“Two days!” Two days more behind Catherine and the traitor de Bauvin. He thrust aside the bedcovers and carefully pushed himself up from the pillows. His head was less dizzy now and though he looked at the cup Fichet held out to him with distaste, he took it and drank it down. He had to be practical. The drink obviously worked to make him feel better, and he’d need all the resources he could, to travel quickly to Versailles.
“Rest now,” Fichet said, and moved to push Jack down again, but Jack quickly moved off the bed to his feet, though the action made him dizzy again.
“Enough, friend.”
Fichet moved away, then nodded slowly, though he sighed, for he obviously recognized the intractable tone in Jack’s voice.
Jack touched the bandages around his ribs. “Do you have any more? I’ll need to be held together as tightly as a virgin’s garter and stays, for I’ll need to travel as soon as I can stand.” He carefully moved away from the bed, taking a few hesitant steps before it was clear the dizziness would not strike again . . . yet. “Which is now, since I’m clearly standing.” He nodded at the innkeeper. “I’ll be grateful if you could find me a fast horse, for I’ll be off as soon as I can get my clothes on.”
“But you are not well!” Fichet protested.
Jack shrugged again. “I know. I’m well enough to stand, so I’ll be well enough to ride. You’ve taken me out of danger, and I’m grateful, Fichet. But neither of us knows how de Bauvin will use Catherine for his purposes, and the sooner we arrive in Versailles, the better it will be.” He swallowed. “I hope to God it will be better.” He did not want to think what, if anything, de Bauvin might have already done.
Fichet nodded, understanding in his eyes. “I do not think he will do anything yet,” he said.
This was possible. “Not until he is closer to King Louis,” Jack acknowledged. “It takes time before His Majesty allows anyone close to him, for God knows I’ve tried for ages with little result.” He sighed and began unrolling the bandage around his ribs. “Help me tie these tighter, Fichet, for we have a long ride before us.”
The innkeeper looked disapproving, but he brought forth more bandages and then, for good measure, a leather jerkin. Jack managed to put on the garment, but only with Fichet’s help—easing his arms through the armholes brought more pain. The innkeeper had to lace it up for him, but he did it well. It kept his torso fairly immobile and, with luck, would keep him from inadvertently injuring himself more.
He’d been beaten up badly; the monster had had a crushing grip, and had sliced his left arm so that he could hardly move it. The wound, and he was sure the foul stench of the creature, had given him a fever, and his arm still pounded with heat and pain. It meant he wouldn’t be able to fight two-handed, or at least not well. He flexed his left hand. It was weak, and his arm was not strong enough to give a killing thrust, but at least he could hold a dagger and annoy an opponent with it.
He sighed deeply—or tried to, for a red-hot poker seemed to thrust itself into his side as he took in a breath. The breath turned into a cough, which also caused the poker to poke into him again. He groaned. “Oh, God!”
Fichet gave him a stern look. “I, also, will pray that you do not die on the way to Versailles, M. Sir Jack.”
Jack gave him a grim look. “You are enjoying this.”
An innocent look spread across the man’s face. “I do not enjoy another man’s suffering.” His expression became severe, however. “But if your suffering causes you to be more sensible later, then I will do my best not to interfere.”
“You are enjoying it,” Jack said, but grinned. “Very well, if I suffer, I suffer. Let us go.”
Fichet frowned again, but took up bags that Jack noted were already neatly packed. His grin grew wider. The man knew him well, and knew he’d want to leave as soon as he could stand. He took in another deep breath and pain struck him hard. He forced himself not to gasp.
If he could stand at all, that is. He gritted his teeth and put one foot in front of the other, carefully, and then more firmly as the movement eased some of his muscles’ stiffness. He’d stand, sit, ride, whatever it took to get to Versailles, even if it killed him.
Just as long as he was sure Catherine was safe, and that he carried out his duty to his king.
Chapter 14
“CATHERINE . . .” BLANCHE CURLED A ribbon around the tip of her finger in a dreamy manner. “Catherine, do you think the Viscomte Visser particularly handsome?”
Catherine looked down at her needlework and hid her smile. Her sister was young. Just past her fourteenth birthday a few days ago, and they had two days until they were to be presented at court, but Blanche was already attracting notice. How else could it be? The girl was beautiful and merry, and had also a kind heart. What man could resist?
“Mmmm. The Viscomte Visser. Which one of the hundreds of your admirers is he?”
Blanche blushed lightly and shook her head. “I do not have hundreds! If you mean the gentlemen who come to visit, you know they are Adrian’s friends, not mine.”
“Any of whom may become your suitor.” Catherine smoothed her hand over her embroidery. It was a skill she suddenly remembered upon gaining the rest of her memories, and she was glad to put her hand to it again. It kept her occupied, and kept her mind from horrors and nightmares and the future.
“So, tell me of this viscomte,” she said. Her sister’s chatter amused her, and helped pass the hours until the evening’s entertainment. Catherine glanced out of the window at the afternoon sky. No clouds marred the deep blue, and she had noticed a few brief wisps of warmer air from time to time. She was glad. She would like to see spring once again.
If she lived long enough.
She dismissed the thought from her mind and gazed at her sister, giving her an encouraging look.
Blanche smiled dreamily. “I am sure you must have seen him. He has black hair, and blue eyes so dark they look violet. He is tall, and very handsome, and Marie says he is too handsome to have any virtue in him, but I do not think she is right! He has always been polite, and has never been pressing in his attentions.” She sighed. “I am sure he only sees me as Adrian’s little sister.”
“Perhaps,” Catherine said, and smiled. “But you have now turned fourteen, and I am sure it will only be a short time before he—or another, better suitor—will notice you even more than you are noticed now.” She shuddered as if intimidated. “I do not know what we shall do when we are then mobbed in the streets by all your suitors. We shall have to hire guards, no doubt.”
Blanche laughed. “You are silly! That will not happen.” Her expression sobered. “We are not well off, after all, and I know by now that one must have a good dowry to attract suitors.”
Catherine lowered her eyes. She felt trapped; she knew what she planned to do to the marquis would put her family into jeopardy if she did not execute it well, and even then, families of good repute might not wish to marry into a family that was associated with such trouble. But she did not see any other way out of ridding the world of such an evil as the Marquis de Bauvin.
She felt Blanche’s hand on her arm and she looked up, grateful for the look of deep affection on her sister’s face.
“Thank you,” Blanche said.
Catherine raised her brows. “For what?”
“For consenting to be betrothed to the Marquis de Bauvin again.”
Catherine shrugged and made herself smile. “He is handsome, rich, and will help restore our fortunes, I’m sure.”
Blanche nodded, but looked at her searchingly. “But you do not love him.”
Catherine bent her head to her needlework again. Dieu me sauve. No, she hated the man. But at least she would not have to marry him. She forced a smile on her face again. “No, but very few women do fall in love with their fiancés. At least his . . . manners are without fault.”
Her sister nodded, but her expression was still doubtful.
“Besides,” Catherine continued. “You are still young to
be married.”
“But Adrian did not think so!” Blanche protested.
“You are thinking of your viscomte again, I am sure.”
Blanche’s blush confirmed Catherine’s assertion.
“Well—if he is the one I am thinking of—he is young, also, and he will wait a few years before he thinks to wed anyone. Adrian thought to marry you off to restore our fortunes, because I . . . had been kidnapped. Now that I am here, it is not necessary that you wed so soon.” She cast Blanche a laughing look. “Besides, think of how many years you have left to flirt with gentlemen before you must be married. Indeed, I wonder if it is at all good that you are to be presented to court in two days, instead of next year.” She gazed at Blanche a little more sharply. The girl seemed not so animated as she had been at home, and perhaps more pale and tired. “I am beginning to think that the parties we have attended are fatiguing you more than you admit.”
Blanche shrugged. “It is nothing. I have not been sleeping well and have had . . . disturbing dreams.” She looked away, as if embarrassed.
Unease uncurled in Catherine’s stomach. “Dreams?” She did not discount anything that might be of supernatural nature. “Unpleasant ones?”
“Oh, no!” Blanche said, then blushed very pink. “That is . . . they are nothing, to be sure, only dreams.”
Catherine relaxed. It was clear they were not at all unpleasant dreams. She grinned. “Of the viscomte, I assume?” she teased.
Her sister’s blushes spread past her cheeks to her ears, confirming Catherine’s suspicions. “Oh, they are only dreams! Although . . .” Blanche’s face grew concerned. “Although sometimes I think they must arise from sinful thoughts, and cannot be good.”
Catherine winced. She knew exactly what kinds of dreams they were. She herself had them, and they reflected everything she had done with Jack on their travels. But Blanche had just turned fourteen, and only recently had come from a very strict convent. Any carnal dreams she might have could not be much more than fantasies of dancing and kissing. She remembered the viscomte of whom Blanche spoke; he was a well-spoken and handsome young man of no more than seventeen years, too young, she thought, to set up a nursery, but not too young to attract a girl’s fancy. He also had in his favor no association that Catherine had been able to discern to the marquis, but had been introduced by the mother of one of Blanche’s convent school friends. Surely there could be no objection there.
She gave her sister a reassuring smile. “Most girls dream of young men. I am sure it is only that. If it concerns you, you may make your confession when we next go to Mass, and then think on purer things.”
Blanche looked relieved, and Catherine suppressed a wince at her own hypocrisy. She had certainly not thought of purer things . . . but it was, after all, all that she would have of Jack.
She pushed the thought away, for it depressed her. Better she keep to her plans, which had worked so far. What she had revealed of her powers to the Marquis de Bauvin had definitely intrigued him; that he renewed his suit for her hand proved that he still wished to seize the power he had seen in her when he had—
She would not think of that part of the past. The future of her family was more important, as was any clear proof she could present of his sorcery.
She looked up at her sister to see her yawn and rub her eyes. Catherine shook her head. “I think our frivolities have taken their toll, indeed. Go up to your room and rest, Blanche.” She smiled. “I think your suitors will be put off if they see shadows under your eyes. Although, if you are to dream of your viscomte again . . .” she teased.
Blanche shook her head and laughed, then rose, not reluctantly, and left the room.
Catherine watched after her again in concern. Perhaps she was worrying overmuch, and made too much of what she saw, but it seemed Blanche had gone to her room with an eager light in her eyes, and her movements were almost sensual.
The tendril of unease within Catherine unfurled into dread. Her sister was growing up, of course, and was experiencing the first urges of a woman. But the girl had been well protected, unlike herself. She was an innocent, and had not until recently been around many men at all.
Her hand grew still over her needlework, and she stared out the window to the building in which the marquis lodged. She did not know how far de Bauvin’s sorcery could reach, or what exactly it could do . . . except for what she herself had experienced. She looked down at her lap to find she had misstitched a pattern in her work, and she forced herself to undo it and stitch again, for the discipline gave her mind focus.
De Bauvin’s sorcery could reach far. After all, he had sent the demon to Paris while he had been at his home near Rouen. She had defeated the creature, but not easily. The marquis was that strong, at the very least.
Therefore, it would be nothing at all for him to affect her family from across the street.
Fear seized her, and she rose hastily, dropping her needlework heedlessly to the floor. Blanche. No. Mon Dieu, let her not be cursed, as well.
She ran up the stairs as quickly as her skirts allowed and threw open Blanche’s door. The curtains had been drawn against the light, but at least a dim reflection of the light outside should have shone through. There was no light but the weak, fluttering flames in the hearth, which should have let the cold outdoors in, but did not. It was hot and humid, as if all of summer had poured itself into this small room, and a heady, musky scent permeated the very air.
A moan from the bed made Catherine look toward the sound. She shuddered. A mist floated above it, above Blanche, who lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her head moving restlessly on the pillow. The mist moved down, taking the shape of a man, and little strands of grey curled down from it and touched Blanche’s lips, breasts, and thighs.
Catherine swallowed down bile and clutched her cross in her hand. She ran to the bed and struck at the mist, but aside from a brief disturbance of the form, her hand passed through it. Her cross . . . she took her cross in her hand and punched her fist through the mist again.
The mist-man twisted as if in pain, but it was not enough—he clutched at Blanche as if she gave him life. Frantically she searched for Blanche’s cross—it was not on her neck! It sat, tossed on the end of its necklace, on the table next to the bed. Catherine seized it and flung it over Blanche’s head.
A shriek sounded in the room, and it tore into her heart, for she feared it came from Blanche. But the mist-creature seemed to take a more solid form, looking very much like the Viscomte Visser, and then faded. The room’s air became cooler, and the fire in the hearth began to flicker normally on the wood that was piled within. The heavy, seductive scent was gone.
Catherine sat suddenly on the edge of the bed and put her hands over her face. Mon Dieu. It was different from what had happened to her, and it was clear that Blanche did not object to it. But the girl thought it was only a dream, and did not know what was happening. If her sister’s fatigue and shadowed eyes were signs, it surely meant that once again de Bauvin sought to steal the power he had tried to force from her those many months ago.
She raised her head and let her hands fall to her lap as she turned to gaze at her sister. The girl rested quietly now and breathed more evenly—a natural sleep, she thought. She touched Blanche’s cheek gently—it was cold, as if she had been walking in a winter storm.
Catherine’s heart beat wildly, and she felt for a pulse—yes, it was there, very slow and faint, but steady. She let out a breath. She did not want to think what would have happened had she not stopped this . . . this thing. Gently she drew up the bedcovers over the girl, tucking them in firmly around her, then went to the fireplace and put more wood upon the fire. The flames licked at the dry timber, and the light grew brighter in the room.
She went back to Blanche, sitting on the bed again. She had failed to protect her sister, although she supposed that she should be glad Blanche had not been violated as she had been. She let out a shuddering breath, and shuddered again, and then found that
her cheeks were wet, and she could not control her weeping.
Pressing her hand to her mouth, she managed to keep down the sounds her sobs tore from her heart, but the tears did not stop. She gazed at Blanche, so still in the bed, and was glad her sister was so deeply asleep. She did not want to have to explain her sorrow, her fears, or why she was here in this room.
She let herself weep a little longer, then dried her face. Gazing at Blanche, she touched the cross that she had found on the bed table. It was very like hers, plain, with a tiny ruby and small pearl set in it. She turned it over, then set it down on Blanche’s chest again. Had her Tante Anna also given one to Blanche? Perhaps. It comforted her a little to think that she and her sister had crosses that were alike.
She would tell Blanche tomorrow that she had bad dreams and that she wanted to share a room until the nightmares disappeared. She did not really need her sister’s presence, but she was sure Blanche would need hers. She would also make sure her sister wore her cross at all times.
Catherine rose and went to her room. Soon they would be presented to court, and the marquis would be there, as well. It would be her opportunity to accuse him of sorcery and of being a possible traitor. She had no tangible proof of the latter, but she could send a message to Felice and she at least could be a witness to the sorcery.
She gazed again at Blanche, at how very still and pale she was, and once again felt her pulse. It was there, and steady, but the girl still did not move except to breathe very slightly.
Catherine swallowed. She hoped she had done the right thing and that Blanche would awaken after a few hours. Closing her eyes, she focused her mind, concentrating on any sensation that might indicate evil. The air remained cool and the scents she smelled were only those of woodsmoke and the faint lavender scent that Blanche always wore. No prickling sensation touched her hands, or sharp ache came to her back.
She opened her eyes. For now, all was safe. Blanche would be better for some rest. In another hour she would check on her sister again, and then if she was still not awake, she would have Marie watch over her. Unless Adrian insisted and unless Blanche awoke, she would not attend any balls or parties tonight.
Dark Enchantment Page 23
