The Courtesan (16 page)

Gabrielle despondently rested her chin upon her knees. There was no way her older sister could ever understand her. Just like the life she led, Ariane was perfect.

Chapter Seven

T
he Château Tremazan perched at the crest of the hill like some stone-faced warlord surveying the valley below. The turrets and crenellated battlements bore the aspect of a grim and forbidding fortress. But the bedchamber located on the highest level of the keep more resembled a room in a prosperous farmhouse. The lime-washed walls were as unpretentious as the polished wood floor, the surface scattered with braided rugs.

The furnishings were likewise simple, some sturdy chairs, a few tables, a heavy chest situated at the foot of a four-poster bed curtained in a blue silk the same shade as the cloudless summer sky. A breeze drifted through the open windows, stirring the bed curtains and carrying with it the scents of the world far below, freshly cut meadow grass, a hint of rose petals, and an earthier tang emanating from the stableyard.

The breeze was soft and warm as it whispered over the heated flesh of the two lovers entangled in the sheets. Ariane Deauville, the Comtesse de Renard, lay naked beneath her husband, her chestnut-colored hair fanned across the pillow, her gray eyes narrowed to hazy slits. Her breath issued in quick sighs as Justice Deauville braced himself above her, his mouth blazing a hot trail of kisses along the curve of her neck.

The comte was a formidable figure in all respects, large, well over six feet of raw bones and hard muscle. His face, with his hooded green eyes, lantern jaw, and battered nose was enough to frighten many a brave man, especially when the comte was angered. But as Renard hovered over his wife, taking great care not to crush her beneath his massive frame, his harsh features were softened by a flush of passion and tenderness.

“Ma chère,” he said huskily, his sun-streaked light brown hair tumbling forward as he kissed her lips, teasing her with the hot thrust of his tongue.

As Renard settled himself between her legs, Ariane closed her eyes and wrapped her arms about his neck, drawing him close. But Ariane’s arousal eluded her, her mind consumed by one thought, one wish, one prayer.

“Oh, please, dear God, let this be the time. Let Renard fill me with a child.”

She could feel Renard’s hardened shaft teasing against the nest of curls between her legs, prolonging their joining with tantalizing slowness. Ariane reached between them, guiding him in with an impatient upward thrust of her hips. Mouth set in a determined line, she began to rock against him in a pulsing rhythm.

“Chérie.” Renard’s gasp was part endearment, part protest as Ariane quickened the pace. He stiffened his body in resistance, whispering kisses across her brow.

“Chérie, there . . . is . . . no . . . need . . . for such haste. We have . . . all . . . afternoon.”

Ariane only tightened her grip and drove him harder, panting from her efforts. She worked at him with ever-increasing urgency, returning his kisses with something akin to desperation while her thoughts urged him to fulfillment.

Renard kissed her again and again, the heat of his tongue mating with hers as he breathed words of love against her lips. Ariane could tell he was doing his best to slow the pace, to bring her to the brink of arousal. But she refused to allow that, urging him on with a single-minded purpose.

A child . . . a little daughter. Grant me a girl child.

Ariane wrapped her legs tighter around Renard, pressing her heels against his hard, flat buttocks, using them like spurs to drive him on. Showing no mercy until she broke Renard’s resistance. With a groan, he pumped harder and harder until at last Ariane felt him shudder with his release. Though he took care not to collapse on top of her, Renard was breathing as hard as a mighty destrier winded after a battle.

“Sweet Jesu, woman!” he gasped, resting his forehead against her shoulder. Her own heart pounding hard, Ariane caressed the damp strands of his hair. She released a shaky breath, torn between triumph and doubt. Had she succeeded this time? Had the miracle of conception occurred?

Renard lifted his head to brush a quick kiss against her lips. He levered himself off of her, collapsing on his back, blowing out another gusty breath.

“Mon Dieu! That was . . . certainly . . . vigorous.”

Ariane only smiled, carefully arranging herself, keeping her knees drawn, her pelvis tilted lest one precious drop of Renard’s seed escape her. He shifted to his side, reaching out to draw her back into his arms, cradle her close to his heart.

Ariane resisted, pushing his hands away. “No, let me remain like this awhile longer. It might help, give your seed every chance to move deeper into my womb.”

Renard flopped onto his back again. “Your pardon, ma chère. I forgot. We were not making love. We were making a babe,” he said in a flat, disappointed tone.

Ariane was dismayed to see the frown creasing Renard’s brow. “But you know that I have been carefully charting my monthly courses and when the time was right—”

“Yes, yes,” Renard grumbled. “It is only that I am starting to feel a bit like a stallion put to stud.”

Ariane chuckled, striving to lighten his mood. “And a truly magnificent stallion you are.” She skated her knuckles over the hard plane of his sweat-dampened chest.

“I did give you pleasure, did I not?” she demanded.

Renard caught her hand and carried her fingertips lightly to his lips. “But of course, chérie. When have you ever not?”

He released her hand and rolled to his side, raising himself onto one elbow so he could peer intently down at her. “The real question is, did I pleasure you?”

“Why . . . why certainly,” Ariane lied, seeking to avoid his eyes.

Renard seized her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His frown deepened.

“No. I thought as much.” He sank back down on his pillow, flinging one arm across his brow, looking annoyed and frustrated.

Ariane silently cursed the old witch of a grandmother who had taught Justice the art of reading eyes, something that only the daughters of the earth were supposed to know. Renard was far too infernally good at it.

“All right,” Ariane said. “So perhaps I did not quite reach my—my usual peak. I was looking for fulfillment of a different sort. My pleasure didn’t matter—”

“Didn’t matter!” Renard growled, sitting bolt upright. “Didn’t matter? Perhaps not if you were some hired wench who was only concerned with the size of my purse. But I would like to think that my
wife
found more satisfaction in my arms than that.”

“Oh, Justice—” Ariane cried, but Renard shoved to his feet and stalked over to the washstand, his broad back and hard buttocks toward her. After pouring the contents of the ewer into the washbowl, he splashed the water over his face, using both hands.

Ariane sighed, torn between her need to remain positioned as she was and her desire to go to Renard and soothe his wounded male pride. For all that he claimed to have the hide of an elephant, her mighty husband was as vulnerable as any man when it came to his prowess in the bedchamber.

She watched as Renard scrubbed himself in terse silence, no doubt preparing to get dressed and return to his afternoon chores. Ariane gingerly rose from the bed. Stealing up behind him, she brushed the damp strands of brown hair away from his neck.

Renard stiffened a little at her touch, but otherwise ignored her, scrubbing the sponge up the long reach of his sinewy arm. A tall woman herself, Ariane still had to stretch a little to press a kiss to the nape of his neck.

“Justice, you know I love you,” she murmured. “I feel great joy each time you touch me, even at your slightest caress.”

“So you say, milady.”

Ariane ducked around him and wriggled in between him and the washbasin.

“Here, let me do that,” she coaxed, reaching for the sponge. Renard resisted for a moment, then surrendered the sponge to her.

He stood, legs braced slightly apart, hands on hips, staring fixedly at some point above her head as Ariane lathered the sponge across the broad region of his chest. She worked slowly, lovingly, trying her best to make it up to him for her lack of response before. Her gaze roved admiringly over her husband’s large, masculine frame.

Although Ariane found him almost shatteringly beautiful, Renard did not view himself as an attractive man. He was not classically handsome, his skin not white and smooth like many elegant noblemen who seemed like they had been cut from some skilled tailor’s silken cloth.

With his half-peasant ancestry, Renard was more like a man who had been fashioned from the earth itself, all flesh and bone and sinew. As Ariane dipped the sponge lower, she felt a responsive quiver in his loins. His male organ stirred beneath her hand and he drew in his breath with a gasp.

“No more of
that,
milady,” he said, seizing her wrist to stop her. “I have done my duty by you and I have other matters that require my attention.”

Ariane straightened, her cheeks stinging with hurt and embarrassment. “Why—why you talk as if I was some rapacious female out to use you for my own ends.”

Renard merely arched one eyebrow in expressive fashion, then stalked away from her, snatching up a linen towel to dry himself. Ariane plopped the sponge back in the washbowl, vexed by her twinge of guilt. Damn it! She was not acting to satisfy some rampaging lust, but for a child,
their
child, a blessing for both of them.

Ariane wrapped her arms across her bare breasts, feeling chilled and exposed. She would bathe and dress after Renard had left, but for now she retrieved the shift from the pile of clothes she had discarded in her eagerness to get Renard into bed. As Ariane tugged the light linen fabric over her head, she was aware of Renard dressing at the opposite end of the room, the distance of a few floorboards and scattered carpets seeming to yawn like a chasm between them.

She watched as Renard yanked on his breeches, quickly doing up the buttons as though he could not wait to be gone.

“I am sorry you find your duty so irksome,” she said. “But I thought you wanted a child as much as I do.”

Renard paused. “I want whatever will make you happy, ma chère,” Renard muttered, digging through the aumbry for a fresh shirt.

“That is an annoyingly evasive reply,” Ariane snapped.

Renard pulled out a shirt and slammed the cupboard door closed. “Nothing would please me more than to have a child with you, but you are going at it too blasted hard, Ariane. You will wear us both out, woman.”

“You never used to complain of such a thing before. You had much more stamina than that.”

Renard paused in the act of unfolding his shirt to glower at her. “So I did. I could make love to you the livelong day. But that is not what we have been doing of late. We have merely been joining our bodies to make a child. Sometimes you seem so far away from me, I wonder if you even remember that I am there, if any other man would serve your purpose.”

“That is not true!” Ariane cried hotly. “What a dreadful thing to say.”

Renard compressed his lips, then said curtly, “You are right. I apologize.”

He attempted to wrench his shirt over his head, but his skin was still damp. The light cotton bunched up around his shoulders where he could not reach to yank it down.

“Damn!” Renard snarled. In another moment he would have the shirt torn in his impatient struggles. Sternly ordering him to hold still, Ariane worked at the knotted fabric until she managed to ease the shirt past Renard’s shoulders and down his back.

“Merci, madame,” he muttered. As he glanced down at her, the harsh cast of Renard’s face softened. Both his eyes and his voice were gentler, more patient as he caressed her cheek.

“I am sorry for behaving like a wounded beast, ma chère. But we have plenty of time for children. We have only been married three years.”

His warm touch and coaxing smile eased some of Ariane’s tension, but she had to suppress a quiver in her voice as she said, “Most women my age are already mothers several times over. I am going to be twenty-four come next Michaelmas.”

“A mere babe.” Renard dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Did you not deliver a child only last week to the miller’s wife? And she is forty-two, if she is a day.”

“But Hortense has already had ten children.” Ariane’s throat constricted. She had to swallow hard before she could finish. “And I have already failed twice.”

Renard caught her face between his huge hands and regarded her fiercely. “Do not talk like that, Ariane. What happened was no fault of yours. You are a wise woman. You should know better. It is often simply the way of nature for a woman to miscarry.”

“Miscarry,”
Ariane echoed bitterly, pushing his hands away. “How I hate that word. It makes it sound as though I lost nothing more precious than a bucket of water I dropped on the way from the well. The first time was disappointing, but I scarce realized I had conceived before it was ended. But the last time—”

Ariane closed her eyes and pressed her hand over the region of her womb. “Oh, the last time, Justice, I could feel the first flutter of life from our babe, like a tiny bird flexing its wings.

“I did not
miscarry,
” she said in a voice tight with anguish. “I lost our child.”

“And I nearly lost you!” Renard replied tersely.

“Don’t exaggerate, Justice. I admit the pain was bad and I lost some blood—”

“You nearly died, Ariane.” Renard grasped her by the shoulders and peered sternly at her as though he would force her to acknowledge the truth of his words.

Ariane tipped her chin to a stubborn angle. “I did not! And even if I had come close to perishing, childbearing always carries a certain amount of risk. But to have such a precious prize, our own babe, does that not make it worth it?”

“No! Not to me it doesn’t.” The set of Renard’s jaw was so implacable, a muscle throbbed in his cheek.

“But you are the Comte de Renard. Surely you must want an heir?”

Renard expelled an impatient breath. “Ariane, you know right well I never particularly cared about inheriting all of this.” He gave an impatient jerk of his head in the direction of the castle window, toward the sprawling estate beyond. “And I could care even less who has it after I am gone. All I care about is
you.
”