by Nancy Gideon
“Oh, Marchand, hold me! I’m so afraid!”
He was afraid, too.
“Hold me and make me forget,” came the pitiful plea that fractured his guard.
He gathered her up into a gentle embrace and rocked her slowly. While he stroked her hair and murmured soft reassurances, his mind spun in several directions, each more terrible than the first.
Did she want him to make her forget that she and Camille had indulged in this kind of savage love play?
Or was there something deeper, darker involved?
And he had to wonder as he held her close, if this woman he was falling in love with could have killed his friend Camille.
IT WAS MORNING when Nicole awoke. She was draped across Marchand’s knees and his arms were still snug about her. However, the moment she stirred, he was awake and wary. She couldn’t mistake the careful way he eased back away from her as she sat up.
He had good reason to be cautious.
“Good morning,” she ventured.
“How are you feeling?” That was asked with a tentative neutrality.
“A little lightheaded. I had nothing to eat yesterday and the wine must have gone straight to it.” Would he believe that? That her inhibitions had been destroyed by drink and therein lay the cause of her bizarre behavior? She risked a glance. His expression was shut down tightly. No. He didn’t believe it. What was he thinking, then? If he thought her mad, why had he remained? Why wasn’t he tossing her out the door? She tried another tack with him. “Things got rather . . . out of control. I didn’t mean for them to. I’m sorry.” She looked at him beseechingly, seeing the rent she’d ripped in his shirt and the way one side of his mouth was swelling. She reached up to touch that shredded lip but he recoiled with a flicker of uneasiness darkening his gaze. She sat very still, trying to pretend she wasn’t wounded to the soul.
“I’m going to make some coffee. Do you want some?”
“Yes, please.”
He backed to the stove, never taking his eyes off her. He managed on the third try to get the fire going.
Nicole stood stiffly and brushed the worst of the wrinkles from her skirt. It was then she saw his saber gleaming on the floorboards. He saw the direction of her gaze and met her eyes without blinking. Hers filled up with desolate tears, but she didn’t speak as she lifted the blade and placed it gingerly alongside his other things where it belonged.
“Why did you come to Paris?” He asked low and soft but there was no missing the granite-hard meaning. Time for the truth.
“I was running away from my family’s chateau in Grez. I’ve never been to school. I was tutored at home. The only farms I’ve ever been on belonged to our tenants.”
“Why did you run? Are your parents ogres? Did they mistreat you? Did they try to force you into an unacceptable alliance?” His gaze was penetrating. Did he wondering if she’d escaped from a locked room somewhere; some aristocrat’s insane daughter slipping their supervision?
How she wished it was something so easy to explain. She spoke slowly, choosing her words with great care. “I discovered that they’d been lying to me for years, holding back knowledge that changed my life and the way I view them. I couldn’t remain there once my trust was destroyed.” When he didn’t ask what she’d found out, she was vastly relieved. She didn’t want to lie to him anymore.
“You’re not French.”
“But of course I am!”
“Your accent—”
“My mother is English. My father was from Florence—originally.”
“Ah, that explains it. Now we are making some progress.”
There was a moment of silence with only the coffee water simmering.
“And Camille?”
“I met him in Grez. We’d talk sometimes while he worked. He was very nice to me. I asked him to bring me here . . . I told him a convenient tale.” Like the ones she’d told him, he had to be thinking.
But that was not what he was thinking at all.
“Then you and he were not—”
“Not what?” Then her eyes went round. “Oh, no. Never. I let you think that because I was afraid you would put me out if you knew the truth. All my money was stolen, you see, and I had nowhere else to go. Camille offered his aid should I need it. I never thought he’d be d-dead when I came to ask for it.” She looked down at the twist of her fingers, forcing out the words. “I am very sorry for deceiving you and for all the inconvenience I’ve caused. When Bebe arrives, I’ll tell her everything. She can keep the painting. Then I’ll be on my way. I’ll repay you for the cost of this dress as soon as I can find work—”
Marchand crossed to her in two long strides. She looked up at him, lost and oh, so very vulnerable again. His hand cupped her cheek just in time to brush aside the first tear. “No one’s asked you to leave. I just wanted to hear the truth. Is that all of it?”
She nodded rapidly, hope brightening in her uplifted gaze.
“If you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you.”
“Will you help me, Marchand?”
“If I can.”
A great sigh gusted from her and she nestled her cheek into the well of his palm, placing a grateful kiss upon his thumb. He gave her a small smile but the cautious reserve was still there behind the steady fix of his stare. Then he went to make the coffee.
He wasn’t going to cast her out! The overwhelming relief of that was knee-weakening. Then her thoughts spun beyond the obvious as she looked to him once more. “Once the truth is known, there is no reason for you to pretend to be my lover.” There, she’d given him the chance to back away gracefully. It was the least she could do—after last night.
As he poured, he told her simply, “I have no problem with the arrangements the way they are now. Unless you want them changed.” Then he glanced up and she was stunned by the intensity of his dark-eyed gaze. He was afraid of her, or at least justifiably wary, and yet he was willing to let her stay close to him. When the same thing could happen again. Was he foolish? She’d never thought so, and he certainly wasn’t a reckless romantic. What, then?
Before she could ask, there was a tap on the door and Frederic peered in cautiously.
“May we come in?” The question was polite. The glance was full of curiosity.
“I was just pouring coffee. I’ll get two more cups.”
Frederic and Musette came to the table, doing their best to hold their tongues as their stares went from Nicole to Marchand and back again. Finally, her face hot with discomfort, Nicole murmured, “Forgive me for shouting at you last night. I had no right—”
Frederic chuckled. “We’re lucky March didn’t shoot us—considering how untimely our arrival was. Next time, put a red flag on the door so we’ll know it’s not safe to come in.”
Nicole endured their sly amusement in silence. Marchand distributed the coffee cups and came to stand beside her. When she glanced up, he touched a light kiss upon her lips. If his brother or Musette thought they’d stumbled upon something amiss in the night, that tender gesture put their doubts to rest.
And gave her doubts aplenty.
Why was he so willing to protect her when he had every reason to think her a dangerous lunatic? Because he cared for her? That woke a tug of expectancy within her breast. Or was he simply clever enough to want her where he could watch her? So he could send to Grez and summon her family to come get her in hopes of reward. She knew they would gladly pay him enough to get his little family through the toughest winter months in luxurious style. His steady stare gave no clue. It was watchful, and his expressive dark eyes were carefully veiled.
And where there had been trust, suddenly there was fear. On both sides.
When Bebe had not returned by midmorning, Marchand grew worried enough to ask around the quartier to see if anyone had seen her. Fred
eric left with him, stating he had to turn in some articles he’d written for a respectable journal. They might even bring money, he told his brother with a smile as they closed the door behind them.
The moment they were gone, Musette collapsed in her chair and startled Nicole with her sudden quiet tears.
“Musette, whatever is the matter?” she demanded in concern, kneeling beside the other woman’s chair.
“Oh, it’s—it’s nothing.”
“Nonsense! Something was wrong yesterday, too. What is it? Is there something I can do?”
The redhead canted up a suspicious eye. “You won’t go to Marchand with what I tell you?”
Nicole took a cautious breath. She was balancing on a thin line with Marchand already, as far as trust went. She didn’t want to start deceiving him again. She guessed he wouldn’t be so gracious a second time.
Musette was watching the anxious play of her expression and she put a reassuring hand upon Nicole’s shoulder. “That’s all right, my friend. I should not ask you to betray the confidence of the man you love. Forget I said anything.”
The man she loved. It sounded so set and sure when spoken out loud like that. And so like the truth. However, like family, they all did for each other here, that’s what Musette had said, so she covered the other woman’s hand with her own.
“It has to do with Frederic, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, Nicole, he will be in such desperate trouble if he does what he promised Marchand.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s committed his efforts—and a certain amount of money—to a particular political event.” Musette was being very evasive, but Nicole had no mind or care for politics. She wanted to know how it affected those she’d come to care for.
“And?”
“And if he doesn’t come through, they will hurt him, Nicole. These are not cheerful students he’s involved with. They are serious, professional men who would do anything to achieve their end. They have already threatened Marchand—”
“De Sivry.”
“How do you know of him?”
“He had Marchand do some . . . work for him the other day. I know he is a bad man to cross.”
“Frederic isn’t like Marchand. He isn’t strong. He isn’t a fighter. He can’t protect himself.”
“Then tell Marchand—”
“No! Frederic would never forgive himself if his brother came to harm over this. Marchand would want to handle it with his fists, and he is no match for the kind of men De Sivry has employed. They would think nothing of killing him.”
Nicole’s heart went cold. “Then there must be some way to please both Marchand and De Sivry. Would De Sivry be satisfied if he was paid the money he was promised? Would he leave Frederic alone then?”
“I—I don’t know. But how would we come up with the necessary coin? Marchand provides all we survive on.”
“Marchand isn’t the only one not afraid to take chances.”
Musette’s gaze flashed over to the mattress ticking and back to her in alarm. “Oh, no! Marchand would never forgive you that. I could not allow you to—”
“I’m not talking about . . . whoring for the money.” Especially when she couldn’t even say the word without turning bright red. “I mean to borrow it.”
Musette regarded her for a long moment and then began to smile. “How and from whom?”
“Can you teach me how to do that trick you were doing in the market?”
“Yes, but pinching bread and picking pockets isn’t the same thing. I’m not quick enough by half—”
“I am. But I need you to tell me whose to pick.”
Musette looked as if she might protest, but was too intrigued by the idea. “It is dangerous.”
“What did Frederic say about life without risk?”
“You love Marchand that much?”
She could have said yes, but instead she answered, “I owe him that much.”
“Then let’s hire a rig and go shopping amongst Paris’s best.”
BY LATE AFTERNOON, Musette may have found annoyance with Nicole’s ethics, but she had no complaints about the woman’s style. The two of them strolled the posh shopping districts, studying the shoppers, the way the shoppers scanned the shop windows. Nicole would only approach those Musette could name as wealthy, ones who would not miss a few francs and who could be repaid. She carefully noted each name and the amount “borrowed,” ignoring the redhead’s amusement. Musette didn’t ask how Nicole planned to repay them. She was only concerned with obtaining the money.
It was shamefully easy business. Nicole had only to concentrate on the targeted purse, then move past the individual. They might feel a brief brush of air, they might even glance about, but by that time, she was out of sight, their coin safely in her hand. Musette marveled at her, never once able to spot how she managed to lift the purses. Her eyes simply couldn’t follow the speed of Nicole’s hand. And neither could the unknowing donators to the rebellious cause.
And when Musette presented her love with the day’s bounty, he could only stare in disbelief.
“So much! Musette, where did you come by this?” His hands were shaking as they handled the stack of franc notes.
“Nicole. Don’t ask how, just accept and pass the money on to De Sivry. Don’t worry. Nicole has promised to say nothing to your brother. For all he knows, you are intent upon following the bland bourgeois life he has chosen for you.”
“I don’t like deceiving him. He’s done so much for us—”
She gripped her lover’s hands, her tone impassioned, her eyes ablaze with patriotic fervor. “And think of how much we’ll be able to do! Within a week’s time, we’ll be able to fund the coup against Louis-Philippe, who filched our republic for his own profit.”
Frederic thought for a moment and his conscience seemed sufficiently calmed by the right of what he was doing. His father would have approved, and in time, Marchand would know he had done what he’d had to do. Marchand understood duty. “Does Nicole know her efforts go to support the assassination of a king?”
Musette gave him a sly smile that was both clever and cold. “She did not ask, and I thought it best not to enlighten her.”
Frederic leaned in to kiss her ardently and to whisper, “You are as brave a soldier as any army of injustice has ever known. And I love you.”
“And I, you, Frederic. Let’s hurry and meet with De Sivry. He will be overjoyed to learn that our triumph is so close at hand.”
And for the rest of the week, Musette and Nicole shadowed the boulevards and shops, adding to the coffer while Frederic worked to allay his brother’s suspicions. It was easier since Marchand had found temporary work along the quay and was absent often until midnight. He would come in exhausted, smelling of the docks, taking only enough time to wash up before sliding in beside Nicole. He didn’t curl up around her as he once had but rather kept a judicious distance.
Lying beside him, longing for his closeness as much as she feared it, Nicole was awake until the early dawn hours, listening to the sounds of her companions’ slumber, listening to the night sounds of the city beyond. She found it difficult to sleep at night, her system attuned to those dark hours where energy pulsed in the Paris streets and the cool breeze beckoned to instincts she didn’t understand. She lay next to Marchand, watching over him, not daring to touch him, her desire for him growing as severe as the constant sear of hunger threading through her veins.
She couldn’t eat from the table like the rest of them. The scents and texture of cooked foods repelled her. She would push them about her plate, and the first moment she had alone, she would devour the raw meats she purchased each day. Even those were getting harder for her to digest. What had begun to attract her appetite was not served upon a plate. It beat, a rich and forbidden temptation through
those around her.
She lay there at night remembering the taste of Marchand’s blood. That secret contemplation horrified and fascinated. She could feel his heart beating even though they weren’t touching, could hear it sending those rivers of delight through his body with every soft thrum. The taste . . . ambrosia, whetting a desire like none she’d known.
The desire for more.
And so, she was satisfied to remain a safe distance from him. She couldn’t trust herself with those increasingly violent impulses; to bite, to taste, to feed in bestial abandon.
What was wrong with her? She knew of only one place to get that answer—the one place she would not go. For if she was to accept what he was, she would have to resign herself to being the same. And that, she was not prepared to do. Not while she had a scrap of humanity remaining.
Better to be tortured by the unknown than damned by the certain.
IT WAS DARK. The elegant and the well-to-do were bustling to the opera and to their private affairs. Most took carriages, but some enjoyed the night air and a brisk walk. Those were the ones Nicole waited for.
She had no trouble seeing through the shadows. Her night vision was almost equal to that of the day. She stood alone and was a bit uncomfortable without Musette to guide her, but the other woman had gone with Frederic to an important meeting, and Marchand was to be late in getting home. She didn’t like lingering in the flat when they weren’t there. Too many shadows. Bebe hadn’t returned. Camille’s clothing lay piled and unclaimed. His portrait seduced with the broken promise of the peaceful greens and blue skies that had once been home. If she stayed in the flat, she thought too much about Marchand. His scent was in the linens of their shared bed and breathing it in brought hunger and frustration. She didn’t know how to deal with the conflict he’d created within her. She was in love with him, yet realized that love would bring him harm. Better to deny the one to prevent the other.
So she stalked the dark streets, searching for prey, a sleek hungry wolf hunting those of her kind who were somehow not the same. She channeled her concentration, seeking, finding when she observed a sophisticated figure stepping down from a rig. One gloved hand paid out from a pouch plump with coin.
