The Bride Wore Scarlet

by Liz Carlyle

  A little too abrasively, Anaïs finished cleaning her teeth, wondering even as she whacked the moisture from her brush if perhaps she oughtn’t be hitting herself in the head with it. Or with something larger, perhaps. She cast a look at her hairbrush, then sighed.

  She really did want him.

  There was simply no getting around it. She had wanted him—well, not from the moment she’d laid eyes on him, perhaps—but something frightfully near it.

  Anaïs closed her eyes and braced her hands on the wash table again. She could almost feel Geoff’s presence in the next room. She knew he was there. Even as she lusted after him, he was roaming like a caged lion in his bedchamber, going from table to chair to window, most likely with a glass of brandy in hand.

  A shiver ran through her, something deep and needy. Apparently her head was still too easily turned, for Geoff’s touch had sent logic flying out the window. But this time, she needed to keep a clear head.

  This time she needed to wait for the right man. Not the beautiful man.

  She needed to remember, as Geoff obviously did, the child whom they had come to help. Little Giselle weighed on him in a way she did not quite understand. It was obvious in the way his voice caught every time he mentioned the girl.

  Something else she did not understand was the nature of Geoff’s gift. He never spoke of it, though Vittorio had once implied that Lord Bessett and Lord Ruthveyn were amongst the Fraternitas’s most powerful seers. That they were in truth mystics; throwbacks to the ancient Celtic priests from whom the Fraternitas was descended, and whose powerful abilities of prognostication had lain almost forgotten amidst the detritus of history and legend.

  Whatever he was, and wherever he came from, Geoff obviously did not intend to let his baser emotions interfere with his work, and for that she should commend him.

  On a sigh, Anaïs unlocked both the bathroom doors, then trailed back through the dressing room to her bedchamber. Her maid had gone, thank God, leaving the bedcovers folded back and the lamp turned down to a mere glow.

  By the faint light, Anaïs opened her portmanteau and took from it her Bible and the ebony wood box containing the tarocchi, then set them on her night table. Flipping up the brass-hinged lid, Anaïs withdrew the top card, its edges worn softer than those that lay below.

  With one last look at le Re di Dischi, she propped him up against the lamp as she always did, her gaze taking in his handsome face and his coat of bloodred armor, then swiftly, she blew out the light.

  A prince of peace in a coat of scarlet.

  But tonight, it felt as if her prince had forgotten her.

  Or that perhaps he had not waited for her after all.

  Geoff waited in utter darkness. Waited until he no longer heard Anaïs moving about in the room adjacent. Waited until the urge to go through the dressing room and into her bedchamber had passed, and he had some faint hope of perhaps sleeping undisturbed by thoughts of that heated, earth-shattering kiss they had shared.

  What a bloody damned fool he was. He had known from the first it would come to this. That he would desire her. Dream of her. It would be a holy miracle if he could work with the woman at all.

  But he had only to think of Giselle—to look through the mullioned glass of his bedchamber window at what Petit said was the child’s nursery—and know that she might be utterly alone. Utterly terrified.

  That could throw a little thing like carnal hunger into proper perspective.

  When absolute silence fell across the house, Geoff rose and went to the window, pushing the arched casements wide on squeaking hinges, and leaning out into the Rue de l’Escalier to draw deep of the cool night air. But already he could smell the stench of the river settling over le cité like so much heavy fog. It smelled like rot and sewage—like this entire business with the Vicomte de Lezennes, truth be told.

  The lights were still lit in the upper floors of Lezennes’ town house, save for the room Petit had pointed out as Giselle’s. After exhaling slowly, Geoff pulled a chair to the window, unlocked his traveling desk, and withdrew DuPont’s most recent envelope. Beneath it he saw Giselle’s yellow hair ribbon, and for an instant, his hand lingered. Perhaps it might connect him to her mother, if not the child?

  Then he closed the box with a thud, lit a candle, and, for the second time that day, began shuffling through the new things DuPont had sent. There wasn’t much; just a handful of overdue bills and a few letters of condolence to Madame Moreau. How DuPont had got hold of them, Geoff had as soon not know.

  After flipping through the pile, he withdrew the most hopeful, a much-folded missive from her parish priest. This time, he read it slowly, focusing on every raw and painful sentiment as he held it in his hands. Trying to imagine how the letter had made her feel when she had held it in her hands. How she likely felt, even now.

  Then he blew out the candle, closed his eyes, and opened himself quite deliberately to that infinite chasm between time and place. It felt a little like tying a tourniquet about one’s arm and laying open a vein. But as the silence of the night washed over him, Geoff tried to feel Madame Moreau. Tried to draw in her grief and her thoughts and the essence of what was to be from the churning void beyond.

  It was a task he loathed. But it was, for the most part, just a task now. Just a choice he made when no other alternative was left him.

  There had been a time, however, not so many years past, when it had not been a choice. When his mind had slipped unconstrained through time and place; back and forth, slippery as an eel flicking through dappled sunlight. Like alternating flashes of blinding brightness and perfect clarity—uncontrollable clarity—that could sometimes reveal glimmers of things no child should see.

  And see with complete and utter impotence.

  No, he did not like to do this. But long years of practice and ruthless self-discipline had made the choice his, not fate’s.

  And yet tonight, he felt nothing.

  On those very rare occasions nowadays when the sight came upon him unbidden, he felt a failure. And on occasions like tonight—when he could not bid the sight to come—he felt . . . well, the very same, he supposed.

  He consoled himself—if the word could be used in such a context—that he did not know Giselle Moreau, and knew nothing of her mother save what they had glimpsed late this afternoon as she’d set off with her market basket. A small, tidy blonde in a long black cloak.

  It was hard to grasp the threads of present thought or emotion, let alone future events, when one had not actually touched, or at least met, the other person. But it had been worth a try.

  On a sigh, Geoff tossed the letter back onto the pile. For the first time in his life, he almost missed the visions. Tonight he would be alone.

  Alone with his fevered dreams of Anaïs de Rohan.

  The Église St-Nicholas was a beautiful old church, tucked into a nook between the Rues au Beurre just below the Grand Place, on the edge of Brussels’s more crowded, less upper-class neighborhoods. Further from the heart of royal Brussels than some, St. Nicholas was an interesting choice of churches, Anaïs considered as she roamed beneath its vaulted roofs.

  But for some reason, Madame Moreau preferred it.

  Perhaps it had something to do with the church’s simplicity. The soothing colors and restrained giltwork. Even here, however, in this place of quiet, the signs of the city’s political turmoil were apparent. The church had been repeatedly bombed and burned over the centuries, and in the Chapel of the Holy Virgin, a passing churchwarden told her, there was a French cannonball still lodged in one of the pillars.

  Anaïs thanked him, but did not investigate, preferring instead to wait near the entrance and the row of confessionals through which the congregants were intermittently rotating. Instead, she lit a candle for Nonna Sofia, then took a moment to say a prayer.

  Though she had been baptized in her mother’s Anglican church, Anaïs had been steeped in Catholicism from an early age. As a child, she had often accompanied her grandmother and
Maria to Mass at St. Mary’s, for her parents had been liberal in such matters. In Tuscany, there had been no other church to attend. Anaïs found the religions . . . well, not interchangeable, precisely. Complementary, perhaps, was the word—and far more alike than some would make out.

  So she settled into the Église St-Nicholas with the ease of visiting an old friend. A quarter hour later, a small, round lady with blond hair came in from the narthex carrying a market basket threaded with a bright green ribbon. The unusual basket was just as Petit had described.

  Putting it down by the door, the lady pulled a scarf more fully over her hair, then went directly to one of the open confessionals. Anaïs followed, stepping up into the one adjacent.

  “Bless me, Father for I have sinned,” she said in French, her lips near the wooden screen. “I am Anglican. Will you hear my confession?”

  The priest hesitated but an instant. “Of course, my child,” he said, his voice soft. “If you aspire to a state of grace with Our Lord then you may seek the sacrament of reconciliation here.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “It has been four months since my last confession. These are my sins. I have lied once to my father and my mother. I have several times used unladylike language. And I have had impure thoughts about a man to whom I am not married—actually, it was . . . well, a little more than just a thought.”

  “Ah,” said the priest. “That last one—do you mean to marry him?”

  “No, Father.” Anaïs fleetingly squeezed her eyes shut. “There is . . . someone else.”

  “You are married to another?” His tone sharpened. “Promised to another?”

  “No, neither, Father,” she managed. “I . . . I am just waiting for the right one.”

  “Then you must try to be more patient, my child,” the priest gently chided.

  “I am sure you are right, Father,” she said. “I am sorry for these sins, and all the other sins I may have forgotten.”

  “Very well,” said the priest. “I will not give you penance. You must instead take these things into your heart to be pondered most gravely, and pray for patience in—well, in that last matter.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Swiftly, Anaïs said her usual cobbled-together prayer of contrition. She could see out of one corner of her eye that Charlotte Moreau had stepped down from the confessional and was heading toward her basket.

  “Your sins are truly forgiven,” said the priest when she had finished. “Go in peace.”

  “Thanks be to God,” said Anaïs.

  She hastened down the steps then through the narthex.

  Following Madame Moreau out into the brilliant sunshine, Anaïs managed bump into her basket ever so slightly. “Oh!” she said, grabbing as if to steady it. “I do beg your pardon. I mean—zut!—excusez moi!”

  “Mais certainement.” Madame Moreau moved as if to sweep past her, then froze, her eyes widening at once. “Oh—but you are English!”

  Anaïs feigned surprise. “Why, yes,” she said. “Are you? I rather thought you looked familiar.”

  “I am English, yes.” The lady’s face warmed, but it did not take away the lines of grief about her eyes. “Or I was, I should say. But no, I think we cannot know one another. I have not lived in England for many years.”

  Anaïs laughed. “Well, if I were to live many years away from England, I might choose Belgium, too.” Then she dropped her voice ever so slightly. “But you know, I fancy I do know you—or rather, I have seen you. Across the street, I mean. In the Rue de l’Escalier?”

  The lady blinked uncertainly. “I do live there, yes.”

  Anaïs smiled hugely, and stuck out her hand. “I’m Mrs. MacLachlan,” she said. “Anaïs MacLachlan. I think we must be neighbors.”

  The lady took the hand a little warily. “I am Madame Moreau.”

  Anaïs did her best impression of Nate’s overebullient setter, without quite leaping upon the lady. “Oh, what a pleasure to meet you so soon!” she said. “After all, we just moved in yesterday. Isn’t Brussels perfectly marvelous? Such life everywhere one looks! And the shopping.” She paused, and widened her eyes. “I was just telling Mr. MacLachlan—we are on our honeymoon, you know—that I am going to bankrupt him quite utterly on lace and porcelain. And those little blue tiles—from Antwerp, someone said? In any case, I vow, I must take a trunkload when we go home.” Then her face fell a little. “When we do go home, of course.”

  Madame Moreau was looking a little dazed. “Well, my felicitations on your marriage,” she managed. “And welcome to Brussels.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Anaïs smiled yet again. “Well, it was such a pleasure.”

  “Yes, a pleasure,” Madame Moreau echoed.

  “I hope you will call upon me someday?” Anaïs began to drift up the hill.

  “Why, thank you,” she said, but did not respond in kind.

  Anaïs pointed up the street. “I was just on my way to the flower stalls,” she said. “Is this the right way?”

  “Oh, yes.” Madame Moreau’s placid expression was slowly returning. “Shall I show you? I was just going up to the Grand Place myself.”

  Anaïs tried to look hopeful. “Oh, would you join me?” she asked. “I do so dislike shopping alone, but the house is a little dreary, and I wanted flowers. And Cook needed a few things as well.”

  “I should be pleased to,” said Madame Moreau as they fell into step together. “You must be in Monsieur Michel’s house? One of the servants mentioned seeing baggage yesterday.”

  “Yes, we have taken it for a year,” said Anaïs. “Though I am not sure how long we shall stay.”

  Madame Moreau cast her a sidelong glance. “I do hope Monsieur Michel is well?”

  Anaïs lifted one shoulder. “I believe he may be traveling abroad,” she said. “It was all arranged through agents and bankers. We don’t know anyone here.”

  “Yes, I see,” Madame Moreau murmured. “How did you come to choose Brussels for a wedding trip?”

  “Oh, it was my husband!” Anaïs tossed her hand. “He fancies himself a bit of an artist. Or an architect, perhaps. He wished to do some drawing of all the marvelous buildings.”

  “And what of you?” asked Madame Moreau. “Would you not have preferred Paris? The shopping is a bit better there.”

  Anaïs pulled a gloomy face. “I did prefer it,” she confessed, “but I think my husband did not.”

  “You think?” Madame Moreau shot her a curious glance. “But you are not sure?”

  Anaïs shook her head. “I do not yet know him terribly well, to tell the truth,” she said, dropping her voice as they strolled up the slight hill. “My father arranged it. He said it was time I remarried.”

  “Oh, you are a widow,” murmured Madame Moreau.

  “Sadly, yes,” said Anaïs. “My late husband—well, it was a love match. Not one my father approved of, mind you, for John hadn’t two shillings to rub together, but we were happy. I do think most highly of Mr. MacLachlan, though. I am sure the three of us will get on famously once we all grow accustomed to one another.”

  “The three of you?”

  Anaïs brightened her expression. “Yes, I have a daughter,” she said. “Jane is just four years old. And already I miss her so much I could cry.”

  Madame Moreau made a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat. “She did not come with you?”

  Anaïs shook her head. “My husband thought travel would not suit her,” she said quietly. “I daresay he is right. And this is a honeymoon. But I confess, I did not quite expect—ah, but I mustn’t trouble you, Madame Moreau, when we just met. Look, this must be the Grand Place! Oh, my! How magnificent the buildings are!”

  “Yes, let me give you a little tour,” said the lady. “I think I have lived here long enough I can tell you what each one is.”

  “How kind you are.” With a little sound of delight, Anaïs hooked her arm through Madame Moreau’s.

  They circled the square at a leisurely pace, taking in the gui
ldhalls and the Hôtel de Ville with its incredible openwork spire, Anaïs oohing and ahhing at all the right moments. Soon she had one arm full of flowers, and was picking over a selection of hothouse fruit at one of the stalls in the middle of the square.

  “So, do you think I should persuade Mr. MacLachlan to take me to Paris for a few days?” she said offhandedly. “Have you seen it? Is it worth it?”

  Madame Moreau cut an odd look up at her. “Indeed, it is splendid,” she answered. “It was my home, in fact, until a very few months ago.”

  Anaïs feigned surprise. “Was it? How do you like Brussels, then? What brought you here?”

  They strolled away from the fruiter’s stall, Madame Moreau’s expression pensive. “I was widowed last year myself,” she finally said. “I make my home now with my husband’s uncle. He is attached to the French diplomatic corps here in Brussels.”

  “Oh, it is reassuring to have family one can count on, isn’t it?” Anaïs paused to pick over a pile of lace handkerchiefs at a stall in front of the hôtel. “I feel most fortunate.”

  “A widow’s life can be very hard,” Madame Moreau agreed.

  “Oh, yes.” Anaïs selected a handkerchief, and gave it to the stall keeper. “Have you any family left in England?”

  Madame Moreau bit her lip, and just for an instant, Anaïs thought she glimpsed fear in her eyes. “No,” she said. “I have no one.”

  “Oh,” said Anaïs softly as she counted out coins. “How dreadful for you. I do not know what Jane and I would have done had Papa not taken us in.”

  “He did take you in though?” said Madame Moreau as they set off again.

  Anaïs nodded. “He declared he would not, of course,” she said, “when John and I first married. And even after the babe came, his letters were cool.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Madame Moreau. “How sad for you.”

  “Oh, no,” she declared. “Once he actually saw Jane—well, what can I say? He was utterly charmed. He came for us just after the funeral. A grandchild changes everything, you know. All can be forgiven. Oh, look—is that an organ grinder?” She pointed across the market square.