Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

  Armande’s finely arched brows lifted, and his smile quirked up on one side. “You think it’s witchery, do you? I’m a physician, Mademoiselle Weston, taught by the finest medical men in Paris.”

  Anne winced and made an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you were a witch doctor.”

  His smile broadened, his hazel eyes brimming with humor. “I’m not offended.”

  “It’s just that our family doctor back in England never uses herbs.” She shivered. “But he does use leeches.”

  “Ah, yes, modern science at its finest,” Armande murmured dryly. “And people think voodoo is primitive.”

  Anne laughed.

  “Oui. You are right, mademoiselle, my methods and my medicines aren’t always the most traditional. But I’ve studied science and folk remedies and mixed the two to my own satisfaction. I’m not so narrow-minded that I can’t give credit where credit’s due, taking the best from both worlds.”

  Anne thought he must have applied that philosophy to other parts of his life, too. He’d obviously successfully mixed in both the black and the white worlds. Although there shouldn’t be major differences between them, at least in matters of opportunities and justice, there obviously were. He, like Renard, was trying to correct the injustices.

  He was looking at her, serious again. She wondered if he guessed her thoughts. “Did your antiseptic paste do the trick?” she asked him.

  His gaze shifted. He picked up a small damp towel from the table and wiped his hands. His fingers were long and graceful, the nails clipped short and clean. He had perfect hands for a surgeon. “There is no infection. Your wound should heal quickly and leave no scar.”

  Anne nodded, only half-attending. Looking at his hands had brought to mind thoughts of another pair of graceful hands, memories she’d been working hard to keep at bay. Renard holding her, loving her … But it was impossible. The memories flooded back. Every inch of her body felt imprinted with his touch. Her heart yearned for him.

  Her eyes roamed the room. The cabin was even smaller than she had imagined last night by flickering candle-glow, but it was clean and neat. On the pantry shelf, she saw the candle that had burned to the quick last night, leaving her and Renard in the dark. She’d never be afraid of the dark again … She wondered where the firefly had gone. With Renard?

  “Why don’t you ask?”

  Anne gave a little jerk. She lifted startled eyes to Armande. She’d been a thousand miles away, yet still in the same room. “Ask what?”

  “You’re wondering where he is, aren’t you?”

  Anne’s eyelashes fluttered down. She stared at her hands, her fingers tightly twined together in a prayerlike pose. “Not really. I expected him to be gone. He wouldn’t let me see him in the daylight.” But she wished that he had said something about seeing her again. Last night had been very special to her. She hoped that it had been special for him, too—at least something more than a single night’s passion.

  “I met him here this morning,” Armande continued, not contradicting her statement about Renard shying away from being seen. “He asked me to take you home as soon as you were awake. He’s concerned that your aunt and uncle will have called out the city patrol by the time I get you back, but he was just as worried that a ride home might exhaust you and bring on some return of your symptoms.”

  Anne looked up. “Did … did he leave me a message?”

  Armande’s expression remained carefully neutral. “No, mademoiselle. There was no message.”

  Anne swallowed her disappointment. “How is it that I’m allowed to see you, but not him?”

  “He has his reasons, mademoiselle.”

  “Reasons that he won’t share with me,” she mumbled irritably. Anne was tired of being kept in the dark for her own “safety.” Was Renard really just protecting her, or was he also using his masquerade as a way of keeping emotional distance between them? Anne hated herself for doubting him, but she’d been loved and abandoned. What sensible woman wouldn’t have doubts?

  Feeling more testy by the moment, she said, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll describe you to the police?”

  Armande looked back at her, his nicely shaped mouth curved in a wry smile. “Not in the least, mademoiselle. Renard would have nothing to do with a tattle-tongue that couldn’t be trusted.” He spread his hands in an expansive gesture. “My life is in your hands.”

  Anne was slightly mollified by Armande’s inference that Renard at least trusted her, but she wanted a lot more than that from a man she’d just given herself to, body and soul. “That’s all very well, but if I can be trusted with your life, why won’t Renard trust me with—”

  “That is not the issue, mademoiselle. Renard is worried about your safety, not about his.”

  “Yes, of course, my safety,” muttered Anne.

  Armande shook his head at her, then dropped the towel and whisked his hands together as if finished with the subject as well as the task of washing up. Brisk, businesslike, he said, “Now tell me, when do you generally get out of bed in the morning, mademoiselle?”

  “About eight.”

  “And your aunt and uncle?”

  “Breakfast is served at ten. I don’t usually see them till then.”

  Armande leaned against the wall opposite Anne’s bed, his arms crossed, the fingers of one hand pulling thoughtfully on his chin. “It is barely six o’clock. I hope we can get you inside the house and up to your room without either of them knowing you were gone.”

  “The servants will be up by now, and we’re still quite a ways from the Faubourg St. Mary, aren’t we?” She reached up and touched her bandage. “And what about this?”

  “Tell them you slipped and fell against the edge of your dressing table.”

  “And I bandaged myself?”

  He grinned. “You’re a resourceful woman. They’ll believe you.”

  Anne frowned. “Not Uncle Reggie. Lately he doesn’t trust me very much.”

  Armande raised his brows in an expression of mock disbelief. “He doesn’t trust you? Goodness, I can’t imagine why. How many times have you sneaked out of the house recently?”

  “Don’t vex me, Armande,” Anne warned him with a reluctant smile. “I’m a little tetchy this morning.”

  “You’re just hungry. I’m sure you ordinarily have a sunny disposition. I’ve got some bread and cheese for you, and a cup of wine. It’s nothing fancy, but you could probably use a little food on your stomach after last night’s excitement. You must be very tired.”

  Again Anne found a double meaning in seemingly innocent words. Indeed, last night had been very exciting in many ways. She wondered how much Armande knew about last night. She dismissed the embarrassing thought and took refuge in pragmatism. “How much time do I have to eat?”

  “About five minutes.” He moved to the pantry, prepared a plate of food for Anne, poured the wine from a rustic-looking crock, then set it on the table beside her. “Eat, then get dressed. Your clothes are there on the chair.” He waved a hand toward the other side of Anne’s bed, in a dim corner of the room.

  “Thank you,” she said, sitting up against the pillows to eat, pushing her tangled hair out of her eyes. “Where is your brother?”

  Armande looked startled for a minute, then said, “Christian? He’s at home … I hope.”

  “Did Christian help last night with the escape?” When Armande made a face, as if he didn’t want to answer, she said, “Yes, I know. I’m as curious as a monkey, so Renard tells me. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

  Armande shrugged. “I have a hard time talking about my brother. Yes, he helped with the escape, but not directly. He’s actually only minimally involved in what we do, but it’s our hope that by being part of something this important, he’ll … straighten out.”

  “A bit wild, is he?” said Anne with smiling sympathy. “Must be his age.”

  “I hope that’s all it
is,” said Armande. He stood awkwardly for a minute, then moved toward the door. “I have to saddle the horse. I’ll leave you to eat and to dress.” He hesitated, his hand on the latch. “Will you be all right? You don’t need assistance, do you?”

  Anne blushed. “Thank you, but no. I shall manage very well by myself.”

  Armande grinned, looking genuinely relieved. “Thank goodness. I don’t know how I would have explained to Renard that I was required to help you dress, or convince him that I did it with my eyes closed.”

  Anne blushed even more deeply, if that were possible. “Then … then he does care about me?”

  Armande’s smile faded. Seriously he answered, “I can’t speak for Renard, mademoiselle.” He turned the latch. “But he has shown much concern for you. You must trust him to do what’s best for both of you.”

  After Armande left, Anne stared at the door. She mentally groused over the taciturn nature of Renard’s right-hand man. He could tell her so much, but he obviously had no intention of doing so. She must trust Renard to do what was best. What did that mean? Why did Renard and his friend have to be so cryptic, so vague? If she was ever going to know anything about Renard’s true identity, or his real feelings about her, she was obviously going to have to wait till he was ready to speak for himself. And that might never happen.

  As things stood, Anne had no idea when or if she’d ever see Renard again. What if she was just another conquest in a string of conquests? It was a painful, sobering thought, and she ate her food and drank her wine glumly, not really tasting it but well aware that she needed the energy it gave her to get through the morning.

  She dressed, then braided her hair and tucked it under the hat again. She’d ride back to town on the back of Armande’s horse, keeping her hat brim pulled low over her forehead. No one would recognize her. Certainly no one among her set of acquaintances would even be out of bed yet.

  When they reached her aunt’s house, she’d hurry through the kitchen and past the servants, hoping none of them would comment to her aunt or uncle about her strange clothing and the odd hour she was coming in the back door. There was little chance she would get away without having to offer some explanation, though, and she’d been mentally constructing another lie. She hated lying, but Reggie would have a hard time handling the truth of her latest escapade.

  Finally they were on their way. The swampy country they traveled through didn’t look even remotely familiar to Anne, and by the time they emerged from the lush foliage and onto River Road, if not for the flow of the river to use as a compass, she’d not have known which way was north and which was south. Thankfully they weren’t required to travel through the heart of town to reach the Faubourg St. Mary, and they completed the journey without being troubled by anyone.

  Word of the escape probably wasn’t out yet, though Jeffrey had likely worked all night writing an exclusive for the Picayune. Anne wondered how Jeffrey would relate the story and how she would figure into it. She saw the printed column in her mind’s eye: “An unknown male youth alerted the Fox to suspicious shadows in the cemetery…” She amused herself for several moments speculating on all the possible ways the story could be written up, and wondered if Jeffrey would recount it as accurately as she could.

  An alley connected Katherine’s backyard with the yard of her closest neighbor to the north. Armande used this approach to the house and let Anne down just outside the far gate, keeping his horse and himself well-hidden from view behind a full-leaved hickory tree. He kept astride the horse, handing down a small container. “Take this paste and apply it to your clean wound every night and every morning.”

  “Thank you, Armande.”

  He shrugged. “For what?”

  “For being my friend today. For trying to reassure me”—she grinned ruefully—“even though you told me nothing.”

  Armande doffed his floppy-brimmed farmer’s hat, sweeping it in grand and gallant fashion. He smiled warmly. “Au revoir, mademoiselle, till we meet again.”

  Anne lifted a hand in farewell, her heart touched yet saddened by his parting words. Till we meet again. Renard had not said those words to her last night, and he hadn’t even left a single word of farewell, of love, or even of friendship with Armande to pass on to her. Anne’s spirits flagged.

  She watched him ride away, then turned reluctantly to the gate that led into Aunt Katherine’s well-kept, inviting backyard. She’d spent many happy, reclusive hours there. Today she was entering it a changed person. She’d never be happy again until she was reunited with her love. She hoped that didn’t mean she was condemned to a lifetime of unhappiness.

  But while she was left in doubt about his feelings for her, she had no doubts about her feelings for him. She loved him, and she’d spend every waking hour worrying about him. The appearance of those bounty hunters last night suggested that Renard’s operation was hardly impenetrable. Someone was leaking information. Who was the snitch? she wondered.

  Suddenly extremely exhausted, Anne wended her slow way up the red brick walkway to the back entrance of her aunt’s house. Glancing up at the windows she knew belonged to Uncle Reggie’s bedchamber, she thanked Providence that he wasn’t an early riser.

  Reggie hadn’t slept a wink all night. He’d risen early, far earlier than his usual hour, dressed, and wandered outside to sit on a marble bench under one of Katherine’s banana trees. He was bedeviled by the most ludicrous thoughts, romantic thoughts, the sort of thoughts he’d never expected to take root in a head as hardened as his was to such fanciful notions. And worse still, Katherine Grimms—the cane-swinging, liberated female with a voice like fingernails on a schoolchild’s slate board, and with the bearing of a navy admiral commandeering a fleet of battleships—was the center of all these tender feelings.

  In spite of himself, Reggie smiled. Last night, when she had swooned, he’d had the English starch scared out of him. He realized that he would be devastated if something happened to Katherine, and his nurtured dislike for her had disappeared like morning mist in the path of the climbing sun. He admitted it; he liked Katherine Grimms very much. Very much indeed. Now, what was he going to do about it?

  Reggie brooded. He looked for answers in the Eden-like paradise of Katherine’s yard. It was not yet seven o’clock in the morning and mid-November, but the air was warm and sweet with the scent of a hundred flowers and fruit trees. The chirps and whistles of birds echoed in the tall trees that were scattered harum-scarum over the three or four acres that made up the Grimms estate. Now he better understood why Anne liked sitting out here on Sundays.

  Anne? Had he conjured her up? No, because if he had, she’d not be dressed like a man, nor would she have a bandage tied around her head and a stricken look on her face at the sight of him. She had just walked around the edge of a profusion of bushes, apparently from the back of the yard. He sat in a copse of sorts, surrounded by trees and vegetation, not easily seen from any direction. Finding him there well before his usual hour of rising had obviously given his niece a shock.

  “Uncle Reggie?”

  He braced himself. What mischief had she gotten herself into this time? “The very same, Anne. Whom did you expect?”

  “N-no one,” she stuttered. “But least of all you.”

  “Come closer, Anne,” he said softly. “How have you hurt yourself, child? It can’t be a mortal wound,” he added grimly. “I see you’re still walking.”

  He expected her to take him to task for calling her “child,” but she didn’t. And, indeed, she was no child. Watching her cross the few feet that separated them, he was struck anew with how womanly she really was, despite her masculine apparel. He was trying not to overreact to her odd appearance and behavior, or assume the worst possible explanation for her wandering in the yard at seven o’clock in the morning. But the closer she got, the more clearly he could see that she was extremely upset about something. His protective instincts reared up.

  He scooted along the bench, ma
king room for her to sit beside him. As she sat down, he took her hand in his. “Good God, Anne, what’s happened to you?”

  Anne lifted her downcast eyes and looked earnestly at him. He speculated that she might be deciding how much to tell him. Her eyes were very clear and blue. Again he was arrested with the notion that she’d suddenly grown into a woman, seemingly overnight. She sighed heavily. “I was thinking of lying, but I’ve decided to tell the truth. I did something very foolish last night. I went to see Renard.”

  Reggie could not immediately respond. He knew she was smitten with the outlaw, but he’d taken it for granted that she had far too much common sense to actually seek out Renard’s dangerous company. He cleared his throat, but his voice still had a telltale rasp in it when he said with deceptive calm, “I must have misunderstood you. You can’t have gone alone to that outlaw’s lair.”

  “I didn’t go to his lair,” she asserted, lifting her chin a fraction. “I’m not a complete dolt.” She got an odd look about her then, which Reggie was terribly afraid meant that though she’d not set out to go to his lair at the beginning, she’d certainly ended up there. “Jeffrey had been given a tip about Renard’s next escape plan. I got enough information out of him to establish the approximate time the escape would take place. I stationed myself outside Jeffrey’s boardinghouse and waited till he came out, then secretly followed him to the rendezvous point.”

  “What happened at the rendezvous point? Did Renard show up?”

  “Yes.” She ducked her head, her eyes fixed on her hands, the long, slim fingers splayed over her knees. “Do you think you would be willing to wait for further explanations, Uncle Reggie? You can read all about it in the Picayune. Jeffrey saw it all. There will be plenty of details.” She made a trembling smile. “Just insert my name in the part played by the ‘young man.’”

  “How can you ask me to wait, Anne? You’ve been injured, and I don’t even know how and by whom! Who bandaged you? Did anyone—” He blushed with embarrassment and bottled fury. “Did anyone take advantage of you?” He thought he’d burst a blood vessel when Anne blushed a most revealing, gloriously female shade of rose. “If that outlaw laid a finger on you—!”