Angel Heart

by Marie Laval

  He laughed, lifted his fingers to her throat and ripped the collar of her dress to expose her chest. Marie-Ange cried out and tried to hide her breasts, but he laughed again. Pulling her hair back, he kissed her mouth hungrily, forcing her lips open and biting her. She struggled to get away but his grip was too strong.

  ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like your husband anymore?’ he uttered harshly. His breath was short, his eyes heavy as he looked down at her quivering breasts. The locket glittered in the light.

  ‘I’ve seen this before.’ He frowned. ‘Where did you get it?’

  He toyed with the chain a few seconds and held the pendant closer to his face to examine it.

  ‘It was my mother’s,’ she answered, hope surging inside her. Maybe he was starting to remember at last.

  But he let the pendant drop. ‘You’re beautiful, I’ll grant you that.’ He groaned with desire as his fingers brushed over her breasts before gripping and kneading the soft flesh. He bent down to bite at her throat, his lips sliding down towards her breast to suck and nip hungrily. She winced in pain. She wouldn’t let him rape her, at least not without putting up a fight. She bent sideways, just enough to reach into her boot and pull the dagger out. Quick as a flash, she brought the blade up and pressed the tip on his throat.

  ‘Let go of me,’ she ordered, panting. Her hand shook as the memory of the highwayman flashed through her mind and she almost dropped the dagger.

  He laughed but there was surprise in his eyes. He lifted his hands in the air. ‘Careful, woman. I don’t want you perforating my neck by accident.’

  ‘If I stab you it won’t be an accident,’ she promised. Still holding the blade in front of her, she got up and walked backward across the room, away from him. ‘I realise now it was a waste of time. There is nothing left in you of the man I loved.’ She lifted her chin, willing her voice to stop trembling. He was Nallay, not Christopher. He was a monster.

  She retreated to the front door, grabbing her cloak on the way. He stood up and advanced on her, his face twisted with fury. She had to be fast. The key was still in the lock. She turned it, pulled it out, and opened the door. She slipped through and slammed it shut behind her. As she locked the door from outside, Nallay’s fists pounded the wood.

  ‘Let me out, garce! I’ll find you and teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget. That’s a promise!’

  She threw her cloak onto her shoulders and haphazardly fastened the ties whilst running down the staircase, where in her haste she dropped the key. The crash of Nallay’s blows echoed behind her. Thankfully his apartment was on the second floor, too high for him to jump from the window without risking an injury.

  Once in the street, she sprinted in the direction of the embankment and crossed the bridge to Place Saint Paul. The streets were quieter now. Her footsteps and the sound of her breathing echoed in the night. She ran across the square and started on the steep alley up to the gardens where Saintclair lay wounded. Would he still be there or had he managed to drag himself back to his barracks? It was so dark she didn’t see him and almost stumbled onto his body.

  ‘Capitaine, wake up!’

  She touched his face. It was cold. She put her hand onto his chest and felt it move ever so slightly. He was breathing. She slapped his cheek until his eyes opened, focussed onto her face.

  ‘Capitaine, we must leave,’ she said. ‘Nallay is after us and this time, he will kill us both.’

  Saintclair grunted with pain as consciousness returned and he attempted to move. ‘Bon sang! That bastard stabbed me in the shoulder.’ He winced and raised his hand to his head. ‘He knocked me out, too.’ He looked at her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ll explain later. Come on.’

  ‘Help me up,’ he ordered.

  He stood up and she put her arm around his waist to steady him. Their progress down the hill was slow but eventually they crossed the bridge and made it to the barracks.

  ‘Get me the physician,’ Saintclair instructed the sentry when they staggered into the courtyard.

  Marie-Ange opened his door and helped him out his coat and jacket. He sat on a chair, holding his right hand to his wounded shoulder.

  ‘Take your shirt off, too,’ she said. ‘It’s soaked with blood.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll wait for the physician. In the meantime, please get me some brandy.’

  She retrieved the bottle of cognac from the sideboard and handed it to him. He took hold of it and drank a long gulp, then another.

  When the doctor came, he instructed Marie-Ange to boil some water over the fire and rip strips of cloth from a sheet she found in a cupboard. He cut Saintclair’s shirt off and dabbed some of medicinal alcohol to clean the wound.

  ‘How did you come to be injured?’ he asked.

  ‘A brawl in a tavern,’ Saintclair replied dismissively.

  ‘You were very lucky,’ the doctor concluded after examining his shoulder. ‘The blade missed the lung. There shouldn’t be any lasting damage but you must rest. No riding, no drills for two weeks at least.’ He finished dressing the wound and checked Saintclair’s head. ‘Lucky you have a thick skull too,’ he remarked.

  He turned to Marie-Ange at last. ‘Will you see that the capitaine does as I say, mademoiselle? I know him, he will be on horseback before I reach home.’ Before he packed his bag, he handed Saintclair a small vial. ‘Laudanum, for the pain,’ he explained. ‘One spoonful now. Then one in the morning and another at night if needed.’ Saintclair protested he didn’t want any but the physician was adamant. In fact he refused to leave until Saintclair swallowed the medicine.

  ‘I will let you get into bed now,’ Marie-Ange said once the doctor left. She moved towards the smaller room where his batman had prepared another couch.

  ‘Not so fast,’ Saintclair said in a gruff voice, moving to block her retreat. ‘There are a few things you need to explain first.’

  ‘I think you should follow the doctor’s instructions and get some rest.’ She tilted her chin up to look at him

  ‘Well I don’t.’ He stepped closer. ‘I want to know how you found me tonight.’

  She blinked and took a few deep breaths. ‘I followed you.’

  ‘I specifically told you to stay here.’

  ‘It is just as well I did not obey, Capitaine,’ she argued, staring him in the eye. ‘You would have bled or frozen to death had I not been there.’

  He sighed. ‘Perhaps. Where is your husband now?’

  She bit her lip and bent her head in an attempt to hide the tears gathering in her eyelashes. ‘I left him in his apartment,’ she whispered. ‘He…forced me to go there with him but I managed to lock him in and run back to you.’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Did you not talk to him?’

  She toyed with the fastening of her cloak. With his free hand, he lifted her chin up. Tears welled in her eyes in spite of her best efforts to quell them.

  ‘What happened?’ Saintclair asked once more. This time, his voice was softer. ‘What did the bastard do to you?’

  She pressed her hand to her collar. His fingers slid down her throat and swiftly unfastened her cloak. It dropped on the floor and revealed the ripped dress.

  ‘Damn. Did he…?’ His lips tightened.

  She shook her head and he breathed a sigh of relief. ‘My father was right. You were right. The man I knew as Christopher Norton might as well be dead.’ Her voice trembled. She pulled on the fabric to cover her throat.

  ‘He didn’t believe you, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘None of it? Even when you told him about…’ he hesitated, ‘your married life?’

  ‘He thinks I am some agent out to get him.’ She looked down at her hand, at the wedding ring that glittered in the candle light and with a heart-rending sob pulled it off and put it on the table. ‘My marriage is over.’

  Hugo’s eyes went to the ring and back to her face. She let the tears fall silently down her cheeks. He lifted
his uninjured arm and with the pad of his thumb wiped them away gently, one by one. She cocked her head so that her cheek was cradled inside the palm of his hand.

  Neither of them moved for a long minute. Finally he turned away. ‘I need some sleep,’ he muttered, rubbing his face roughly and walking to his bed. He sat on the mattress and bent to take off his boots.

  ‘Let me do this, please.’ She rushed to his side and knelt to help him. She positioned some cushions on the bed to support him and helped him get as comfortable as possible.

  Marie-Ange placed her hand on his hot forehead and stroked the hair from his face. His eyes fluttered closed and a small smile creased his lips. She bit her lip to fend off the rush of guilt and regret that flooded her. When his breathing was slow and regular and she was certain he was asleep, she leant over him and whispered, ‘I am so sorry, my love. All this is my fault. I wish I never laid eyes on Christopher in Paris. I wish he were dead.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘What happened to mon Capitaine?’ the batman asked with a low voice so as not to wake up Saintclair. He set a tray with coffee, thick slices of buttered bread, and a pot of jam on the table.

  ‘He got hurt in an altercation between drunks in a tavern,’ Marie-Ange lied, reaching out for a cup of coffee.

  The batman whistled softly. ‘Now I understand why two messieurs from the police were asking for him a few moments ago.’

  ‘The police? Did they say what they wanted?’ she asked, alarmed.

  He snorted. ‘No, and I didn’t ask. I told them the capitaine had gone out. They said they’d come back later.’ He winked. ‘I thought you two were busy…’

  Concerned about the news that the police had come looking for Saintclair, she ignored the man’s lewd remark. ‘Did they leave their name?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘No, but they were from the municipal police. I’d recognise their type anywhere.’

  She asked him for a needle and some thread to make repairs to her dress. He came back shortly with a rusty sewing tin and a newspaper.

  ‘I thought it might help you pass the time while the capitaine is out cold.’

  It was an old copy of Le journal de Lyon, dated two weeks before. There was an article about the death of Emma Hamilton. The woman who had charmed the most powerful men in England and the rest of Europe, including Horatio Nelson, had died in Calais, alone and an indigent. The paper also reported at length the recent religious ceremonies held in Paris and other French cities in commemoration of dead monarchs Louis and Marie-Antoinette. ‘France begs for God’s forgiveness’ was the headline. The executions of king and his queen had come to symbolize all the evils of the revolution. Yet so many other unfortunate souls had died too, caught in the turmoil of the revolution—men like her grandfather Philippe, for example, sent to his death because of Edmond Malleval’s greed and obsession.

  Saintclair slept through the morning. It was odd to watch over him as he lay in bed, oblivious to her presence, vulnerable for once. She put her hand on his forehead. Her fingers brushed his dark hair, slid down along the side of his face, and along the rugged line of his scar. She wondered how long ago he got it, in which battle…there was so much she didn’t know about him. So much she wanted to learn.

  He muttered something in his sleep. She gasped and withdrew her hand but didn’t move away. The sight of his mouth, his broad chest, and strong shoulders filled her with longing and fear of what the future held for them. How she wanted to nestle against him and forget about the world, about Malleval, and Christopher—Nallay, as she would call her husband from then on.

  When he woke up he would probably be sick of her and the problems she had caused him. Because of her, he jeopardised his family home in St Genis and risked his life. It wasn’t only Uxeloup and his henchmen who were after him now, but Nallay and Fouché too.

  Glancing at her bare hand, she was reminded of the wedding ring she had taken off the night before. It was still on the table. Such a little thing, but it had meant so much. One thing was certain, she would never wear it again. She couldn’t however quite bring herself to throw it away.

  After lunch, she pulled a chair next to Saintclair’s bed and sat down with the newspaper on her lap, but despite her best intentions her eyes closed and she drifted to sleep. It was late afternoon when she woke up. Saintclair was sitting up, looking at her.

  ‘Oh…I am sorry. I wanted to watch over you and I fell asleep.’ She rubbed her eyes and combed strands of hair away from her face. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like hell,’ he said, wincing when he tried to lean onto his arm to get up.

  ‘Don’t try to move just now. Let me get you a hot drink and something to eat first.’ She busied herself warming some soup and coffee the batman had left on the stove, and brought a tray over to him.

  ‘I’d rather have some brandy,’ he grumbled, but he tucked his spoon into the bowl and finished the hot soup in minutes. ‘I won’t take any more laudanum. I could never stand the stuff. I have lost most of the day thanks to that damned physician and his drug when there were so many things I needed to sort out.’ He pushed the tray away and looked at her.

  ‘I’ve been thinking and you can’t stay here tonight. I am in no state for a fight if that husband of yours, or Malleval’s henchmen, come after you. As a former Hussar, Malleval can get into the barracks as he pleases, and being Fouché’s man, your husband’, he stared at Marie-Ange, ‘will find a way.’

  He was right, of course. Malleval and Karloff would soon figure out she was here. As for Nallay, the threats he had shouted last night still echoed in her ears. He meant every word. She informed Saintclair about the visit by two policemen that morning. His face became even more sombre.

  ‘They will be Fouché’s men—he may not be the Minister for Police anymore, but he still has many staff in his pocket. There’s really no time to lose to find somewhere safe for you.’

  ‘I could go to Beauregard by stagecoach and try and find my father,’ she suggested.

  ‘No, it’s too risky on your own.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I’ll take you to Caroline Dupin’s apartment. Nobody will think of looking for you there.’

  She recalled the beautiful, dark-haired woman she had met at the Théâtre Italien in Paris. ‘Won’t she mind? She doesn’t know me.’

  ‘She will do as I ask. She always does,’ he replied, with an arrogant smile.

  Marie-Ange experienced a sharp, burning twinge of jealousy. She knew Caroline had been Saintclair’s mistress—and very probably still was.

  ‘No. I’d rather not go there.’ She crossed her arms on her chest.

  He arched his eyebrows. ‘Really? And would you care to tell me why?’

  She swallowed hard, and looked around, her mind blank. ‘She is bound to be suspicious and ask embarrassing questions. What will you tell her?’

  ‘I’ll think of something. Come on, there’s no time to waste, you need to change first. Someone might be watching the barracks on behalf of Malleval or your husband. They mustn’t recognise you.’

  He instructed his batman to get him a set of men’s clothes of the smallest size he could find. For the first time in her life, Marie-Ange slipped into a pair of breeches and high boots, a white man’s shirt and a short grey jacket. Her disguise was completed by a brown hat.

  ‘Not bad.’ Saintclair eyed her from top to toe when she walked back into the room, his eyes lingering on her legs clad in the high boots and the curves of her hips. ‘But you need to cover up more. An overcoat should do.’

  He got up, said he was going to get ready, and went out. When he came back, he handed her a coat that she slipped on her shoulders. He was freshly shaven and wore his cuirassier uniform—the dark blue coat with white and silver shoulder pads and white breeches tucked into black boots complimented his rugged physique. Marie-Ange forced herself to tear her gaze from him. Adjusting the long sword that hung from the right side of his belt, he sat at the table, holding himself stiffly as if he was
in pain. He placed his black hat ornamented with a tall red feather and gold braids on the table in front of him, and gestured for her to sit down.

  ‘Last night your husband said he was on some kind of mission,’ he began. ‘A mission Talleyrand and Police Prefect Bourienne were eager to sabotage. I have to follow this through.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what it could be?’

  ‘No. I am setting off for Paris as soon as I have seen to your safety. I must talk to my superiors at the Ministry of War and to Talleyrand at Palais Vendôme. Something is brewing. And when this something involves Fouché, it’s never good news.’

  ‘What about the physician’s orders? You need to rest. You’re wounded.’

  He let out a short laugh. ‘As if that ever stopped me.’

  ‘But my father and his companions are waiting for us at Beauregard.’

  ‘I will send someone to warn them of the delay.’ He paused and his lips stretched into one of his sudden smiles. ‘You are keeping me busy. Here was I, a few weeks ago, thinking I was doing a straightforward trip to England and back to fetch an heiress for Malleval…’

  The coldness in his eyes melted away. ‘I’m sorry it turned out like this. Instead of an inheritance, you found a load of…ahem…trouble.’

  She put her hand on top of his. ‘Capitaine, you are the one who got hurt because of me. I shall never forget it.’

  The intensity of his gaze burnt through her. He leant forward, and his jaw tightened. For a few seconds, she was sure he was going to kiss her and her whole body tingled with anticipation. Instead, he sighed, withdrew his hand, and reclined against his chair.

  ‘We need to go. Give me your bag.’

  She nodded silently and pulled the man’s hat down to hide the disappointment in her eyes. They walked across the courtyard towards the square which was lined with black carriages. Saintclair picked one from the middle of the queue and climbed in. He asked the coachman to drive around town for a while before giving him Caroline’s address. Her apartment was located on the busy Rue de la Charité, an elegant street leading to the city’s main square.