Chapter Ten

N icolas stared up at the loft. Every breath he took sent a fresh wave of pain up his side, but the anger boiling within him was almost enough to make him forget the throb of his bruised rib.

What the hell was Violette thinking, sneaking behind his back? Had she any idea of what could happen if the wrong person saw her here? When would one more risk become one risk too many?

Violette remained frozen in place for a moment, eyes wide, locked with his, until Suzanne stood up next to her and pulled her away. The two women disappeared.

Raoul ducked between the ropes of the ring and crouched next to Richieux, "I'm going to have to take care of this, and fast."

Richieux. Devil take it, he must be in a far worse state than Nicolas was. No mistaking that cracking sound. Indeed, his opponent lay still, breathing hoarsely, his skin pale and covered with a sickly sheen of sweat. His right shin was bent at an odd angle, the bone almost jutting out, though it hadn't broken the skin. Nicolas's stomach lurched. All things considered, a flesh wound would be less unpleasant to look at.

Lesson learned, at least. The poor bastard would think twice before challenging a superior fighter.

He turned toward Raoul. "Can you do it here?"

"I could set the bone, but I don't have anything to make a proper splint. And I'm not too keen on doing it in front of an audience."

Point taken. The other men crowded around the ring craning their necks, jabbering and passing flasks around, almost as if they expected a more thrilling show. Nicolas scanned the area beyond the crowd in search of the gentleman who'd requested the tournament. Guillaume de Marbois stood, eyebrows raised and hands clasped behind his back, betraying nothing more than mild interest.

Nicolas raked his hand through his hair and exhaled. " Sacredieu . Do you think we could carry him to your shop with Boutin's help?"

Raoul grunted. "It's only two streets over, and a far better place to work in peace and quiet. You're not carrying him, though. That was a nasty hit you took. I'll have to check to see if your rib's broken."

"Right. Let's go, then."

Between finding the best way to lift and carry Richieux and scattering the crowd, it took a few minutes for them to get going. Boutin and Raoul set off, but Nicolas hung back to bid Marbois good day.

"I'll be in touch, Lefevre," the gentleman replied in a courteous tone, as if they were in an elegant café and not a run-down church where a man had shattered his leg in a fight. "This was most entertaining."

Impossible to tell from his sphinxlike expression whether he meant it, or what he was referring to. The fight and the injury? Either way, for an aristo , he certainly had solid nerves if he found it entertaining .

"At your service, monsieur ."

Nicolas slipped his jacket over his shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat. Outside, Violette and Suzanne were waiting, wrapped in their shawls.

He met Violette's gaze, and anger bubbled up afresh. Something burned in her eyes, but it wasn't shame or remorse. Quite the opposite, in fact. A strange sort of determination. As if she was telling him without words she'd rather take his chastising now rather than later.

Damn her to hell, this woman was too brazen by half, and now his anger warred with fire of a different kind.

"Will Richieux be all right?" Suzanne asked. "Raoul just told us his leg was broken."

"Raoul will do what he can. We'll see."

Violette took a few steps toward him. "What about you?" she asked, almost softly. "Are you hurt?"

He clenched his jaw. Was she genuinely worried? Trying to appease him? No, she wouldn't get away with this so easily.

"Suzanne, take her the long way to the barbershop," he snapped. "And wait for me there. I have a few things to discuss with her."

*

"All right, give him a few swigs of that. It ought to calm him."

Nicolas uncorked a bottle of clear liquor. A pungent scent filled the room, and Violette pressed her nails into her palm.

Breathe through your mouth. It'll pass.

This was no time to get sick or, worse, faint. The sight of Richieux's broken shin was enough to make cold sweat run down her back, and the smell of alcohol was making it worse. But Nicolas had insisted she remain within his sights, in the backroom of Raoul's barbershop.

They'd laid Richieux on a large table, where Boutin pinned him down. No chance he'd dash off, but violent tremors wracked his body.

"Don't touch me," he wheezed with the wide-eyed stare of a trapped animal. "Don't touch me. Just leave it. Don't…"

"Unless you want to spend the rest your life walking with a limp, you'll stay put," Nicolas said. "Go on, drink."

Richieux whimpered, and Nicolas pressed the rim of the bottle to his lips, tipping it so he could swallow. Richieux coughed, and tears sprang from his eyes.

"No more," he begged. "You'll kill me." He glanced at Raoul, who was leaning over the table, inspecting his shin. "He'll kill me."

"If Raoul wanted to kill you, believe me, he'd be much quicker about it."

Nicolas tipped the bottle again, once, twice, three times more. Richieux's eyes lost their focus. His words jumbled together in a slur.

"Bloody fucking… barber doesn't know…"

"There, all better." Nicolas nodded at Raoul. "Proceed, doctor."

Violette bit her lip. How could Nicolas be so callous? It was as if the gruesome injury he'd caused left him cold. As if he'd done this hundreds of times before.

You knew he was a dangerous man. She should not be surprised. Why, then, did she not recoil in fear and disgust from him? Her reason, her reserve, her gentle breeding, all of it turned to ash when the fire took hold of her.

Raoul aligned himself with Richieux's legs. "Boutin, keep your grip on his shoulders. Nicolas, you take that wooden brush and put the handle between his teeth so he doesn't chop his own tongue off and make a bloody mess. Right, now hold his wrists. Nobody move or make a sound until I'm done."

Suzanne grasped Violette's hand, and squeezed her eyes shut. "I wouldn't watch if I were you," she whispered. "Trust me, you don't want to see this."

Violette closed her eyes, but the raspy wail that filled the room was enough to freeze her blood. Seconds ticked by, and the wail turned into a drawn-out sob that seemed to go on and on.

"There. Ready for a splint."

Violette opened her eyes again. Richieux's head drooped to the side. A spurt of vomit burst from his lips.

"Fucking hell," Nicolas muttered. "Better than blood, I suppose."

The smell… It was horridly familiar. Oh Lord, she needed air, or she was going to cast up her accounts as well. She sprang to her feet, but it only made her head spin faster.

Suzanne laid a hand on her back. "Violette, are you all right?"

Air. Outside. Now . She ran from the room and burst into the darkened shop, reaching for the door handle.

Strong fingers shackled her arm.

"Let me go!" she cried.

The grip tightened, and pulled her against a solid chest. Him. Her body recognized his presence before her mind, and awareness spread like an eruption of flames where their bodies touched.

"I cannot let you run out into the street in such a state," he murmured next to her ear. "Calm down and tell me what's wrong."

"Everything," she gasped. "Everything inside that room… The smell of alcohol and vomit…"

Emile. It was just like Emile. But if only Nicolas had seemed to care even a little…

"And you ," she continued, her tone sharper. "You acted as if it was nothing. You broke that man's leg!"

He dropped her arm, and she whipped around. He towered over her, green eyes flashing furiously. "Richieux wanted a fight, I gave him one. Was that not what you came to see, in spite of my reservations? By all means, you should be satisfied."

"I had to take matters into my own hands," she shot back. "How am I to learn savate without watching other people fight? I certainly did not think…"

"You did not think a nasty fall and a hard hit could shatter a bone? Tell me, what did you expect? That we would bow politely and pretend to fight like a pair of fencers?"

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, and a flush rose to her cheeks. No, this was most unlike the posturing dance of a pair of fencers. A fencing match would not ignite a strange, fierce yearning in the very core of her. The way his muscles had rippled with every deadly blow…

He leaned closer. " Savate is a violent, dangerous sport. There are rules, of course, but it was born in the streets. You remember that move I taught you, striking your opponent's nose upwards with the base of your palm? You can kill a man that way, if you hit hard enough."

Was he talking from experience? She dared not ask. She dared not move. She could only remain silent and keep her gaze locked with his, for her heart was thudding with such force that the smallest movement might make it careen out of control.

"I didn't think it would go this far," she finally said. "You're… different when you teach me."

He laughed. "I would never do anything to hurt you. That is the difference."

"I know you wouldn't." The words slipped out before her thoughts caught up with them. But she realized she did know. She had known almost from the start. "Else I would not have asked you to help me. It may be foolish of me, but I sensed you were not the same type of man as Lenoir, and you have proven me right."

He stood perfectly still and did not speak for several moments. "When I fell… Did you fear I was injured?"

She nodded. "I was surprised to see you lose your balance. How bad is it?"

He shrugged and lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing a red welt on the ripple of muscles. Her cheeks flushed at the sight. "Just a bruise to the ribs. Raoul looked it over. Nothing broken."

"Does it hurt?" Her words came out in a hoarse murmur.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed roughly. She wanted to kiss his skin there. Taste it. The hot, pounding rush in her veins was making her light-headed, dizzy. She swayed toward him.

"Violette…"

Her hand slid over his side.

Put a stop to this. Pull back before you are both lost.

She didn't pull back. Couldn't. His gaze pinned her where he stood. His skin was so warm under his shirt, so warm, and she'd been out in the cold for so long…

She rose on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.

They were smooth and plush, slotting perfectly against hers, as if they had been made for kissing her. He raised his hand to cup her face, caress her hair, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. So strong, yet so gentle, and oh, she felt like the inside of her was melting and burning at the same time…

He groaned against her mouth. Was he trying to tell her something? Did he want her to stop? She broke the kiss with a shuddering breath.

"I… Forgive me, I should not…"

He snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "Yes, you should."

She hesitated only a moment before kissing him again. It was so good, so right that all thoughts and doubts fled from her mind, leaving only the sensation of him, his soft mouth, his hard body against hers.

More . She wanted more.

He nipped at her lower lip, teasing, prodding lightly with his tongue until she let him in with a moan. Oh, this was even better, this was exquisite. She wrapped her arms around his neck, locking them both in a tight embrace, increasing the delicious friction between their bodies.

More, more, more.

His mouth left hers, and she whimpered at the loss, but his lips pressed to her neck now, his breath hot against her skin, and it fanned the flames higher.

"Tell me to stop, Violette," he panted. " Please . I'm not strong enough to do it myself."

She arched against him desperately, heeding the relentless urge of her body. "Don't stop," she breathed. "I beg you, kiss me again."

Their mouths met once more, and he slipped his hands to her thighs. Wrapped his fingers around their flesh. Lifted her. Two steps, and he set her down on the wooden counter. Spreading her legs. Pressing a hard bulge right where a throbbing ache built within, swelling, demanding relief. Winding her skirts up and sliding his palm over her stockings.

He knew . Knew what she needed, right now, yes, she couldn't wait. She moaned and gripped his forearm, pulled, urging his hand further and further to the edge of her stocking…

"We'll just let him sleep here and—oh, bloody fucking hell."

Raoul . Panic seized her and she pushed Nicolas back, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before glancing at Raoul, Suzanne and Boutin, who had just come out of the back room.

Suzanne gave Raoul's arm a slap. "I told you not to barge in!"

Nicolas took Violette's hand to help her down but she snatched it back. She couldn't let him touch her again, not when her body was still pulsing with want, begging for relief. What on earth had she been thinking? If they hadn't been interrupted… This was madness. Utter madness, and it had been from the very start.

"I need to leave," she muttered. " Now ."

"Wait…"

"Do not follow me, Nicolas."

She turned and fled into the dusk.