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It cannot be. Itis not possible. I am deluded.
Bemused, he lifted a hand and rubbed his eyes. Then he stared at her again, but the vision before him did not fade. The woman lay on her back, staring up at him with an expression of resigned fascination. Her blue gaze devoured him with eager hunger.
Winter sunlight filtered through the small dusty windowpanes, lighting her pale-gold hair as she lay prostrate upon the bed. Her hair glowed in the halo of light. His heart leapt, beating rapidly, sending his blood racing at dizzying speed through his veins. He felt faint.
The woman was an exact replica of his dead wife. How was that possible? Who on earth was she?
“Who...? You…? What...?”His words made no more sense of the situation than his brain.
She made no move to speak but stared up at him looking painfully familiar.
“Angele?” he finally dared to whisper.
“Hello, Gabriel.”
Her reply astonished him. The world tilted on its axis. He faltered; his legs would not hold him. He sank beside her on the bed.
“Angele?” he asked again, bewildered.
This time, she stretched out a palm and cupped his cheek. “Oui, it is I, your Angele.”
Her reply seemed incredibly unlikely, yet his spellbound eyes did not deceive him. This realisation was the catalyst that awoke him from his stupor. Flinging himself to lie heavily across her body, he cupped her face, caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. He gazed at the deep groove of a scar that began above her left eyebrow, one beautiful blue eye drooping in a permanent wink before the ravaged skin continued down over her cheek, ending at her chin. Her throat had been spared, but as he cast his attention down to her shoulder, he saw where the deepest cut had landed, leaving behind a much deeper wound, one which had long since healed into a thick puckered scar. He bent his head and placed a tender kiss there.
“They hurt you, those bastards,” he muttered, pressing a line of soft kisses along her scarred flesh.
She gasped, and her hands rose to grip his shoulders. His mouth seared hers. He moaned her name against softly parted lips in stunned disbelief. He slid his tongue inside her mouth, tasting something so precious, so poignant, nectar he had never thought to taste again—at least not in this lifetime.
She welcomed him by cleaving to him, tilting her head back, vulnerable, offering her mouth. She was a delicacy he had thought lost to him forevermore.
Groaning, he pulled her tighter into his embrace. She opened her legs beneath him so he lay snug in the skirted dip between her thighs. Lying still for a few moments, breathing in her scent, attempting to reconcile fact from fiction, not daring to believe, the firm, sweet reality of her finally managing to convince him that this was no fantasy. Then he frantically yanked at her trapped dress. She aided him until his way was clear.
He watched in desperation as she fumbled with his fall. Pushing her hand away, he deftly unhooked the flap. As soon as his breeches were parted, she moved her hand inside, adroitly clasping his iron-hard shaft. She guided him towards the apex of her spread thighs. He needed no urging. He shoved her rumpled black skirts aside, entering her forcefully, without finesse. She was primed, wet and ready for him. The coupling was rhythmic, swift and furious, a dance once learned, never forgotten. This frantic joining, a confirming act of belonging and instigated by both parties. Over quickly as each reached their euphoria jointly moments after they’d begun. With mingled cries of completion, they subsided as one.
Afterward, he settled heavy upon her breast. He had no wish to remove his member from her channel, the home where it lodged so safe and warm. She made no protest but held him close, crooning nonsensical words of love into his ear, using her own seductive French tongue.
As Gabriel slowly recovered from shock, reason surfaced, and along with sense came the buzz of questions and a slow burn of rage. That she should have kept her live state a secret from him for all this time was unthinkable, Fancy her allowing him to think her dead for five long years, thus putting him through agony while she was actually alive was untenable. There had better be a bloody good explanation for such wicked deception. He slipped from her body. Rolling over, he sat up.
“We should talk,” he said grimly, interrupting her loving flow of French.
Chapter 8
Angele had not thought to enjoy marital congress with Gabriel ever again. At no point after removing her veil had he looked at her with anything other than disbelief and unadulterated love. She’d seen no revulsion or disgust in his eyes when he’d traced her scar, only fury directed at those who’d harmed her.
The bliss she’d felt when his body had taken hers was indescribable. She had never thought to hold him in her arms again, let alone feel that delicious sensation of fullness as he’d entered her body. Joy fizzled through her veins. She felt light-headed with euphoria, not simply because she had reached the dizzy heights of completion seconds before—no, this was bone-deep, pure rapture. She was once again connected with her soul mate, her other half. In her view, her better half, something she acknowledged ruefully in the aftermath of passion. She felt fully alive again for the first time since the birth of her child,their son, Christopher.
Angele had welcomed the agonising pain of childbirth, relished the raw power of that base act which brought forth new life. Christopher was the precious piece of humanity that linked her to Gabriel forever. When they were apart, she could adore that which they had created between them with a passionate love.
She noted her beloved’s countenance now set in stern lines. She knew she had some explaining to do, yet even his wrath seemed something wondrous. Any form of physical contact with him was bliss. She felt like a starving woman seeking crumbs from his table. Any touch of Gabriel’s hand would suffice, even his scolding palm. She shivered. It had been an aeon since she had felt his punishing hand upon her derrière. She had spent five long years attempting to forget his touch, both loving and chastising, each as exciting to her as the other, entwined as they were in the physicality of their relationship.
He tidied his dress. She gave him her hand as he imperiously offered her his palm. Pulling her upright, he brushed down her crumpled dress and then indicated she should be seated upon the edge of the bed. Pacing to and fro in front of her, he finally came to a halt. Her gaze fixated on a tendon in his neck which pulsed intermittently.
“Tell me, why the deception?” he finally asked, sounding strained.
She opened her mouth to reply, but he interrupted her.
“I have died a thousand deaths since word came that you were gone. I have been tormented to Hell since your death; not least by the fact I was not there at your side to protect you from the mob. How could you have been so cruel as to lead me to believe that you were dead?” His voice, ragged, rumbled with emotion.
“I…” she began, but once again he spoke over her, ignoring her attempted reply.
