Mistress of the Revolution by Catherine Delors

slowly. He was no longer smiling, but gazing at me without a word. I saw his chest heaving under the linen of his shirt. Now he seemed very tall.
    I needed to break the silence. “The water feels delightful,” I said. “You do not know what you are missing.”
    “Oh, I do know.” His tone was sharp now. “Come back here this moment.”
    Something within me, stronger than my apprehension, prompted me to walk towards the pebble bank. Before I even reached it, Pierre-André seized my arm to draw me to him. Holding me tight, he kissed me in a new, resentful manner. The trees, the sky, the dark cliffs, the river were swirling around me. Without letting go of my lips, he caught both of my wrists in one of his hands and with the other pushed down on my shoulder.
    There was neither brutality nor hesitation in his manner. He did not seem to expect any resistance, nor was I offering any. I knew what he wanted. I realized that I wanted it too. I lay down while he knelt by me. Looking into my eyes, he raised my chemise to my waist. He insinuated one of his thighs, then the other, between mine. His weight now rested upon my hips. He lowered his face to the side of my neck. I felt his breath, his lips, his teeth on my skin as he kissed me relentlessly. I threw my head backwards and moaned.
    “My beloved,” he whispered. “At last.”
    I tried to move from under him, not to escape him but to assure myself that there was no turning back now. He pressed down on my hips more firmly. I was his. Waves of desire rose from my loins to my chest. I had experienced the same when he had touched me before, but now they were so strong as to feel like pain. I was afraid, not of him but of what was going to happen. Yet fear only heightened my yearning for him. I spread my thighs wide and, trembling at my own audacity, wrapped my arms around his chest to draw him still closer. I felt his heart beat faster, his muscles tighten under his shirt.
    Without warning, everything changed. His face contracted. He rolled over on his back, staring at the sky.
    “What is wrong?” I asked. “Are you angry with me?”
    He raised himself on one elbow, kissed me lightly on the forehead and pulled my chemise down to my ankles.
    “No, I am angry with myself. Meeting you like this, Gabrielle, is the sweetest thing I can imagine, save one. I would not give it up for the world, but it is driving me out of my mind. Many times I have wanted to take you. Nothing could have been easier, but I could not, I still cannot bring myself to act like a thief when you trust me so. I will marry you.”
    He simply stated a fact that admitted of no discussion. I huddled against him. I wanted his arms to close around me, but he seized my chin to peer into my eyes.
    “Look at me,” he said. “Will you marry me?”
    “Oh yes, I will.”
    “Do you promise?”
    “Yes, I do. If you do not trust me, treat me as your bride already. Do it even if you trust me. I want it. Do whatever you like.”
    He groaned. “Please stop this, Gabrielle. Do you know what you are doing to me? As if I were not tempted enough. But I cannot take you now, in this manner. I would hurt you, little as I want it.”
    “It will hurt anyway. I am ready for it.”
    “What do you know about it, poor innocent? What I know is that, my pleasure taken, I would have to send you back to Fontfreyde by yourself, torn, bleeding, maybe regretting your tenderness.” He caressed my cheek. “I want you to be my true bride; I want to discover you slowly, gently, tenderly, over an entire night. And afterwards I want to keep you forever.”
    “But I do not want to deny you anything.”
    “You are not denying me anything. You gave me your promise. It is all I need for now, my beloved.”
    He kept me embraced for a long time. I was, to use a trite phrase, the happiest girl in the world.
    Yet all too soon it was time to think of returning to Fontfreyde. I tried to imagine my family’s reaction to my engagement. True, my