“Stop that!” Celine demanded in fluent, frantic French, realizing she had spoken English the first time. Her heart hammering, she wriggled and twisted and finally extricated herself from his embrace. She threw aside the blankets and half fell out of bed. It seemed much higher than it had before.
The man groaned. “Chérie,” he murmured painfully, “you make far too much noise. Stop tumbling about the floor and get back into my bed.”
Celine scrambled to her feet, away from him, so terrified that her throat had closed off. It was difficult to understand what he was saying. His words were strangely accented—perhaps because his voice was muffled by the pillow and fatigue. And liquor.
Who was this naked man in her bed?
Thoughts of rape and kidnapping and various other violent crimes chased through her head. She turned to run—and slammed her knee straight into a large, square piece of furniture. It tripped her and sent her sprawling with a shout of mingled pain and surprise.
“Saints’ breath,” the man grumbled in that same hung-over tone. “If you must cry out so loudly, petite, at least return to bed and let me give you reason.”
For a second, Celine couldn’t answer his outrageous request because she was biting her bottom lip and holding her knee. Where had that big wooden trunk come from? She didn’t remember it being in her room before! And what was the crunchy stuff beneath her—like straw—all over the floor? She couldn’t see it. Or the bed or the man or anything. It was too dark. And there was a strange scent in the air, like cooking herbs.
Between painful, frightened little gasps of air, she finally managed to say something. “D-don’t you come near me! I’ll—I’ll scream!”
Even as she threatened that, she knew screaming wasn’t going to do her any good. She was the only one staying in this wing of the chateau. Everyone else was at the party in the grand salon. And the walls were so thick that no sound would get past these corridors.
Not even a bloodcurdling cry for help.
“Chérie, you speak so quickly, I cannot understand half of what you say.” The man’s muddled tone turned curious. “You felt too softly rounded to be Isabeau ... and too long of leg to be Yvonne or Babette. Are you the new wench who works in the kitchens?”
Celine got to her feet, her heart racing. If she couldn’t see him in the darkness, he couldn’t see her, either—and she wasn’t going to give away her position by talking.
“Or mayhap one of the guests at the feast?” he mumbled into his pillow.
She began making her way quickly but cautiously around the bed toward the door, stretching her hands out in front of her to feel for obstacles, shivering. God, it was freezing in here!
“Fie, but I cannot ... remember taking a wench to my bed at all last night,” the man continued, his voice thick with equal parts alcohol and confusion. “Though it was worth celebrating the eve of the new year, with Tourelle and his party so long delayed.” He rolled over with a heavy, tired chuckle. “Mayhap they are all lost in the snows somewhere. Gone forever. Never to be seen again ...”
Celine didn’t even try to make sense of his drunken ramblings. Her silent escape had carried her halfway to the door. But she was so concerned about large obstacles, she neglected to be careful of small ones.
She tripped on a stool and landed hard on the stone floor. Pain shot through her ankle, wrenching an exclamation from her lips.
“Saints’ blood, demoiselle,” the man gritted out, the words muffled as if he had pulled a pillow over his head. “If you do not cease your clamoring, I shall toss you out on your shapely derriere!”
Celine tried to stand and to think of some threat that would keep him away from her. “If you lay one hand on me, I’ll ... I’ll ...” Her ankle wouldn’t support her weight, and her efforts to get up only landed her painfully on that part of her anatomy he had just described.
As for her unfinished threat, it only seemed to amuse him.
“You shall ... mete out some dire punishment?” His intoxicated voice was now laced with laughter. She could hear him sitting up. “Allow me to offer a suggestion that would be most effective: kiss me into submission.”
He got out of bed.
She remembered vividly that he wasn’t wearing a thing.
“Don’t! Don’t come near me!” she cried desperately, tearfully, helplessly, holding up one hand as if that would be enough to hold him off.
To her surprise, she heard him stop and sit back down on the mattress. She still couldn’t see him. Though her eyes were adjusting, he was still nothing more than a black shadow in the darkness.