Petals in the Storm (27 page)

The staff had long since retired and Maggie had been sitting in her kitchen for hours, with only a candle and the kitchen cat for company. Robin had said he would stop by if he had something new to report, but he would not come this late.

She was desperate to talk to him, to hear his explanation of the points Candover had raised. There was surely a reasonable explanation___

And if he lied to her, she would know it.

She could not sleep with so much unresolved—with treacherous doubts about Robin, with the echoes of the horrible fight with Rafe. Impulsively she decided that if Robin wasn't coming to her, she would go to him. He had rooms near the Place du Carrousel, adjacent to the Louvre and the Tuileries. If he wasn't there, she would wait until he returned. It would not be the first time she had walked the streets of Paris after dark.

Upstairs she swiftly changed to men's clothes, glad that the September night was cool enough to justify the dark, form-concealing cloak. As always when she traveled alone, she carried her pistol and a knife. While she preferred to avoid trouble, Robin had seen to it that she knew how to fight.

Robin. Always Robin. She needed most desperately to believe in him.

If she didn't have him, who did she have?

* * *

"It's always been you, Rafe," Margot said softly, her eyes misty with desire. "For all these years, I've waited for you to find me. Why didn't you come sooner?"

She kissed him, unbuttoning his shirt to press her heated lips to the hollow at the base of his throat. His clothing seemed to melt away, allowing her wheat gold hair to flow tantalizingly over his skin. Her clever hands slid down his torso, teasing, arousing him to madness....

Heart pounding and body throbbing, Rafe awoke to unpleasant reality. He had not slept long; just enough for his fevered dreams to tie him in knots. He had returned to his hotel after his fight with Maggie, written a report for Lucien, and gone to bed. Yet even in sleep, she haunted him.

Wearily he decided that he might as well make the final descent into absurdity. After changing to his plainest clothing, he returned to the Boulevard des Capucines, where one of his men was watching Maggie's house from a room rented on the other side of the back alley.

Rafe had instituted the watch several nights earlier. Apart from visits by Anderson on two different occasions, the watcher had seen nothing of interest, and probably tonight would be no different. Nonetheless, because Rafe could not stay away, he dismissed his man and took the post himself.

He should have turned around and headed back to London as soon as he had learned that Lucien's damned spy was Margot Ashton. Certainly his sojourn in Paris had been of no help to his country, and it had wreaked havoc on his orderly life.

With bitter resentment, he acknowledged that the simple schoolboy love he had felt for Margot had been replaced by the dark strains of obsession. She was the only living creature who could destroy his prized de tachment, and he hated her for it, even as he compulsively imagined what it would be like to make love to her. He already knew the taste of her mouth, and his imagination supplied vivid images of how she would look, of how it would feel to be inside her, of how she would respond ...

Once more he jerked his thoughts from their unhealthy circle. The force of his desire was so intense that for the first time in his life, he wondered whether he would be capable of rape if the opportunity presented itself.

Wondered, then shied away from the question because he feared the answer.

Maggie had accused him of wanting her because she was unavailable, and he knew that there was some justice to that. After all, she was only a woman, and all females were made much the same. He also knew from experience that the most beautiful women were seldom the best mistresses; females who were less blessed by nature usually tried harder. If he could just once make love to Maggie, it would free him of his obsession, which was rooted in his youthful memories.

But there was no chance of that happening. She would put a bullet in him if he came within fifty feet of her.

It was fortunate that Anderson hadn't called on Maggie tonight. Rafe would have been tempted to kill him out of hand, and the blond man was much more useful alive. Tomorrow Rafe would notify Wellington of his suspicions and urge that Anderson be questioned, but tonight he kept his morbid watch.

The town house was dark except for a light in the kitchen. He wondered if Maggie was sleeping, or whether she was as restless as he. The accusations against Anderson had upset her, and perhaps she was suffering doubts. Savagely, he hoped so.

It was very late when he saw a dark figure slip from the house, moving with catlike stealth and grace. He knew instantly that it was Maggie. Curious about her mission, he left his post and swiftly went outside.

No sooner had he reached the alley when he saw another figure exit the building to his left and go after Maggie.

Bloody hell, who else was watching her? Had his own men missed the competition, or was this a new development? He was abruptly glad for the impulse that had made him take tonight's watch. If she were to run into danger, at least he would be there. He trusted his own ability to protect her more than that of his hirelings.

Maggie led them a merry chase. Rafe admired die speed she made while managing to be almost invisible. Avoiding the well-lit boulevards, she was one more shadow in die narrow back streets. Occasionally she glanced back, but she had no reason to suppose anyone was behind her, and the same darkness that shielded her passage concealed the followers.

Mindful of the farcical aspects of several people trailing each other, Rafe checked his own back to be sure that no one was behind him, but he seemed to be the last of the parade.

When they neared the Place du Carrousel, he realized with dismay that she must be heading for Anderson's nearby lodgings. A planned assignation, or was she going to challenge the man with what Rafe had told her? It was something else that he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Ahead of him, he saw Maggie pause at the end of the street where it led into the plaza. Looking beyond her, Rafe saw the great victory arch that Napoleon had built in the middle of the plaza and crowned with the four bronze horses taken from St. Mark's in Venice. Torches burned around the monument, and their flickering light illuminated workmen standing on top of die

arch. As the clink of chisels and hammers echoed around the plaza, he saw a supervisor in the uniform of a British officer. Apparently Wellington had decided to spare French feelings by removing these most visible examples of loot by night. Rafe hoped that old Louis would sleep through it. The work was taking place literally under the king's windows in the Tuileries.

Maggie was hesitating, as if wondering whether to cross the plaza or to go around.

Then a clatter sounded behind Rafe. He looked back and saw a detachment of the French National Guard surge from a cross street and charge toward the Place du Carrousel. He realized that there had been shouting audible for some time, but the jumbled medieval streets had made the noise seem distant.

Rafe darted up a nearby set of stone steps into the shelter of a deep doorway. The Guardsmen ran by, followed by an angry throng of Parisians. All mobs sounded the same: like a ravening beast that was all teeth and belly and claws. No one paid any attention to Rafe in his safe spot above the swirling bodies.

Seeing the Guards and the mob, the men on the arch abandoned their tools and beat a hasty retreat. After reaching the ground, they dashed for the Tuileries where a door opened to allow the workers inside. Wise of Louis' people not to let the workers be torn to pieces; Wellington would take an exceedingly dim view if the king let British soldiers and citizens be murdered.

In the moments that his attention was on the plaza, Rafe lost sight of Maggie. Fearful of her being caught in the turmoil, he ran down the steps and forced his way through the crowd to where he had last sighted her. He kept a wary eye out for the man who had been following her, but made no attempt to conceal himself. In his modest clothing, he was just another member of the churning throng.

Shouts rose near the mouth of a small alley to the left, followed by the bellow of a familiar French voice. "Here's an English spy—one of Wellington's thieves!"

Frustrated by the escape of the workmen, those members of the mob close enough to hear started moving toward the fracas in search of new prey. Then a woman's scream of terror cut through the general rumble.

Maggie.

Galvanized by panic, Rafe plunged toward her, ruthlessly using his size and boxing skills to elbow, kick, and shove his way through as quickly as possible. Though he was followed by curses and blows, he scarcely noticed them.

As he neared the center of the disturbance, there was a sharp sound of ripping fabric. The familiar voice yelled excitedly, "Ai, it's a woman!"

The animal voice of the mob took on a dark new tone.

Rafe shoved aside two drunken youths, and found his nightmare image from the theater riot, made horribly real.

Maggie had been knocked to the ground, but she still fought furiously, twisting and kicking and slashing with a knife. Her shoulder and part of her chest showed white against the torn fabric of her clothing, and in the uncertain light her face was distorted by fear such as Rafe had never seen before.

A raggedly dressed laborer tried to grab her wrist. She put the point of her blade through the back of his hand. The laborer shrieked as blood gushed from the wound.

With shocking abruptness, a heavy boot caught the side of Maggie's head and her struggle ended. She slumped into unconsciousness, the knife falling from her nerveless fingers.

The man who had kicked her hauled her upright and held her against his chest, one hand cruelly squeezing her exposed breast. Rafe looked into his face, and recognized the scarred, triumphant visage of Henri Lemercier.

"You'll have to wait in line,
mes amis
," the captain said genially, "I saw her first, but don't worry, there's plenty to go around."

He began dragging her backward toward the alley. Acknowledging the practical difficulties of more than one man raping a woman at a time, the surrounding rioters fell back a little, opening the space around Maggie and her captor.

Audacity was the only hope. Rafe bolted from the crowd, chopped the side of his hand across Lemercier's throat, and grabbed Maggie as the Frenchman's grasp loosened.