Awakened by a Kiss (15 page)

Midnight. And still Catherine writhed.

In and out of consciousness since Adrien had given her the wine-based concoction, she looked no better. He paced. He prayed. By the predawn hours, he was beside himself, fear and worry clawing at his vitals.

What if the witch who had sold Charlotte the antidote had lied? What if the concoction he’d given Catherine was merely crushed herbs that did nothing at all?

She was still now. Far too still. Trapped in a deep slumber.

One he couldn’t rouse her from.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, he held her hand, the nearby candelabra illuminating her sleeping form and her lovely, peaceful face in the darkened room. Dear God, he couldn’t lose her. Not his beloved Catherine. He couldn’t stand the heart-shattering thought. She was his. His heart belonged to her. Her heart belonged to him.

They belonged together.

Tenderly, he caressed her hand, watching each breath she took, willing another and another from her.

The clock on the mantel over the hearth ticked. And ticked. And ticked.

He felt damned helpless. Utterly useless. Unable to awaken her from this wretched unnatural sleep.

He wanted to do something,
anything
to help her, but there was nothing more he could do. Except wait. It was maddening to simply sit there, fighting to hold on to hope, battling against the cold dread slowly slicing through him.

Odette came each hour to check on her mistress. She’d be back in the room soon and he hated it that he’d have to tell her that there was
still
no improvement.

Adrien squeezed Catherine’s hand. “
Ma belle . . .
wake up.
Please
wake up.” Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to her lips.

He heard a soft sigh, then felt her lips move under his. Her fingers threaded through his hair and she kissed him back.

His heart missed a beat. He sat up. “Catherine!” The dawn broke, spilling the day’s first rays into the room. She was awake and her complexion had improved. She was better! She looked beautiful.

At the commotion, Odette raced into the room. Upon seeing her mistress awake and smiling, she let out a screech of joy and rushed forward, dropping herself down on the other side of the bed. She snatched up Catherine’s hand and caressed it. “Madame, you are well!”

“A bit weak, but yes, I feel much better,” Catherine said.

With a giant foolish grin on her face, Odette petted her hand and stared at her as though she were gazing upon a deity. “Worry not, madame, I’ll make certain you regain your strength in no time—”

Adrien cleared his throat, snagging Odette’s attention.

Odette’s eyes widened. “Oh . . . I’m—I’m sorry.” She rose and retreated to the far corner of the room.

Adrien’s light green eyes returned to Catherine, the love that shone there making her heart sing.

“It felt as though you were asleep for a hundred years,” he said.

“It has been a hundred years since you last gave me a morning kiss.” She grinned. “I like being awakened like that. Now, then, was I delirious or did I hear you say earlier that you love me?”

He grinned back. “I did indeed and I will say it again and again. I love you. I can’t live without you. I don’t want to. The night of the masquerade, you woke me from a slumber and brought me to life, heart, body, and soul. I will awaken you with a kiss for the rest of our lives. Say you’ll marry me.”

She was beaming, her heart nearly bursting with joy. “Yes! Yes, I will marry you.” She sat up and leaned in for a kiss. Just as their lips touched, Odette broke into a loud wail, startling both Catherine and Adrien out of the moment.

Odette sobbed, blew her nose in a handkerchief she’d pulled out of her bodice, then resumed her blubbering.

“Odette, there’s no need to carry on. I’m going to be fine.” She smiled lovingly at Adrien. “Everything is going to be better than fine.”

“Madame . . .” Odette sniffled loudly. “I—I have a confession to make. I cannot carry this on my conscience anymore.”

“Oh?” Catherine said. “What confession?”

“Well . . . you see . . . that—that night . . . when you asked me to add the aphrodisiac to Monsieur’s wine . . .” Odette shifted nervously from one foot to another. “Well . . . I added the powder . . . but I made a
tiny
error . . . You see, it turns out I mixed up the powders I got from the apothecary . . . I gave Monsieur le Marquis something to boost his . . . digestion rather than his libido.”

Catherine and Adrien locked gazes, then burst out laughing.

Adrien pulled her tightly into his arms. “It would seem, my love, that the passion between us has been real from the beginning.” He gave her a soft, tender kiss that left her wanting more.

She caressed his cheek. He was hers. All hers. Forever more. “You know, if you marry me, you run the risk of easing tensions between you and the King. Your father may not think you so reckless anymore,” she gently teased.

He laughed. “I love you so very much, I’m willing to marry you—even if it pleases my father.” Adrien kissed her soundly. It was a kiss full of passion. Full of love.

A kiss that held the promise of happiness ever after.

Moral of the Story of
Little Red Riding Hood

 

 

CHARLES PERRAULT
(1628-1703)

“Who is
he
?” Just as the question tumbled from Anne’s mouth, the man in the light gray justacorps disappeared into the crowd. Again.

Her sister Henriette glanced over her shoulder. As usual, the Comtesse de Cottineau’s Saturday Salon was filled to overflowing. Though their patroness had been called away due to a family emergency, she’d insisted that Anne and her sisters carry on with the popular weekly event in her absence. Aristos and literati who frequented her home had been admitted and were presently milling about.

Henriette turned back. “Who?”

Anne was the last person to be taken in by a handsome face, but she couldn’t stop herself from trying to locate the man with the disarming gray eyes. Smoky eyes that had locked with hers for several seconds and quickened her pulse. A stunning reaction on her part. Unprecedented, actually. Twice he’d drawn her attention out of the masses straight to him by doing nothing more than directing his smoldering gaze her way—once, even when she was engaged in a fascinating discussion about Spanish literature with the Marquis de Musis. Both times the beautiful dark-haired stranger had been at a distance in a different part of the Great Room, but she felt the heat of his regard long before she spotted him.

Maddeningly, he kept vanishing into the sea of faces.

Dragging her gaze back to Henriette, Anne noticed her sister’s curious expression.

“A gentleman,” Anne responded. “I’ve never seen him before. We should welcome him, but I seem to have lost him in the crowd.” She felt foolish. Stepping into the Comtesse’s shoes and acting as hostess to her elite guests was daunting. Unnerving. Her jangled nerves were likely the reason for her peculiar reaction. Statesmen, lords, and ladies were in attendance along with some of the most respected scholars, writers, and dramatists.

Social biases set aside while under the Comtesse’s roof, they gathered together each week to debate and discuss language and literature, history, and philosophy.

It was thrilling. A place of enlightenment. A great honor to be in among such distinguished company. Such brilliant minds. And to be part of Madame de Cottineau’s Salon—one of the city’s most prestigious. Born into minor nobility, with little by way of social influence and finances, Anne and her two sisters would not have been welcome had the Comtesse not taken an interest in their humble writings and agreed to sponsor their works.

But today’s Saturday Salon was different. And it wasn’t simply because the Comtesse was missing. Or that Anne and her sisters, Henriette and Camille, were hostesses.

It was because of a single man. A most unsettling, mysterious gentleman.

Anne and her sisters owed much to Madame de Cottineau. Making her guests feel welcome while she was away was the least they could do for her. Yet the gentleman with the disquieting gray eyes was making the task even more challenging for Anne. She should have greeted him the moment she saw him, but the impact he’d had on her unbalanced her. She lost her nerve to approach him, when courage was never something she lacked.

Henriette’s gaze swept the room. “What does he look like?”

His face appeared in her mind’s eye. Anne felt her cheeks warm. Dear God, she was
blushing
. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, she was at a complete loss for words. She was a writer, and yet she couldn’t conjure a phrase to adequately describe the sheer male perfection she’d seen. Not without sounding as awestruck as she felt. Like some smitten ingénue.

“Madame de Pierpont?” The Comtesse d’Azan approached and looped arms with Henriette. “Excuse me for interrupting, but the Baron de Lenoncourt has brought up the subject of the Latin classics. Come join in the discussion. You have such an interesting take on the topic.”

Henriette glanced at Anne.

“Oh, you must come, too, Mademoiselle de Vignon,” Comtesse d’Azan said to Anne. “You are the only one who can keep the Baron focused on one topic at a time.” Softly, she laughed.

Anne smiled at the gracious comment and was about to respond when something, or rather someone, caught her eye. Over the Comtesse’s shoulder, there at the back of the room, was the mysterious man.

His eyes captured hers and held her riveted, the corner of his mouth lifting into a sensual smile. Her stomach fluttered wildly. The crowd shifted and he disappeared from her seeking sight. Anne snapped out of the spell he’d cast and tamped down her ire.

Enough was enough
.

It galled her that she was behaving so foolishly. She knew better. She knew the damage an attractive man could cause a woman’s mind, heart, and spirit.

“Madame, I would love to join you,” Anne said, grasping her skirts. “But first, there is a matter I must attend to. Please excuse me.” Anne turned into the throng and made her way toward the back corner where she’d last seen the enigmatic stranger.

A smile firmly in place, she moved through the crowd, exchanging brief pleasantries along the way, behaving as any cordial hostess should. Just as soon as she located the man with the silvery eyes, she intended to extend him every courtesy. She’d welcome him to Madame de Cottineau’s home. And respond to him no differently than to any other guest present.

So why were her insides still quivering?