He smiled weakly. “My apologies. I’ll try to refrain from departing this temporal plane and causing you to waste your time.”
“I didn’t mean—” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t always put things in the correct way. Marguerite says I have the tongue of an asp.”
“Who’s Marguerite?”
“Marguerite Duclos, my nurse. Well, not really my nurse any longer. She serves my mother more than me.”
“And this Marguerite disapproves of your bluntness?”
“Yes.” She frowned. “You should go back to sleep and cease this chatter.”
“I don’t feel like sleeping.” His gaze searched her face. “Why don’t you amuse me?”
She looked at him in astonishment. “Amuse?”
He started to chuckle and then flinched with pain. “Perhaps you’d better not amuse me. Humor appears exceptionally painful at the moment.”
“Since you refuse to sleep, you might as well answer my questions. You said before you fainted that you had learned of the attack. Who told you?”
Jean Marc shifted in the bed to ease his shoulder. “A servant in the palace at Versailles.”
“How could a servant in the palace know there would be a peasant attack so far from Versailles?”
“An interesting question. One might also ask how some of the lads in the mob came to have pistols rather than their pitchforks.” His lips twisted. “And why the poor starving peasant who slipped a dagger into my shoulder appeared exceedingly well fed and wore boots made of finer leather than my own.”
So that had been the reason for those last cryptic words he had uttered before he had collapsed, Juliette thought. “Or why the servant came to you instead of His Majesty with the information.”
“That’s no mystery. Money.” Jean Marc smiled mockingly. “King Louis gives medals and expressions of eternal gratitude for such loyalty. I let it be known I’d give fat bribes for any information of interest regarding the royal family. Money buys comfort and a fast horse to take the informant far away from the swords of the people he’s betrayed.”
“And this servant didn’t tell you who was responsible for the attack?”
“A man in high place. He would say nothing other than that the carriage bearing the prince and Mademoiselle de Clement would be set upon enroute to Versailles. I gathered a company of hirelings and set out like a grand chevalier to the rescue.”
She studied his face. “Are you never serious? You saved the life of the prince.” She paused. “And my life also.”
“Not because of my nobility of soul.” He gazed at her calmly. “I’m a man of business who never takes action without the promise of return. I’ll even admit I was most annoyed with you when you made my task so difficult.”
“And what return do you expect to receive from rescuing the prince?”
“Her Majesty’s profound gratitude and good will. I have a favor to ask of her.”
She gazed at him without speaking for a moment. “I think you’re not so hard as you’d like me to believe. You were truly concerned about Louis Charles though you were nigh out of your head with pain.”
“I have no liking for child killers.”
“And you took the knife thrust meant for me. Is that the behavior of a man who never takes action without the promise of return?”
He grimaced. “No, that’s the behavior of a man who acted on impulse and was soundly punished for it.” He shook his head. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking me something I’m not. I’m neither a warrior nor a hero.”
“I’ll think what I please.” She frowned uncertainly as she studied his face. “But I can’t read you. I don’t know what you’re thinking.”
“And that disturbs you?”
She nodded. “I usually have no problem. Most people are easy to read. It’s important that I be able to see beneath the surface.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to be a great artist,” she said simply.
He started to laugh, then stopped as he met her clear, steady gaze. “I recall you said something about painting me when I first awoke. You wish to be an artist?”
“I am an artist. I am going to be a great artist. I intend to study and work until I’m as great as Da Vinci or Del Sarto.”
“I admire your confidence.”
A sudden smile lit her face. “You mean you think I have no modesty. Artists can’t have modesty or their talent withers. Men persist in believing women can paint only shallow daubs. I do not— Why are you looking at me in such a peculiar way?”
“I was wondering how old you are.”
She frowned. “Four and ten. What does that matter?”
“It may matter a great deal.” He closed his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I think I can sleep now. Run along to your own chamber.”
She did not move.
He opened his eyes again. “I said for you to go. I think it will be for the best if you leave for the palace tomorrow morning.”
She felt an odd pang. “You want me to go?”
“Yes.” His voice was rough. “I have no need of you here.”
Her jaw set stubbornly. “You do need me. Look at you, weak as a babe and still mouthing nonsense. I won’t leave you. Do you think I want to remember I owed you my life and let you die before I could repay you? I’m not my mother. I take nothing without giving something in return.”
His gaze narrowed on her face. “Your mother?”
She shook her head impatiently. “I did not mean to mention her. My mother has nothing to do with this.” She raised her chin. “You did me a service. Therefore, I must do one for you in return. I’ve already sent word to the queen that I’ll stay here until you’re well enough to go to Versailles and receive her thanks.”
“You’ll soon regret staying. I’m not a good patient. I detest being ill.”
“And I detest bad-tempered patients. I shall be as foul-natured as you, and you’ll get well quickly so that you can rid yourself of my services.”
A reluctant smile touched his lips. “There’s something in what you say.” He suddenly gave in. “Stay if you like. Who am I to refuse the gentle ministrations of a damsel for whom I’ve given my life’s blood?”
“I have little gentleness, but on no account will I allow you to die.” She straightened briskly in the chair. “Naturally, I can’t have my painting interrupted while I care for you. I think I shall set up my easel in that corner by the window. The light should be very good there.” She smiled. “I’m sure we’ll deal very well together, and I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”
“As I told you, I’m a man who seldom denies himself for chivalry’s sake.” He settled more comfortably, wearily closing his eyes. “Someday I may remind you that I tried to send you away.”
“Someday?” She shook her head. “You’ll be well and hearty in a fortnight or so and we shall part. There will be no someday.”
“That’s right. I must not be thinking clearly. Perhaps I do have a fever.”
“Truly?” An anxious frown wrinkled Juliette’s brow as she reached out to touch him. She sighed with relief. “Not yet.”
“No?” His eyes remained closed, but he smiled, curiously, Juliette thought.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “Someday …”
Jean Marc’s temperature began to rise in the late evening.
Juliette bathed him with cool water and tried desperately to keep him from tossing and spilling out of the bed onto the floor.
During the middle of the night the fever receded and severe chills took its place. The chills racked him, and his great convulsive shudders worried Juliette more than the fever had.
“I—have—no liking—for this.” Jean Marc’s teeth were clenched to keep them from chattering. “It should teach me well the foolishness of—” He broke off as another shudder ran through him. “Give—me another blanket.”
“You have three already.” Juliette abruptly made a decision. S
he stood up. “Move over.”
“What?” He gazed at her blankly.
She drew back the covers, lay down beside Jean Marc, and drew him into her arms. “Be at ease,” she said impatiently as she felt him stiffen against her. “I’m not going to hurt you. I only seek to warm you. I often held Louis Charles like this when he had the night chills.”
“I’m not a child of two.”
“You’re as weak as a puling infant. What difference does it make?”
“I believe a great many people would be happy to enumerate the—differences.”
“Then we shall not tell them. Are you not warmer with me here?”
“Yes, much warmer.”
“Good.” His shivering had almost stopped, she noticed with relief. “I’ll hold you until you go to sleep.” She reached up and gently stroked his hair as she did Louis Charles’s. A few minutes later she said impatiently, “You’re not at ease. I can feel you hard as a stone against me.”
“How extraordinary. Perhaps I’m not accustomed to females slipping into my bed only in order to ‘ease’ me.”
“As you say, the situation is extraordinary.” Juliette levered herself up on one elbow and gazed sternly down at him. “You must not think of me as a female. It’s not good for you.”
His lips twitched. “I’ll endeavor to dismiss your gender from my mind. I’ll think of you as a thick woolen blanket or a hot, warming brick.”
She nodded and again lay down beside him. “That’s right.”
“Or a smelly sheepskin rug.”
“I do not think I smell.” She frowned. “Do I?”
“Or a horse lathered from a long run.”
“Do you have the fever again?”
“No, I was merely carrying the image to greater lengths. I feel much more comfortable with you now.”
“You laugh at the most peculiar things.”
“You’re a most peculiar fem—sheepskin rug.”
“You are feverish.”
“Perhaps.”
But his brow felt only slightly warm to the touch, and the shaking of his body had stopped almost entirely.
“Go to sleep,” she whispered. “I’m here. All is well.”
A few moments later she felt him relax, his breathing deepen.
At last he had fallen into a deep slumber.
THREE
You’ve painted long enough. Come here and play a hand of faro with me.”
Juliette didn’t look at Jean Marc as she added more yellow to the green of the trees in the painting on the easel before her. “What?”
“Play cards with me.”
She cast a glance over her shoulder at Jean Marc lying on the bed across the room. “I’m busy.”
“You’ve been busy for four hours,” Jean Marc said dryly. “And will probably be at that easel for another four if I don’t assert my rights.”
“What rights?”
“The rights of a bored, irritable patient who is being neglected in favor of your precious paints and canvas.”
“In a moment.”
She was aware of his gaze on the middle of her back as she resumed painting.
“Tell me what it’s like,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“Painting. I watched your face as you worked. Your expression was extraordinary.”
Juliette was jarred out of her absorption into uneasiness. He had been lying in that bed watching her for hours every day and never before made comment. Her art was a private, intensely personal passion, and realizing he had been studying her emotions as she worked made her feel oddly naked. “Painting is … pleasant.”
He laughed softly. “I hardly think that’s the correct term. You looked as exultant as a saint ascending the steps to heaven.”
She didn’t look at him. “That’s blasphemy. I’m sure you know nothing of how a saint would feel.”
“But you do?” He coaxed, “Tell me.”
She was silent a moment. She had never tried to put her feelings about her work into words, but suddenly she realized she wanted him to know. “It’s as if I were swathed in moonlight and sunlight … drinking a rainbow and becoming intoxicated on all the hues in the world. Sometimes it goes well and the feeling’s so exquisite it hurts.” She kept her gaze on the painting so she wouldn’t know if he was laughing at her. “And sometimes I can do nothing right and that hurts too.”
“It sounds like an exceedingly painful pastime. But it’s worth it to you?”
She nodded jerkily. “Oh, yes, it’s worth it.”
“Something beautiful?” he asked softly.
She finally glanced at him and found no sign of amusement in his intent regard. She nodded again. “A struggle to achieve something beautiful.”
A brilliant smile lit his lean, dark face, and she gazed at him in fascination. Jean Marc’s thick black hair was rumpled, his white linen shirt open nearly to the waist to reveal the bandage and a glimpse of the triangle of dark hair thatching his chest. Yet, in spite of his disarray, he still managed to exude an air of elegance. Dear heaven, how she wanted to paint the man. She had persistently asked him to permit her to sketch him ever since he had started to mend and he had just as persistently refused her.
“Well, I feel it my duty to rescue you from this painful pleasure,” he said. “Come and play faro with me.”
“Shortly, I wish to finish this lit—”
“Now.”
“You’re fortunate that I play with you at all. You’ve grown very spoiled in recent days. But then, I think you were already spoiled before you became ill.”
“Spoiled?” Jean Marc levered himself upright against the headboard. “I’m not the queen’s favorite. How could a poor bourgeois man of business become spoiled?”
“I’m not the queen’s favorite either. She’s kind to me but it’s my mother who has her affection,” Juliette said. “And Monsieur Guilleme says there are few noblemen in France who are as rich as you are.”
“You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”
“Why not? You will tell me nothing of yourself. You’re like the glass in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. You reflect but reveal nothing of yourself.”
“And it’s your duty as an artist to uncover my hidden soul?”
“You’re laughing at me again.” She turned back to the painting. “But it’s quite true. I’ve already learned some things about you.”
“Indeed?” His smile faded. “I’d be curious as to the nature of your discoveries.”
“You’re spoiled.”
“I beg to differ.”
“You hate anyone to see you weak and helpless.”
“Is that extraordinary?”
“No, I feel much the same. And you’re not nearly as hard as you appear.”
“You said that once before.” His lips twisted. “I assure you it’s not a safe assumption to make about me.”
She shook her head. “You asked Monsieur Guilleme yesterday about the plight of the peasants in the area and gave him a purse of gold to distribute among those in need.”
He shrugged. “Some of those poor clods attacking the carriage were walking skeletons. It was little wonder they let themselves be whipped into a frenzy.”
She continued to enumerate. “And you bear pain much better than boredom.”
“Now, that truth I will own. Come and play cards with me.”
His smile was coaxing, banishing all hardness and lighting his face with rare beauty. Juliette dragged her gaze from his face and back to her canvas. “Why should I play with you when I could be painting?”
“Because I wish it, and you’re all that’s gentle and obliging.”
“I’m not oblig—” She stopped as she saw the wicked arch of his black brow. “The physician said you could get up for a little while tomorrow. Soon you’ll be able to do without me entirely.”
“And you’ll go back to Versailles?”
She nodded vigorously. “And I shall be very glad to see the last of you. You laug
h at me. You take me away from my work. You make me amuse you as if I were—”
“It was your decision to stay,” he reminded her. “I told you I’d be a bad patient.”
“And you told God’s truth.”
“I regret you’ve suffered so grievously at my hands. I’m sure every minute has been an interminable strain.”
The devil knew very well it had been no such thing, Juliette thought with exasperation. It was not fair Jean Marc should be able to understand her with such ease when she was able to see only a little beyond the hard, glittering surface he displayed to the world. He knew she enjoyed both the sharp-edged banter and the comforting silences. Being with him stimulated and excited her in some strange fashion. She never knew how he would treat her. At times he teased her as if she were a small child; at other times he seemed to forget the difference in age between them and talked to her as if she were a woman grown. She looked forward to his company in the same way she looked forward to immersing herself in her painting, knowing she would be swept away but still eager to yield to the force. Now he was treating her with an annoying indulgent amusement, and she had a sudden desire to shock him. “I haven’t finished telling all I know of you.” She paused and then said in a rush, “I believe you’ve fornicated with that tavern maid who serves our meals.”
His smile vanished. “Germaine?”
“Is that her name? The one with breasts like Juno.”
Jean Marc was silent for a moment. “Women of quality don’t speak of fornication, Juliette, and certainly not to gentlemen.”
“I know.” Her hand was shaking slightly as she added white to her brush. “But I do speak of it. Have you?”
“Why do you think I have?”
“She stares at you as if she’d like to eat you.”
“Look at me, Juliette.”
“I’m too busy.”
“Look at me.”
Juliette glanced over her shoulder and inhaled sharply as she saw the expression on his face.
“No,” he enunciated softly and with great precision. “You don’t want to wander down that path. Not unless you wish to learn exactly what I did with Germaine.”
The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds Page 43
