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“Or less. Certainly less. No more than a week, perhaps.”
She pressed her lips together, looking from Théo to the baby, who was starting to whine. Was the child hungry? he wondered. Thirsty? Tired? Who knew?
With a sigh, Carrie took the baby from his arms. “And if I do stay,” she said hesitantly, sounding as if the words were being ripped out of her by force, “you will leave my family in peace?”
He nodded. “You have my word.” He looked at her. “So you agree?”
She set her jaw, considering, then tossed her head. “I would spend a week with the devil himself to get you out of our lives!”
A wave of triumph washed over him. “Parfait.”
He extended his hand to shake on the deal. When she reluctantly placed her smaller hand in his, he pulled her close. He kissed both her cheeks. He breathed in the sweet fragrance of her soft, warm skin, felt the tremble of her fingers intertwined with his.
And he wanted her. More than he’d ever wanted any woman.
Perhaps he couldn’t be her knight in shining armor. But if Henry was his child Théo would show Carrie how wrongly she’d judged his character. He would be the most devoted father on earth. And he would marry his baby’s mother—by any means necessary.
He placed his hand on the small of her back to lead her back inside. Her cheeks were pink as she jerked away, glaring at him accusingly.
“I was just going to take you to your room,” he said innocently.
“I know my way upstairs,” she snapped.
He stared after her as she walked ahead with the baby. He knew why she’d reacted so violently to his touch. He’d known it from the moment he kissed her.
Hatred or no hatred, she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He could barely wait to have her in his bed again, to caress her body until her skin was pink as her cheeks, to feel her soft, sweet naked body writhe beneath him as she moaned his name.
She pushed open the door to go back inside, and as he followed her he watched the unconsciously sensual sway of her hips.
He had one week to show Carrie how good a loveless marriage could be.
And if he got his wish the first place he’d show her was bed.
CHAPTER THREE
THE next morning, Carrie pushed open the blue shutters of her bedroom.
Soft sunlight glowed golden across the patchwork of fields of sunflowers and lavender and vines stretching back to the distant cragged mountains. She took a deep breath of fresh cool air, closing her eyes as she felt the sun against her face.
She’d made it through the night. She’d started to fear morning would never come. She’d woken constantly, restless with fear that Théo might come to seduce her. When she’d finally slept, he’d invaded her dreams. I love you, Carrie, he’d whispered huskily against her skin. His naked body had been hard and hot against her own. I’ve always loved you.
She’d woken up with a start in the middle of the night to find herself alone in the large bed, her body flushed with heat, her sheets tangled at her feet and her heart pounding with desire. Sitting up, she’d slowly looked around the room, with its wrought-iron bed and antique lady’s desk with a vase of roses he’d had brought from the garden. Carrie had wrapped her arms around herself as she’d listened to her baby’s deep, even breathing in the nearby crib. The dream had felt so real. If Théo could only love her…
She’d choked out a bitter laugh. Love her? The idea that Théo St. Raphaël would ever love her was a ridiculous joke—too preposterous even for a dream!
And I don’t care, Carrie told herself fiercely as she looked out the window across the beautiful view. She took another deep breath of the fresh morning air, scented with flowers and sunshine. The colors looked so vivid and brilliant, she thought in wonder. It was as if she’d just woken from a year of sleepwalking through a haze of rain and gray.
Why? Because of this beautiful country? Or because Théo was sleeping in the room down the hall?
She turned away from the window. Going to the en suite bathroom, she showered and got dressed in a simple blue sundress. Impatiently combing the tangles from her long brow
n hair, she stared at herself in the mirror.
“If you’re telling me the truth, and Henry is my son, you will soon be my wife.”
A year ago she would have wept with joy at such an unromantic proposal. But not anymore. Carrie squared her shoulders. She wasn’t going to waste another second wishing for a dream that could never happen. The man she would love someday would be perfect—kind, strong and steadfast.
Nothing like the Count of Castelnau.
