Time for Eternity

by Susan Squires

  He turned. Dear God. Shocking. Yet not shocking at all. More … intriguing. A throbbing began between her thighs.

  “Was this what you wanted?” His tone was calm, bored even. Well, it wasn’t as if he needed to be embarrassed by his body. That seemed a very fine specimen. As if she knew anything about men’s bodies. And yet she did know this man’s body. The black hair on his broad chest, the small dark nipples, peaked just now, the veins that fed his biceps, the bands of muscle over his abdomen, the bulge of his upper arm, all seemed incredibly familiar. She resolved not to stare at the most interesting part of all. At least not for long. But she didn’t have to. She knew that the vee of hair pointing downward led to an organ that was most impressive. And it wasn’t even roused. She could picture it erect. Mother of Jesus. She’d never had thoughts as graphic as these. She was getting wet.

  She tore her gaze away from him. But it only landed on the bed. And she thought of that naked body lying in that bed, tangled in the sheets, with a woman. With her. Kissing her, stroking her, gently, as though she were a treasured possession to be cared for … loved …

  She shook her head, took a breath, and turned back to him. He didn’t care for anyone, least of all her. She wanted to tell him that he must use his influence with Robespierre to save Madame. But she couldn’t make her throat move. He was becoming aroused, that much was evident. She wanted to run from the room. But she also wanted to stay. He was dangerous. Not only to her virginity, but also to her soul. She felt it. Part of her knew everything and was screaming to her to protect herself. And part of her knew nothing, and was just rebellious enough to want to know everything.

  Well, it hadn’t taken her long to throw herself at him. He couldn’t quite figure her out. The blush had certainly been maidenly. But then there was her frank appraisal of his endowments. As though she were most familiar with men and their parts. Still, she had grown uncomfortable and turned away. But as she stared at his bed he could see her considering all the games one might play in bed together. And he started thinking about that too. Mistake. She might be wearing that sooty, tawdry dress but he could still see the curves she had displayed last night in that blue dress he’d had made for … for whatever her name was. This girl’s body was petite but lush. He could feel himself growing tight and heavy, the ache beginning that signaled some desire that would never be fulfilled, no matter that he spent himself in a woman. He smelled the musk of her own desire on her. He could always smell when they lusted after him.

  She turned back. And he thought her reaction to his coming erection would tell him whether she was bawd or innocent. It didn’t. Her eyes were the strangest mixture of naïve shock and experienced appreciation. He stared in fascination. Some part of her might almost be as cynical, as damaged, as he was himself. And yet there was a halo of hopefulness that still believed in new possibilities hanging around the edges of her eyes. Innocent? Or worldlier than anyone else he had ever known? Which was she? What was she?

  Sacredieu, she was his ward. What was he thinking? “Vous permettez?” He glanced to his robe pooled over a chair.

  She came to herself and nodded convulsively.

  He reached for his dressing gown and shrugged into it. He pulled the belt ruthlessly around his waist to cover his erection, which might not be increasing since he had realized she was his ward, but was not exactly subsiding either.

  The girl was trying to find her voice. To his surprise, he wondered exactly what she would say. He had long ago ceased to find humanity a surprise.

  “I went to visit Madame LaFleur today. I finally found her in the Conciergerie.” She said it as though it were a challenge.

  “You what?” Surprise indeed. She’d combed the prisons for her friend? That took courage. She might also have ruined his efforts to save her by associating with the old woman.

  “The conditions are appalling.”

  As he knew only too well. “I am aware.”

  “Illness may take her before she can be guillotined.” Her eyes welled with tears again.

  Spare me tears, he thought, grimacing. He’d seen enough tears, both crocodile and real, that he never wanted to see more in his lifetime.

  “You could help her. I know you could.”

  The damnable part was that he was probably the only person in Paris besides Robespierre or his hell-spawned bitch who could, though not the way the girl thought. “You think I am someone I am not.” He made his voice hold finality and a hint of derision.

  “Someone who has influence, or someone who will care enough to try?” she challenged.

  She was persistent. “Your choice,” he murmured. He made his eyes bore into hers, telling her his heart was stone, making her believe his refusal as no protestation could. That would stop her.

  “You can sit by with your salt and well water and your brandy and lift not even a finger to relieve the suffering around you?”

  “I lifted a finger to save you,” he reminded her gently. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  She swallowed. She’d heard the threat in what he said. That would do it. “And me, I am grateful. But you could do more. What kind of a man are you, that you will not even try?”

  He retreated behind a mask. She challenged him after he’d threatened her? “No kind of man at all.” He let his voice drip boredom. A monster, maybe, a freak, but not a man.

  “You have influence with Robespierre. I saw it. The most he can say is no.”

  She didn’t understand. The old woman was long past using influence. Robespierre would never let her go once she was in prison. That would give the other prisoners hope. The only way she could be saved was the way he saved the others. But the old woman didn’t fit the pattern. That would draw attention to her. And she was his neighbor. They would connect him to her. Trying to save her would jeopardize all his work for the others. He half wanted to explain to the girl. Surprising. He couldn’t of course. “The cost would be too great.”

  “What cost?” she pressed. “To your pride? A small price on the whole.”

  “What do you know of cost?”

  That expression of lurking pain that said she knew … everything, just as he did, crossed her face. And then the innocence prevailed. “I am not experienced, as you are.” She was embarrassed by her innocence. He saw her gather herself and resolve to press her case. “But I know the cost. Madame’s life. Your soul may have many stains on it, Monsieur le Duc, but that only means it cannot stand another.”

  A perspective that could only be held by someone young. “You know nothing of stained souls.”

  “But I do.” She looked surprised at herself and then her eyes unfocused as she looked within. “You become disconnected from humanity. You believe you are different, a monster even, and then, because you cannot change anything you have done, or felt, or been, your only choice is to become numb to others’ pain. Because if you can’t become numb to their pain, you will never be numb to your own, and that, in the end is the best you can hope for.”

  He blinked. Then he cleared his throat. “If that is what you think, how … how could you believe that I would trouble myself over someone else’s pain?”

  She frowned, puzzling over it.

  Yes, my pretty one, that is your problem in convincing me, is it not? And mine in finding a way to live with this burden I have become to myself.

  “Because,” she said slowly, “I think the only way you can overcome what you have done to yourself, and to others, is to resolve to leave yourself open to yet more damage. Yes. Resolve. That is the only cure.” He frowned. Resolve was what he had used to banish his own demons for centuries. She looked up at him. “Can that be right?” She was innocent enough to admit she wasn’t sure. And experienced enough to know everything. How was that possible?

  “No. It can’t.” He couldn’t take any more of this. “Now, will you leave me to my bath?”

  She was still musing to herself. “But I think it can.” She glanced up at him and shrugged a smile. “You must see that
if I believe one must resolve to overcome cynicism and be open to the world and all it can do to one, then I must believe you will help me in spite of your nature, and resolve to see that you do. Which means I’m not going anywhere without your promise.”

  He sighed in exasperation. “I shall discuss this with you over dinner. Not while I’m taking a bath. Is that enough of a promise?”

  She curtsied, the corners of her mouth hinting at a smile, and slid out the door.

  Hell and damnation. What kind of a chameleon had he brought into his house? And how the hell did she know him so well?

  He strode downstairs half an hour later. He could take no pleasure in his bath. Not when he kept remembering how she had looked at the bed. Or replaying in his mind her tenuous exposition of the exact mental process he had been going through in the last years as he tried to find meaning in his life. The fact that touching her the other night had raised a cockstand on the spot was only because he had not assuaged his Companion’s need for sex of late. Nothing more. His hair was now ruthlessly brushed into a simple queue. Drummond had worked his magic on the coat and he had tied his own cravat in record time.

  The amazing thing was that he was going to do something very stupid tonight. It might cut short his usefulness and make Paris impossible for him.

  And if he lost his purpose, he might just lose his soul. So why was he going to do it? Because she challenged him? Or was it because she seemed to think one could find hope in spite of how much damage years, and alienation, could inflict on one?

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew better. And yet he was going to get the old woman out for her. He was not going to tell the girl what he was doing. That would only add to the danger. She’d not have to know his part in the thing at all. So, he’d just put the girl off tonight and avoid her until the thing was done. He’d have to spend all his time away from home. Merde.

  He pushed into the library. She was already there, reading a book, still wearing that awful dress. Which reminded him …

  “Gaston tells me you missed an appointment with La Fanchon today.”

  She looked guilty. “I apologize for that. I was distracted when Gaston told me the time, and it took me all afternoon to get into the prison to visit Madame once I’d found her.”

  “You have no idea how large my order will have to be to smooth her ruffled feathers.” He strode to the sideboard where the brandy was set out and poured a glass. Gaston had set out ratafia as well. He lifted the decanter and offered it to the girl. She shook her head.

  “No, thank you.”

  “You will perhaps deign to let her attend you tomorrow?” He raised his brows pointedly.

  She was positively pretty when she was embarrassed. “I … I had hoped to visit Madame again and take her something more useful than my comfort.” She squared her shoulders. “I don’t need clothing. If your grace could perhaps loan me a small amount of the money that would have gone to dresses, I could bribe the guards to get in with some food and perhaps a blanket for her.”

  He set his lips. “I’ll not have you looking like … like a street urchin.”

  She looked down at her dress and swallowed hard. “Well, perhaps one new dress.”

  “One?” The girl was impossible. “You really must think of my reputation.” He lifted one hand to forestall her protestations. “You will be given an allowance which is yours to spend as you will, on bribes and blankets even. But tomorrow you will wait on La Fanchon.”

  He could see she wanted to protest. It was killing her not to tell him she would do as she liked and his priorities were topsy-turvy. But she couldn’t be ungrateful, and he wasn’t asking much. The dialogue with herself was clearly going on in her eyes. Finally she bit her lip. “Of course, your grace.”

  He nodded approval. “Wise decision.” He downed his brandy. “Now, I find I must go out for the evening.”

  “But you promised that you would discuss helping Madame with me over dinner.”

  “Did I? I can’t recall. Well, we will talk about it sometime very soon.”

  She surprised him by rising and striding over to stand much too close to him, her eyes snapping in anger. “Don’t you dare try to wriggle out of a promise by pretending to forget.”

  Caught. But he couldn’t tell her his plan. When she made it to the Conciergerie and found Madame escaped, she’d best think it had nothing to do with one Henri Foucault.

  “I’ll talk about it when I choose to talk about it, dear girl.” That would madden her. It couldn’t be helped. “And right now I choose to have a peaceful dinner far away from talk of Madame LaFleur and Robespierre and prisons and executions.” He sighed with what he hoped was long-suffering boredom.

  “You are absolutely … hopeless.”

  True. Hope had gone out of his life a long time ago. And he was mad to even think she could bring it back. “Agreed,” he murmured as he set his glass down. “I shall discuss this with you when you are dressed in a way that does not offend my every sensibility.” And with that, he walked out, leaving her sputtering. Not kind, but necessary.

  The stone walls of the Conciergerie loomed over him in the darkness. A little after one in the morning. The guards would be bored and getting drowsy. The better to think they’d been dreaming if one chanced to see the act itself. He sidled up to the guardhouse. He could hear them playing cards. Hell, he could smell them, even over the stink of the place. Everything smelled like a republic rotting from within to him these days.

  “Who has drawn making the next round?” one asked.

  “Denny.”

  “Me? You jest, cur. I just did it last hour.”

  “And lost the last hand at piquet, no?”

  “I was sure we said it was to be the one who lost the next hand.”

  “Mes amies? Next hand?”

  “Last hand.” This from several voices.

  Grumbling. Denny would be Henri’s mark. Keys clinked being removed from the wall. Peering through the great iron grate that served the old palace as a portcullis Henri saw him start out the back of the guardhouse. He headed down some stairs.

  Henri drew his power and watched the red film pour down over his field of vision. The whirling blackness swept up to engulf him. Then the familiar pain seared through him and he was through the portcullis. He made no sound at the pain transporting caused. He had grown inured to pain after all these centuries. He moved silently down the stone staircase, following the glow of the guard’s lantern, but well back, in the shadows.

  The stairs opened out into the huge Romanesque crypts. He remembered when they had housed the stables for Henri IV’s army back in the 1500s. Bobbing ahead was the circle of light. He could hear the guard’s noisy breathing and the echoing clip of his boot heels. The faint noise of the cells began to grow. He quickened his pace into a narrow corridor.

  Denny whistled, perhaps to keep away the dark, so he was caught unawares when Henri pulled him around. He stared straight into Henri’s red eyes. Fear bloomed in his expression then faded as Henri held him immobile by the force of his will and the power of his Companion.

  “Madame LaFleur. An old woman. You know her? She was brought in yesterday.”

  The man nodded, all expression absent from his eyes.

  “Take me to her cell.”

  The guard turned back down the hall. They passed several cells emitting the stench of human bodies not recently washed, piss, defecation, vomit, and the subtle sweetness of infection and death. He knew it well. He had been to these cells many times. So he ignored the supplicating hands, some holding letters they wished to get to loved ones on the outside, and the faces, some tearful, some stony and still, the eyes dead.

  The guard paused in front of the third cell and pointed. “In the back.”

  “Let me in.”

  The guard opened the small doorway in the larger iron grating without thought for whether anyone inside could overpower him and get out. The guard locked the door. Henri turned to him and whispered, “You will reme
mber nothing.”

  Then he let him go. He watched Denny shake his head as though to clear the cobwebs from it then shrug and continue on his rounds.

  Henri turned into the cell and swept his crimson gaze around the dazed prisoners. “I am not here. You will remember nothing.”

  They took no notice of him, but went on with whatever they had been doing. They parted as crowds always parted for his kind. He strode to Madame LaFleur, letting his power slide back down his veins. So it was an ordinary duc she saw inside her cell.

  She raised eyes that were very wise for one who had lived only a single lifetime and smiled. “Françoise sent you.”

  It wasn’t a question. And it was the truth. He wouldn’t be here without the girl’s prodding. “I’ve come to get you out of here.”

  “How?” she asked.

  He wouldn’t answer that. He examined her carefully. She might be old, but she looked healthy enough, if a little drawn about the mouth and eyes. Spending a night and a day in the Conciergerie would do that to one. “It will involve a little pain.” He smiled. “Can you bear it?”

  She nodded and a roguish twinkle came into her eyes. “The alternative has a little pain involved as well.” She looked around. “The others …”

  “No.” He cut her speculation short. “Only you.”

  She drew herself up. “There is a man with a child here. Take them instead of me.”

  A family? He hadn’t noticed. He looked around now. No one paid attention to him. There they were. A man in his early thirties and a boy of perhaps three.

  He turned back to the old woman. “I’ll come back for them. But first you, or Françoise will never forgive me.” As if he cared for her forgiveness. But the old woman didn’t need to know he was lying.

  “You are not who we thought you were.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and drew his power. The world went red again. She lifted her face to his in question as the blackness began to whirl around them both. She would feel the thrumming energy racing through her. As she saw his red eyes, her own opened wide in astonishment. The blackness engulfed them. Pain struck through him. He heard her scream.