Awaken My Fire (51 page)

It was true that Vincent had made love to her. He had carefully drawn her heart and soul from the physical confinement of the world to send her spinning through heaven. Heaven. And he was still alive. She had not said the vows yet and he was alive. Her blue eyes found the still and sleeping face she loved...

In a rich, compelling voice Father Herve said what he knew was true. "Papillion only meant to keep you safe until the moment you gave your heart and love to a man, to this man. Because, Roshelle Marie, love—your love!— is more powerful and real than any words could ever be. Is that not true, Roshelle?"

It was true, and she felt it physically. As she knelt on the sunlit floor of the chapel staring down at him as he slept, she felt the miracle of her love cascading over her like a glorious light from heaven, and it was indeed more powerful and real than anything else on earth. She took his large warm hand in hers again and she buried her face there, kissing it again and again, letting the warm avalanche of emotions wash over her with a sudden burst of a thing she had not felt in a very long time. Hope.

Forever, Roshelle, forever.

Roshelle's hand in his brought a familiar dream spinning vividly through his mind. The dream of the white tower. Roshelle was calling to him from far away, atop the tower made of white stone. He felt the familiar surge of desperation to take her away in his arms and carry her back to the solid foundation of earth, to hold her slim softness to him and take her lips. He began climbing and climbing, climbing until his muscles ached and perspiration drenched him, until he felt his next breath to be his last, but then, then suddenly he reached the top and saw her there.

She looked more beautiful than words: shrouded in white cloth from head to toe. Yet, for a moment, he panicked. He could not lose her to this madness. To never taste the sunshine of her mouth or drink in the perfume of her skin again, to never see her blue eyes darkening with passion or hear the sound of-love from her lips again. A death indeed, and he felt desperate to stop it.

The familiar dream changed. No cloth covered her head. The long rope of her hair dropped over her shoulder and fell on his waist, coiling in a pile of rich russet colored silk, and while there were tears in the blue pools, there was also joy.

Her hand rested softly in his.

The sweet lyrics of her voice pulled him back to the world and he woke, opening his eyes to see her lovely face. Roshelle's joy was a marvel to him; the emotions it evoked in his heart made him know he was not dreaming. "Roshelle, my love," He reached a tender hand to her face and she closed her eyes, savoring the feel of his smooth fingertips on her skin.

"I have said the vows. The marriage vows. You must say yes now. To make me your wife."

"Yes," he said, "Yes. I love you, forever, Roshelle, forever."

The softly spoken vows were blessed and the promise was sealed forever as Roshelle Marie laid trembling lips to his. A promise of forever starting with this moment. No words could convey the emotion shimmering in her blue eyes as a curtain closed on a curse, one made only of words. Roshelle’s belief abandoned the curse and embraced Vincent’s promise of forever...

*****

Epilogue

“
Beg me, Roshelle."

“
Beg you?'' The blue eyes filled with outrage and she squirming for all she was worth, but with his large strong hands under her arms, he held her over the frigid cold waters with a shocking ease. In desperation, she socked his forearms as best she could, but she might as well have hit the trunk of an oak tree for all the effect. "Never, never! You can go to Hades with a banner—"

Vincent lowered her. Her bare feet touched the water. She screamed again as a jolt of shivers raced up her spine, but her eyes were bright with excitement. "My dress, my dress!" One of her favorites, yellow-and-cream cotton, for the harvest-day feast tonight. "Twill take two hours to get warm. If you do, I will, I will—"

"Yes?" An interested brow rose, and he watched her expression change from outrage to helplessness and back again and he laughed.

She deserved it, God knew, she deserved it.

Yet Vincent's gaze returned to the low bodice that seemed much too tight, as if her dressmaker had made a mistake of two or three meaningful inches. A maddening tease. He could hardly concentrate on his task, much less on the escalation of her threats...

After a long, hard search, he had caught her in the midst of the forest as she searched out roots and herbs for her medicines. Yet she had already dressed for the feast. All the better. A yellow ribbon held her long hair back, while a whimsical array of daisies crowned her head, falling now with her frantic effort to escape. He knew that dress, too; it was one of his favorites, yet it had never looked quite that…small. Mason's dishes must finally be having an effect and, dear Lord, what an effect...

He felt his loins fill with heat and he chuckled; one way or another, he'd have her pay. His heart might be heavy with the weight and bounty of his love, but it always manifested itself physically. At any given time he had only to draw upon hundreds of memories of the girl to feel it in force: the time the villagers had solicited his help to remove a gypsy camp from Suffolk, and after learning that Roshelle had been there all day, he found her dancing around the gypsy campfire like a heathen princess; the time he had found Roshelle hiding in the forest, crying so softly that sad day her medicines had failed to save a village child from the ravages of a flux; the night on Michaelmas when, at church, she had sung a song written and sent to her by Father Herve, a hauntingly beautiful song about lost love, a simple girl Joan and Papillion; the joy and pride on her face the day she, with bloodied hands and filthy skirts, had single-handedly saved her horse and pulled the breached colt from its womb.

Forever, Roshelle, forever .

He watched as her blue eyes, dancing with laughter and gaiety, fill with fear as he dipped her feet again.

"I will never forgive you!"

"Not good enough, love. I did warn you, did I not?"

For a brief moment, the memory of last night's love-making made her breath catch. She had led him on a merry lover's chase through Gregory Castle before she had run out into the moonlit night. She ran past the dark lawns and pastures to the bank of the lake, where, after she tossed a branch into the lake, she hid in the nearby bushes. He ran to the lake's edge, and spotting the dark moving object in the water, laughing with anticipation, he tore his clothes off and dove in.

Only to discover his mistake at the exact moment he heard her wild peals of laughter as she ran away, heading back to the castle. Wet, cold, in a maelstrom of ire and rage and laughter all mixed together, he seemed to have his revenge as he finally laid her to the bed.

He dipped her feet again, laughing when she screamed.

"Pride goeth before the fall," he said.

He would, he really would. "All right, all right! I beg you! I beg you—"

He imagined that bodice wet and he said, "Still not good enough."

"Not good enough?"

"Any last words?"

"Wait! Wait!" she managed breathlessly through her laughter, amazed at the ease of his strength and scared he would, he really would. "Oh, please, my Grace—"

He started counting, or tried to through his laughter.

Desperate, she played her last card. "What if, what if…”

"Yes?"

"What if I told you I am . . . Oh, Vincent, I am with your child..."

His changed expression would live in her mind forever, and he whispered, "What?"

Her blue eyes grew serious and she nodded.

Quite suddenly, everything changed. He pulled her safely to the dock at once, yet he drew her slender shape against his. The long auburn hair slid over the arms that held her, while her hands lay gently against his upper arms. She felt the tight intake of breath in his chest as he said a husky whisper, "Do not tease me about this, Roshelle."

She shook her head, watching the curious effect of her announcement. His joy burst with laughter as he swung her around and around, her skirts lifting in a pretty circle.

He lowered her feet gently to the ground as he leaned over and kissed her. "I love you, Roshelle, forever ..."

She heard her name the instant before his lips claimed her. Not a gentle kiss either. A kiss filled with all the passion and fierceness of his love, the promise he made her for the rest of their lives. A promise she returned. Her hands slid around his neck, her fingers slid over the tousled mass of dark hair as she gave him the warm sweetness of her mouth.

Even as Roshelle stared at the changing color of the lake from atop her horse, a hand lifted from the reins to touch her mouth as she remembered that kiss and the fierceness of his passion released in their lovemaking on the water's edge beneath a thousand stars. The day she had told him of their child...

That was then and this was now. This was war!

She stared without seeing the darkening colors of the lake water. The only difference the good people of Suffolk noticed between the early autumn days and the summer days that preceded was the colors, a gradual darkening of the forest green and the lawns surrounding Gregory Castle. During the long, lazy days of summer women met to wash at the lakeside, exchanging pleasantries and gossip, advice and complaints, while their children fished or raced ingeniously carved wooden boats or, on particularly hot days, managed to brave swimming these cold, icy waters. The lake always appeared like a clear glass bowl, tinted a lovely blue-green by the surrounding forest and blue sky. The shifting season brought the deep waters of the lake changing, day by day, the blue for the green, as if swallowing up the last of the sunlight to save for the winter months ahead. The sun on the mountains deepened, too, from the yellow-gold of a young maid's hair to the richer burnt gold of an old woman's jewel box. The people often said the wind was the last to know of the changing season, for autumn always brought a warm desert-like wind off the lakeshore.

Roshelle turned Etoile into this wind and kicked her into a gallop. She rode at a breakneck speed around the lake and into the forest woods, as if the speed of her flight could ease the disquiet of her emotions. She felt furious. One day before their son's christening and he was adamant. "I am resolute, Roshelle."

Yet so was she!

Horse and rider emerged from the forest onto southwest lawns, and instantly Roshelle reined Etoile to a quick stop. Not wanting to stop, the horse lifted high in the air, fighting the bit before turning in quick, agitated circles. Roshelle almost lost her seat as the glory of the garden blinded her with a riot of its color in a second summer bloom.

"The second bloom of the rose is always the most magnificent," Papillion had said. "Until the third summer bloom."

"Dear Joan," she whispered in awe. "If you could see it now."

It looked only like a rose garden from where she sat atop her horse. The artistic arrangement had meaning only when viewed from Gregory Castle's solar rooms high above. The duke had ordered dozens of plants from all over England, and roses had arrived in every shade imaginable. Henry himself made a gift of dozens. These cuttings had been planted in a loose form of swirls and swirls of breathtaking color that created a giant rose blossom when viewed from atop. Then, planted in the very center of the creation, another, smaller blossom bloomed, made of white flowers, and in the very center of this grew a red blossom.

“
The white rose for your namesake, the red for your love. Love that blooms in the very center of my heart…”

Renewed fury brightened the Duchess of Suffolk's cheeks as she remembered these honeyed words and placed them alongside those just spoken to her husband hours ago. When he had announced easily, as if it had no consequence whatsoever: "The papers are already signed."

"I beg your pardon, milord! I signed nothing."

“
Your signature is not necessary, madam.''

"But in France—"

"I would remind you that you stand on the merry shores of England now."

She had looked at Bogo for confirmation. Bogo was her fiercest adversary in their frequent debates and arguments, but at the same time, she knew whom to count on in a pinch. This was a good deal more than a pinch. Yet that good man had nodded reluctantly. She had turned back to her husband. "So it is true—you do not need my signature! Well, then, you shall have to change it for me."

"Roshelle," he said in that voice. "I am resolute. You will soon grow accustomed to it—"

"Never! Never! I would remind you that I am French—"

"Through no fault of your own, sweetling. I manage not to hold it against you—"