“Why did he keep the painting here?”
“He loved her. He said she was the most beautiful thing he possessed and wanted to have her likeness before him always. My mother died when I was five and my father met Charlotte d’Abois two years later. He begged her to marry him but she was never like other women. She had no use for the strictures of marriage and enjoyed the freedom of her life as a courtesan.” His lips twisted. “However, she also enjoyed the power money gave her and consented to be his mistress.” Jean Marc’s words became jerky as he drew four large journals from the top drawer of the desk. “He didn’t care that she slept with Kevoir.”
“Most peculiar,” Juliette said. “He must not have been at all like you. I think you’d care very much if a woman you loved cuckolded you.”
“How perceptive.” His voice was without intonation as he went to the bookshelves and took down two volumes. He carried them back to the desk. “But, since that circumstance is not likely to occur, we need not consider it. I have no intention of either sharing you or falling into the trap of loving you, Juliette.”
Juliette felt a sudden pang and she quickly nodded. “Of course, it was only an observation.” She gazed back at the painting. “She has no expression. Was she a cold woman?”
“Not in bed. She cuckolded my father with half the men in Marseilles.”
“But other than in bed?”
“Yes.” Jean Marc went to the pedestal by the window, brought the crystal swan to the desk, and set it carefully with the journals. “Very cold.”
“What happened when you returned from Jamaica?”
“Why are you asking these questions?” He smiled crookedly. “You have no sketchbook and pen in your hands.”
“I want to know.”
He suddenly slammed the drawer of the desk. “When I returned I found that two months before she had run away to Greece with her current lover, Jacques Leton. She’d been stealing funds from the company for some time and giving them to Leton. Everyone knew but my father. That was the reason she’d arranged for me to go with Basteau on the slaver.” His voice harshened. “She made my father look the fool. I went after them.”
Juliette’s gaze remained riveted to his face. “To Greece?”
“Yes. I challenged and killed Leton. But Charlotte hadn’t grown tired of him yet and felt cheated. She decided to punish me.”
“How?”
“She returned to my father and begged his forgiveness.”
Juliette gazed at him incredulously. “And he took her back?”
“Without even a harsh word.” He smiled bitterly. “I told you she ruled my father. Four months after she returned here, she married him. She tried to make him disinherit me, but he consented only to sending me away. He told me I didn’t understand Charlotte and we’d all be happier if I went to Italy to the University of Padua. She died two years later and I returned home.” He looked at Juliette. “Satisfied? You’ve finally stripped me of all my secrets. Does it please you?”
“No.” She wanted to reach out and comfort him but he had once again retreated behind his glittering barrier. “Did you … have affection for her?”
“When I was a child I thought she was a magical being just as my father did. I learned quickly, however.”
He had learned pain and betrayal and the knowledge that he was helpless in the wake of the power wielded by Charlotte d’Abois. Even now, after all these years, she could see those emotions burning still within him.
“I can’t understand how he could take her back.”
“I can. He was a dreamer. He saw her only as he wanted to see her.” Jean Marc drew a deep breath. “My father always said I couldn’t understand him because I was too practical to dream. Well, God save me from the dreamers of this world.”
“He didn’t understand you,” Juliette said quietly. “I think you, too, have dreams, but you rule them instead of letting them rule you.”
“Nonsense. I’m no dreamer. You’re right, my father and I were not at all alike.” He moved across the salon toward the door. “I believe only what I can see and touch.” He locked the door. “And I want very badly to see and touch you at this moment, Juliette. Will you please unfasten your gown?”
She gazed at him in surprise. “Now?”
He smiled recklessly. “Why not? I have a fancy to take you in a place that’s not moving and shifting with every wave.” He took off his coat and tossed it on the desk, half covering the crystal swan. “Indulge my whim.”
She had begun to realize he seldom acted on impulse. There was some reason he wanted to make love to her in this room. Something to do with the rawness of the pain she sensed within him.
Jean Marc was moving toward her. “You have no objection?”
She slowly shook her head, her gaze clinging to his. “No,” she whispered. “I’ve no objection, Jean Marc.”
She could feel the tension flowing from him, enveloping her in its power. She disrobed, every motion steady and unhurried. In a few moments she stood naked before him. “Is this what you want?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.” His gaze went over her slowly. Whatever his purpose, she knew he wanted her. She could see the thick column of his manhood thrusting against the smooth snugness of his trousers, the slight flare of his nostrils, the flush darkening the high planes of his cheekbones. She knew and that knowledge was igniting an answering response.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want.” He didn’t touch her with anything but his eyes. Yet it was enough to send a hot shiver through her. “And more. Go over and lie down on that lovely Savonnerie carpet in front of the fireplace. I have a fancy to see you framed against those exquisite colors.”
She moved slowly across the study to stand before the mantel. She stood with her back to him, looking up at the portrait of Charlotte d’Abois. “Is she the reason you hated my wig? You said you detested fair hair.”
“I don’t want to talk about Charlotte.” He was standing behind her, his hands sliding around to cup her breasts in his hands.
She inhaled sharply as she felt the hardness of his arousal pressing against her naked buttocks. She looked down to see the tan of his hands in startling contrast against her paler flesh. His hands left her breasts and slowly slid down her rib cage to rest on her hips.
“I don’t want to talk at all.” He held her quite still while he rubbed slowly back and forth against her. “Since you don’t seem to wish to indulge me by lying down, why don’t you bend over and hold on to the mantel?”
His hands left her to make adjustments to his clothing and then he moved closer. “Yes, that’s right. Now your legs, just a little wider …”
He sheathed himself within her in one swift plunge.
She cried out, her fingers digging at the cold Pyrenees marble of the mantel.
He froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. “It’s just … different.” His hot hardness inside her, the coldness of the marble under her hands, the feel of his clothed body against her nakedness. Different and darkly exciting.
He began to move, thrusting slowly, deeply, letting her feel every inch of him. “Don’t cry out again,” he said thickly. “They’ll hear you in the salon.” His fingers slid around and found the sensitive nub of her womanhood. His breath was hot in her ear as he began to lightly pluck with a thumb and forefinger. “You wouldn’t want them to know what I’m doing to you, would you?”
She bit her lower lip to keep from screaming. The sensations he was provoking were indescribable. She could feel Jean Marc’s chest rising and falling against her naked back, the crispness of his linen shirt a sensual abrasion as he plunged wildly.
“You wouldn’t want them to know how much you like it.” His teeth pulled at her earlobe. “How you’re pushing back against me to take and take and take …”
Her breath was sobbing in her throat as she felt Jean Marc striking against her womb.
“You do want this, don’
t you?”
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t speak.
His finger pressed, rotated slowly. “Don’t you?”
“Yes.” It was an almost inaudible gasp.
“Then let me give you more.” He pushed her to her knees on the Savonnerie carpet so that she was supporting herself on her hands and followed her down. His hands cupped her breasts, kneading, squeezing, pulling at them while he thrust deep. “While you tell me”—he pulled out and sank deep again—“how much you want it.”
He was moving strongly, roughly, in a fever of hunger and need. “Tell me, dammit.”
“How … can I tell … you?” She gasped in exasperation. “When you’re giving me … so much pleasure I can’t even breathe.”
He stopped in mid-stroke and was still. “Mother of God, I should have known you’d do this to me.”
He flipped her over on the carpet and she saw his expression for the first time. Torment, pleasure, frustration, resignation.
He thrust hard, again, then a flurry of heated power.
She cried out, her fingernails digging into the carpet, not caring whether Simon’s men heard her or not.
He crushed her to him, burying his face in her shoulder while the spasms of release shuddered through both of them.
“Why?” Jean Marc’s voice was low as he adjusted his clothing and then moved to help her with the fastening of her gown. “Why did you say yes?”
“I don’t know.” Juliette didn’t look at him. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”
“To let me treat you like a tart I’d picked up on the docks of Marseilles?” Jean Marc’s tone was suddenly savage.
“Is that how they’re treated? It must not be such a terrible life. I really found it quite exhilarating.”
Jean Marc put his fingers beneath her chin and turned her face up to look in her eyes. “Why?”
“Because you were kind to me in Andorra,” she said simply. “And kindness should be returned. I wasn’t sure at first why you needed to do this but I knew the need was there.”
His expression was suddenly wary. “But you think you know now?”
“You were losing sight of the woman you were fighting and seeing me as myself.” She gazed up at the woman in the picture. “You wanted to see me as the enemy again. You thought you might be able to do that here.” Her gaze shifted to his face. “But you were wrong, weren’t you? You found you couldn’t see me in that way any longer.”
“Yes.” He released her chin and his hands dropped away from her. “Yes, I was wrong. It didn’t work.”
She rose to her feet. “You don’t like me to understand you, do you?” She smoothed her curls with trembling hands. “I don’t like it either. It disturbs me. You disturb me. I find myself thinking about you when I should be thinking of my work. I will no longer let you do this to me, Jean Marc.”
“No?” His gaze narrowed on her face. “And what will you do to prevent it?”
“Once we’re back in Paris there’s no reason for us to have … a close association. We shall follow our own paths.” She met his gaze. “And I shall no longer let you have my body. There will be no child and you will not be allowed in my bed.”
“You intend to occupy my house but not my bed?”
“That was our agreement. The shelter of your house and protection as long as I wanted it and two million livres for the Wind Dancer. You have the Wind Dancer. As soon as we return to Paris I’ll go to the Café du Chat and give them the money. I’m sure they can arrange for your writ of sale from Marie Antoinette. Then you can attend to your business and I’ll attend to mine.”
“Painting?”
Her lashes quickly lowered to veil her eyes. “Yes.”
“And we’re to live together, pure of all carnal thought?” He shook his head and the wicked smile she knew so well lit his face. “It won’t do, Juliette. Your temperament is too hot and the desire between us too strong. You’ll yield before a week has gone by.”
“No. And you won’t attempt me, for to do so would sever our bargain.”
“We shall just have to test the strength of your resolve.” Jean Marc stood up and moved toward the desk. “I gave you a choice once. I’ll not do so again.” His voice was almost casual as he added, “I believe we shall wed in time.”
She stared at him, stunned. “Wed?”
“As you pointed out, the child must have the Andreas name.” He smiled. “And I fully intend to get you with child, Juliette. I’ve just come to that decision.”
“But I told you I have no intention—” She moved toward the door. “You’re quite mad.”
“You give me no choice. It may be the only way I can win the game.”
She unlocked the door.
“Juliette.”
She glanced back at him.
The mockery was gone from his expression. “I … I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
“I would not let you hurt me.” She turned away from him. “I’ll be in the garden when you’re ready to go back to the ship. When do we set sail for Cannes?”
“We don’t.”
She turned back to face him. “We’re not going back to Vasaro?”
“We’ll leave from Marseilles to Paris. If we go back to Cannes, there’s every chance François will have persuaded the representatives to impound the Bonne Chance and seize the cargo.” He grimaced. “I won’t take that risk. I’ve already lost eight ships to the republic.”
“Won’t the ship be impounded in Marseilles?”
“The ship won’t dock at Marseilles. We’ll anchor off the coast and go ashore by longboat with our baggage and the statue.”
“You’re taking the Wind Dancer to Paris?”
“I want it with me. No one would suspect I would keep the statue with me.”
“And where does the Bonne Chance go from here?”
“To Charleston harbor in America to rendezvous with the rest of the fleet.”
She stared at him thoughtfully. “You planned all of this before you left Paris.”
“One must think ahead.” He smiled. “And speaking of planning ahead, what name shall we choose for my son?”
She gazed at him in bewilderment and, for the first time, uncertainty. Jean Marc was clever, relentless, and had decided on a plan of action that could sweep her from the course she had set if she weren’t equally clever and determined. “Impossible.”
“A strange name, but if you insist, I shan’t raise any objection to your—”
The closing of the door behind her cut off the rest of his words.
The broom had been harvested and now the fields of Vasaro burst into bloom with hyacinths, cassias, and narcissus. Violets, too, came into flower but not in the fields. The deep purple blossoms loved the shade, and the beds lay beneath the trees of the orange and olive groves, where the picking had to be done many hours before dawn when the scent was the strongest.
On the second morning of the harvesting of the violets François stood by the cart watching the pickers move with their lanterns through the grove. The flames of dozens of torches lit the shadows and black smoke curled upward to wind around the green leaves of the sheltering trees.
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
He turned to see Catherine coming toward him, mounted on the chestnut mare.
“Why didn’t you stay in bed? Both of us needn’t be here this early.”
“I was too excited. I had to be in the enfleurage shed yesterday and didn’t get to watch the violets being picked.” Catherine’s gaze searched the grove and found Michel, who waved at her. She waved back and turned to François. “Isn’t it beautiful? The lanterns and the darkness and the flowers.”
He smiled indulgently. “Beautiful. Enfleurage?”
“Michel didn’t show you? You’ve been spending so much time together I thought he would have taken you there.” Her face lit with eagerness. “Good. I’m glad he didn’t. Now I’ll get to show you. Come with me.”
She kicked her horse and sent it at a ga
llop toward the stone sheds behind the manor house. The cool night wind tore at her hair and she felt a wild exhilaration soaring through her. She heard the sound of hooves behind her and François’s low laugh. She reached the stone building behind the maceration shed, slipped from the horse, and turned to face François as he reined in. “Light the lantern,” she said breathlessly as she tied her horse to the rail before the door.
François dismounted and lit the lantern hooked to his saddle. A broad smile creased his square face and his eyes were alight with an exhilaration matching hers. “What next?”
She threw open the heavy door of the long shed and preceded him into the darkened work room. The shutters of the windows were shut, the air close, and the scent of violets immediately enveloped them with heavy clouds of fragrance. The shed was empty; it was too early for any of the workers to be sitting at the tables where wooden frames of glass plates were stacked.
“I like this way much better than maceration. It’s gentler somehow.” Catherine moved to the first long table. “They smear these glass plates with oil and then scatter the petals over them. Then they leave them in the cool darkness for two or three days to give up their souls and then—”
“Souls?” François asked, amused.
“That’s what Michel calls the scent.” She tapped the frame. “Then the wilted petals are taken off and new ones are put on the glass. It happens fifteen or twenty times before the pomade is ready to store away in crocks. The yield is very small but the scent is terribly intense. Much more powerful than the souls taken by maceration or distillation.”
“You said it again.” François smiled. “I think it’s not only Michel who thinks of scent as a soul.”
She smiled back at him. “It’s not such a farfetched notion. Why shouldn’t the earth and the plants have souls?” She picked up the lantern and moved toward the door. “Don’t you believe in souls, François?”
“Yes.” François held the door open. “I believe the revolution has a soul.”
She stiffened. “I can’t agree with you. I had a taste of your fine revolutionaries at the abbey.”
“Those men weren’t the soul. They were the thorns and the weeds that invade any garden if not plucked out.” François held her gaze steadily. “The Rights of Man is the soul. But we have to make sure it’s not drowned in a sea of blood.”