It had taken decades to move through the grief of losing her and centuries more to go a full day without thinking of her. He tried to convince himself she couldn’t possibly be the Madelaine he loved and lost. A figment of his imagination. A hope. A dream. But certainly not real.
Ever since their conversation on Sunday, he knew she was very much real and was the same woman he’d loved. These days apart from her felt as if someone reached down his throat and squeezed his heart.
That she did not remember him tore at his soul. That she refused to believe him was like dying a thousand deaths.
He looked into her eyes, frustration and anger at the injustice of it all churning inside him. He’d loved her with all his heart, all his soul, with every fiber of his being and she didn’t remember it.
He stood. Her fingers slid against his bare arm and away from him. The anger swelled, more forceful this time, and directed at her. Centuries ago they’d been forbidden to each other—because he was a lowly knight and she a countess. They’d loved deeply, but had not been allowed their love. Doomed to never live together, to never celebrate their feelings publicly they’d nurtured their love in the only way they were able. Secretly.
When he looked into those cinnamon-colored eyes, he saw the memories pushing to be released and her desperate struggle to contain them. If she would just open up and let the memories come, she would understand what this connection was between them. She’d know.
And that’s all Christien wanted, for her to remember him. Because he was living in hell, knowing she’d come back to him but unable to push past her defenses to unlock her memories.
“We met on April fourteenth, in the year of our Lord 1307. You were sitting next to your husband, Count Flandres, when I first saw you from across the hall. You watched me from beneath your lashes.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth went slack. She was pale before but now she was positively gray. Don’t do this to her. But for once he ignored his gut.
“You know this because I told you about the dream. This doesn’t prove anything,” she whispered.
Christien ignored her, his anger taking over his good sense.
“I saw your fear of him, especially when he approached us.”
Tears pooled in her eyes but still he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He needed her to remember. “Even though you experienced his wrath that night, you still came to the keep the next morning to see us off. You hid in the shadows, but I knew you were there. Even then we had this connection.”
She pressed a fist to her mouth, the tears rolling over her knuckles. This part she hadn’t told him and they both knew it.
“Rest assured, my lady, I was as drawn to you as you were to me. Certainly a mad choice on both our parts, but you couldn’t stay away and neither could I.”
“Please,” she whispered around her fist. “Please, stop.”
Her plea didn’t penetrate his anger. Nothing could at this point.
“Do you believe me now, Madelaine?”
“How do you know this? How do you know what I’ve been dreaming?”
“Because they’re not dreams, Madelaine. They’re memories of our life together.”
“Stop this!” Her cry echoed through the quiet hospital room. “They’re not memories. They’re dreams. Caused by stress.”
He looked down at her. Unable to resist, he touched her cheek, her jaw, the hollow at the base of her throat where her necklace had once lain. “Do you always feel a lover’s touch in your dreams?”
She jerked back, hissing in pain. “Enough. What you’re saying can’t happen.”
“It is happening,” he said softly. “But you continue to deny it. We were in love, Madelaine.”
“We weren’t! They were!” Her breathing was erratic, the fear coming off her in waves, but it was the look in her eyes that stopped him short. Fear he could handle. Fear he could assuage. He would slay her demons for her, travel to hell and back if it would make her happy. But fear of him made him sick inside.
“I’m not mad,” he said softly.
“I didn’t say you were.”
He raised a brow. “No? You were certainly thinking it.”
“What? You can read minds as well as know a person’s dreams?”
He shook his head sadly. “No, Madelaine. I know you.”
Chapter Ten
After their conversation in the hospital room, Christien said very little to Lainie over the next twenty-four hours. He quickly and efficiently handled her nurses and doctors and before she knew it, they were ensconced in a limousine and on their way to the club. He never asked her where she wanted to go. He just swooped her up and took her with him.
She didn’t argue, much to her disgust. At first she blamed her acquiescence on the pain. But in the end, she decided it was time to stop lying to herself. She didn’t argue because she didn’t want to be alone.
And she decided to be honest about one other thing, as well. Maybe her dreams weren’t all about stress. Maybe they were about something else.
She replayed the conversation in the hospital room and the same questions kept popping up. How did he know so many details about the dreams? Dreams she’d never told him about.
Did he have the same dreams? Did he know about her before they even met?
What if they had lived another life together? What did that mean?
And there were other thoughts, darker thoughts she kept avoiding but knew she couldn’t avoid any longer.
Why was she pushed into oncoming traffic? And why did Christien think he was responsible?
You are my Achilles heel, Madelaine.
His statement shocked her. Could it have happened so fast? And yet, didn’t she feel the same about him? How many times had she been tempted to forget everything—her job, the mounting debt and the crushing responsibility to her father—to be with Christien?
The man confused her and that was precisely why she needed to find out more about him. She needed a plan to protect herself against him.
Do you really need protecting from Christien?
Yes, but not the physical kind. She didn’t fear that he would hurt her. Her fear stemmed from the emotional damage. Already she was falling in love with him and it scared her. Did he feel the same? And if he did could she trust that his love was genuine and not for the woman of her dreams?
And, let’s be honest, how much of her love was tied to the dark knight in her dreams?
This was such a mess. When they were together it was like four people were in the room instead of two and the emotions were jumbled between all of them. She had no doubt Madelaine and Christien loved with a rare intensity, but what of the Lainie and Christien of modern times? How did their feelings fit into all of this?
She pounded her fist into the bed Christien had deposited her in when they reached his apartment. Why couldn’t anything be simple? Why did it seem that lately everything she touched turned into the biggest complication? She couldn’t meet a nice man who made a good living and liked her for her. No, she had to find a man who believed they were the reincarnation of another couple from centuries ago.
And the fact remained she knew little about him except for what she read on the internet, which was scarce and sketchy. Not one article mentioned his childhood except to say he grew up in France and his parents were dead. He graduated from Cambridge University with a degree in finance and in the early nineties moved to the United States where he quickly rose to become one of the richest men in the nation. He was known for his uncanny ability to refurbish large sections of cities, taking what had once been rundown, drug-infested gang hangouts to bustling business and entertainment complexes. Milwaukee was merely one of many examples.
He was a confirmed bachelor who dated but never exclusively and from the vague information she’d been able to glean from the internet, he never stayed with a woman longer than two or three dates.
All of that was interesting and information Lainie filed away in her memory but it didn’t tell her a
nything about the man. What made him tick? Why did he prefer to lead the life of a loner? What was his life like before he entered Cambridge University?
Only one way to find out. She had to snoop.
Slowly she slid off the sumptuous bed. He’d given her the same extravagant bedroom he’d given her Saturday night. She’d been relieved he didn’t expect her to share his bed. At the moment, her emotions were out of control and she didn’t trust herself to make the right decision when it came to Christien Chevalier. When she was near him, he was everything she wanted, but when they were apart, he scared her. Or more specifically, her emotions concerning him scared her.
She quietly padded down the hall, her feet sinking into the deep plush carpet. She stuck to her rule of no pain medication and after a full day in the hospital the pain had eased, but not altogether. The nurses said each day would be better than the last and so far they were right. She was still stiff, but her head didn’t hurt as much. If she didn’t move her shoulder, the pain was manageable.
Christien’s home was quiet. The nightclub wouldn’t open for a few more hours, but he assured her she wouldn’t hear it from her room. She didn’t doubt it. Christien had managed to create an oasis amidst the chaos of his life. A retreat that held the outside world at bay. She envied him this solitude and wished she was able to forget her responsibilities for one night.
Sabine was somewhere in the building, her number programmed into Lainie’s phone in case she needed anything, but she had no plans to call Sabine. Christien left not long after making sure she was settled in, claiming he had things to take care of, but would be back in a few hours. She had time to do what needed to be done.
Breath held, she slowly pushed open the door to his bedroom, guilt churning in her stomach for what she was about to do. But guilt didn’t stop her from stepping in or turning in a circle, her mouth open in awe. His decorator was truly talented. When she first saw his living quarters the other night she’d been taken aback by the heavy wood furniture and rich colors, but the more she got to know Christien the more she realized this was more like him. Not the stark simplicity of his office space, but this Old World charm that reminded her of an era long gone. A few touches of the modern world intruded, like the expensive sound system continually playing soothing jazz and the flat-screen television in each bedroom. Even the electrical lighting seemed like an invasion.
The largest canopy bed she’d ever seen dominated the room. Made of intricately carved mahogany, it boasted four posters standing at least seven feet tall, but that wasn’t what amazed her. What amazed her were the heavy velvet curtains tied to each poster and the matching midnight-blue bedspread made of the same velvet. Who had a velvet bedspread?
Tentatively she reached out and stroked the fabric, closing her eyes in ecstasy at the sumptuousness of the soft velvet. What would it feel like to lie naked on such a bed with the curtains pulled tight against the world?
The thought had her yanking her hand back. She had no business daydreaming of lying naked in Christien’s bed. Those thoughts only led to trouble.
Her guilt ratcheted up a few notches when she pulled open dresser drawers and riffled through them. His clothes were almost as much of a delight to touch as the bed. Christien Chevalier didn’t believe in synthetic fibers. He liked real cotton, slippery silk, superfine linen and smooth-as-butter leather. He liked cashmere sweaters, wool trousers and satin sheets.
Satin sheets with velvet bedspreads. She shook her head and turned her attention to the closet.
But neither the closet nor the dresser provided any more insight into the mind of Christien Chevalier.
Her feet took her to a large—everything in this room was large—bookcase stuffed with well-used books. Not the kind you bought in a shop by the dozen to make it look like you were a reader. These had been read and reread. Lainie tilted her head, perusing the titles, surprised to find nonfiction titles like A History of the End of the World, Exposition of the Book of Revelation, and A Reader’s Guide to the Book of Revelation. In fact, every book on the shelves had something to do with the Book of Revelation.
Lainie had been raised in a religious household. Her parents were devout Catholics. Not the Bible-thumping type, but they believed in going to church every Sunday and made sure Lainie was educated in the faith. So Lainie knew about the Book of Revelation and the prophecy of the end of the world. She didn’t remember exactly what the book was about, other than it had to do with the seven seals and the four horsemen.
Why would Christien be interested in the last book of the Bible to the point that was all he read?
She pulled a title down, the binding worn, the pages leafed through many times. She read words like apocalypse, the second coming of Christ, seven trumpets and seven bowls. She put the book back and was running her finger down the spines of others when her gaze landed on a wooden trunk tucked into the corner of the room, overshadowed by the large bookcase.
The trunk was old, cracked, the hinges made of some sort of metal, but they weren’t rusted. In fact they were well-oiled because they didn’t make a sound when she lifted the heavy lid.
Lainie sank to her knees, wincing when her bruised hip bumped the trunk, and peered inside. She carefully lifted out more clothing and put them aside. She let her hand rest on them, as if they carried the essence of Christien in them. Like all the other clothes, they were made of natural fibers, but instead of the tailored garments she found in his dresser and closet, these were roughly made, hand sewn with large stitches and rough thread. The colors were dull, the white more of an ecru, the reds more of an orange.
Reaching back into the trunk she accidentally knocked the pile over. Cursing under her breath, she scooped them up and was about to refold them when her eyes fell on a blue dress.
Using the trunk for leverage, Lainie stood and held the dress up.
At one time it had probably been a vibrant blue, but had faded to a dull purple. It was simply cut with no ornamentation. Hand sewn but sewn better than the others in the pile. When she held it up to her, it reached past her toes and trailed on the ground.
Something flashed through her mind, a memory there then gone.
Christien hated leaving Madelaine alone, but was damned if he would put off this visit any longer. His tightly held fury was fraying and he had every intention of taking it out on someone.
He strode through the front doors of Lucheux Limited, bypassing the reception desk and ignoring the receptionist who stood in surprise.
“Excuse me, sir. Sir!”
He punched the button for the elevator as she lifted her phone and spoke into it rapidly. Good. Let her call security. He was itching for a fight. It’d been a long time since he had one.
Damn modern times.
In the old days rivals fought it out with battle axes. Later they dueled. The prohibition of dueling led to the softness of modern man, in his opinion. Nowadays people wanted to talk things out.
He snorted.
Talk was the last thing he wanted to do, but because these were modern times he would try it first. If talking didn’t work he would resort to the old way.
The elevator arrived and he stepped in. The door slid closed just as building security entered the reception area. He grinned, his muscles twitching. Too bad he didn’t have his sword at his side or a dagger in his belt.
The grin faded fast when he thought of Madelaine and his near terror when he received the call that she’d been hit by a car, or his fury when she told him she’d been pushed. His hands closed into fists and he had to breathe through clenched teeth.
He was not going to lose her so soon after finding her again. He’d do what it took to protect her even if it meant he had to put her under lock and key. Thank God she hadn’t argued about coming home with him. Modern woman or no, he would have thrown her over his shoulder and carried her away which wouldn’t have endeared him to her, but he didn’t care. Better alive and mad as a wet cat than dead.
The elevators opened to anot
her desk with another woman behind it. She looked up at him, her mouth opened in an O of surprise.
“Where is Etienne Lucheux?”
Her hand inched toward the phone. Christien slammed his hand over it and leaned forward. “Tell me where he is.”
She snatched her arm back. Her eyes darted to the left.
“Thank you.”
He pushed Lucheux’s office door open with the force of only part of his anger. Lucheux’s head jerked up. Giselle, standing at the side of the desk, jumped.
Christien closed the door quietly. “Call your pitiful security force and tell them to leave us alone.”
“What are you doing here?” Giselle spit out.
Christien had never liked Giselle, finding her too driven for her own good. She tended to act before thinking, to grasp what wasn’t hers and to demand when she was undeserving.
“Call them,” Christien said to Lucheux.
With a nonchalant shrug, Lucheux picked up the phone, dialed and spoke quietly into it. When he hung up Christien approached the desk, placed his hands on it and leaned forward.
Giselle moved closer. Christien swung his head toward her and narrowed his eyes. “Not another step.”
She stepped back, the twisted expression on her face telling him how much she hated him. It wasn’t anything he didn’t already know.
He turned back to Lucheux. “Whatever game you’re playing, I want it stopped.”
Lucheux leaned back, his expression shrewd, appraising. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Christien pushed away from the desk. “I’m talking about Madelaine Alexander. I know your intentions.” He looked at Giselle, her face curiously expressionless. “And they won’t work. However, since you sent Ms. Alexander to me and she is an innocent in this, she is now under my protection.”
“I assure you, Chevalier, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Christien eyed his nemesis, searching for deceit in him. While it was coming off Giselle in waves, he was unable get a good read on Lucheux. “She was hit by a car yesterday.”
Her Dark Knight Page 12
