Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “Forgive me,” Etienne nodded in his direction, and then coughed delicately, speaking abruptly in English. “And forgive my sister, she is but a child and does not know when to be silent.” As though a grave insult had been offered, the girl’s smile faded, and for a small moment her gaze was hard on her brother. But in profile James could see the truth of Etienne’s statement all the more clearly. Her skin had the high colour of youth, a light where inside of her that had not yet been dimmed. A few years beyond Ben’s age at most, though he thought she might be striving to appear older.

  “My Lady.” Uncertain on what to say, James greeted her quietly, holding out a hand, and then pulling it back, only to extend it once more when she held hers up for him to take, the gesture so exquisite that James almost hesitated again. The last woman he had spent any time with at all had beenL’Aranha, and her hands were a hundred times harder and quicker than his own.

  His face heated, unexpectedly caught by the memory of the lady Mirena’s hands passing over him only hours ago, to hold him still she had claimed. He had not moved until her needle had first pierced the flesh of his ear, and even then it had been due to the heavy breath at his neck, and tickling of blood on his skin as her gift to him, a small, gold circle, had settled. The weight was greater than he had thought, a constant tug at a spot that still pained him, and James blinked and focused in a slight panic onMademoiselle Suzette in front of him, on the black eyes that seemed to read his thoughts. They traveled to his ear, studying the ring in obvious fascination.

  “What have you brought me, Etienne?” the lady breathed, for all her years sounding like a willful child. James could feel his face growing as hot as the throbbing flesh of his earlobe. Much too late to hide his clumsiness, he took her hand, bending over it briefly and then letting go as he straightened. If he had erred there was no sign on the lady’s face now, only a sharpness that he thought he should not have noticed behind the perfume and rice powder. He was not meant to notice, as he was not meant to notice the lack of furnishings and the darkness, as he was not meant to notice how the lady glanced about, watchful and frightened. He would not have noticed before René.

  “Have you found what you thought to find here, James?” With his head to the side, Etienne was again the creature from Jamaica, beautiful and teasing. Jesu, how such artifice had worked then, how it had left James excited and too confused to wonder for long about what lay beneath it.

  James glanced to Etienne, and found Saint-Cyr looking at him as well, both of them silent, pretending that it was not strange for them to converse at all. James was a bookseller’s son at best, a pirate at worst. They knew who trespassed here, though neither spoke of it, and James did not possess the same skill at pretending.

  He should not have attempted it, but sought the cause. He should have gone to the first and dug until the truth poured out in crimson rivers.

  Even with remembered horror, he found his voice did not waver as he spoke. “And your father…?” “My Lord?” Faint, gasping words drew James’ attention to the same tall doors he and Etienne had stepped through only moments ago, and from the corners of his eyes he could see the Saint-Cyrs turning as well, the girl exclaiming softly at the sight of a dark-haired servant trying to pull away from the grip of a smaller man, the servant’s eyes wide on the blade shining in the man’s other hand.

  “ James ne sera pas tué!” René spat his words and then paused for breath, taking far too long to inhale before he spoke again, no hat or wig hiding his shorn head or white face, dotted with unnatural circles of red. “Meurtriers! Saint-Cyrvoleurs, you will not take this!” The crushing hold on the servant ended on the last word, the servant nearly falling to the floor before he stumbled from the room, doubtless seeking assistance in removing the madman invading the house, and James took a step toward René’s shaking figure, his mouth tightening when René turned the blade on him.

  A moment later, René’s black eyes were wide and the blade was lowered, his gaze seeking out James’ face and then shifting away, flinching when the bodies behind James moved. “Dogs,” René whispered, shaking his head and turning away from all of them. He looked up; following the velvet runner up the staircase and then swinging the longboucan back out.

  He held it still in the air, curving his wrist to expose the sharpest point of the blade. And then he licked his lips, breathing with his mouth open. The movements of his chest were visible even across the space of the room.

  James shook his head before he could form the words to plead with René to leave this place, already knowing it would do no good to speak to René of mercy.

  René’s arms seemed to tremble, and his shining, wet eyes darted in all directions.

  “Where is he?” he wondered, as though Etienne were not plain in front of him, and James swallowed his objection, his understanding. “Who?” It was the lady who spoke, barely breathing the word, and James imagined her eyes bright for René. He tried for a bare second to think of her as frightened, and found it odd he could not, when René had fear writ plain on his face.

  René Villon was afraid, though the man would deny it, though others who had never seen it might not see it now, the Devil’s Own was in terror of something here, in this house. True, it was the home of his enemy, but René had fought his enemies in close quarters on a ship, had fought a Judas over twice his size without the least quiver.

  Though René might deny this too, James had beheld the man’s face as he had dreamed in his fever, and the same gleam of tears gave René’s black eyes the brilliance of diamonds. Even the Lady Suzette could not compare. It would have been beautiful if the smell of death were not still fresh in James’ memory.

  “There is none here but us, René,” James spoke quietly though he had the urge to yell, watching René staying on his feet through will alone. The lady made a noise behind him, and René’s gaze dropped to them once more, flicking over Etienne and then settling on the lady Suzette with sudden concentration.

  “You are a child.” René’s voice was bare; his statement silly when the girl’s age was obvious, but not even Etienne dared to laugh. James heard a rustling, as though Suzette was moving, or being moved, and then Etienne was answering.

  “You did not kill me on your ship, pirate. Do you mean to kill me now?” Etienne would never have shown such contempt on that ship when a prisoner. James did not think accident that he revealed it now to draw René’s attention to him. He would defend his sister, for he loved her, and unlike so many who professed to, Etienne believed in honour. It had been obvious enough in his reddened cheeks.

  It was knowledge that Etienne had given James, mostly against his will, and James had the momentary, odd thought that all of those he cared about regarded such things as weakness. Mayhap they truly were.

  “I do not accept the challenges of a dog.” René hissed his hatred without taking his eyes from Suzette and then flinched slightly, his body twitching, weariness was taking its toll. “I would not issue a challenge to a common thief.” Etienne was sneering in that stranger’s voice, trying to match its arrogance when he lacked the strength, and James extended a hand. Though armed, Etienne was still weak, his body no doubt cramping with the pain of his captivity, his flesh pulling with sores.

  “René…” “You came here, with him.” At last René turned from the girl, and James found himself pinned by the same stare he had first seen on theQueen of Sheba. His heart seemed to stop its pounding and then resume with a terrible force that nearly made him raise a hand to his chest to try and slow it. “You let him go.” The nakedness left René’s voice for a moment. He seemed to realize what James had done even as he spoke the words.

  “Aye,” James answered, nodding slowly. He had known his betrayal would cut deep, even if René would not speak of what made his feelings so strong. But it had been right, and even a sinner like René Villon could be made to see that. This was no weakness.

  René shuddered, but did not lower his weapon. James could feel himself blinking, raising
his hand to his chest now to see if the organ still beat at all beneath his ribs. His foolish words above the bathing tub came back to him, and he nearly blushed at his arrogance in assuming René would not harm him because he had not thus far. Mayhap for anything else he would not have, but for this René would sell his very soul. Mayhap for this, René had already sold his soul.

  James was shaking his head before he would allow his mind to venture further on that idea. There was goodness in René, as innocent as any faith that Ben had ever had in him. James had heard it in René’s feverish ramblings, and he had seen it in the concerned eyes of René’s friends. He had bloody wellfelt it, in a single, soft touch along his jaw. It would not be lost to this, whatever purpose René kept to himself. His anger was more than worth that. He still possessed his soul, even if he was careless of its value.

  “So you would not have to,” James spoke softly, not wishing to see the hardness return to René’s eyes, as it would if he looked back on the others. “That was not my plan!” The boucan came down, but only as René’s other hand came up, a silent gesture of annoyance that James had before only seen directed at members of René’s crew. His lips tightened. He was not pleased to see René’s mouth in a line as well. “James!” René’s voice was so high it might as well have been a shriek, and James felt his lips parting, ready to say, as he had said before, that René had never told anyone his plan.

  “James?” Someone was speaking slowly at his left, hesitant and soft on his name but still clear. Strange that it should be clear when a sharp exclamation from behind him was loud enough to make him wince. But he had been trained some time ago to answer to that tone, that voice speaking his name, and James barely felt the gentle touch to his arm that accompanied it.

  He turned his head and then shut his mouth with a loud snap that should have pained him. Air rushed from his nostrils, and he let his mouth fall open once more only to draw in breath. His head felt light, his vision blurry but something solid building up inside of his chest.

  Drawing his brows together, James focused on the slender, white hand resting at his elbow, following the milky skin past the gracefully turned wrist until it disappeared beneath fine lace, and then he moved his gaze further up, into sharp, black eyes that softened quickly when the lady perceived his stare. She wore less paint than her brother, did not need it to make herself appear different than she was, but he understood the need.

  His eyes flicked back to Etienne, whose face seemed whiter than before, his mouth gaping as though the powder in the face paint had affected him. He was not happy that Suzette should touch James, or maybe that she was here at all with a crazed and armed René Villon so near to them.

  James smiled at the mad pressure rising in his chest. René did not wait before striking; if he were going to pounce, he would have done so long before now. He could have killed Etienne in Jamaica if he had chosen to, had decided instead to punish Saint-Cyr with neglect.

  That was a distracted thought, and James nodded in agreement as though someone had spoken the thought aloud.

  This was madness, to be standing here with René wide-eyed and far away. James swung his eyes back and saw René, quiet and arrested, his gaze above them all, at the top of the staircase.

  “Etienne.” A woman spoke, a whip–crack startling them all.Mademoiselle Suzette pulled back her hand and Etienne straightened. James felt himself frowning before he had even turned. “You were sent to bring back money and goods, brother, not two commoners.” She did not move as Suzette had, but stayed above them, not much taller than the other lady, and not much older in looks. She was no beauty, her black dress making the white and black colouring of the Saint-Cyrs all the more startling but making her seem ill as well.

  “Louise.” Etienne recovered from the other lady’s sudden appearance and half turned to her, extending one arm easily even if his voice seemed tight. “You and Suzette wait upstairs, and I will join you in but a moment.”

  “We may not have a moment, Brother.” The woman, Louise, clasped her hands before her tightly and then separated them, holding them firmly at her sides. “Who are you?” René demanded, his manners as forgotten as the sword in his hand, and James pulled a step away from the lady Suzette when René swung the blade down to rest at his side. “Where is he?”

  “James…” It could only be Suzette, tugging at the sleeve of his coat much as Ben would have, staring out from behind James’ back as though seeking to hide even as he fought to appear fearless. It was then that Ben would seem more a child to James than ever, and for all his life on the ships, he was a child still.

  Strange to think on Ben now, but James reached over to pat the lady’s small fingers, to offer her that comfort before he stepped even farther from her, eyeing René’s stiff form before he also turned to face the woman at the top of the stairs.

  “These are our guests, Louise.” It seemed impossible that the lady’s Suzette’s voice would tremble. James watched as her scarlet cloth fell again to the floor. “Did you bring nothing back from the Caribbean but dirt, Etienne?” The lady Louise dropped her gaze to study her brother’s borrowed garb, no cleaner than what René wore now though in colours less eye catching. Her hand rose to her breast, clasping at the fine chain of gold that was her only decoration.

  “Louise…” Suzette spoke again and James cleared his throat.

  “He brought back his life, lady.” James ducked his head, unsure how to greet this lady in all her disdain, watching her eyes widen and her chin go up nearly as high as René’s could.

  “And what good will that do, Englishman, when our father returns home to this failure?” She answered him in rapid Parisian and then seemed to dismiss him, eyeing something behind him. René, James knew, would be glaring, his hand pale around the sword’s hilt and his eyes fierce. “He will have thieves who invade his home thrashed in the street.”

  “And I will slit his throat if he tries.” René was hissing, flinging his hands out wildly, and again James had the memory of the trapped, pacing leopards in the Tower menagerie. “But not before I slice him to pieces.”

  His gasp echoed that of the excited lady at his side.

  “A killer!”

  “René, you cannot…” “Do not talk to me of sin, James!” René silenced him viciously, and James could imagine blood staining his mouth as he spoke. “These people do not know of sin. They do not know good! They will leave your body to feed the dogs in the street.” René pulled in a sharp breath and James nearly turned to face him. Some cowardly impulse held him still as René finished. “The family Saint-Cyr has no honour.”

  “All of them?” James questioned softly and found himself under the scrutiny ofMademoiselle Saint-Cyr at the top of the stairs. “Sin,” she repeated the word in English as though she had not before heard it and then returned to Parisian. “There is only living.” There was strain around her eyes that James could see even from such a distance, yet he found himself looking down at her words, to the layers of fabric that made up her skirts. The fine cloth would cost more than James might earn in years of work of a printer. But he frowned to realize that he did not understand her meaning, though her thoughts held a familiar echo.

  “Louise…” Etienne seemed to be saying much with that one word, but when his sister did not answer, Etienne spoke again, glancing from her to James and not looking over his shoulder to the devil at his back. “My debts are my own and I repay them.” Dark eyes found him and James knew he flinched away from the look. “I honour my word, James.”

  James moved his gaze beyond Etienne, studying a small table yards away from them all, empty but for a large vase that held no flowers. The table was finely crafted, and his gaze traveled over the painted surface in distant confusion, remembering the many prizes that had filled every spare surface of Sir Marvell’s house. Even René’s sparse cabin had held more, even if it had been shoved into chests as though it had no value. The Spanish gold in his ear at this moment might even have more worth than the vase displayed
on that table, and James nodded slowly, some of Etienne’s desperation turning his mouth bitter.

  It would do little to talk to Etienne of cost. He had already known when he had spoken to James back on the ship, had known it better than James could even have guessed. He did not know why Etienne had ever chosen a fool like him for a friend. But he looked back and nodded, only to swing his gaze away in time to find their exchange under observation. René’s stare was Hell itself.

  “What debts, Brother?”Mademoiselle Suzette posed lightly, indeed as she did everything, and James wished he had had her delicacy uponle Diable Noir, facing Deniau.

  “Debts of blood.” The words left René with an obvious pleasure and James turned on his heel at the sound of footsteps, gasping to see René advancing on Etienne with intent. “No!” Mademoiselle Suzette moved so quickly to stand before her brother that she seemed to have flown. She extended her arms wide, her body exposed and beautiful, and murmured something, too low for anyone but Etienne or René to have heard, gasping when René did not slow.

  “This will be too great a crime even for you, René Villon!” James shouted to him, his voice cracking when it should have been firm. “You must not seek vengeance.”

  He could barely hear himself over the pounding in his ears, Suzette’s quick breaths. Another moment and Etienne had shoved his sister to the side, fumbling for the knife he had tucked into his sleeve.

  “Etienne!” It must have been Mademoiselle Saint-Cyr calling her brother’s name, but James did not take his eyes from René, moving forward too slowly for it to be anything but a wasted attempt to stop this. René was shaking, his frail body still too weak for battle, and spots of colour stood out on his cheeks and his hands, dark against his white flesh. His eyes glowed fever-bright, and the fear for him quickened in James’ heart.

  “The blood of his first born on the floor of his home…” René smiled and James inhaled sharply, speed at last returning to his limbs as he dashed forward.