If He’s Wild

by Howell, Hannah

  She pushed free of Hartley’s grasp, ignoring the sharp pang of regret for doing so, and fell to her knees by the table. A heartbeat later she was sketching out her vision with a strong touch of desperation, as if she could pull it out of her mind by putting it to paper. There was too much, however, so she restricted herself to those things she felt certain would stir her memory each time she looked at them.

  It touched her heart when Hartley tended to her first. She knew he was desperate to learn what she had seen, but he helped her sit down when she was done and stayed by her side as she drank the hot, sweet tea he had poured. When he picked up the locket she had dropped on the floor and glanced anxiously toward her sketchbook, she put her hand over his. She was not sure what to say to prepare him, however.

  “It was bad?” he asked in a soft voice and then cursed and shook his head. “Of course it was. I could see it in your face. They are dead?”

  “I cannot say. At the time your niece had the locket with her, no, she did not die. In the following years?” She shrugged then tightened her grip on his hand before he could reach for the drawings. “Wait. Let me tell you what I saw first.”

  “There is no need. I can just look at your drawings. Do not torment yourself with speaking of all you saw.”

  “I believe this vision will linger for quite a while no matter what I do. The drawings do not tell all I saw. There was too much. It was as if I was seeing it all as she saw it, suffering as she suffered.” When he put his arm around her, she did not hesitate to lean against him, savoring his warmth, for she was chilled to the bone. “I can only tell you what happened up until your niece lost that locket.”

  “It will be more than I know now.”

  Alethea nodded and took a deep breath to steady herself. “They were all waiting for you on the shore as planned. They had packed lightly but carefully, a few clothes, all the money they could gather, and all of their jewels. Bayard needed to, er, visit the bushes, and Germaine went to guard him. She heard shots. The marchioness screamed. Germaine started back, moving swiftly but keeping out of sight. She saw six men. The two youngest children were already dead, the marchioness on her knees wailing over the bodies. Her father cried out that they had killed his only children, and Germaine knew he was telling her to get away, to get Bayard away. She caught her brother trying to go back and fled with him. She heard the marchioness’s wailing abruptly stop as she pushed and pulled Bayard up a steep, rocky slope. She heard her father curse the men before he, too, was abruptly silenced. At the top of the rise, she saw a coach. When she saw who stepped out of it, she shoved her brother down and lay down beside him. It was as she scrambled along, pulling Bayard and trying to keep out of sight until she could get them away from that part of the road, that she lost the locket.”

  Hartley sighed, saddened by the wanton killing of a good man and his innocent family, yet hopeful that his niece and nephew had survived. Cautiously, he moved to look at what Alethea had drawn. The images were stark, chilling, and he was horrified by what his niece had seen and suffered. A drawing of Germaine’s face held him spellbound, the girl’s expression fascinating him even as it alarmed him. This was not the sweet, funny, laughing girl he had known.

  “Germaine looks as if she wants to kill someone,” he murmured.

  “She does. That was the last clear thing I saw and felt, and then the locket was lost. Germaine recognized the person getting out of the carriage.” Alethea pointed to the rose she had drawn.

  Staring at that and knowing whom it represented, Hartley felt nauseous. He had touched that woman, kissed her, would even have bedded her had not the Vaughns intruded. It had been bad enough to know she had had something to do with the death of his compatriots, but the proof of that had been so thin, it had been easy to doubt it all. But Germaine had seen the woman at the site of her family’s deaths. It was still not proof he could use, and he did not understand how Alethea could see such things, but he believed it all.

  “They escaped,” he whispered as he returned to his seat next to Alethea, blindly accepting the tea she gave him. “They did not die with the rest of them.”

  “No. They fled,” said Alethea. “Unfortunately, the locket was lost before your niece had any plan of action aside from keeping her brother alive. Oh, and killing that woman.”

  “If she tried to kill the woman, she would have died there with her family, simply done so a little later.”

  “True, and I grasped no sense of such a plan. Your niece was thinking coldly, clearly, and only of saving Bayard. I believe she would have chosen duty over emotion. There was no sense of immediacy to her thoughts of killing the woman. It was simply a fact.”

  Hartley cursed, rubbed a hand over his face, and then took a drink of his tea to steady himself. He would have liked something a great deal stronger but decided it was for the best if he stayed with tea. “Germaine was only fifteen, more child than woman, and Bayard was still more infant than child. So young. Too young to survive in the rabid air of France, alone, for three years.”

  Alethea sighed. “It would seem so, and yet, it was truly as if I were there with her, Hartley. No, within her, seeing and feeling all that she did. There is a deep core of strength in your niece, Hartley. Think on it all. She saw her siblings dead, heard her stepmother die, and then her father. Yet she never faltered, never hesitated to act as she knew her father meant her to. She heard his last command, subtle as it was, and acted immediately. There was such pain and grief within her, a roaring agony of it, but she kept that boy moving, hiding, silent. Even when she heard the shots and the marchioness’s first scream, she did not run blindly toward her family, but moved toward them with the ever-present thought of the need to stay out of sight. I know, truly know, that the girl was desperate to go to her family, but she did not. That girl has hard steel in her spine, and, now, a deep need to avenge her murdered family. I wish I could tell you what happened after that moment on the beach, but once the locket fell from her neck, I lost touch with her. I do feel, however, that she has an indomitable will to survive, and to keep her brother alive.”

  He nodded and stared at the drawing of Germaine as he sipped the last of his tea. Alethea suddenly found her attention pulled away from him, which surprised her a little, as she took a dangerous delight in watching him, being close to him, even taking subtle deep breaths so that she could fill her head with the crisp smell of him. She stared down at her hands and allowed her mind to wander where it wished, to pick through the flood of images and emotions she had just experienced. There was something there demanding her attention, and she had experienced such a thing often enough to know it was best not to ignore it or fight it. Breathing slowly and evenly, she let her thoughts flow.

  When Hartley turned to speak to Alethea, he frowned and set down his cup. She looked half-asleep. He softly called her name, but she did not respond. Afraid she had slipped into some kind of trance, he gently stroked her arm and tried to decide what to do next. He was just thinking he ought to call for her servants when she suddenly sat up straighter, her body tense and her eyes wide. It startled him a little when she turned and grabbed his hands in hers. This gift of hers was going to take some getting used to, he thought and then wondered why he was concerned with that.

  “The jewels,” Alethea said, struggling not to allow her excitement to overrule the lessons she had been taught by other Vaughns about how to best use her gift.

  “What about the jewels?” Hartley asked. “Have you seen something else?”

  “No, nothing new. I but carefully looked over all that I saw. When a vision is as strong as this one, the images coming so fast and the emotions so intense, it sometimes takes a while to recall the small, often very important, details. Something was pestering me, as if some piece of information was demanding I take note of it. The compte and his family brought a casket of jewels with them, yet you said very little was found upon the beach.”

  “I suspected anything of any value was taken and has been sold by now.�
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  “Some of the things, most surely. But not all, I think. I was blinded by Germaine’s emotions when she saw the Black Rose—”

  “The Black Rose?”

  Alethea blushed faintly. “The name I decided to call the woman, I fear.”

  A quick glance down at her drawings revealed that the rose she used to indicate Claudette was indeed black, that she had shaded in the petals with her charcoal instead of leaving it as just the outline of a rose. “A good choice.” He looked back her, trying hard not to be infected by the excitement he could see sparkling in her beautiful eyes. “Go on. What have you remembered?”

  “Germaine saw the woman get out of the carriage and”—she pointed at the drawing of Germaine—“you can see how she felt, so you can surely guess how strong that emotion was. Then the need to flee, to hide, returned, and I now realize that she saw a little more than the woman, even looked back once. A man came up from the beach and handed the woman a casket. She opened it and smiled, briefly lifting a lovely ruby pendant up to look more closely at it before stuffing the whole casket into the carriage. Just before Germaine lost her locket, she had the thought that she could find the woman through those jewels. Germaine was certain the woman would try to keep most of them, if not all of them. Could you not do the same?”

  “I will need to make a list of what jewels I am aware of,” Hartley murmured, beginning to allow himself to share a little of Alethea’s excitement. “There may even be a listing amongst the papers the compte left behind with my solicitor. He knew it was dangerous despite the truce, but felt compelled to see if any others of his family still survived and if there was any chance of regaining at least a few of his holdings.” Hartley sighed. “I tried to keep Germaine and Bayard here, with me, but they wanted to be with their father as much as he wished them to see his homeland.”

  “There is one other thing that may help in your search.” Suddenly aware of how she had grabbed hold of his hands, Alethea subtly tried to pull away from him, but he ever so slightly tightened his grip, and it was enough of an invitation that she stopped. “Germaine was dressed as a boy.” She nodded at his look of astonishment. “Her father must have thought it safer for her to do so. Even her hair was cut short, like a boy’s.”

  Hartley stared at her in shock for a moment, then abruptly yanked her into his arms and kissed her. He had the fleeting thought that this was unwise, before he lost himself in the sweetness of her kiss. It was not a gentle kiss, either. Startled by his action, she had gasped, and he had taken swift advantage of that, plunging his tongue into her mouth and savoring the heat of her, the taste of her. She tasted like more. He wanted to feel her soft pale skin rub against his and her body wrapped tightly around him.

  It took more effort than he thought it should to end the kiss. Hartley took one look at her flushed, wide-eyed face, and quickly stood up to pace the room, forcing his thoughts back to the important matter of Germaine and Bayard and off the compelling urge to indulge in more kisses. Knowing that he would soon want far more than kisses, no matter how stirring and sweet they were, alarmed him enough to help him regain his senses. Not only would seducing Alethea after all she had done for him be churlish, instinct told him it could prove very difficult to maintain the usual detachment he employed with his lovers.

  “I was so transfixed by her face, I missed seeing how short her hair was. I feel certain Germaine would contrive to continue that disguise,” he said, breaking the heavy silence that surrounded them.

  Alethea blinked, inwardly shaking free of the bemusement his kiss had caused. She clenched her hands together in her lap to repress the urge to touch her lips, lips that still held the warmth of his, lips that actually tingled slightly. The warmth of his kiss had spread rapidly through her body and was slow to dissipate. She wished he would leave for a few moments so that she could contemplate her first real kiss, and recover from it at her leisure. Sternly telling herself it had been no more than an impulsive act stemming from Hartley’s joy and raised hopes over all she had told him, Alethea fixed her attention upon the matter at hand—his lost family.

  “As do I,” she replied, pleased at how calm her voice sounded, for inside she was a tumultuous mass of emotion. “She would undoubtedly see the advantages of it.”

  His composure restored, Hartley turned to look at her. He briefly considered apologizing for taking such liberties with her person, but hastily decided against it. For one thing—it would be a lie to say he regretted the kiss. It also appeared that she was going to ignore it as well, excusing his actions as an impulsive response to the hope she had just given him, something that both relieved and annoyed him. He did not like the idea that she could ignore what had just happened or, even worse, put it out of her thoughts. Hartley shook away such strange thoughts and fixed his mind on the most important matter—rescue of his niece and nephew.

  “So, I shall have to send word that it is not a family of six we seek, but two children. Actually, a young woman and a boy, and that the young woman may well be disguised as a boy. This will narrow the searching yet also make it much more difficult.”

  “Is there nothing particularly distinguishable about her features? She looked a pretty girl.” Alethea stared at the sketch she had made and struggled to recall hair and eye color. “I doubt her features have changed all that much.”

  “Probably not, but all I have is a miniature painted when she was much younger, barely more than an infant.”

  “A problem easily solved.” Alethea took up her sketchbook. “I will do a sketch of how she looked three years ago.” Even as she began to sketch the girl’s face, softening the hard, murderous expression a little, Alethea could suddenly see Germaine as clearly as if the girl were standing in front of her. “She has blue eyes,” she murmured.

  “Yes, like my sister’s. She has my mother’s eyes,” he said as he retook his seat at her side.

  “Hartley, for a connoisseur of women, that was a very dull description.”

  “I would not call myself such,” he muttered, a little shocked to discover that he did not want this woman to think him some heartless rogue who seduced and discarded women. How completely absurd, he mused, since he had worked hard on just that reputation for several years.

  Alethea ignored him and the look of male bafflement he was giving her. “Germaine has very distinctive blue eyes. She may be able to hide everything else, but she could never, never completely hide those eyes.” She carefully tore the page from her sketchbook. “Her eyes are the clearest, brightest blue, like a beautiful summer sky or bluebells. Very, very blue, but not a dark one like mine or a pale one. Boy’s clothes, cropped hair, and all of that can never hide eyes like those. Her hair is a lovely golden brown, but that only helps if she is not covering it or it is not dulled with dirt. Ah, but those eyes, they mean that all your searchers have to do is get her to look at them.”

  Hartley stared at her sketch of Germaine. “You have a true talent. I am glad you eased that look of hatred and anger on her face.”

  “Will that be enough? I could make more if needed.”

  “I believe this will do. I will send it with the next man going into France, and he can show it to our men there.” He looked at her and fought the urge to stroke her cheek, to feel the soft warmth of her lovely skin beneath his fingertips, to taste those full lips again. “This is all very difficult for you, is it not?”

  “Yes and no. I do not usually—oh, how can I put this?—connect or bond with the person in my vision so strongly. I think Germaine’s emotions were so very intense they pulled me in. Seeing the murders through her eyes, feeling the fear and grief and fury that she felt, was difficult, but knowing I may have given you a clue that will help you find her and the boy? That makes it all worthwhile. There is hope in it all.”

  “True, yet why has she not made it back to England? Surely she would try to come here.”

  “Of course she would, but she fled that beach with nothing save the clothes on her back and Bayard. Also, th
e truce or lull in the madness has ended. She is stuck in a country at war, with itself as well as with other countries. I would not be surprised if she is managing to do little more than keep herself and Bayard alive, something that would take all of her strength and time. And whom could she trust? Whom could she dare to trust?”

  Hartley nodded. “You are right. I was not thinking straight. Damn, not only are they half English; they are also half old-French aristocracy. The bloody riots have eased, but not the hatred. Or the mistrust, for many of the aristocracy who survived that insanity now oppose the government.” He stood up, took her hand in his, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “You have been most helpful, and kind. I know it is an ordeal for you.”

  “Oh, no, I…” she began, trying to think of what to say despite the fact that the warm touch of his lips against her skin had apparently caused every thought in her head to scatter to the four winds.

  “It is. I doubted it all at first, but when I saw you as you held that handkerchief”—he shook his head—“I could no longer argue away all the things you had said and shown me with your drawings.” He looked at the locket. “To me, this is but a pretty little trinket. Knowing where it was found, I could guess some tragedy had occurred, but it does not speak to me as it does to you.”

  When he stepped back and tucked the locket back into the pocket of his waistcoat, Alethea stood up and lightly touched his arm. “It did speak to you in a way. You knew something was wrong. I suspect you got some feeling each time you touched it, that sense of danger and tragedy. It just speaks more loudly to me. If you had handed this to me before your niece went to France, it probably would have been no more to me than a pretty trinket as well. I might have sensed a few simple things such as the youth of the wearer, but nothing more. But, you see, she was wearing it against her skin when all those horrible things happened, when her world was shattered. It is as if her emotions soaked into the very metal, became trapped inside it. That is what gives me the vision.”