When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(6)

“Yes,” Lysette lied. Suddenly she was so tired and thirsty and distressed that silver sparks danced before her eyes. She had to get away from him. “That is exactly what I have planned, and you are interfering. I will not stay here any longer.” Blindly she spun around and headed for the door, consumed with the desire to escape.

Vallerand caught her instantly, one long arm sliding around her front, the other grasping her nape. Lysette clenched her teeth and let out a dry sob, knowing that she had finally been defeated. “Damn you,” she whispered. “Why won’t you just let me go?”

His soft, deep voice tickled her ear. “Easy, I won’t hurt you. Be still.”

He glanced at the twins, who were watching the pair of them with fascination. “Leave, both of you.”

“But why?” Justin protested hotly. “We were the ones who found her, and besides—”

“Now. And tell your grand-mère I wish her to join us in the library.”

“He has my belongings!” Lysette said, throwing an accusing stare at Justin. “I want them back!”

“Justin,” Vallerand said in a low voice.

The boy grinned, pulling the knotted handkerchief of coins out of his pocket and tossing it to a nearby chair. He slipped out the door before his father could reprimand him.

Left alone with Vallerand, Lysette twisted helplessly in his grasp. He contained her easily. “I told you to be still.”

She went rigid as she felt him tug the hem of her shirt upward, exposing the tender flesh of her back. “What are you doing? Stop that! I will not be abused like this, you high-handed, arrogant—”

“Calm yourself.” He stuffed the hem of the shirt into the back of her collar. “You have nothing to fear. I have no interest in your…” He paused and added sardonically, “Feminine charms. Besides, I usually prefer my victims to be somewhat cleaner than you before I molest them.”

Lysette gasped and dug her nails into his hard forearm as she felt the touch of his hand on her back. The tiny hairs on the nape of her neck rose and prickled in response to the brush of his fingers. Deftly he located the tail end of the binding cloth that had been tucked underneath her right arm.

Realizing that no amount of resistance would stop him from doing as he wished, Lysette spared herself the effort of fighting him. “You are no gentleman,” she muttered, flinching as he loosened the binding.

The comment did not deter him. “That is true.” He unwound the coarse length of cloth that had flattened her br**sts beneath the shirt.

Despite her distress over being stripped half na**d by a stranger, Lysette could not prevent a sigh of relief as the tight, itching binding was removed from her sore back. Cool air swept over her moist skin, making her shiver.

“Just as I thought,” she heard him murmur.

Lysette knew exactly what he was seeing, the week-old bruises left from Gaspard’s beating, the welts of insect bites, the mess of smarting scratches and scrapes. She had never been so humiliated, but somehow, as the silence lengthened, she stopped caring what he thought. She was too weary to stand on her own. Her chin lowered until her cheek rested against his shoulder. She couldn’t help noticing his fragrance, the scent of clean male skin mingled with the hints of horses and tobacco. The utterly masculine smell was unexpectedly appealing. Her nose and throat opened, drawing in more, while she began to relax against the solid weight of his body.

A strange shiver went through her as his fingertips descended to her back, moving in a delicate trail over her spine. She wouldn’t have expected such a large man to have such a light touch. It became hard to think, the entire scene covered in a thick fog that promised oblivion. She struggled to stay conscious, but she must have fainted for a few seconds, because she had no memory of him pulling her shirt back down over her back, and yet suddenly she was covered and he had turned her to face him.

“Who did it?” he asked.

She shook her head and spoke through dry, cracked lips. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Mademoiselle, you are in no condition to defy me. Don’t waste my time, or yours. Just tell me what I want to know, and then you can rest.”

Rest. The word made her entire being surge in longing. Clearly he was not going to let her go, and there was little point in resisting him. Later, she promised herself. Later she would consider what to do next and make a new plan. In the meantime, she had to regain the strength she had lost.

“My stepfather did it,” she said.

“His name?”

Tilting her head back, she stared into his dark eyes. “First promise me that you won’t send word to him.”

A brief laugh caught in his throat. “I’m not going to bargain with you, petite.”

“Then you can go to hell.”

His teeth flashed in a grin. Clearly he was amused rather than annoyed by her defiance. “All right, I promise that I will not send word to him. Now tell me his name.”

“Monsieur Gaspard Medart.”

“Why did he beat you?”

“We have come from Natchez for my wedding. I despise my fiancé, and I have refused to honor the betrothal agreement my stepfather made.”

Vallerand’s brows raised slightly. Until a Creole girl was wedded, her father— or stepfather— was considered to be her master, every bit as much as her husband would be. To defy a parent’s wishes, especially in the area of marriage, was unthinkable. “Most people would not censure a man for disciplining a rebellious daughter in such circumstances,” he said.