Earrings dangled from her ears and a necklace laid against her chest, between the low opening of the dress and coat.
London guessed her appearance was that of a wealthy woman, which would make her presence in the house of a former French duc understandable.
The narrow door through which Denis had first appeared was thrust open once more. London leapt to her feet and turned to face the door, her heart jumping.
The figure which moved into the room at a fast pace London took to be a small man. He wore a hat with a turned-up brim at one side. The man raised his chin and spotted London.
London took in the small chin. The straight, narrow nose. Soft white flesh. A rosebud mouth. Eyes that opened wide in shock.
“You!” the woman hissed. Her hand flashed to her hip and she raced across the room, pulling out her sword with a soft hissing sound.
Too late, London recognized the unexpected peril. The raised hilt smashed down against the side of her head and blackness took her.
Chapter Six
Remi peered down at the delicate, soft curve of a childish cheek, pale in the moonlight. Black lashes rested against the sweet flesh. The mouth was in repose. A hand tucked under the small cheek. Edgard gave a soft sigh and grew still once more.
Remi’s heart ached. It was all he could do to not reach out and sweep Edgard up against him. His throat contracted painfully.
“Aimée,” Denis whispered and tugged Remi over to the larger bed in the corner.
Remi’s limbs were leaden. He made himself walk over to the iron-framed bed. The bed he remembered Aimée sleeping upon had a silk canopy with lace edges. No such luxury adorned this bed. The girl laying upon the pillow was as pretty and sweet as he remembered.
Remi stood, unable to move or breathe for the emotions surging through him. How could he leave now? How could he leave them here?
Denis gripped the sleeve of Remi’s jacket and pulled him to the other side of the room. “Very softly,” he whispered, close to Remi’s ear. “The nurse sleeps just beyond the door.” He nodded to the other door in the room. Neven stood with his back to the door they had used to enter the room.
The cot had high sides and had once been painted white. The white had faded to a yellowed cream color. The paint was flaking away, showing rusted iron beneath. Nevertheless, the mattress the baby slept upon was thick and the sheet was whole. The blanket was good wool, too.
Micheline was just one year old. She slept with her thumb in her mouth, her smoky ringlets downy soft against the pillow.
Remi couldn’t help himself. He reached down and swept his finger over her cheek. The softness and heat and scent of her was exactly as he remembered.
His vision blurred. He gripped the cot. He could not tear himself away from it. He simply could not leave.
By the size of the hands which gripped his arms, Remi knew Neven had taken hold of him. Remi was being moved gently away from the cot. His heart shredded with each step toward the door.
Remi ground the heel of his hand against his eyes, wiping away the moisture. He felt actual pain, with every tear he shed. Alex would explain the pain away as something to do with the symbiot, that it was the human physiology breaking through and that was where the pain came from. To Remi, it was as though moving away from his children was the cause. Like tearing a plant from the earth which succored it, pulling the roots up with relentless, overwhelming power…
He didn’t see where they went next. From the direction, he guessed they were moving back to the private apartment they had jumped to. Remi let Neven lead him. He was indifferent about showing such weaknesses. Neven did not care about such things, anyway.
Neven lowered him. Remi sat. They were in the private sitting room once more. This was his room—had been his room. Carole rarely came in here. If Remi had been able to guide the jump, he would have suggested they jump here, anyway.
“Where is London?” Neven said, his tone sharp.
“In England?” Denis answered, deeply puzzled.
“Lucienne,” Neven corrected himself. “Where is she?”
Remi shook off the last of the upset and swiveled on the chair to take in the empty, moonlit room. Coldness replaced the agony in his chest. “She wouldn’t just leave.” He got to his feet.
Neven confronted Denis. “Who else has access to your private apartment?”
Denis pressed his hand against his temple. “This is what she meant…”
“What did she mean?” Remi’s voice came out louder than he intended. Fear bloomed, searing away the last of the blinding pain of being too close, yet not close enough to his children.
Denis dropped his hand. “There is something I must tell you. Come.”
Denis moved through the apartment to the main room. Through big doors which stood open they could see an enormous bed which once had been gilded and gleaming. Now the gilt was faded and the paint between the once-golden flourishes worn. The covers upon the bed were undisturbed. Although they were whole, they were far from luxurious. The wool of the blanket looked undyed to Remi’s eyes.
Denis moved over to a cupboard where a single candle burned in a stand. Little of the candle was left. What remained was lumpy. Remi could smell the fat.
Pork.
Remi had failed to recall much about his time as a human. The scent of tallow candles was one of them.
Denis carried the candle over to an unadorned round table. He waved to the odd collection of chairs and stools placed around it. “We can talk freely here. For a while, at least.” He sat in the tallest of the chairs and put a boot upon the plain wooden footstool in front of it.
Neven glanced at Remi. A question showed in his expression. He, the seasoned traveler who had unraveled a dozen paradoxes and loops, had no idea what was happening here either.
It made Remi feel a little better. He threw himself into the other armchair and let Neven take the claw foot upright chair with the threadbare seat. “Explain yourself, then,” he told Denis.
Denis rested his hand on the higher knee. His fingers were loosely curled, showing no tension. “One of the things Lucienne told me, ten years ago, was that after she left, I must keep the two of you here.” He closed his eyes, paused, then said, “They will try to leave, Denis. They must not leave. Not then.” He opened his eyes. “I thought what she meant by her leaving was that it would be the normal way. I did not for a moment think there might be any menace in her departure.”
Neven leaned forward. “What makes you think there is anything menacing about Lucienne’s absence? Perhaps she did simply walk through the door.”
Suddenly, Remi knew. It came together in his mind in a way that was almost a physical click and drop. “Carole…” he breathed.
Denis sighed.
“Who is Carole?” Neven demanded.
“My wife,” Denis said.
Neven’s lips parted. He shot at look at Remi, then back at Denis. “Your wife did something to London? Remi, is this possible? I guessed you did not like her. Something like this, though? And what is this? Abduction?”
Remi threaded his hands together. “It was a guess and now he has confirmed it. There is more to this, Neven.” He pointed at Denis. “He is not me.”
Denis looked amused. “Clearly. I am sitting here, you are sitting there.”
Neven ignored the comment. His eyes narrowed. “Shit…” he breathed. “It’s a different timeline. It’s not ours.”
“No, it is not,” Remi agreed.
Denis frowned. “Timeline?”
Neven held up his hand. “You can’t get a local involved, Remi.”
“Too late. London did that ten years ago. And now, we have a loop to close,” Remi said.
“How do you know Denis is not you?” Neven demanded.
“Simple.” Remi touched his jaw. “I had a scar here. Two inches long. It ached when the weather was too dry. It disappeared when…well, then. You know.” Even though London had forced their hand and they must now discuss time travel with Denis,
Remi was still reluctant to reveal he was of the Blood. Denis was already looking uneasy and confused. “Denis does not have the scar,” Remi finished.
Denis touched his own jaw, his eyes narrowed, as he looked from Remi to Neven.
Neven got to his feet. “When did you get the scar?” he ground out.
Remi remembered the day clearly. “When I was twenty-four, I was set upon by robbers when I was walking to the village. They were desperate times then—”
“More than now?” Neven asked, sounding surprised.
“Far more,” Denis said. He was still frowning.
Remi nodded. “I got the scar fighting them off. It was a knife wound. It didn’t heal well. The scar was raised.”
Neven looked at Denis. “That never happened to you? A walk to the village, robbers, a knife wound?”
“Yes, I remember thieves. They did not steal my purse.” He pointed at Remi. “He stopped them.”
Remi let out his breath. It was definitely a loop they would have to close, later. “I had a heavy purse they stole,” he said to Neven.
Neven looked from him to Denis and back. “When did you get the scar, Denis? I mean, how long ago from this moment?”
“Denis, is it November 1798?” Remi asked.
Denis’ lips parted in surprise. Then he nodded. “Yes. November.”
Remi thought backward. “It happened…ten years ago,” he said. He sat up. “That’s where the timelines diverged.”
“You keep saying that word,” Denis said. “Timelines. It is not a word Lucienne ever used. What do you mean by that?”
“Just what it sounds like we mean,” Remi told him. “Time itself is navigable. Like a river. As long as one has a boat.”
“Yes, Lucienne explained that. She did not talk about timelines, though.” Denis leaned forward, his expression eager. “It is why she saved me that day. It is what you meant about closing a loop, yes? Lucienne has not yet traveled to that time, to warn me?”
Neven’s smile seemed reluctant. He glanced at Remi. “You’re a natural at this.”
Remi grimaced. “He means yes,” he told Denis. “Lucienne must still go back to warn you, even though that event is in your past.”
“Which brings us to now,” Neven growled. “Where is London? Lucienne. What has Carole to do with it? Remi?”
“I am not the one to explain,” Remi admitted. “My Carole was a demanding, unhappy woman, a Royalist to her core, who could not stand what had happened to her beloved France. This time is different. This Carole…perhaps the divergence ten years ago changed her, as well as Denis.”
Denis shook his head. “I can barely grasp your meanings—my this, your that—although I can assure you she did not change ten years ago. It was later, when my father was executed.”
Neven stopped his pacing behind his chair and gripped the curved back. “Something happened then? I mean, other than your father’s execution?”
“Not that I know of,” Denis said. “She changed, though. It was like night and day. The woman who came home from the village was not the one I knew before that day.”
“The death of your father affected her that much?” Neven asked. His gaze swung to Remi.
Remi shook his head. “They were never close.”
“No, they were not,” Denis agreed. “Although I am not certain how you can know that. Is your Carole in some way my Carole?”
“Yes and no,” Remi said. “It is complicated and we don’t have time to explain at length. Clearly, you believe Carole has something to do with Lucienne’s disappearance. We must get her back and the longer we sit here, the more difficult it will become.”
“You have all night,” Denis said, his tone sharp.
Neven raised a brow at the imperious note, and the corner of his mouth lifted. He was hiding his amusement. “He might as well be you,” he told Remi.
Remi scowled. “What do you mean, we have all night?”
“You cannot leave the house. Not while darkness holds,” Denis said. “If you are travelers, then you do not understand how it is in this department. In all of France, I’m sure. The people have been starving for years. The revolution did not magically restore their larders. There are more robbers, thieves and murderers out upon the highways than ever before. There are criminals wanted by the Directory, and Royalists hiding in the woods who ensure anyone who spots them does not live to tell the tale. There are desperate people too hungry to let two well-dressed men like you pass by unchallenged.”
Neven gripped the back of the chair with both hands. “I had no idea…” he breathed. “I’ve read—heard, I mean—about how life was before the revolution.”
Denis nodded. “Life has not measurably changed for the poor and the common folk. At least, not for those who linger along the by-ways, hoping for scraps, or a coin to buy eggs at the market.” He leaned back in his chair. “Besides, I have an idea where Carole may be and I suspect Lucienne will be there, too. When it is broad daylight, tomorrow, we can find her. Sit, both of you. Explain to me why Remi and I look so alike and both have a wife named Carole.”
Neven hesitated.
“Sit,” Denis repeated, his voice flat.
Neven’s mouth quirked upward. “Two of you is far too much for my constitution. You can do the explaining, Remi. My brain hurts.”
He sat.
Chapter Seven
Her head throbbed with a pain stronger than the worst headache London had ever suffered. She felt ill with it. That was the first sensation she noticed.
Then, with a sense of puzzlement, she felt her head swaying backward and forward. Her cheek bumped against something coarse and smelly. She was moving, not simply swaying.
Sounds came to her. Soft. Crisp. The clop of a horse.
Ahhh…
She was upon a horse. Not sitting upon it, but bent over it like a sack of flour. Her face slapped against the horse’s side as the horse walked with a slow, hip-swinging motion.
The air was cold upon London’s flesh. The saddle or whatever laid beneath her was digging into her belly. Oddly, her corset was not gouging her hips, the way it had done when she tried to bend, before.
It felt as if she was not wearing a corset at all. The tight sleeved coat and muslin dress were still in place, though. Her arms were wrenched back behind her, with something binding the elbows so they were nearly together. It left her helpless upon the horse.
London lifted her head. The movement made her dizzy. Her head was slammed by pain in great throbbing waves.
She held in her groan, smothering it by keeping her jaws clamped together. A dozen different lessons and discussions she’d taken part in over the last few years came back to her. She should not let the enemy know she was awake, to give herself an advantage.
Who was the enemy? The woman…who was she?
She could barely think through the muggy thudding of her head. The cold air helped a little. She considered her situation. The horse was taking her away from the estate, which meant Remi and Neven were stranded here, too. Her priority, then, had to be to return to the estate and find them.
It meant escaping from this horse.
Carefully, London opened her eyes. It was still night…or perhaps it was night again, and she had been unconscious for a whole day. Only, her gut said that amount of time had not passed. It was still night, then. A few hours, perhaps?
In her upside-down position—which was not doing her head any favors at all—London could only see the road beneath the hooves of the horse. It was a dirty track with flat stones buried deep here and there. Grass grew along the edge of the track, and trees beyond the verge.
As she looked, the horse passed a flat stone lying in the grass on the verge and London saw writing carved into the face which looked fresh and new.
Kilomètre 656.
Despite the fresh carving, the numbers and the word were hard to read. Someone had used a sharp edge to chop and slice at the lettering, gouging scores across the face of the letters, defacing
the entire stone. Then they had tossed it to the ground. London could see the hole where the foot of the stone had once been buried.
It hurt too much to crane her neck any farther. London let her head hang once more and waited for the thudding to pass. She discovered she could turn her chin to one side and see forward, along the side of the horse.
The woman in man’s clothing and the jaunty, wide-brimmed hat was leading the horse. She wore a cloak, now, and had her back to London and the horse.
London considered her situation. The woman didn’t know she was awake. What if she wriggled enough to slide from the horse, onto the path? She would land on her head. There was no help for that. Then…then she would have to pick herself up and run. Also difficult given her current state, but do-able. It would have to be.
London shifted her hips experimentally and kicked her knees, using them against the side of the horse to lever herself up.
The horse gave a surprised snort and shivered. He gave a violent shake of his head, blowing hard.
It alerted the woman. She turned and patted the horse’s nose, then moved to where London hung. “You are awake, then. Good. Do you know who I am?” The woman had a rich accent and her words were perfectly enunciated.
London swallowed. Her mouth, she realized, was parched. “All things considered, I’m guessing you are Denis’ wife.”
“Wife?” the woman said, fury making her voice ring. She actually stamped her foot. “I am Carole, Madame la Duchess de Sauveterre. I am no mere wife.”
And she spat.
The spittle didn’t quite hit London in the face, because she pulled her head away. “Sorry,” London muttered. “Duchess,” she added quickly.
“And you are the Duc’s whore,” Carole added.
London opened her mouth to refute her, then closed it again. She had been found in Denis’ private apartment, in what she assumed was his sitting room. It was impossible to explain it in a way that didn’t involve revealing herself as a time traveler, which Carole would not believe.
Besides, in a little over two hundred years, she would become Denis’ mistress.
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