Kiss Across Blades

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Remi shook his head. “No, not anymore. The divergence changed him.”

  “You did not deal with your children like that?”

  “Nobles did not deal with their children at all. A word at night before they slept. A handshake, a pinched cheek, perhaps. Then they were taken away and raised by nurses and tutors and servants. It is the way of it here.” Remi was unable to stop himself from glancing at Neven to measure the degree of disgust the confession generating in Neven’s eyes.

  Neven was merely nodding in sympathetic understanding.

  “Now I can see how much I truly lost, the night I was turned,” Remi continued. “I gave up far more than I suspected.”

  “You were a man of your time,” Neven said. “There’s no point beating yourself up about it. Were you not raised the same way? Nurses and tutors and perhaps a glimpse of your parents now and then?”

  “And a world class sword master, let us not forget.” Remi blew out his breath. Again, Neven had said exactly the right thing. “I hated it,” he added roughly. “It was a lonely way to grow up.”

  “Ah….”

  Something in Neven’s soft word made Remi glance at him once more.

  “Now I understand why you are so patient with Jason,” Neven said.

  “A bad example is as effective a teacher as a good example. It taught me what not to do.”

  “And you seem to be avoiding that mistake in this time and place, too. Take comfort in that.” Neven paused. “Tell me about Carole.” His tone was diffident.

  Remi stiffened. “Why?”

  “Denis thinks she is the one who took London. I find that astonishing…yet I saw your expression when Denis suggested it was Carole. You weren’t surprised at all. It means you think she was capable of this, at least. And in all the many times you’ve spoken of saving your kids, you never included your wife in any scenario.”

  Remi sighed. “I don’t know how much different this Carole is. Denis is much different from me.”

  “They have a baseline in common. Tell me about her,” Neven said. “Let me have a sense of her.”

  Remi recalled Carole as he had last seen her. A woman of delicate appearance, with feather soft, tight curls of a color which seemed gray in the wrong light, but was actually a platinum blonde. The straight nose which was the only hint of the iron beneath her lily white flesh. The sharply pointed chin and plump cheeks. By this time’s standards, Carole was a beauty. Nobles he had associated with—Roderick being one of them—had spoken of Carole with an envious tone. They complimented Remi on his good fortune, declaring she rivaled the Queen in appearance and grace and charm.

  “Carole was the true Royalist,” Remi told Neven. “It took me some time to realize she was a social climber, for she was very good at it, and always made sure she showed me her best face and most submissive nature. She was the daughter of a count, a titres de courtoisie. My father’s title, and my family, are…were…Noblesse d’épée.”

  “Nobility of the sword,” Neven murmured. “I know little about French nobility. You were of higher rank?”

  “Higher rank, higher standing, in all ways. Of course Carole and her family thought the marriage advantageous. Carole had—has—pretensions beyond her breeding.”

  Neven raised a brow. Remi couldn’t tell if he was amused or not.

  “She was bereft, after the Revolution. In my timeline, she went into mourning for the lost king, the loss of her status, all of it. While I at least had the sense to wear plain clothes and be humble at all times, Carole seemed to delight in demonstrating her superiority at every turn. The few coins we had left, she spent on gowns and accessories, frills and furbelows.”

  Neven put his chin on his hand. “It sounds to me as though Carole had more to do with your demise than anything else. Surely such a parading of wealth and privilege would annoy the villagers?”

  Remi nodded. “And made them more inclined to believe Roderick when he told them I was the one in league with the nobles exiled in England, plotting to overthrow the government.”

  Neven made a sound in his throat, one of understanding. “Why does it make you think the woman would descend to abduction? If your marriage was unhappy—and Denis’ certainly appears that way, too—finding London in your private sitting room could not be a great surprise?”

  “I don’t know how to explain it. It is a leap, I admit. Only, I know. In here.” He touched his chest. “Carole did this.”

  “Gut instinct,” Neven said. “Denis thinks so, too, and the woman has not appeared for breakfast, either.” He stirred and straightened. “Remi…” His tone was one of warning, and his arm dropped from around Remi’s shoulders.

  Remi looked around, to spot the danger.

  Aimée stood in the open doorway to the ballroom. Edgard was beside her, his hand in hers. She stared at Remi.

  Behind them, Denis appeared. He had Micheline in his arm. “Up the stairs, you two,” he said. “It is time to wash.”

  “That man looks like you, Papa,” Aimée said, turning her head to look up at Denis.

  “They say everyone has a double somewhere in the world,” Denis said. “He is mine. Keep moving. You’re blocking the door.”

  Aimée stepped forward, her gaze back upon Remi. She seemed to make up her mind about something. She walked across the hall, her chin up and stepped up onto the first step, so she faced Remi. Edgard remained on the floor below, his gaze shifting from his sister to Remi and back.

  “Who are you, sir?” Aimée demanded.

  Remi’s heart squeezed. It had already bucked any control he tried to exert. It was beating on its own, wild and hard. “My name is Remi McCallum.” His voice was even, for which he was grateful.

  “Are you my father’s double?”

  Her voice! The strength in her high, piping tone. She was no different from his Aimée. Her hair was golden brown, with waves and curls which tumbled down below the high waistline of her gown. She had Remi’s eyes and her mother’s small, straight nose.

  Remi swallowed. “It seems I must be. I cannot explain it.” Professing a lack of knowledge had worked when he had been quizzed about his last name, so he used it now, too.

  Denis moved up behind the two. He made no move to halt the conversation.

  Aimée considered his answer, her gaze moving over Remi’s face. “You have Papa’s mole. There on your cheek. And the fleck in his right eye.” She frowned. “Are you a wicked fairy?”

  Denis laughed.

  Remi did not have the ability to laugh off her accurate stab in the dark. Aimée used ‘fairy’ as she had no other words or concepts which covered the fact that she considered Remi to be too much like her father. A duplicate, not merely a man with a resemblance to him.

  “He’s not wicked,” Neven told her. “Remi is a good man. Someone you can trust, absolutely. I know that, because I have trusted him many times. He has saved my life more than once.”

  Denis’ amusement faded, as he looked from Neven to Remi.

  Aimée considered Neven as frankly as she had studied Remi. “He has?”

  “Indeed. He is a formidable fighter.”

  “You are good with a sword, sir?” Aimée asked Remi with deep interest.

  “I prefer a knife,” Remi admitted.

  “This is an inappropriate topic, Aimée,” Denis added.

  “I did not begin the topic,” Aimée pointed out, without looking at her father. Her gaze remained on Remi. “Why a knife? Is not a sword the more noble weapon?”

  “Aimée!” Denis said, his tone alarmed. “Remember where you are.”

  “No one can hear us,” Aimée pointed out and waited for Remi to answer.

  The truth would serve, this time. Remi said, “Swords are not always to hand. A knife, though…one can find knives everywhere.”

  “And bottles and stones and cups and a plate, once,” Neven added.

  Aimée’s face lit up. “You throw stones?”

  “Yes,” Remi admitted.

  “Would yo
u teach me, monsieur?” Aimée said quickly. “I cannot throw stones the ways the village boys do, and they will not teach me. Will you?”

  Remi looked from her to Denis. “Your father could teach you. I suspect he can throw stones as well as I can.”

  “I have not ever thrown a stone,” Denis said, his tone stiff. “Aimée, that is quite enough. You are imposing. Come. Up the stairs. Leave the man alone.”

  Aimée scowled. “I want his agreement, first, Papa. I want to be able to throw stones.”

  “No. I forbid it. Upstairs, young lady.”

  Aimée’s scowl deepened. Her mouth pursed. Then she gave a regal nod to Remi. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, monsieur.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, mademoiselle.” In this case, the pleasantry was perfectly true.

  Aimée shuffled sideways on the step. She tugged Edgard into climbing with her. They moved passed Remi and Neven.

  Denis said, “I will see them settled for the day, then we can head out in search. I will return in a few minutes. Stay here.”

  He climbed up behind Aimée and Edgard, and the three of them continued up the stairs.

  Remi waited until they were out of earshot. He gave a deep sigh and let his shoulders sag.

  “She is so much like you I might have laughed out loud, only she is so like you she would have been offended by my laugh,” Neven said. He gave a soft chuckle now.

  “You are saying I am pompous?” Remi asked.

  Neven glanced up the stairs behind them. He leaned and pressed his lips to Remi’s. “I’m saying you are a bagful of contradictions, mi amor.”

  “Comes from a long life,” Remi growled.

  “If you insist,” Neven breathed and kissed him again, properly this time.

  Remi let himself sink into the kiss. Neven was alert and listening for the approach of anyone into the hall. It was a rare luxury which let him slough off all concerns and simply enjoy the moment.

  That, and the knowledge that in a moment, they would be leaving in search of London. Finally, they would be doing something.

  Chapter Nine

  When the man arrived, the sound of his deep voice stirred her. London put her hands underneath her to boost herself up from the dusty floorboards, only it hurt too much. It wasn’t just her head which pounded now. It was her belly and ribs. All of them thanks to the woman, Carole, who had dumped her upon a horse after knocking her out.

  London didn’t know how much time had passed since Carole led the horse carrying London to a house in the middle of the woods.

  The trees had been cleared around the house and a solid, waist-high stone wall circled the house. Carol hitched the horse’s reins around the miniature turret at the end of the wall. An opening in the wall might once have had a gate.

  Carole pulled out a knife with a thick blade and sliced the string holding London over the saddle. She yanked the back of London’s dress and pulled her to the ground.

  For a moment, London could not get her legs to work. She fought to stay on her feet. Having her arms yanked up behind her back as they were did not help. Neither did her aching head. She thrust out her foot and focused fiercely on the ground until the dizziness and weakness passed enough for her to straighten.

  Carole shoved her through the gate.

  What had likely been a garden spread between the house and the wall. London was too busy putting one foot in front of the other to notice much.

  The house had stone walls, too. This was clearly no cottage. Yet the inside of the house showed neglect. A big hall took up the middle of the house, rising through two floors. A gallery ran around all four sides, with rooms coming off the gallery and off the lower level of the hall, too.

  Leaves, dust and dirt covered the floor, as if dozens of careless boots had walked in mud and let it lie. A painting still hung on the wall. A knife had scored through the canvas, which hung in tatters inside the frame.

  A chair with a gilded frame and brocade seat laid on its side, the stuffing leaking through another slash. They were not the only signs of long-ago violence.

  In the far corner by a big fireplace stood a gouged, scratched table and a stained armchair, both upright. Coals and white ash laid in the fireplace. Someone had rigged a cooking stand, from which a kettle hung.

  Carole pushed London past the domestic corner and shoved open a door in the same wall as the bricked-in fireplace. Beyond the door was a bare room.

  With another shove to London’s back, Carole sent her staggering into the room. The woman followed her in and slammed the door. She took off her jaunty hat and tossed it by the door.

  As London swayed on her feet, her balance just holding, Carole strode over to her in the incongruent trousers and boots. Without telegraphing her intention, Carole rammed her small fist into London’s belly.

  The strength of the blow was a greater surprise. Carole’s narrow fist sank more deeply than a bigger, male hand might have. London’s breath expelled in a hoarse exhalation. She moaned sickly as she sagged and wondered if she might vomit.

  Carole’s hand smacked against her face, sending her spinning in a desperate stagger.

  Another blow to her belly. London saw it coming this time and tried to clench her stomach muscles the way Neven had patiently taught her to do. The muscles zapped and twinged, not responding. London fell heavily to her knees, gasping and groaning.

  Carole put her boot on London’s shoulder and shoved, sending London sprawling across the floor.

  As she laid heaving, Carole cut the strings around her elbows. Her arms fell uselessly beside her. They were numb.

  “Behave yourself, or there will be more of that,” Carole said, standing over her. “The windows are nailed shut. Breaking the glass will only alert me. There is no other way out of the room.”

  She picked up her hat, dusted it off, replaced it carefully over her silver curls and opened the door.

  London stayed on the floor to recover and wait for life to return to her arms. She tried to think. If the window was nailed shut, then London would not be able to break the panes swiftly enough to escape without alerting the woman and bringing her running. The window was wide enough to let London out, only there were muntins holding the small panes in place and she would have to break those, too. The sound of cracking wood and breaking glass would be easily heard.

  Besides, London didn’t know if she had the strength to climb out the window and run. Not yet, at least.

  While she let herself rest, London heard the sound of a deep male voice coming from the central room. There were many more sounds, farther than the table by the fireplace. Doors closing. Other conversations, soft and low.

  And the one deep voice. The man didn’t bother modulating his tone at all. “Are you mad, woman?” the man demanded. “Do you know what you have done?”

  She couldn’t hear Carole’s soft reply, only the murmur of her voice.

  London pushed her hands beneath her to push herself up off the floor. She paused as her body gave one great twinge. Everything hurt at once. It was something Neven had tried to teach her to deal with, too.

  “Pain can feel overwhelming. It’s something I’ve learned the hard way from too many beatings,” he’d ruefully told her. “The overwhelming sensation is a mental thing. If you focus, you can pinpoint the origin of the pain. Once you have it sorted out, you can work to contain the pain and put it aside. You can’t get rid of it but you can box it up and ignore it, until you have time to deal with the source of the pain.”

  London had not understood the idea at all. She’d gone through childbirth. She understood pain, at least, just not the idea of ignoring it.

  Now she tried to focus upon the source of pain. There were several.

  Beyond the door, the man replied to Carole, still pissed. “If she is his bloody mistress, he won’t thank you for stealing her away. The mayor loves him, the villagers he feeds love him. They’ll all rise up against us, too.”

  They were talking about Denis.

/>   London narrowed her focus down to the two major points of pain in her body. Her head and her belly, just below the ribcage.

  She heard Carole’s soft response come through the door.

  London tried to enclose the pain the way Neven had described. It didn’t seem to be working. Then she realized her arms and legs were not hurting. She could move them freely. It worked, after a fashion. Enough to let her move.

  She pushed herself carefully up into a sitting position.

  “Holy Christ above! Of course he’ll come after her!” The man didn’t shout, although London wondered if Carole was offended by the sneering note in his voice.

  London got to her feet. She took small steps over to the door and examined the frame. The door had rattled as Carole closed it and now London saw the hinges were skewed, showing a chink between the door and the frame. Had someone tried to tear the door out, once? Perhaps when the painting out there had been slashed?

  There was enough space for her to peer through. London put her eye to the crack.

  The man was big. Well over six foot and solid with muscle and fat. He drank from a mug. The contents spilled over the sides and dripped from his chin. He had shaggy black hair pulled back into a queue and a leather jacket which looked like something a pirate might wear. It was not the elegant Regency cutaway London knew from movies. His shirt might once have been white. Now it was yellow and stained. His pants were faded and a button was missing from the double row which held the front flap closed.

  His boots were good, though. They came up to his knee despite his size. The sword on his hip had a silver filigree cage over the hilt which would protect his hand. The point of the scabbard was also silver.

  London suspected he had not acquired such an elegant weapon by honest means.

  Carole stood by the table, placing a pitcher which London presumed contained the liquid he was now gulping from the mug.

  He lowered the mug and belched heavily, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “More,” he said, thrusting the mug at Carole.

  She took it, put it on the table beside her and poured carefully.

  London’s throat contracted. She realized she was parched. That was from shock, she presumed. She couldn’t do anything about that, either. She stayed where she was, watching. She couldn’t see a lot of the room from this position. If either of them moved too far to one side, including farther into the room itself, she would lose sight of them.