Rendezvous (9781301288946) (4 page)

The soldier let out a huge guffaw. His
arms closed about her waist, his grip tightening. Belle suppressed
an urge to claw at his face. Against this huge bear of a man, such
distraught tactics would never prevail. She glanced across the
room. The old man stared fixedly into his cup, the hostess wringing
her hands in her apron. They were no more capable of helping Belle
than they had the peasant girl. During the Revolution, most folk
had learned to spare themselves by looking the other way when
trouble came.

Belle wrenched around, seeking her
muff. It had tumbled beside the basket contents near the door. The
soldier half-lifted Belle off her feet, pulling her toward the
stairs. Above her she could hear the voices of his brutish
companions raised in an obscene song. Once the soldier succeeded in
carting her up to that room, Belle knew she was lost.

As he moved to heft her up over his
shoulder, Belle flung her arms about the soldier's neck. Yanking
his head downward, she crushed her mouth against his so hard she
thought she would suffocate. The taste of his sour breath made her
stomach churn, but she continued the savage embrace until he jerked
his head back.

"Damn!" he panted. "You're a right
passionate little bitch."

"I'm a widow. It's been a long time
since I've had a man. All the young strong ones have gone off for
the army."

He slackened his grip and wound an arm
about her shoulders. "Come upstairs, then." He chuckled. "I'll show
you several strong fellows who just unenlisted."

Deserters. Of course, Belle thought.
That explained the furtive attitude of the inn's hostess. Damn
Lefranc. Where was the swaggering sergeant when she really needed
him?

She had no choice but to deal quietly
and efficiently with this drunkard herself. Belle stiffened her
frame, hanging back as the soldier attempted to propel her up the
first step.

"What's the matter?" she taunted.
"Don't you think that you would be man enough for me?"

The deserter flushed beet red. "Show
you who’s man enough."

But with a deft movement Belle ducked
from beneath his arm.

"Not here," she said, forcing a coy
laugh. She could handle the man far better if she could get him
outside. Here she ran the risk that he would be missed and joined
by his friends at any moment.

Managing to evade his groping hands,
Belle darted forward and retrieved her muff. The soldier grunted
with frustration and seized her about the waist with a bruising
grip.

"Out back," she said. "There's a barn
with a hayloft,"

"Let’s get on with it, then." Yanking
her with him, he flung open the door and pulled her through it, his
breath hot upon her cheek.

After the stifling atmosphere of the
inn, Belle welcomed the cool darkness of the yard. Although
sickened, Belle pretended to sigh with pleasure when the soldier
pressed wet kisses against her neck. As they staggered around the
side of the building, his hand pawed at her breasts.

Belle set a slow pace, wriggling her
fingers inside the muff toward the pistol, then rejected the
notion. The noise would be too great, and she had an aversion to
shedding blood unless absolutely necessary. Besides, the stream of
moonlight had just revealed to her a much better weapon.

Stacked neatly beside the inn was a
cord of wood, one particularly stout log balanced on top of the
load. It would serve. This fool's head was not that
thick.

But she needed to act quickly before
the aroused drunkard tried to take her in the dirt beside the
vegetable patch. He already strove to hike up her
skirts.

Hiding a grimace of distaste, she
braced one hand against his hairy chest to hold him off. "Oh, dear.
I seem to have dropped my purse."

"Forget it. Can find it
later."

"But I have twenty
golden
louis
inside."

The hand tugging at her gown hesitated.
"T-twenty?" He moistened his lips with greed. "Did you say twenty
gold pieces?"

"Yes, if you could only get down and
help me look—"

"Take your filthy hands off her!" The
piping voice rang out.

Both Belle and the deserter turned to
stare at the slender figure who had crept up behind them. Phillipe
looked absurdly youthful, his face taut with anger, the sword
wavering in his hand.

"I said get away from her, you cowardly
dog." The boy advanced closer. "Prepare to defend yourself if you
are even half a man."

Belle stilled a groan. She tugged at
the soldier, attempting to draw him away from Phillipe. "Pay no
heed to him. He is just a foolish boy."

But the deserter shook her off with a
vicious laugh. He faced Phillipe, drawing his own weapon. The man's
mouth widened into a wolfish smile. "Why, you strutting bantam.
I'll cut you in two."

Phillipe trembled, but held his
ground.

"No!" Belle cried. She attempted to
step in between the two men, but the soldier's arm lashed out,
knocking her aside. She lost her balance and fell heavily to the
ground. Before she could roll over, she heard the horrible rasp of
steel against steel.

Struggling to a sitting position, she
saw the deserter beating back Phillipe's blade. Whatever the
Chevalier Coterin had taught his son, it certainly could not have
been how to use his sword. Even drunk, the deserter was more than a
match for the boy. The man easily slipped past Phillipe's guard and
nicked the boy's cheek.

So much for handling this matter
quietly, Belle thought. She shoved herself to her feet. Drawing the
pistol from its place of concealment in the muff, she cocked
it.

"Stop!" she commanded. "Both of you.
Put up your swords."

But with one deft movement, the soldier
sent Phillipe's weapon flying from his clumsy grasp.

Belle took aim at the soldier. "Hold or
I'll shoot."

The man didn't seem to hear her. Like a
beast, crazed by the scent of a kill, the soldier drew back his
sword. Phillipe flung up his hands, bracing himself.

Belle fired. The report of the pistol
was deafening, the shot reverberating through the still night air.
The soldier wavered, his sword arm yet upraised. He blinked,
staring down at the flow of crimson splashing down his chest. Then
the man staggered, collapsing into a heap at Phillipe's
feet.

Belle froze, but only for an instant.
She ran to Phillipe's side and caught him by the sleeve. "Back to
the coach. Hurry!"

But Phillipe didn't move. His face
white, he stared at the fallen soldier, then at the smoking pistol
in her hand.

The shutters of a window above them
banged open. Another soldier thrust his head out, his blue coat
outlined by the light shining behind him.

"
Qu'est que c'est ca
? Jacques? Is that
you?"

"Come on!" Belle wrenched Phillipe,
nearly setting him off balance. He snapped out of his trancelike
state.

Both of them tore off running and
stumbling through the dark. The distance back to the stableyard
seemed endless. Belle's heart hammered, her lungs aching by the
time she drew within sight of the carriage. She cried out with
relief to see the new team hitched in the traces, Feydeau pacing in
a fit of impatience.

"Where the devil—" the old man started
to growl.

"Get us out of here," Belle
gasped.

Although Feydeau glared, he moved
quickly to obey. Belle all but shoved Phillipe into the carriage.
She scrambled up after him, slamming the door shut just as the
coach lurched forward.

As the vehicle swayed into movement,
Belle reached for the pouch stuffed in the corner of the
seat.

"What—what—" Madame Coterin started to
wail.

"Be quiet!" Belle drew forth some
powder and shot, struggling to reload in the semidarkness of the
jouncing coach. Between Madame's praying and Sophie's whimpers,
Belle strained to hear the outcry of pursuit.

When the pistol was loaded, she scooted
to the coach window and peered out. The village of Lillefleur had
receded into darkness, the night quiet except for the rattle of the
berline. No tocscin rang from the church steeple to alert the
countryside, no gallop of mounted riders took up the
chase,

The minutes ticked by, marked by the
rumble of wheels putting distance between them and the posting
station. Holding a handkerchief to his injured cheek, Phillipe also
glanced out.

"Why is no one coming after
us?"

"Probably because the people of
Lillefleur know how to tend their own business better than I do,"
Belle muttered. As for the deserter's comrades, likely they had
been too drunk.

Belle's fear gave way to anger at
herself for taking such a stupid risk by leaving the coach in the
first place, and anger at the guileless young man seated opposite
her. The moonlight accented Phillipe's pale face as he regarded her
gravely.

"You killed that man," he whispered.
"You shot him down and never looked back."

"If I am not mistaken, isn't that what
you intended to do?"

"I fought him honorably, in a sword
fight—but to use a pistol like that! It wasn't fair."

"What was I supposed to do? Let him
butcher you? If you had stayed with the carriage as I ordered, the
killing would not have been necessary."

"I came to look for you because you had
been gone so long. Then I saw that man dragging you away. I only
wanted to defend your virtue."

"What makes you think I have any virtue
to defend? I went with him of my own choice."

Phillipe flinched as though she had
struck him. His lips moved, but no sound came. The look in his eyes
was stricken as he shrank away from her.

Her words had been brutal, borne out of
her own rage and self-reproach. But Belle refused to take them
back. At least she had put an end to Phillipe's idiotic adoration
of her. It was better for him this way.

Yet for the remainder of the journey,
each time she saw his unhappy face, she wondered. Gazing at him was
like looking into a mirror, watching her own youthful illusions
shatter all over again.

CHAPTER TWO

Rain drummed against the latticed panes
of the window, the sky beyond a depressing shade of gray. Belle
could not recall having seen the sun for the entire fortnight since
she had landed in Portsmouth, and sat cooling her heels, waiting
for some contact from Victor Merchant.

She felt grateful for the well-tended
fire in the coffee room at Neptune's Trident. The flames hissed
softly, casting a glow on the chamber's dark mahogany paneling and
the gleaming row of copperware arranged on the chimney shelf. The
blazing logs dispelled much of the damp chill that seemed to linger
forever in the air of a seaside town. The brandy didn’t hurt
either.

Raising her crystal glass, Belle sipped
at the golden liquid, then stretched, arching her spine like a
restless cat. Gone were the black silks and heavy veil of the Widow
Gordon. She had become Mrs. Varens again, in a fashionable muslin
gown and close-fitting spencer of dark blue, her blond curls
flowing down from a chignon at the crown of her head. A young
waiter, the chamber's only other occupant, bustled about, quietly
clearing away the remains of her luncheon, a boiled round of beef,
pudding and parsnips, custard, tarts, jellies, and a bit of
cheese.

She had come a long way from the Golden
Sun. Then why did she keep thinking about the wretched place and
what had happened there? Thirteen days ago she had parted from the
Coterins at Portsmouth's quay. She never expected to cross paths
with any of them again. Phillipe was young. Hopefully within the
month he would meet some pretty English girl and forget his painful
disillusionment with Belle.

As for herself . . Belle frowned,
tapping her fingers against her glass. It might take her a little
longer to forget. She kept seeing Phillips's shocked face, hearing
him whisper, You killed that man. You shot him down and never
looked back.

Maybe the reason she kept recalling
those words was that the action had shocked her as well. She had
seen too much of death during the Revolution, in its many violent
guises. Had she become so calloused by it all that the taking of a
life affected her so little? The thought frightened her. She took
another gulp of the brandy, but felt no warmth from the fiery
liquid.

"Is there anything else you could wish
for, Mrs. Varens?"

Belle glanced up to find that the host
of the inn himself had stepped into the coffee mom as the waiter
exited, bearing off the tray of dishes.

A tall man of distinguished bearing,
Mr. Shaw beamed at her over the rims of his spectacles.

"No, nothing except a bit of sun,
perhaps?” Belle nodded toward the rain-glazed windows.

"I'll see what can be arranged," Shaw
said. "The Neptune's Trident always strives to please its longtime
patrons."

The slamming of a door echoed from the
taproom beyond, announcing some new arrivals. Mr. Shaw consulted
his pocket watch.