Fleur-de-Lis

by Isolde Martyn

  "Sudden changes of mind and heart, Fleur. The weathervane could spin again."

  "Yes," she swallowed. "I daresay it is a turnaround but... You don't look very happy."

  "This is my stunned look."

  She had heard that women let down their hair when they were with their lovers. Well, she had better do that, then maybe he would look more relaxed—except that she hadn't any long hair to let down. She frowned at her reflection in the glass and saw he had moved closer and was watching her. It made her feel extremely strange. Perhaps she should let down his hair instead, or maybe she should make his breeches a priority. She glanced at the mirror. There were buttons either side of his waist. It should not be too difficult but she was trembling.

  Raoul stared in fascination as she removed her lace-trimmed cap, watching his mirrored image as she did so. Then she turned and, coming across to him, pulled his linen stock free and tossed it behind her. The ribbon gathering his dark hair was slowly untied. He made no move to touch her, delighting in the torment of restraint.

  This wasn't too difficult, thought Fleur, but she must not make him suspect that it was his breeches that were so important. Imagining she was a famous courtesan, she tugged the upper buttons of his shirt undone. Dark hair mantled his chest and she stopped instinctively to tease a finger curiously through the tangle before she skated her palms over his silk waistcoat and up beneath the taffeta lining of his coat to slide it back over his shoulders. The sleeves stuck and he waited while she solved that dilemma. The coat fell softly at his heels. Then she leaned up and brushed her lips against his, while her fingers unfastened the buttons of his waistband. At last she had his breeches down.

  "Ohh!" Suddenly the man was no longer passive.

  Raoul, aching for her to touch him, grabbed Fleur's hand and pressed it against his underbreeches so she might feel how aroused he was. Aquamarine eyes blinked up at him in total astonishment. What in hell was going on here? One instant she was behaving like a houri and the next minute she was red with embarrassment. If she was untried, a virgin gift to be unwrapped carefully and his to initiate... The quiver of sexual fear in her touch exhilarated him beyond belief. He had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her.

  Zut! She had forgotten that men's breeches were fastened at the knee and he could pull them up again in an instant. DeVillaret's had small buttons and little buckles. She needed to get them over his shoes, which was extremely difficult when he seemed to want her to stay holding him. And that particular part of him seemed to have a life of its own. Her touching him there actually made him groan. It seemed to be with tormented pleasure. This really was quite fascinating, but she did need to make sure he wasn't going to be able to chase after the escaped prisoners.

  "Pardon," she murmured and, withdrawing her hand, sank in a billow of skirts to remove his shoes. Those at least came off easily. No bourgeois laces there. Kneeling, she undid the buckles at her knees and pulled the breeches down and free of his feet with a sense of triumph. He gasped, a sort of anticipatory gasp as if he expected her to do something else. His hand fondled her hair but she didn't look up. Unhurriedly she untied the garters that held his white stockings, and slid each down. He had handsome calves. Muscular but sleek. And rather nice feet too, she thought. Not bony but just, well, nice. And clean.

  Then she made the mistake of looking up. He had placed a hand where he had earlier wanted hers and his expression reminded her of a man who was trying not to lose control.

  She tossed his breeches to one side and stood up to face him, trying to conceal her ignorance.

  "This is unexpected," he said with effort, as though words had become elusive.

  Something was wrong. He wasn't behaving like a man burning with lust. Far from it. He wasn't even trying to hold her, and his expression was a mixture of exasperation, fascination and something else. Something lethal. Did he suspect she had been trying to distract him? Well, not trying. At least she had achieved her objective.

  Maybe more kissing was needed if he was in this strange mood.

  "Do you not want this?" She wound her arms about his neck and stood on tiptoe so she was snug against him. Something was pushing very hard against her thighs.

  "Not want this?" He was studying her face with the intensity of an inquisitor."On the contrary, I want it very much."At last the man folded an arm about her, taking control with a pent-up mastery. His left hand possessively slid between her throat and cheek and held her firmly while he kissed her, a mocking kiss, powerfully controlled like its master.

  "Surprise me some more," he murmured against her mouth. But how could she when she was unlearned in love?

  "I think it's your turn, Raoul." She was breathless now. His kisses alternated between playful—teasing the side of her mouth or caressing her throat-and hungry across the bared valley where the ends of the black gauze neckerchief were tucked into her bodice. He tugged the gauze out and kissed the tops of her breasts while his fingers deftly freed the buttons of her caraco jacket and pushed it down to her elbows. It was an irritation that her stays were like armour against him, for Fleur felt the wanton longing to press her naked breasts against his chest. Instinct had conquered restraint, and passion, caution. She wanted to drown in that golden-brown gaze.

  It was easy now to free the buttons of his waistcoat and find the fastenings of his shirt. He gave a growl of pleasure. His fingers were pulling the laces of her stays loose as skillfully as any servant. He was practised, very practised.

  Our mistresses are just mistresses; Marat's words came back to her. She was going to lose her precious honour, her chastity, and not just to a revolutionary but a Jacobin. For France? No, not for France or her family, this was her own private revolution. La Bastille was definitely about to fall.

  "I have been longing for this moment ever since I first set eyes on you but it's going to have to wait." He had her by the shoulders now. "Who's down there? A very active snake named André Beugneux?"

  Oh, bon Dieu! Fleur took a deep breath. So he had guessed. This had all been a ruse. "It's just that..."

  "That he has the annoying habit of rescuing people who don't deserve it."

  She swallowed, struggling for a phrase to haul herself to safety, and stared miserably as he strode to the window where he flung aside a curtain and stood staring out, arms folded. Should she fall on her knees and beg for his compassion?

  "Raoul." It was a heart's breath, as she drew close to the stubborn shoulders. Diable! She liked this man, despite his politics, despite his prejudices. And now she was going to risk everything in her belief that beneath the single-minded veneer was a fair-minded human being. "They're girls. My age, Raoul."

  The silence was cruel. The man seemed frozen. Fleur prayed. Was there some prearranged signal? Were his soldiers alert out there in the darkness ready to move in? It seemed an eternity as she waited, hardly daring to breathe, before he dragged the curtain back across and turned. The icy anger in his face terrified her.

  "He's been using the Chat Rouge as a refuge before he moves them on, hasn't he?"

  Instinct told Fleur she must not lie. "Yes."

  "And now he's bringing them here to your house, putting your life at risk?"

  "T-tonight was the first time. Because you put a cordon around the Marais again."

  "But he got them through it." His mouth tightened.

  "W-what are you going to do?" There was a pistol in the dressing-table drawer if she could get to it.

  His eyes raked over her disarray. "I'm going to make love to you. That's my price. You've bought my silence for one night."

  "Why?" The word was wrenched out. A desperate attempt to save the precious shards of something that had beauty and value.

  "Oh, you want me totally abject too, do you? My values dragged in the dust of your chariot."

  "That's not it at all," protested Fleur. "I have been honest with you, I think, Raoul. I ask no less of you."

  "Why? Because, you infuriating hoyden, I want you." He
gestured, as if his hands might catch the meaning from the air. "Because... because there is a sense of destiny in everything coming to this, to now, this moment. I cannot explain any better than that." Then he glared at her. "Yes, I can. You are a thorn, a contagion—a God-given responsibility and I can't give you up." His features desperate, as if the cockerel had crowed for him as it had for St Peter, he flung himself away from her into the centre of the room. Fleur stood, still as a mouse, knowing her life and M. Beugneux's still hung in this man's balance.

  "I have a further condition," Raoul de Villaret added huskily. "The escapes from La Force must cease instantly or else I shall arrest the old man—and you, citizeness." It was no bluff. "You will tell him that your life is hostage for his obedience." He turned, very much under control, to face her. "I mean it."

  "Shall..." Her voice sounded rusty. "Shall I summon Monsieur Beugneux? Do you wish to speak with him yourself?"

  "No, I shall have nothing to do with him. I have seen nothing and heard nothing, and if you want my advice, you will ask him to leave these premises tomorrow." Well, she would think further on that. "Does anyone else know?" he ground out.

  "No, you have only me to contend with."

  He strode to the door and for an instant she thought he was leaving, but he picked up the champagne. "This is the only chance left to you, Fleur. Don't expect mercy a third time."

  The stoppers wire cage was twisted free. She watched his thumbs prise out the cork slowly. He came across to the dressing table and silently filled the flutes.

  "I know, Raoul," she said softly, believing that she understood. "Thank you."

  He handed her the glass. Above the crystal rim his eyes watched her, bereft of gentleness.

  "To survival," she said, and tapped her glass to his.

  The physical act, the tasting of a wine that had been nourished as grapes and prepared to give pleasure, began to thaw the frozen wilderness between them.

  He picked up his coat and slung it over the back of the chair. So he was staying. The price demanded was to be paid straightaway. Fleur, her thoughts in disarray, gathered up the rest of his clothes and laid them across the seat.

  "The Republic values virtue, Fleur," he murmured, emptying his glass and refilling it."You want to sacrifice yours. Why?"

  And how was she going to answer that? For France? Where did her loyalties lie?

  "I asked you for time. It ran out this evening."

  The hungry, exultant way he was gazing at her stole her breath away. She felt beautiful, desired and owned. What had begun in Caen needed to be fulfilled; now the price had been agreed, he would accept nothing less.

  Raoul de Villaret glanced towards the bed, then smiled and held out his hand to her in a regal gesture. It could have been a treaty made between nations and consummated between the son and daughter of an emperor and a king.

  Fleur placed her hand in his. "I have never lain with a man before," she said. "Be kind to me, please."

  Raoul carried her fingers to his lips. "Fleur, I may be an opportunist but I would not exchange one night with you for all the gold and gems in France. Allons, mon coeur."

  * * *

  The slow dawning woke Raoul from a deep slumber and for a confused instant he creased his brow at the purple overhanging and the unfamiliar gilt and ruby wallpaper a few inches from his shoulder before he remembered why, and his gaze fell on the girl who lay unclothed beside him. He eased the sheet from beneath her arm to uncover a firm, sweet breast. His artist's mind estimated the mix of colours to depict the perfection of her skin, while his body hardened with anticipated pleasure. He leant over her, adoring this young goddess while his hand slid down the gorgeous curve of her thigh, across the gentle swell and through the silky triangle of fur.

  "I'm still asleep," she murmured.

  "But I am not." He bestowed a kiss on her shoulder and turned her over."I cannot get enough of you." She smiled dreamily and stretched out her arms to him. Persephone at ease, all her senses lulled by slumber, but he suspected she had been awake for some time. The sea-blue eyes opened, asplash with mischief. So she had no regrets. Excellent!

  "Goodness! Raoul! Is what you are doing legal?"

  "It's an ancient tradition in France. In Berri they do it nightly."

  "Oh! That is so nice." It was still a surprise that kissing might be done below the décolleté level and that parts of her had been designed for pleasure not just motherhood. "And what else do they do in Berri?"

  "Well, let me see, when a couple marry, the bridegroom brings all these shoes—"

  "Shoes!"

  "Hush, lie still! Yes, shoes! He brings them to the bride and he kneels down before her and tries each one of them on her foot. Only one will fit her. It's prearranged, of course, but it's rather quaint."

  "So—oh, keep doing that—the bride tries on all these shoes belonging to other people and only her shoe fits."

  "Of course. Then the bridegroom stands up and takes her hand and everyone cheers."

  Will you ever do that for me? No, she could not ask that. This union was purely transitory.

  * * *

  Afterwards, she lay with her head against his breast while his fingers still played, impossibly straightening the recalcitrant curls that embellished her neck.

  "I want to paint you, Fleur," he murmured, his breath soft against her forehead. "I've wanted to paint you ever since I watched you that morning at the Hotel d'Escoville."

  "I remember. You stood at the balustrade like a brooding god, Raoul. Very dangerous and very tempting." Her finger traced his lower lip. "You still are. I'm not sure I shall agree. Modelling is hard work. I've done it before."

  "You'll be lying down." His voice was a gravelly purr."And you get the pomegranates and wisps of veiling free."

  "And what do you get?"

  "Artistic satisfaction."

  "Can I have that too?"

  "Yes, yes, indeed. Would you like an advance?"

  Chapter 15

  "So you decided to be patriotic," sneered Philippe, falling in beside Fleur as she hurried up Rue de Sévigné to the Chat Rouge. "Wasn't too unpleasant, was it? Be thankful the bastard is good-looking."

  She counted to ten, so did the bells of the city. It was hard to walk faster than he did, but she tried. She did not want company, least of all his. Not while she felt like the rope in a tug of war. Live for today, whispered Raoul de Villaret between caresses. Live for tomorrow, demanded her brother.

  Should she feel ashamed at having lost her virtue? Part of her revelled in the heady freedom to choose where to bestow her favours. Maman and Tante Estelle would not have approved. But it was too late for regrets. She must make the best of things. And what future did she have? Certainly no marriage chest or a booking in heaven, just an uncertain lover who would abandon her if he ever found out her true identity.

  "Did you go through his coat pockets?"

  "What?"

  "Do-you-have-anything-for-us?" he asked as though she were a simpleton.

  "You can't go through someone's pockets while you're sleeping with them."And besides, she had been next to the wall—between the wall and a very hard... Her glove swiftly masked a smile.

  "Oh, can't you?" Philippe smirked. "Kept you busy, did he? Well, do it next time." Then he added with a somewhat belated brotherly concern, "I hope you told him to use a sheath." Fleur stared at him open-mouthed. "Un chapeau anglais, Toinette. I cannot believe you are so ignorant. For all you know, the man may be carrying syphilis or gleet—soldier's pox, you ninny. For God's sake! We agreed you don't want his child."

  "Go away, Philippe," she snarled, crossing the road. Next instant, he would want chapter and verse.

  "No, you listen to me!" He chased after her and, grabbing her arm like an aggressive beggar, shoved her into a shadowy archway that portalled one of the ancient mansions. "Last night was just the beginning. We want you to get into de Villaret's rooms and go through his papers."

  Slammed against the wall, Fleur
gazed up at him in horror. "You are out of your mind! Now let go of me. I'm late as it is and I've got a business to run."

  "You bourgeois little trollop." His nostrils flared. She thought he would shake her but then he released his painful grip on her shoulders. "I'll say one thing for you, you've a good head on your shoulders."

  "And I intend to keep it there," she retorted. "And I'm not making money. I am still paying off Monsieur Bosanquet's creditors, including Hérault de Séchelles." She ducked under his arm and, grabbing up her skirts, hastened on. Next minute he would be suggesting she pay off her debts between the sheets and pass on the savings to him.

  "And don't suggest otherwise," she snapped as he caught up with her. "I'm not doing any more dirty work for you."

  "Where's the risk? The regicides have organised a celebration for that animal Marat's acquittal. De Villaret will be there with the rest of them. He won't disturb you."

  "No! Apart from the fact I have no idea what I'd be looking for, de Villaret is no fool. He's highly suspicious of me as it is."

  Her brother disregarded her protest. "We know he was hunting for traitors in Calvados. We want his list of suspects."

  "I think you are wasting your time, Philippe." She halted. "And I wouldn't come any further if I were you, there have been a lot of soldiers around La Force."

  He scowled at the cluster of national guard ahead on the corner. "You wouldn't be sweet on this damn regicide, would you, Toinette?"

  Fleur did not like the gleam of cruelty in his eyes.

  "He may be a Jacobin, Philippe, but I've met far worse."

  "You reckon so, little sister? Then you had better read these and then perhaps there will be no more nonsense about disobeying me."

  * * *

  Fleur shut herself in the dressing-room at the Chat Rouge, her heart heavy with misgivings. The first document was a letter addressed to her brother in Coblenz.

  Monseigneur le Duc,

  So I must address you and apologise if I am the first to bear the tragic news of your father's death. I saw with my own eyes the despicable circumstances in which your father was murdered. I was one of the priests taken to the Abbaye Prison.