Storm Winds (51 page)

Catherine felt a sudden wrenching pang. He was leaving. No longer would there be the companionable presence working beside her or in the next field, no more laughter and discussion of the day’s tasks over supper, no more walks with François as well as Michel beside her. “When do you plan on leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“So soon?” Catherine tried to smile. “I suppose it has something to do with that message you received yesterday. Danton cannot do without you? You told me he was very likely out of the city anyway.”

“He’s returned to Paris but the message wasn’t from Danton.” His gaze slid away. “You don’t need me here any longer. You have the reins of Vasaro fully in your control.” François turned his horse and started to trot toward the olive groves. “And I am needed in Paris.”

“No, I don’t need you.” Catherine followed him, her horse picking its way through the tufts of grass on the hillside. She didn’t need him but she suddenly knew she desperately wanted him there. In the past weeks he had become as much a part of Vasaro as Michel or the
flowers, and she felt as fiercely possessive of him as she did of them. Why couldn’t he stay there, where he was safe? Paris was a city of madness, inhabited by men like the Marseilles.

They had reached the crest of the hill and François reined in his horse to wait for her.

Dawn was just beginning to break over the olive grove, lighting only the tops of the trees, leaving the lower branches and the soft drift of pickers gathering the fragrant violets beneath them in half darkness.

“After the sun rises I’ll oversee the picking in the hyacinth field,” François said quietly. “Do you go with me or have you business with Monsieur Augustine this morning?”

“The hyacinth field is large.” She didn’t look at him but at the grove below. “I’ll go with you.”

They sat in silence as the golden bands of sunlight slowly unfolded over the groves and fields of Vasaro.

She found herself dressing with particular care for supper that evening in a lemon-yellow gown trimmed at the neck with a border of pearls. She was not dressing for François, she assured herself. Still, one always wanted to be remembered with a certain pleasure.

When she came into the salon she saw that François, too, had taken pains with his attire. He wore a dark blue coat and a white brocade vest, his cravat tied with exquisite intricacy. She stopped just inside the door of the salon as she met his gaze across the room, where he stood at the sideboard pouring wine into crystal goblets. “Have you said good-bye to Michel?”

“Yes.” He handed her a glass of wine. “He didn’t seem surprised.”

She lowered her gaze to her glass. “He knew you’d have to go back sometime, but I’m sure he was disappointed. He likes you.”

“I like him.”

They were both silent again and she didn’t know how to break the charged stillness in the room. He was different tonight. The easy camaraderie they had known
in the past weeks was gone and the tingling awareness of that first evening had returned.

The silence between them lengthened.

“Where is Michel?” he asked.

“There’s a wedding at the workers’ village. He decided to stay there this evening.” She ruefully shook her head. “I can’t persuade him to come here more than a few times a week. Sometimes I think I’m wrong to push him.”

“Let him go his own way and he’ll come back to you.”

“You think so?”

He met her gaze. “Only a fool wouldn’t come to you if you wanted him.”

Hot color scorched her cheeks and her chest suddenly tightened. She found her hand was trembling as she hastily set the wineglass down on the table beside her. “Shall we go in to supper?”

“No.”

“What?”

His lips lifted at one corner in a lopsided smile. “I thought I could go through with this, but I find I can’t. In the past I’ve played many roles, but I won’t play the gracious departing guest. I believe I’ll say my good-bye now.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’ll miss you, Catherine of Vasaro.”

She gazed at him wordlessly as he turned her hand over and lingeringly pressed his warm lips to her palm.

Intimacy. Warmth. Tenderness.

She couldn’t breathe; being close to him was like being in the enfleurage room too long, intoxicating, heady, sweet.

He raised his gaze to her face as he slowly lifted her palm to his cheek. “And I want you.” He felt her stiffen and shook his head. “Oh, I know I can’t have you. I’ve always known that since that first night at the abbey. But, if I stay here, someday I’m going to forget and try to make love to you.” He held her gaze as he kissed her palm again. “And it would be love, Catherine.”

He didn’t allow her to answer but turned and left the salon.

She stared after him in bewilderment. Love?

She realized now that she had firmly kept herself from thinking of love as well as lust in connection with François in these past weeks. All through the years love had always meant her blind worship of Philippe. Could what she was feeling for François be love too?

And what of lust? She had never felt this deep, primitive awareness when she was with Philippe. She did not flinch from François’s touch. In truth, she seemed drawn to him in a physical manner.

The tomb.

But François was different from those men. Perhaps the act that had so defiled her would be different too.

She turned and slowly walked from the salon and up the stairs. She couldn’t countenance the thought of food either. She was bewildered and saddened and yet there was a tiny ember of hope burning in the darkness. She must think and sort out her emotions before morning.

Before François left Vasaro.

An early morning fog lay over Vasaro, swathing the lushness of the blooming fields in a vaporous white veil.

“François!”

François turned as Catherine hurried toward him across the stable yard. She still wore the yellow satin gown she had worn last in the salon, and wisps of brown hair escaped the confines of her braid.

She stopped before him, out of breath. “Don’t go.”

He went still, his gaze on her face.

She took a step nearer. “Please. I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay here with Michel and me. I thought about what you said all night.” She moistened her lips. “I don’t know if I love you, but I do feel something … extraordinary when I’m with you. I want you to stay with me and we can see.… Would it be so terrible to give me time to get accustomed to the idea?”

“No, it wouldn’t be terrible at all,” he said gently. “It would be sweet and warm and all that’s wonderful. But nothing could come of it, Catherine.”

“Will you … embrace me?”

“Catherine …”

“It’s not much of a favor to ask.” She took a step nearer until she was only inches away. “I don’t think I’ll be afraid. I believe it will be different with you. But I won’t know unless you hold me.”

He pulled her gently into his arms and she lay quietly against him. His body was warm and strong and yet the strength brought not fear but a sense of security. “It’s really quite nice, isn’t it?” Her voice was trembling as she pressed closer to him. “Rather … sweet.”

“Yes.” His voice was muffled against her hair. “Yes, love. Sweet.”

Her arms went around him and she held him tightly. “Oh, I
do
love you, François,” she whispered. “Don’t go back to Paris. There’s nothing for you there. Will you stay with me for a little while and be patient? I’ll try not to be too long about—”

“No.”

She stiffened and looked up at him. His face was pale beneath the tan, his eyes glittering moistly in his taut face. “Why not?”

“I can’t do it.” His voice was thick. His palms cradled her cheeks, his lips slowly lowered until he was only a breath away. “Catherine. My Catherine …”

His warm mouth touched her lips with the most exquisite tenderness she’d ever known, clung, and then released her.

Wonder.

Then with sudden roughness he pulled her into his arms, his cold, hard cheek pressed against her own, cold and yet something warm dampened the flesh of her own cheek.

He lifted his head and drew a deep shuddering breath. He stepped back and quickly mounted his horse. “Good-bye, Catherine.”

He was leaving her, she thought desperately. Raw pain moved through her, surrounded her. But it made no sense for him to leave her. Not if he loved her.

She stiffened as she realized that perhaps it did make sense.

She took a step toward him. “Is it … because of what those men did to me at the abbey? You said it didn’t matter. Have you changed your mind?”

His gaze flew to her face.

“Because if it is, I don’t want you to stay. They treated me as if I were nothing. But I have worth. I tell you, I have
worth.”
She blinked back the tears. “But I have to know. Is that the reason you’re leaving? Because of what they did to me at the abbey?”

“Yes.”

She froze, her gaze on his face.

“Christ.” He looked down at her. “Not because of what those bastards did to you. You’re a thousand times the woman you were that night I found you at the abbey.”

“Then why—”

“Not because of what they did. Because of what I didn’t do. I could have stopped them from raping you. I had the choice and I chose to let them do it.”

She stared at him in shock.

“You want to know who the other man was who raped you? It was Dupree.” François’s words came hard, fast. “I’d just arrived at the abbey and Dupree recognized me as Danton’s man and welcomed me. He took me to the south courtyard. There was a woman being torn apart by those filthy
canailles
. I saw you run across the courtyard for the gate. You looked like a child in the moonlight. A child …” He closed his eyes. “Dupree and Malpan ran after you. Dupree was laughing …”

Shivers began to ice through Catherine.

“He called to me to come with them. I followed them to the gate and saw them chase after you up the hill to the cemetery.” He opened his eyes. “I could have gone after them and killed them. My God, how I wanted to do that.”

“But you didn’t,” she said numbly. “You let them … hurt me.”

“I made a choice. If I’d killed Dupree, I would have marked myself as a protector of aristocrats. I couldn’t do that, Catherine, but it was unforgivable.”

“Yes.” She crossed her arms over her chest to stop their trembling. “Unforgivable.”

He flinched and gathered up the reins.
“Adieu
, Catherine. If you have need of me, send word and—”

“I’ll not have need of you.”

“No, I don’t suppose you will.” He kicked the horse into a trot but reined in just before he reached the gate of the stable yard. He looked back at her, his expression tormented. “I do love you, Catherine.”

She gazed stonily at him across the stable yard.

She gave him no answer.

He didn’t expect one. He turned and rode away.

Within a few yards the fog claimed him and François vanished from sight as if he had never come to Vasaro.

Catherine walked toward the house, shuffling slowly, painfully, as if she were a very old woman.

She was cold. She must change from the silk gown into her old woolen one and then go down to the fields.

Michel would be at the fields. He would smile at her and some of the pain would go away.

She would not oversee today. She would pick herself and more of the agony would ease.

Vasaro would help her as it had helped her before.

J
uliette sat down at the same table at the Café du Chat she and Jean Marc had previously occupied and deposited the black grosgrain satchel she carried at her feet before turning to look around the café.

“You have no escort.” Nana Sarpelier suddenly appeared at her side, quickly setting down her tray and spreading her fans on the table. “A woman who has no escort makes herself conspicuous.” She sat down opposite Juliette. “And you also make me conspicuous.”

“I wanted to talk to you without Jean Marc being here.” Juliette motioned to the satchel at her feet. “Two million livres.”

Nana’s eyes widened. “Mother of God. And you’re carrying it around Paris with no escort?”

“Well, I did hire a carriage to bring me here.”

Nana stared at her blankly and then threw back her head and laughed. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t decide to stroll here from the Place Royale.”

Juliette smiled. “I thought it safe enough as long as no one knew what I carried. Jean Marc was planning on bringing me here tomorrow evening but—”

“You didn’t want him here,” Nana finished for her. “Why?”

“My affairs aren’t his concern.” Juliette clasped her hands together on the table. “In exchange for the two million livres I’ll need a writ from the queen giving Jean Marc Andreas legal possession of the Wind Dancer.”

“The Wind Dancer.” Nana’s lips pursed in a soundless whistle. “So that’s the ‘object.’ ”

“I want the writ at once. Is that possible?”

“It’s more difficult to see her.” Nana hesitated and then nodded. “By tomorrow. For two million livres we can make the extra effort.” Her gaze narrowed on Juliette’s face. “You were secretive enough before about it. Why are you being so open now?”

“I decided I have to trust you since we’ll be working toward the same goal.”

Nana looked down at the satchel. “The two million livres will help. You know they guillotined the king two months ago?”

“Yes, it was the first thing we heard when we arrived in Paris. You could do nothing to save him?”

“We tried, but he was too well guarded. He died with great dignity.” She shook her head wearily. “Sometimes it seems hopeless.” Her lips tightened with determination. “But we must free the queen and the dauphin.”

“What of Marie Thérèse and the king’s sister?”

“By Salic law the princess can’t inherit the throne, so she’s safe enough. If Madame Elizabeth can be persuaded to be a little less royal in her bearing, she should be safe too.”

“But the queen isn’t safe,” Juliette murmured. “They hate her.”

Nana nodded soberly. “And little Louis Charles is
now the king of France and a rallying point for all the royalists in Europe. Too many people are beginning to find him in the way.”