Trapped by Scandal

by Jane Feather

  So where was she?

  She’d been careless enough once to get herself thrown into the prison of La Force. But then, so had he, he reminded himself. The streets were hazardous at the best of times and to anyone on them. He took a step down the hill and then stopped. There was no point going to look for her; she could be approaching from any one of a number of directions, and he could easily miss her. With a muttered oath, he turned back to the house, glancing once more up and down the quiet, darkened street before going inside.

  The great square in front of Notre Dame was usually a crowded public space, but it was quiet when Hero crossed beneath the shadow of the building, heading for the narrow wooden bridge across the river. The clergy were no longer an active presence in the city, or indeed in most of the country, vilified almost as much as the loathed aristocrats, and religious edifices were shuttered if they had not already been ransacked. In the daytime, a thriving market occupied the square, but now, with most of the citizens watching the afternoon executions at the various sites around the city, it was almost deserted. She made her way towards the narrow bridge. It had once been the only pedestrian way across the Seine, but since the erection of the Pont Neuf, it had fallen into disrepair, and the wooden footboards were rotting in places.

  As she stepped onto the bridge, a prickle of alarm ran along her spine. Her footstep hesitated for a second, but then she strode out more confidently, the fine hairs on her nape pricking but her mind clear. If she was being followed, she must not show any sign of awareness or alarm. Halfway across the bridge, she paused, leaning idly against the splintering wooden rail, looking up the river towards the Conciergerie as casually as if she were simply taking an evening stroll, except that every muscle in her body was as taut and rigid as steel.

  “Bon soir, citoyenne.”

  The voice from behind her made her heart race, but she folded her arms on the railing and turned her head, offering the speaker a polite nod. “Citoyen.” Her heart was like an out-of-control racehorse, but she remained steadily where she was, and after a moment, the man walked on across the bridge to the Quai de la Tournelle on the far bank, his tall, thin figure disappearing into the shadows.

  Was he following her? Waiting for her . . . waiting to pounce over there in the shadows? Every inch of her skin warned of danger; she felt like a doe, hearing the hunters’ trumpets, the baying of the dogs. And her mind told her, cold and clear, to trust her instincts. The man meant her harm, whether he was an agent of the Committee of Public Safety or simply a man seeing a lone woman as prey. Either way, she was not crossing the bridge now.

  Behind her lay the cathedral and beyond that the bustling lanes and houses of the Île St. Louis. She could lose herself there and find some other way back to Rue St. André des Arts. Without a second thought, Hero swung on her heel and walked fast back across the bridge, prepared now to lose herself in the blood-satiated crowds pouring from Place de la Révolution into the square in front of the cathedral. She didn’t look behind her to see if he was coming back across the bridge again but plunged into the nearest crowd of people, dodging and twisting her way to the maze of crooked streets running behind the cathedral, avoiding the darker ones, keeping to those lit by lamps from house windows. She had no idea of the time, intent only on keeping herself surrounded by people, blending with them as she threaded her way through the maze, finally ducking down a shallow flight of stone steps to the riverbank, where a wherry bobbed against the quay, its owner sucking on a pipe, staring at the black waters of the Seine.

  “Ten sous to take me across to the steps at St. Michel?” she asked, pulling her red cap down over her forehead with one hand as she dug into the pocket of her grimy apron with the other.

  The wherry man spat into the river, took the handful of coins she held on her flat palm, and untied the little craft while Hero stepped into it, sitting down hastily as it dipped and swayed with her movements.

  The river was quite narrow at this point, but Hero had specified the steps at St. Michel, so the wherry man had to pull strongly upriver against the evening tide. Hero’s gaze remained riveted to the far bank as they went beneath the Notre Dame bridge, lit fitfully now by sconced torches flaring in the evening breeze. Was he still waiting? But he couldn’t be. She had no idea how long she’d been dodging the lanes and crowds, but too long, surely, for anyone to be waiting for her to reappear. And she was positive no one was on her trail now.

  At the steps, the oarsman offered no help as she clambered out of the rickety boat, merely whistling through his teeth as he gazed trancelike at the dark river. Hero dived once more into the rowdy crowds packing the narrow medieval alleys of St. Michel. It was a short walk to Place St. André des Arts, through a fetid lane, and from the square, she began the steep climb up the hill. Hero was as sure as she could be that no one was on her heels as she left the noise and drunken revelry behind her. But when she reached the door of number 7, she walked past it, crossed the street, ducked into an alley, and waited, listening. Nothing. No warning sixth sense, no eyes on her back, no loitering presence on the street.

  Confident at last, she walked back to the door of number 7 and rapped the rhythm on the shutters.

  The door was opened almost instantly, and she found herself facing a wall of fury. “Where the devil have you been? Everyone else has been back for hours.” Even as he spoke, William’s hands were on her, yanking her into the house so fast her feet seemed to lose touch with the ground. He was propelling her upstairs, his hand at the small of her back, driving her upwards even as his angry words poured over her. His voice was low but nonetheless ferocious as he pushed her into the small bedchamber on the top floor. “Do you have any idea what we’ve been going through, worrying about you? Your brother’s beside himself . . .”

  His hands were on her upper arms now, his grip tight as he shook her, the guilt, anger, and fear of the last several hours finally unpenned.

  “For God’s sake, girl, it’s hell out there.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” Hero cried in an undertone as fierce as his. “I’ve been dodging and ducking those savage beasts for hours. Just stop it . . . let me go.” She twisted desperately in his hold, and then abruptly, her angry protests were lost as his arms came around her, encircling her, holding her tight against the taut, muscular power of his body, and his mouth hard on hers silenced her.

  The maelstrom of anger, passion, confusion, and relief coalesced into a single need. She fell back onto the bed as he came down with her, his hands pushing up her skirts, pulling apart her bodice, as she fumbled with his britches, tugged at his shirt. They came together in a glorious surge of sensation, in the violent aftermath of anger, of relief after the hideous tensions of the afternoon’s events. Hero’s back arched as the tight coil of rough passion seemed to tear her apart. William’s hips pressed into hers before he wrenched himself sideways with a low cry, grasping her to him so that she felt his seed pulsing hot against her belly, and her body felt as if it were melting, simply a formless mass, her limbs sprawled where they fell.

  But finally, reality intruded, the contours of the small room took shape once more, and the feel of the mattress beneath her became solid. Hero lay still and silent for a moment, wondering why she had responded to the violence of his lovemaking. He hadn’t hurt her, and she had responded with the same flaring passion, but it had been like nothing she had ever experienced or could have imagined.

  He lay heavily still half upon her, crushing her into the bed, and she asked softly, “What was that? Why such ferocity?”

  William rolled away onto his back, his chest heaving, sweat still glistening in the hollow of his throat. He reached out a hand to rest on her bared belly. “I don’t know, exactly. Suddenly, all the fear, the tension, the anxiety, the need . . . responsibility . . . to get these innocents out of the hands of the Committee, to save them . . . sometimes it’s a spring too tightly wound, and it gives way. Worrying
about you was somehow the last straw. I knew that if anything had happened to you, it would be my fault, and when I saw you, knew you were safe, something just broke inside me.”

  He turned sideways, resting on an elbow, a finger tracing her collarbone, trailing down into the damp cleft of her breasts, his eyes warm but also apologetic.

  “I didn’t hurt you?”

  She shook her head, smiling a little as she reached up to brush the stray lock of hair from his forehead.

  “Did I frighten you?”

  Again, she shook her head. “Surprised me, perhaps, but I had the same need, I think. I wanted what you wanted.” She gave a little laugh. “Except, of course, that I didn’t know it.” The feeling of safety, for all its impermanence, was for this moment almost overwhelming. Marie Claire was safe downstairs in the kitchen, and in this small, separate space under the eaves, the hideous noise and riot of the city were held at bay. For now, this purely human passion could be indulged without guilt or fear.

  “So what happened?” William asked. “Where have you been all this time?”

  “I did what you told me to do. I felt danger, someone watching me. A man accosted me on the Notre Dame bridge, so I worked my way through the lanes to Île St. Louis and then crossed the river by boat at the end of the island. I came straight back once I was sure it was safe.” She turned her head to look at him, her gaze both questioning and a little defensive. “Did I do anything wrong?”

  William flung his hands above his head, staring ruefully up at the cracked plaster ceiling. “Forgive me, Hero. I was so anxious for you . . . I felt such guilt, I suppose. You’re so untried at this business, but then, in other ways, you’re not untried. I told myself you could and should be able to do this, because we needed you. I was thinking only of the mission.” A grim smile touched his mouth.

  Hero leaned over and ran a finger over his lips, smoothing away the grimness. “You have to understand, William, that I didn’t ask or want you to consider me except as necessary to the business of rescuing Marie Claire. I know I must seem young and untried; after all, I’m a sheltered, privileged brat, product of the English aristocracy.” Her laugh had a touch of acid to it. “But I’m probably stronger than you think.”

  He sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. “That, my dear, is a lesson I learned well this afternoon.” He reached down and pulled her to her feet. “Can you make yourself respectable enough to appear downstairs? Your brother has been out of his mind with worry, and Marie Claire needs the attentions that only a member of her own sex can give her.”

  Hero found this return to business oddly reassuring. She felt not a smidgen of guilt for those moments of passionate need. She had no reason to feel guilt. She was betraying no one. And then she heard herself ask abruptly, “Is there a woman waiting for you somewhere, William?” Her gaze went to his face, watching his response with an almost painful intensity.

  An unmistakable shadow crossed his eyes, but he shook his head. “No, Hero. I don’t live the kind of life that would make that possible.”

  “So you love where and when you please?” she asked lightly.

  “Where and when it’s practicable,” he corrected. He came over to her, taking her chin between finger and thumb. “I cannot make promises, Hero. I enjoy your company. I enjoyed our lovemaking and will enjoy it again if you wish it also, but I have nothing more . . . more—”

  “More permanent to offer,” she interrupted with a quick shake of her head. “I no more wish for that than you do, William.”

  His fingers tightened for a moment on her chin. “What do you wish for, then?”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t discovered yet. But for the present, I’ll take what I’m offered.”

  “We understand each other, then.”

  She smiled. “It would seem so. You go ahead of me. There’s some water in the jug; I would freshen myself a little.”

  William looked closely at her for a moment and then nodded and left the chamber. Hero moved to the jug and basin on the washstand, shrugging out of her unlaced bodice, stripping off her skirt and petticoat. As she washed the day’s grime and the remnants of that ferocious passion from her skin, she wondered if she would ever discover exactly what she wanted . . . now that all her assumptions about her future life had been drowned with Tom in the deep blue sea.

  NINE

  Hero entered the kitchen feeling much refreshed. She had no idea what any of the kitchen’s occupants thought about her absence with William, but no one referred to it, although Alec gave her a quick searching look. She smiled her reassurance and instantly turned her attention to Marie Claire, who seemed only half conscious in the rocker.

  “What can we do for her, Hero?” Alec’s voice had a note of desperation in it. “I can’t seem to rouse her. None of us knows what to do to help her.”

  Hero had no nursing experience, but she knew exactly what she would need in Marie Claire’s place and said with conviction, “Hot water, lots of it, and a screen in front of the fire so we’ll have some privacy, and then something for her to wear. Those clothes are probably crawling with vermin; we’ll have to burn them. One of your shirts would do, Alec, and a mantle of some kind. Your traveling cloak will do for the moment.”

  Her demands were met in short order. “And now we need fresh milk, brandy and sugar, cloves, cinnamon, any spices you can find,” Hero said finally. “A sack posset will give her some strength, and then perhaps she’ll sleep properly.”

  William stood up. “I’ll get the provisions. Everyone else, make yourselves scarce, give the ladies some privacy. Alec, there’s nothing you can do here for the moment.”

  Within minutes, Hero was alone with Marie Claire. The girl tried to help as Hero undressed her, but she was so weak that every movement was a supreme effort. However, she was finally naked, and her filthy prison garments were burning in the fire, the lice popping merrily as the flames swallowed them. Hero managed to wash the girl’s hair with harsh lye soap that would kill anything that came in contact with it, and Marie Claire managed to stand, holding on to the chair, so that she could wash her body.

  “Hero, thank you,” Marie Claire murmured as Hero maneuvered her arms into Alec’s shirt of soft linen, lace edging the sleeves and collar. She had a diminutive figure, and Alec was tall and broad, and the garment swamped her, falling to her knees.

  “That’s repectable enough,” Hero said cheerfully, “but wrap up in the cloak, too; it’ll keep you warm.” She rubbed Marie Claire’s damp hair, combing out the long, silvery, fair strands with her fingers. “I don’t have a brush or comb,” she said apologetically. “I had a small cloak bag when I left home, but I didn’t have it with me when I landed in jail, and of course, there’s been no opportunity to go back for it.”

  “You were in jail, Hero?” Marie Claire seemed to be regaining her strength. She stared at Hero in astonishment. “I . . . I don’t understand anything. What are you doing here? I couldn’t believe it was you at the tumbrel . . . it was like a dream.” She shook her head with a shudder of remembered horror. “I thought I had already died, that it was all over at last and seeing you was a death dream.” She crossed her hands over her breasts with another convulsive shiver.

  Hero could think of nothing to say; the stark horror of Marie Claire’s experience overwhelmed her for a moment. Finally, she said, “Try not to dwell on it now. You need to get your strength back, because we’ll be leaving here soon, and I don’t think it will be a particularly smooth journey.” She offered a wry smile. “I’m getting accustomed to thinking of it all as an adventure. Not all pleasant, I admit, but nothing to what you’ve been through, my dear. But that is over now,” she added with a conviction that she didn’t entirely feel. “You’re among friends, and I doubt Alec will allow you out of his sight.”

  She moved the screen aside and settled Marie Claire back in the rocker, wrapped in Alec’s velvet-lined cloak. Then s
he went to the door and called, “Alec, can you help?”

  He had been waiting on the stairs for the summons and was there instantly. “How is she?” He rushed past his sister to see for himself without waiting for her response. “Oh, you look better, my dearest.” He bent to kiss her pale face, and Marie Claire managed the semblance of a smile.

  “She’ll be better still when I can make a posset,” Hero declared. “Could you get rid of that dirty water and put the screen away?”

  Alec accepted the tasks with ready good humor and was just folding the screen when William came in through the yard. He set the provisions on the table. “I think that’s everything you asked for, Hero, but I also found some fresh eggs.” He placed four brown eggs carefully on the table.

  “Where did you find them?” Hero asked, picking one up admiringly. Fresh eggs were hard to come by in the city.

  “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” he said with a teasing grin.

  “You stole them?”

  He merely shrugged. “They were just asking to be collected . . . I found cinnamon in the wine shop and some cloves. He set a twist of paper beside the eggs. “Brandy we have in plentiful supply.”

  “Then I’ll get on with it.” Hero took a small pan from the dresser and poured in the milk, adding the cinnamon stick, sugar, and cloves and curdling the mixture with brandy as it heated. She had a sudden longing to drink it herself as the heady fragrance rose from the pan, and she realized that she’d eaten nothing since that morning. As far as she knew, none of them had. She poured the posset into a pewter tankard and handed it to Alec, cautioning, “Go slowly with it; it’s quite strong, and it’s hot.”

  She turned back to the room with an involuntary sigh and saw William’s eyes fixed upon her. “You’re dead on your feet,” he said. “Come and sit down here.” He indicated the bench beside him. “You need to eat.”