged into it. "Millot returned early this morning," he said. His eyes were watchful. "You'll be happy to know that he found your young friend and sent him on his way."

  A light leapt to life in her eyes. "Leon is safe?" she murmured. "Nicholas found him?"

  "Leon? That's not the name on the boy's passport. Who is he, Claire? And who are you?"

  It was as though a curtain of ice came down on those expressive blue eyes. "You know who I am. I'm Claire Michelet, one of the teachers at Madame Lambert's."

  "But the boy, Leonhe is your brother?" When she remained frozen in silence, he said softly, "Why won't you trust me?"

  Her gaze wavered, then steadied. "I trust you to hold to our bargain. As I told you, when I'm satisfiedthat iswhen the time is right, I shall give you the names of my friends in Carmes." Something in his expression brought the words spilling from her lips, "You promised to help them! Don't say you are going back on your word!"

  He answered her curtly. "When you know me better, you will know that I never go back on my word." Hearing himself, he almost grinned. It was Adam Dillon who had taken umbrage at the girl's slur on his character. Philippe Duhet would have laughed in her face, or he would promise her the world, and forget about it in his next breath.

  With Claire Michelet, he was discovering, he could not sustain the part he was supposed to be playing. It was more than that. With this girl, he didn't want to play a role. He wanted to be himself. He wanted her to know the man. Whether he went by the name of Adam Dillon or Philippe Duhet was immaterial. And he wanted to know her more than he had ever wanted to know any woman.

  At the thought, a modicum of caution returned. Given their circumstances the notion was ludicrous. He would wager his last groat that the girl was no more who she pretended to be than he was. She could be anyone. In all probability, she was an innocent victim of the Revolution. As soon as may be, she would wish to follow her young friends to England. It was her bargain with his half-brother that held her in Rouenthat and some promise Philippe had given her respecting her "friends" at Carmes.

  He'd been right to defer making a decision about the girl. There might be more still to discover about this bargain she'd struck with Philippe. To send her away before he'd learned everything there was to know was sheer folly.

  There was another reason to keep the girl with him. He was not forgetting that she might be pregnant with his child. He could not say with any conviction how many times he had taken her the night before. One thing, however, he did remember