Midnight Temptation

by Nancy Gideon

  How could she think of harming Marchand, who’d shown her only kindness? But then, she hadn’t wanted to harm him. She’d wanted to possess him, to swallow down the essence of him, body and soul. And that went far beyond simple malevolence.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on suppressing the feelings. Slowly, her heart returned to its normal cadence and her senses quieted until she felt herself again. She would have to be more careful. She would have to keep things under control. And that meant separating herself from temptation. That meant staying away from Marchand.

  She couldn’t think of him without tasting the saltiness of his skin upon her tongue, without remembering the enticing throb of his life force, so strong and beckoning. Those were not the things that should have compelled her interest in a man. She wouldn’t think of it, of the sweet, hot fire of him just waiting to be shared. Those were not normal desires, and she would be normal as long as she didn’t act upon them.

  She would escape the legacy her father would leave to her.

  Desperate to occupy her mind with other thoughts, she decided to rid the dwelling of an eon of neglect. But when she reached for her gown, she was dismayed to find it gone, along with Marchand’s basket of laundry. She couldn’t spend the day in her underclothes!

  Rummaging about through the stacks of questionably clean linens, she uncovered one of his shirts in sore need of starching but presentable for wear. She slipped it on over her petticoat and looped back the cuffs. Its folds engulfed the embroidered cambric of her bodice and the hem hung to the rows of heavy piping that ended just below her knee. Scandalous attire, to be sure, but modest enough to suit her situation.

  A home for swine, he’d said, but Nicole couldn’t picture any self-respecting hog in her village taking up residence amid the hovel her companions lived in. Camille hadn’t mentioned that slovenly neglect was a much-desired state for ones of a bohemian lifestyle. She failed to see the charm. If she was to work for her keep, she had plenty of opportunity for employment. Starting with the dishes. While she heated water, she caught the scent of pan drippings; the heavy odor made her stomach roil. Appetite that had rumbled earlier was quick to abandon her, and a cup of weak tea served as breakfast while she scoured and scrubbed.

  She was scraping the evidence of at least a month’s worth of meals off the tabletop when the door opened to admit a towering stack of folded clothes.

  “Good morning,” she heard Musette call from somewhere behind the freshly laundered linens. “I hope you didn’t mind that I took your dress to the laundresses. It was my turn to see it done and, well, we all look out for one another. As long as I have a sou to my name, I’d prefer to pay someone else to slave over the wash kettles.”

  She plopped the basket down so the clean clothes spilled out upon the filthy floor. Apparently thinking nothing of it, she started to sort the collection into six uneven piles. Nicole’s was composed of a single item. Camille’s made another.

  “Here now, you don’t need to be doing that.” Musette gestured to the tabletop. “Just throw a cloth over it. Good as new. Marchand didn’t bring you here to clean his house.”

  “I promised that I would. And besides, it’s my way of looking out for the rest of you.”

  “Make Marchand happy and it will be enough. For one so magnifique not to smile, it is a crime. He is much too serious. He has made himself big brother over all of us and worries like a mother hen. Make him smile. That is work enough.” She nodded to herself and went back to sorting linens.

  Nicole spent a moment wondering what Marchand would look like with a full-blown smile to warm his dark features. Then she finished the table and moved down to the floor.

  “We don’t usually eat down there,” Musette pointed out.

  “It looks as though someone has.”

  “You are very funny. You will be good for Frederic’s brother.”

  Seeing an opportunity to learn much from the vivacious redhead, Nicole asked, “How long have you been with Frederic?”

  “I was very lucky. He was the first one I met when I came into the city. He is so gentle, so smart. He’s a writer, you know. He puts such beautiful words to paper. I wish I knew how to read them. He sells pretty pieces of prose to earn enough for bread, but he lives to pen words of revolution. He is not a violent man, so he seeks to use articles instead of swords. He is very brave to take so dangerous a stand.” And she sounded proud. That made Nicole like her very much.

  “And Marchand? Is he a revolutionary, too?”

  Musette laughed. “Marchand? Oh, no, not him. He thinks us fools. He was a soldier of the Fifth Regiment. He believes in order, not ideals.”

  Nicole paused in her work, bemused. “Then why is he here, living in this colony of students and dreamers?”

  “He deserted the army and is considered a criminal by the bourgeois monarchy. He would be shot for treason if they caught him.”

  That news alarmed her. A criminal? Shot? “But why, if he doesn’t believe in your cause—”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Ask him what?”

  Nicole was aware of a sudden hard lurch within her chest that made for an odd breathlessness. Cautiously, she lifted her gaze, uncertain of how she would react to the sight of him if just his voice had her quaking. He was standing in the doorway, his impressive figure backlit by late afternoon sun. She couldn’t make out his expression with that glare behind him, but she could feel his stare. It left her unsettled.

  “Nicole was wondering why a nice bourgeois boy like you was involved with we bohemian rabble.”

  “Someone must take their head out of the clouds long enough to pay the rent. A thankless job, caring for the lot of you.” He strode in and accepted Musette’s fond hug with an almost paternal tolerance. As his hand rumpled her red curls, his gaze was fixed on Nicole. “Have you no greeting for me, cher?”

  Struggling not to balk at that gentle challenge, Nicole rose off her knees, aware that his stare quickly skimmed her shocking garb, then his eyes locked with hers. Patient. Commanding.

  She made herself move toward him, all the while terrified that unnatural urges would defile the first blush of attraction his presence stirred within her. When they were toe to toe, she forced her gaze to rise. He must have seen her reluctance, for he handled her like delicate porcelain. His fingertips smoothed back the loose strands of hair that had fallen across her flushed cheek and brow, then his palm came around to cup beneath her chin, holding it secure as he bent down to claim a kiss.

  Nicole sucked an anxious breath as his mouth grazed her temple. Then her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted in awkward anticipation, readying for her first real kiss. It was . . . magnifique! He eased over to conquer the soft swells of her mouth, taking them slowly, shaping them sweetly, shaking her completely with his tender mastery. It wasn’t what she’d expected his kiss to be. She’d expected rough and hot instead of this sensitive seduction of her will. And as just the tip of his tongue pressed between his lips, the glorious shock to her inexperienced senses had her shuddering in response. When he lifted up, she found her hands clenched in his shirtfront and her gaze helplessly drawn to his in a confusion of uncertainty and surrender. She would have returned to his embrace with a desperate abandon had Musette not spoken up then to remind them of her presence.

  “Ah, young love. If you kissed all the ladies just so, you would have a harem at your feet, Marchand, instead of one upon her knees tending your floors.”

  Marchand canted a quick glimpse to assess what she’d done. “You’ve worked miracles already, ma petit. I thank you.”

  “Thank her by taking her out and buying her some decent clothes,” Musette interrupted. “Where are your things, Nicole?”

  Nicole blinked, wading up through the daze of sensations to answer. “I had my bag stolen on my first day in town. All I had brough
t from the country with me was in it. Everything I had saved while working the farm.”

  “I thought you said you were in school.”

  Marchand’s smooth observation rattled her. His gaze chided her for her lie.

  “I did both,” she exclaimed boldly, and worked cramped fingers loose from the fabric of his shirt. Still, she couldn’t resist smoothing the white linen over the hard plane of his abdomen. The feel of him was a divine enchantment.

  “You are very versatile,” he crooned, his disbelief plain. But her reaction to him obviously pleased him enough to feel generous. “Come. Let’s buy you something pretty. Not that I don’t think this is particularly fetching.” He fingered the open collar of the shirt swaddling her and grinned wide, displaying even white teeth and a devastating charm.

  Oh, yes, thought Nicole in a dreamy appreciation. He should smile more often.

  “Have you much money, Marchand?” Musette wanted to know as she wound about his arm in an engaging fashion, batting her eyes up at him.

  “Never enough.”

  “Enough to buy me something pretty, too?”

  “Come along then.”

  “You are so sweet,” she squealed in delight, then stretched up to buss his cheek wetly.

  “I am too soft,” he complained, but he smiled at her excitement, then his eyes took on a lambent glow as they regarded Nicole.

  Did he expect squeals and kisses from her, too? Nicole wondered. Perhaps he deserved them, but she made him settle for a slight bow of her head and a soft, “Thank you, Marchand.” His shrug accepted her overture, but the heat of his gaze said he would have preferred the kisses.

  The three of them crossed the Seine and were soon deep in the crush of the city’s populace. To prevent them from getting separated, Marchand draped an arm about either woman’s shoulders and tucked them in close to him, garnering many an envious glance for having such a lovely escort. When they reached Halles Centrales where the ladies of Paris did their marketing for the day, Musette produced a string bag and slipped Marchand’s arm to roam about the vegetable stands, returning only to proffer an empty palm for him to fill with coins.

  “Are you their banker, m’sieur?” asked Nicole. She was feeling quite content beneath the curl of his arm, though admittedly it was not the wisest thing to allow. However, here in this open, chaotic spot, she felt nothing malignant in her mood, only an enjoyment of the day and of the company.

  “They are like children,” he remarked with resigned indulgence. “They don’t mind getting up in the morning not knowing where or if they will dine that night. Rich one day, poor the next, believing it is a sign of personal freedom to squander for the day in defiance of tomorrow. Me, I like to know my feet will be warm and my stomach full.”

  “So you are their conscience.” She smiled up at him.

  “I am their curse. The curse of common sense. I see the rent is paid on time. I make sure there is enough food and decent wine. And I watch out for their tomorrows.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He looked surprised by the question, then nonplused. “Because I love them, I guess. Because for all their grand ideals, they are sheep in a city of wolves and I would not like to see them sheered.”

  “So you, m’sieur, are a wolf who guards sheep. A thankless occupation for a wolf, I would think.”

  He crooked a smile in her direction. “Perhaps.”

  “And are you planning to take me into your flock?”

  She’d meant it to be amusing, but his stare was somber and quite complex. “I don’t think you are a sheep, mademoiselle. I am not sure what you are. Perhaps a wolf dressed in white fleece. A wolf like me.”

  She looked away so he wouldn’t see how the parallel disturbed her. A wolf, yes. A ruthless predator stalking among innocents.

  “Eh! Marchand!”

  The gruff cry brought him to a halt as a spindly little man in ill-fitting clothes approached at a wheezing run. Marchand didn’t look pleased to see him. “What do you want, Gaston?”

  “Sebastien has work for you. He is waiting.”

  “Now?”

  “You have other big plans? Like a post on the council to tend?”

  Seeing Nicole’s alarm as she accurately judged their interloper’s unsavory character, Marchand hesitated. Would she look at him the same way if she knew what he did to pay their rent? Suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought of her distaste when he’d thought himself well beyond the stage of feeling shame. “Tell him no. Another time.”

  But the ferret-like man insisted. “You know Sebastien. With him, there is only now. You say no, he will ask another. He will see your refusal as disloyalty. You don’t want to make M. De Sivry angry with you.”

  “To hell with De Sivry,” Marchand grumbled, but he was looking at Nicole’s tattered gown and weighing the lightness in his pocket. Could he afford a prideful gesture when their need was so great? He recanted begrudgingly. “Tell him I’ll be there tonight.”

  “Now, Marchand. It cannot wait.”

  “All right. I’m coming.” Reluctantly, he lowered his arm from Nicole’s shoulders. He wouldn’t meet her gaze as he said, “I must go. I’ve some work to do. Musette is right over there. Stay with her. Tell her I will be at the café later. And here—” He tucked a stack of coins into her hand. “Something pretty.”

  “Marchand, I don’t need a new dress.” She was looking over his shoulder at the disreputable Gaston, rightly connecting him to no good.

  “Yes, you do.” And pressed the money upon her. “Be a good girl, now, and do not argue.”

  Her brows gave a haughty arch that he found quite adorable; he couldn’t resist leaning close to take advantage of her pursed mouth. It was a fleeting kiss, snatched from unprepared lips, but she gave a little gasp of surprise and unfeigned delight that charmed him completely. This one was no coquette.

  “Something pretty and green like your eyes.”

  And he was gone before she could protest again.

  Raising her fingertips, she touched her mouth, still feeling the warm pulse of his upon it. And what stirred through her then was purely female yearning.

  As she started across the walk toward Musette, Nicole found herself intrigued by the other woman’s actions. With her bag hanging open from her arm, she would stroll up close behind another shopper, then deftly shift a portion of that unsuspecting marketer’s goods into her own bag before moving on. After several such encounters, Musette’s string bag was bulging, without its owner having expended a single sou.

  “What are you doing?” Nicole whispered as she fell in step with her.

  “Shopping. We have to eat.”

  “But Marchand gave you money.”

  “Money that can be put to better use buying bullets for the rebellion.”

  “Musette!”

  “Hush! Keep your voice down. And for the love of God, say nothing to Marchand!” She glanced about quickly to assure no one was listening, then she fixed the shocked woman with a level stare. “You think we are silly wastrels, don’t you? But have you never believed in anything with all your heart and soul? That is the way we feel about our cause. Marchand doesn’t understand. He was a part of it and he carries the scars of guilt, yet still he refuses to see the right in what we do.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, either.”

  “Then come with me and learn.” She paused and smiled. “As soon as we find you a dress. One that will make Marchand forget all his grievances.”

  THE SCHOOL OF rebellion was held in a smoky café where students and reactionaries crowded close over the same tabletops to discuss the overthrow of power. Nicole knew little of the country’s politics, though she’d been raised her whole life in France. Her father was apolitical and her mother a realist to the extreme, typically and forever English. Nicole ha
d never been exposed to the ideals of these fervid-eyed dreamers who espoused equality and something called free subjectivity. She listened, entranced by their passions, caught up in their sense of creative drama.

  Frederic LaValois was right in the middle of it all, with Musette tucked in against his side. Enthusiasm lent an energy to features Nicole had at first thought passive. She could see a bit of his brother’s fire in his eyes as he spoke of the article he was writing for La Liberté, Journal des Arts which demanded an abolition of official institutions to fulfil the promises made in the 1830s Revolution. In it, he spoke the popular view that Paris contained two dens of criminals, one of thieves and one of murderers. The den of thieves he likened to the stock exchange; that of the murderers, to the Palais de Justice. Incendiary words to provoke the emotional tide of unrest. Though his recitation won murmurs of appreciation from his peers, Nicole’s opinion remained reserved. Perhaps due to her political naiveté, perhaps her inbred common sense.

  Wine flowed freely and crusty baguettes of warm bread were shared until the hour grew late and the sky dark. Frederic rose up at last and waved off his protesting friends by saying, “Another time, brothers. I must be off to meet Marchand. He would not like to know I’ve been here amongst you rabble-rousers.”

  That brought a hearty laugh. Nicole was annoyed to think they’d joke at their benefactor’s expense.

  “That brother of yours needs the bourgeois stuffings kicked out of him,” one of the students cried in disgust, and Frederic rounded upon him with a look of cold steel.

  “It would take a better man than you, sir. I may not agree with my brother’s politics but, by God, I’ll defend his right to an opinion down to your last drop of blood.”

  “Here now, Frederic,” Musette soothed, rubbing his forearms gently. “No one wishes Marchand any ill. It’s the wine talking.”

  Mollified, he smiled loosely at his friends, and again wished them good night. He reached out to loop an arm about Musette’s shoulders and the other around Nicole’s waist. “Come along. We can’t afford to lose you two lovely creatures.” And they ended up nearly toting him between them as he called good-natured cheer to all they passed.