Storm Winds (20 page)

“It was madness. How can anyone understand madness?” His gaze met her own. “As God is my witness, I never suspected the abbey would be attacked, Juliette. I sent Philippe to fetch you both to Vasaro merely as a precaution because of the unrest in Paris. If I’d thought there was any real danger, I would have come myself.” His lips twisted. “You’re right, I was stupid.”

The pain and the bitter denunciation in his tone hurt her in some odd way, and she said quickly, “Maybe you weren’t completely at fault.”

“Are you softening?” He shook his head. “The blame was mine and you had the right to condemn me.” He reached out and wound his forefinger in one of the tight curls at her left temple. “You have much too tender a heart beneath all those thorns, you know.”

The tip of his finger was resting lightly against her cheekbone while he lazily tested the silky texture of the curl between his thumb and forefinger. The action was almost unbearably intimate. She swallowed. “Nonsense.”

“But you must never show that softness. Not to me.” His gaze was mesmerizingly intent as it held hers. “It’s dangerous for you. Never let me see a weakness, Juliette.”

“I don’t … understand what you’re saying.”

“I know you don’t.” He smiled cynically. He released the curl and it instantly sprang back into its former tight ringlet. “And only God knows why I’m saying it. It must be a combination of guilt and shock that has me behaving with such uncharacteristic gallantry. I guarantee after I’ve slept a while I’ll be fully myself again and you’ll find me a fit antagonist.”

“Antagonist?” Juliette frowned at him. “I don’t wish to fight you.”

“Yes, you do,” he said softly. “You’ve fought me from the beginning. It’s all part of the game.”

“Game?”

He turned away and moved toward the door. “Not now.”

He had said those words before, she remembered vaguely. Not now. Someday. “I don’t understand a tenth of what you’re saying. You’re being most exasperating.” She took a hasty step forward as she saw him open the door. “And you can’t leave now. I’ll find you something to eat and then we must speak of Catherine.”

“I have no intention of discussing Catherine or anything else at the moment. I’m too weary either too eat or think right now,” Jean Marc said firmly as he moved toward the door. “Since I left Toulon I’ve been riding day and night and I’m sure half the dirt of the road is still clinging to my person. I intend to wash and then sleep for the next dozen hours.”

“
A dozen hours?
You can’t! We need to discuss what’s to be done about Catherine.”

“My dear Juliette.” His caressing tone failed to hide its steely determination. “It’s just as well you learn immediately that I do exactly as I wish and I abhor the word
can’t.”

She could understand that, Juliette thought grudgingly. She had a dislike for the word herself. “As I do, but if you’d—”

“Tomorrow.
Bonne nuit
, Juliette.” The door closed softly behind him.

Juliette gazed at the door in astonishment, tempted to go after him and make him listen to her. Then she slowly turned, got into bed, and pulled the covers back over her. She had forgotten how obstinate the man could be. She knew Jean Marc could not be forced to do anything and quite possibly would do the exact opposite if she pushed him too far.

She turned on her side, a tiny pinwheel of excitement spiraling through her. He was here! Beautiful, glittering, and as darkly enigmatic as she remembered him. Even as she had been railing at him she had been drinking in the unusual molding of his cheekbones, trying to probe the secrets behind his glittering black eyes. She had wanted to reach out and touch the hard plane of his cheek, the corded muscles of his thighs.

Touch? She quickly rejected the thought and then brought it back to examine it more closely. Perhaps she had wanted to explore his body, but surely it had been only an artist’s curiosity regarding physique.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. Yes, it wasn’t excitement she was feeling at all, merely the curiosity of the artist who had rediscovered a fascinating challenge and relief for the help Jean Marc’s arrival could offer Catherine.

Jean Marc’s hands slowly clenched into fists as he stood looking down at Catherine. Why was he here? He should have gone straight to bed as he had told Juliette
he would. He certainly didn’t intend to wake Catherine and face her silent accusations.

No, Catherine would never rail, accusing him of negligence. She was gentle, as his father had been gentle. Like him, she would suffer and be destroyed before uttering a word of blame.

Yet the blame had been Jean Marc’s and he did know why he was here. He had wanted reassurance that Catherine had not been destroyed by his carelessness and he was not receiving that reassurance. Catherine was enveloped in a pale fragility in cruel contrast to Juliette’s vibrant vitality.

Juliette.

Strange, how after all these years fate had driven her once more into his circle of power and protection as it had at the inn so many years earlier. Strange and damnably frustrating; her vulnerability shielded her from him now even as her youth had in the past. It almost made one believe in a guardian angel for the innocents of the world.

Almost. Catherine was also an innocent and the angels hadn’t protected her.

He reached out and gently stroked Catherine’s fair hair flowing over the pillow. He hadn’t been the guardian his father would have wanted him to be. He had always been too busy, too impatient, moving from place to place. Even when Catherine had come home for visits from the abbey he’d given her cursory attention, never stopping to see if she needed a word of kindness or understanding.

He swallowed to ease the aching tightness in his throat and turned away. Self-recrimination could not help now. At least, Catherine and Juliette were alive.

They must accept what had happened and find a way to go on.

P
hilippe Andreas arrived early the next morning, white-faced, sober, and infinitely relieved when Jean Marc told him Catherine and Juliette had escaped the massacre at the abbey.

“You’re right to be angry, Jean Marc,” Philippe said miserably. “When I heard of the massacre as I entered the city I felt—you can’t blame me any more than I blame myself.”

“You’re damned right I can. Mother of God, what the hell delayed you?”

Philippe flushed as his teeth sank into his lower lip.

Jean Marc gazed at him in astonishment. “A woman?”

“One of the pickers. She was … I didn’t think it would matter. It was only two nights …”

Jean Marc laughed mirthlessly. “Christ, I hope you found your dalliance with a flower
picker worth what happened to Catherine.” Jean Marc’s lips tightened. “You can’t simply say you’re sorry and walk away from this, Philippe. My God, why the
hell
didn’t you do what I told you to do?”

“I didn’t believe this could happen,” Philippe said simply. “You know how it is at Vasaro. The war and revolution seem not to exist there.”

“Damn
you, I told you to leave at once and—” Jean Marc broke off as he saw Philippe’s forlorn expression. Why was he shouting at Philippe? Jean Marc was the one who should have gone directly to the abbey. Philippe was so far removed from the turmoil of the revolution in his Garden of Eden that undoubtedly he had been blind to the harm his delay could do. Jean Marc had no such excuse. He’d had experience with the fanatics and the money grubbers of the assembly, and the mobs of starving rabble roaming city streets and country roads.

He straightened and relaxed his clenched fists. “All right, it’s done. Now let’s try to repair the damage. Juliette told me they were helped by a man named François Etchelet who is in league with Georges Jacques Danton. I want to see him. Go find him and bring him here.”

“Do you think that’s wise? Danton has publicly stated he approves of the massacres.”

“We need help and Etchelet has a reason for giving it.”

Philippe turned to go and then hesitated. “May I go up and see Catherine first? I want to tell her how much I regret—”

“I don’t think she’ll want to see you.” Juliette stood in the doorway, gazing accusingly at him. “I remember you. You’re Philippe. I’m Juliette de Clement.”

Philippe nodded and bowed. “I recall you as well, Mademoiselle. I can’t tell—”

“Why, by all the saints, didn’t you come for her?”

He flushed. “I was … delayed.”

“And Catherine was raped.”

“Jean Marc told me. I can’t tell you how sorry—”

“Go, Philippe,” Jean Marc said. “I want Etchelet here before dinner.”

Philippe bowed again to Juliette and quickly escaped from the room.

Juliette turned to Jean Marc. “You sent for Etchelet? Good. Why didn’t you—What are you looking at?”

“You.”

“Do I have a smudge on my face?” She lifted a hand to her cheek. “I was scrubbing the floor of the foyer this morning and—”

“Scrubbing?”

“Why not? Robert and Marie are no longer in their first youth, and we must not bring any other servants into the house. I’m very good at scrubbing floors. I did it all the time at the abbey.” Her hand fell away from her cheek. “I can wash it off later. One smudge doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t matter.” Jean Marc doubted he would have noticed if she was as painted as the savages brought back from the wilds of America. He had always loved her skin, roses and cream with a texture glowing as if burnished by a loving hand. The night before in the candlelight she had been all tumbled shining curls and curious brown eyes, brave and impatient in her white, high-necked, long-sleeved gown. This morning the strong sunlight streaming through the windows revealed a Juliette of enticing beauty. The shabby brown wool gown she wore hugged her small waist and fitted snugly over the slight swell of her breasts. She was of medium height but appeared taller, for she carried herself boldly, proudly, and with a grace at once impetuous and defiant.

Christ, he could feel himself harden just looking at her. So much for her shield of innocence and dependence.

Her gaze as she lifted her head to face him was as defiant as her bearing. “You should have listened to me last night, you know.”

“I make it a practice never to give attention when it’s demanded of me. I react much more kindly to requests.” He smiled faintly. “You should have said, ‘Jean Marc,
s’il vous plaît,’
or ‘Jean Marc, would you be
so kind?’ Then I’m sure I’d never have been able to resist hearing what you had to say.”

To his amazement, her cheeks turned scarlet. “Don’t be ridiculous. Perhaps your mistresses speak to you with
s’il vous plaits
, but you’ll never hear from me.”

“No?” He lifted his brow. “How unfortunate. Then I fear you’ll get far less than you would like from me.”

“I don’t want anything from—” She stopped and drew a deep breath. “I know you’re mocking me. You like to play with words, to thrust and then step back and watch, don’t you?”

“Do I?” At the moment the only thrusting he was interested in had nothing to do with words. He wished she looked less challenging and more vulnerable. He found it difficult to remember her recent suffering when he was experiencing his own immediate painful physical response.

“I think so.” Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. “I can’t
read
you. I’m not sure what you’re thinking. It’s even worse than when we were at the inn.”

“A mirror. I think that’s what you once called me.” He tilted his head. “No, I believe it was an entire gallery of mirrors. I suppose I should be grateful you granted me a multiplicity of images.”

“You’re laughing at me.” She lifted her chin. “You see, I’m learning. I’ll find a way to know you.”

“I could suggest a number of fascinating ways to accomplish that goal, but until such a felicitous time I suggest you try
‘s’il vous plaît
, Jean Marc.’ ”

She looked hurriedly away. “No, I couldn’t—” She broke off as she looked back at him and found him still watching her intently. She drew a deep breath and then slowly let it out. “What are you going to do about Catherine?”

He was suddenly filled with self-disgust. What was wrong with him? Danger existed all around them and he could think only of his pleasure in rutting with her. His mocking smile vanished. “I’ll get Catherine out of Paris as soon as possible. She’ll be safe at Vasaro.”

He had spoken only of Catherine, he realized at once.
Merde
, he couldn’t actually be thinking of keeping
Juliette in Paris, where she would be in constant danger, just because he lusted after her.

“I’m not sure she’ll ever be safe.” Juliette shivered. “You don’t know Dupree.”

“No, I’ve seen him a time or two at the Hôtel de Ville with Marat, but we’ve never been introduced.” Jean Marc’s gaze narrowed on her face. “But you clearly know him very well indeed. What happened at the Abbaye de la Reine, Juliette?”

“You know. I told you about Catherine.”

“But not about Juliette.”

Her glance slid away. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“I believe there may be a great deal to tell.”

“Why are you asking me these questions? It’s Catherine who’s important.”

“So I’ve been told.” Jean Marc paused. “All right, let’s talk about Catherine. You’re worried that Dupree might pursue her to Vasaro?”

“If he finds out she’s one of the students from the abbey. He wants no witnesses to refute the charges against the nuns.”

“Then we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t find out. As soon as it’s safe, she’ll go to Vasaro.”

“I want her to leave right away. She needs to get away from everything that could remind her of the abbey. You don’t understand.” Juliette’s teeth pressed hard into her lower lip. “I’m afraid for her here. For the last two days she’s been like a spirit, walking around in a dream. She shuts me out. She shuts everyone out.”

“She’ll recover in time. I have no intention of sending her through the barriers until it’s safe.”

“And what will make it safe?”

Jean Marc grimaced and shook his head. “I have no idea. I’ll have to explore the situation and then think about it.”