Prelude to Heaven (2 page)

She saw Lucifer in his angel-blue eyes, and she knew that this time he was going to kill her. He would kill the baby, too.

She couldn't let him. She clawed, she kicked, she fought, but he was so strong. Her fists seemed such futile weapons. She managed to raise her knee between his legs, and when he doubled over in pain, releasing her, she saw her chance to run.

But there was nowhere to go. She saw him struggling to rise, and that was when she remembered the pistol. She could only pray that it was loaded. Yanking open the drawer of his dressing table, she grabbed the pearl-handled weapon and whirled around to find him standing in the doorway of the dressing room, watching her.

He looked so surprised. She lifted her chin, returning his astonishment with defiance. She watched as his expression changed, softened. The devil was gone, and the angel was back, but she was not fooled. She raised her arm, cocked the pistol, and fired.

***

Something woke him. Alexandre sat up abruptly, grimacing at the pain that shot through his neck. Chairs were not made for sleeping. The rain had stopped and bright morning sunlight flooded the room, causing him to blink.

He looked at the woman, watching as she raised one trembling arm toward the ceiling. She jerked suddenly, her arm fell limp to her side, and she quieted.

She was shivering violently now. He noticed that the covers had once again been tossed aside and now lay in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed. “Imbecile,” he muttered—uncertain if the criticism was directed at her or himself—and rose. He pulled the covers over her and felt her forehead. She was still feverish.

He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, wondering if perhaps he should fetch someone from the village, but he discarded that idea almost at once. There was no doctor in Saint-Raphael. Only a midwife, and he doubted she would come with him in any case. No one else would come either. Most of the villagers thought him very odd. Some were afraid of him. Besides, it was a long walk down to the village, and he didn't want to leave her.

She stirred, rolling her head restlessly from side to side. Her face was ashen gray, and her skin felt like parchment to his touch. Her lips were dry and cracked. Though she was now sleeping quietly, her expression was far from serene. There were shadows of fear and lines of strain in her face, making her seem painfully vulnerable. He found himself staring down at her, wondering what journey had led this young, pregnant woman to his door, to collapse in his garden. Who was she?

He closed his eyes and turned away. He didn't want to know anything about her. He didn't want to care what happened to her. He wasn't fit to care about anybody. He couldn't even care about himself. But when he carried her muddy clothes downstairs to wash them in the kitchen, he found himself examining them closely for clues to her identity.

They were the clothes of an
aristo
, well-made and of fine materials, though they were now tattered and stained and too big for her. There was no tailor's label on any of the garments, but they were of English style and workmanship. The boots of black leather had straw stuffed in the toes. The contents of her pockets revealed five francs, a linen handkerchief, and a pistol, along with a half-empty powder flask and a handful of bullets.

It was sensible, he supposed, for a woman traveling alone to carry a pistol. He examined it curiously. It was expensive, pearl-handled, and of English make. He put the weapon and ammunition in a drawer, along with the money and handkerchief.

He washed the mud from her clothes and hung them in the sun to dry. He walked out into the garden but could find nothing more that belonged to her. He brought in the supplies he had left among the weeds the evening before, throwing his ruined painting into a corner of the kitchen with a snort of disgust, then he went back into the garden with a basket to rummage among the weeds for herbs and vegetables.

He returned to the kitchen and started a pot of soup. As he worked, his thoughts invariably returned to his unexpected guest, his curiosity roused. She was pregnant, but wore no wedding band. A servant, perhaps, who had made a mistake and had run away, unable to face the shame. She had probably stolen the clothes and the pistol from her master, thinking they would give her some protection traveling on the road alone. He felt a stab of pity and wondered again why he should care.

He began slicing vegetables with a vengeance. He didn't care, he reminded himself as he dumped potatoes, leeks, carrots, and herbs in a pot of water, concentrating on indifference. She would probably die, he told himself, adding garlic to the pot, and he refused to take responsibility for her death. He already had more than his share of that.

When the soup was bubbling over the fire, he went back upstairs, but she was still sleeping. He took that opportunity to fetch water for a bath and a shave. Then he changed into a clean shirt and trousers and tied back his newly washed hair with a fresh ribbon. When the soup was ready, he took it to her. She was still asleep, but tossing again, slapping her hands in the air at imagined adversaries. He tried to spoon-feed her, but she refused to eat. He doubted she even knew he was there.

***

Wherever she ran, he followed. Everywhere she turned, he was there. Again and again she shot him, she saw him fall, she watched his blood spill across the floor. Still, he came after her. God, could she never be free of him?

She felt his hands again, on her face, opening her mouth. Forcing liquid down her throat. She spit it out, certain he was trying to poison her. She pushed his hands away.

***

Alexandre stared down at the soup all over his shirt and sighed. He dipped the spoon into the bowl and tried again. Three times, she spit out the soup and pushed him away. The first time, he was patient. The second time, he was frustrated. The third time, he was angry. “
Mille tonnerres
!” he exploded, grasping her chin between his fingers and turning her face toward him. “Do you want to starve to death?”

She stared at him with glassy, unseeing eyes. She opened her mouth as if to answer, and he shoved in the spoonful of soup. He forcibly closed her mouth with his hands until she swallowed, impervious to the blows she struck him with her fists.

She didn't have the strength to fight long. Within a few moments, her clenched fists dropped to her sides, and between her delirious ramblings, he was able to feed her spoonfuls of soup until the bowl was empty.

For three days, Alexandre poured soup and water down her throat, bathed her feverish body with lavender-water, and washed more sheets than he ever had in his life. But she only seemed to worsen.

Her fever was higher than ever, and she was still delirious, muttering nonsense about angels in hell and dreaming violent dreams. He wasn’t sure what she dreamt about, but he didn’t want to know.

He was afraid she would miscarry. He was certain she would die. He tried to resign himself to her death, to accept the idea that he would be the one to bury her. But each time he envisioned that possibility, he shook it off and redoubled his efforts to save her.
Le bon Dieu
had given him one more chance for redemption. By saving her, he might save himself.

Tess opened her eyes to find herself in a strange room. She blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight washing over her. Her head ached, and her body felt battered and weary. She moved one hand to her rounded stomach, reassuring herself that the baby was all right, as her gaze traveled around the room, taking in unfamiliar furnishings and whitewashed walls, coming finally to the window on her left.

A man stood there, looking out the window, his profile to her. He was drawing in a sketchbook that rested in the crook of his right arm. His shirt of white linen was torn and smeared with paint, and his dark trousers were tucked into black boots badly in need of polishing. His thick, ebony hair was unfashionably long and caught back in a queue.

Startled by the sight of him, she sat straight up in the bed, letting out a gasp at the sharp pain in her head.

The man turned at the sound, and Tess suddenly realized she was clad in only a man’s nightshirt. She couldn't remember changing her clothes, and she felt her face grow hot as she pulled the sheets up to her neck and wondered frantically what had happened to her clothes.

The man didn't seem to notice her discomfiture. He merely raised one black eyebrow at the sight of her awake and watching him. “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle.”

Tess didn't reply. She scooted back against the pillows in alarm, and it took a moment for his words to sink in. When they did, she glanced down at her ringless hand then back at him. Was he insulting her by calling her mademoiselle, when she was obviously pregnant? But there was no hint of mockery in his face or his voice. “Who are you?” she whispered in English.

“I am Alexandre Dumond,” he answered her in the same language. “And you?”

Dumond? The name was familiar. She glanced at the sketchbook in his hand and the paint all over his shirt. Could he be Dumond, the French painter? Dumond's works were well known, even in London. “The artist?”

He gave her a small bow. “
Précisément
.”

She stared at him, vague recollections of whispered London gossip coming to mind. Dumond had once received an invitation from the Prince Regent to submit his works to the Royal Academy and had actually refused. It was rumored that he lived alone, an eccentric recluse hiding from the world at his villa in France. She took another quick glance around. The rumors seemed to be true.

His deep voice interrupted Tess's thoughts. “How do you feel?”

She tightened her grip on the sheets and did not answer, suspicious and wary. She watched him drop the sketchbook and charcoal on the table beside him, then stride toward her. He was a tall man and powerfully built. She pressed her back to the carved headboard behind her, willing herself not to show the fear she felt at his approach.

But when he stopped beside the bed and reached out his hand, Tess could not prevent a jolt of panic. She slapped his hand away. “Don't touch me!”

A puzzled frown drew his dark brows together, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, ignoring her protests. He reached out again, catching her wrists before she could strike out at him again. Tess tried desperately to pull away, hating his superior strength, but all he did was hold her wrists with one hand as he gently pressed the other to her forehead.

“The fever has broken,” he said, letting his hand drop and releasing her wrists. “I'm relieved.”

Tess fell back, exhausted from her brief struggle. She licked her dry lips, wishing her head didn't ache and she could think clearly, wishing he would move away from her side. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

“I carried you, of course. You were in no condition to walk, mademoiselle. I found you in my garden.”

“I didn't mean to trespass. I didn't think anyone lived here.”

His lips tightened slightly. “That is understandable, I suppose.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Four days.”

“Four?” Tess drew a deep breath. “I don't remember anything beyond being in the garden. I dreamed—” She stopped. She didn't want to remember her dreams.

“You have caused me a great deal of worry, mademoiselle. You have had a fever I feared was mortal. You were delirious.”

She stiffened. “What did I say?”

“Nothing that made sense.”

She watched him turn to the table beside the bed and ladle water from a pail into a cup. He held the cup out to her, but when she didn't move to take it from him, he pressed it to her lips. “Drink it,” he ordered.

Her whole body tensed, and she closed her eyes. The memory was there before she could stop it. Nigel, yanking her hair back and pressing a glass of hated port against her lips. “Drink it, Countess. Drink it. I know you love a glass of port.” She could still feel the sticky red liquid running down her chin, staining her dress.

“Drink the water,
chérie
,” a different voice murmured, snapping her back to the present. Her eyes opened, and she found herself staring into his. They were black eyes, not blue, reminding her that this was not Nigel. She swallowed as he tilted the water into her mouth.

“Are you hungry?” he asked as he set aside the half-empty cup and rose. “I'll bring you some soup.”

Tess did not relax until Alexandre Dumond had left the room, resting her aching head against the headboard and reminding herself that Nigel was dead. She’d killed him, the man she had once loved, and she supposed she should feel guilt over that act, but she didn't. She’d had three months to come to terms with that. All she felt now was fear, and the need to overcome it and survive.

When Dumond brought the soup, he sat down on the edge of the bed and spooned the broth into her mouth. She felt suffocated by his closeness and she hated being so weak that she could not feed herself. She kept her gaze fixed on his hand as it moved toward her and away, prepared by the past few years to expect anything—be it a touch, a slap or a blow. But Dumond went about his task without touching her at all, and after a while, Tess relaxed a bit, weariness and hunger overcoming fear. When he had given her the last spoonful in the bowl, she dared to look directly into his face.