When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(47)

“In what way?” Lysette asked, feeling a stab of jealousy.

“After Corinne’s death, I thought I would never want a woman again. Every woman in New Orleans was afraid of me, and I…” He paused, the words catching in his throat. Surprised that Max had ventured to speak about his mysterious past with her, Lysette waited patiently for him to continue. “In a way I was afraid of myself,” Max finally said. “Everything was different. I was accustomed to being liked and admired, and suddenly everyone treated me with scorn, or coldness, or fear. I was celibate for almost two years. Then I heard that Mariame had been abandoned by the man who had been keeping her. I had seen her before and admired her beauty. She needed someone to provide for her and her child… and I needed someone like her.”

“What is she like?” Lysette asked.

“Comfortable,” he said after a moment. “She has a pleasant nature. I’ve rarely ever seen her in a temper, and she has never been demanding or impatient.”

“Unlike me,” Lysette said ruefully.

He rose above her, his broad shoulders blocking the lightning flashes from the storm. “Do you know what I would change about you, petite?” he asked softly.

“What?” she asked, half afraid to hear the answer.

“Nothing at all.” His head descended to hers, and for a long time he kept her too busy to speak.

Chapter 9

Max awakened to the sensation of invisible fiends pounding on his head with mallets. He squinted his eyes open and jerked in painful surprise as a ray of sunshine slanted across his throbbing eyeballs. Cursing in French and English, he rolled to his stomach and rooted beneath his pillow in violent denial of morning.

“Mon mari.” He heard Lysette’s amused but sympathetic voice. Her gentle hand brushed over his na**d back. “Tell me how I can help. What is your usual cure for… what do the Americans call it?… pickling yourself? Will you take some coffee? Water? Willow-bark tea?”

Max’s stomach roiled at the notion of swallowing anything. “Dieu, non. Just let me—” He broke off as the touch of her hand recalled memories of the night before. Many of the details were lost in a liquor-soaked fog, but he did remember seeing her when he had arrived home… she had helped him to remove his clothes… and sometime after that, he had…

Throwing the pillow aside, Max sat bolt upright, ignoring the agony that stabbed through his head. “Lysette,” he croaked. She sat beside him on the bed, dressed in a white robe with ruffles down the front, her hair hanging in a braid and tied with a strip of lace. Max would have thought she looked angelic… except that no angel had kiss-swollen lips and whisker burns all over her throat.

“Relax, ma cher,” she told him with a smile. “There is no need to look so alarmed.”

“Last night…” he said unsteadily, his insides turning cold and leaden. “I was with you. I don’t remember all of it, but I know that we…”

“Yes, we did.”

The information shamed and appalled Max. No gentleman would ever take his wife when he was intoxicated… much less a virginal wife, who would have required gentleness and self-restraint and skill. He had taken her innocence while he was drunk. The realization was overwhelming. He must have hurt her. Dear God, she would never let him near her again, and he wouldn’t blame her. “Lysette…” He began to reach for her, then snatched his hands back. “Did I force myself on you?” he asked hoarsely.

Her eyes widened with surprise. “No. Of course you didn’t.”

“Did I hurt you? Was I rough?”

Her sudden laugh bewildered him. “Don’t you remember what happened, mon mari? You didn’t seem that much the worse for wear.”

“I remember my part of it. But I don’t remember yours.”

Smiling, Lysette leaned forward and touched his lower lip with her fingertip. “I’ll tell you, then. You tortured me, ma cher, and made me suffer terribly. And I adored every moment of it.”

“I didn’t take care of you afterward,” Max said in dull horror. “I didn’t bring you water, or a cloth, or…” A thought occurred to him, and he flipped back the sheets, discovering a small streak of blood on the snowy linen. She had bled, and he had done nothing for her. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered.

“You did fall asleep quite suddenly after all your exertions,” Lysette admitted with a grin, her fingers trailing over his hair-dusted thigh. “But I didn’t mind taking care of myself. It was hardly a problem, mon mari.”

Max did not understand how she could smile after what he had done to her, debauching her in the middle of the night when he’d been staggering drunk. He tunneled his fingers into his rumpled hair, down to his aching scalp. “Lysette,” he said without looking at her, “if you can find some way to forgive me, someday… I swear it will never happen again. I’m certain you don’t believe that now, but I—”

“I will forgive you on one condition,” she said kindly.

“Anything. Anything. Just tell me.”

“My condition is…” She leaned close to him, her lips touching his bristly cheek. “You have to do it again tonight,” she whispered, and left the bed before he could reply.

Gradually realizing that the previous night had not been the catastrophe it could have been, Max leaned back against the headboard. Relief crept through him, and he released a taut sigh.