My Immortal (6 page)

The second couch had a more voluptuous woman reclining on it, her hands cupping her breasts, a pirate on his knees in front of her. Marley couldn’t see specifics of what he was doing, but the soft moans, the motion, the ripe, tangy scent in the air told her very clearly what was going on.

She swallowed hard and shifted her gaze quickly, embarrassed to be watching, ashamed that she felt a little jolt of jealousy.

Turning didn’t preserve Marley’s modesty. Instead, she was given a full frontal of a third woman on the sturdy antique desk, sitting facing them, heels up on the wood, legs spread, arms resting on her knees, showing quite clearly what was hidden from view with the other two. Marley could see everything the woman had and then some, including the man’s tongue sliding along her pink swollen flesh, up and down with slow, deliberate movements.

It was the most shocking thing she’d ever seen, the position haughty and erotic, showing a woman who was confident in what she wanted, and ready to receive it. Marley must have made an involuntary sound, because Damien’s hand moved into place over her mouth again.

“This room is for pleasuring women,” he whispered in her ear. “It is all about worshiping the female figure, coaxing ecstasy from her, going and going until she thinks she can’t take anymore, licking and sliding and making love to her with your mouth until she is begging to be taken, begging for a man to complete her.”

“Oh,” she said very eloquently behind his hand, unable to rip her eyes off the woman on the desk. The woman’s back was straight and proud, her eyes half closed, straight dark hair sliding in her face. Marley was taken aback, still amazed that people did these things together in anonymity with total strangers, but aside from that, this woman’s confidence fascinated her. When had Marley ever sat straight, legs apart, and demanded she get what she wanted?

Never. She didn’t even
ask
for what she wanted, sexually or otherwise, let alone demand it.

There was something very, very appealing about that.

“What are you thinking?” Damien murmured, hand stroking around her waist, thumb playing with the band at the top of her bikini bottoms.

His touch didn’t feel sexual necessarily, just intimate, his breath hot on her cheek, his face close in the dreamy, muted candlelight, the room warm and small and filled with the soft sounds of passion.

“I was thinking that she looks like a queen…and that he is paying homage to her.”

“That is a beautiful description. Are you picturing yourself as the queen?”

“No,” she said truthfully, resting her hand on Damien’s arm so she wouldn’t lose her balance as she leaned to look around him. She could never picture herself as the queen. “I would be the faithful lady’s maid watching from around the corner.”

Like she was now, vicariously aroused, intrigued, fascinated, and yet surprised by that. Curiosity overcame shame, desire raced ahead of her manners, and she stared, the couple’s intensity locking her out, yet drawing her fully into their passion.

“Then perhaps the lady’s maid needs to find a footman to worship her.”

“Maybe.” Wasn’t that what she had been searching for for the last ten years? Her footman/Nice Guy? Her own Joe Average, the wealthy and gorgeous need not apply.

“Though I think you could be the queen if you let yourself.”

Marley didn’t know how to let herself be anything other than what she was. She was a caregiver, not a queen, and she couldn’t change that, didn’t want to. But once, it would be amazingly freeing to have that kind of entitlement.

And as they watched, the queen broke, her head snapping up, her nails digging into the flesh on her knees, her thighs tensing. No sound came from her, but she rode out her orgasm, powerful, in control, owning herself and her pleasure.

Marley couldn’t look away, had to follow the climax to its satisfying end, the woman’s legs relaxing, her wiping her upturned lips, running a languid finger through the man’s hair. There was something beautifully intimate about that.

Marley’s own breathing had hitched a little, her nipples hardening, body reacting to what she was seeing. Dampness crept along her inner thighs, and Marley blushed under Damien’s scrutiny, suddenly realizing he was watching her, not the woman on the desk, and she was sure he knew she was turned on, if only just a little.

It was just that the idea of embracing her own sexuality, taking what she wanted with no apologies, the heady thought of selfishness, had her interest, excitement, stirring to life. A wondrous shiver whispering,
What if you did?
crept over her.

Damien leaned toward her, his body brushing against hers from hip to chest, and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her.

She was appalled to realize she would have welcomed it, with open lips and wet inner thighs.

But he didn’t kiss her. He stopped just short of her mouth and said, “Maybe you just need a king to take your queen,
ma cherie
.”

After quickly guiding Marley through a succession of rooms, each one more graphic and boisterous than the last, Damien deposited Marley in the music room on the first floor. It was a refreshment area, sexual activity off-limits, meant for guests to regroup, to talk, to settle on what would be their next pleasurable pursuit.

It was a reasonably safe place to leave Marley for five minutes. “Do not leave this room,” he told her roughly.

“Fine,” she said, looking too shocked, overwhelmed, aroused, to protest.

“I’ll be back in five minutes.” Damien left the room, retracing his steps to the hall and making his way to the back of the house. He shoved open a door that led to the back garden and sucked in some fresh air.

It had been a mistake to let Marley into the party. He should have locked her in the
pigeonnier
the minute she appeared. But he had felt sorry for her, her concern for her sister so palpable and intense, and he had given in to temptation. He had wanted to see her reaction to the entertainment, he had wanted to see her in that damn bikini.

The view hadn’t disappointed. She was lush, curvaceous, her full breasts straining against the ties on the top, her backside perfect for grabbing on to, gripping, as a man pushed himself between a woman’s receptive thighs.

And the way she had watched the guests…her eyes wide, glazing over, her cheeks pink and her breath tumbling out over plump lips…

Damien swore, leaning against the wall, the foliage in the garden wild and overgrown, the vines and branches and leaves rushing in a hundred different directions, consuming the path, the bench, the house, the once elegant brick wall.

Marley had been aroused, and so was he from watching her. Damien pulled his cock out of his tight pirate pants and stroked viciously, urgently. He was angry with himself for putting himself in this position, angry with Rosa for sending Marley to him, angry with Marley that she was so innocent in her sensuality, so ripe and ready to be plucked, so giving and kind and in need of a good, hard, hot fuck from a man who knew what he was doing. Angry with Marley that she was in fact the very temptation Rosa had thought she would be.

Squeezing hard, he brought himself to a quick, tight completion, body tense, heart sick, thoughts jumbled and furious. Breathing fast, he shook the result of his efforts off his hand into the dense bushes and shoved himself back into his pants. He was not going to touch Marley.

And under no circumstances whatsoever was she to touch him.

“Well, that was a total waste.”

Hitting his head back against the bricks of the house, Damien wiped his sweaty forehead with his shirt sleeve. “Rosa. Why am I not surprised? You’re like mold. No matter how hard I try to get rid of you, you keep coming back.”

“Oh, come on.” Rosa stepped out of the back door to stand next to him. She was wearing gold stiletto heels and an orange string bikini that could double as dental floss. “Don’t be so dramatic. And why are you out here jacking off when there are twenty women inside willing to do it for you?
I
would even do it for you if you just asked nicely.”

He gave her a mocking smile. “No one is as good at it as I am.”

“Funny.”

When he wanted to be, which wasn’t often. “Your question was stupid. You know why. You know I haven’t let a woman touch me in a hundred years.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I understand it any more than I did a hundred years ago.” She put her hands on her thin hips. “You’d be so much more relaxed if you were getting some.”

“I thank you for the concern but I’m fine.” As fine as he could be.

“If you were fine you wouldn’t be splitting your time between working yourself over in the garden and dating the most unattractive women imaginable.”

Damien would never tell Rosa that he gave pleasure to plain women because he felt compassion for them, that he took his own pleasure just from watching them revel in his attention, from seeing them grow in confidence. When he put his tongue between the thighs of a shy, inhibited, insecure woman, she bloomed for him, and that was the only sexual gratification he would allow himself.

“Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Does she know what you are?”

“Who?” He played dumb. Let Rosa spell it out.

“Marley Turner. Does she know what you are?”

“Oh, you mean the fact that I’m immortal, servant to the Grigori demons?” He gave her a mock bow. “At your service, as usual. But no, Marley has no idea exactly who she is dealing with. And I have no intention of telling her. I’m going to help her find her sister, get that letter from her, and then send them both on their way.”

Without having ever tasted a single inch of Marley’s flesh.

Rosa scoffed. “You’ve never been at my service. But I’m willing to overlook that for now. And in case you hadn’t noticed, the girl is attracted to you.”

“She is also incredibly innocent.”

“Which would explain why she is drinking a martini that has been spiked with a hallucinogenic drug.”

“What?” Damien pushed away from the wall. Marley wouldn’t be that stupid. “Are you serious?”

“Very. I saw the guy do the drop. And for some weird reason I felt compelled to find you and tell you, because she clearly doesn’t have a clue.”

“Damn it.” Damien pushed his hair back off his damp forehead.

Then he went back into the house to find Marley and assess the damage.

Marley felt like she was floating. Like even though she was still sitting on the couch where Damien had left her, her body was rising up, up, up, into the hot bright light of the candle flames.

Something was wrong. She felt like she’d had six martinis, not just sipped off one—like all the blood had rushed out of her limbs, and now her arms were useless, numb hunks of flesh. There was a man sitting next to her, talking, but she couldn’t seem to focus on what he was saying. She frowned, tried to concentrate, but his face seemed sharp, too close to her, his words floating in and out of her consciousness.

To be polite, she nodded from time to time. It made her feel bad that she was doing such a poor job of carrying her end of the conversation, and it was that guilt, that sense of manners, that kept her from protesting when he moved in closer still, his leg brushing hers, his arm sliding around her back.

She took another sip of her martini because she was thirsty and it tasted so good, like apples and cinnamon sugar, like a big, wet lollipop. With the edge of her tongue she licked the rim, and a warm, tingling sensation rolled through her, settling between her legs.

Suddenly black pants were in front of her and hands grabbed at her drink. Startled, Marley held on. “Oh, it’s spilling!” And it seemed very important not to lose it.

A glance up showed Damien staring down at her, frowning.

“Hi,” she said, giving him a big smile. He was so very cute, and he had been so nice to let her stay. They’d been through the whole party, and no sign of Lizzie, but it had been very, very nice of him to help her.

Damien gave another tug at her drink, managed to take it, and dumped it into a potted plant next to the couch.

“I wasn’t done with that,” Marley said, frowning, surprised by his behavior. She was amazingly thirsty. He had just wasted that tasty drink, still half full.

“I’ll get you a new one.” Then he turned to the guy sitting next to her. “Leave. I want you out of my house in the next sixty seconds.”

Confused, Marley glanced at the guy who had given her the drink. When had he put his hand between her legs? And why didn’t she feel it? Without hesitation, the guy pulled away from her bikini bottoms, stood up, and left. No good-bye, no anything. That struck Marley as a little bit rude.

Damien took her hand and pulled her up. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk,” she said, though she had to admit something strange seemed to have happened to her legs. She couldn’t feel them at the moment, which was really very funny. She giggled when she stood and the whole room swirled. Whoa. Psychedelic.

Damien pulled her, and she stumbled along behind him. They went out the door, through a dizzying maze of hallways and doors, up one set of steps, then up the big, curving staircase, and down a very long hall. They moved in slow motion, her legs heavy, head lolling, but at the same time with so much speed that Marley couldn’t follow where they were going.

Candles lit the way, and the upstairs was hushed and empty. Her feet stumbled and tripped over the carpets, her mouth felt dry, and her thoughts bounced from here to there, never really staying long enough to land on anything in particular.

She turned right and left, trying to see the furnishings in the hall, the portraits, the chandeliers. It was a mosaic of colors and sensations, and right in the middle was the stark white face of a woman. Marley pulled free from Damien and moved toward it.

“Who is she?” she asked, captivated by the eyes staring out at her. The painting shimmered in the light, undulating like they were on a ship at sea, that drawn, solemn face reaching out and arresting her. Marley lifted a hand, wanting the world to stop moving and shifting, wanting to touch that sorrow that was so clearly etched on the portrait, wanting to soothe and comfort.

“That is Marie du Bourg, wife of the first Damien du Bourg,” Damien said, pushing her hand down so she couldn’t touch. “This was painted in 1790.”

“Oh.” Marley felt tears in her eyes, without explanation or warning. “She looks like her letter.” That made no sense in words, but she knew it was true. The woman was dark-haired, very petite and delicate, her fair skin ethereal, lips and cheeks tinted with a blush of pink. “She looks like she could cry.”

“That is possible. She was very unhappy here.”

“How could anyone be unhappy in such a beautiful place?” Marley asked, stomach sick, tears swelling, throat closing off. She wanted to weep for the sorrow she saw in Marie. For herself. For her sister.

“There are many reasons to be unhappy. Perhaps Marie knew them all.”

It is taking longer than I thought to write this, as it is now two days since I originally sat down, quill in hand. I have much more vitriol to dispose of than I realized, and I find myself reluctant to toss this into the fire until I have finished what I have begun. I need to write it, Angelique, to see it on the page in front of me, to acknowledge what I have done, who I have become, what went wrong so quickly.

The first few weeks after I fainted, Damien and I had a new understanding, though unspoken. He was more courteous, he spent more time at home and less in New Orleans, he watched what I ate and urged more on me when I picked. He discussed plans for a nursery with me, and expressed a preference for the name Phillipe, which had been his father’s. A trip to town was sanctioned for more appropriate clothing for me, as well as linens and lace for the nursery. A delicate rosewood cradle was purchased and brought home, displayed proudly in the room next to mine, and I visited it frequently to run my fingers over the shiny wood, to contemplate a baby resting in it.

Those days were spent in happy anticipation, a tentative agreement to be pleasant between us, any anxieties quickly thrust aside by the feeling of my child slowly growing inside me, by the knowledge that I would be a mother. Mother of the heir to the du Bourg fortune, mother of Damien’s first-born, mother of a child who would look to me as his entire world.

In the oppressive heat of the past summer, I was a satisfied woman, pleased to enter the hallowed halls of the club of motherhood.

It helped also that Damien stayed in his bedchamber, that he no longer felt inclined to make frequent nighttime sojourns to my suite and push his body into mine in a way I thought I could never get used to, could never enjoy. If I found him in the back hall, leaning a little too close to a
giggling chambermaid, I was prepared to pretend I had seen nothing. It was a flirtation, nothing more; of course he was not acting upon it. Not in my house, not in my presence, not when I was
enceinte
. Men, attractive men like Damien, flirt as a matter of course. It means nothing. I was mistress of Rosa de Montana, I was Damien’s
wife.

I was stupidly naïve, is what I was.

In late September I was dressing for dinner, as we were to entertain the Spanish mayor and a few other government officials and their wives, when I felt a cramp in my abdomen. A twinge, I assured myself, nothing more. My belly was rounding quite nicely, necessitating less restrictive stays, and I urged my maid to leave the laces bound as loosely as possible.

“Madame?” she asked. “I cannot make them any looser without it falling off.”

The pain that came at the moment was so sharp, so sudden, that I bent over and sucked in my breath. Fear made perspiration bead on my forehead. It was nothing, of course it was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Just the normal stretching and discomfort, but I knew immediately I was lying to myself. The pain had been too severe, too agonizing to be anything but bad tidings.

“Madame!” she exclaimed, touching my back as if to assist.

“Never mind, Gigi,” I said as I stood up, the pain subsiding slightly. “I’m fine. Just help me into my gown.”

But by the time she was finished dressing me, and the emerald necklace that had been a wedding gift from Damien lay across my pale, powdered chest, I felt the dreaded warm, moist sensation down my thighs, now expected and so very unwanted. “That will be all, Gigi, thank you,” I said tightly, wanting to be alone.

“Yes, Madame.”

She curtseyed and left and I carefully descended to the edge of the bed, hand on my belly. A quick lift of my skirt
revealed what I had feared—I was bleeding, quickly, violently, great torrents of red careening down over my thighs and knee. The front of my shift was blooming scarlet, the stain growing with each second. I was terrified to move, frightened that I would make it worse, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that it was too late, that for whatever reason, I would not be having this child, that my baby, my hope, my heart, was no longer alive.

The pain robbed me of breath, the cramps angry and convulsive, sweeping over me in great rolling waves, and I began to feel dizzy, my tears blurring my vision, my sorrow clogging my throat. I do not know how long I was there, but long enough for my husband to knock sharply and enter my room, long impatient strides moving him quickly inside the door.

“What in hell is taking you so long?” he demanded. “We have guests in the salon wondering where their hostess is.”

I tried to speak, tried to say something, anything, but only a tight, small sob made its way out of my mouth.

Damien stopped and took in the sight in front of him. His face changed, his shoulders dropped, his eyes lost their coolness. “Oh, Marie, no.” He moved over to me, went down on his knees in front of me, took in all the red, now staining my white dress itself, shifted my skirts, and swore violently at what he saw.

My tears came faster. His hands went into his hair as he stared between my limbs, his jaw set, nostrils flaring in anger. Then he got control of himself, unclenched his fists, and said carefully, “Let me help you out of that dress.”

“I shouldn’t move…maybe the physician…perhaps…” I couldn’t express what I feared, what I hoped, but Damien knew.

He shook his head and glanced up at me. “No, darling, it’s too late for help. I see the baby.”

“Oh!” I put my hands in front of my face, my grief threatening to pull me under in a faint.

“Stay with me now.” Damien squeezed my knees and reached for the pull.

When my maid entered the room, Damien already had me out of my evening gown, and it lay crumpled and ruined on the floor, the violent red blood appearing a rich violet on the blue overskirt. Gigi gasped.

Damien glanced back at her. “Send for the physician and inform our guests that Madame du Bourg is indisposed this evening. I’ll be down shortly, but have dinner served now. Then send someone up to run a bath for Madame.”

Gigi had been curtsying, bobbing up and down rapidly as she is wont to do, but at his last words her head snapped up. “Monsieur, I don’t think putting her in the water…it is not healthy for a woman who…it is not the best course…” She trailed off, unsure how to convey what she meant without being impolite.

I recognized her intent. A woman bleeding heavily should not be put in the bath, and I appreciated her care and concern.

But Damien did not. He turned and roared at her, “I do not believe the master of this house asked for the opinion of his wife’s chambermaid. Now do as I told you!”

“Yes, Monsieur,” she said, eyes wide, feet scrambling backward.

Damien took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around something. My stomach clenched, the pain still searing my belly, but that in my heart greater. I leaned forward, wanting to know, wanting to see.

“Don’t look, Marie,” he said. “It will only upset you more.” He quickly covered the bundle with the voluminous folds of my discarded and bloody dress.

“The priest—can you ask the priest to come and bless our baby?” I asked, unable to look away from my gown, not caring that I was still bleeding, only vaguely aware that the room had begun to spin, that my head was hot, mouth thick and dry.

“If it will make you feel better,” he said. “But I see no point. A priest can’t bring him back to life.”

“But he can pray for his soul.” I tried to reassure myself. “And our baby will be in heaven, Damien, with a God who will love him.”

My shoe suddenly went flying across the room, slamming into the silk brocaded wall next to my armoire. I was startled by his violent burst of anger. Damien hurled the second slipper after the first.

“Oh, Marie, don’t you understand? There is no God. There is only Earth and Hell, and sometimes the line between the two is very, very small.”

Marley tumbled back onto the bed Damien pushed her toward. “Whoa.” She giggled, staring up at the thick curtain hanging over the bed, dropping her mask to the floor. “You could have warned me.”

“Why? So you could have protested?” Damien pulled her sandals off her feet.

That confused her a little. It seemed an odd place to start a seduction, at her feet. Regardless of his methods, she should say no, of course. There was Lizzie to consider. And Damien was more man than she could handle, she was positive.

But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to protest, stand up, leave this antique bed, this plantation house. It felt like she was dreaming anyway, like she was floating in a cloudy haze of sensations, and she was really aroused, really just nice and wet already, and it seemed like such a good idea for him to fill her up, ease that ache.