Chapter 12
Solange stood in the bright light of the full moon and stared up at the façade of le Chateau des Ombres, the Mansion of Shadows. She could understand why it had such a name, for large, ancient trees stood sentinel around the house and cast long, deep shadows on the building. She suspected that was not the true reason why it had been called such. This was the country home of the Duke of Auriano. It was fitting that he would have a house named after his secret.
She was dressed as a thief, having come to steal, not silver or gold or jewels, but knowledge. And she had come for help. As much as she hated to admit it, Tonio seemed to be her only recourse. Gide was missing, and she was worried. She refused to go to Vernoux for help, and Le Chacal had dismissed her inquiry with casual neglect. When she had gone to L’Hôtel des Vénitiens in Paris, she had been told no one was in residence. So she had come here.
The house before her was dark, its inhabitants having retired for the night. A window above her stood open, and she suspected it led to one of the bedchambers. Vines climbed the wall beside it. She would have easy access to the mansion. More difficult would be finding Tonio’s chamber.
Grabbing the vines, she started up and eased through the window. She found herself in a dressing room, lined with drawers and doors, an immense wardrobe towering against one wall, a dressing table adorned with perfume bottles and small boxes, a chair with articles of clothing thrown negligently across it, and doors leading to the right and left. The door to the left opened on a lady’s bedchamber, and from its opulence and size, appeared to belong to the mistress of the house, but it was empty. The one to the right was the master’s chamber. Solange could see two forms snuggled together between the covers of the immense bed. Sabrina and her husband, the prince. Quietly, she retreated and closed the door.
She searched all of the other rooms on the floor but did not find Tonio, although she did discover what appeared to be his room, large, masculine, decorated in dark woods and heavy furniture. Open trunks displayed men’s clothing. The bed linens had been turned down, but the bed had not been slept in. Thinking he might be on the floor below, she crept down the wide, curving staircase, but a search of salons, drawing rooms, morning rooms, receiving rooms, ballroom, library, and other rooms whose functions she could not name did not reveal his presence. Until she came to a small sitting room in a corner of one of the wings of the house. One wall of the room was a series of French doors which led out to a moonlit garden. In the scant light of the waxing moon slanting into the room, she noticed a panel standing ajar in the wall next to the fireplace. Investigating, she saw a set of stone stairs leading down. A lamp hung just inside the opening. Lighting it, she started down the stairs.
At the bottom, she came to another door, but with no handle or latch. She pushed against it, but it did not budge. Placing the lamp on the floor, she examined the wall around the door. There had to be some way of opening it. Then she noticed a stone about eye-level in the wall where the imprint of a hand had been carved. She pressed against it. The door receded into the wall, she heard a click, and it swung inward. She stepped through into softly lit space.
As she moved into the room, the door closed behind her. Spinning around, she saw that it had disappeared. What had once been a door was now only a wall panel, covered in a rich, blue, watered silk. Nothing indicated an opening had ever been there. Realizing she had no escape in that direction, she turned to survey the room. It was a bedroom, opulent, dominated by an enormous canopied bed. On it were four people, and what they were doing made her stomach clench. A man lay on his back, his limbs spread in lethargic ease, while three women twined about him, their mouths all over him. Not all that long ago, she might have been one of those women, forced to cruelly service Vernoux, but on the rare occasion now when he felt the need for her, he preferred her by herself, easier for him to torment.
The man on his back languidly turned his head to look at her.
Antonio! Transformed to flesh and bone.
As soon as he saw her, he murmured something to the others. They slid away from him, and he swung off the bed. He stood magnificently, unabashedly naked. His broad shoulders curved down to narrow waist and hips that flowed into long legs. The dim candlelight played across his chest and around his ribs, obscuring and then defining the muscles that rippled there. A pink line, the mark of a healing wound, sliced down across his side and marred the symmetry of his body. She wondered when he had received it, and from whom. Between the hollow of his hips, his erection stood proudly. Expressionless, he stared at her. Solange wanted to look away. She wanted to run and hide, but she remained glued where she was. She could not drag her eyes away from his perfect form.
Grabbing an open bottle of wine that stood on the bedside table, he took a long swallow, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Mesmerized by the strong curve of his throat, the sharp slant of his jaw, Solange told herself to move. This was a chance for escape, but her feet did not obey her brain. He turned his gaze on her again, prowled closer, his swagger full of masculine arrogance. She realized there was no sign of recognition in his eyes. Instead of that hypnotic golden gaze, his eyes were as black as the depths of Hell.
He stopped before her. Solange felt his examination from her head to her toes. She blushed, grateful for the floppy hat that shaded her face.
“What do we have here? A little thief come to steal my treasures?” With a swipe of his hand, he knocked the hat from her head. He expelled a breath of sarcastic laughter. “What have you come to steal this time, thief?”
With her identity revealed, she did not hold back. “You disgust me,” she spat.
He blinked, a lazy, insolent motion. “Do I really? Is that righteous anger I hear, or perhaps jealousy that I did not invite you? Would you like to join us?” He waved his hand in the direction of the bed.
Solange carefully did not follow the line of his hand. “I’d rather have my toenails pulled out.”
A dark eyebrow quirked up. “That’s a rather painful alternative.”
“Better than being your whore,” she snapped.
“Ah, I see.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the three who had continued their activities without him. When he turned back to her, sardonic amusement curled his lips. “They come to me freely, of their own will. They are not forced by anyone, least of all me.”
“But you pay them,” she accused.
“I reward them,” he corrected mildly.
“With coin,” she argued.
“Not always.” His voice dropped to a seductive murmur. “Sometimes our mutual satisfaction is reward enough.” His hand snaked out, and he grabbed the back of her neck. As he touched her, his breath hissed through his teeth. His gaze turned feral. “Sometimes, our satisfaction is mingled with a small amount of affection. You do know what affection is, don’t you, thief?”
Solange stared up into those hard, black eyes. She could not move, for his hand held her in a velvet vise. “I—” Swallowing, she could not answer. She had never allowed herself to feel affection for anyone besides Gide, but he was her brother. Was it affection that she felt for this man when he had been Shadow? Is that why she had been so furious, so betrayed when she had found that exquisite glass sculpture on her pillow? Was it jealousy that made her so furious now? No. She had no feelings for this man. What had passed between them had been merely lust.
His eyes bored into her. They were hungry, angry. They held no mercy.
Once again, his lips curled in a smile, but there was no amusement in that demonic gaze. “Allow me to explain. Affection is the care between two people. It is a gift given and received. Accepting affection is a grace. But perhaps you know nothing of that. Perhaps you don’t wish to know. But you do know about mutual satisfaction, si?”
His barb made her flinch. Two nights ago, their mutual satisfaction had been incredible. But that was before the delicate balance of their relationship had tipped into something cold and business-like. Solange tried to shake her head, but his grip would not allow it. She was not sure if she was responding to his question or denying something else in the depths of that gaze.
His eyes narrowed. Then, without warning, he stepped forward, pushing her back against the wall with his body, and trapped her there. His mouth came down on hers, seducing and plundering at the same time. Surprised, she froze, allowing him to have his way. He took full advantage, slipping his tongue between her lips, caressing, stroking, expertly kindling a throbbing heat deep inside her. Without volition, she found herself writhing against him.
He could have violated her. He did not. Instead, he awakened a yearning for more of him, for wanting to be naked against his bare skin, of a desire to feel him pressed against her, inside her. God forgive her, he made her want to do to him what those women had been doing, her mouth all over him, tasting, sucking, needing. Her knees went weak. She grabbed his arms for support. And kissed him back.
As soon as she did, he retreated. She felt bereft and stupid for being so weak. He stared at her. Some emotion flashed through his eyes, but she was unsure what it was. His jaw tightened, and a muscle jumped there. Straightening, he dropped his hand from her neck, releasing her.
“Go away, little thief,” he said.
He raised his hand, and she recoiled from the threat she imagined in that movement. All he did was reach beyond her shoulder. She sensed the slide of the door opening behind her.
He huffed a sarcastic laugh. “Did you think I would harm you?”
She opened her mouth but found she could not utter a sound.
Anger tightened the corners of his mouth. “Not all men are monsters. I have never hit a woman.” Bending down, he swept up her hat from the floor and plunked it on her head. “Get out.” He spun her about and gave her a nudge into the passageway. The door slid shut behind her.
Solange grabbed the lantern and raced up the stairs. Extinguishing it, hanging it back where she had found it, she slipped back into the sitting room and headed toward the doors leading to the garden. She wanted to be away from Le Chateau des Ombres, away from him as fast as possible.
Before she was completely through the door, she heard a voice ask, “Leaving so soon?”
Spinning about, she saw Antonio sitting in a chair not far away. He had donned a dressing gown and slippers. How had he arrived in the room before her? Rising, he stepped towards her. She fell back a step. Annoyed with her cowardice, she halted and straightened her spine.
“I would not have thought you would run away,” he observed.
“I’m not,” she lied.
He raised a skeptical brow.
“I need to see to my horse.”
He said nothing, but his silence revealed his disbelief.
Digging in her pocket, she pulled out his thumb ring. She had been planning to use it as a bribe to get him to help her find Gide. Now, she just wanted it out of her possession. Flipping it to him, she said, “I am returning this to you and severing any ties between us.”
He caught it deftly, then examined it, turning it over in his fingers. A small smile played around his lips. He stepped forward, took her hand, placed the ring in her palm, and closed her fist around it. “You might want to give this to the person who owns it.”
Puzzled by his comment, she stared a moment. Then her mouth fell open. Of course. This was the prince who stood before her, Antonio’s twin. Her supposition that Tonio had reached the room before her was silly.
A crash from below brought a frown to his face. “It sounds like my brother is not faring too well. What did you do to him?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head for emphasis. “I did nothing.”
He raised a curious brow. “You seem to have quite an effect on him.”
She was not about to take the blame for Tonio’s bad behavior. “What is wrong with him?”
“He is experiencing the Hunger, an unpleasant period of time between Shadow and flesh,” he said.
She huffed in disbelief. “He didn’t appear to be in any distress when I saw him.”
The prince was silent for a moment, then he said, “Antonio has told me of your forced relationship with the Marquis de Vernoux. Like you, my brother is forced to certain actions, not by another, but by the Hunger. He experiences cravings that he cannot deny. Sometimes those appetites make him violent. He cannot help himself, and he despises what he must do in order to survive.” His concerned gaze swept over her.
“He didn’t hurt me,” she said. “He only—” He only what? Frightened her? Made her angry? Made her want him? Solange closed her eyes, fighting back the memory of his kiss filled with desire—dark and wild. She had understood even while it was happening that something demonic lurked beneath the surface, something that he had been holding on a very tight leash.
“My brother is an honorable man,” the prince said. “And I believe he cares for you. He touched you while he was Shadow. That is why—”
A howl echoed up the staircase. Of rage or pain? Her eyes snapped open.
“He needs your help,” the prince said.
The idea frightened her. “I won’t be used.”
“Si. I can understand that.” He paused. “Why did you come here tonight?”
Uncomfortable with the truth, Solange shifted her weight and let her gaze slide away. “I had my reasons.”
“I’m sure you did.” He tipped his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps the two of you can work out some bargain. He can help you; you can help him.”
She raised her chin. “I never said I came here for his help.”
His glance slid over her clothing. “I don’t think you came to seduce Antonio,” he said drily.
Annoyed at the prince’s insight, she snapped, “Why I came is none of your business.” Then bit her lip at her insolence towards a prince.
He raised a brow at her tone. “My family seems to attract outspoken women,” he observed mildly. When she started to apologize, he waved it away, saying, “The reason for your being here doesn’t matter. You’re here. Go to him. Help him.”
Solange remained where she was. Quiet came from the room below, and she wondered if Tonio had gained control of whatever demons were eating at him. Then she heard the sound of glass shattering against the door. A wine bottle, perhaps? He was obviously in torment, but the thought of going to him scared her. He was too seductive, too humanly male. She wanted him too much. She could not afford to become entangled with him.
“Help him just for tonight,” the prince urged. “Please.”
His tone was earnest and just shy of pleading with her. Solange looked toward the open panel but did not move from her spot.
At her hesitation, he said, “Mademoiselle…Solange—May I call you that?—I am not asking you to bind yourself to him. I am merely asking that you go speak with him. Surely, visiting with a sick man is a gesture of charity.”
Put that way, the prince made her descent below to Tonio’s chambers seem harmless. Antonio was sick, and she understood he suffered. Compassion for his plight weakened her resolve. She could help him, for just one night. After all, being with him, having him touch her was the most pleasurable experience of her life. Why not allow herself this one enjoyment? Coming to her decision, she started for the door in the wall.
As she put her foot on the first step, the prince said, “You might want to return the moonstone to him. It helps to dampen the effects of the Hunger. Mine seems to do little to help him this time.” He paused. “If my brother does not get what he needs during the Hunger, he will remain Shadow for the rest of his life.” Solange stopped in midstep. The effects of the curse were dire. She certainly did not wish Tonio to remain Shadow for the rest of his life, despite the exquisite sensations he created when they touched. But the moonstone called to her. She was not sure she could easily give it up.
“Good luck, mademoiselle,” he said. Then he wandered to the glass doors and stared out into the garden as if she were not there.
Solange looked down the dark staircase. Silence came from the room at the bottom. Lighting the lantern again, she descended and halted before the door. Apprehension tickled her middle. What would she find on the other side? What exactly did Tonio need? The answer to that last question scared her. She placed her hand on the stone. The door opened, and she stepped through.
Tonio swung to her with a snarl of rage. His fingers curled into the bed hangings. With a wrench, he ripped them from their rods. They billowed and flopped around his legs. The empty, disheveled bed revealed he was alone.
“You again.” His accusation whipped at her. “Didn’t you get enough of a performance, little thief? Or did you wish to join in?” He shook his head. “Too late. I sent my friends away.”
“I came to help,” she said, and took several steps forward, stepping over the leg of a broken table. Glass crunched underfoot.
His head snapped back as if she had punched him. “At what price?” He whipped the bed hangings out of the way. “I don’t need your help.” Grabbing the wine bottle on a nearby table, he raised it to his mouth and gulped down several large swallows.
“Tonio—”
He turned on her, his eyes angry, demonic in their darkness. “What do you want? You were the one to declare our relationship a cold business arrangement. An unemotional give and take. Why should I let you help me when you’ll only ask something in return? Something I may not be willing to give?”
Of course, he was correct. She needed to keep her dealings with him unemotional. Otherwise, she could see herself falling under his spell. What she wanted to do was turn around and run. Yet, his declaration that the ancient sorceress wanted to kill her and Gide, and the fact that the man before her might be the only way to find her brother and keep him alive rooted her where she was. That and his obvious torment. “Why did you send the others away?”
His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward her. “So, you did wish to join in.” His lips curled in a chilly smile. “I apologize for disappointing you.” Turning away, he raised the bottle to his mouth again. His hand shook.
“No, Tonio. Truly, I just want to help you.” She reached out and touched his arm. It trembled beneath her fingers.
He sucked in a breath at her touch. “Madre di Dio,” he croaked.
Afraid she had done something to hurt him, she dropped her hand and fell back. He swung to her, his eyes black and hungry. Tossing away the bottle, he approached, one stride, then two.
Solange retreated. He was a lethal predator stalking his prey. His hand whipped out and grabbed the front of her shirt. It ripped. She halted. His fist closed around the moonstone she wore beneath the garment. A groan escaped his lips. His shoulders hunched. Pain contorted his face. His eyes clenched shut. Solange was afraid to move, not sure what was happening, not sure whether he was in extreme agony or whether he might at any moment become violent.
His eyes snapped open. The black color had leached from them. They were not the beautiful gold they had been when she had robbed him, but they were a more normal shade of brown. Despite that, his gaze bored into her, his mouth a thin line.
“Give it to me.”
His command demanded obedience. Frozen by the transformation of his eyes, Solange could not move.
He shook her. “Give it to me.”
When she still did not comply, he took her shirt in both hands and ripped it open. Grabbing the moonstone in his fist, he jerked it from her neck, breaking the cord. The other hand he kept tightly wound in the material of her shirt. His eyes closed. His head dropped forward. A sound, halfway between sigh and groan escaped from him. When he staggered, Solange came out of her daze and grabbed him. His arm slipped around her shoulders, and he leaned on her.
“I need to touch you,” he croaked.
She shook her head. “No.”
“I need to touch you.” This time, it was a growl.
Without waiting for her consent, he snaked his hand under her coat, grabbed the back of her shirt and ripped it away from her. She cried out. Before she could pull away, his palm flattened against the skin between her shoulder blades and crushed her against him. He curled around her, his head nuzzling the crook of her neck, his lips against the pulse beneath her ear.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured. “Don’t move. Please.” His tongue circled gently against her skin.
Something in his tone beguiled her. Something in his touch dissolved her defenses. Instead of struggling, she tentatively wrapped her arms around his ribs and spread her hands across his back. That tingle she had felt while he was Shadow was gone, but the warm solidity of him beneath her fingers was just as enticing.
He sighed. “Ah, dolce mia, your touch is like heaven.”
His touch, too, was divine. The flat of his hand against her back, the warmth of his breath against her skin, the tickle of his tongue below her ear swept away any thought of refusal. Closing her eyes, she held him. The swirl of his tongue enthralled her. Calm settled over her. She felt her muscles loosen, felt herself go slack as she leaned into him. And she drifted.
After a time, she felt him draw away. Forcing her eyes open, she watched him tie the cord holding the moonstone around his neck. Her brain was fuzzy, and she felt unconnected to reality. When he slowly pushed her coat from her shoulders, she put up no resistance. He untied her stock and pulled it from her neck. He ripped the shreds of her shirt from her shoulders. The cloth binding across her breasts seemed to unwind by itself. She was bare from the waist up, but somehow that was unimportant. He scooped her up in his arms.
“I don’t think—” she began, but whatever she was going to say died.
“Shh. Don’t speak, dolcezza.”
His murmur reassured her. Gently, he laid her on the bed. Her boots slipped off. His fingers tugged at the buttons of her breeches. That garment whisked away. When she was naked, she lay unmoving, her limbs relaxed, waiting for whatever he wanted to do. All her arguments, all her denials, all her reservations had dissolved to nothing.
He crawled onto the bed and knelt beside her. Reaching out, he ran his hand up her thigh, across her hip, over her ribs. Her skin responded as if it had a life of its own. It quivered beneath his touch. She sighed. He cupped her breast and stroked across her nipple. She purred with pleasure.
“My touch will never hurt you, dolce mia.” His words were spoken more as a vow than a mere statement.
His hand continued its upward journey, trailing across her collarbone, her shoulder, up her neck, where it wound softly. His fingers cupped the back of her head. His thumb brushed across her ear. Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss at the corner of her mouth.
“Grazie, dolcezza,” he whispered.
Stretching out, he rolled her to her side and snuggled her against him. Her bottom fit comfortably against his thighs. Her back pressed against his chest. His arms encircled her. She felt safe, cherished. He pulled the covers over them, and she felt him place a kiss on her shoulder. The moonstone pendant grew warm against her back.
A wisp of curiosity curled through her brain. Why had he only touched her? Why had he not joined with her, brought them both to shuddering ecstasy? What had restrained him, when clearly he wanted to ravage her the first time she descended the stairs?
Finding the answers proved to take too much energy. Lethargy stole through her limbs. Fogginess clouded her brain. Cocooned with him, she fell into sleep.