Surrender to a Stranger (17 page)

“I wonder,” he whispered, his head moving down toward hers, “if there is anything left of that innocent girl in the portrait.”

His lips touched hers, warm and firm and gentle, coaxing rather than demanding, igniting an unfamiliar flame within her that heated her blood and stirred the need to respond. She did not move, but held her breath and allowed his lips to taste hers, slowly, leisurely, filling her with an accepting languor that blocked her ability to think. She sighed and moved her lips against his, enjoying the warmth and strength he exuded. He responded by wrapping his arms around her and lightly tracing her lower lip with the tip of his tongue.

Suddenly sheer panic flooded through the very core of her being. He was too close, too powerful, he was trapping her as surely as Nicolas had trapped her against the wall of her cell, and the overwhelming, terrifying maleness of him cut through her lethargy and shattered the spell he had been weaving over her. Responding by pure, unchecked instinct, she clenched her hand into a solid fist and drove it in an upward motion as hard as she could, smashing it into the underside of his jaw and causing him to grunt with pain and stagger back.

He looked at her with genuine amazement as he lifted his hand to his jaw. She stared back at him defiantly, her fist still clenched and ready to hit him again if necessary.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she managed, her voice soft and trembling. “Or I will find a knife and plunge it clean into your chest.”

He studied her a moment, his jaw aching from where she had struck him. The girl certainly knew how to throw a punch, he reflected soberly. He could not imagine what in the name of God had possessed him to make him want to kiss her. With her filthy, haggard face, her matted hair, her swollen, pregnant shape, and her ragged clothes, one could not exactly describe her as a great beauty, even with the veiled memory of what was obviously an extremely flattering portrait. Beyond that, it was simply not his custom to make advances on a woman who was in his care, even though many had been attractive and, perhaps in a somewhat euphoric state at having been rescued from death, more than willing. It had been a long time since he had indulged himself in the pleasures of a woman. But until this very moment the celibacy he had sworn himself to over a year earlier had not been an effort to maintain. He irritably pushed that realization aside. This is all nonsense, he told himself angrily. He had an aristo to deliver, and they were wasting precious time dallying here in the woods.

“Thank you for your warning, Mademoiselle,” he said with a polite, slightly mocking bow of his head. “Rest assured, I will not touch you again, unless you force me to blister your tender little aristocratic backside by trying to escape me. Now, if you are quite finished with your wandering, I suggest we return to the cart.” He gestured with his arm the direction back to the road, indicating that Jacqueline should walk ahead of him.

Neither of them spoke again for the remainder of the day. Frustrated by her failure to escape and the knowledge that with every turn of the wheels she was leaving her vengeance farther and farther behind, Jacqueline lapsed into a stony, sullen silence, refusing even to look at Citizen Julien. She fixed her gaze on the road ahead and the countryside around her, taking note of the dry, dead fields that were lightly powdered with frost, and the bleak, leaden sky that seemed an appropriate reflection of her mood. She drew in deep breaths of icy sharp air, so cold it hurt her lungs, and she was glad of the pain, because it reminded her that she was alive, and as long as she was alive, she would return. Until that moment she wanted to memorize every lifeless stalk of growth, to paint a picture in her mind of the sky, and the trees, and the rocks, and the tiny farmers’ huts, as pitiful and wretched and dying as it all seemed, because this was France, and France was the country she loved, despite what those who had stolen its power and its glory had done to her, and to thousands like her. She wanted to remember, because remembering would bring her pain and grief, and as long as those feelings continued to torment her, she would never be able to put the past aside and begin a new life. The hours passed by and the road continued to slowly unravel, until finally, exhausted beyond measure, Jacqueline closed her eyes and allowed herself to sleep.

It was the stillness that awoke her. The heavy clopping of the horses’ hooves and the incessant grinding of the cart wheels had provided a rhythmic, soothing lullaby for her as she slept, and when those sounds stopped and the cart ceased its gentle swaying, Jacqueline wearily forced her eyes to open. The night was as dark as pitch; not a single star studded the velvety black sky that wrapped around her like a great, somber cape. The smell of salt assailed her nostrils, clean and sharp and vaguely fishy. She had never inhaled that scent before, but she knew what it meant. They had reached the coast.

She climbed out of the cart and looked around to see where Citizen Julien had gone. He was standing some distance away with his back to her, gazing out at a seemingly endless expanse of ink-stained ocean that was pitching and roiling before him. She took a few steps toward him, wanting to inquire about the time, and the turbulence of the sea, and where was the ship that was to meet them? But as she got closer something stopped her, and caused her to put her questions aside and simply look at him instead.

His legs were braced apart and his hands were clenched into fists at his side, yet his stance spoke not so much of anger as of power, power and utter, unwavering determination. It was as if he was absorbing some of the enormous, violent force of the sea, as if the sight and sound and smell of that churning black mass was somehow fortifying him, penetrating his skin and muscle and bone and soul, and filling him with irrevocable purpose. She stared at him in silence, feeling all at once like she was an intruder, secretly witnessing an interaction that was private and personal. For some reason she could not bring herself to make him aware of her presence. It was the first time she had observed him during a moment in which he was not aware of being watched, and therefore not actively playing a role for his audience.

The icy sea wind beat against his dark figure, causing his open coat to flap behind him and his gray-tinted hair to blow out over his collar. Who was this man, she wondered, who was able to transform himself from one identity to the next with such apparent ease, never raising the slightest doubt that he was anyone other than who he appeared to be at that moment? What could motivate a man like him to take such incredibly daring risks, slipping in and out of courtrooms and prisons, moving brazenly among his enemies, arrogantly defying the constant threat of capture and death? She reminded herself that this was his business, that he hired himself out to rescue wealthy aristocrats who were in danger of being murdered by the new Republic. But was it really the simple desire for money that drove him to constantly place his life in such grave danger? What kind of a man placed so little value on his life that he was willing to take such risks? Was there not someone who cared for him, who cried and desperately begged him not to go, and then anxiously marked off the days until his return with a mixture of terror and longing? He was an exceptionally handsome man, she allowed, when stripped of his makeup and wigs. Did the woman named Angélique know of his occupation, and wish with all her heart that he would give it up for her? These questions were unraveling and tangling themselves in her mind, when suddenly his massive figure twisted around and leveled a pistol directly at her chest.

She let out a frightened shriek as he did so, terrified that he was going to shoot her before realizing who she was. He stared at her blankly for a moment, allowing her appearance to register before slowly lowering his weapon.

“Never sneak up on me like that,” he muttered irritably as he shoved the pistol back into the waistband of his trousers.

“I’m sorry,” stammered Jacqueline, fighting to calm the frantic pounding in her chest. “I did not mean to startle you.”

He turned and faced the sea again. Jacqueline took a few steps to stand beside him. Her eyes blinked in the cold, salt air as she searched the churning, inky black ocean for his ship. She saw nothing.

“Where is your ship?” she asked, thinking perhaps it had been delayed by the roughness of the sea. If so, she might have another opportunity to escape him before the ship arrived.

“The Angélique
is hidden in a small cove on the other side of that point,” he told her, lifting his arm to indicate where.

“And how are we to get to her?” she demanded, wondering if he thought they were going to swim to her.

“My men will be landing in a few minutes,” he replied, pointing again into the darkness.

Jacqueline looked down, and after a moment she saw two men powerfully steering a small skiff through the waves and toward the beach that lay below.

Citizen Julien turned and extended his arm to her. “If you are ready, Mademoiselle, I shall assist you in the climb down,” he offered politely.

“But what about the cart?” asked Jacqueline, suddenly gripped with a feeling of panic. The time had come. There was a ship waiting, and a skiff to take them to it, and she really was leaving France.

Citizen Julien looked at her with amusement. “Do not concern yourself, Mademoiselle. The cart will be taken away by one of my contacts within the next half hour.”

Of course, she thought to herself sourly. It was not like him to leave any detail unresolved. “But is the ocean not too rough to attempt the crossing tonight?” she asked, still searching for some way to delay her departure.

“It is rough,” he agreed. “But my men are experienced sailors who have navigated waters far more treacherous and violent than this. Come.” Again he held his arm out to her.

“You forget, Citizen Poitier, that I do not require your assistance,” she reminded him frostily, remembering that not once had he been willing to help her climb in and out of the cart. “I would prefer to keep it that way.” She lifted her chin as she gathered up her coarse woolen skirts and swept by him with the majesty of a queen, and then awkwardly started to climb down the rocky bluff that led to the beach.

It was a difficult descent, to say the least, and by the time she stumbled down onto the beach, the skiff had landed.

“Evening, Captain,” said one of the sailors as she and Citizen Julien approached. He was an older man and he seemed to have a kind face, although much of it was hidden behind a thick, graying beard.

“Good evening, Sidney,” replied Citizen Julien with a nod. “John,” he said, acknowledging the other sailor. He turned back to the older man. “Any problems?” he demanded.

“Nothing to speak of,” replied Sidney with a shrug. “When you weren’t here at the agreed time, we hid the ship around the point and sent some men into the village to see if there had been trouble. Everything was quiet and the jail was empty, so we figured you were just running late.”

“Mademoiselle de Lambert and I were slightly detained,” replied Citizen Julien. He turned to Jacqueline. “If you please, Mademoiselle,” he said, indicating that she should climb into the skiff.

Reluctantly Jacqueline trudged across the wet sand over to the boat. The sailor named John held it steady, and Sidney offered her his arm as she stepped into it, which she made a great show of accepting.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she murmured prettily. “You are a true gentleman.”

“Couldn’t risk you harming the babe, now could we?” returned Sidney with a smile.

Citizen Julien let out a snort of laughter and Jacqueline sent him a look of disgust. She had totally forgotten about her filthy appearance and the fact that she looked about ready to give birth.

Citizen Julien waded waist-deep into the freezing water with the other men as they launched the skiff away from the beach. Then the three of them swung their sopping-wet legs over the edge and climbed in, splashing icy-cold water all over Jacqueline as they did so.

The skiff was tossed about on the surging black waves like an insignificant toy, but the two sailors pulled their oars through the water in a strong, steady rhythm, and finally they reached the ship. Jacqueline felt glad to be out of that tiny boat and on a good, firm deck, but found that her wet clothes and her uncontrollable shivering somewhat diminished the pleasure of being on board.

“Sidney, take Mademoiselle de Lambert below to my cabin and see that she is given everything she needs, including a hot bath,” instructed Citizen Julien.

“Wait,” cried Jacqueline.

Citizen Julien looked at her impatiently. He did not tolerate having his orders contradicted, especially on his ship and in front of his men, and the sooner the troublesome little aristo learned that, the better. “Do you wish to begin our voyage by defying me, Mademoiselle?” he demanded, his tone clearly indicating the folly of such a move.

“I would like to remain on deck a moment, to watch the coast as we leave,” she explained.

“You are tired and you are freezing,” argued Citizen Julien. “I’ll not have you coming down with a fever while you are in my care.” He motioned for Sidney to take her away.

“Please,” whispered Jacqueline, taking a step closer to him so the men who were watching her curiously would not hear their conversation. “You are taking me away from my country, my home, from everything I have ever known. I implore you to allow me to take one last look.”

He was surprised by the pain and sincerity in her voice. He looked down into her pleading eyes and could have sworn she was actually telling him the truth. But her past tricks and lies made him wary, wondering if this was simply one more attempt to escape him before they set sail. He would not put it past her to throw herself overboard, and he did not particularly feel like jumping in after her. He studied her hard, trying to decide whether or not he should trust her.

“Somebody bring a blanket,” he called out finally. He continued to hold her with his gaze. “Sidney, you will stay with Mademoiselle de Lambert. Do not let her anywhere near the edge, and see to it that she is below in my cabin in exactly four minutes, or there will be hell to pay. Is that clear?” he demanded darkly, still staring at Jacqueline.