Beside him, Maddy ducked her head and hid her face. “I fear we must leave,” she whispered in a voice hoarse with panic. “I recognize the two old men at the far end of the table, and they may recognize me if they see me. They are Royalists from Lyon and have visited my grandfather many times.”
Hunger dulled Tristan’s usual caution. “Nonsense! With your sunburned face and cropped hair, no one would take you for anything but the paysan you purport to be,” he whispered back.
She accepted his judgment without demur, but the skepticism he read in her eyes said she was far from being convinced. In truth, though he pretended otherwise, he was more nervous than he led her to believe about the situation in which they found themselves.
He took another look at the men around the table, most of whom appeared to be shouting insults at those seated across from them. He groaned. To a man, those on one side of the table sported the white cockade of the Bourbons, those on the other the tricolor of the Bonapartists—and from the looks of things, they were on the verge of staging a reenactment of the French Revolution. If the old dobbin could take another step, he’d be tempted to demand his blunt back from the innkeeper and move on.
But the dobbin was on its last legs, and he could plainly see that Maddy was so exhausted she could scarcely hold her head up. In truth, he was not in much better shape himself. There was nothing for it but to hope for the best tonight and get an early start tomorrow.
But like a gambler whose luck had turned bad, Tristan’s grew worse by the minute. The buxom black-haired serving maid who approached them with their ragout took one look at him and dropped the wooden bowl sending chunks of meat and potato splattering in all directions.
“Mon Dieu,” she gasped. “It is you—the devil-eyed Parisian with the clever hands.” She crossed herself fervently. “Mother of God, I have slept with a priest.”
A deathly silence fell on the crowded room at her damning words. All eyes, Royalist and Bonapartist alike, turned accusingly in Tristan’s direction.
He blinked, vaguely aware he remembered her as Babette—or was it Colette?—an obliging tavern wench from an inn a good day’s ride to the north, where he’d spent an energetic night between the sheets on his way to Lyon. What cursed luck that she should have changed her place of employment at this particular time.
Out of the corner of one eye, he saw Maddy level a look at him that nearly singed his two-day growth of whiskers. He chose to ignore it for the moment and handle the more pressing matter of the goggle-eyed serving girl.
“My good woman,” he said in the same tone of voice he’d heard the priest use when delivering the old count’s funeral mass. “I do not know who you think I am, but let me assure you, we have never before met.”
“But your eyes, monsieur. No two men could have such eyes.”
“Ah!” Tristan leaned back in his chair, with what he hoped was a beatific smile on his face. “That explains your confusion.” He shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, nay ashamed to admit, that you must have met up with my scapegrace twin brother. We are as alike as two hairs on a dog. But he, alas, has refused to enter the church as our good father ordained, but has chosen instead to follow the evil ways of Lucifer.”
As one, the men at the table murmured their acceptance of his explanation. As one, they returned to their verbal jousting, if anything, more loudly than before. It was all too apparent that neither Royalists nor Bonapartists wished to be the first to cast the stone when it came to carnal sin.
“Je ne connais pas this Lucifer,” the young maid said over the rapidly accelerating noise. “Never has he stopped by the inn of Scarabée Noir. But this I say to you, Father. You need feel no shame for your handsome, brother. There is no finer, more generous gentleman in all of France.”
Dropping to her knees, she scooped the bulk of the ragout back into the bowl and wiped the remainder up with her already soiled apron. Her task completed, she gazed up at Tristan with vacant brown eyes that gave her a distinctly bovine appearance. Lord help him, he must have been drunk as a brewer’s horse to have consorted with such a dim-witted creature.
The little maid rose to her feet, a dreamy expression on her plump face. “Left ten francs on my pillow, the gentleman did—just what I needed for coach fare to come join mon cher ami, who is the ostler at this inn.”
Beside him, Maddy made an odd choking sound and Tristan groaned. Devil take it, he’d been hoisted by his own petard. “That is all very well, my child,” he intoned in his most pious voice, “but fornication without the sanctity of marriage is still a sin, and I admonish you to confess your encounter with my reprehensible brother when next you visit your parish priest.”
He cleared his throat. “In the meantime, would you be good enough to deliver our supper to our chambers as soon as possible. I fear the mood of the public room is about to become to violent for the tender sensitivities of my young assistant.”
No sooner had he uttered the prophetic words than a young Royalist with glazed eyes and ruddy cheeks raised his glass and shouted, “Vive le roi!” An equally inebriated young Bonapartist immediately retaliated by tossing his wine in the face of the Royalist and shouting, “Vive l’empereur!”
Instantly, every man at the table was on his feet, sword drawn and murder in his eye. Tristan yanked Maddy from her chair and pushed her and the whimpering serving maid toward the door, keeping his body between them and the clashing swords behind him.
“Supper,” he yelled at the maid, who scooted for the kitchen the minute she cleared the public room doorway. “And a basin of hot water for washing. If they are not delivered to my chamber within five minutes, I will come looking for you.”
Maddy pulled her arm from Tristan’s grasp with a muttered, “Keep your ‘clever hands’ to yourself.” Her back was rigid as a post and her boots thudded ominously on the wooden treads as she made her way up the stairway. Stopping at the first landing, she waited for him to indicate which chamber was hers.
He pointed mutely to the stairs leading to the attic, and found himself thinking longingly of the mêlée under way in the public room below. That kind of male combat he understood and could handle with an aplomb gained from six years of surviving on the streets of Paris. But what man in his right mind would welcome confrontation with an irate female—especially one who thought she had him dead to rights? Grimly, he followed her up the stairwell and pushed open the door to the tiny attic room.
Maddy poked her head in the door and stared at the narrow bed and the wooden packing crate on which a single tallow candle dripped and sputtered. The anger already simmering inside her burst into a full-fledged conflagration and she wheeled around to face the man behind her. “What is this? Have you secured me a room in the maid’s quarters?”
“Shhh. Maddy, lower your voice.”
She lowered it to an icy tone only he could hear. “You are carrying our disguise a bit too far, Father Tristan. I agreed to pose as your assistant; I did not agree to lie on straw-filled ticking while you sleep in a feather bed.”
Tristan gave her a gentle shove, followed her into the tiny room and closed the door behind him. “This was the only room available when we arrived.” He consulted his watch. “And it is now half past the hour of ten. There is little likelihood another will become available tonight. You may rant and rave all you like; it will do you no good. It is either this or bed down in the stable with a dozen or more coachmen and stable boys, an arrangement in which I, myself, have no interest. But feel free to avail yourself of such accommodations if you wish.”
He reached down and pulled a knife from his boot. “However, if you do, I would suggest you arm yourself with this. As you may have noticed when we arrived, they’re a rough lot. God only knows what use they might find for a pretty young boy—and if they discovered he was, in fact, a female, it does not even bear thinking about.”
“And how much safer am I here with a lecher who cannot even think of a plausible lie to cover his debauchery?”
&nb
sp; Tristan’s eyes chilled to two chips of silver ice, and anger thinned his mouth to a mere knife slash in his beard-darkened face. “Never fear, mademoiselle, you are as safe with me as if you were in one of your papist convents. Surely you realize that if I had found you in the least bit tempting, I could have ravaged you as easily in the hayloft as an attic—particularly when you draped yourself all over me in the middle of the night. The fact is, I only lust after warm-blooded, warm-hearted women; my lascivious urges do not extend to scrawny females with boyish figures and waspish tongues.”
Maddy reeled as if he had struck her. She ached to lash back at him with something as vicious and insulting as his ugly denunciation of her. But before she could gather her wits, she heard a knock and a voice that declared, “Here is your supper, Father, and your hot water.
Instinctively, she stepped aside as Tristan reached for the door handle. The plump, little serving maid stood on the threshold, tray in hand, and behind her stood a pot boy with a basin of steaming water and two linen towels.
The maid smiled tentatively. “There’s not a spoonful of ragout left in the kitchen. ‘Twas the last of it that landed on the floor when you gave me such a start. Nor is there much else left to eat with those hotheads below filling their bellies like hogs at a trough.
“But never fear, Father. You and your young companion need not go to sleep hungry. For look what I managed to find for you.” She handed him the tray. “A nice bit of bread and cheese.”
Morning, when it finally came, was as pale and chilly as a tax collector’s smile. Through half-closed eyelids, Maddy watched the gray light filter through the narrow, dirt-encrusted window and seek out the shadowy corners of the tiny room. She had slept poorly, though she’d had the narrow bed to herself. After a silent meal, Tristan had wrapped himself in the blanket he’d brought in from the carriage, stretched out on the floor with his head on the knapsack and closed his eyes.
Long after the single, smoky candle had guttered out, she’d lain staring into the dark, remembering his disparaging description of her. “A scrawny female with a boyish figure and a waspish tongue.”
She’d tried to convince herself the hateful words didn’t hurt. He had, after all, spoken in anger—anger she admitted to triggering. But she suspected there had been more truth than temper in what he’d said. She’d always been painfully aware of her small bosom. But a waspish tongue? If, indeed, she was guilty of that failing, then at least part of the blame could be laid at his door. There was something about the man that brought out the worst in her.
As she watched through half-open eyes, Tristan stirred, stretched his arms above his head, and yawned. A moment later, he rose stiffly from the floor and folded the blanket. Rummaging through the knapsack, he drew forth the razor the St. Bartholomew housekeeper had provided. With the remains of the wash water and a sliver of soap left from the night before, he proceeded to shave himself before the cracked mirror hanging on the wall above the packing crate.
Maddy had never before seen a man perform his daily ablutions. Her grandfather had been much too austere and formal a man to allow any female such a personal glimpse of him. Even when he had become so seriously ill, he had demanded she leave the room whenever his valet washed and shaved him.
Fascinated, she watched Tristan scrape away the black beard that had darkened his lean features for the past two days. Even in the dim light, she could see how handsome he was without it, and she found herself wondering how many women, like the little maid, had found him irresistible. The very thought made her ache in a way she was certain no lady was supposed to ache.
His task complete, he repacked the knapsack, picked up the blanket, and moved to stand over her at the side of the bed. Maddy pretended to be asleep, rather than meet his pale, knowing gaze and risk his detecting the embarrassment she felt over their enforced intimacy. A moment later, she heard him slip quietly from the room and close the door behind him.
She sat bolt upright. Where was he going? Too late, she wished she had the courage to face him long enough to ask. Quickly, she shoved her feet into her boots, splashed water on her face, and finger-combed her short curly hair. He might be the most exasperating man she had ever met, but once he was out of her sight, she felt as if she were cut adrift from the only reality left in her life.
A peek in the doorway of the public room told her he was not there. Nor was anyone else except the little maid, who was busy cleaning up the debris from the previous night. She looked up from where she was scrubbing vigorously at a bloodstain defacing the worn planking of the floor.
“Men!” she said disparagingly. “You are all alike. Drunken sods who rail at each other like raging bulls, then crawl away to sleep it off while we women clear up your mess. If I was you, lad, I’d follow in the good father’s footsteps and steer clear of such was raising a ruckus here last night.”
Maddy laughed. “Oh I intend to follow in his footsteps all right,” she said, lowering her voice sufficiently to preserve her disguise.
“Well, you’d best make tracks then,” the maid said, obviously taking her literally. “For he come knocking at the scullery door a bit ago, bolted down a mug of coffee, and rode off in that little black carriage of his.”
Maddy’s heart dropped to her toes. “He left the inn?”
“Oui. Waved good-bye and threw me a kiss.” The little maid sighed. “What a shame he had to be a priest.”
Gripping the back of the nearest chair for support, Maddy recalled Tristan’s fury when she’d call him a lecher, his cruel rejoinder that told her how unappealing he found her. The very air in the little attic room had crackled with his anger—but it had never occurred to her he would just walk out and leave her stranded without a sou to her name. What tale would the black-hearted devil weave to explain such infamy to her father? A clever one, she’d no doubt. He had already proven himself a cunning liar.
“I have to wonder why the good father left you here alone,” the maid said, studying her curiously. “It seems an odd thing to do with the inn full of the kind of men who would use a pretty lad like you most cruelly if they thought you were without protection.”
Maddy felt a chill slither down her spine, but she managed what she hoped was a confident smile. “My sister and her husband live nearby,” she improvised hastily. “Father Tristan merely offered me a ride to where I could walk to their farm.”
“Ah, so that’s the way of it.” The maid wiped her hands on her apron, which still bore the remains of the ill-fated ragout. “Well, come with me to the kitchen then. The father said I was to make certain you had a piece of bread and a mug of coffee when you woke.”
“How kind of him.”
“Oui, you’ll not find many men in France as kind nowadays. They’re all too busy fretting about who’ll be sitting on the throne to worry about such as you and me, lad.”
Half an hour later, her hunger satisfied, Maddy bid farewell to the little maid and stepped from the kitchen to find the courtyard strangely quiet and empty. The sounds of grooms and horses stirring about came from the stable and the smell of fresh hay filled the cool morning air, but apparently the inn’s contentious guests were still sleeping off last night’s debauchery—a blessing for which she was deeply grateful.
Blinking after the gloom inside the inn, she stood for a minute in the bright sunshine, collecting her wits. The first shock of finding herself abandoned had passed and a numbness born of sheer terror settled over her.
Grimly, she reviewed her options. There were only two that she could see. She could walk back to Lyon and hide in the church as Father Bertrand had suggested. If anyone questioned her en route, she could claim she was going south to join Bonaparte’s army. It was by far the most sensible thing to do.
But if she could somehow make it to Calais… She remembered a remark Tristan had made in passing about her father’s ship waiting there to carry them to England. All she needed was a ride. She could never walk that far—or even if she could, the ship would be long
gone before she reached the seaport town. But with all the Royalists fleeing north, surely she could find someone with whom she might safely travel. A man and his wife perhaps, or a noblewoman traveling with her coachman and maid. If such a person still existed in southern France, she would surely be anxious to stay out of the Corsican’s evil grasp.
She made her decision. Squaring her shoulders, she started walking…north. Her knees were still trembling, but the very act of making a decision lifted her flagging spirits.
The road was flat, bordered on both sides by peaceful green meadows, with sheep grazing on one side, cows on the other. A warm breeze carried the scent of newly turned earth and somewhere a lamb bleated for its mother. She found it difficult to believe this peaceful countryside might once again be the scene of a bloody battle over the throne of France.
Ahead, a narrow stone bridge spanned a small stream and beyond that she could see the village Tristan had mentioned, basking in the early morning sunshine. She had just started across the bridge when she heard the pounding of hooves behind her. Turning, she found a horse and rider bearing down upon her a breakneck speed. With a cry of alarm, she climbed atop the waist-high rock wall bordering the bridge just in time to keep from being crushed.
Swearing profusely, the rider reined in his horse at the end of the bridge and shook his fist at her. She recognized him from his flame-colored hair, as the young Royalist who’d started the fracas in the inn the night before. He was hatless, and one eye was closed and surrounded by a purplish black bruise that gave him an odd, owlish look. A thin red line crossing his right cheek suggested he’d come out the worst in at least one contest of swordsmanship.
“Sacre bleu, you stupid paysan, my blooded stallion could have broken a leg if he’d stepped on you,” he shouted, staring down his aristocratic nose at her.
Hot, angry blood throbbed in Maddy’s temples. Her legs were still trembling so violently she dared not step down from her perch, and this idiot was accusing her of endangering the safety of his horse! “What of me, you clumsy cochon,” she shouted back. “You’d have killed me if I hadn’t been too quick for you.”
The Misguided Matchmaker Page 8
