Chapter One
Ryan Tremayne’s first awareness when he opened his eyes that morning was how his head was pounding like a blacksmith’s anvil.
The next thing he noticed was the very naked woman sleeping beside him.
She made a purring noise and snuggled closer but did not open her eyes.
Slowly, through the throbbing pain in his temples, it came back to him—how the evening before, he and his cousin, Corbett, had ventured from the boundaries of Paris to the district of Montparnasse and the many cabarets there. They had gorged themselves with rich French cuisine—boeuf bouguignon—casseroled beef with onions and mushrooms cooked in a red Burgundy wine—and gratin dauphinois—sliced potatoes baked with cream and grated cheese.
And, of course, they had sampled several varieties of wine, the French national drink. Riesling from the Alsace Valley, Pouilly-Fuissé from the Bordeaux region, and Champagne, perfected by the seventh-century monk, Dom Pérignon.
Somewhere along the way, they had met two lovely files dejoie who had topped off the pleasured night like a wickedly irresistible dessert.
Just then the woman’s fingers danced across his flat belly to trail downward and between his legs.
Ryan felt a warm stirring in his loins, and, if not for his headache, would have pleasured her—and himself—one more time. Hell, he couldn’t even remember her name but fuzzily recalled that they’d had themselves quite a tumble.
He carefully extricated himself from her caress, and, despite a dizzy lurch, managed to sit up on the side of the bed.
He glanced about at the opulent furnishings of the room he’d not bothered to notice the night before. The bed was set aside in an alcove, like an altar. A white silk rug covered the steps leading up. Four grand columns, entwined with garlands of myrtle and ivy, supported the bed’s fancy canopy. The sides were hung with rich silk curtains, embroidered in a design of rose clusters. Elsewhere there seemed endless carvings of doves and cupids amidst the gold, marble, and crystal furnishings.
Ryan took comfort that he and Corbett had, despite how they had been drinking, managed to avoid becoming involved with les insoumises—common streetwalkers. It appeared the women had led them to a high-class bordello. No doubt it came with a price to match, but money was one of the few problems Ryan did not have.
He stood uneasily, then, relieved the room did not start spinning, went to the window and drew back the heavy drapes.
Below, all was quiet on the rue de la Gaite which was the center of the district’s nightlife. Looking to the west, he calculated by the angle of the sun streaming down upon the tombstones and monuments of the Cimetière de Montparnasse that he had slept most of the morning.
It was time for him to be on his way, regardless of how bad he felt. He had not come to France for a holiday. His purpose was to buy coveted French Anglo-Arab horses for breeding at BelleRose, the family plantation in America. To do so, he would have to travel to the province of western France called Touraine. He was looking forward to the trip, for the valley of the Loire River was renowned for its scenic beauty in addition to fine grazing land for horses.
A pitcher, basin, and soap were on a sideboard. While he bathed, he wondered where Corbett was and hoped he was also awake and getting dressed. Ryan had hired a coach to take them to the town of Charires, and they were due to leave at noon. If they kept to schedule they would arrive by dark and could spend the next day visiting horse farms.
His clothes had been neatly folded on a chair but reeked of perfume and wine. He would have to change once he got back to the hotel.
After pulling on fawn-colored breeches, Ryan yanked on his white pleated shirt, tucked in the tail, and reached for his coat.
Suddenly long, slender arms reached from behind to wrap about his waist.
“There is no need for you to leave, monsieur.”
“I wish I didn’t have to.” He reached in his pocket, took out his soft roll, and counted out five thousand francs. He couldn’t remember whether they had agreed on a price earlier but figured that was more than enough.
She smiled at the amount. She laid it on the sideboard, then pressed against him once more. “Even if you weren’t so generous, I would let you stay as long as you want, for free. It was wonderful. You were wonderful. It’s always just business for me, but with you, it was a pleasure.”
Ryan was glad to hear it. He always tried to satisfy the women he bedded. And he owed that to Jessamine Darcy. A Richmond whore, he had gone to her for his first sexual experience when he was only fourteen. She had taken a fancy to him, and for a long time after that, she took him to her bed without charge and taught him everything she knew. And the most important lesson he could learn, she said, was to never be a selfish lover. When a woman was satisfied, Jessamine avowed, there was nothing she wouldn’t do for her man—in bed or out.
Reluctantly, he pulled from her twining arms. “I enjoyed it, too, and maybe I’ll see you again before I leave Paris.” He knew there was little chance of that—not with so many other beautiful women around. He kissed her cheek.
“Now, do you know where I can find the man who was with me last night?”
Her mouth was curved in a disappointed pout to see him go. “The second door on the right. He’s with Charmaine.”
As Ryan had feared, Corbett wasn’t awake. He’d had to pound on the door to get any response from Charmaine. He told her to tell Corbett he’d be waiting for him and to hurry up.
The parlor downstairs was empty. Evidently business was slow before noon on Sundays. Ryan paced about anxiously, paying no attention to the garishness of the decor nor the pretty women passing through ever so often in their revealing negligees.
Maybe he should not have indulged in revelry the night before, but he was not quite thirty years old and enjoyed an adventuresome, albeit sometimes reckless, lifestyle. His father, Roussel Tremayne, was urging him to marry a woman of French birth and settle down. He had warned he would disinherit him otherwise and leave BelleRose to Corbett. Corbett was like a second son and had found additional favor in Roussel’s eyes by taking a French wife—Clarice—and producing a son. They all lived in the mansion, which Clarice oversaw ever since Ryan’s mother’s death some years earlier.
Corbett had assured Ryan he was happy with the way things were. The last thing he wanted, he said, was to see Ryan disinherited. That was why, Corbett emphasized, he and Clarice wanted him to marry Clarice’s cousin, Denise. Then they would all be one big, happy family, living under the same roof.
Ryan had never particularly liked sharing the house with Clarice. She could be a witch at times. But Corbett didn’t seem to mind.
Ryan believed Denise would look upon sex as her duty and something to be endured in order to have children. He had dared to want more than that in a wife, things like passion, romance, and excitement, all of which were highly unlikely with Denise. But he supposed he would do as so many other men—take a mistress. So, yielding to family pressure, he had proposed the night before he left for France.
However, much to his surprise, Denise had said no.
Ryan had been stunned. He wasn’t the conceited sort but had thought she would leap at the chance to marry him. After all, he was one of the most eligible bachelors around and also had great family wealth.
At first, he had been downhearted. Corbett tried to cheer him by saying Denise was only teasing him. Clarice, who knew her better than anyone, said she was probably wanting to make Ryan miserable so he would cut his trip short and return to Richmond to persuade her to change her mind. Clarice also said she thought Denise was angry with him for going to a romantic place like Paris without her. He should have waited and taken her on her honeymoon. But Ryan had already planned the trip before he proposed and would have had
to delay it longer than he wanted in order to take her.
He could believe what Clarice said about Denise was true. She could be quite cunning. But once he reached Paris, he stopped worrying about it as he began to enjoy all the pleasures the exciting city had to offer.
Now he fumed to think how he was ready to get down to the business of buying horses, only Corbett was delaying things by taking his time leaving a woman’s bed. He supposed Corbett felt like a young colt turned out to run in a pasture, because Clarice kept a tight rein on him back home. He could not even keep a mistress, because Clarice watched him like a hawk. It was only occasionally that he was able to escape for a night of forbidden pleasure, and then he used Ryan as a cover—much to Ryan’s annoyance.
It was almost half an hour before Corbett came running down the steps, face flushed, shirt unbuttoned, and coat slung over his arm. He was grinning. “Sorry, but I had a bit of trouble getting away.”
“And we’re going to have trouble getting back to the hotel in time. I told you we have to leave by noon if we’re to make Chartres by dark.”
Corbett yanked on his coat and fastened his shirt buttons as he followed Ryan out the door. “Don’t worry. I’m right behind you.”
“There are no buggies for hire,” Ryan grumbled. “No one wants to work on Sunday.”
“It’s not a long walk—twenty or thirty minutes. We can make it.”
“Oh, I’m going to make it.” Ryan spoke over his shoulder as he began to take long strides. “And if you don’t, you can stay behind.”
Corbett snickered. “That might not be a bad idea. Charmaine invited me back, even said she wouldn’t charge me her regular price. And she was fantastic, Ryan. Huge breasts and a nice, round ass, and…”
Ryan ignored him. He never talked about his women and didn’t care to hear about Corbett’s. Quickening his pace, Corbett had a hard time keeping up with him while jabbering and soon fell silent.
Actually, there was a lot Ryan didn’t like about his cousin, but they seldom had words, and, all in all, got along well. Corbett’s father, Lamar, had been Roussel’s only brother. When he and his wife were killed in a carriage accident the year Corbett was sixteen, Roussel had taken him in.
Despite the rush and being annoyed, Ryan did not fail to notice the beauty around him. It was spring, and the warmth of the day was sending waves up from the pavement. Tables grew like sudden moss on the rocks of the streets outside the cafes. Lovers, under the spell of the magic season, embraced in passion on benches along the way. Flower vendors quietly offered their perfumed blossoms, and proud parents ventured out with their newborns in buggies.
In the distance, church bells pealed, calling the faithful to worship. That meant it was not quite noon, and Ryan dared hope they could keep on schedule.
“I say let the blasted carriage wait,” Corbett called from behind, gasping. “You’re paying him to oblige us, remember?”
“I’m paying him to have us in Chartres by dark, but we won’t make it before dark tomorrow if you don’t hurry up.”
“You know, you’re not usually so grumpy. It’s only been since Denise set you on your ear by turning you down. I say forget Chartres, forget the horses, and let’s book passage on the first ship from Le Havre and get you home so you can change her mind. Maybe then you’ll be fit company.”
But again, Ryan was not listening to him, because something ahead had suddenly caught his eye.
Angele Benet did not like stealing, especially in the shadows of a church, which made it seem even more of a sin. But she was homeless and hungry. Two months earlier, her mother had died. Now Angele was an orphan and struggling to survive by any means necessary.
Neither did she want to rob elderly ladies, but she was afraid to try stronger targets for fear of being overpowered. And jail was the last place she wanted to go. So she preyed on the women on their way to morning mass at the convent chapel of the Abbaye Val-de-Grâce.
Darting out of the thick shrubs lining the walkway, Angele would snatch a reticule, then flee. Her victims never gave pursuit, either too frightened or too frail.
There was never much money. A few francs to buy a loaf of bread and some fruit, enough to keep her from starving.
She had been crouched in her hiding place for nearly a half hour, waiting to catch someone alone. So far the women had walked in pairs or more. She was about to give up, despite how her stomach rumbled with hunger, when she spied a late arrival hurrying along as fast as her feeble legs would carry her.
Angele made ready. She had the act down to a fine art and knew exactly how to snatch the reticule without knocking her victim down. She did not want to hurt anyone and sometimes even apologized for robbing them.
The woman was upon her. Angele leaped forward to grab the small lacework bag, then took off running as the woman screamed in outrage.
Ryan saw the scruffy young boy just as he leaped from the hedging. It was obvious what he was up to, but Ryan was too far away to do anything except yell.
Ryan reached the woman, who stopped screaming when he clutched her shoulders and quickly asked if she were hurt.
She was shaken and angry but said no harm was done. He ordered Corbett, catching up to him, to stay with her. “I’m going after him.”
“It’s no use,” the woman called as he took off. “He’s headed for the catacombs. You’ll never find him down there.”
Ryan had heard about the city’s network of tunnels belowground. Once the site of Roman stone quarries, they were now haven for the homeless…as well as the thieves and scalawags of Paris. But he had never been the sort to give up, and kept on going, undaunted.
He could see the boy in the distance, rounding the corner of the Place Denfert-Rochereau. He was not very tall and dressed in rags. He was also holding his tattered knit cap on his head as though it was his most prized possession. Then he reached the entrance to the catacombs and disappeared inside.
Ryan was right behind but skidded to a stop as two burly-looking men stepped from the shadows to block his way. One held a knife and the other, a big stick.
Ryan’s wild streak had landed him in the middle of a few brawls in the past. He knew how to fight, and, with no time to waste, reacted quickly. A chopping blow to the throat of the one holding the knife made him drop the weapon and fall to his knees gasping for breath. Snatching the stick from the other, Ryan rendered a blow across his chest that sent him also crumpling to the ground.
The fight gone out of them, the men began scrambling toward the bushes and escape, but Ryan let them go as he plunged into the catacombs.
He could hear the boy running in the distance and cursed to think he might lose him. There were probably tunnels going in every direction, and if he weren’t careful, he could wind up lost in the bowels of the earth. But the boy was probably as familiar with the catacombs as the rats that skittered across his feet.
Finally, Ryan knew he had to turn back. He was running in pitch darkness, bumping into rock walls as the path twisted and turned.
Then he heard a splashing sound and a yelp. Rushing ahead, he nearly stumbled over the boy, who had slipped and fallen in the slimy water. “I’ve got you, damn you.” He groped for, and found, the nape of his neck and jerked him to his feet. “You’re coming with me, and you better not give me any trouble.”
Angele was not about to surrender. She swung at the man holding her and connected her fist to his jaw, but the blow was glancing. He easily caught her arm to pin it behind her back with a painful twist. She bit her lip against the pain as he began shoving her along.
“I ought to wring your scrawny neck,” Ryan muttered as he headed for the light in the distance. “You’ve made me good and late, damn you. And I’ll have to throw these clothes away. They’re ruined.”
Angele did not speak. She was biding her time. Her arm was hurting terribly because of the way he was holding her, but she was not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. As for his clothes, it served him right. He should
have to sleep in the catacombs and go days without eating, and then he would know what true misery was.
Once they stepped outside, she came alive. Catching him off guard, she tore from his grasp and bolted for the shrubs. But Ryan was quick and sprang after her. They both stumbled and fell to the ground in a heap. “You just won’t learn, will you? I’ve a mind to—”
Ryan froze. He had rolled on top to grasp the front of the boy’s shirt to give him a sound shake to set his teeth rattling, only it was not a boy’s chest he felt. His hands were closed about her breasts—small but firm breasts that had been concealed under bulky clothing.
He was holding a woman.
His gaze crept upward. Her cap had fallen off, and when she gave her long, thick mane of coal-black hair an arrogant toss, he was suddenly, strangely, reminded of the same spunk he had seen in wild, untamed colts. No matter she was no longer free. Her spirit was yet unbridled.
She glared up at him with eyes the color of warm cognac, aflame with her rage. Her coat had fallen open, and her bosom was heaving. His palms rested against her nipples, and despite the bizarre circumstances, Ryan felt himself becoming aroused.
To avoid embarrassment, he rolled to one side but slid his hands down, grasping her waist to keep her from getting away. “Why, you’re nothing but a girl. What the hell are you doing robbing old ladies?”
“I was hungry,” she said in French. “Something you would never understand.” She gave her hair another insolent toss, then nodded to the stolen reticule on the ground nearby. “I haven’t opened it. Take it and let me go.”
She was not pleading. Ryan sensed it was not her nature to do so. That was probably what had driven her to steal rather than beg like other paupers—pride, as well as stubbornness.
“And if I do, what then? Will you keep on robbing old ladies?”
Her laugh was bitter. “Which do you prefer—that I steal a few francs or starve to death? But maybe you think I should walk the streets instead.”
It was Ryan’s turn to laugh. “From what I felt, I think you’re more suitable for a rich man’s courtesan.”
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