He gave her a skeptical look. “You know your name—Catherine de la Fer—and I am sure it is your true one, for you gave it in extremity. It is not a name for a commoner.”
“How do you know?”
His smile was ironic. “‘De la Fer’—‘of the blade.’ It is a name for a knight, a chevalier, not a peasant.”
She nodded, accepting his statement. It made sense. If she had been a peasant, or any kind of commoner, she would have had some kind of practical skill she could have used . . . unless she had forgotten. She tested the veil over her memory . . . no. She had no skills other than reading or writing, and what little sword-skill she had.
“So, who are you, and where do you come from?”
She shook her head. “Monsieur, I assure you, I do not remember. You must be right about my name, and I think I might have said that I was from Normandy. But beyond that, I do not remember and . . .” She took in a deep breath and gazed at him steadily. “The pain of remembering is so great that I fear it will take time.”
He nodded. “Yes. The wounds on your back—they are severe. I am not surprised you would not want to remember it, but surely you remember something of the whipping?”
Fear pierced her, not as strongly this time, and she shook her head. “No. I remember only fear, monsieur.”
“Are you a Huguenot, then, trying to escape punishment?”
Catherine smiled. This, she remembered. “No, I am Catholic, and—” Panic seized her, and she looked about the room, searching frantically. “My cross, my rosary—where is it?”
“Peace, mademoiselle.” Sir Jack put his hand in a pocket of his coat. “Here it is.” He dangled the cross and rosary in front of her, but jerked it away when she tried to grab it.
Anger flared. “Give it to me,” she demanded. “It is mine.”
“So you remember that, at least.”
“Yes. Give it to me.”
“No. Not unless you tell me more about yourself.” His jaw had tightened, his eyes had grown cool, and there was no kindness in his face now. “I will have the truth, or I will most certainly return you to the alley where I found you. Where did you come from, and why did you run away? That is the only reason I can see for a gentleborn lady to be starving and dressed as a boy in the alleys of Paris.”
She kept her eyes on the rosary that swung in front of her. “By the cross, M. Sir Jack, I do not know. Perhaps I ran to escape another beating.” Yes, that felt right. She nodded. “Yes, I believe that is true.”
“Did you try to escape your husband?”
Fear arose in her with that question, and yet . . . it did not seem correct. She frowned. “No . . . I do not think I have been married. Perhaps I was going to be married.” Nausea twisted her stomach, making her clench her teeth. She looked up at him. “Yes. I think I was going to be married, and I did not want to be.” She took in a deep breath and let it out again, dispelling the sick feeling in her belly. “Trying to remember it makes me feel ill in my stomach.”
Sir Jack’s lips turned up for a moment, and then he chuckled. “I do not blame you for feeling so. I have avoided marriage these five years since my majority for that very reason.”
Catherine allowed herself a smile, then held out her hand. “May I have my cross and rosary now?” she asked.
He gazed at her for a moment, and the measuring expression she had seen before crossed his face.
He held out his hand and dropped the cross into hers. Profound relief made her sigh and press the cross to her lips before she tied the rosary to her waist and tucked the cross on the necklace under her bodice. Strength bloomed under her breastbone, dispelling fatigue, and this time her smile when she looked at him was not forced.
“Merci, M. Sir Jack,” she said.
“You are welcome.”
There was silence for a while, with only the soft crackling of the fire making comment, and it felt oddly companionable to her. And yet, Catherine was sure that Sir Jack wanted something of her. She waited.
He stirred from his contemplation of the fire and looked at her. “Do you want to find your family?”
Emotions flooded into her—fear again, panic, revulsion. But there was also yearning, and a concern for . . . someone. She did not know who it might be, but she was sure it was someone younger. There was no urgency, however, except perhaps beneath the fear that she not return. She looked at him. “I do not know,” she said honestly. “I think it is best that I do not return home at this time. There is . . . danger.”
“Ahhh. Danger.” A flicker of light gleamed in Sir Jack’s eyes, and he grinned. “I would think you’d be the sort to take on danger, M. Fire-Eater.”
His words made her smile; it warmed her that he thought her fierce and brave. But she shook her head. “No. I am not that much of an idiot, M. Sir Jack. I do not seek danger, but Dieu me sauve, it seems to seek me out.”
“It amounts to the same thing,” he said, shrugging.
She grinned. “And I think you are the sort to seek it out?”
He laughed. “Aye, devil take it. It’s the reason why I’m best suited to the life of a soldier than a gentleman farmer.” His expression darkened for a moment, showing a weariness beneath it.
“Ah,” she said. It was as she thought—he was a soldier.
He laughed. “You think you discern much about me, do you, mon enfant?”
She grinned, feeling relief that they had come away from discussing her background. “Yes.”
“How so?”
Catherine gazed at him, up and down, giving him as thorough an assessment as he had given her. “You are well formed for such an occupation, and the scar on your cheek—clearly recent—tells me that you had suffered it either in a duel or in war. Your hands are soft except for the calluses I would expect from a man of war, but well muscled. You were quick to come to my side when I—” She took in a quick breath at the memory of her recent fight, and let it out slowly. “When I was fighting in the alley, and you were quick with you knife. You must be reasonably well-to-do if you do not stint on feeding a complete stranger such as myself. You also have an English accent. Therefore, you are not just a common soldier. You must have come to France in King Charles’s court, biding your time until the Lord Protector—” Sir Jack made a small growl and looked as if he were about to spit, and she paused, waiting for him to do so. She had never seen a gentleman spit, and she was curious to see if the barbarian Englishman would do it. But he did not, and she continued. “Until Cromwell leaves or dies.” She sighed and looked at him. “Tiens, that is a difficult name to say—‘Cromwell.’ ”
His face looked grim. “I’d be pleased if you did not say his name in my presence, mademoiselle.”
She nodded. No doubt he had suffered in the war against the usurper and did not want to speak of it. She shook her head, however. “We might need to speak of him at some time. What am I to call him if we must?”
“You can call him a bloody damned—” Sir Jack finished his sentence in a string of incomprehensible words.
Catherine bit back a laugh, as she was sure he had said some very bad words, but she looked at him innocently. “I do not think I can pronounce those words, M. Sir Jack. They are very English.”
He stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Aye, so they are, and not a thing for a lady to say in good company, mon enfant.”
“Are you, then, not good company?” she asked, putting on an innocent look.
He grinned. “You will find that I am very bad company. You need only ask Mme Felice or her husband, Fichet.” His grin faded, and he looked into the fire. “Beware, mon enfant, for I am a bad man, indeed.”
Catherine looked at him, at the scar that formed a sure line down his cheek and the grim look that had settled over his mouth. She was certain he could be very deadly; had she not seen how he had so swiftly killed that man in the alley?
Yet for all her wariness of him, she felt, deep down, that she did not mind. She did not understand it, for she al
so felt she could never trust anyone, especially a man.
She looked at him. “Do you mean, M. Sir Jack, that you might betray me at some time?”
He returned her gaze, and his eyes were cool. “Most certainly, mon enfant, I will betray you. Beware.”
She nodded, and wondered at herself, for she did not really mind. Perhaps it was because he told her so instead of hiding it. She could prepare for such a thing if she was told about it first, and she appreciated him telling her outright.
“Very well,” she said. “I will beware.”
He chuckled. “That’s all? I would think a little thing like you would run as soon as I looked at you.”
She considered him, dispassionately this time, and shook her head. “No. Because you told me, I shall be prepared.”
He looked at her curiously. “‘Prepared’? And what will you do if I were to betray you?”
She looked at him calmly, deadening the feeling she had allowed to grow in her heart. “I shall kill you,” she said simply.
A slow smile formed on his lips. “Will you, mon enfant?”
“Yes. If you betray me, that is.”
“Should I teach you the art of the sword, then, if it will only end in my death?”
She gazed at him and nodded slowly. “Yes, of course.”
“Why?”
“You promised to do so, and you are not the sort to take back promises.”
He sat back in his chair, away from the fire, and the dimness of the room obscured his expression. “Perhaps I might, if I would also be the sort to betray you.”
She gazed at him, glad she had stilled her feelings. It made her feel in control of herself and this conversation, and she would never let another have control over her again. She gazed at him, still coolly. “You will, however, because it will be profitable for you.”
He moved forward again, and she could see that his smile had grown, and now he seemed amused. “How so?”
She paused, for she was not sure at first, but she gazed at her sword set aside next to the fireplace. The firelight glinted off the metal of the haft, the color of silver and gold coin, and it set off a spark in her mind.
She turned to him, smiling slightly. “I will duel for money.”
His expression turned skeptical. “You will lose, and be killed. How profitable is that?”
“You will train me—you said so yourself.” She put a challenge in her voice.
He did not bridle or take up the challenge as she had hoped, but pursed his lips, his look still skeptical. “And what man will want to fight you?”
She leaned forward. “No one, unless you fight me yourself. Teach me, and we will put on a demonstration—it will be a novelty, and Parisians love a novelty, and gambling most of all.”
He was silent for a while, assessing her again with his eyes, and then he grinned, then chuckled.
“Ah, mon enfant, you get ahead of yourself. You haven’t even received your first lesson.”
“Teach me,” she said, her voice low and as fierce as she could make it. “Teach me, and you shall see.”
He gazed at her up and down, and it seemed he truly looked at her for the first time. “I think . . . I think perhaps I shall,” he said slowly, his smile fading though his eyes still twinkled. “I think I shall.”
An old rebellion flowered in Catherine’s heart, and she held out her hand, steeling herself against flinching when he took it in his. She squeezed it hard and shook it firmly.
“Then it is a bargain, M. Sir Jack.”
He brought up her hand to his lips, kissing it gently, and she pulled away from him, thrusting her hand behind her back.
He grinned. “A bargain, Mlle de la Fer. And do call me Jack.”
Catherine looked away from him, rubbing on her skirts the hand that he’d kissed. She might call him Jack in time, but she would not allow him to kiss her. No, she would never allow that.
She gazed at him again, and tried to soothe the unsettled flutters that suddenly twisted her stomach. He still stared at her, and his expression had changed to amused kindness again . . . and something else that caused his jaw to set stubbornly again.
The thought occurred to her that it did not matter what she wanted. Sir Jack would get his way, one way or another.
She pressed her lips together firmly. Not if she could help it, she thought. Sweet heaven, not if she could help it.
Chapter 3
IF JACK THOUGHT THAT HE MIGHT CHANGE the girl’s mind, he was wrong. He watched as he set Catherine—Mlle de la Fer—through her paces. She was a gentlewoman indeed; everything spoke of it. Every movement of her body was well considered and delib-erate, as befitting someone groomed for the court of King Louis. Even the lifting of her hand to pour tea was done in the prescribed manner, but done as if it were second nature to her.
She was practicing the lunge now, again and again, sweat pouring from her brow despite the frost limning the edges of the inn’s stable yard. Her breath came from her in a fog, so heavy that it formed brief clouds in the air before they dissipated in front of her, sliced through by her sword and the fierce movements of her body.
“Now your defense,” he called out, and she moved her arm up, over and over again, as if to deflect a phantom opponent’s lunge. He could see her tiring; she began gasping for breath, and her arm became slower and trembled as she moved it up and down, up and down. Still, she did not stop. A reluctant admiration flowered in him. If she had been a man, he would have hired her gladly as a fighting companion, someone to help him regain his estates in England.
But she was not. Her legs now hesitated as she moved through the different fencing positions; it was not through lack of knowledge, for she was a quick student and memorized each step and movement as if it were a catechism. But it had only been a few weeks since she had begun practice, and she had been a skeletal thing when he had first found her.
In truth, she was surprisingly stronger than he had thought she would be, and her strength grew daily. But he sometimes cursed his idiocy in promising that he would train her to be a sword-fighter. Still, a promise was a promise, and a Marstone never went back on a promise . . . or almost never.
He moved away from the grim mood that would attend him if he went to those kinds of thoughts, and watched Catherine again. It would be cruel to work the girl further, and she would practice until she dropped, he was sure.
“Stop!” he called out. Catherine continued to practice—she clearly had not heard him, such was her concentration. He shook his head. If he did not stop her she would work until she literally dropped from fatigue—he knew, because he had let her alone once during her practice only to find her on her knees, near fainting from overworking herself. He shook his head and walked up behind her.
“Catherine,” he said, and touched her shoulder.
She whirled, stepped back, and he found the tip of the blunted sword at his throat. “Don’t touch me.” Her voice came out harsh and low, hissing between her teeth.
He put his hands in the air and raised his eyebrows. She had fast reactions even when she was fatigued; a good attribute for a sword-fighter. “My dear mademoiselle, you ask the impossible. When I called to you to stop, you would not. I then had two choices: either I wait until you dropped from exhaustion, or I tap your shoulder to get your attention.” He looked her up and down, and a sense of mischief made him linger over her thin body. “In either case, I would have to touch you, and I expect I will continue to do so if you are so inattentive.” She blushed, looking away, and he was suddenly certain her thoughts were not innocent, for there was fearful understanding in her eyes. Had she, then, known a man? His curiosity rose. If so, it must not have been pleasant for her.
He caught sight of Robert Fichet, Mme Felice’s husband, however, from the corner of his eye, and knew he’d have to wait another day to satisfy his curiosity, for Fichet was clearly as full of portent as the small man could be. Jack nodded to Catherine and gestured toward the inn. “Go wash, and have your l
uncheon, then rest.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off impatiently. “Don’t argue. If you truly wish me not to touch you, then you will obey me.” A rebellious light came into her eyes, even as she stalked off into the inn. He was glad, for certainly rebellion was better than the fear she tried to control.
He waited until Catherine disappeared into the inn, then strode over to Fichet, grinning. The man shifted from foot to foot, looking as pleased as a terrier that had caught a very large rat.
“It is as you thought, M. Sir Jack,” he said, whispering quickly. “Come, we shall talk inside, for la dulce Felice wishes to hear, as well.”
Jack’s grin grew wider—Fichet’s thin mustache fair twitched with impatience, and his chest puffed out just a little with pride. The man must have found something valuable indeed about Mlle de la Fer.
Fichet took Jack to a far corner of the common room, ignoring the cries for service from his customers who sat at other tables, or giving them a stern look if they were too insistant.
“You will lose your customers if you do not attend them,” Jack said, grinning.
Fichet waved an imperious hand. “They will wait. If I do not attend them, then one of our maids will, and if that does not satisfy them, then they may leave.”
“It is a wonder that you have any customers at all.”
Fichet gave Jack a haughty look. “They will return because there is no inn better than that of Robert Fichet. I have said it; it is so.”
Jack’s grin grew wider. “I think I have heard your own King Louis speak in such a way. It makes me wonder if there is not some blood connection between you two.”
Fichet appeared to be much struck by this notion, for he paused before he sat at the table and his mustache twitched again, this time into a contemplative frown.
“I cannot say,” he said after what seemed like a slight struggle. “On one hand, there is a nobility of character in the Fichets that speaks of more than common blood. On the other, my family is a virtuous one, and would not stoop to illicit affairs.” He gave Jack a stern look when a laugh escaped him. “It is a serious matter, monsieur, and a puzzle I must resolve in time.” He looked up, and his expression cleared. “Ah, it is Felice!” He rose again, and took his wife’s hand in his. “Ma doucement, ma chère Felice.” He sighed as if he were a youth with his first love, which brought a blush into Mme Felice’s cheeks. She clicked her tongue in a dismissive manner when her husband kissed her hand, but love was clear in her eyes. She sat down, and patted the chair beside her.
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