Fiery Tales: Undone Part 3

"Marriage?" He led a dangerous existence. And given what he was planning to do, it was in greater peril than usual. "That is the very last thing on my mind."

"And what if one day you long for it?"

"Then and only then shall I give it a second thought."

"Your pardon, my lord," the old servant Henri said from the entrance of the dining hall. "Captain, the young lady is awake."

Chapter Three.

The unknown woman reentered the chamber.

The pain in Angelica's head was excruciating. Nausea roiled her stomach. But she battled through it, determined to learn where she was and how she'd arrived there.

This was like a bad dream. She used to be plagued by them years ago.

But none had ever been like this.

The woman smiled. "Good morning, Signorina Angelica." This time, she spoke in Italian, her tone gentle and no doubt meant to be soothing. But it didn't soothe her in the least.

She clutched her forehead, willing the pounding to stop.

Forced to keep her voice low, knowing her throbbing head would worsen otherwise, she closed her eyes and demanded quietly, "Who are you? How do you know me?"

"My name is Marta. Gabriella told me your name."

At hearing her friend's name, she snapped her eyes open. "Gabriella? Where is she? What is this place?" Anxiety, dizziness, and pain all attacked her, torturing her with equal fervor. Reasoning had never been so challenging. The thought of rising from the bed was daunting.

"Where is Madre Paola? The Sisters?"

"Gabriella is fine and sleeping in another room."

"Where am I?" she asked more forcefully.

"The captain will be here shortly to answer all of your questions."

Shock and confusion tore through her mind. "Captain? What captain?"

"You may leave us, Marta." A rich male voice came from the entrance of the bedchamber.

Dropping her hand from her forehead, Angelica darted her gaze toward the sound. Filling the doorway with his tall, sculpted form was the most striking man she'd ever seen... He had dark hair and riveting light-colored eyes-the light blue doublet he wore a perfect match.

A slight smile on his lips, he approached, moving with confidence and a masculine grace that exuded authority, and stopped at the foot of her bed.

Marta gave a quick curtsy and left, quietly closing the door behind her.

Oh G.o.d, she had no idea where she was, who he was. One thing was certain: she'd never seen this dark-haired stranger before. He wasn't the sort of man someone would forget.

Stay calm!

She struggled up to a sitting position. A fresh wave of dizziness. .h.i.t her squarely between the eyes. Briefly, she squeezed them shut and forced it back, needing to keep her wits sharp.

"I am pleased you're awake. How do you feel?" He spoke in perfect Italian.

She ignored his question, for she had a few of her own. "Who are you? Where am I?" How many times did she have to ask these questions before someone provided answers? If this was indeed a dream, she truly wished to wake up now.

"I can understand your distress. But there is no reason for alarm, I a.s.sure you. My name is Simon de Villette. You are in a chateau in the south of France."

Her blood froze. No... She couldn't have heard correctly. He hadn't said... "France?" The word tumbled from her lips, barely a whisper.

"Yes. You were injured, and I brought you here onboard one of my s.h.i.+ps. I had a physician summoned for you. I'm told he even speaks some Italian," he said.

Motionless, she simply stared at him in horrified astonishment. Then she looked around the chamber, reeling under the enormity of the situation.

Dear G.o.d... This can't be real. For the first time in ten years, she was no longer within the sanctuary of the convent. Or within the safe borders of the Republic of Genoa. She was back in France. The very place her nightmares had begun. She was at risk. In danger. Vulnerable.

Judging from the clothes he wore and the lavish surroundings, this man was no doubt a French n.o.ble. For that reason alone he couldn't be trusted. Did Madre Paola have something to do with this? Could she have learned her ident.i.ty? No. That's impossible!

And why on earth had he brought Gabriella here too?

"I was in a convent. How did you do this?" she demanded a little too fiercely. The pain made her flinch.

"I was on my way to my s.h.i.+p when we met outside the convent," he said, still with a smile on his handsome face. "You make quite a first impression."

He was the man outside? Heat rushed to her cheeks as the memory of her body on top of his flooded her distressed mind. "You followed me into the convent? Why?"

At that, he gave a soft chuckle and shook his head. "If truth be told, I'm not at all certain. It isn't every day a man is knocked off his feet by a woman. Literally," he gently teased. "After our rather unorthodox meeting, you had me most intrigued. I wanted to speak to you. Perhaps it was fate that I was at the right place at the right time to be of service to you," he stated, looking rather pleased with himself.

Service? If by "service" he meant bringing her to France, then his "service" had placed her in great peril. "How dare you!"

His smile died. "Pardon?"

"You had no right to take me from the convent... I demand you return my friend and me at once!"

He looked completely stunned.

"Signorina," he said, crossing his arms, "you were knocked unconscious, sustained welts to your head and a rather large bruise to your cheek, and you wish to return?"

She touched her aching cheek. She knew he was wondering if her injury was affecting her mind, but she didn't care what he thought. She had to leave France. Immediately. Think. Think. Think!

He seemed genuine in his belief that he'd somehow aided her. She was fairly certain he was in no way tied to the man in her past. Yet she wasn't about to trust him. Or anyone. Somehow, she had to convince him to return her to the convent. Without explanation. Now.

"You don't understand... What you have done is...very wrong. We must return straightaway." Before he found out she was in France.

She scanned the room for her missing headdress and shoes, but the quick movements of her head only made her feel worse, forcing her to stop and rest her forehead in her palm.

By the time she finally looked up again, she found him sitting patiently in the chair Marta had occupied, quietly studying her. Although the pose was casual, his scrutiny was not. She felt as though he could read her every thought-know her every secret. Adding to her distress was his closeness. She could detect the appealing scent of his soap, making her feel further fl.u.s.tered.

"What is your full name, Angelica?" Hearing her name from his lips sent an odd tingle down her spine.

She could lie. She could select any name to tell him. She could barely focus with this horrible throbbing in her head, much less invent any believable stories for this tall, dark stranger.

"Angelica?" Leaning forward, he slipped his fingers beneath her chin. She froze. His unexpected touch was gentle and warm as he held her face and her complete attention. "It is just your name," he said, clearly reading her reluctance. "Surely, you can share it."

No, she couldn't. Nor was she about to.

Simon gazed at his moonlight angel. Jesus-Christ, she had the sweetest face and the most beautiful moss-green eyes he'd ever seen. In fact, from the moment they'd first touched upon him at the doorway, he felt it down to his groin. Just like last eve, his unruly c.o.c.k was fully alert to her presence. And eager to please.

He couldn't believe how powerfully attracted he was to this woman.

She remained silent, much to his regret, intent on remaining a mystery.

She was as perplexing as she was bedazzling. Even with the bruise on her cheek, dressed in that unflattering gray garb, she was dangerously alluring, possessing the kind of beauty that could bring a man to his knees. It didn't help that her adorably curly chestnut-colored hair, was sensuously tousled, as if she'd spent some time at carnal play.

If he'd been intrigued by her before, he was doubly so now. He wanted to know everything. He supposed he could ask her friend, but he wanted to learn the information from Angelica directly.

In truth, he wanted more than just information about her.

He wanted to know the taste of her lips, her skin. Her speaking voice was so silky smooth and just as entrancing as her singing had been. He wanted to know the sultry sounds she'd make in the throes of pa.s.sion. Dieu. He wanted to f.u.c.k her so badly-a woman whom he considered untouchable.

Reluctantly, he drew his hand away, keeping his expression mild, giving no indication of the havoc she was wreaking on his libido. She'd been through an ordeal and was understandably disquieted. Confident that in due time he'd gain the answers to the questions he had about her, he didn't see any reason to press her now.

"Why have you brought my friend here?" she asked, breaking her silence.

He sat back before he spoke, needing some s.p.a.ce between him and his moonlight temptress. "Gabriella a.s.sisted me when you were injured and insisted I bring her with me also. She is well and safe. You are safe here too. I know this is overwhelming, waking up in a strange place, but I am not your adversary. Let us be friends. I gave Gabriella my word that I would a.s.sist you both in whatever capacity you need."

She looked down at her hands. He took the opportunity to admire her profile. She had the softest skin. He itched to touch her once more.

"I know you don't understand, but we must return to the convent," she said. "Transportation there is the only a.s.sistance we require."

Back to that. "You are correct. I don't understand."

"It is our home."

Did she know how beguiling her eyes were? "Then it's a miserable one."

"It's been my home for ten years."

Mentally, he groaned. Hidden in a convent for that much of her life made her more innocent than he could comfortably accept. Though his eager c.o.c.k didn't take exception to the news, his conscience was another matter. He still had a few sc.r.a.ps of honor left. No matter how desirable she was, he was not going to prey on her virtue.

"Why have you been there so long?"

He watched her give careful consideration to whether or not she should answer him.

"My parents are dead," she said at last. "I've been part of the orphanage in the convent ever since."

"Orphanage? An orphanage is for children. You are not a child." His eyes dipped briefly to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the curves of which were visible despite her attempts to hide them with the bed linen and that drab garment she wore.

"I help the Sisters with the children there."

"I see," he said, feeling frustrated by the situation he'd created for himself. "I'd be pleased to return you and Gabriella to any family member or friend you wish. However, I won't return you to your convent and put you at risk for more abuse." The thought was abhorrent to him. And the last thing he wanted was to be a party to more suffering.

She opened her mouth, ready to object. A knock at the door stopped her.

"Enter," he ordered.

Henri stepped in. "Captain, the physician is here. Shall I send him up?"

"Yes, and bring something for the mademoiselle to eat."

The servant gave a curt bow and left. Simon moved toward the door.

"Wait!" she called out.

He stopped and turned toward her.

"You have no right to decide where I or Gabriella should live. If you are willing to deliver us anywhere, then the convent is no more of an inconvenience to you."

He could make no sense of it. She appeared to be an intelligent woman. Why wasn't she elated to be out of that deplorable convent? Why the h.e.l.l would she wish to return to a place that would subject her to such ill treatment?

The light rap at the door drew his attention. Simon opened it and allowed the physician in. Although smaller in stature, he was of a similar age and coloring to Simon. They exchanged polite greetings.

"Mademoiselle." The physician smiled at his comely patient and moved toward Angelica before Simon could make introductions. "You're awake. Excellent. I am Bernard Toussaint, a physician." The French words tumbled from his mouth.

Her eyes darted from Toussaint to Simon.

Simon instantly read the uncertainty in her eyes as ignorance of the language. "Sir, the young lady doesn't speak French. In Italian, please," he told the physician in his native tongue.

"Ah, yes. Of course. Signorina, I can speak Italian. How are you feeling?"

She turned those expressive eyes to Simon once more as he watched her bite her bottom lip, looking unsure and completely engaging. Oh, how he wanted to do the very same thing to that pretty bottom lip. She was driving him mad with the simplest, most innocent act. And he was beginning to resent this untamable effect she had on him.

"I have a horrible headache," she replied.

"That is understandable." The physician was grinning at her like a besotted fool. "I've been told you have a rather nasty b.u.mp on your head. If I may, I'd like to look at it."

Simon knew he should leave, but his boots were fixed to the floor, and he hadn't the ability to move them.

She lowered her head to allow Toussaint to examine her.

The physician carefully began to move her hair, touching her head gently with his fingertips. Simon placed his hands on his hips and looked away, trying not to think about how silky her gorgeous tresses had felt between his fingers. Or how much he wanted to dive his hands into those soft, loose curls, tilt her head back with a sensual tug, and feast on that perfect mouth of hers.