by Anne Stuart
The years that had followed were relatively peaceful. Eventually the madness that infected Paris faded, along with the Reign of Terror. Along with Napoleon’s ascent, there’d been a certain cautious optimism. And the Red Hen had prospered.
Marthe had gradually passed on all the kitchen duties to her willing disciple. The men who frequented the inn knew to steer clear of the cook—she was far too ready with a knife if anyone was importunate enough even to speak to her. Until she’d come across a pale English rose, bent on self-destruction on the very same bridge where Ghislaine had almost jumped, her life had been a quiet cocoon of existence.
She’d known, when she’d seen the young woman poised on the edge of the bridge. She’d known what was going through her mind. And she’d known that if she stopped her, she would be taking on a life, making one slow, painful move back into the land of the living. For a moment she’d hesitated. She didn’t want the responsibility for another person’s soul.
But in the end she’d had no choice. The humanity she thought she’d buried surfaced, an unpleasant reminder that life could still hurt, and she’d called out. And in pulling Lady Ellen Fitzwater back from the brink of death, she’d pulled herself back into life as well.
She saw Old Bones one last time just before they left for England. The intervening years hadn’t touched him—he was still ancient, malodorous, and abrupt. The name of Charles-Louis wasn’t spoken, nor that of Malviver. But when she left him, pressing half of her meager savings into his gnarled old hand, she did something she had never done before. She kissed him good-bye.
And now there was no retreat. No going back to that lonely bridge near the Red Hen, no return to comforting dreams of a pillowy darkness where all troubles ceased. Her parents were there, along with Charles-Louis. She was doomed to keep fighting. And keep fighting she would.
The trip to the coastal Scottish town of Dunster was made in speed and silence. Ghislaine watched, more desperate than ever to escape, but between Nicholas’s seeming indolence and Taverner’s dark suspicions, there had been no chance. Someone was always at her elbow when they stopped, and even her use of the necessary was shadowed by one of her captors.
She couldn’t even be certain that the boat they’d boarded under cover of darkness was the ship bound for Holland, not France. It was beyond her control. She’d stared longingly at the dark waters of the harbor, but her guards had stayed distressingly close. She didn’t know whether Nicholas had believed her threat of suicide. While his face betrayed nothing but boredom, his taut body stayed always within reach.
They’d set sail on the morning tide. She’d watched from the railing as the mist-shrouded land disappeared from view, and if she were still capable of tears, she would have wept then.
She turned, dry-eyed, to the man standing beside her. He was watching her out of his dark, hooded eyes, ignoring the disappearing coastline, and the wind ruffled his long black hair, blowing it against his haughty, handsome face.
“You’ve won,” she said abruptly.
“Have I?”
“You’re safe. You escaped England before they could haul you back for murdering that woman’s husband. Even Ellen and her friend didn’t catch up with us. You’ve triumphed.”
“You think so?” Nicholas murmured, his eyes traveling over her rumpled clothes. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Not yet.” And there was just the faintest expression in his eyes, nothing as obvious as a leer, that warned her. “Are you still planning to jump overboard, ma mie?”
She should have known he’d taunt her. See through her threats and call her bluff. The harbor had already vanished into the mist, and the waters were black and deep around the swiftly moving ship. “What are my choices?”
He smiled, a faint curling of his thin lips. “There’s a cabin below. Quite a spacious one, with a large, comfortable berth. The trip might take all of three days—we could get to know each other once more with no interruptions.”
She kept her face expressionless, turning to look at the sea. She didn’t want to die, damn it. And she didn’t want him to put those hard, white hands on her again.
“Which is it to be, Mamzelle?” he murmured. “Death or dishonor?”
She could no longer think straight. The rise and fall of the ship was having its customary unsettling effect on her stomach, and if she were to suffer seasickness as she had less than a year ago when she accompanied Ellen to England, she might truly prefer death.
The railing in front of her was broad. She put her hands on it, and Nicholas made no move to stop her. “I would prefer the embrace of the sea,” she said.
“Would you?” He sounded unconcerned. “Then feel free to accept it. Would you like a hand up?”
The railing was high, and she was lamentably short. She cast a brief, irritated glare at Nicholas’s bland expression. “I can do it myself,” she said. “I’m just waiting for the ship to steady a bit.”
“I doubt that it will. The North Sea is famous for its roughness. I expect we’ll be pitching and rolling all the way to Holland.”
She blanched, clutching the railing. “We’re going to Holland, then?”
“Didn’t I say so?”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t put much trust in your word.”
“Forgiven,” he said with an elegant bow. She wanted to slap the smirk off his face. “Are you ready to adjourn to the cabin yet?”
“To suffer your indignities? Never.”
“No, love. To cast up your accounts. You’ve turned the most becoming shade of green I’ve ever seen, and I thought you might prefer some privacy. However, if you wish to spew all over the deck, feel free to.”
She glared at him. Had it been in her power, she would have made him the recipient of the nausea that was now building to unmanageable levels. But at that point, even revenge paled beside the need for a bed and a basin. “The cabin,” she said in a strangled voice. She took a few tottering steps away from the railing.
He scooped her up in his arms, adding to her dizziness and almost wiping out her last trace of control. “Pauvre petite,” he murmured with a truly heartless smile. “Once more you are saved from the wicked wolf.”
“I’m not certain,” she said weakly. “I might even prefer you to seasickness.” The light of dawn disappeared as he angled her down a narrow stair.
He laughed with the heartlessness of those not afflicted with seasickness. “My dear, such compliments threaten to unman me. Continue in this vein and I’ll be all puffed up with conceit.”
She was concentrating too hard on keeping her breakfast down to pay the slightest bit of attention to the cabin. All she knew was that the bed was soft beneath her, the light mercifully dim, the pitch and sway of the ship even more pronounced, and Blackthorne was looking down at her with a truly diabolical smile.
“If you don’t want your elegant clothes destroyed,” Ghislaine said in faint accents, “you will be wise enough to leave me. I am most definitely going to be unwell.”
“Sound advice, my love. But first, a token of my esteem.”
She was half-afraid he was going to make the very grave mistake of trying to kiss her. Blackthorne was too clever for that. Instead he simply thrust a basin into her weak hands and departed.
Just in time.
“Where’s Mamzelle?” Tavvy appeared at the door of the smaller cabin, the one Nicholas resignedly assumed he’d end up sharing with his valet.
“In her cabin. I doubt we’ll hear more than a moan or two before we reach the continent,” he said negligently, pouring himself a glass of the brandy he’d brought aboard with him. Being of a democratic nature, he held the bottle out to Taverner, who shook his head.
“What I want to know is this,” Tavvy said, sitting down heavily opposite him. “What in God’s name were you thinking of, to carry her with us?”
An unpleasant smile curved Nicholas’s mouth. “I would think the answer to that must be obvious.”
“No, sir, it’s not,” Tavvy said f
latly. “You had more than enough time to take your fill of her while I was off scouting the situation. It’s not as if she’s any great beauty, nor is she particularly versed in the art of love, if you take my meaning. That much is obvious.”
“Delicately put,” Nicholas agreed.
“So then, why? Why have we dragged her with us, all over England and Scotland? Why did we take this leaky old boat to Holland instead of the newer one to France? Why didn’t you leave her behind in Dunster? Your cousin and her man would have caught up with her and taken her back to England, and everything would be right and tight. It don’t make sense, that it don’t.”
Nicholas sighed. “I’m not sure, Tavvy that I owe you an explanation.”
“She’s not a tart, that’s clear. Sure and she tried to kill you, but knowing you, you’re not likely to hold that against her. Any number of women, and men as well, would like to kill you, and most of them with good cause. So why don’t you let the poor little mite go?”
Nicholas smiled at the man opposite him, and a lesser mortal than Tavvy would have quailed. Tavvy simply stared back. “Poor little mite?” he echoed. “I hadn’t realized she’d made quite such an impression on you, Tavvy. You realize we’re talking about the woman who knocked you over the head with a bucket and dumped you behind the shrubbery?”
“She’s a game little thing, there’s no denying that. I just don’t like to see the cards stacked against her.”
Nicholas set his glass down very carefully. “How long have you known me, Tavvy?”
“More’n ten years, sir.”
“Cut the ‘sir’ blather, Tavvy. You’re asking questions no servant would ask—we might as well face each other as equals. Why do you think I should let her go? Why this sudden rush of pity for your fellow man? Or woman, in this case?”
“I do feel sorry for her,” Tavvy said stoutly. “No matter what you do she keeps on fighting. Part of me would hate to see her beaten.”
“You’re a romantic, Tavvy. I never knew that about you,” he murmured. “As a matter of fact, I feel the same. Illogical, isn’t it?”
Tavvy nodded. “And it’s not just her I’m worried about. It’s you.”
Nicholas’s eyes flew open; he was no longer indolent. “You interest me enormously, Tavvy. You know me better than anyone ever has, including my own parents. Why are you worried about me?”
“She’ll destroy you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! A tiny little snip of a thing like her? It would take a great deal more than one recalcitrant Frenchwoman to destroy me. I’ve put all my efforts into the task for some fifteen years, and I haven’t gotten nearly far enough.” His smile was cold. “So why should I worry that Ghislaine de Lorgny will succeed where I and others have failed?”
“She weakens you,” Tavvy said. “I’ve seen you looking at her sometimes, when the room is dark and she’s busy with something. You look like a moonling, and that’s the truth with no bark on it.”
Nicholas simply laughed. “So you think I’m a lovesick fool, Tavvy? Forget the mad Blackthornes. It’s your sanity I’m worried about now.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But you’ve been… not yourself. You haven’t even bedded the wench yet, have you?”
“Damn your impudence, Tavvy,” he said mildly. “That’s none of your business. What if she simply doesn’t attract me?”
“There was a time when nothing female failed to attract you,” Tavvy shot back. “You want her, you’ve had her at your command for close to a week now, and you haven’t been beneath her skirt yet. You drag her to the continent with us, you leave her alone in her cabin, and you wonder why I’m worried.”
“She’s seasick, Tavvy. Allow me a little fastidiousness. If it will make you feel any better, I’ll rape her as soon as we reach dry land. You can watch, if you like.”
“I’ve watched before. Somehow I don’t think you’re going to want an audience for this one.”
It was taking more and more for Nicholas to control his temper. “Do you fancy her yourself, is that it, Tavvy? She’s nothing but a cook, after all. Not that high above the touch of a valet. Maybe you’ve a sudden urge to settle down, raise a passel of brats, perhaps become a butler.”
Tavvy shook his head, refusing to be baited. “She’s not for the likes of me. I can tell quality, whether it’s French or English, and she’s no ordinary servant. I can tell something else, too.”
“I suspect you’re going to inform me of your observations whether I care to hear them or not,” Nicholas said with a deliberate sigh.
“That I am. She’s for you. She knows it, and she’s fighting it like crazy. You know it, and if you had any sense at all you’d throw her overboard. She’ll bring you down, Blackthorne. She’ll destroy you and me if you don’t get rid of her.”
“God, don’t be so melodramatic! How is one small French girl going to manage that?” he demanded.
“You’ll fall in love with her.” Tavvy’s voice was flat, expressionless. “She’ll know it, she’ll use it, and she’ll leave you. They all leave in the end, you know that. And the next time there’s a duel, you’ll be a little careless. Or maybe a horse race. You’ll go too far over the edge, and that’ll be the end of you.”
“Tavvy,” Nicholas said with great patience, “I’m already damned careless when it comes to duels and horse racing. I’ve been courting death for more than a decade. If consorting with Ghislaine de Lorgny brings it faster, then I’m all for it. Have a drink, man. You need it.”
“No, thank you,” Tavvy said with great dignity, rising to his full, somewhat meager height. “But you think about what I’ve been saying. If you’re too squeamish to bed her, maybe the safest thing to do would be to leave her, once we get to Holland.”
“My dear Tavvy,” Nicholas murmured. “When have I ever been concerned with safety?”
Tavvy departed, muttering under his breath. Nicholas watched him go, a frown creasing his brow. Damn the man, but there was an uncomfortable element of truth in his dire warnings. He’d allowed Ghislaine to get under his skin, to get closer to him than any female had in his entire self-absorbed existence. Except for a certain innocent French girl he’d known half a lifetime ago.
He could have taken her any number of times. When he first had her, tied up on his bed back at Ainsley Hall. At any one of the inns they’d stopped at. In the narrow bed at the ruins of the hunting lodge.
And each time something had stopped him. He had a different name for it. Once it was laziness, once compassion, once the urge to prolong her torment. Lack of desire had never been an issue. He’d tried to relieve that desire on the chambermaid, but their energetic efforts had only left him hungry for more.
Tavvy had been right to warn him, damn his eyes! He’d grown far too sentimental where his captive was concerned. It was past time to make their relationship clear. She belonged on her back, and that was where he planned to keep her, once they reached the continent. By the time he tired of her, he would have vented the overwhelming lust that had been consuming him.
Except if it were as obvious and straightforward as simple lust he would have done something about it by now. Not listened to his conscience. Not hesitated, even for a moment. And certainly not gone to another woman in her place.
He wasn’t the slightest bit disturbed by the thought of his own destruction, at her or anyone else’s hands. The thought of his own weakness was, however, unbearable.
He needed to do whatever was necessary to wipe that weakness out of his system. There was no room in his life for mercy or tenderness.
Scotland had been a mistake from the very beginning. He knew there was no haven for the likes of him, and the sweet promise of spring in the country had aroused an illusory hope. There was no grace, no beauty, and those who promised it to his weary soul were liars.
Scotland was a lie, a land of rocky soil, harsh climates, and eternal loneliness. Ghislaine was a lie, with her wounded eyes and murderous soul.
He couldn’t weak
en. All he had was his chilly, bitter core, which kept him from caring about anyone or anything except his own selfish desires. If he were to weaken, to let even an ounce of compassion, of feeling, break through the armor he’d built around his heart, then everything could enter. All the guilt and regret that he’d denied for so many years. And he would be destroyed.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t let it happen. He’d learned early on that he was the only one he could count on. Ghislaine must have learned that same harsh lesson. She’d expect no mercy from him.
He could feel the darkness close around him once more. The mad Blackthornes. He was more than living up to their reputation.
He rose, setting his brandy down on the table, and headed for her cabin. She’d certainly been the most amazing shade of green and white, but it was always possible she’d recovered quickly. His booted feet were sure on the rolling deck, unencumbered by the brandy he’d drunk or the movement of the ship, and he didn’t bother to knock before opening the door.
She’d definitely been ill. He removed the basin, leaving it in the hall, then returned to stand over her, staring. Her pale face was beaded with a cold sweat, her eyes were closed, and there were purple shadows below them.
She’d slipped into French just before he’d left her in the cabin. He’d avoided that language during the time they spent together, avoided it deliberately. It reminded him too much of the past. The English accent she’d perfected was exactly right, with just a trace of the lower classes to fool the less observant.
But her French was the beautiful, impeccable language of the aristocracy. It reminded him of days gone by, of a youth lost forever, of a way of life destroyed by a class’s greed and a peasantry’s rage.
He smoothed her tangled chestnut hair away from her face, but she didn’t stir, exhausted by the illness and her own emotions. Leaning down, he murmured in her ear, gentle words, love words, in liquid, tender French. Somewhere in her dreams she heard, for a faint, innocent smile curved her mouth, and he shook with the longing to take her, there and then.
