Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  “Actually … I am glad you are awake,” he said. “I have been giving the matter some thought and—”

  “And you have decided to turn down my request?” She dragged the sheets up over her breasts and curled her legs beneath her hips. “I have been thinking the same thing, m’sieur, and I believe it is for the best. Roth is determined to catch you and I fear he will succeed if you go through with this thing.”

  “You appear to have lost a great deal of faith in my abilities over the past two days.”

  “It is not your abilities I doubt. I have known men like Roth before; the leaders, the ruling parties of the revolutionary government changed three times in four years and Paris was infested with citizens who would sell their souls, betray their closest friends in their hunger for power. Roth is a little man who strives to be more than he is. He will kill you if he has the chance.”

  “Assuming I don’t kill him first, of course.”

  She regarded him with huge, solemn eyes. “If you had wanted to kill Roth, you could have done so long before now. This time, I think it is you who wishes to make me believe you are more than what you are.”

  His soft laugh came out of the shadows. “So now my abilities exceed your expectations?”

  He was mocking her, gently to be sure, but it stung all the same. “I simply do not want the burden of your death on my conscience.”

  “And I have told you, mam’selle, I am not your burden to bear, With Roth on one side of you and Edgar Vincent on the other, I would think you have enough to worry about already.”

  “Until now, I have been too afraid of my own shadow to do much more than run and hide. Or to obey like a meek lamb and always do what is expected of me.”

  “Running has merit, mam’selle,” he said, sobering. “So does hiding. But nothing feels quite as good as beating a bastard at his own game.”

  She shook her head. “Non. I release you from the agreement we made, capitaine. You are free to—to practice your trade elsewhere.”

  The blur of white moved closer to the bed. “Are you firing me?”

  Her cheeks warmed, but her mind was made up. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Just like that.”

  “This”—he spread a hand to indicate the bed— “wouldn’t have anything to do with your decision, would it?”

  She looked up at him and frowned. “If you recall, I had all but made up my mind before this happened.”

  “Ahh. Yes.” He drew his arm back and folded it, along with the other, across his chest. “We were discussing the comparative values of our necks. But what will you tell Colonel Roth?”

  “I will not have to tell him anything. When you do not show up tonight for our meeting, he will correctly assume you became suspicious of a trap and changed your mind.”

  “Frankly, I have learned never to assume anything where Roth is concerned. But what about your marriage to Edgar Vincent?”

  She clutched the sheets closer to her chest. “I told you, m’sieur, I have no intentions of marrying a man who has blood on his hands. What he does is of no further concern to me. I will not be here one way or the other to know.”

  His head tilted thoughtfully to the side. “Where will you be?”

  “As far away as Finn can take us.”

  “You are not worried about the warrant Roth holds for your brother’s arrest?”

  “The warrant was to be destroyed if I cooperated. He cannot possibly blame me if his scheme does not work.”

  “Mon pauvre innocent” he murmured. “Do you honestly think that is all Roth wants from you? Did his behavior at the Fox and Hound suggest that was all he wanted?”

  Renée felt a chill that had nothing to do with the fact the fire was a smoldering ruin. “But he and Edgar Vincent are friends.”

  “Roth has no friends.”

  “And you do, m’sieur?”

  “I have acquaintances with mutual interests,” he said after a brief hesitation. “And the name is Tyrone.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My name is Tyrone. Surely you have not forgotten it already?”

  This time the edge in his voice left a hot blaze of color on her cheeks. “I have not forgotten. But since I will never see you again after you leave here, and you will never again see me, I think it best if we return to being … formal.”

  At that, Tyrone’s irritation was defused and he could not resist a smile. There she sat in her crumpled nest of bedsheets, gloriously naked and gleaming in her dishevelment, her skin still rosy from their lovemaking, her thighs undoubtedly as sleek as butter and reminding her why on each indrawn breath … and there she was dismissing him like a servant, telling him she never wanted to see him again.

  By the same measure, here he stood under the mistaken impression his sense of imperviousness and self-assurance had been fully restored, feeling his flesh thicken and throb as painfully as if he had never touched her.

  “Before I do leave,” he asked wanly, “may I ask how you intend to get away from here? You said Roth has men watching you, and I doubt if he has assigned fools to guard the coop. Roth himself is no half-brain, though it bears arguing at times. If the meeting tonight does not go off as planned, he’ll not simply shrug his shoulders and walk away. He has gone to an inordinate amount of trouble to bring this together and if he even suspects you have had thoughts of double-dealing, you will see a side of him that will keep you screaming through nightmares the rest of your life.”

  “But I have done my part. I have done all he has asked me to do. He has no reason to suspect me of anything.”

  “Until the jewels go missing.”

  “What?”

  “I said”—he leaned slightly forward—“until the jewels go missing. Then he will most assuredly suspect you of something.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “It is quite simple, really. I think the risk is worth taking. I think we should meet tonight, as planned, and I think we should steal the jewels as per our agreement. That was what I was about to say before you interrupted me with your cavalier order of dismissal, and that is what I plan to do, with or without your help.”

  The sheet slipped unnoticed from her hands as she gaped at him. “You would do that? You would go through with the robbery anyway?”

  “Why not? They have gone to a lot of trouble to get my attention. And I would be a damned poor thief to let fifty thousand pounds’ worth of jewels go wanting. By the same token, I can understand why you would want no further part in it.”

  “I have to think of Antoine’s safety,” she whispered.

  “Of course you do.”

  “If it was just me …”

  “You would don a greatcoat and tricorn and rob him yourself?”

  The teasing note of mockery was back in his voice, but Renée did not care. He could laugh out loud at her cowardice and she would not care.

  “Roth will be furious.”

  “Furious men make careless mistakes.”

  “And you never do, m’sieur?”

  “Oh, I make my share of mistakes, mam’selle. I am only human, after all.” His words faded to a murmur as his gaze strayed to the pale mounds of her breasts. The extremely human part of him wanted to reach out and take her into his arms again, but that would be breaking nearly every hard and fast rule he had set for himself, prime among them being to encourage no emotional attachments. Friendship, affection, obligations, ties of any kind, were dangerous things, best avoided. And to that end, he was glad the fire had faded and the light was gone, for he had the very real sense, looking into her eyes, that a man could drown in their depths and never even know he was even sinking until it was too late.

  “Well, mam’selle,” his voice was brusque and businesslike again as he pushed away from the bedpost. “As I said, the decision is yours whether you stay in the game or not. If you choose not to, I would suggest you finalize your plans to leave here as soon as possible. If you run into any difficulty, you might want to remember the name I gave you the o
ther night: Jeffrey Bartholemew. Aside from writing letters for the post, he also owns a small livery. He was an old shipmate of mine and while he is not much younger than your Mr. Finn, he is a hapless witling when it comes to beautiful women. For the promise of a smile, he will get you safely—and discreetly—to London, or anywhere else you care to go. To that end, I wish you the very best of luck in your future endeavors.”

  Renée watched him tuck his shirt in his breeches and pull on his waistcoat and jacket. His movements seemed to be less precise than before, as if he was in a sudden, pressing hurry to get away.

  “M’sieur?”

  Tyrone was in his greatcoat and halfway to the window when her voice stopped him. He heard the drag of bed-sheets as she stood up and brought them with her, using the linen to shield her nakedness. It was such an innocently modest gesture, he almost groaned and banged his head on the wall.

  “I would like to wish you the very best of luck aussi” she whispered.

  He looked down at where her hand was suddenly resting on his sleeve. Pale and white, the fingers were so long and delicate and soft, his flesh surged again at the memory of them exploring the shapes and textures of his body.

  He dug his boot heels into the floor and moved purposely forward to the window.

  Renée watched as he unlatched the pane and swung it open. He settled his tricorn firmly on his head and glanced back one last time, and while he looked as if he wanted to say something more, he did not. Without a further word or glance he swung himself over the sill and was gone, vanished into the cool night air.

  CHAPTER TEN

  An hour later, when the utter blackness of the night began to give way to a watery pink dawn, Renée was still standing by the window. She had been there, wrapped in the bedsheet, since Tyrone left, only vaguely aware of the light growing stronger, giving shape to the trees and fields, burning away the wispy layers of mist that hovered over the ground.

  He had not even kissed her goodbye. She had not expected him to, of course. He had taken what he wanted from her and now it was back to business. The business of robbing coaches and waylaying travelers, of living by his guns and his wits, flaunting danger, defying fate and death and anything else that appealed to his macabre sense of humor. He was going to rob Edgar Vincent whether she helped him or not, and she was going to have to get away from here whether she had the means and motivation to do it or not. And the sooner the better before Roth or Vincent or her uncle—or all three—began to suspect her of dealing with the enemy, not against him.

  A faint buzzing sound drew her attention to the top of the eight foot window where a fat, green fly was beating itself into a frenzy as it circled the pane of glass looking for a way out. She would gladly have opened the window and chased it out to put it out of its misery, but she had no time for such small mercies as she hurried into the dressing room. When she emerged a few minutes later she had exchanged the bedsheet for a robe and tamed the wild tangle of her hair into a tail at the nape of her neck.

  Kneeling in front of the hearth, she stirred the high mound of ash enough to uncover the red coals beneath. She lit an oil-soaked rush and touched the flame to a candlewick, then, as an afterthought, tossed some kindling and fresh wood on the grate to revive the fire. The warmth and languor she had been feeling a short time ago had vanished out the window with le capitaine. She was cold. Her body was beginning to feel more battered than deliciously bruised, and although she had been vigorous with the soap and washcloth, she still wore the scent of him on her skin like an emblazoned brand.

  With the fire catching nicely, she took up the candle and went to the door, intending to go below and see if anyone was awake enough to bring hot water to her room for a bath. She was also, oddly enough, ravenously hungry and, because they had consumed the rest of the wine last night, thirsty for something that did not taste tepid or rusty—which ruled out any water left in her pitcher overnight.

  The latch, when she twisted it, did not turn, and she remembered, after a brief flash of panic, that she had locked it herself and removed the key from the plate.

  It had been clutched in her hand at one point last night, but then he had kissed her, and she had forgotten all about it.

  She knelt and searched the area of floor where they had been standing. The candle, held high over her head, cast a wide enough halo of light that she found the key on the first pass. It was when she was gathering up her chemise and dress and stockings that a second wink of light caught her eye.

  It was a jeweled cravat pin. Tyrone had not been wearing a cravat, but he had been dressed formally otherwise and might have removed it earlier, tucking the pin in a pocket or sticking it in a lapel for safekeeping. Consequently, it must have fallen or been sprung loose in the frenzied haste to remove and discard clothing.

  She cradled the pin in her hand and examined it under the glare of the candle flame. It was no tinker’s piece, that much was a certainty. The shaft was gold and the head embossed with a crest and shield, the latter divided into quadrants with three of the four sitting diamonds no less than a full carat in size. The fourth held a sapphire. It was exquisitely detailed work and she had no doubt that if the light was stronger and her eyes less bleary, she could have read the tiny print in the motto scrolled along the lower edge of the shield. But it was the diamonds that caught and held her attention. They were of the very best cut and quality, the facets reflecting myriad brilliant points of light.

  He had obviously stolen it from a very wealthy patron.

  Her blood was coursing with decidedly more confidence as she secured the pin to the underside of her collar and hurried out of the room. The hallway outside was silent as a tomb and dark, save for the yellow circle of light thrown off by her candle. She went instinctively to Antoine’s door first, but changed her mind at the last instant. If he was asleep, she should leave him as long as possible. He would need all the rest he could get over the next few days.

  Padding barefoot along the hall, she went to Finn’s room instead, and, after sparing a cautious glance along both ends of the hallway, tapped her knuckles softly on the door.

  There was no answer, no light showing below the door, and no sounds from within as she knocked again and put her ear to the polished wood.

  “Finn? M’sieur Finn?”

  Nothing.

  She glanced over both shoulders again and turned the door knob, opening it just enough to press a whisper through the gap. “Finn? Sont vous ici?”

  Pushing the door wider, she lifted the flickering stub of tallow over her head. The dull glow reached as far as the empty, rumpled bed, and she eased the door wider, slipping inside. Easily a quarter of the size of her own, the chamber and its contents were spartan and neat, like the man who slept there. The furnishings were plain, the bed narrow and utilitarian with a single flat bolster and a spare woolen blanket folded across the foot. One thin window was covered by a single panel of curtain, and a connecting door that led through the dressing room to Antoine’s bedroom allowed just enough space beside it for a sturdy armoire.

  Like her own room, there were no personal touches. There were no family mementos, no cameos, nothing to indicate over sixty years of life, half of them spent in the most luxurious, decadent country in the world. It was odd, but until this very moment, Renée had not given much thought to Finn’s first thirty years. He was an Englishman, after all. Did he still have family on this side of the Channel? If so, had he tried to contact them at all since their return to England?

  “Did you want something, mad’moiselle?”

  Finn’s voice, coming from over her shoulder, nearly startled the candle out of Renée’s hand. As it was, the melted tallow came dangerously close to drowning the flame before it splashed over onto her fingers.

  Finn stood in the doorway to the dressing room wearing only his nightshirt and cap. The shirt was shapeless and fell well short of covering his bony ankles and bare feet, the peak of the nightcap was folded over and hung in front of one ear. In his l
eft hand he carried a tallow candle, in his right, a porcelain chamber pot.

  “Is there something you require, mad’moiselle?”

  She glanced over his shoulder. “How is Antoine? Did he sleep well? Is his cough any better?”

  Finn arched a silvery brow. “His chest has been quiet tonight and he has slept the sleep of the innocent … something that, if I may dare to suggest, you have not?”

  For the span of a heartbeat, she thought he was making a veiled reference to her late-night visitor, but with the next, she realized he looked too rumpled and sleep-creased for subtlety.

  “I have not had much sleep, no,” she admitted honestly enough. “And … I have been thinking that I cannot go through with this. I thought I could, but I simply cannot go through with it.”

  He opened his mouth to comment, but remembered the pot in his hand and turned aside to dispose of it. When he straightened again, she was no longer standing in front of him, but had crossed over to the window.

  “Mad’moiselle—”

  “I cannot do it, Finn. It is too dangerous. A thousand things could go wrong and Antoine would be made to pay for my foolishness.”

  Finn’s eyebrow inched upward. “I gather you are referring to your arrangement with Colonel Roth?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I have thought about it for two days, thought of nothing else, in fact, and—and I know I cannot go through with it.”

  “Well, thank God for that, mad’moiselle!” His shoulders, his entire body seemed to sag with relief. “I know it is not my place to interfere, but I was truly beginning to fear I would have to do something drastic to bring you to your senses. Roth is vermin, not to be trusted, and this rogue highwayman is … well, he is a criminal. A thief and murderer and likely to end his days on a gallows if he is not shot out of hand first.”

  “The good citizens of Paris branded my father a thief and a murderer. Does that absolve the man who betrayed him to the tribunal?”

  “You must not confuse crimes invented by political zealots with crimes committed against the laws of God. This scoundrel steals honest coin from honest people— well, for the most part, honest people. He has multiple charges of murder laid against him, at least a dozen or more according to the latest warrant I saw posted.”