by Galen, Shana
He rose, careful to stay low and out of sight. “Then I’ll go without you.”
“Adieu.” She turned away from him, looking for a good place to hide when the sun rose.
Daventry sank back beside her. “I’ll go after I make certain you’re safe—as safe as anyone can be—in Paris.”
Angelette couldn’t quite hide a smile of relief. She hadn’t really wanted him to leave her. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” The tone of his voice made her turn to look at him.
He lifted a hand and touched her cheek. It was still tender from where one of the peasants had struck her earlier. “Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Not very much.”
“I could kill the man who did this to you.” His gaze was dark and intense, and she felt unexpectedly self-conscious.
She shifted back, moving just out of his reach. She felt more comfortable thinking of him as the man who had abandoned her, not the man who wanted to protect her. “You seem to want to travel to Calais. You don’t need my blessing, but I’ll give it if it makes you feel better.” Now there was emotional as well as physical space between them.
“It won’t make me feel better.” He moved closer to her again, his eyes dark and intent on her face. “I might as well admit it. Nothing seems to work.”
“What do you mean?” Why had she asked? She did not want to know. She wanted that space between them again. She needed distance from the heat in his eyes.
“I mean, I can’t seem to let you go.” His voice was low and husky, tinged with ruefulness and desire.
Angelette closed her eyes, trying not to allow the tingling his words had caused to overwhelm her. She felt her face heat and floundered for a response. “While I appreciate the sentiment, Lord Daventry,”—she tried to make her tone light and flippant—“this isn’t the best time to court me.”
“I don’t have any intention of courting you, Comtesse.”
She swallowed. Her throat dry. “Then what do you intend?”
He looked away and she realized after a long moment that he didn’t mean to answer. Why that should make her shiver with anticipation, she couldn’t say.
“Assuming we can enter the city tomorrow, what’s your plan?”
“I believe my friends the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Merville are at home. They live on the Rue Saint-Honoré.”
“And if they are not in the city?”
She bit her lip, and he raked a hand through his hair. “I was afraid of that. Did your husband have a house in Paris?”
“Yes, but I do not think it habitable. When he died his brother began renovations. With all of the unrest, they might not have progressed very far.”
“It’s still a possibility if we are desperate.” He glanced at her. “Unless...”
She lifted her brows.
“Will it upset you to go there?”
“Why?” Then she understood. “Because of Georges? No. Most of my memories of him are at Avignon, but even those have begun to fade.”
“How did he die? If I may ask?”
“A fever.” She looked away. “It seemed such a small thing. He was well one day and at death’s door the next. He was dead within three days.”
She felt his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“As am I.” And she truly was. For a long time she’d been angry at Georges, angry that he’d leave her alone, leave her a widow at such a young age. He had promised to grow old with her. But she felt little trace of that anger now, just a sadness at what might have been. She had mourned him, and while in those first weeks she might have felt life would never go on, now she saw that it did. Now she had a reason to go on.
Perhaps Georges was part of the reason she had so detested Daventry at first. Daventry had reminded her she was still a woman. She’d noticed him, been attracted to him, felt her body come alive again. Daventry was more confirmation that Georges was truly gone and she was still here. Still alive. And she had her whole life ahead of her.
“We’d better find somewhere else to hide. I passed a farmhouse a mile or so ago.”
“I’m not certain they’d welcome me or any noble.”
He gave her a long look. “I wasn’t planning on knocking on the door, Comtesse. We can rest in the stable until sunrise.”
“The stable?” She wrinkled her nose.
“The option for Calais and then London is still open.”
She sighed. “A stable is fine.”
ANGELETTE DIDN’T SLEEP at all. She couldn’t have said whether that was because the hay scratched and the smell of manure in the stable gave her a megrim or because Daventry slept right beside her. He seemed to have no trouble sleeping. And as dawn grew nearer and gray light filtered into the building, she couldn’t stop her gaze from straying to him.
How could he be just as handsome now, with straw in his hair, stubble on his jaw, and dressed in wrinkled clothing, as he had been the first time he’d stepped into her dining room? Angelette was certain she looked a fright. But Daventry’s unkempt appearance only made him look more attractive. Strange, as she’d always thought she liked well-groomed men. She’d never seen Georges unshaven. If, on occasion, she mussed his hair by running a hand through it, he quickly set it to rights again. Most men she knew were fastidious about their appearance. Daventry didn’t seem the least bothered by the mud on his silk coat or the ugliness of the boots he’d borrowed.
Perhaps that was the difference between French men and English men. She vastly preferred French men. Didn’t she?
Part of her wanted to burrow into the spot beside him and press her back to his chest. He would be warm and his body would be a comfort. But if she did press herself against him, would he take that as an invitation to kiss her, touch her? Would she object if he did?
Daventry opened his eyes. They looked large and very blue in the dim light. “Do you always stare at men when they sleep?”
“I wasn’t staring.” She looked away, annoyed that her face felt hot again. “I was about to wake you. We should go before the farmer comes to tend the animals.”
He sat up, stretching his arms wide. She couldn’t help but notice how that gesture tightened his shirt over his chest. He was muscled and not given to fat. She could see that much before she dragged her gaze away. While he pulled his coat on, she tied her petticoats up to keep them out of the way, then took the ladder down from the hayloft where they’d slept. He climbed down after her, and when he reached the bottom it was hard to miss the long look he gave her legs. She hastily lowered her skirts again.
“There’s a cellar around the back. I thought I might climb down and see if I can find something to eat.”
Her stomach groaned in protest.
He winked at her. “My feeling exactly.”
She followed him carefully in the dark until they reached the back of the barn. She didn’t know how he’d ever spotted a cellar there or how he managed to climb down without breaking his neck. But he emerged with a handful of apples.
She took two eagerly and devoured one without even pausing to take a breath. Belatedly she realized how unladylike her behavior must seem, but he wasn’t even paying attention. He was eating his own apple. When he caught her looking at him, he handed her another apple.
“We can buy bread in Paris. I have a few sous in my pocket.” Fortunately, she hadn’t discarded the pockets when she’d removed her skirts.
He shook his head. “There’s little bread in the city. The wheat crop was bad. The people are starving. That’s part of the reason behind the uprisings.”
“They must have some food for those with coin to pay.”
“You can get anything for a price, but now might not be the best time to walk the streets laden with bread. I suggest we find your friends. They’ll have sent servants to buy provisions. If they’re still in the city.”
“Not everyone runs away at the first sign of distress.”
“Not everyone has an ounce of sense,” he muttered. Stuffin
g a couple apples into his pocket, he gestured for her to follow him. “Speaking of which, once more into the fire.”
Seven
Paris hadn’t improved in the week or so he’d been away. If nothing else it teemed with more tension than before. He and the comtesse had had no trouble entering the city in the morning. The peasants who had held her captive were nowhere to be found. Her friends, the young Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Merville had welcomed her unexpected visit, and she had immediately gone to bathe and change and make herself once again presentable. Hugh was sorry to see her back in full dress again. He’d rather liked the way the thin petticoats clung to her legs and the way the low bodice barely contained her breasts when she bent over.
Now she wore a peach dress that gave no hint as to the long, shapely legs it concealed and the fichu at the neck covered all of the creamy skin he’d admired so often the past few days.
The vicomte’s valet had managed to find suitable clothing for Hugh as well, and he’d made an excuse to go out into the city.
“Oh, but you must not go out, Monsieur le Vicomte,” Merville told him over coffee and pastries at midday. “It is too dangerous.”
“Just Daventry, please.”
Merville nodded. Hugh doubted the noble was yet five and twenty or that he had to shave more than twice a week. He had pale blond hair and almost colorless gray eyes. His features were fine and narrow, making him look as though he might break if caught in a stiff breeze. His wife was even more fragile. She reminded Hugh of a china doll. Her hair was more red than blond, but she had the same pale skin as her husband, and she was what Hugh liked to think of as dainty. Looking at the vicomtesse made Hugh appreciate Angelette even more. She was strong and brave. If anyone could survive the tumult in France, it was she.
But the de Mervilles would easily be trampled. They were kind and had opened their home without question. Unlike most of the nobles Hugh had met thus far, the de Mervilles seemed to understand the situation in Paris had become dangerous.
“In fact,” the young vicomtesse said, looking at Angelette, “we are preparing to leave the city ourselves. I am feeling better, and we thought to travel to the countryside...” She looked away, her hand going to her abdomen and confirming what Hugh had suspected. She was with child. Her husband came to stand beside her, putting his hand on her shoulder.
“But now you say the countryside is not safe.”
“I think you will be safer in the city,” Angelette said, sipping her coffee. “Here there are troops to protect you.”
“But the royal troops do nothing, Angelette,” the vicomte said. “Only yesterday the troops clashed with peasants denouncing the king. And what do you think the commander did after the crowds dispersed? He took the cavalry out of Paris to Sèvres!”
Hugh understood the commander’s motivation. He did not want to kill peasants and set off more violence. But if the people were marching in support of those advocating revolution, they had obviously turned against the king.
“Surely the king will order them back,” Angelette said.
“It may well be too late,” Merville told her. “The people are scrambling to arm themselves. They plundered weapons arsenals, and last night they attacked customs posts and Saint-Lazare.”
“Saint-Lazare? I thought that was a convent and hospital,” Hugh said.
Merville nodded. “The mob took dozens of wagons of wheat and anything else they wanted.”
“The royal troops did nothing to stop them,” his wife said quietly.
“And now the electors of Paris have agreed to recruit a citizens’ militia from the districts of Paris to restore order.”
“So the peasants have formed their own army?” Hugh shook his head. The French king had all but lost and the battle had not yet begun.
“They call it a bourgeois militia. I hear they have more than forty thousand men.” The vicomte took a shallow breath. “We must leave before they come for us.”
Hugh rose. “You are welcome to travel with me. You’ll be safe in England, and I plan to leave for Calais as soon as possible.”
“We would be in your debt,” Merville said.
“Surely you will travel with us,” his wife said to Angelette.
She shook her head. “I can’t. I must tell my brother-in-law what has happened and do what I can to help him protect the ancestral estate. I think it is what Georges would have wanted.”
“Georges would have wanted you to stay alive,” Hugh said, slapping the table angrily. “What good are paintings and carpets if you’re dead?”
She glared at him. “I could not care less for the paintings and carpets, but I do care for Georges’s family. They are my family too.”
“Then write to them.”
“I have, but I must go to them as well. When tensions in Paris ease, I will travel to see them.” She looked at her hosts. “I will not make you postpone your leaving. I will find another—”
“Absolutely not. You must stay here,” the vicomtesse told her. “You are welcome, even in our absence.”
“Thank you, Marie.”
Hugh put his hat on his head. “Excuse me.”
“But Daventry! It is too dangerous!” the vicomte called.
“Let me worry about that,” he said and jogged down the steps. Anger burned within him. Angelette was a little fool. If he could have, he would have tossed her in a coach, locked the door, and driven her away. Once the anger burned off, he walked aimlessly for some time, wandering the narrow cobblestone streets. Most of the windows were shuttered and the shops closed. It seemed all of Paris was in hiding, waiting with bated breath for what would come next.
Hugh knew what would come next, and he wanted no part of it. He could waste his breath and rail at Angelette again when he returned, but the problem was that despite his arguments, in her place, he would have done the same. She was loyal to her late husband’s family, and he admired that more than he wanted to admit. The question was whether he admired her loyalty enough to stick his neck out and stay to help her.
She hadn’t asked for his help, but he didn’t think she would refuse it if he offered. But to stay...That would be suicide. The mobs would not care if he was English or French. They wanted blood. He felt it with every step he took. He didn’t see them, but he felt hungry eyes watching him from the dark windows above the cobblestone streets. The people were starving for bread and for justice. If it would not be given to them, they would take it through any means necessary.
The Vicomte de Merville had been correct that the streets were dangerous, but Hugh had wanted to form his own sense of the mood of the city. It didn’t hurt that this gave him the opportunity to spend a little time away from Angelette. He hadn’t been jesting when he’d said he couldn’t seem to let her go. Something about her drew him to her. At first, he’d blamed it on duty and honor and all the rest of that rubbish. But now he’d done his duty. She was safe among friends and busy writing to others. He’d done as she’d asked, and he still did not want to leave her.
He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to draw those heavy skirts up and run his hand along her bare calf.
He wanted to take her to bed. Hell, he wanted to take her back to England with him.
Quite suddenly, Hugh needed a drink. He remembered a wine seller he had seen open on another street. He doubled back and stepped into the shop. It was crowded, which didn’t surprise him as almost nothing else was open. Hugh bought a bottle and found an empty table toward the back, barely waiting for a glass before he sat, pulled the cork, and took a drink. It was good wine. He might not appreciate the French penchant for coffee, but he couldn’t fault their taste in wine. He’d met with a half dozen of his suppliers and shipped several hundred bottles back to England before all hell had broken loose. His mother would be pleased. That was likely to be the only thing about him that pleased her. For years she’d been pushing him to marry. He’d claimed he wasn’t interested in marriage. No woman had ever managed to capture his attention for more
than a few hours. And when a woman finally did, of course it was one who not only didn’t want him, but who lived in another country and refused to leave.
He took another drink and closed his eyes. Gradually, he became aware of the conversation behind him. The men spoke in hushed tones, but Hugh could hear them clearly enough.
“We have taken possession of the muskets at the Hôtel des Invalides, but we lack powder and shot,” one man said, his voice low.
“I heard the commander of the Invalides sent it to the Bastille,” another man at the table said.
Hugh dared not turn his head for fear the men would know he had overheard them. Instead, he sat still and drank his wine, pretending he was concentrating on the bottle before him.
“I heard that as well,” a third man said.
“Then we need to get inside the Bastille,” the first man said.
“How?”
“We rally the people,” the first man said. “There’s no greater symbol of tyranny than the Bastille. The king imprisons whomever he wants there, political prisoners with no other offense than looking at His Majesty the wrong way.”
Another man snorted. “You know as well as I that there aren’t but a handful of men in that prison and those who are there are mostly mad.”
“But the people will believe what we tell them, and when we have the Bastille under our control, we have the powder and the shot to take a stand. The monarchy will fall and equality will rule the land.”
Murmurs of assent followed, and when the men walked past him on their way out, Hugh did not dare look up. He did not want them to see his face.
ANGELETTE HADN’T WANTED to believe Daventry. Even if the conversation he’d overheard at the shop was true, surely it would not come to fruition. Attack the Bastille? The idea was ludicrous.
But so had been the idea of burning her château.
She hadn’t known of the unrest in Paris. Tucked away as she was in the little village of Versailles, all of France seemed quiet and well. Was the king even aware of the violence and destruction? If he was aware, would he dither or would he act? She had the awful feeling he would vacillate and waver and wait too long to act, as always.
