Thief of Hearts

by Leda Swann

  She was furious with herself when her stomach stopped churning and recovered her composure once again. How could she be a soldier if she was afraid of the sight of blood? She would have to overcome her squeamishness somehow.

  Even worse than her sudden sensitivity to the sickly smell of blood was the way that Jean-Paul Metin followed her around. Wherever she went, whatever she did, he was there.

  When she fought in the practice yard, he was there to watch her. When she ate in the officer’s mess, he was no more than a couple of places away from her at the table. When she went out one evening with a gaggle of her fellows, he joined them without an invitation and sat next to her on a stool in the tavern to swill his ale in her company.

  That last was too much for her. Could she never escape his company – not even away from the barracks? She did not want to be with him when she was dressed as a man. While she was a man, he was her enemy, and he would have to remain her enemy. She could not afford to let him find out the truth.

  She fidgeted on her stool, growing increasingly irritated at his silent scrutiny. Finally she could take it no longer. She stared back at him aggressively and banged her mug of ale on to the table with a thump. “What do you want with me?” She had had just enough ale to loosen her tongue and make her less cautious than usual – and she was in the mood for picking a fight.

  He shrugged, not letting up his study of her face for a moment. “I am interested in you. You have something that belongs to me.”

  Not any more she didn’t. She’d made sure of that. She had kept nothing that could ever be traced back to him. “I do?”

  “My name.”

  The conversations around her seemed to recede into the distance as she dealt with this new threat. “Would you like it back?” she asked, forcing out a laugh.

  He ignored her question. “Who gave you the name you carry?”

  He was treading on dangerous ground. She did not like being questioned, particularly about things she had no intention of answering honestly. She gave him a look as if she thought he was dimwitted. “My father, naturally. Who else did you think gave it to me?”

  “Your father’s name was?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  He looked steadily at her. “I do not think that anyone gave my name to you. I think you took it, stole it, rather. From me.”

  He had lost little time coming to such a conclusion, but she would brazen it out for all that. She had too much to lose to walk away now. “Prove it.”

  He shrugged. “I cannot.”

  “Then why follow me around with your tongue hanging out? As if you were a hungry puppydog and I was a juicy piece of meat you wanted to sink your...teeth into.”

  His eyes narrowed in anger at her taunting and his hand crept to the hilt of his sword. “You flatter yourself.”

  “Do I?”

  “I could kill you here and now,” he said, without raising the tone of his voice. “It would be no more than you deserve.”

  She grinned back at him. “You could try.”

  “What makes you so sure that I wouldn’t succeed?”

  She flicked her knife out of her boot and held it casually against his side, the tip of it pressing a warning against his ribs. “This.”

  He didn’t move a muscle. “The Captain said that you were quick with your knife.”

  The compliment pleased her though she was determined not to show it. “I am.”

  “So was the man who robbed me and left me for dead on the streets not so long ago.”

  “It’s a hard world out there. We all survive as best we can.”

  “Through robbing strangers in the street?”

  “Robbery certainly, if there is no other way.”

  “And murder?”

  “Murder? I try not to resort to that. It’s too messy and complicated.” She closed her eyes for a moment and saw again the blood spurting from the man she had murdered in cold blood. Her heart began to race and she started to feel her stomach turn over.

  In that instant, Metin had snatched the knife from her hand and pressed it against her side in his turn.

  The feel of the knife against her side didn’t help her stomach any. She was going to be violently sick again. She could feel it.

  With a muttered groan she rose to her feet and stumbled out of the tavern. She only just made it to a bare patch of ground before she fell to her knees and retched over and over again into the dust.

  Jean-Paul Metin followed his namesake out of the tavern and stood by as he emptied his guts on to the ground.

  The boy was right ill, there was no doubt about it. Again and again he retched until his stomach was empty. Finally he sat back on his heels. “That feels better,” he said, with a weak attempt at a grin.

  Even in the pale glow of the moonlight, he could see that the boy’s face was a sickly green. “You’re not well.”

  The boy shook his head. “Too much ale, that’s all.”

  Too much ale? That excuse wouldn’t wash with him. He’d been watching the boy all day – he knew to a drop how much he had drunk. “You didn’t even finish your first mug.”

  The boy held his stomach with his hands as he struggled to his feet. “It was stronger than usual.”

  He leaned against the wall, watching the boy. For all his weak stomach, he was a tough bastard. A real fighter. He couldn’t help feeling a sneaking sense of admiration for the lad. “You’re not going to confess to stealing my name, are you.”

  The boy shook his head. “No.”

  “Or anything else of mine?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you try to kill me?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I know you didn’t kill me, or I would hardly be standing here right now. Why did you try?”

  “I didn’t. If I had wanted to kill you, you would be dead by now. I put my knife in your side right now only as a warning to keep away from me.”

  Metin shook his head. “I was not talking about just now in the tavern. Why did you try to kill me some weeks ago now, when I first rode into Paris?”

  “I didn’t. I don’t murder strangers.”

  He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “You have never tried to kill anyone?”

  The boy shook his head, his face pale. “The only person I have ever tried to kill is dead. Very dead.”

  “You killed him?”

  The boy nodded, his face positively green again. He clasped his hands to his stomach as if he wanted to be sick again.

  “Who was he?”

  “I do not know his name.”

  “Then why did you kill him? Was he attacking you? Or were his pockets stuffed full of more gold than mine were?”

  “I do not know his name, but I know his deeds. He deserved death many times over.”

  “For what?”

  The boy looked up into his face. His eyes were the most amazingly rich brown color he had ever seen, framed with dark eyelashes as long as a girl’s. He’d never noticed before how handsome his namesake was. “I had a sister once...” Metin could have sworn that a drop of moisture fell from his eye. The vicious little bastard had feelings, it seems. “He did not treat her well.”

  “You would kill a man for ill-treating your sister?”

  “What better reason?”

  “But you did not try to kill me?”

  “No.”

  “And Francine? What is she to you? Have you stolen her heart from me, as you stole my name?” He was surprised to find how much he still cared what Francine did. She had played him false and he should not care what sorry bastard she had replaced him with, but he did.

  “Her heart?” The boy gave an ugly laugh. “What would I want with her heart, even suppose she were to have one?”

  “You are not Francine’s lover, then?”

  The boy laughed again. “No – nor am I likely ever to be. I do not care over much for her. Neither would she care much for me, I suspect, were she ever to know what I am.”

  So, Franci
ne had not cast him off for the boy who had stolen his name. He could be grateful for that at least. He was still convinced that the young Metin had stolen his name, and maybe even tried to kill him. He didn’t know what other secrets the boy was hiding, but ill as the boy was, he couldn’t leave him on the street. “Come. Let’s go get some better ale than the gut rot they were serving inside.” He jerked his thumb back at the tavern. “It was enough to make anyone ill.”

  The boy wiped his face on his sleeve. “I’m fine.” His voice had turned sulky and truculent and he made no move to follow Metin.

  He’d expected to hate the boy, but surprisingly enough he felt almost sorry for him instead. “You don’t want another drink?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Still he hesitated. “I can hardly leave you here in the street, puking your guts out like a girl.”

  The boy turned on him with a snarl. “I didn’t ask for your help and I don’t want it. Get out of my way, and stay out.”

  He shrugged. Their short truce was over. He strode off into the night, the boy’s curses ringing in his ears. Damn the ungrateful little bastard. He would not bother to hold out the hand of tolerance again. Next time the boy got in his way, he kill the little whelp and be damned to him.

  Miriame watched him go in silence. He knew she had stolen his name. She could never convince him otherwise – and there was little point in trying. As long as he could not prove her theft, what could he do about it? No magistrate would listen to him on such slender evidence as he could muster against her.

  The moon was full and the night still. She could hear little bar a faint noise of revelry from the tavern she had left and the clump clump clumping of his heavy boots on the cobblestones as he strode off into the night.

  She breathed deeply of the cool night air. If she shut her eyes, she could almost imagine herself in a romantic scene, parting from her lover, her handsome soldier. He had been so close to her. She had needed only reach out her hand to him and she would have been able to touch him. She had needed only to tilt her head back, raise her eyes to his and invite him to kiss her lips...

  She stumbled over a cobblestone and opened her eyes again. He had been so close, and yet so far. Who was she trying to fool? Metin knew her only as his comrade – and as a thief. She would have to wait until the morrow, when she could don one of Courtney’s gowns once more, and get his attention as a woman. He would never look at her without anger in his eyes as long as she was a man. Nor would he look at her with desire.

  An evil taste remained in her mouth from her bout of sickness. She spat on the road beside her. Even if she was wearing a dress, he would not have wanted to kiss her in the state she was in.

  She wanted to kiss him though. Oh, how she wanted it. She wanted the feel the touch of his lips on her own, his rough hands caressing the smooth skin of her breasts, the press of his body against hers.

  She wanted him to desire her and only her. She wanted him never to think on Francine again, or if he did, to think on her only with disdain. She wanted him to take her as his own, for his woman.

  She was a fool, she knew, but how she wanted him to see her as a woman again.

  Chapter 6

  Miriame shivered as Metin slid into the pew next to her. How she had wished and prayed that he would be there. Until she had felt his presence next to her, she had not dared to hope that he would come.

  “You didn’t fail me after all, Mademoiselle Miriame.” His soft voice sent shivers up her spine. “I did not know whether you would be here or not. God must have seen fit to answer my pleas and brought you here to be with me.”

  Miriame smoothed down the velvet of her red dress with her hands and tried to keep the exultation out of her voice. “Do not read too much into it. I felt the need to say my prayers again, that is all.”

  He took her hand in his and held it to his chest. “You are lying.”

  His hands were as rough and tender as she had imagined them to be. “Yes, I am.”

  “Why did you come here? Tell me the truth.”

  She would not answer that just yet, though she knew he knew the answer already. Why would she have come here if not to see him again? “Why did you?”

  “To see you again.”

  She smiled. “Why did you want to see me again?”

  “You are very beautiful.”

  She felt a shiver travel silently from the base of her neck all the way down to her spine. She liked being called beautiful by him. “That is the only reason?”

  “That is why I wanted to see you again. I wanted to talk with you again because you mystify me, because you keep secrets from me that I want to discover.”

  “I fascinate you because I am a beautiful mystery?” She drew her skirts close around herself to hide herself away. “That is a warning to me never to tell you my secrets or I will instantly cease to be fascinating.”

  He shook his head. “I wanted to be near you, too.”

  “You do?”

  “You make my heart beat faster when I am with you. I can think of nothing else but you.”

  “I have such power over you?”

  He took her hand and placed it on his heart. Through the thin linen of his shirt she could feel the beating of his heart. He closed his jacket over her hand, imprisoning it inside. “Do you feel my heart beating?”

  She could feel the warmth of his skin under the palm of her hand. “Yes.”

  “It beats just for you.”

  She tried to draw her hand away, but he kept it there with his, trapped in his shirt. “What nonsense. Give me back my hand.”

  “What if I do not want to? What will you do then?”

  “Do you not remember what I said to you when last we met. I do not like to be coerced. I do not like to be imprisoned. Now give me back my hand.”

  He let it go. She did not take it away, but caressed him softly through the linen of his shirt.

  He groaned a little at her touch. “You do not want your hand back after all?”

  She smiled at him. “I do not mind if it stays there a little longer, as long as I can take it away again when I have a mind to.”

  “You are a contrary woman. I am almost afraid to tell you that you can leave it there for as long as you like, in case that puts it into your head to take it away.”

  “Indeed.” She gave him one last caress and put her hand back in her lap. “I see you are a man of your word. I am glad of it. I would hate to have to get out my knife again to convince you that I am in earnest.”

  He touched one of her cheeks lightly with the tip of his finger. “You are a woman. I am not afraid of your knife.”

  She closed her eyes, concentrating on the sensation of his fingers brushing over her face. She had never known that such a simple touch could make her yearn for more. “More fool you.”

  “You would never hurt a fly.”

  His confidence in her was touching – but foolish. “You would not sound so sure of yourself if you knew that I have killed a man with that knife.”

  “You have killed a man with your knife? You? No, I do not believe a word of it.”

  “Do I surprise you?”

  “I am surprised you would claim to have done such a thing. Murder is not a laughing matter – especially not for a woman.”

  “I assure you, it was no idle boast.” She opened her eyes again. “Do I shock you?”

  “It shocks me that you would boast of such a thing. To kill a man with a knife? I cannot believe it of any woman, least of all you. You are so beautiful.”

  “Men can be such fools when they want. To think a woman incapable of murder?” She could not help but smile at the startled look on his face. “Would it sit better with you if I had used poison? Would killing a man in his sleep be more suited to my sex or to my beauty?”

  He was starting to believe her. She could tell by the look of dawning suspicion in his eyes as he gazed at her. “Why did you kill him?”

  She still did not like to think of the body, lyi
ng on the floor, dead. Her stomach turned over and she fought to control her rising nausea. “He had been sent to kill me. I merely got in first.”

  “Why had he been trying to kill you?”

  “It’s a long story. Besides, he was an evil man. He deserved to die.”

  “He deserved to die a thousand deaths for trying to harm you. What could be worse than trying to hurt you, my beautiful Miriame?”

  She was struck with a sudden flash of inspiration. If she told him the truth now, she could deflect his suspicion away from her so she didn’t have to fight him every time they met as fellow Musketeers. Telling him a small part of the truth might well explain enough so that he never realized she had not told him the whole story. “Well, for a start,” she said, with hesitation in her voice, “he tried to kill you once, too.”

  Metin looked at the girl in front of him with new eyes. What did she know about him? “What do you mean, he tried to kill me, too?”

  “You asked me once before why I had turned so white when you saw me on the church steps,” she almost gabbled in her hurry to get her story out. “I thought you were a ghost come to haunt me and I ran inside to get away. I was hoping that God and his angels would protect me if I was under the protection of the church.”

  So she had known more about the attack on him than she had confessed before. He knew it. “You thought I was a ghost?”

  “The man I am talking about, I saw him - he knifed you and left you for dead on the streets.” The girl leaned forward and touched him on the chest, drawing a line with her finger almost exactly where his scar was. “Right here, if I remember well.”

  He shuddered from her touch, though it was a touch of pity and not of affection. “How do you know this?”

  “I was watching from the shadows. There were five or six of them. They pulled you off your horse and one of them knifed you. I saw his face and recognized him from before.”

  “So you killed him? Because he attacked a stranger?”

  “Not then.” She shook her head. “There were six of them and only one of me. If I had gone to your aid then, they would’ve killed me, too. They left you in the street, bleeding to death.”