“I will most certainly visit again, then,” the marquis said. “I will wish to see if you have fully recovered.”
She looked up at him—did he know? Did he know the effect of his touch on her? His face was just as smooth and uninterested as before; there was nothing in his expression to suggest he had noticed anything. She suppressed a sigh of relief. He must not know. He must not know until she was ready for him to know.
“Thank you,” she managed to say, and her voice even sounded pleased. “I shall look forward to your visit.” She turned to her sister and made herself smile. “Don’t worry, sister. I shall be well with some rest, and I am sure you will need to rest as well after your journey.”
Blanche nodded and, with a last curtsy to the marquis, led the way to their rooms.
Jesu, Marie, Catherine prayed silently. Help me bear this, for Blanche’s sake.
They came to her room, and Catherine thought she must have looked pale, for Blanche’s expression became concerned again and she did not stay long to talk. Catherine gave her a reassuring hug and a smile, but it did not erase the worried look from her sister’s face. She patted her hand.
“Blanche, do not worry. I shall be well. It is only my late illness, and the fatigue of my journey.”
Her sister looked doubtful. “If you say it is so, I will try to believe it,” she replied. “I have heard in stories of women whose faces have all the blood drained from them, but I have never seen such a thing until now when I looked on you.” She paused. “If you wish me to stay with you, I will, so that if you become more ill, then I may call for a maid and have our brother call for the doctor.”
A doctor. Fear crept into her. No, she could not have a doctor examine her. She had spent a long time away—more than seven months, at least. Of course her brother and sister would be concerned about her health, but her brother had already brought up the subject of marriage, and he would think also of her virtue, as any responsible relative would. She was no longer a virgin, but the blame would probably fall on Jack, not the marquis. Adrian clearly did not know the circumstances of her disappearance; he suspected their father as the cause, and her brother obviously admired de Bauvin. Should a doctor be brought to examine her? It would be natural to request that she be examined for damage to her health, but the doctor would no doubt bring a midwife to determine if any damage had occurred to her maidenhead.
Catherine gazed at the bed in her room, then at Blanche. It would be safe for now, she thought. The marquis was not a guest of the house tonight. She needed to think and rest. She shook her head.
“No, truly, you are very kind and sweet, sister, but I will be well. Indeed, I had excellent care in restoring my health when I was in Paris.” It was true; Felice had been an excellent nurse and knew much about herbal tisanes and salves. She doubted any doctor could do better. “If you insist, however, I will call for you if I do feel ill, I promise it.”
Blanche nodded reluctantly. “If you wish.” She shook her head. “It probably would not make much difference, for I do not think doctors do anything but give potions that do nothing.”
Catherine gave her a questioning look, and Blanche’s face became full of grief. “They did not help Tante Anna, after all.” Catherine looked sharply at her sister. “Tante Anna? What happened to her?”
Blanche raised hopeful eyes to her. “Do you remember her, then? She was very kind to me, and gave me presents. She . . .” The girl swallowed and shook her head again. “She fell down some stairs and did not . . . did not. . . .” She pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to weep. “She is in heaven now, I am sure.”
Catherine closed her eyes. Her aunt had suffered greatly under the hand of her husband. She was fairly sure it was not an accident. Her uncle and her father were of the same nature, though they were not of the same blood. “I remember,” she said. “She was good to us, and I am sorry. . . .” Her voice halted, choked by tears, then she swallowed and patted her sister’s hand. “Well, you are right, a doctor will do me no good, and I promise I shall call for you if I need you.”
Blanche smiled a watery smile at her. “If you promise, very well.” She gave Catherine another hug. “I am very glad you are home. I remember you told me wonderful stories when I was very little.” She went to the door and paused, looking back. “Good night, and rest well.”
“Good night, Blanche.”
Her sister closed the door quietly.
Catherine did not call for a maid to help her undress, but managed, slowly, to do it herself. She was glad her maid had laced her loosely and that the bow on her corset was easily undone. At last, she was free of her clothes and in her shift, and sat on a chair far away from the bed.
She closed her eyes and began to shake. Her hands trembled, and she closed them into fists to control them, but then her whole body shook. A low, keening sounded in the room; she realized suddenly it came from her and that she had crossed her arms and was rocking back and forth as if in deep grief.
Stop. Stop this. Control yourself. She took a deep breath and made herself stand and move to the bed. It is only a bed, something to sleep on, where you will get your rest.
But it was not.
It was where she had been forced, more than seven months ago, to lay, her shift pushed to her neck while her body had been violated. It was where she had knifed her attacker and left him for dead. It was where she had first felt the pain in her hands and her back as they bled and bled, and where her blood had joined the blood of her rapist. She remembered it all now, the instant she had touched his hand again this evening.
Her rapist.
The Marquis de Bauvin.
Chapter 10
THE FROSTED BARREN TREES LOOKED like black lace against the cloudy late afternoon sky, but Jack took no note of it. He had ridden for five days as if the Devil were after him, riding until he wore out one horse after another, until one thought blurred into another out of fatigue. But fatigue did nothing to fade the images that repeated in his mind, particularly those of Catherine.
Her welcome at her home showed him, as nothing else did, that he had no place in her life. The de la Fer mansion was the ancient home of a high, noble family. All he had claim to was the title of a landless baronet and a vagrant’s life. At dinner, she had worn her noblewoman’s rich clothes and had sat in the company of other equally well-dressed nobles, while he must needs wear a borrowed suit and sat at the other, inferior end of the table. Her family welcomed her with open arms. He had no family, and he was certain he’d be as welcome in hers as he’d been at King Louis’s court—which was not at all, since the French king well knew why Jack wanted to see him.
And, more fool he, he had left the Comte de la Fer without collecting his reward for bringing Catherine back.
Idiot, sopping, drooling idiot. He’d had eyes only for Catherine, and had had a devilish time not snatching her away from the side of the Marquis de Bauvin.
He hated the man. His smoothness, his practiced manners, his rich clothes and beringed hands, his title and obvious influence over Catherine’s brother. The devil of it was, Jack knew it all came from envy and jealousy, and the only redeeming feature was that his sins arose from loving Catherine.
He had sat there at the dinner table, watching how she had looked, with her white shoulders rising out of her dress like pristine clouds above stormy green seas, her red curls touching her skin like the colors of sunset.
She was beautiful. He had seen how the marquis had looked at her, first in surprise and then with clear interest. All of the man’s cool demeanor could not hide his interest from Jack. The marquis wanted Catherine, and if Jack knew anything of the measure of a man, the marquis would get her.
And, damn him, he knew she’d be better off with such a highborn man.
Which was why he left so quickly. He knew the marquis would wed her, and that was that. There was nothing for Jack to do but leave . . . and collect his money, which he had neglected to do in his haste, damn it. He pounded a fist on
his thigh in frustration. The truth was, he could not bear taking any money for Catherine’s return. He didn’t deserve it; he hadn’t acted with honor toward her, but had used her for his own pleasure and used her skill for money. Hell. Money was a wretched thing. It sucked the honor out of a man and made him a slave to seeming necessity.
It did mean, though, that he had an excuse to return and claim the funds from the Comte de la Fer, however, and to see Catherine again. The thought lightened his mood, but only momentarily. No doubt she’d be wed to the marquis by then.
He tried to turn his mind to other things, but he could only wonder what he’d tell the king when he met him. That he’d failed, that he had not even brought more money than a pittance for King Charles’s threadbare and wandering court. As it was, he’d be at least a day late.
The land varied more in character as he neared Lille. Jack had to slow his horse to a walk from time to time so that he could traverse down steep winding paths through woods that led to hidden brook valleys. One of them took all his concentration, and he dismounted, for it was too steep and gravelly. He heard his horse emit a sigh, and he grinned ruefully. He’d ridden the poor animal hard, and it deserved a decrease in its burden, at least for now. Changing horses often was expensive, and he’d best try to spare this one for a while, even though it’d make him even later meeting the king. He let himself feel the irritation that was always under the surface when it came to thinking of the king. Granted, it was his duty to attend His Majesty and do his bidding, but sometimes he wondered if Charles forgot what it was to have human limitations.
There was indeed a brook at the foot of the steep wooded hill, not wide or deep from the looks of it, and there were wide, flat stones across it that looked easily traversable. He looked around instinctively before crossing; he was not in the midst of a war now, but he’d learned often enough not to let himself walk into a vulnerable position before he looked carefully around.
The woods were quiet, with only a slight breeze rustling the few dry leaves in the trees and the bracken along the floor of the forest. He frowned. A little too quiet; the day had darkened, and there should be the calls of birds and movement of animals readying themselves for the evening. He pulled out powder and ball, primed his musket, and carefully moved out into the clearing.
“Stand and deliver!” cried a voice on the other side.
Jack grinned, pointed his musket above the sound of the voice, and fired.
“Damn you, Jack, put that musket down! You almost killed me.” A tall, devilish-looking, dark-haired man emerged from the woods on the other side, frowning.
“And you would have deserved it, Nick, for trying a bastard trick like that. Besides, did you think I was stupid? You called out in English, not French.”
Nick winced, then grinned. “Very well, it was a stupid trick. I wanted to see if you’d jump out of your shoes.” Lord Nicholas Devere was far from stupid, though. Jack had been in more than a few campaigns with him, and a bolder and more dependable comrade-in-arms he didn’t know, with the possible exception of Fichet. He had saved Nick’s life once or twice—Nick said twice, but Jack could only remember once. Nick, on the other hand, had saved the life of the king from Cromwell’s spies more than a few times, and it was for that reason that His Majesty kept him close.
Jack frowned. If Nick was here, it meant that Charles probably was near, as well.
Nick’s grin became apologetic and he lowered his voice. “Yes, he’s not at Breda—at least, not officially. He became impatient, Jack. He’s champing at the bit to get back to England, for we’ve just caught one of Cromwell’s spies, and it looks like we have a supporter at home, for there are more than a few tired of the man and his son. We might also get Louis to favor our cause at last, as well, and the king has news for you to give to His Majesty. So, he thought he might meet you halfway.”
Jack groaned, half glad that he need not travel all the way to Breda and half apprehensive. If King Charles was so impatient as to travel to meet him near Lille, he would also be very irritated, and he’d have to bear an interview that would have a strong resemblance to being roasted over hot coals.
His friend patted him on the back consolingly. “Never fear. It’ll be short, I’m sure. He’ll want you to depart as soon as you can for Versailles, to give Louis the message. The hotel is less than an hour’s slow ride away.”
Hotel. It might mean he could refresh himself, perhaps even wash away the travel dirt, and change into a fresh suit of clothes. He rubbed his rough chin. “It’ll be good to get some decent food and a shave.”
Nick shook his head. “Don’t depend on it, friend. His Majesty is very impatient and wants to strike when the iron is hot.”
“Devil take it,” Jack said, and sighed.
Nick, luckily, was wrong, and Jack did have a chance to refresh himself and even rest for a few hours. It did not make him feel any better about facing the king, however.
Jack entered what served as an antechamber for the king’s apartment in the hotel. He noticed it was more threadbare than the last living space in which Charles had stayed, but saluted and grinned a welcome at Nick, who stood at attention by the door. “Still guarding the gates of hell?” Jack asked.
Nick grinned. “Still. He’s in a fair good mood today, though. Truth to tell, I’d give heaven itself to trade places with you, but you and His Majesty would kill each other within hours of you attending him.”
“I’m no regicide,” Jack said, and grinned. “His Majesty would have my head first.”
Nick gave him a look more understanding than Jack liked.
“Aye, and you’d give it to him at his bidding.”
“As should all loyal subjects,” Jack replied, but even he thought his words were more automatic than felt.
Nick gave him a keen look. “Even kings—especially kings—can ask too much.”
For one moment, Jack was inclined to agree. King and country, he thought. Have and hold. He shrugged. “My family has always been loyal. Who am I to be different?”
“The king rules by divine right, but he’s not God, Jack.”
Jack laughed. “’S blood, I know that. God never had as many women as His Majesty.”
“You’re a blasphemous man, and you’ll fry in hell some day,” Nick said, grinning.
“I depend on you to pull me out, old man,” Jack said. “Speaking of frying in hell . . .” He nodded toward the door. “I suppose he wants to know if King Louis will support him?”
“If by ‘support’ you mean give him troops and money, yes.”
Jack let out a deep breath. “I’ll need your frying tongs, Nick.”
Nick gave a sympathetic wince before he opened the door. “Good luck, friend,” he said under his breath.
The king sat behind his desk, busily sorting through papers. For a long moment, he ignored Jack, even though he obviously must have seen him bowing on one bent knee before him. The floor was hard on his knee; he regretted, irritably, that he had not the foresight to have kneeled on the rug closer to the king.
At last he heard the papers rustle again, and the king’s voice: “You may rise, Sir John.”
Jack rose and looked up; the king had risen to his feet, as well, which was not a good sign. His Majesty was an exceedingly tall man, taller even than Jack, who towered over most men. The king was usually an informal, cordial sort and would meet others sitting—quite the opposite of King Louis, Jack reflected. But Charles also knew the effect of his height, and used it when he felt it necessary.
Obviously, he felt it necessary now. It also meant the king was displeased, hopefully not about Jack.
“Well?” demanded Charles.
Jack raised his brows in question. “Your Majesty?”
“Louis. Has he given you any word about giving me support?”
“Only that he needs to think on it.”
The king made a sound very much like a growl. “‘Think on it.’ Damme, that’s what he always says, no matter what he’s aske
d, whether from peasant, noble, and now obviously king.”
“My apologies, Your Majesty.” Jack sympathized; waiting on kings was the very devil, and he had to wait on two. His thought must have been reflected on his face, for Charles’s thick brows drew together in a frown as he gazed at Jack.
But then his Majesty’s face cleared and his eyes twinkled as he grinned. “Aye, Jack, I’m getting a bit of my own medicine, I know.”
This was what made Jack continue working for the king: the admission to his very flawed nature; his genial informality and charm that overcame his homely, thick features; the acknowledgment that yes, he had put Jack to a difficult task.
And, Jack admitted, the knowledge that he was King Charles’s man, and loyal to a fault. His Majesty knew it, and took advantage of it. There was no mistaking that. But Jack was born and bred for his station in life, knew loyalty to the throne in his very bones, and he’d never forsake it, for God only knew he’d forsaken everything else. Catherine’s face floated before his mind, but he dismissed it and the despair behind it. She was in the hands of her loving family, and did not need him.
“I need you, Jack.”
Jack looked up at the king.
“I can’t be in all places at once, and King Louis is one I’ve . . . well, tapped the least.” A rueful look crossed the king’s face and he glanced at Jack. “You know how it is. You’ve been as homeless as I, and more poor, I know.” He smiled slightly. “Still making money from your dueling, Jack?”
“Not at your court, and not if you forbid it elsewhere, Majesty,” Jack said promptly.
Charles laughed but shook his head. “Most definitely not at my court, for heaven knows it’s caused me more problems than it’s solved, but elsewhere . . . well, a man must do what he must do in the service of his king.”
Jack relaxed. He knew only fighting since he’d been a boy, exiled along with Charles, and he knew no other way to earn a living than by his sword. He knew that Louis—or rather, the Cardinal Mazarin—had paid a certain sum to Charles for Jack’s services in war, but that sum was certainly limited. He had once taken a musket ball intended for “Monsieur” Phillipe, that effete brother of the French king, and for that his value had risen. But he had returned with money, half of which he gave to Charles, and he had to be chary with the rest.
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