The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  “Perhaps he is a barbarian. You don’t know what he is. He’s a stranger to you.”

  “That sounds familiar. May I remind you that Etchelet was your choice?”

  “Because I thought we could control him.”

  “Etchelet’s obviously not a man who can be controlled.”

  “Then why are you just standing there? Go get Catherine and bring her back.”

  “They’re wed. I have no rights and Etchelet does.”

  “Rights? What if he rapes her?”

  Jean Marc said calmly, “Then I’ll kill him. Very slowly.”

  “What good will that do Catherine? You must—”

  “Juliette. Catherine stays with Etchelet tonight because I am sure it’s best for both of you. If that wasn’t my belief, I wouldn’t have let Etchelet take her. The discussion is closed.”

  “It’s not closed.” Juliette whirled toward the door. “I’ll get Philippe to—”

  “No.” Jean Marc’s hand closed on her arm. “Believe me, this is one of those rare times when you are not right. Give it up.”

  She tried to pull away. “I can’t give it up. I made her a promise. If something happens to her, I will have failed her. She needs me. I can’t—”

  “Shh, it’s all right.” To his surprise, he found she was trembling with emotion. He could feel the tension, the flutter of her pulse on the wrist beneath his thumb, the feverish warmth of her skin. “Etchelet is a risk that had to be taken.”

  “Risk? You don’t know what you’re talking about. You weren’t there. You don’t know what they …” She broke away from him and turned and ran toward the stairway.

  “Juliette!”

  She glanced back over her shoulder. “If he hurts her, I won’t forgive you.” Her eyes were blazing in her white face. “I’ll never forgive you for making me guilty again. Do you hear me? I’ll never forgive you for the rest of my life.”

  She dashed up the stairs and a moment later he heard the door of her chamber slam.

  Jean Marc frowned thoughtfully as he looked up the stairs. Guilty again?

  TEN

  I didn’t like those men,” Catherine said suddenly. Those were the first words she had uttered since the maidservant at the inn had brought their supper and left their chamber.

  François sipped his wine. “Who?”

  “Those men downstairs in the common room. They reminded me of—I didn’t like them.”

  “I didn’t expect you to like them.” He met her gaze. “Did they frighten you?”

  The intonation in the question was merely polite. He didn’t care if they had frightened her, she thought with resentment. He had deliberately lingered with those horrible men, encouraging their crude jests about brides in general and Catherine in particular until they had progressed from ribald to obscene. At first she’d only been vaguely aware of them in the same way she’d been aware of the other events of the day. Then, as François had not rushed to protect her from the abuse, she had gradually begun to catch a remark here and there and felt a tiny stirring of indignation and resentment. She repeated, “I didn’t like them.”

  “You won’t have to see them again.”

  “Thank you.” She looked at her food.

  “You’ve not eaten more than a few bites. Eat your beef. The sauce is quite good. Georges Jacques arranged to have the meal sent over from the Café Charpentier next door. One of the reasons he began to frequent the café was the food.” A sudden smile lit his face. “The other reason was the proprietor’s daughter who cooked it. Now he has both.”

  She didn’t pick up her fork. “I don’t wish to stay here any longer. May we go now?”

  François studied her over the rim of his goblet. “No.”

  Her long lashes rose. “I’m not comfortable here. I want to see Juliette.”

  “You’ll see her tomorrow.” François set his goblet down. “Did you understand what I told Jean Marc?”

  She shook her head.

  “I didn’t think so. You’ve been walking around in a daze all day.” François’s hand tightened on the stem of his goblet. “If you didn’t understand, then why the hell did you come with me?”

  “Jean Marc and Juliette said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “And how do Jean Marc and Juliette know what I will or will not do?”

  Her eyes widened. “Are you going to hurt me?”

  “No.” He lifted his goblet to his lips, drained it, and then set it down on the table with a crash. “For God’s sake, stop looking at me like that. I mean you no harm.”

  “Then why do you keep shouting at me?”

  “Because you drive me to—” He swallowed, seemed to be searching for words, and then said wearily, “I promise I won’t hurt you. You said you’d trust me.”

  “But I don’t know you.”

  “You know the man I am tonight.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You know the angry Basque, the man who hates aristos and spies for Danton. You know that man, Catherine.”

  “You’re confusing me.”

  “I mean that we’re all many people.” François gazed at her intently as if willing her to understand. “I can’t help you if you won’t trust me.” François looked down into his empty goblet. “When the servant comes back to clear the dishes, she must see us in that bed together.” He heard the soft intake of her breath, but he didn’t look up. “She’ll giggle and then go back downstairs and tell the others. There will be more jests and winks.” He paused. “And tomorrow at the barrier those men you found so offensive will remember François Etchelet’s pretty little wife and comment on how weary she looks after her romp between the sheets.” He stared into her eyes. She was clearly alarmed. “And then they’ll open the barrier and let you go home to your Vasaro. That’s what you wish, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Then let’s set about it.” He held out his hand. “Come. It won’t be so terrible.”

  She gazed at his hand as if it were a striking serpent and then slowly placed her hand in his grasp.

  “You see, it didn’t hurt.” François pulled her to her feet. “Now, can you undress yourself or must I help?”

  “I can do it.”

  “Good.” He gave her a push toward the bed and then sat back down and poured himself more wine. “Call me when you’re in bed.”

  He was speaking to her as if she were a small child. Why was he pretending to be gentle when he was not a gentle man? “I don’t believe it’s necessary to do this.”

  “I do. If you won’t obey me for your own sake, then do it for your friend Juliette. She’ll also be in that coach, and her risk is greater than yours if she’s captured.” He kept his gaze straight ahead. “Everything.”

  “What?”

  “Take off everything.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Undress!”

  The command was so sharp she worked more quickly to unfasten her gown. She could hear the panicky sound of her own breathing in the quiet room. Why was she doing this? She should never have come here. She wanted to run away back to the house on the Place Royale. Juliette would help her. Juliette would never let this rude, violent man order her about.

  Juliette. Juliette had killed a man for Catherine’s sake and must be kept safe. Was François right that this act would help keep Juliette from being questioned at the barrier? She suddenly realized she was entirely naked and hurried across the room toward the bed, dove beneath the covers, and pulled up the sheet.

  François continued to look straight ahead, slowly sipping his wine.

  Minutes passed, the silence unbroken.

  Catherine was suddenly irritated. “Well, it’s done.”

  He stood up and her annoyance was submerged in panic.

  “It’s all right, Catherine. I’m not going to hurt you.” His tone was no longer sharp but soothing again. “Are you entirely undressed?” He slowly turned to face her.
>
  She sat rigidly upright in bed, holding the sheet to her chin, her gaze fixed suspiciously on him.

  He looked at the smooth flesh of her shoulders bared by the sheet. “I see you are.”

  He walked slowly toward her.

  She tensed and backed against the oaken headboard.

  He sat down on the bed beside her. “I’m not going to hurry you. We have time.”

  She looked at him wordlessly.

  “Are you cold? Should I build a fire?”

  She shook her head.

  “Would you like some wine?”

  “No.”

  He had to bend closer to hear her and she froze.

  “Sacre bleu!” The curse exploded from him as he jumped to his feet. “Will you stop shaking? I told you there was nothing to fear. Do you think this is easy for me? Mother of God, I—”

  “Stop cursing!” His violence suddenly ignited an answering response. She glared at him. “I won’t stand for it. First you let those horrid men say filthy things to me, then you order me about, and now you curse in my presence as no gentleman would.”

  He was staring at her in astonishment.

  She gestured to the bed. “And this may be necessary but it’s not at all easy for me either.”

  “Well, it’s certainly not my fault. I’ve behaved every bit as gently as that fine buck Philippe. I can’t remember ever using such soft words to any woman.”

  “That’s quite clear. You do it very badly.”

  The anger abruptly faded from his expression as his gaze narrowed on her face. “You prefer me to be rude?”

  “It seems more natural. You make me uneasy when you pretend to be something you’re not.”

  “Do I?”

  “Has no one ever accused you of being rude before? Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “I believe I’ve just made a discovery.” He gave her a curious smile. “And yes, it’s no secret among my acquaintance that I’m neither sweet-mannered nor a gentleman. Now, since you’re no longer quivering and quaking, may I get you a glass of wine?”

  “I don’t rest well if I drink wine before I go to sleep.”

  “You don’t look as if you rest well anyway.” He paused. “Do you still dream?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze slid away from his and she changed the subject. “That’s why Juliette sometimes brushes my hair at night before I go to sleep. It … relaxes me.”

  “Are you suggesting I take over her duty?”

  She looked back at him, startled. “No.”

  “I think you are.” His smile widened with amusement. “I think you’re angry with me for ordering you about and wish to humble me.”

  Was he right? Catherine had not thought she was capable of wishing to see anyone humbled, but there was no doubt François’s arrogance had annoyed her exceedingly. “I was merely making a remark.”

  He bowed mockingly. “Like any patriotic republican I’m not ashamed to discharge lowly tasks.” He strolled toward the highboy across the room. “Tonight we’ll pretend I’m Juliette.” He picked up the horsehair brush on the highboy and turned to face her. “I’ll even promise not to tongue-lash you as she might.”

  She gazed at him uncertainly as she watched him come toward the bed. Her hand tightened on the sheet. “Juliette doesn’t tongue-lash me.”

  “Then she makes you the sole exception.” He began to take out the pins binding her hair in its tight bun. “Why are you trembling? I’m only going to brush your hair.”

  She closed her eyes tightly as the loosened hair tumbled down her back.

  “I have no desire to touch you.” The brush began to move through her hair in long, deep strokes. For many minutes the only sound in the room was the sibilant whisper of the bristles in the thickness of her hair.

  “I like that,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “What did you mean when you said we’re all many people?”

  “What I said.” He brushed the hair back from her temple. “Look at yourself. You’re Juliette’s friend and Jean Marc’s meek little cousin. They each see you differently.”

  “And how do people see you?”

  “They see what they want to see.” He reached up and shifted the heavy swath of her hair over her right shoulder, his warm fingertips brushing her nape and igniting a faint tingling sensation that made her shiver. Then the light touch was gone and the bristles of the brush were once again moving through her hair.

  “How do you see me?” she asked impulsively.

  He hesitated in mid-stroke. “I see you in a garden.”

  “Because you wish to see me there?”

  “Perhaps. There haven’t been many gardens in my life.”

  “But you said you wouldn’t choose to live in—”

  “I’m not always logical.”

  “Juliette says you’re clever and kinder than you pretend.”

  “And do you always trust Juliette’s judgments?”

  “I have been lately. It’s … easier.”

  “I can see how it would be. If you want to remain a child forever.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “Because you were raped?”

  She stiffened. “It’s not kind of you to mention—”

  “If you find me lacking in kindness, then could it be that Juliette’s judgment isn’t infallible?”

  She frowned as she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Why are you arguing with me?”

  “Because evidently no one else does. They just pity the poor, wounded Mademoiselle. Do you wish me to pity you too?”

  The corners of her lips suddenly turned up with rueful humor. “No, but if I did, it would do me no good. You obviously will do as you please.”

  “Ah, now we understand each other. No pity.”

  Catherine abruptly felt lighter, as if some tremendous burden had been lifted. “No pity.”

  He put the brush on the nightstand. “There, I’ve done my penance for offending you. Tell me, for what sin is Juliette paying penance?”

  She frowned in bewilderment. “Sin?”

  “It doesn’t seem unnatural to you that she cossets you as if you were a small child?”

  “I don’t demand she do anything. She says—”

  “It’s time.” He stripped off his coat. “The servant woman will be back to clear away soon. Lie down and turn your back to me.”

  She gazed at him in confusion.

  He was stripping off his shirt. “Mother of God, can’t you see I’m trying to spare your delicacy of feelings? Do you want to see me naked?”

  “You’re cursing again.” She hurriedly scooted down and turned her back to him. She could hear his movements behind her. He was undressing. Soon he’d slip naked beside her in this bed. She supposed she should be frightened, but she was too bewildered to know what she was feeling.

  “Move over.” He was standing beside the bed.

  She hurriedly rolled to the far side of the bed. A cool draft chilled her as the covers were lifted and he slipped beneath them. She could feel the waves of heat his body emitted though he was not touching her. Sweet heaven, she was frightened. She began to tremble again.

  “Stop that.” His tone was rough, yet, in an odd way, comforting. “It will be over soon.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want you. It’s only pretense. Skinny women don’t please me. Men don’t want every woman they see, you know.”

  “The Marseilles at the abbey were—”

  “That was different. That was a sickness, a fever.”

  “Henriette was only ten years old.”

  “Not all men are the same. Some men are aroused by only one kind of woman. Some men, like Robespierre, are totally abstinent. There are other men who don’t like women at all but prefer men.”

  She was startled. “Really? Do you prefer—”

  “No, I’m not a sodomite.”

  “Oh,” she hesitated. “Then you …” She stopped, shivering
in distaste. “You like to hurt women.”

  “It doesn’t have to hurt. If a woman pleases me, I can make her enjoy what happens between us.”

  She was silent.

  “It’s true. I tell you, there’s no—” A soft knock halted the soft vehemence of his voice.

  “Quick!” He was over her, flesh pressed to flesh before she knew what was happening. “Come in.”

  The door opened to admit the same stout servant woman who had served their meal. She stopped and murmured something before rapidly clearing the table.

  “Hurry.” François’s voice was thick with impatience.

  The servant woman giggled and her motions deliberately slowed.

  A wild cascade of sensations and thoughts tumbled through Catherine as the warm, hard musculature of François’s chest pressed against her softness.

  The tomb! She opened her lips to scream.

  His gaze bore down as he whispered, “No!”

  Her lips closed as she gazed helplessly up at him. Slowly the terror began to ebb away. It was the same, yet totally different, she realized. This body was warm, sleek, nude, not dressed in rough clothes that scratched her flesh. This body was hard and masculine, yet carefully withheld to save her both unnecessary contact and weight. This was no anonymous stranger above her. This was François, his face square, bold, its fierceness clearly defined in the candlelight. It was odd how that very fierceness offered her the comfort of blessed familiarity.

  “Blow out the candles and begone,” François ordered over his shoulder.

  Another giggle and the room was suddenly plunged into darkness. The door closed.

  François settled as far from her as possible on the bed. “There, it’s over. I told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”

  He had left her so quickly, it was clear he found the physical intimacy as distasteful as she had, Catherine thought. Her nipples still tingled from the warm texture of his skin against hers, the slight abrasion of the tight curly hair that thatched his chest. Yet she discovered to her surprise that the feeling wasn’t totally unpleasant. The entire experience had not been the horror she had thought and, as he said, it was now over. She breathed in a sigh of relief. “Do we go to sleep now?”