Lynn Viehl - Darkyn 1 - If Angels Burn (v1.1) by If Angels Burn Page A
Authors: If Angels Burn
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smoking?”
“I object to politics, beets, and rap music. I
despise
smoking.”
He smelled burning wool, heard a heel grinding against carpet. “Yet you have no difficulty in marring a priceless antique.”
She made a rude sound. “Your rug is probably cheaper and definitely easier to replace than your respiratory system.”
Although Michael Cyprien no longer had use of his nostrils, he could taste Alexandra’s scent. She had used the hand-milled vanilla soap his staff provided for guests, but something lingered beneath it, a smell something like cinnamon or cloves. When her cool hand touched his face for the first time, he realized it was the natural scent of her skin.
Michael had never tasted a woman who smelled of spices. It made his mouth water and his jaw ache.
Pacing footsteps, the faint shift of hair being sifted through fingers. She didn’t move away from his bed; she only marched back and forth beside it. A controlled pacer, the good doctor was, no doubt accustomed to channeling frustration in small, confined places. Operating rooms. Waiting rooms. Patients’ rooms.
He wondered how she would cope in the tiny cell of the catacombs, where the interrogators had worked on him. Would she hover beneath the suspended cross rack, or circle around the copper vat as they engaged the winch to lower the chain hoist?
Would she scream, as he had?
“Look, there are some things I can’t do outside a hospital.” She was giving him her patient tone now. “Things like X-rays, blood work, CT scans… we won’t even discuss what the surgery itself will entail.”
He had no interest in learning what she would do to fix him; it was too much like what had been done to inflict the damage. Only the results mattered. “Give a list to Éliane.”
“You can’t pick up this stuff at Wal-Mart, Mr. Cyprien.”
“I do not shop at Wal-Mart.” Her humor also unsettled him, the same way the touch of her clever hands had. It took a brave soul to make jokes under such circumstances. “You are hungry, and I must… rest now. Go and have your dinner, Doctor.”
“Hands off, Scarface,” she said. “Cyprien, am I still your prisoner?”
Of course that was how she would see herself. Not as his savior. He had offered her nothing but fear, but he had nothing else to give to her.
“I will speak with you tomorrow.” He reached out and closed the curtain.
Phillipe returned a short time later to attend to him. His silent efficiency was usually a comfort, but tonight Michael felt restless and irritable.
“Enough.” He rose from the bed and found his robe by touch. As he took out his cigarette case, he made a mental note not to smoke around the doctor, if only to save his carpets. “You should go and hunt while it is still dark.”
“I have arranged for a delivery, Master,” his seneschal said. “Until the lady leaves the mansion, I must stay.”
“Why? You are keeping her locked in the safe room, are you not?” He found a candle by tracking the heat of the flame and bent over to light his cigarette.
“We are.”
“You worry too much, Phillipe. And if you would, try not to threaten to kill her every time she touches me.” He exhaled a small cloud of smoke. “She may not understand French, but she can read you like a child’s picture book.”
“I only wish I could do the same. Master, what does ‘Bite my ass’ mean?” Phillipe carefully enunciated the English phrase.
Amused, Michael translated it for him. The colloquial dialect they spoke had not been in common use in France, or any other country, for centuries. They used it only when they were alone.
“She is fortunate I do not take her up on her invitation.” His seneschal sighed. “She is in no danger from me, but I think your
tresora
would smother her, given the chance.”
Michael thought of Alexandra’s scent and the touch of her strong, competent hands. Her gentleness in examining him had aroused him; she had touched him carefully, even
“I object to politics, beets, and rap music. I
despise
smoking.”
He smelled burning wool, heard a heel grinding against carpet. “Yet you have no difficulty in marring a priceless antique.”
She made a rude sound. “Your rug is probably cheaper and definitely easier to replace than your respiratory system.”
Although Michael Cyprien no longer had use of his nostrils, he could taste Alexandra’s scent. She had used the hand-milled vanilla soap his staff provided for guests, but something lingered beneath it, a smell something like cinnamon or cloves. When her cool hand touched his face for the first time, he realized it was the natural scent of her skin.
Michael had never tasted a woman who smelled of spices. It made his mouth water and his jaw ache.
Pacing footsteps, the faint shift of hair being sifted through fingers. She didn’t move away from his bed; she only marched back and forth beside it. A controlled pacer, the good doctor was, no doubt accustomed to channeling frustration in small, confined places. Operating rooms. Waiting rooms. Patients’ rooms.
He wondered how she would cope in the tiny cell of the catacombs, where the interrogators had worked on him. Would she hover beneath the suspended cross rack, or circle around the copper vat as they engaged the winch to lower the chain hoist?
Would she scream, as he had?
“Look, there are some things I can’t do outside a hospital.” She was giving him her patient tone now. “Things like X-rays, blood work, CT scans… we won’t even discuss what the surgery itself will entail.”
He had no interest in learning what she would do to fix him; it was too much like what had been done to inflict the damage. Only the results mattered. “Give a list to Éliane.”
“You can’t pick up this stuff at Wal-Mart, Mr. Cyprien.”
“I do not shop at Wal-Mart.” Her humor also unsettled him, the same way the touch of her clever hands had. It took a brave soul to make jokes under such circumstances. “You are hungry, and I must… rest now. Go and have your dinner, Doctor.”
“Hands off, Scarface,” she said. “Cyprien, am I still your prisoner?”
Of course that was how she would see herself. Not as his savior. He had offered her nothing but fear, but he had nothing else to give to her.
“I will speak with you tomorrow.” He reached out and closed the curtain.
Phillipe returned a short time later to attend to him. His silent efficiency was usually a comfort, but tonight Michael felt restless and irritable.
“Enough.” He rose from the bed and found his robe by touch. As he took out his cigarette case, he made a mental note not to smoke around the doctor, if only to save his carpets. “You should go and hunt while it is still dark.”
“I have arranged for a delivery, Master,” his seneschal said. “Until the lady leaves the mansion, I must stay.”
“Why? You are keeping her locked in the safe room, are you not?” He found a candle by tracking the heat of the flame and bent over to light his cigarette.
“We are.”
“You worry too much, Phillipe. And if you would, try not to threaten to kill her every time she touches me.” He exhaled a small cloud of smoke. “She may not understand French, but she can read you like a child’s picture book.”
“I only wish I could do the same. Master, what does ‘Bite my ass’ mean?” Phillipe carefully enunciated the English phrase.
Amused, Michael translated it for him. The colloquial dialect they spoke had not been in common use in France, or any other country, for centuries. They used it only when they were alone.
“She is fortunate I do not take her up on her invitation.” His seneschal sighed. “She is in no danger from me, but I think your
tresora
would smother her, given the chance.”
Michael thought of Alexandra’s scent and the touch of her strong, competent hands. Her gentleness in examining him had aroused him; she had touched him carefully, even
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