The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

“Of course I do.”

  Her gown fell into a pool of green silk about her feet.

  His head lowered slowly and he placed his lips with the greatest gentleness on the exact place where her shoulder met her arm. “S’il vous plaît, Juliette.”

  She shivered as his hands moved to the tie of her petticoat. She knew he was trying to tell her something, but the fever of need was rising and she couldn’t think,

  The petticoats fell to the floor and his hands moved up to caress her breasts through the thin linen of her chemise, squeezing and releasing rhythmically. She made a sound low in her throat and closed her eyes as sensation after sensation rippled through her.

  “I’ve been thinking about how you looked lying on the bunk on the ship, how brave you were at the Place de la Révolution. And I recalled the child I first knew at the inn at Versailles. I thought about how you told me you felt when you painted. Swathed in moonlight and sunlight …” As the last of her undergarments fluttered to the floor he whispered, “Drunk on rainbows …”

  “Did I say that?” Dear heaven, that had been over five years before at the inn when she had first met him. “That was a long time ago. I’m surprised you remember.”

  “I probably remember every word you’ve ever said to me.” His fingers moved down to pet and caress the curls surrounding her womanhood. “I’ve decided I’m jealous of your painting. I want to be the one to show you rainbows.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. “Pleasure. Pleasure so intense it’s close to pain. The way you feel when you’re painting.” He laid her on the black velvet spread, then followed her down and gently parted her thighs. He entered her slowly, carefully, until he filled her entirely. Her nails dug into the velvet coverlet. His very slowness and deliberateness was unbearably erotic and sensual. “Your pleasure, Juliette.”

  And in the fevered hours that followed she came to realize that it was her pleasure alone of which he was speaking. He used his knowledge of her body and responses to arouse and sustain her pleasure at heights they’d never before reached in their months together. Time after time he roused her to a frenzy of passion and then gave her an equally fiery release.

  But he never once allowed himself release, never permitted himself that final climax of passion.

  Afternoon became evening and their coming together became less frantic but still urgent.

  “Jean Marc …” She could scarcely speak through the hot haze of pleasure still surrounding her as she held him tightly within her body. “Why …?”

  He looked down and his warm smile embraced her. “I told you once I’d learned to control my responses over the years of playing the game.” He leaned down and kissed her lingeringly. “I saw no reason why I shouldn’t use that control to bring you pleasure.”

  And then, finally, she understood. He would probably never say the words, but this self-imposed restraint was an apology for all his past attempts to dominate and subjugate her. The tears stung her eyes as she looked up at him. Jean Marc truly must care for her if he would give up his blasted battleground and yield so much to her.

  “Was it enough?” Jean Marc whispered.

  She nodded. “Rainbows …”

  “Then”—his voice was almost inaudible—“s’il vous plaît, may I take my own pleasure?”

  Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “Please, Jean Marc.”

  He moved swiftly, strongly, the expression on his face harshly contorted as if he were in pain. Perhaps he was in pain. The past hours of restraint must have been incredibly difficult for him.

  Only a moment later he stiffened, throwing his head back, the cords of his neck distended, as shudder after shudder of release convulsed his body.

  He collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in gasps. “Mother of God, I didn’t think I’d be able to do it.”

  She didn’t see how he had done it. She gently stroked back a dark lock of his hair that had fallen down on his forehead. “Jean Marc, I believe you must be as idiotically noble as that crazy old Don Quixote in the Cervantes book. You didn’t have to—”

  “Noble? Nonsense. Pleasure has nothing to do with nobility of the soul.” He moved off Juliette and lay down beside her. He drew her into his arms and held her close. He was trembling, shivering, as if he had been through a terrible ordeal.

  “You think not?” Her arms slid around him and she held him possessively, protectively.

  The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing.

  “You’re sure it was enough?” Jean Marc asked when his breathing had steadied. “I wanted it to be another ‘something beautiful’ for you to remember.”

  She nodded as she drew closer to his long, strong body. How could it not be enough? she wondered as she blinked back the tears. This surrender had been no easy thing for him. He had made himself vulnerable to her and at the same time given her his trust. “Oh, yes, it was, Jean Marc.” She pressed a loving kiss in the hollow of his throat. “Something very, very beautiful.”

  The bitch was back.

  Dupree felt the joy rise within him as he moved out of the shadows of the house across the square from the Andreas residence. His mother had been right as usual. Everyone was coming to him. The de Clement bitch had returned to her lover, Andreas. Even the Vasaro girl had arrived on the scene. If he wished, he could go to Robespierre and denounce both women—and Andreas for harboring them.

  The power was sweet, heady, and he enjoyed toying with it for a moment before putting it reluctantly aside. Not yet. It had come to his attention in these weeks of watching the Andreas house that there was far greater power to be gained by holding his hand for a while.

  He wiped the fluid running from his broken nose with a lace-trimmed handkerchief and limped down the street to the waiting carriage. His hip ached badly, as it always did after standing all day. Well, it wouldn’t go on much longer. He had found out all he needed to know to get both the Wind Dancer and the power he needed to maintain his position in his mother’s life.

  The letter he had placed in the pocket of his coat that morning seemed to spread a glowing, comforting warmth while whispering of safety, riches, and revenge.

  He opened the door of the carriage and carefully, painfully, pulled himself up the step and into the coach. “The Café du Chat,” he called to the man on the box. He didn’t bother to give the direction. The man had taken him to the café many times before.

  Nana Sarpelier sat at a long table in the back room of the Café du Chat gluing sticks onto the painted rendering of the guillotining of Charlotte Corday, the murderess of Marat.

  She looked up when Dupree came into the room. She involuntarily recoiled, but recovered quickly. “Pardon, Monsieur. This is a work room. Customers are not served here.”

  “I’m allowed here.” Dupree limped forward and dropped into the chair across the table from her. “I’m allowed to do anything I wish to do. Your friend Raymond Jordaneau sent me back here to see you. You’re Nana Sarpelier?”

  “Yes.” She gazed at him warily. “Who are you?”

  “Your new master.” His smile only twisted the left side of his face. “Raoul Dupree. Ah, I see you’ve heard of me.”

  “Who hasn’t, Monsieur? Your fame during the massacres—”

  “Don’t bother to pretend,” Dupree interrupted. “I’m well aware you’re an agent for the Comte de Provence.” He smiled as he saw her stiffen. “That frightens you, doesn’t it? Good, I enjoy fear in a woman.”

  “You’re going to turn me over to the tribunal?”

  “If I were, I’d not be here now.”

  Nana gathered her composure. “That’s just as well. For naturally your accusation is entirely false.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been watching this café for many weeks. I knew almost at once that all of you here were royalists.”

  Nana remained silent, gazing at him with no expression.

  “You see,
I followed François Etchelet here from Andreas’s house one night.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “And I asked myself what could be the connection between an official of the Temple and Jean Marc Andreas. You do know Andreas has the Wind Dancer?”

  “Has he?” Nana placed another stick on the fan.

  “I think you know. Then I asked myself another question. Who could have told Andreas that Celeste de Clemente had the Wind Dancer?” He smiled. “The queen, of course. My former employer, Marat, had always suspected the Comte de Provence had a group of royalist sympathizers here in Paris whose duty was to free the noblesse and the royal family. Pursuing that suspicion was going to be my next task after I returned from Spain.” He leaned back in the chair. “You can see how all the pieces fit together?”

  “Very clever.”

  “So I watched for a few days and saw the members of your little group coming and going. I have names and I have addresses. I could send every one of you to the guillotine.”

  Nana’s eyes were cold as she looked up from the fan. “Then you’re a fool to come here. We’d be stupid to let you leave alive.”

  He laughed. “Why do you think Jordaneau allowed me to come back here to see you?” He reached into his coat and brought out an envelope. “Because I showed him this letter from the Comte de Provence. It’s very carefully worded, of course, but it places me in complete control of the actions of both you and your friend Raymond Jordaneau.”

  She froze. “Indeed?”

  He nodded with satisfaction. “After I realized who your master was, I immediately wrote and offered my services. I no longer have a secure position in the government now that Marat is dead.”

  “So you now serve the Bourbons.”

  “Why not? There’s a certain glory in royalty. My mother will be pleased to be honored at the court of Vienna.” He dabbed at his nose with his handkerchief. “The count said he had heard of my work and would be pleased to have my help in a certain awkward matter. So he gave me authority over the two of you.”

  “Why not the entire group?”

  “You know the answer to that.” He smiled. “Because only you and Raymond Jordaneau are totally his creatures. You do the count’s bidding, not Etchelet’s.” He tapped the letter with his forefinger. “The count made it quite clear whom I can trust in this delicate matter.”

  “And we’re to obey you?”

  “Without question or he’ll be forced to do without your services. He’s very concerned about the possibility the little king might be freed and taken, not to his own loving arms, but to England. He believes Etchelet is working toward that aim without informing him.”

  Nana was silent a moment. “It’s true. Etchelet only recently told me about it. I would have sent word to Monsieur in my next report.”

  “But you don’t have to report to him now. You report to me,” Dupree said. “Much more convenient. We can’t allow Etchelet to succeed, of course. The count has made that perfectly clear.”

  “What are we to do?”

  “Kill the boy.”

  Nana nodded. It was the answer she had expected. “It’s the sensible thing to do. If Etchelet didn’t free the boy, then one of the other groups might. The Baron de Batz almost managed to free the queen days before she was guillotined. How will you kill the child?”

  “I haven’t decided. I’ll let you know. The count wants the death blamed on Robespierre in order to disrupt the convention.” He shrugged. “That may take some manipulation.”

  “You have access to the boy?”

  “Of course. You forget who I am. I may no longer have my former power, but all the guards know of Raoul Dupree.” He rose to his feet. “Find out all you can from Etchelet regarding their plans. We must strike before them.”

  She nodded. “Where do I reach you?”

  He gave her the address of his lodgings. “You’ll come to me tonight.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “I may not know anything for a few days.”

  “You will come to me anyway. I require certain services.”

  “What—” She broke off as she realized his meaning and couldn’t keep the distaste from her expression.

  “You find me less than pleasing?” He laughed harshly. “So does the entire world. Andreas made me into this monster. Andreas and his bitch. We shall have to find a way to include them in our plans.” He turned away. “In the meantime, if you don’t wish me to send a report to the count that I found you unobliging, you’ll come to me tonight.”

  He limped from the room.

  TWENTY-THREE

  François’s lodgings in the Temple looked more like a cell than living quarters for a municipal official, Catherine thought with a shiver as the officer stepped aside for her to enter. The stone walls seemed to breathe a damp chill and the furnishings were almost nonexistent: a simply crafted table with three chairs, a small chest, a narrow bed with only a shabby linen coverlet.

  “I’ll have to wait here with you until Citizen Etchelet comes,” Captain Ardlaine told her apologetically as he pulled out a chair for her. “No one is allowed alone in the Tower without the proper papers.”

  “I told you my husband didn’t know I was coming. He would have arranged to have me admitted if he’d—” She frowned. “Is it always this cold?” Catherine drew her crimson cloak more closely around her. The December cold seemed to pierce the thick stone walls. “Why is there no fire in the stove?”

  “I’ll light one.” He moved toward the porcelain stove. “The citizen’s duties keep him away for most of the day, and it’s not practical to keep a fire—”

  “Catherine!” François stood in the doorway.

  He appeared harder, thinner, wearier than he had at Vasaro, she thought, but still he looked wonderful. She jumped to her feet. “This gentleman believes I don’t belong here, François. Please tell him I’m your wife.”

  “My … wife,” François repeated slowly. He turned to the soldier. “Yes, of course, Paul, this is my wife, Catherine. God in heaven, what are you doing here, Catherine?”

  She came toward him. “Why should I live in comfort at Vasaro when you choose to serve the republic by existing in this hovel? I decided I should be by your side.” She turned and smiled at the captain. “Thank you for being so kind, Captain. Will you have my boxes brought up from the courtyard now?”

  The captain nodded. “You’re a lucky man, Citizen. But remember to get proper papers for her.”

  “I’ll remember.” François’s gaze never left Catherine. “If she stays. My wife’s spirit is stronger than her constitution. I’m not sure living here would be the best thing for her.”

  Catherine smiled at him. “I should know what’s best for me. Everyone knows a woman’s place is with her husband.”

  As soon as the heavy oak door closed behind the captain, François demanded, “What’s this about, Catherine? Why are you here?”

  She drew a deep breath. “This isn’t easy for me.”

  “You have a message from Jean Marc?”

  “No, I arrived only this morning. I haven’t seen Jean Marc yet.” She smiled ruefully. “Juliette knew he wouldn’t approve of my coming here, so she whisked me off before I could even—”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re my husband,” she said simply.

  He shook his head. “Nonsense. You never regarded that ceremony as anything but expedient.”

  “It’s true that I’d like to be married again by a priest. Could we please do that, François?”

  He went still. “What are you saying?”

  “That … I love you.” She rushed on. “And I know you may not love me any longer, but I had to tell you. I had to try to—”

  “Mother of God.” He swept her into his arms and buried his face in her hair. “Of course I love you,” he said thickly. “Always. But the abbey …”

  Relief poured through her as her arms went around him to hold him tightly. “You persist in acting as if you’d raped me yourself. You
should have explained why you couldn’t help me instead of letting Juliette tell me of William Darrell. Did you think me so shallow I would put my violation over the lives you’ve saved since then?”

  “You forgive me?”

  Her expression was sober as she stepped back and looked up at him. “The question is, do you forgive me? I was afraid to share your life even though I loved you. I don’t even know how you could still love me.”

  “Don’t you?” His lips pressed her temple. “Perhaps because you have strength and gentleness … and truth.”

  “Not truth. I seem to have told myself a good many lies in the past.” She smiled tremulously. “But I’ll try to give you truth from now on.”

  His hands cupped her cheeks as he looked down into her eyes. “Catherine, I …” He kissed her gently, sweetly, with exquisite tenderness. He lifted his head and the expression on his face was as beautiful as the dawn rising over the fields of Vasaro. “My love.”

  The joy became too strong to bear, and she closed her eyes for a moment. He was still looking at her with the same expression when she opened them and she knew she had to do something to lighten the moment or she would start to weep. She took a step back and laughed shakily. “Then it’s settled.” She looked around the apartment. “I must do something to improve this place. I don’t know how you can live in such discomfort. If we’re to stay here for any length of time, we must have blankets and carpets and a curtain for the window. And perhaps a comfortable chair by the stove for—”

  “We?” He shook his head. “You can’t stay here.”

  “Oh, but I can.” She gazed at him steadily. “I intend to stay here as long as you do, François. Make up your mind to the fact that I won’t return to Vasaro until you can return with me.”

  “Catherine, I can’t come with you. There is much I have to do here.”

  “I know, Juliette told me.” She reached up and touched his lips with her fingers. He belonged to her, she thought wonderingly. She had the right to reach out and touch him whenever she liked. “Then I’ll help you do them. We worked very well together at Vasaro. I’m sure we’ll do equally well here.”