The Courtesan (32 page)

It was astonishing that a soldier like Remy, who had seen so much of the ugliness in the world, the brutality of war, could still retain his own impossibly high standards of honor and expect others to do likewise. It was his most endearing and exasperating trait and made her long to wrap him in her arms and shield him from the disappointments he was doomed to suffer.

Although she doubted he would welcome any sympathy from her on the subject, she said softly, “So I am guessing from your grim demeanor that your meeting with Navarre did not go well. You weren’t able to persuade him to attempt the escape.”

Remy inspected his unshaven jaw in the small cracked mirror above the washstand. “No, he agreed.”

“What!” Gabrielle gasped.

“Navarre consented to let me arrange his escape, but only under certain conditions. All of them, of course, concerning you.” He turned from the mirror long enough to cast a bitter look at Gabrielle. “Congratulations. You have the man completely bewitched. He won’t return to Bearn unless I find a way to fetch you with us.”

Recovering from her initial shock, Gabrielle said tartly, “
That
is never going to happen. I told you before that my future is here in Paris. And Henry’s as well.”

“It seems that
Henry
has his own plans for your future. He intends to find you a husband.”

“A husband!”

“Yes, he’s got some damned notion that it will make your liaison with him more respectable if he gets some poor sot to wed you. A lawful lord and master to help keep control over you and insure you do exactly as the king wishes. Navarre believes a husband could order you to leave Paris with him.”

Gabrielle swore roundly and took an agitated turn about the room. As if her life wasn’t already complicated enough between trying to keep Remy from getting himself killed and steering her own way through the treacherous vipers at court and the Dark Queen’s wiles. Now Henry must get this fool idea into his head.

It was not unusual for some lord to accept the charge of a king’s mistress in wedlock, the man being well rewarded with lands, wealth, and titles. But Gabrielle had no wish to be burdened with some simpering ass of a courtier as her husband.

“Marvelous,” she muttered. “And did Henry happen to mention exactly what poor sot he has in mind for me?”

Remy picked up his razor from the washstand, although from the way he looked at it, Gabrielle wasn’t sure if he was contemplating shaving or slitting his throat.

“Me. The king wants me to marry you.”

Gabrielle listened in stunned silence, certain Remy could not be serious. But he obviously was. She had to stifle a mad urge to break into hysterical laughter at the sheer irony of it. At roughly the same time Gabrielle had been promising the Dark Queen
to seduce him,
Navarre had commanded Remy
to marry her.

But one glance at Remy’s grim expression robbed her of any desire to laugh. No wonder he was so tense around her, looking like someone had flung mud at his family escutcheon. He would have found the idea of marrying a soiled woman like her an intolerable insult. That it should be so hurt Gabrielle more than she would admit.

But she gave a proud toss of her head. “You marry me? How utterly ridiculous. No doubt you refused with the proper amount of moral outrage.”

Remy said nothing, his gaze sliding away from her.

“You did refuse, didn’t you?”

When he continued silent, she prodded, “Remy?”

He flung the razor down and snapped. “No. I said I would do it. I pledged to marry you.”

Gabrielle’s jaw dropped. She was speechless for a moment, then cried, “Are you quite mad? You do understand the nature of the arrangement Navarre is proposing?”

“Oh, yes, I understand
that
all too well.”

“Then why on earth did you ever consent?”

Remy regarded her with a mix of frustration and some other emotion she couldn’t read. “Why the devil do you think I would agree?”

“I have no idea.”

“Because—” Remy whipped away from her, studying his reflection in the mirror, the set of his jaw rigid. “Because my king commands me. That’s damned well why.”

Gabrielle swallowed hard. Perhaps at one time Remy might have had a far different reason for wanting to wed her, before he had learned the truth about her and knew what she was. But now— What else had she expected him to say? Still, the thought that he would accept her out of his infernal sense of duty hurt and angered Gabrielle more than if he had rejected her outright.

“Well, what a loyal subject you are, Captain,” she said icily. “Ready to fall on your sword for your king or wed his mistress. It’s all one to you, isn’t it?”

Remy flinched at her sarcasm, but he replied, “You were the one, Gabrielle, who insisted that I abide by whatever he decreed.”

“I was talking about his decision regarding your escape plans. Not some absurd matrimonial arrangements.”

“There is no need for you to get so perturbed. After all, it does take two people to consent to a betrothal.”

Gabrielle glanced at him sharply. So that was what Remy was hoping for, that she would refuse and he would be freed from a duty he obviously found distasteful. But she would be damned before she made it that easy for him.

“Well, why not?” she said, pasting a brittle smile on her face. “It sounds like a good idea to me.”

She waited for Remy’s reaction to her agreement, expecting shock and dismay. But he maintained a posture of stoic resignation, his spine so rigid it could have been made of iron instead of bone. No doubt that was how the man looked right before a battle when he stared into the mouth of enemy cannons.

Determined to provoke a response from him, Gabrielle continued, “It is always good to have a little additional security in case the king should tire of me. Not that I will ever allow that to happen.”

She took a savage satisfaction in the way Remy’s lips tightened. “The marriage will be good for you as well because Navarre is certain to reward you handsomely. Marrying me should be good for an estate and a title at the least. Would you settle for a knighthood or are you hoping for a barony?”

“Gabrielle . . .” The dangerous note in Remy’s voice should have silenced her, but it only made her more reckless.

“Just think . . . all those years of devoted service, risking your neck on the battlefield and the most you acquired was a captaincy. But all you really needed to do was give the king’s whore the honor of your name.”

“Gabrielle, stop it,” Remy growled and she knew if she had any sense, she’d heed his warning. She’d witnessed the Scourge’s temper before.

But she was too angry and hurting to care. She sashayed closer. “How would you like to seal our betrothal, Captain? With a handshake like two merchants signing a contract? Or would you prefer a kiss?”

She wound her arms around his neck and gazed defiantly up at him. His gaze darkened and he gave a low curse. She expected him to fling her from him, but Remy’s mouth crashed down on hers with a fury that drove the breath from her body. She tensed before his assault before she responded ferociously in kind until they were not kissing so much as making war upon each other, a fierce battle of lips, a heated duel of tongues.

Remy offered her no quarter, his body hard and unyielding. He forced her back toward the bed. Gabrielle scarcely knew whether he flung her onto the tangled blankets or she yanked him down with her. They tumbled to the cot, grappling in a fiery volley of kisses and roving hands. Remy tugged ruthlessly at the lacings of her gown and wrenched the fabric down her shoulder, baring one of her breasts, cupping it with his callused palm. Gabrielle countered by thrusting her hands beneath his shirt and scoring her nails over the smooth skin of his back.

With a low growl, Remy blazed a path from her neck to the swell of her breast, his unshaven jaw abrading her tender skin. His mouth fastened over her nipple, suckling her, tugging with his teeth until a low moan escaped Gabrielle, her anger spilling into the darker currents of desire. The kind of passion she’d long been afraid to experience, strong, aching, out of control.

Remy pressed himself between her thighs. Even through the folds of fabric, she could feel the hard evidence of his arousal bearing down on the soft core of her sex and the familiar flutters of panic took hold. She stiffened.

“Remy, please. Sto—” Her words were smothered beneath the heat of his mouth as he kissed her again, his mouth both coaxing and demanding her surrender. He shifted his weight and started to ease up her skirt. Gabrielle’s panic flared to full-blown terror.

Suddenly it was no longer the rugged planes of Remy’s face hovering over her, but the leering countenance of Danton.

“No,” she shrilled, thrashing wildly to get away from him. “Stop it!” Not giving him a chance to respond, Gabrielle lashed out frantically, clawing to be free.

Her heart pounded as she braced herself to feel her arms pinioned ruthlessly above her head, followed by the searing pain of his conquest. But the man braced above her froze for a second, then wrenched himself off her. His blurred features cleared, resuming the clean, hard lines of Remy’s face, his eyes roiling with frustrated desire and confusion. He backed away from her, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he sought to subdue his passion.

Gabrielle sat up slowly, her cheeks burning with shame over her bout of near hysteria. Remy was not Danton. In her heart she knew that Remy would never seek to take any woman by force and that only made her response all the more irrational.

Her fingers trembled as she worked her gown back up over her shoulder. She could not bring herself to look at Remy, realizing he must find her the most contemptible of jades, teasing, tempting a man to the brink, only to thrust him away. What was it Danton had called her that terrible day? A dishonest little slut.

Remy must be furious with her and he had every right to be. But his voice was more raw with despair than anger. “I don’t understand you at all, Gabrielle. Am I that repulsive? You seem willing to make love to any other man in Paris. Why not me?”

“Make love? Is that what you think I do?” Gabrielle gave a hollow laugh. “I survive. I endure. The only way I can ever tolerate bedding a man is to go through the motions, while I pretend that I am somewhere else.”

And she knew she would never be able to do that with Remy. He was not the kind of man any woman could pretend away. He’d make her want, ache, and burn for him, but in the end she would shatter with her brutal memories of Danton.

Remy studied her with frowning intensity as though waiting for her to explain further. But Gabrielle feared she’d already said too much. She fumbled with her lacings, getting them in a hopeless snarl. When Remy stepped toward her, she tensed.

“I was only going to help you do up your gown,” he said, drawing back.

“Well, don’t. We are both in danger of forgetting that our betrothal is to be in name only. I will belong to your king, so it is far better if you never touch me again.”

“Very well. I—I promise. I won’t.”

Rather than reassuring her, his promise inspired her with an unreasonable urge to burst into tears. The sooner she got herself out of here the better. Haphazardly finishing with her laces, she looked about for the straw hat she had lost earlier. She found it wedged between the foot of the bed and the wall, along with some of the garments Remy had discarded last night. She retrieved the crimson-lined cape, smoothed out its folds of midnight blue, and handed it to him.

“You really ought to take better care of this. Satin doesn’t clean easily and that cape must have cost you a pretty penny. Where did you—” Gabrielle broke off as a horrified thought occurred to her. “My God, Remy. You and that Wolf friend of yours, the thief— You—you haven’t been . . . been . . .”

“Picking pockets and waylaying innocent travelers? No.” Remy’s gaze still rested broodingly on her face. He tossed the cape down on the bed as though he could not care less about how expensive the garment was.

She pressed him uneasily. “Then where did you get the money?”

“I hired out my sword to some English barons.”

“You were a mercenary. For the
English.
”

Remy had always claimed that he loathed war, that he only ever fought in defense of his countrymen. Discovering this compromise of his ideals troubled Gabrielle more than the loss of her own innocence.

“I see. So I am not the only one who has been selling myself.”

Remy flushed. “I never looked at my activities in that light. I needed funds to help my king and unfortunately soldiering is the only thing I am good at.”

“Just as seducing men is the only thing I—”

“Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.” Remy started to grasp her shoulders, staying the gesture as he appeared to remember his pledge. Eyes dark with frustration, he fisted his hands and held them rigid at his side.

“Damnation, Gabrielle, can you not forget all this bloody nonsense about becoming Navarre’s mistress? Let’s leave Paris. Now. Let me take you back to Faire Isle.”

This unexpected offer astonished her more than anything else had. She did not think he could possibly be serious, but never had Remy appeared more in earnest.

“But why—why would I ever want to go back to Faire Isle?” she faltered.

“Because that’s where you belong. That is your home.”

Home . . . Remy had no idea the images he evoked with that simple word, of the snug manor house nestled in the valley, smoke rising in lazy whorls from the chimneystack. Of the breeze that crept past her bedchamber window, stirring the bedcurtains and carrying with it the distant tang of the sea and sweet scents of Ariane’s herb garden. Of romping with Miri through the cool, mysterious shadows of the wood. Or sitting before the fire while Ariane patiently worked the tangles out of her hair.

These pictures were so vivid, so real, it was as though Gabrielle had painted them on her memory when her magic was at its strongest. Preserved them in the leaves of her sketchbook, a book that she slammed closed.

“I can’t go home,” Gabrielle said hoarsely. “Ariane—she—she wouldn’t want me there. She’ll never forgive me for coming to Paris, the things I’ve done.”