Follow The Night (Bewitch The Dark) (11 page)
Read Follow The Night (Bewitch The Dark) Online
Authors: Michele Hauf
“Then you mustn’t worry for her.”
Roxane admired the pianoforte. White lacquer sported pastoral scenes in oval vignettes around the sides. On top sat a dusty blue violin.
“So you only went there this morning?” he prompted.
“Er…yes.”
Please don’t ask about the remainder of the day.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t reveal her troubles; it was that she wanted distance right now. The seduction.
She leaned over and studied the violin. “This is lovely—”
“Don’t touch it!”
The violin’s hollow body echoed as it teetered. She pressed her fingers to her mouth as if she’d been singed. A narrow fingerprint on the belly of the stringed instrument disclosed her folly.
“Sorry.” Leo stood and eyed the instrument. “Too damned many memories in that violin. I’m not sure why I don’t have Toussaint pack the thing away.”
Dare she delve into his horribly masked emotions? She wanted to learn more about him, the enigma. The man who could change her heart with but a kiss. And yet his future spoke sure tragedy.
“Time for a conversation switch,” he tossed out. “Beyond your penchant for chasing creatures of the night, I know little about you. How long have you been in Paris, Roxane?”
“Four months.” She slid into an armed chair. The chair wrapped its damask arms about her, a lush repose within a boudoir.
Leo twisted around on the stool before the pianoforte, catching his palms on his knees. “You came from Scotland?”
“Never been there.”
“And yet, you’ve a definite brogue. Did not Toussaint learn you’ve Scottish ancestors?”
“Yes.” She dipped her head in a sweet blush. “I long to visit someday. I grew up listening to stories told by my granny MacTavish. Tales of Scottish highlanders, fierce, brawny warriors. My granddaddy used to wear his plaid, be damned the regulations, he’d say.”
“I’ve never seen a Scotsman in plaid.”
“Plaids have been banned for decades. I don’t understand why. It is a fine look on any man.”
“You fancy a man in plaid?”
She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Hmm… Well, I hope you find your tartan-draped Highlander someday.”
“I won’t hold my breath. But I don’t dislike frock coats and lace.”
Leo tugged at his lacey sleeve. “Just not quite so much lace, eh? No swishes for this lady?”
She didn’t reply because the man was not a swish, and he certainly landed on her interesting list. Not that there was a list. He was the first man she’d had a relationship with, so everything about him fascinated and intrigued.
“Where did you live before Paris?”
“Villers-Cotterets, a village at the edge of the forest.”
“About an hour out of Paris?”
“Yes, you know it?”
He shrugged. “I have passed by to and from Versailles. What drew you to Paris?”
“I moved here with my brother. He’s always been drawn to this society of riches and manner. He is a gentle man by nature, yet loves elegance and propriety.”
“A man of my own heart?”
“A swish in training, you might say.”
“
I
would never say.”
“Yes, well…” Her smile fell as quickly as it had formed and images of the man spinning about her brother’s figure returned. “Damian had been easily tempted by our father’s spectacular description of Paris. The city tainted father, and drew him away from mama. We’ve lived alone, just the two of us, for half a decade now. Much as Damian desired Paris, I would not allow that same taint to harm him. I was successful in swaying his desires for years. Until this year.”
“He convinced you to move to the city?” Leo said softly.
“After much begging. Each summer after father’s visit Damian would say, ‘Let’s be off for Paris. Father already has an apartment for us; we’ve only to claim it.’ He would finger the tatty lace that circled his threadbare shirt and say in the most wrenching plea: ‘I must go, Roxane. Paris calls.’
“And I would refuse. Someone had to maintain a level head. We did not live in poverty. The fieldstone parish the Desrues family has lived in for centuries was large and spacious, and the gardens out back were shaded by walls of hornbeam. But this year, after I had refused and turned to my gardening of simple herbs, thinking that was it for the summer pleading, Damian resolutely pulled back his shoulders and stated, ‘Very well, I will go to Paris myself.’”
Leo offered a consoling nod and smile.
“And I knew he would.” She traced the curve of the chair arm with a fingertip. “My heart speeding with apprehension, I packed up my belongings—very little—and journeyed to Paris at my brother’s side.
“Immediately upon our arrival he took our inheritance and bought himself fine clothing, wigs and pretty jewels. He was so happy.”
“Was?”
She nodded and glanced toward the paned window, not eager to go on.
“You wish to return.”
Was her sadness so obvious? “Enough of my family. I have not had opportunity to ask how you fare today?”
“Me? I am a bit tired, but all in all, I feel rather well. Madness be damned, eh?”
“Was Toussaint able to clean the floor in your bed chamber?”
“He scrubbed away the smell.” Almost. “Terrible how I can scent blood from across the room. Yours is sweet, by the by.”
“You—you can smell it from there?”
He nodded. Her posture stiffened upon the chair.
“Don’t worry, I won’t attack. At least, I don’t think I will. Roxane, I was making fun. I promise I will not bite you.”
“What if the madness won’t allow you that choice?”
“You think I am going insane?” He pressed forefingers to his temple, and, closing his eyes, rubbed in circles. “I don’t feel it.” He flashed open his eyes to look at her. “Does it strike so quickly, then?”
“I cannot know.”
“You didn’t witness it with this other survivor you will not name?”
She had witnessed a wrenching gradual madness, for Damian had three weeks to wail at the moon.
“You are right; I don’t see any signs that your composure is changing. Perhaps you are a bit dry with your humor. But I’ve not known you long enough to determine if it is just your way.”
He flicked his wrist, dancing the long lace across his knuckles. “Leo is—er, well, we swishes are not much for boldness, bravery or heroics.”
“You are heroic. You went after that vampire minion armed with no more than courage.”
He lifted a brow, and Roxane so fiercely wanted him to believe in himself.
Twisting on the stool to face the pianoforte, he touched the feather quill, rolling it across the leather folio in crisp crackles. “I have ever strived to be what others wish to see. And now it is too late to be myself. For soon this bloody moon will decide for me.”
“You are a good man, Leo. Beneath the frippery your heart is bold and brave, and I honestly believe that cannot be altered.”
His heavy sigh burrowed into her heart. So much troubled him.
“There is something I must tell you. About Leo.”
“You speak of yourself in the third person?”
He nodded, looking down. “Because Leo isn’t me.” He met her gaze and his eyes were wide with truth. “Leo is a creation.”
“I…don’t understand?”
“A disguise I have assumed in order to serve a higher purpose, if you can believe such a thing.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. He was not Leo, the foppish rake? “What higher purpose?”
“It’s to do with my fortune. I wish to disperse it to charity and yet my true identity has been stained by my family history. Please, I don’t wish to elaborate. I only wish I had been honest with you from the start. But I hadn’t the opportunity because I woke from the vampire’s bite after Toussaint had already firmly ensconced you in my lies.”
She stood and, fluffing out her skirts, strolled over to him and touched his jaw. Lingering there in his whiskey gaze she fell. Into hope. Into trust. “What is your name?”
“Gabriel Baptiste Renan. Vicomte.”
“A vicomte?” She gasped.
“My title changes nothing between us.”
She nodded. He was of the aristocracy. What had she been doing these past days? Staying under his roof? Speaking with him so casually?
“There is an us, Roxane. Can there be an us?” He slipped his fingers through hers. “I want the man beneath the surface to rise. The man who has ransomed hope for abandonment.”
“But you are a vicomte, and I…”
He tugged her to him and spread his fingers through her hair. The intensity in his gaze stifled all reluctance in her heart and Roxane nodded. Giving him her trust completely.
“I want us,” he said. “No matter what the moon brings.”
She felt so small, so overwhelmed at this moment. And then she was not, because she stood in the arms of Leo—Gabriel, a man who trusted her enough to share his secrets.
Perhaps you should share yours?
“I’ve stymied you,” he said.
“No. I want us, too, the moon be damned.”
“Look at me! I am the picture of health. Is it possible you could be wrong? That a mere bite will not render me a madman who howls for the moon?”
“I believe it is the
loup garou
that howls at the moon.”
“Indeed, the werewolf.” He tapped a finger on her nose. “You are far too knowledgeable of the occult for my comfort, Roxane. Where and why did you pick up such information? Why this compulsion to
hunt
a vampire?”
“I merely wish you to be well,” she murmured.
“And well I am. I have no hunger for blood, so do not worry your pretty head.”
She nodded, lowering her head quickly.
“What is it?
You won’t meet my eyes. Mademoiselle?”
“I—I have spoken to him,” she blurt out.
“Him? The vampire?”
She shook her head no. “The man who survived. The one who succumbed to madness.”
“You did? When? Where is he?”
“He sits in a foul cell at Bicêtre, pounding the walls until his fists are bloody.”
She could not prevent the tears that slid down her cheeks. Shuddering in Gabriel’s embrace, she melted against his chest. A vicomte. Oh, but her world had toppled heel over head.
“You tell me true? Anjou’s other victim is in the asylum?”
She nodded against his shoulder and sniffled tears. “I visit a few times a week.”
“Take me to him.”
“What?”
Gabriel smoothed away tendrils of hair from the tears on her cheeks. “I want to talk to the man who survived the vampire’s bite.”
“No, you cannot. He—he did not survive—he is mad!”
“I must!” He released her and paced before the pianoforte.
“You would look upon your own future? Is it not enough that I tell you madness waits, that you yet desire to see it and touch it?”
“Yes.”
Decided, Gabriel pulled his frock coat from the chair and swung his arms into it. “I need to know what I must fight, Roxane. I have mere days. Will you help me?”
“But I cannot return so soon. Please, I…you don’t know him. He’s—”
“Violent? A lunatic? You needn’t accompany me if it pains you to visit him. I’ll go myself.”
“You don’t understand.”
“But I do, Roxane. I promise you.” He gripped her forearms. “Your heart balks. Someone close to you suffers. Yet I need to learn, to know the future I must fight.”
“He’s my brother,” she gasped.
The road beyond Gentilly, a village sitting at the edge of Paris, offered little more than a dirt line carved from the bumps and grasses by carriage wheels. Nothing was flat. The horse had a hard time of it, even centered between the tracks. They made Bicêtre in under an hour and dismounted, tying up the horse.
Gabriel looked over the burnt-grass grounds before him but Roxane stepped into view and his thoughts lightened.
A gorgeous libertine, she defied every definition he’d ever conjured of a country rustic. She was neither simple nor uneducated. Kindness had compelled her to help a stranger, and it continued to show in her sacrifice now by agreeing to bring him with her.
And her kisses, well, they were exquisite. Never before had he been satisfied merely with kisses. Always his affairs had been rushed, unemotional, and fleeting. He wanted to spend time with Roxane, all the time she would give him.
But would she ever have a madman? Or worse, a vampire?
Couldn’t work, that pairing. He’d have her drained of blood in less than a fortnight.
But you may enjoy it.
Shaking his head at the disturbing thought, he stepped up beside her to stare at the darkened façade of Bicêtre. Three stories high and stretching across a barren field, the limestone structure greeted visitors with barred windows. Few trees dotted the landscape, save the bare-branched elms behind the facility. Morbid, their blackened silhouettes like a hangman’s tree.