days of the worst misery I’ve ever endured in a fairly miserable life. The second when you tried to kill me with your bare hands. I swear, I bear the bruises.”
“A miserable life?” she countered, trying to control her almost frightening rage. If she gave in to it, all would be lost. “And how, pray tell, has your life been so miserable? Have you starved? Have you been beaten? Have you lost your parents to a bloodthirsty crowd? Have you…?”
“Have you been starved?” he countered. “Beaten? How did you manage to escape Madame La Guillotine’s insatiable thirst for blood?” He sounded no more than casually interested. “I was informed that your entire family perished on the block. I was charmed”—he accompanied his bald-faced lie with a faint, supercilious smile—“to discover you had escaped. How did you manage it, Ghislaine? Where have you spent the last ten years of your life?”
“In a convent,” she said flatly.
He took her at her word, a faint trace of derision on his too-handsome face. “It doesn’t appear as if you benefited from the example of Christian piety set before you. Didn’t Jesus teach about turning the other cheek? Your thirst for revenge seems exceedingly Old Testament to me. What is it you imagine I’ve done to merit such a bloody desire on your part? I wasn’t part of the mob, or the Reign of Terror. If I’d been anywhere inside the borders of France, they probably would have hauled me up there too, as a perfect example of how degenerate and profligate the upper classes really are.”
“If you’ve forgotten your culpability, then I won’t waste your time reminding you,” she said, turning her head away to face the verdant countryside.
He caught her chin in one hard, merciless hand, turning her to look at him. “Refresh my memory,” he said softly, the steel in his voice a match for the steel in his hand.
She found she had the most absurd weakness, not wanting to remember those awful moments in the garden at Sans Doute. Not wanting to remember her shame, when her innocent adoration had been flung in the mud. To remind him would be to remind herself of her own vulnerability, and to remember might be to relive it.
“You’ll find,” she said in a soft voice, “that I am quite impervious to pain. If you think you’ll find out what you want by hurting me, you’ll only be wasting your time. Unless you are one of those who receive a certain perverse pleasure in inflicting pain.”
For a moment he didn’t move. His hand on her face didn’t gentle—it still maintained its painful grip. And then his eyelids lowered as he surveyed her. “I have other perverse pleasures,” he said softly. “Allow me to demonstrate.” And to her shock and horror he leaned across the carriage and kissed her.
She could have withstood a brutal assault, his mouth grinding against her. She could have withstood a rough rape of her mouth, and she was fully prepared to disappear into that quiet place in her mind where no one could reach her.
But she was unprepared for the softness of his lips against hers. The damnable gentleness as he brushed his mouth against hers, feathering it lightly, so lightly that it was a caress. And she hadn’t been caressed in more than a decade.
If her hands had been free she would have killed him. As it was she had no choice but to submit. His fingers were painful on her face, holding her still for the devastating sweetness of his kiss.
And then he pulled back, releasing her, leaning against the leather squabs of his faintly shabby carriage, and his eyes were speculative beneath his half-closed lids. “They didn’t teach you much in the convent,” he murmured. “I’ll have to see about improving your education.” And without another word he leaned back into the corner and fell asleep.
Leaving her to watch him in the gradually increasing light of the carriage, her hands and feet still tied, her mouth damp from his, her body shivering with rage and
“A miserable life?” she countered, trying to control her almost frightening rage. If she gave in to it, all would be lost. “And how, pray tell, has your life been so miserable? Have you starved? Have you been beaten? Have you lost your parents to a bloodthirsty crowd? Have you…?”
“Have you been starved?” he countered. “Beaten? How did you manage to escape Madame La Guillotine’s insatiable thirst for blood?” He sounded no more than casually interested. “I was informed that your entire family perished on the block. I was charmed”—he accompanied his bald-faced lie with a faint, supercilious smile—“to discover you had escaped. How did you manage it, Ghislaine? Where have you spent the last ten years of your life?”
“In a convent,” she said flatly.
He took her at her word, a faint trace of derision on his too-handsome face. “It doesn’t appear as if you benefited from the example of Christian piety set before you. Didn’t Jesus teach about turning the other cheek? Your thirst for revenge seems exceedingly Old Testament to me. What is it you imagine I’ve done to merit such a bloody desire on your part? I wasn’t part of the mob, or the Reign of Terror. If I’d been anywhere inside the borders of France, they probably would have hauled me up there too, as a perfect example of how degenerate and profligate the upper classes really are.”
“If you’ve forgotten your culpability, then I won’t waste your time reminding you,” she said, turning her head away to face the verdant countryside.
He caught her chin in one hard, merciless hand, turning her to look at him. “Refresh my memory,” he said softly, the steel in his voice a match for the steel in his hand.
She found she had the most absurd weakness, not wanting to remember those awful moments in the garden at Sans Doute. Not wanting to remember her shame, when her innocent adoration had been flung in the mud. To remind him would be to remind herself of her own vulnerability, and to remember might be to relive it.
“You’ll find,” she said in a soft voice, “that I am quite impervious to pain. If you think you’ll find out what you want by hurting me, you’ll only be wasting your time. Unless you are one of those who receive a certain perverse pleasure in inflicting pain.”
For a moment he didn’t move. His hand on her face didn’t gentle—it still maintained its painful grip. And then his eyelids lowered as he surveyed her. “I have other perverse pleasures,” he said softly. “Allow me to demonstrate.” And to her shock and horror he leaned across the carriage and kissed her.
She could have withstood a brutal assault, his mouth grinding against her. She could have withstood a rough rape of her mouth, and she was fully prepared to disappear into that quiet place in her mind where no one could reach her.
But she was unprepared for the softness of his lips against hers. The damnable gentleness as he brushed his mouth against hers, feathering it lightly, so lightly that it was a caress. And she hadn’t been caressed in more than a decade.
If her hands had been free she would have killed him. As it was she had no choice but to submit. His fingers were painful on her face, holding her still for the devastating sweetness of his kiss.
And then he pulled back, releasing her, leaning against the leather squabs of his faintly shabby carriage, and his eyes were speculative beneath his half-closed lids. “They didn’t teach you much in the convent,” he murmured. “I’ll have to see about improving your education.” And without another word he leaned back into the corner and fell asleep.
Leaving her to watch him in the gradually increasing light of the carriage, her hands and feet still tied, her mouth damp from his, her body shivering with rage and
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