by Michele Hauf
His dark eyes fixed to her from above the narrow blue spectacles, granting him a roguish appeal. Not that the man needed any help with accessories for that.
She smiled at the sight and stepped back. “Come in.”
He did not enter so much as magnetically attach himself to her.
“This gown!” He threaded his fingers through hers and held out her arms from her body as his eyes dripped over her from head to toe. “Why, it’s positively medieval. Where did you find it?”
“It was my great great grandmother’s.” She touched the embroidered leaves that danced about the wide neckline. “It has been in the family for some time. It’s threadbare and simple—”
“It is divine, Roxane. The emerald color makes your eyes darker. Like jewels. And your hair”—he twined his fingers through her unbound tresses—“it falls over the velvet as if an exotic fabric. Monsieur Bousset would gain a fortune if he offered the like in his shop. Lovely, just lovely. You are truly the ice-forest queen.”
“I am quite sure you say as much to all your women.”
“Hmm, perhaps.” He turned and strode a few paces toward the door. “But would I do this for any woman?” He flipped the openings of his great coat and flung it to the floor behind him to reveal—
“Losh!”
Removing his redingote whooshed a draft up behind his legs. Gabriel managed a regal posture. The look on Roxane’s face was worth the humility.
“You’re wearing a plaid!” she declared in glee.
Toussaint had worked wonders in conjuring the costume in record time. Gabriel obliged by turning, kicking out his heel, and posing. The kilt was actually very freeing. He favored the unique feel of fabric moving loosely over his flesh. Everything beneath swung so…freely.
He slipped a finger behind the fur-edged sporran and waggled it up and down. “Bet you want to know what I keep in here, eh?”
“Actually—” she slipped a hand down his plaid thigh “—I’d love a peek under the plaid.”
“The woman is a brazen.”
“I can’t believe you did this, Gabriel. What possessed you?”
“You did once tell me you desired a Highlander. Here you are. One French Highlander, in the flesh.”
“For me?”
“There’s not another soul in this world I’d allow to see me in such a costume. A little breezy down there, though not entirely uncomfortable. What do your countrymen do about their, er…danglers?”
“Not sure.”
“Good.” He kissed her nose. “I’d hate to hear you have the answer to that one.”
“I will discover what you’ve done with your danglers.”
“I wager you will. But first…” He crossed to the hearth and looked over the chalk marks on the floor. Guttered candles circled the drawing and a trail of ash swept up and into the hearth. She’d been casting a spell, no doubt about it. “Any luck?”
“I cannot touch my brother’s soul. And it is his soul that requires saving.”
“Did you check on my soul in your book?”
“Didn’t have time. I was planning to bring it to you—”
“No worry. We can inspect it later.”
He’d come here with debauchery in mind. No need to stray from his intentions. He spread his arms to display the fabulous costume. “Are you up for a little play?”
“Sure.” She sunk in the chair. Folds of emerald velvet curled about her limbs. Gloom misted upon her sigh.
“You, my lady, sound positively eager.”
“I want to find that bastard, Anjou—”
“You don’t need him anymore.”
She turned on him, wonder in her tearing eyes. So she had not figured it all out, even with his remarkable clue last eve.
Gabriel splayed his hands before him. “You think I couldn’t have made it to the full moon? But one day remained.”
“But—”
“You don’t believe I could have made it without going mad? I do.”
“Then why did you succumb?”
“I sought the challenge. A new beginning, perhaps.” He picked at a tuft of beaver fur rimming the curved edge of the sporran. “That wasn’t the only reason I chose to complete the transformation.”
“Gabriel, you can’t mean… I had thought your suggestion last night—”
“A farce? I overheard you telling Toussaint you required a vampire to transform your brother in an attempt to cure his madness. Do you still want to try?”
“You drank blood…to help Damian?”
He nodded.
“I don’t know what to say. You…” She pushed fingers through her hair, and spun away from him. Should she not be stepping into his embrace? Why could she not accept what he offered? “You sacrificed your mortal soul for Damian!”
“Yes, well, at the time, I wasn’t aware of that small detail. Though I am still not sure I am without said soul. I don’t feel lacking. Only your dusty book can tell.” He toed the thick volume.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel, I should have told you more, but I never expected—”
Feeling her pain with every shivering word, he kissed her, silencing further protest. “I do not want you consorting with that killer. You cannot trust him to help you and your brother. Did you actually believe that you could somehow entice Monsieur Anjou to help you?”
She embraced him and laid her head on his shoulder. Her body loosened and hot tears dripped through the thin white Holland shirt Toussaint had insisted the Highlanders wore with the draped plaid that ran from shoulder to waist. Spreading his hands over the burnished green velvet and around her waist, he felt her curves fill his palms. How she filled his empty heart. He could feel Roxane’s relief, yet tainted with tendrils of pain. And he could hear her blood, rushing throughout her body. But the only temptation was that to make her life better.
“You’ve sacrificed much,” she said, looking up into his eyes.
He bent to kiss the palest, sweetest lips he had ever kissed. She opened her mouth and dove inside him. `Twas as if he were being invaded, taken over, his castle gates plundered. Roxane laid siege to his heart. And he surrendered.
“Take it all,” he whispered. “Master me. Spill your luscious colors over me.”
“Make love to me, Gabriel,” whispered against his open mouth. “Right here, on the floor. I will get a blanket.”
“Unnecessary. I believe for all the plaid I’m wearing we’ll have an ample nest to roll about.”
“Let me help.” She unpinned the silver leaf broach at his shoulder and, walking around behind him, began to unwrap the ells and ells of blue, green and crimson plaid. “Like unwrapping a gift!”
He twirled out of the plaid, his shirt falling to his thighs and his sporran hanging to conceal what lie beneath. “Och, my lassie, er…well, something like that. Come, vixen, care to take a peek behind the sporran now?”
Dropping the plaid between them, Roxane took to that offer with a delighted giggle.
He spun and upended her over his knees. “But first—Time to check for warts.”
“What?”
“On your derriere, my love.” She whimpered as his palm glided to her bare bottom. Smooth and soft, and so in need of a sucking kiss. “No warts. Are you sure you are a witch?”
“I am.”
“Then prove it. Bewitch me.”
TWENTY-FIVE
True, she was half Scottish, thanks to her maternal side, but when in her lifetime had she ever helped a man on with his plaid? Gabriel stood with arms out to the side, patiently enduring Roxane’s perplexed study of the situation. She held a clump of plaid, half-wrapped around the man’s waist. Did not this tartan come with instructions?
“You know,” he said, “you speak Scottish in your sleep.”
Roxane gaped. They had dozed after making love. “What did I say?”
“How the devil should I know? I don’t speak the language. Whatever it was, it seemed to please you.”
She felt a blush heat her skin. Maybe s
he had been whispering sweet nothings about their lovemaking. She’d not known she did such a thing. Surely, he teased her.
“There must be a trick to this far more canny than magic. I’ve never seen a man put on a plaid.”
“Only take one off?”
“Shush, you swish, I was a virgin when you had me.”
He turned and kissed her, playfully tweaking her cheek with his palm. “Promise you’ll have no other man beside me?”
“You mean our sleeping together is not to be construed as a marriage proposal?”
He gaped.
She had expected such a reaction. But it didn’t bother her. Roxane had chosen freely to sleep with one of Paris’s most infamous rogues. Far be it from her to expect to tame him in so little time. But, if given opportunity, she did favor continuing with a more permanent form of bewitchery.
“Would you have me as your husband?”
“In an instant.”
“You would?” His eyes switched between hers in such nervous surprise, it made Roxane smile. Perhaps not so much surprise as sheer terror.
“I do love you, Gabriel.”
“And I love you.”
Slipping an arm around her waist he tugged her to him. Dark, his whiskey-brown eyes, but they twinkled with bits of mischief. She touched his upper lip, ran her finger along his soft moustache.
He playfully nipped at her fingers. His voice, soft and husky, touched her very soul. “The past few days I’ve been struggling with whether it was love or simple lust.”
“Lust is never simple.”
“True. I only realized it last night when I walked into this room and saw you standing in that lovely dress.” He pointed to her grandmother’s gown, heaped on the floor before the hearth. “You are the most vivid color in my life. I would be honored to be your husband, Roxane. Will you be my wife?”
So unexpected, yet desired.
He lifted her chin. “Have I completely befuddled you, then? Mon Dieu, you don’t know how I yearn for domesticity.”
“I have my suspicions.” For she had remarked the simple man behind the lace and wigs. “You want to be noticed.”
“Only by you.”
“To never feel abandoned.”
“To love and be loved. To have a family. To have a partner, a wife I can shower with pretty things and show off at the theatre. Can you be my wife? Would you choose to live with your natural enemy?”
“A vampire and a witch.” She draped the plaid over his shoulder and turned to face the simmering coals in the hearth. Mountains of ash glowed red around the base like a guttered volcano. “It is quite the farce. At some point you are going to crave blood, and the only one around will be me.”
His embrace sent a shiver through her system. Strong arms spread around her torso and his hands gently cupped her breasts. “I would never harm you, Roxane.”
“I know you would not.” A moment to linger in his truth. A lifetime to breathe his presence. It could not be. “But as your wife, would I be expected to allow you to go off in search of whores that you would pay to bite?”
“I—er… That’s not fair, Roxane.”
“Yes, it is.” Bending to pick up the emerald gown she pressed it to her breasts and turned to him. “If I don’t question now, it’ll be too late when the answers are given. I do love you. But could I really live with knowing that you embraced other women—”
“To survive!”
She nodded. Sighed. Why was she asking the tough questions? Why not rejoice, celebrate the love they shared and seal that by posting the banns?
“Well…” he thought about it, finger to lip. “I could bite only men?”
Roxane quirked a brow.
“Just a thought. I would do what I could to make it easy for you, but there are some sexual feelings involved.”
“I had guessed that.”
“I never did tell you how it felt when Anjou attacked me. Vulgar. And yet, he made me—”
“Want the bite?”
“Yes.” You will be loved. “I loved him for that moment.”
“That explains some things.” About Damian as well. “You were mumbling nonsense after the attack.”
“Shameful things.”
“Damian said much the same. I know that your female, er, victims would mean nothing to you but a means to an end. But we must face reality. I could unintentionally harm you, Gabriel.”
“So my pretty witch believes her blood to be so sweet as to be irresistible?”
“Do you honestly believe the blood hunger will always allow discretion?”
“Of course not.”
“You have shown me you are not as you appear on the outside. The lace is just a costume, a façade. You are a fine man, Gabriel.”
“Just not husband material?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You are frightened of marriage?”
“Not at all. I—”
“Say you will have me, please?”
She searched his face, finding genuine need in the depths of his dark eyes. So soft, so tender, utterly compelling. He wanted to be loved. A simple request. An honest desire.
But she, a vampire’s wife? And he, a witch’s husband. What a farce!
And yet, they both understood one another.
“I love you?” she murmured.
Gabriel tilted his head. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
“If you think it can work, I want to give it a try.”
“I’ve witnessed more enthusiasm from a man riding the tumbrel to his end.”
“I’m sorry—”
A knock on the door drew both around. Roxane shrugged at Gabriel’s silent query. She tugged his plaid down and tucked it in at the waist. A terrible mess of fabric, but it did cover all the dangly bits. In turn he pulled the gown over her head.
“Who is it?” she called.
No answer.
Roxane opened the door, and her world became more complicated than she could ever imagine. “Father.”
The man she cared so little for stood in the doorway waiting to be invited in. As if only yesterday she had danced about his legs, begging to be swung by the arms in a circle. As if mother still lived. As if he had not fled their family a decade earlier.
Dressed in fine satin and looking a courtier for his white bagwig and red heels, Xavier Desrues had improved his couture since she last remembered him wearing a simple shirt and chamois breeches.
She felt the warmth of Gabriel’s hand slide down her back as she contemplated her options. She did not despise Xavier so much as to appreciate he had gifted her with this fine apartment. But this gift—and the city—had lured Damian to destruction.
No, that wasn’t right. Damian had found madness on his own. Xavier had nothing to do with the vampire Anjou’s attack.
“Roxane?” Gabriel whispered in her ear, nudging her to surface from her muddled thoughts.
“Father.” She signaled he enter with a bow of her head. “I had not expected your visit.”
“Apparently,” the man said as he eyed her gown—the hem was rumpled and crunched—and then he took a long look over Gabriel. “Won’t you introduce me to your companion?”
Clutching for some piece of fabric to cover her—hide her from the condemning eyes of her father—Roxane slipped her fingers through Gabriel’s warm hand and coaxed him around to her side. She winced to think what a sight they made. She in grandmother’s ancient gown and he in a tangled plaid and no shoes, with tousled hair.
“Father, this is Vicomte Gabriel Renan. Gabriel, my father, Xavier Desrues.”
“Ah, vicomte.” Xavier bowed curtly. “I believe I have heard of your reputation.”
“All of it earned, I’m sure,” Gabriel offered. “I have heard very little about you from your daughter.”
“To be expected. Neither did I say what information I have on you is favorable.”
Gabriel bristled. “I care little what you think of me, Monsieur Desrues.”
“W
ell then, let us cut through the surface niceties and get to the point, shall we? What the hell are you—a rake of the first water—doing in my daughter’s home dressed like a savage Scot?”
“It is not your concern, father.”
“Roxane.” Xavier’s jaw tensed, but his eyes remained gentle, submitting. Ever quiet in his control, she remembered futilely. To walk away from his family without warning had been the cruelest form of control. “I accept the fact that you despise everything about me. And I know you can never love me the way a daughter does her father. I’ve missed many years of your life, which I regret. But know this, I have never stopped loving you.”
“You have a strange way of showing it,” Gabriel interjected.
“And I will know”—Xavier glared at the vicomte—“what one of Paris’s most infamous rakes is doing in your home with you dressed in—whatever that is—and he looking as though he’s tumbled from your bed!”
Gabriel splayed out his hands. “I have tumbled from your daughter’s bed.”
Xavier gripped the hilt of the rapier fastened at his hip.
