Chapter Twenty-Six

 

Hours later, Emmanuelle had not surfaced from the lucid state of bliss making love to Athos had conjured. Her entire body hummed with the sensations from his touch. She had given herself to him. Ransomed her control. Trusted him.

Mon Dieu, but to come in a man’s arms was the ultimate pleasure. She was so glad she had saved this moment for him and not that other one.

A sleepy smile curled her kiss-plumped lips. Her body tingled everywhere. Her limbs were exhausted, the muscles worked to a pleasant weariness. She had allowed a man to master her needs, to bring her to climax. She had known she could do it, but had always before suppressed that prize. No more. Always she would surrender to this musketeer’s touch.

She nuzzled her face into the curve of his neck and kissed the salty, warm skin. He roused enough to murmur incoherently and slide a hand along her waist. They were exhausted by bliss.

And she had never felt more powerful. It wasn’t the greedy, controlling power that accompanied the satisfaction of knowing she had taken down the enemy. But of coming into her own. She felt whole now. It wasn’t necessary to maintain a tough exterior, a cold face to temptation. She could simply be with this man.

“Athos?”

“Hmm?”

“I need to tell you…I have never felt so close to a man before.”

“Not even—”

“Definitely not him.” She glided her fingers over the fine hairs on his chest. “And I don’t mean physically...even if I did feel as if you moved inside me when we were making love.”

“I was inside you, pretty one.” He paused for a heartbeat. “Did you hear what you just said?”

“What?”

“We made love.”

“And it was delicious. But does that mean we’ve to give up our wicked trysts on the run?”

He chuckled. “I’m sure the opportunity will again present itself.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you. Again?” he whispered.

“Have I not tired you?”

“I feel as though I have died the good death. La petit mort. Where’s heaven?” He cupped one of her breasts and rolled toward her. “Ah. Here.”

She cradled him in her arms as he suckled lazily at her nipple. Sensation strafed through her limbs, but, indeed, she was too tired to react. Instead she just felt.

And love felt good.

* * *

Emmanuelle stirred next to Athos on the bed, but she did not wake. He had yet to surrender his thoughts to sleep, and instead balanced somewhere between reverie and dream.

Outside the window, a creaking sound captured his attention. Might have been a branch, but it sounded more like a door in need of oiling. He wasn’t familiar with the comings and goings of the chateau after being away for so long. But he couldn’t consider sleep until he’d checked out the noise.

Easing from the bed, he pulled up his breeches, slipped a shirt on, and tiptoed downstairs. He traversed the dark chateau with ease. Slipping his cloak from the wicker chair and wrapping it around his shoulders, he stepped into his boots and opened the back door.

The winds were steady, brisking his skin to goose bumps. This chill could smack the lust from a man’s thoughts in an instant. Though a brief thought back to his and Emmanuelle’s lovemaking—his tongue claiming one of her hard nipples—tingled in his cock.

Smiling to himself, he strolled across the back grounds. Moonlight illuminated the snow, a glittery stage set with black-barked trees and frosted hedgerows. A scan of the chateau determined there were no branches near the windows, nor were there any broken limbs lying on the ground.

Pricking his ears, he gauged the whirl of the wind—and again heard the creak. Spinning, he eyed the stables. The door hung open.

He stomped through the path of footprints he and the others had made earlier. Grimaud was meticulous—he would never have left the door open and risked one of the horses taking chill. Though, admittedly, all of them had been beyond exhaustion when they’d arrived last night.

Athos cursed himself for not grabbing a sword on the way out. Attribute his absent-mindedness to the bliss from which he had dragged himself.

Grimaud kept two horses at the stables, plus the five others they’d borrowed from Marle. Anacreon, lifting his head, regarded Athos with a twitch of his ears, but the Mecklenberg at the end, Chrysaur, snorted and stepped back and forth in the stall.

Athos cautiously made way forward. He had not a torch, but moonlight traced the contours of horse and wood, and also a few grooming brushes tidily hung on the far wall.

When the sound of metal sliding slowly from a leather sheath filled the quiet, he froze and turned to the side, his hands rising in placation.

His thoughts immediately raced to what, at hand, could be used as a weapon. A wool horse blanket thrown over one of the stalls could deflect a blow. But it was out of reach.

Something sharp touched his neck. He swallowed. A step from the unseen intruder moved him into a slash of moonlight beaming through the open door.

Michel Clément stood holding the rapier.

Athos swallowed, unsurprised. “I expected you sooner.”

“Where is Emmanuelle?”

“Safe.”

“In your bed?”

“I have no clue where she is.”

“She is mine.”

“She is no one’s property.”

“We’ll see about that,” Clement rasped, and raised his sword.

“You would challenge an unarmed man?”

“Most certainly. I am no fool. Besides, I owe you for my father.”

“Your...father?” Now Athos was surprised.

“De Marle. Who did you think? You’re quite the orphan-maker, aren’t you?”

Athos winced, but remained alert. While every part of his being wanted to rush the man and serve him the whip as he had done to Emmanuelle, he would not again subscribe to self-righteous justice.

“De Marle and I struggled on the window ledge. I could not have saved him if I tried.”

“So you say. Yet you somehow survived what should have been a deadly fall.”

“Emmanuelle was—”

“So she is with you!”

The needle of steel pierced Athos’s flesh. Blood trickled down his chest. But Clément made no move toward the kill. Athos backed up a pace. Clément followed. The horse blanket was yet out of reach.

“Give me the bitch and I will leave you and your family in peace.”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“Emmanuelle is family now.”

“Family? She is a worthless peasant! What value does she serve you beyond a—”

“Don’t say it, Clément. Do not dare sully Emmanuelle further with your foul words. Have you not damaged her enough?” He narrowed his eyes. “What will it take to buy her freedom?”

“Nothing you can offer. She is priceless. Now, on your knees, musketeer. It’s time to die.”

“You first!”

Athos grabbed for the horse blanket. He swung it out before him, deflecting Clément’s attack. Athos dodged to avoid his stumbling fall and caught himself against the wall. A currycomb jostled under his touch and he gripped the cold wooden handle.

“You won’t win this one,” Clément’s growled as he lunged through the darkness.

Athos could see the glint of steel. He blocked it with the comb. Clank. The horses stirred. Chrysaur snorted and stamped in his stall. Moving away from the animals, Athos backed toward a neat stack of straw. He twirled the blanket, making it a long tube of wool and whipped it before him to deflect another strike.

“Give it up, musketeer!” Clément, springing back from another unsuccessful lunge gave a demonic hoot and then charged.

Steel tore through Athos’s shoulder, but he managed to swing up as Clément paralleled him. He jammed the comb into the man’s gut.

“Damnation!” The bastard staggered, clutching his gut. Blood glittered in the feeble light. “That thing is deadly.”

“Come get it,” Athos taunted, fueled by his success, ignoring the sting of his shoulder.

Clément did. But Athos twisted at the waist, easily avoiding the attack. And the next. And the next after that. Clément thrust and Athos dodged, dancing around the stable.

Clément drew back, breathing heavily. Tired already? He must have traveled through the night to get here.

“You’re slipping, Clément,” he mocked. He could use the man’s wound and exhaustion to wear him down. “Not so almighty without your band of rebels?”

Laughter crackled the air. Athos whirled, for he had thought him farther to the left. Just keep him talking. He could not see what he could not hear.

“You want her?” Clément gasped. “Fine. Take her. I’ve still got the de Winter boy.”

Knowing he had not been able to rescue the boy gnawed at Athos’s soul.

Footsteps advanced, too quickly. Athos was not on guard. Steel sliced his leg and ripped at his flesh. Athos went down, dropping the currycomb and the blanket. Clément grunted with satisfaction at the sound. Laughter cackled through the air. The point of a rapier dug into the flesh beneath Athos’s chin.

“You’re down, boy. What are you going to do now?”

Spreading his arms out to the sides, slowly, to show he would not make a move, Athos swallowed hard. “Is there no way to be rid of you?”

“There is now.”

Emmanuelle.

The hiss of an arrow whisked over Athos’s head. The rapier at his neck fell away. Clément slumped against the stable wall in a beam of moonlight. Shocked surprise cut across his face.

Athos scrambled to his feet, and limped forward. A silver arrow was planted in Clément’s chest.

“Mon tombé ange,” the man rasped out in a gurgling murmur, “your aim…has improved.” He dropped to the straw floor. Silent and still.

Athos let out his held breath. He’d seen enough war to know a dead man. “I thought we were finished with this rescuing business?”

“I believe we are now.” Her smile faded as she studied the body at their feet. “Do you think he’s dead?”

“You served him the coup de grâce.” He felt the muscles in her arm tense against his. “He was deserving. You know that better than anyone.”

“He goes to rest at his father’s side.”

“You knew?”

“I assumed. As I was to Michel, Michel was to the marquis. A virtual slave, groomed from childhood.”

Athos nodded somberly. “And now the abusive chain is broken. You have finally claimed your freedom, Emmanuelle.”

She didn’t look happy. “Through murder.”

“No.” He kissed her lips, cool and plump. Her unbound hair slipped through his fingers. “Through survival. Come. Will you now walk away from your past?”

She tilted her head to glance at the dead man, then gave a decisive nod. She threaded her fingers through his. “Let’s go.”

As they walked outside, the soft touch of falling snow misted their faces. Suddenly, Emmanuelle dashed ahead of Athos, kicking up a whift of snow before her. “I did it! I am truly free.” She spun to face him. “And I could not have done it without you, musketeer.”

“Well,” he curled an arm around her waist and pulled her close, “I have a feeling you would have fared fine with or without me.”

“You don’t understand.” Elation made her jittery in his arms, as if, should he let go of her, she might fly away. “I was so close to surrendering. The entire time I was with Michel I wanted freedom, and kept saying it over and over in my mind. But when I’m with that bastard, everything changes. I could easily have returned to that life. If not for you. You made it possible for me to escape.”

His whole being filled with warmth. “I'm only glad you took the chance.”

“I love you, Athos. And it’s a feeling, right here.” She pressed his hand over her hastily-buttoned doublet. Over her heart. “I’ve never felt this way before. Like I can spin and spin and take off flying. Is this truly love? Do you feel this way?”

He tenderly pushed a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not sure I could fly, but I’ll be damned if my heart does not spin when I’m in your arms, my lovely lady.”

“Oh, but you will fly, my love. When you’ve done one final thing.”

He gazed into her eyes. “Which is?”

“Forgive yourself.” She kissed his forehead, and then his lips. “But not for me,” she said lovingly. “Do it for your son.”