Louisa Rawlings (10 page)

“Yes. But we’re three thousand livres richer for it.”

“And not worth a pinch of snuff if those rascals had… Damn!” He smacked at the breast of his coat. “The purse is gone! They must have snatched it when I was down.”

“
Merde!
Half our earnings!”

“No.” Topaze reached into her bodice and produced the sack of coins. “I didn’t like the look of the men as we came out into the street. I knew they’d attack you first, if they meant harm, so…”

Martin’s jaw dropped. “You picked my pocket!”

She shrugged. “You were an easy pigeon.”

Lucien chuckled. “By Satan’s horn, Véronique was never so quick-witted as you. The purse would have vanished else.” His eyes were filled with genuine approval. Topaze felt oddly pleased.

As Martin left the room, she stripped off her cloak and her cap, and began to clear a small table to receive supper. The luxury of abundant food was still new to her; it warranted careful attention. When she was finished, she looked at Lucien.

He appeared to be asleep. It was strange. With his eyes closed he always seemed so vulnerable. The face wasn’t changed: still the same high cheekbones, the sharp, satanic eyebrows, the evil-looking scar. But for all of that, with his eyes closed he was oddly handsome. And not at all frightening.

It’s the eyes
, she thought.
Most assuredly the eyes. Cold and hostile.
She’d seen eyes like that once in Bordeaux. On a galley slave who’d broken free from his chains and had swum ashore. The police had cornered him, beaten him down with clubs. He’d looked up at them—desperate, trapped, yet still defiant. Daring them to kill him. To snatch the last shreds of humanity from him.

They’d knocked the poor wretch senseless and dragged him away.

Lucien opened his eyes. He returned her searching look. “I know what you’re thinking. I can see it on your face. I shouldn’t have struck him again as he fell.”

She’d almost forgotten the fight. “He’ll most likely die from a wound like that,” she said gently.

His lip curled in a sneer. “Damn them all. They would have had no pity on us.”

“I’d rather die than sink to their level.”

“Then you’re a naive fool. Lord, I ache.” He grimaced and moved his shoulder. A trickle of blood seeped from below his coat cuff, staining the lace of his shirt.

“By Saint Côme, you’re hurt!”

He glanced at his upper arm, where a small cut in his greatcoat had begun to turn damply red. “So I am. I thought it was only the blow of a cudgel.” He stood up and removed his greatcoat and the simple velvet coat beneath. The white linen of his shirt was crimson with blood. He touched the wound through his shirt and moved his arm in a slow circle. He muttered a soft oath. “Well, the shirt is ruined, more’s the pity, but it appears to be a minor wound.”

Topaze poured water into a basin. “Take off your shirt and your waistcoat.”

“It isn’t necessary. It will stop bleeding in a little. Tie my handkerchief around it over my shirt.”

“No. Take off your shirt.”

“It’s only a scratch, I tell you.”

She smiled and took a step toward him. “I’ll not ask again. Unless, of course, you’re modest.”

He stared, his brows lowering. She held her ground against the ferocity in his blue eyes. Suddenly he began to laugh. “You’re bold, by Satan.” His hands went to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Do you want my breeches off as well?”

The plaguey devil! “Not for the time being,” she said evenly. “Sit down.”

He pulled off his shirt. His bronzed skin was stretched taut over hard muscles; his arms and back looked dangerously powerful. He returned to his chair and smiled, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Not my breeches? Are you
afraid
?”

Yes
, she thought. “No,” she said. “But I’m like Lot’s wife. I might turn to stone at the sight of you.”

He chuckled. “Am I as wicked as all that?”

“I have no doubt of it. Now keep still, while I see what those villains have done.”

As Lucien had said, the wound was superficial. The merest prick of a dagger, a red line on the smooth bronzed flesh of his upper arm. Topaze cleaned it and bound it up. While he changed into a fresh shirt, she rinsed the old one as best she could, and dabbed at the blood that had seeped onto his outer garments.

Martin returned, followed by a servant bearing the supper tray. The evening’s adventure had whetted their appetites, and they ate with enthusiasm.

There’s something to be said for a full belly
, Topaze thought. She felt more lighthearted than she had in weeks, bubbling with foolish humor and witty asides. His eyes warm with admiration, Martin watched her, saying little, as was his habit. But Lucien laughed a great deal. He seemed to find her amusing. Remembering the menace in his piercing glance, Topaze felt decidedly safer when he was laughing.

Afterward, Lucien went to his portmanteau and took out his
nécessaire
. It was a small gold-and-mother-of-pearl traveling box, fitted inside with sewing and writing instruments. He pulled out a thimble and needle case. “I think it’s best if we sew some of that money into the hems of our coats for safekeeping.” He turned to Topaze. “I’ll give you a purse as well. If you should need to leave the Chalotais household in a hurry…”

The danger in his unspoken words seemed to sober them all. They retired for the night on a quiet note, each with his own thoughts. Topaze slept fitfully, her mind filled with fresh doubts. At the first light of day she woke again. She heard Lucien groan in his sleep. Perhaps his wound was troubling him. She arose from her little cot and tiptoed to the large bed where the men slept.

The room was gray and dim, but she could make out their features quite clearly. For the first time, she allowed herself the luxury of a
minute examination. They were as different as night and day. Martin—blond, handsome, almost beautiful, kindness and good fellowship in every line and feature of his face. And Lucien. Dark, from his white-winged head of hair to the clouded soul that hid behind his cold eyes. She doubted, of course, that he’d been a pirate, despite his pierced ear; a comfortable landowner didn’t become a pirate. But he didn’t mind consorting with smugglers, and he fought like a savage. No. Martin was far more to her liking.

And yet…she remembered the look of Lucien’s torso when he’d taken off his shirt. Sleek, tanned. The thatch of black hair that only served to draw attention to his hard-muscled chest. She’d felt an inexplicable pull, a tug at her senses, the danger in him both an intimidation and an attraction. She laughed to herself. What a bizarre turn of events! Who would have guessed, less than five days ago, that her life could have taken such a tack?

Lucien stirred again. Had his wound begun to bleed? Topaze stepped closer to the bed. A floorboard creaked under her foot.

“
Damn you!
” Lucien’s hands were around her throat. Choking her. Pressing the life out of her. She gurgled and slapped at his iron fingers in helpless impotence. The room seemed to darken around her; she was slipping into oblivion.

“Name of God, Lucien! Let her go!” Martin leaped from the bed and pulled Topaze away from Lucien’s grasp. She felt blessed air return to her lungs, the roaring in her ears subside. She clung to Martin, trembling, feeling the warmth of his arms, the comforting protection of his embrace. It was only after a few moments that she found the courage to turn about and look at Lucien.

He was sitting up in bed, his face covered in sweat, his eyes wide and staring. “Oh, Lord, Martin.” He groaned and sank back against the pillows, throwing his arm across his eyes. “I was dreaming of the captain.”

Topaze’s voice shook. “Captain Foure?”

Lucien lowered his arm and inhaled slowly, a ragged breath that seemed to steady him. “Go back to bed. But don’t creep up on me like that again.”

Martin’s arm was still around Topaze’s shoulders. “Are you all right?” At her reassuring nod, he turned his attention to Lucien. “He can’t still be looking for you, my friend. Not after all these years.”

“I don’t know. But I keep thinking…just once, I’ll be in a seaport, let down my guard”—he plucked at the shirt and breeches in which he’d slept—“and allow myself to sleep like a
normal
man…that’s when he’ll find me.”

Topaze felt her fears subsiding, to be replaced by pique. Would the man always exclude her from his conversations? From his secrets? “Captain
Foure
?” she repeated, rubbing at her tender neck.

Lucien had recovered his composure. He settled himself into the bed and pulled up the coverlet. “I’m sorry I frightened you. Go back to sleep. He doesn’t concern you.”

Oh! He’d nearly killed her, and now he was dismissing her out of hand? “
Who?
”
she demanded. “Damn your liver, who?”

“Véronique wouldn’t swear,” he said evenly. “A pirate captain.”

“What?” She staggered back from the sheltering arm and stared at Lucien. Then at Martin. Damnation! He hadn’t even flinched at Lucien’s words. They were madmen, the two of them! “Why should a pirate captain want
you
?” she gurgled.

Lucien sighed, his voice filled with weariness. “Because he’s sworn to kill me.” He glanced at the window. “There’s still an hour to sunrise, I reckon. Do you mind?” Without another word, he turned away and slept again.

Martin put his hand on her arm. “We’ll talk another time,” he said. “The sooner we get to my aunt’s cottage, the sooner we’ll all sleep securely.” He led her back to her cot, hesitated, then planted a soft kiss on her forehead before returning to his own bed.

In the morning, donning her cloak before the mirror, Topaze noticed the slight discoloration at her neck, the blue-tinged marks of Lucien’s strong fingers. She touched them gingerly; there was a slight soreness. Ah, well. What did it matter? She’d had her share of knocks and bruises, living her chancy street life. She could afford a crumb of sympathy for Lucien, in spite of everything. He hadn’t intended to do her harm. And for all his insouciance, there had been fear in his blue eyes, only for a moment. She shivered. To live with the knowledge that someone sought to kill you, someone who might creep up in the dead of night…small wonder he slept lightly, in his clothes, poised for danger.

She looked up in the mirror. Lucien was standing behind her, his eyes on her throat. She turned to him. For a moment she thought she read remorse on his face. “I trust you won’t come to regret this adventure,” he said softly, and touched her neck with gentle fingers. Then he frowned, and the eyes turned hard and distant. “For Satan’s sake, cover your head for the carriage ride.”

She thought,
I must have imagined a spark of softness.
She put up her hood and turned away with a shrug. “Life is too short for regrets.”

Lucien’s caution proved unnecessary. The three of them were the only passengers in the public coach. Topaze was able to sit alone opposite the men, at her ease, with her hood thrown back. The events of the dawn had put them all in a somber mood. Topaze sighed and peered out the window. “It looks to snow, I think. Will it slow our journey?”

Martin shook his head. “It shouldn’t. We haven’t far to go now.”

“Just to Beauvoir,” said Lucien, his voice deep with mockery. “I thought to tell you before you begin again with your questions. We’ll hire a private carriage to take us to Madame Le Sage. Martin’s aunt.”

“Will we stay there long?”

“As long as it takes to transform you. I should hope you’d be prepared for Château Grismoulins and the Chalotais in a month or so.”

“In any event,” said Martin, morosely, “
I
must think of returning to Guadeloupe soon. There’s work to be done.”

Topaze laughed. “Do you mean there’s the danger that I’ll be alone with this poxy whoreson for a while?” She meant it as a joke, hoping to tease them both into a better humor, but Lucien frowned.

“Véronique has become foul-tongued,” he growled. “I scarcely think that Madame de Chalotais would be pleased.”

Damn the man! “How do you know?” she challenged. “How do you know
anything
about Véronique?”

Martin cleared his throat and stirred uncomfortably in his seat. “You might as well tell her, Lucien. She’ll have to know soon enough.”

“Indeed. Well, girl, the truth of
it is that Véronique de Chalotais was my cousin.” He smiled his cold smile—one eyebrow raised in sardonic mockery—a mask that cloaked all semblance of human feeling. “And the Chalotais estate, Grismoulins, should be—if there were a God in Heaven—mine.”

Chapter Seven

“Good
morning, Mademoiselle Véronique. Will you take tea?”

Topaze stared out of the cottage window. Despite the cold rain that beat down on the bare and distant hills, dripped from the thatched roofs, turned the farmyard to mud, she had never felt more filled with sunshine. Could all this be happening to her?

They had arrived late last night. She had a sleepy recollection of a round, chirpy woman who had beamed in surprise and pleasure to see them. She had been shown to her room at the top of the stairs. Her very own room. A cozy room, with a warm fire, a thick coverlet on the bed, the softest down pillows within her memory. She had awakened this morning to find a velvet dressing gown at the foot of her bed, and a little maid inviting her to come down (in
negligée!
) to the common room adjoining the kitchen to take breakfast. Oh, the wonder, the beautiful luxury of it.