The Princess Brides. Jane Porter

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Grandfather Remi cherished Grandmama Astrid. They were a true couple. They’d been together so long now, functioned so well together, it was as if they couldn’t exist without the other. Ever since Grandmama had had her stroke, Grandfather’s health had declined. Until Grandmama’s stroke, Grandfather had been robust. Vigorous. Not anymore.

      ‘‘They do love each other,’’ Nic said, finding her voice. ‘‘They’re wonderful people, too.’’

      She swallowed, reminding herself that she couldn’t answer just as Nicolette. She had to be Chantal. She had to think like Chantal. ‘‘Which is why I accepted Prince Armand’s proposal,’’ she added huskily. ‘‘If my grandparents thought Armand and I would be a good match, then…’’

      She shrugged, but she didn’t feel indifferent. Armand was the lowest sort of a man, the kind that would abuse a woman verbally, physically, a man who didn’t feel strong unless he completely dominated—subjugated—the woman who loved him, depended on him.

      ‘‘You implied last night that Lilly wasn’t happy,’’ Malik said. ‘‘Tell me about her life in La Croix.’’

      Nic hesitated, uncertain yet again how much she could, or should say. ‘‘It’s not a positive place to raise a child.’’

      ‘‘Yet her grandparents are there, and from what I’ve heard, her father’s family apparently dotes on her.’’

      ‘‘Her father’s family is obsessively controlling.’’

      ‘‘Obsessively?’’

      ‘‘Complete control freaks,’’ Nic retorted, unable to hide her bitterness.

      His eyebrows flattened. ‘‘An awfully American expression,’’ he said thoughtfully. ‘‘Not one I would have ever thought you’d use. Your sister, Nicolette, now she’d say something like that…’’

      Could he be anymore condescending? Suddenly Nic was fighting mad. She’d love a good fight, would welcome an opportunity to spar. It was so unfair that women were trapped in bad marriages, unable to take action because mothers with young children couldn’t afford to work, pay for food and shelter along with childcare. The economics alone kept women down. ‘‘Yes, she would, and she does,’’ Nic answered hotly. ‘‘Unfortunately I’ve picked up some of Nic’s expressions. We’ve just spent a week together in Melio.’’

      ‘‘Ah.’’ Malik’s eyes narrowed slightly at the corners. ‘‘That explains it.’’ He paused. ‘‘Because I’ve wondered. You haven’t seemed quite yourself since you arrived. I’d always heard you, Chantal, described as gentle, controlled, emotionally contained.’’

      ‘‘And I’m not?’’

      His mouth pursed. ‘‘No.’’

      ‘‘But…but why? I think I’m exactly the same.’’

      He shook his head. ‘‘Even your mannerisms are different. You move your body more. Your gestures are sharper, less…refined.’’

      Ouch. Chantal the Persian cat, Nic the tiger, Joelle the lovable tabby.

      ‘‘Perhaps the years at La Croix changed you.’’ His gaze met hers, held. ‘‘Made you stronger. Fiercer. Angrier.’’

      ‘‘Angrier?’’

      ‘‘You are angry.’’

      No use even debating that one. She was angry. Deeply angry that Chantal would suffer such horrible treatment by the Thibaudets, angry that Chantal and Lilly were trapped, angry that there was no one who could help rescue them, angry that the world didn’t seem to care very much when women were hurt, when women were verbally, emotionally, mentally abused.

      Abuse should never be tolerated. Ever. Ever.

      Children shouldn’t be hurt. Women shouldn’t be squashed, smashed, pushed around. Just because women were smaller boned than men, lighter in weight, softer skinned didn’t mean that it was okay to make them stepping stones or punching bags.

      Someone had to do something.

      Someone had to care enough to say, enough is enough. I’ve had enough. No more.

      ‘‘You’re right. I am upset,’’ Nic said after a long moment. ‘‘Very upset.’’ She bit her bottom lip, felt the softness of the skin in her mouth and regretted that she hadn’t been there for Chantal when Armand had bullied her, intimidated her. Nic was heartsick that she hadn’t known Chantal’s misery until too late, until the emotional scars were hidden but not at all forgotten.

      She drew a slow breath to calm herself, trying to buy herself time. ‘‘I think it’s easy for people to ignore those in need. I think it’s easy for people to close their door, shutter their window, pretend that it’s enough to take care of yourself, enough to have a full stomach and comfortable bed.’’

      Malik’s gaze grew intense. ‘‘What happened in La Croix?’’

      She pictured Chantal’s gaunt frame, sad eyes, the abuse Nic only recently knew Chantal had suffered. ‘‘What didn’t happen?’’

      CHAPTER FIVE

      ‘‘I TAKE it your husband wasn’t exactly…a good husband?’’ Malik’s deep voice echoed concern.

      Nic pressed her nails into her palm. Surely it was okay to tell the sultan this. After all, if she wanted him to help rescue Lilly, she needed his sympathy, and the only way he’d sympathize with Lilly’s plight was if he knew the truth. But the truth was hard to say, painful and shameful, and Nic knew Chantal would be furious with her for speaking it aloud.

      Like many abused women, part of Chantal believed that somehow she had brought the pain on herself, that she must have done something wrong along the way, that Armand’s cruelty wouldn’t have happened if Chantal had been a better wife, woman, mother.

      Malik’s long tanned fingers tapped the rim of his glass. ‘‘Did he hit you?’’

      Nic held her breath. The air felt hot and sharp inside her lungs. She could hear Chantal in her head, no no no, could see her sister’s beautiful eyes pleading, don’t say a thing, don’t tell him what horrible things I went through. He’ll think less of me, he’ll think I’m bad, that I’m somehow…dirty.

      Nic’s eyes filled with tears. Damn Armand to hell. He had no right laying a hand on Chantal. No right putting his fist to her face. ‘‘Yes.’’

      Malik’s eyes searched Nic’s. ‘‘Did he ever touch your daughter?’’

      ‘‘He was rough.’’ Nic swallowed. She didn’t like talking about her sister’s marriage, didn’t like airing such horrid secrets. It was shameful, she thought, understanding for the first time why Chantal couldn’t talk about the abuse, why Chantal only wanted to move on. Forget.

      ‘‘Were Armand’s parents aware of the problem?’’

      Her shoulders shifted. ‘‘They couldn’t have been oblivious. Armand lost his temper in front of them frequently.’’

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