The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  Juliette swallowed to ease the tightness of her throat “No one’s going to hurt you. Rest now and try to sleep. Robert is going to bring soup and wine.”

  “I’m not hungry. You won’t leave me?” Catherine whispered, her eyes closing. “I’m afraid I’ll dream …”

  She was already half asleep, Juliette noticed. She supposed it was natural after Catherine’s hideous experience for her to wish to hide away, but she was embracing sleep with an eagerness that made Juliette uneasy.

  Catherine opened suddenly anxious eyes. “Juliette, they didn’t hurt you? You got away without them—”

  Blood.

  The Reverend Mother kneeling before the tribunal.

  The golden chalice of the holy sacrament.

  Dupree’s delicate hand motioning to the man with the red bonnet.

  Juliette firmly banished the memory and smiled down at Catherine. “Of course they didn’t hurt me. Do you think I’d be so easy to catch?”

  Catherine relaxed. “No, I didn’t think so. You wouldn’t let anyone hurt you. You’re too strong.”

  Blood.

  Juliette’s hand tightened around Catherine’s. “You’re strong too, Catherine. You’ll get over this.”

  “That’s what he said.” Catherine’s words were nearly inaudible.

  “Who?”

  “That man. François.”

  Juliette hid a start of surprise. Etchelet had not impressed her as a man who would pass words of comfort. He would expect everyone to respond to adversity with the same toughness that seemed inherent in his own character. “Then he has more sense than I thought.”

  “He was angry. I don’t know why …”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Juliette released Catherine’s hand and stood up. “Don’t worry about anything. I’ll sit in the chair across the room and—”

  “It’s gone.” Catherine’s hand was fumbling at the high neck of her nightgown. “My locket. It’s gone!”

  Juliette stiffened in sudden fear. Why hadn’t she noticed the previous night that the locket was no longer around Catherine’s neck? If Dupree found the locket next to the corpse in the tomb, he would have Catherine’s likeness in the palm of his hand! She mustn’t panic. The locket could have been lost anywhere and, even if found, the miniature might never be discovered. The catch of the locket was hard to find and the opening almost seamless.

  “I love my locket. I wanted to wear it forever and now it’s gone.”

  Catherine had obviously not made the dangerous connection of the loss and the body in the tomb and Juliette was certainly not going to bring it to her attention. “I’ll paint you another miniature.”

  “It won’t be the same.” Catherine closed her eyes and turned her face away. “Nothing will ever be the same.”

  Juliette sat down in the chair and leaned her head wearily against the high back. Catherine’s words were almost identical to the ones Juliette had uttered in the salon the previous night. She wished she could argue with her, but how, when Catherine only spoke the truth.

  The flame of the candle burned above her bed, hanging like a shimmering topaz teardrop on the velvet of the darkness. She should really concentrate on learning to paint fire, Juliette thought drowsily. She had tried once or twice but the elements were terribly difficult to master. Fire kept changing from gold to emerald, to amber to ruby red. People were much easier once you got beyond their surface and …

  “Are you well?”

  A deep masculine voice, taut with tension, issued from somewhere beyond the flame.

  Juliette’s gaze jerked from the flame to the face behind the candle. High intriguing planes, bold black eyes, and that beautifully cynical mouth.

  Jean Marc!

  He was here. Wild joy—as instinctive as it was bewildering—soared through her. After all the years of waiting, he was here.

  “Answer me!”

  She sat bolt upright in bed, jarred wide awake and into anger by the sharpness of his tone. “Why did you not come for her? She’s your responsibility and it wasn’t right of you to—”

  “Hush.” Jean Marc’s fingers were shaking as they pressed her lips. “For God’s sake, don’t rail at me. I’ve just come from the abbey and I thought you both dead. I rushed here and—Philippe came in time then?”

  “Philippe?”

  “I sent Philippe to—” He broke off as he saw her bewildered expression. “My God, he didn’t come for you.”

  “I told you, no one came for Catherine.” She gazed at him fiercely. “You let those canailles rape her. And if they had killed her too, it would have been your fault. For weeks the carriages came and took the students away, but none came for Catherine.”

  Jean Marc was rigid with shock. “Raped?” His rich olive complexion looked suddenly muddy in the candlelight. “My God, that … child.”

  “They raped old women and children.”

  “What about you? Are you well?”

  “How could I be well after seeing—”

  “Merde! Juliette, did they hurt you?”

  “Catherine was raped by two men and she’s—”

  “You told me about Catherine. I asked about you.” He grabbed her shoulders and made her look into his eyes. “Tell me, were you raped?”

  “No.”

  His breath escaped in an explosive rush and his grip on her shoulders loosened. “One blessing. I have enough guilt to bear without adding your assault to it.”

  “More than enough guilt. Why didn’t you come?”

  “I had urgent business in Toulon. When the Reverend Mother’s message reached me, I stopped at Vasaro and sent Philippe to fetch you and Catherine from the abbey. He should have been here days ago.”

  “Perhaps he had ‘business’ too and didn’t think Catherine’s welfare important enough to waste his time.”

  “I don’t know why he isn’t here.” Jean Marc’s lips tightened grimly. “But I intend to find out.”

  “It’s too late. Two days too late.” Juliette could feel her eyes filling with tears and determinedly blinked them back. “They hurt her, Jean Marc.”

  “I know they did.” Jean Marc looked intently at her. “There’s no use saying I’ll regret what’s happened for the rest of my life. All I can do is try to heal the harm that’s been done. You’re sure nothing happened to you?”

  “Nothing important.” She frowned. “Oh, I forgot. I had to kill a man.”

  The faintest smile broke the somberness of Jean Marc’s expression. “You don’t consider killing a man of importance?”

  “He was a canaille. He was raping Catherine.”

  Jean Marc’s smile vanished. “A canaille, indeed. I regret you deprived me of the pleasure.”

  “There was another man. If you can find out who he is, you can kill him.”

  He bowed. “Such generosity, Juliette. Now, tell me how you escaped being butchered at the abbey.”

  She briefly related the events and roles of François Etchelet and Danton in their flight.

  “François Etchelet,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I owe him a debt.”

  “I assure you his rescue was most reluctant.”

  “Reluctant or not, he saved you.”

  “True.” She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. “We must talk. Come down to the scullery and I’ll find you something to eat.”

  “I’m going to be allowed to break my fast? I thought my laggardliness had put me beyond redemption in your eyes.”

  Profound weariness and sadness lay beneath the mockery in Jean Marc’s voice and, for the first time, Juliette noticed the deep shadows beneath his eyes, the layer of dust mantling his elegant dark blue cloak. She suddenly felt a rush of protectiveness that banished both anger and resentment. “You care for Catherine. I know you would not hurt her deliberately. You were merely stupid, I suppose.”

  A faint smile indented his lips. “I’d forgotten that sharp tongue of yours. I remembered only …” He fell silent for a moment, looking at her. “How
kind of you to acquit me of malice, if not witlessness.”

  “You should have come for her. What business could be so important that you—”

  “The assembly’s confiscated eight of my ships for their navy in the past year,” Jean Marc interrupted. “I was hoping to salvage some of my cargoes stored in the warehouses at Toulon before those greedy bastards managed to steal those too.” He shook his head wearily. “It seemed very important at the time.”

  “Eight ships? That’s a great many.”

  “They would have taken the lot if I hadn’t seen this coming and sent most of the Andreas fleet to Charleston harbor two years ago.”

  “You knew they would steal your ships?”

  He nodded grimly. “Oh, yes, at the first opportunity or excuse. The majority of the illustrious members of the assembly are as corrupt as the nobles of the court they supplanted. The only way to deal with them is by bribery and evasion.”

  She shivered. “The world seems filled with thieves and murderers. François tried to tell me why the abbey had been attacked but I couldn’t understand it. I’ll never understand it.”

  “It was madness. How can anyone understand madness?” His gaze met her own. “As God is my witness, I never suspected the abbey would be attacked, Juliette. I sent Philippe to fetch you both to Vasaro merely as a precaution because of the unrest in Paris. If I’d thought there was any real danger, I would have come myself.” His lips twisted. “You’re right, I was stupid.”

  The pain and the bitter denunciation in his tone hurt her in some odd way, and she said quickly, “Maybe you weren’t completely at fault.”

  “Are you softening?” He shook his head. “The blame was mine and you had the right to condemn me.” He reached out and wound his forefinger in one of the tight curls at her left temple. “You have much too tender a heart beneath all those thorns, you know.”

  The tip of his finger was resting lightly against her cheekbone while he lazily tested the silky texture of the curl between his thumb and forefinger. The action was almost unbearably intimate. She swallowed. “Nonsense.”

  “But you must never show that softness. Not to me.” His gaze was mesmerizingly intent as it held hers. “It’s dangerous for you. Never let me see a weakness, Juliette.”

  “I don’t … understand what you’re saying.”

  “I know you don’t.” He smiled cynically. He released the curl and it instantly sprang back into its former tight ringlet. “And only God knows why I’m saying it. It must be a combination of guilt and shock that has me behaving with such uncharacteristic gallantry. I guarantee after I’ve slept a while I’ll be fully myself again and you’ll find me a fit antagonist.”

  “Antagonist?” Juliette frowned at him. “I don’t wish to fight you.”

  “Yes, you do,” he said softly. “You’ve fought me from the beginning. It’s all part of the game.”

  “Game?”

  He turned away and moved toward the door. “Not now.”

  He had said those words before, she remembered vaguely. Not now. Someday. “I don’t understand a tenth of what you’re saying. You’re being most exasperating.” She took a hasty step forward as she saw him open the door. “And you can’t leave now. I’ll find you something to eat and then we must speak of Catherine.”

  “I have no intention of discussing Catherine or anything else at the moment. I’m too weary either too eat or think right now,” Jean Marc said firmly as he moved toward the door. “Since I left Toulon I’ve been riding day and night and I’m sure half the dirt of the road is still clinging to my person. I intend to wash and then sleep for the next dozen hours.”

  “A dozen hours? You can’t! We need to discuss what’s to be done about Catherine.”

  “My dear Juliette.” His caressing tone failed to hide its steely determination. “It’s just as well you learn immediately that I do exactly as I wish and I abhor the word can’t.”

  She could understand that, Juliette thought grudgingly. She had a dislike for the word herself. “As I do, but if you’d—”

  “Tomorrow. Bonne nuit, Juliette.” The door closed softly behind him.

  Juliette gazed at the door in astonishment, tempted to go after him and make him listen to her. Then she slowly turned, got into bed, and pulled the covers back over her. She had forgotten how obstinate the man could be. She knew Jean Marc could not be forced to do anything and quite possibly would do the exact opposite if she pushed him too far.

  She turned on her side, a tiny pinwheel of excitement spiraling through her. He was here! Beautiful, glittering, and as darkly enigmatic as she remembered him. Even as she had been railing at him she had been drinking in the unusual molding of his cheekbones, trying to probe the secrets behind his glittering black eyes. She had wanted to reach out and touch the hard plane of his cheek, the corded muscles of his thighs.

  Touch? She quickly rejected the thought and then brought it back to examine it more closely. Perhaps she had wanted to explore his body, but surely it had been only an artist’s curiosity regarding physique.

  She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. Yes, it wasn’t excitement she was feeling at all, merely the curiosity of the artist who had rediscovered a fascinating challenge and relief for the help Jean Marc’s arrival could offer Catherine.

  Jean Marc’s hands slowly clenched into fists as he stood looking down at Catherine. Why was he here? He should have gone straight to bed as he had told Juliette he would. He certainly didn’t intend to wake Catherine and face her silent accusations.

  No, Catherine would never rail, accusing him of negligence. She was gentle, as his father had been gentle. Like him, she would suffer and be destroyed before uttering a word of blame.

  Yet the blame had been Jean Marc’s and he did know why he was here. He had wanted reassurance that Catherine had not been destroyed by his carelessness and he was not receiving that reassurance. Catherine was enveloped in a pale fragility in cruel contrast to Juliette’s vibrant vitality.

  Juliette.

  Strange, how after all these years fate had driven her once more into his circle of power and protection as it had at the inn so many years earlier. Strange and damnably frustrating; her vulnerability shielded her from him now even as her youth had in the past It almost made one believe in a guardian angel for the innocents of the world.

  Almost. Catherine was also an innocent and the angels hadn’t protected her.

  He reached out and gently stroked Catherine’s fair hair flowing over the pillow. He hadn’t been the guardian his father would have wanted him to be. He had always been too busy, too impatient, moving from place to place. Even when Catherine had come home for visits from the abbey he’d given her cursory attention, never stopping to see if she needed a word of kindness or understanding.

  He swallowed to ease the aching tightness in his throat and turned away. Self-recrimination could not help now. At least, Catherine and Juliette were alive.

  They must accept what had happened and find a way to go on.

  EIGHT

  Philippe Andreas arrived early the next morning, white-faced, sober, and infinitely relieved when Jean Marc told him Catherine and Juliette had escaped the massacre at the abbey.

  “You’re right to be angry, Jean Marc,” Philippe said miserably. “When I heard of the massacre as I entered the city I felt—you can’t blame me any more than I blame myself.”

  “You’re damned right I can. Mother of God, what the hell delayed you?”

  Philippe flushed as his teeth sank into his lower lip.

  Jean Marc gazed at him in astonishment. “A woman?”

  “One of the pickers. She was … I didn’t think it would matter. It was only two nights …”

  Jean Marc laughed mirthlessly. “Christ, I hope you found your dalliance with a flower picker worth what happened to Catherine.” Jean Marc’s lips tightened. “You can’t simply say you’re sorry and walk away from this, Philippe. My God, why the hell didn’t you do what I told
you to do?”

  “I didn’t believe this could happen,” Philippe said simply. “You know how it is at Vasaro. The war and revolution seem not to exist there.”

  “Damn you, I told you to leave at once and—” Jean Marc broke off as he saw Philippe’s forlorn expression. Why was he shouting at Philippe? Jean Marc was the one who should have gone directly to the abbey. Philippe was so far removed from the turmoil of the revolution in his Garden of Eden that undoubtedly he had been blind to the harm his delay could do. Jean Marc had no such excuse. He’d had experience with the fanatics and the money grubbers of the assembly, and the mobs of starving rabble roaming city streets and country roads.

  He straightened and relaxed his clenched fists. “All right, it’s done. Now let’s try to repair the damage. Juliette told me they were helped by a man named François Etchelet who is in league with Georges Jacques Danton. I want to see him. Go find him and bring him here.”

  “Do you think that’s wise? Danton has publicly stated he approves of the massacres.”

  “We need help and Etchelet has a reason for giving it.”

  Philippe turned to go and then hesitated. “May I go up and see Catherine first? I want to tell her how much I regret—”

  “I don’t think she’ll want to see you.” Juliette stood in the doorway, gazing accusingly at him. “I remember you. You’re Philippe. I’m Juliette de Clement.”

  Philippe nodded and bowed. “I recall you as well, Mademoiselle. I can’t tell—”

  “Why, by all the saints, didn’t you come for her?”

  He flushed. “I was … delayed.”

  “And Catherine was raped.”

  “Jean Marc told me. I can’t tell you how sorry—”

  “Go, Philippe,” Jean Marc said. “I want Etchelet here before dinner.”

  Philippe bowed again to Juliette and quickly escaped from the room.

  Juliette turned to Jean Marc. “You sent for Etchelet? Good. Why didn’t you—What are you looking at?”

  “You.”

  “Do I have a smudge on my face?” She lifted a hand to her cheek. “I was scrubbing the floor of the foyer this morning and—”