Lyon (18 page)

Once inside, she quietly shut the door behind her.
Vite!
Hurry! Now that she'd reached a momentous decision, she must act before her courage flagged.

She fell on her knees beside the floorboard, raised it, and removed the pouch. Pulling the necklace from it, she went to the looking glass and watched herself loop it around her neck and tie it fast. She stroked down the beads once, then lifted them high to drop inside the neckline of her dress, where they wouldn't be visible.

The pouch was still heavy with coins and she jiggled it, wanting to hear the reassuring clank. Getting her handbag from the armoire, she stuffed the pouch and a few items of clothing inside it, then went to the door.

With her hand on the knob, she halted and stared blindly at the door's figured wood paneling, as an inner debate began. Slowly, she turned her head, finding the vial of drops with her eyes.

She should leave them behind. Start anew. But the contemplation of sudden abstinence was too frightening. She went back to the table and slipped the laudanum into her bag.

Taking care to tread only on steps that did not squeak, she crept back downstairs. There, she pulled her crimson wrap from its peg and quietly left Valmont's house forever, unaware that by unleashing her emotions she had also unleashed a fey scent that only one man in Paris could detect.

A
malevolent wind swept through the Parc Vert Galant, buffeting Lyon as he huddled in the shadows under the bridge. He glanced toward the maple trees along the riverbank. Nary a golden leaf stirred.

ElseWorld had not yet infiltrated this world, but the intentions of its inhabitants had. Leaks of its energy struck him now and then, like sparks from a smoking chimney. Having sensed he was weak, they were stirring restlessly and watching for any opportunity to take him down.

A woman passed him and slowed. She was the fifth to do so since he'd arrived here this morning. “
Non. Allez
,” he muttered and she went on. Whatever was attracting them to him in this way he didn't know. But it had long since passed the point of irritation.

Nausea and worry churned in him, making it hard to think clearly. His failure to complete the ritual three nights ago would have far-reaching consequences.

As his health declined so would his lands. Many of his grapevines wouldn't make it through the coming winter.

Liber and Ceres and the other animals in his menagerie who depended on him—on his very existence—for their continued survival would soon begin to sicken in sympathetic reaction to his plight.

And without him, his brothers could not carry on the work of safeguarding the sacred aperture, which lay shrouded in mist and secrecy, deep in the heart of their jointly owned estate. This gate between EarthWorld and ElseWorld would become vulnerable upon his death, and the results of that would be disastrous. Creatures spawned by gods of a bygone era would spill into this world and wreak havoc.

He could not die here. He would not abandon his vines or his pets or his brothers to such fates. Determination stiffened his spine and the next gust of wind barely rocked him. Wrapping his arms closer around his quaking frame, he trained his eyes on the red door along the Quai di Conti, waiting as he had all morning.

Minutes later, it opened, and a woman with a crimson cloak over her arm stepped out. She was young, with pale blond hair.

The sight of her immediately suffused him with unfamiliar emotions. Betrayal. Outrage. Longing.
Longing?!
He couldn't recall having ever longed for the company of a particular female in his entire twenty-six years.
Bacchus!
What had she done to him?

He straightened, rallying the strength to follow her. When he saw she was moving toward him, he sent up a silent word of gratitude. She headed for the bridge overhead and though she was lost from sight momentarily, he tracked her scent and knew she was making her way closer. He could scarcely credit his luck when he heard the tap of her slippers on the stone steps nearest him.

She'd started down and was coming his way almost as if she'd known he was here and wished to meet him. After the difficulty of getting himself to this park and then loitering here through the chilly morning hours, would she make it so easy for him?

Her fragrance and footsteps drew nearer, but she faltered for so long at various points along the stairs that he began to fear she'd somehow sensed he was lying in wait.

Finally, she stood on tiptoe at the base of the northwestern staircase not ten feet from him, enjoying a view of the river.

Within easy range.

The sound of her voice reached him. “…the broth requires a hint of cinnamon and a pinch of coriander and the
viande
may be braised within it among the coals for two hours, turning from time to time…”

She was reciting recipes?

Juliette paused on the bottom rung of the stairs leading from the Pont Neuf to the Parc Vert Gallant. One more step and her slippers would touch grass.

The smell of dank river clotted her nose and her every sense rebelled at it, sending dizziness tickling over her. Each of the past three mornings, she'd come here and eased a few treads farther downward than comfort allowed. But today she'd reached her limit. Try as she might, she could not convince herself to actually enter the park.

With one white-knuckled hand gripping the railing, she craned forward to search the riverbank and the grounds of the park with her eyes. It was uncrowded here this morning, for ominous clouds had gathered in the sky and the atmosphere had turned strange and forbidding.

Disappointment quickly swamped her as it had every other time she'd come here. What had she expected? she scolded herself. The fishtailed woman who'd lain here with Lyon—the one he'd called Sibela—was obviously not going to return.

This was the last time she would come here on this fool's errand. She was leaving Paris. This very minute. Going as far away as she could get. As soon as she could somehow gather sufficient funds, she'd solicit a detective in this city to search for any sign of Fleur's whereabouts.

Fleur!
A sob choked her throat. Her cheek still stung with the rosy imprint made by Valmont's open hand, and angry, frustrated tears crowded her eyes. Wiping them away, she squared her shoulders and resituated the handbag and cloak in the crook of her arm, gathering her courage. She lay her fingers on the balustrade once more, preparing to turn and retrace her steps to the bridge.

As of today, she was on the run.

A surprised shriek escaped her as a masculine hand suddenly whipped from the opposite side of the railing to anchor her wrist to the narrow slope of stone. At the same time, a muscled arm snaked around her waist.

In the space of an instant, she found herself bodily hauled over the rail to its other side, where she was summarily slammed against a massive chest. The arm at her waist tightened, lifting her to dangle several inches from the ground. The hand rose to cup the back of her skull, pressing her nose into that chest and thereby muffling any protests.

Dropping her belongings, she punched and slapped at unforgiving male rib and sinew, but her captor took no notice. Crisp leaves thrashed and crackled under his boots as he dragged her away. For the moment, fear of him had superceded other terrors and she scarcely noticed she'd entered the outskirts of the park.

Wordlessly, he crowded her into the shadowy lee of the bridge and nailed her spine against a cold stone support. Then he stood a moment, with his head tucked into the notch of her shoulder, taking great heaves of breath as if kidnapping her had winded him.

“Juliette?” Held so close, she felt the question rumble in his chest.

Worming her fists high between them, she threw back her head to view her assailant.

God! It was Lyon!

“You! Let go of me.” Wedging more space between them, she tried to force him away. “If you're here to do me harm, I'll scream,” she warned.

He didn't respond, but instead only studied her with fascinated eyes that traveled over her countenance, seeming intent on memorizing every detail. Almost as if he'd never beheld her before.

“What do you want?”

“Answers,” he muttered. Turning his lips to the side of her neck, he tasted her. “And a traveling companion.”

“I'm not going anywhere with you.” Her challenge hung between them as they stood there, sandwiched together for an interminable moment.

Against her stomach, she felt the muscles of his abdomen abruptly twist and contract in a violent cramp. With a strangled curse, he slipped his forearm between their bodies and clasped it tight to his gut.

When he eventually straightened, he grasped her hips, drawing back enough that she was able to see his face a second time. In a calmer frame of mind now, she realized something she hadn't before.

He was ill.

The natural flush of health had fled his cheekbones and shadows now lurked below eyes that were grim and aggressive. It was difficult to believe that these eyes had ever sparkled or that this face had ever been graced with dimples. What had once been golden and winsomely beautiful was now menacing and starkly handsome.

“W-What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing you can't put to rights,” he growled. Kicking her feet wide, he insinuated his bulk between her legs. She was pinned. Open.

“
Non
! You think to maul me?” she cried, swatting at him. “Here? Under this bridge?”

As if in answer, the hands on either side of her began ruching her skirts higher.

“Stop!” She shoved as hard as she could, thinking he might be easily dislodged, but quickly learning her mistake. Though he appeared unwell, he was not weak.

She let out a huff of outrage. “I don't know why I am surprised at such treatment from you here in the open air, for this seems to be your usual locale for liaisons.”

“Ah, she admits to knowing me.” Manacling both her wrists in one hand, he forced them against the stone above her head. Meanwhile, his other hand had worked its way under her skirt and was sliding up her thigh.

“Stop! What are you doing? Oh! That's cold!” she said, dancing away from his touch. When the hand only continued higher, she drew in a breath to scream. Until now, she hadn't dared risk drawing unwanted attention that might ultimately bring Valmont. But she couldn't blithely stand here and let him rape her!

The hand securing her wrists took them lower, until his forearm pressed against her mouth and effectively silenced her. However, he didn't proceed to fumble at his trousers in preparation for the carnal assault she'd expected. Instead, his chilled palm only skimmed farther upward, passing the naked V of her privates to find and cup her abdomen.

Long fingers quested, squeezing gently here and pressing there, and generally moving over her belly with the skill of an experienced physician. And all the while, his gaze bored into hers. It was distant, as though he didn't really see her, but rather was entirely intent on what his hand was doing.

Apparently reaching some conclusion that displeased him, his brows slammed together and his eyes hardened in accusation. “Why are you not increasing?”

“What?” Suffocated by his arm, it came out as a squeak.

He dropped her skirts. “Answer me, dammit!”

She shot him a look that called him stupid and mumbled an inarticulate protest against the restraint of his forearm.

Realizing why she could not speak, he let go of her wrists and mouth and smacked his palms on the stone on either side of her shoulders.

“Well?”

Was he insane? “Because I-I eat little of my own cooking, I suppose. Though my weight is none of your concern,” she added tartly.

His square chin jutted and he loomed nearer until he spoke to her nose to nose. Eyes she'd once thought warm now watched her with a cold, feral intensity that chilled her.

“You purposely mistake my meaning,” he said. “I speak of the way a woman's body increases as a result of a man's seed taking root in her. I planted a child in your belly three nights ago. At my hotel.”

So that was it! Because of her spell, he naturally believed they'd fornicated. And for some reason, he assumed she was with child and that she should already be displaying evidence of it.

“I assure you I'm not
enceinte
as a result of our encounter,” she replied carefully. “But even if I were, I wouldn't be showing signs of it so soon.”

His eyes lit with satisfaction and he drew slightly away. “Yet another admission! You
were
in my room that night.”

“You don't remember?”

He hesitated, then—“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

He hesitated again, then confessed, “There are a few gaps in my memory of the last few days. I recall being in this park at some point. And knocking upon a red door. And a woman in my hotel.”

Her breath hitched. “What else?”

“Today, I came here and waited. When I saw you come out of the townhouse across the quai, I remembered you. Touching you. Kissing you.” His eyes fell to her lips, then returned to meet hers. “I remember virtually nothing else of substance between the time I arrived in Paris Thursday night and when I awoke in my hotel this morning.”

She shot him a look of shock tinged with guilt. He'd only been supposed to forget
one
night. Her magic had never worked so thoroughly on a man that he'd lost the memory of three!

He gave her a little shake. “You did something to me when we were together. Something to make my mind faulty. What was it?”

“You're mistaken,” she protested. “Not about everything. I did meet you at your hotel Friday, but we didn't…do what you think we did.”

“Don't lie,” he gritted.

He cupped the cheeks of her rear and lifted her, sighing as he aligned his monumental erection to her furrow. “It was you in my bed. My cock knows it. I know it. It was you.” His lips brushed the angle of her jaw. “Unless you've got a twin.”

She'd set her hands at his shoulders, preparing to argue and shove him away. But at his last words, she stilled, suddenly alert.

“Madame? Is this man bothering you?”