by Nancy Gideon
“Did he?” Louis drawled. “How very kind of him.”
“Tell us about our guests,” Arabella prompted, to turn the subject from Gerardo Pasquale.
“They were friends of the artist who took me to Paris. When he was k-killed, they took me in until I met Bianca. I made the mistake of introducing Marchand’s brother, who was also Musette’s fiancé, to Bianca. She killed him and would have killed Marchand as well if Takeo hadn’t intervened.” She didn’t mention her own life had been in the balance; a point of pride, perhaps. “I brought them here because it was the only safe place I knew.”
“You did the right thing,” her mother assured her. Then with extreme tact, she asked, “Your young man, does he know about you?”
“He knows but he doesn’t understand.”
And Arabella read a world of misery in her daughter’s answer. “Then we’ll have to show him how to accept the impossible.” She patted Nicole’s cheek and saw her green eyes fill up with grateful tears. There was more to be said, but it would keep until they could be alone. “Nicole, you need your rest. Sleep well and know that we’ll watch over you and your friends.”
“There is something you can do for now.” Nicole rummaged through her pockets and produced a crumpled paper. Upon it were names and monetary amounts. “Could you see that these sums are delivered to these people?” At her mother’s perplexed look, she merely said, “Debts. It would be best if they were sent anonymously.”
“I’ll see it’s taken care of.”
Nicole hugged her tight, then went to embrace her father, who murmured softly, “Welcome home, little one.”
There was a great sense of comfort in roaming the familiar halls on the way to her room. Nicole relaxed the tense vigilance that had been with her since Paris, but another tension rose in its place. That restlessness drew her to Marchand’s door. She could feel him within, could scent him, could hear his heart beating. And she was compelled to open his door.
She stood for a long while upon that threshold, her keen eyes able to penetrate the darkness, to watch him in his uneasy slumber. So handsome, he was. Her heart swelled with a bittersweet love. He was afraid of her now. He wouldn’t welcome her approach. Better he rest and recover himself, but she couldn’t move away from him. The pulse of him held her hypnotized. Hunger welled inside her in huge dark waves.
Marchand.
He stirred.
He need never know of her visit, came a sinister whisper through her consciousness. Just enough to satisfy. That’s all it would have to be. And her lips parted and her eyes grew hot in anticipation.
Then a figure reached past her to pull the door shut.
She stared up at her father, feeling ashamed and helpless in her state of need.
“Would you abuse him after he’s placed his trust in you?” Louis asked of her gently.
“I don’t want to.” Her words came out in a sob. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Come away with me.”
But the lure of live blood was strong and her hunger was intense. Nicole hesitated.
“Are you confident in your control, child? Are you sure you could pull away from him in time? Do you know how much becomes too much? You must know these things before taking from a human. Unless you’re willing to kill them.”
“Teach me,” was her desperate plea.
Louis led her from the house. He took her deep into the fragrant forest, where silence hung like the cool mists, draping all in mystery. Then a sound penetrated that veil of quiet, a sound that quickened both their senses and whet an expectant urgency. The rhythm of life. Moving like a swift, deadly panther, Louis brought down a stag, breaking the animal’s neck with a powerful wrench of his hands. Then he beckoned for Nicole.
“Quickly. It cools fast.”
Not sure she understood, she obeyed his gesture and knelt down beside him. With a slash of his teeth, her father tore into the animal’s throat. He hunched there for a moment, crouched like a beast of prey while the aroma of blood rose thick and dizzying in its appeal. Nicole found herself pushing in close, nudging him aside in her impatience. He guided her head down to where his hand now pinched off the artery. Then he let go and the hot surge filled her mouth and she was swallowing, taking it in as rapidly as she could until her head swirled and her veins swelled, straining to their limit.
Then Louis pulled her away and they sat leaning against one another, panting, replete; unnatural father, unnatural child. Then he cleaned off his face and gave her his handkerchief. While she did the same, he tended the animal’s carcass, ripping gashes in the creature’s hind quarters. When Nicole questioned him, his answer was cool logic.
“When the animal is found, it will look as though it was brought down by wolves. Always disguise what you do. Leave no evidence that would lead to whispers. We are safe only as long as no one suspects we are other than we pretend. That is your first lesson. You can live off forest creatures for quite some time.”
“How long? Indefinitely?”
“No,” he told her somewhat sadly. “Eventually you’ll feel the need for human blood. When that time comes, I’ll teach you lesson two.”
WEAK SUNLIGHT filtered in to sear across Marchand’s eyelids. He muttered in complaint and started to roll away, then was perplexed by the presence of a warm human barrier pressed against his side. Thinking it was Nicole brought both pleasure and panic. He wasn’t ready to face her with so much confusion reigning in head and heart. Then he glanced over his shoulder and saw red hair peeping above the covers. Musette?
She was fully dressed beneath the blanket and her pale cheeks bore the tracks of dried tears. His heart gave a tender twist of melancholy. She must have come in to snuggle up next to him sometime during the night. Could he blame her for wanting to seek out the familiar in such a lonely house amid strangers after sharing a single room for so long in communal companionship? He was her link to the past; a past she couldn’t release. Frederic’s death had been a terrible shock to her as well.
Though yet weighted with weariness, he had no desire to linger abed with a woman who was not Nicole Radouix. He rolled out carefully so as not to wake Musette, and dressed in his stale clothing. He couldn’t remember ever being so thirsty. His throat was tight and achy. When he left his room, he was frustrated by his own lack of direction. He couldn’t remember where the stairs were, or, for that matter, even climbing them. He wandered the upper hall on legs that refused to behave reliably until he caught sight of a great sweeping staircase which he all but dragged himself down, so lightheaded he feared he’d go tumbling to the bottom at any second. What was wrong with him? His whole body felt watery and weak. Shock, perhaps. Hunger, most likely. He couldn’t remember when he’d had his last meal.
The scent of warm bread lured him down one of the corridors, but he drew up outside an open set of doors. Within, he could see the elegantly garbed Madame Radouix sitting down to her midday meal. The table was of banquet-length, all decked in pewter, linen and crystal. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of his appearance; of his soiled and probably offensive clothes, of his own unwashed skin and stubbled face. And he would rather have starved right to bones in the hall than intrude upon the lone diner in such a lowly state.
He was distracted by sounds from deeper in the house and followed them back to the kitchen in the servants’ wing. There he found a tiny woman engaged in bustling activity. She gave a gasp when she saw him.
“Oh! You gave me a start. I wasn’t aware you was up and about yet. I be Bessie Kampford.” She made a light curtsy, then continued with her English-accented French. “If you’ll return to the dining room, sir, I’ll fetch you—”
“If you please, I’d rather take my meal in here. If it’s no bother, madame.”
She blinked in surprise, then shrugged. “Suit yourself; sir. Sit yourself down and I’ll dish up some nice h
ot mutton stew. I myself got no use for your fancy French foods. Good, solid English cooking that’ll stick to your ribs. That’s what you be needing.”
Marchand smiled faintly and let himself plop onto one of the backless stools at the corner table. His eyes closed and he’d almost drifted off when the scent of savory stock beneath his nose brought him around.
“Don’t be shy when it comes to seconds.”
“Might I have some wine?”
“For lunch?” she muttered disapprovingly under her breath, but added with a proper dignity, “I usually serve tea.”
“Mrs. Kampford, if our guest would like wine, bring him wine. Red,”
Marchand bolted up off the stool to assume a stiff attention. “Madame Radouix, forgive me if I disturbed you.”
Arabella smiled slightly as she watched a deep flush creep up otherwise pale cheeks. “M’sieur LaValois, I’m dining in the other room. Please join me. Bessie, would you bring his plates.”
“If you please, madame, I would feel more—comfortable here.”
How rigidly that was spoken, as if he were mortified to the soul to be placed in such a position. Arabella gentled her reply. “We don’t ask our visitors to dine in the kitchen, m’sieur. If you would—”
“Please, madame,” he interrupted. “I could not sit to your table like this. It would be an insult to your hospitality. Nor do I wish to impose upon your sensibilities.”
“I see,” she murmured, trying to contain her smile at the arrogance of his humility. “As you wish.”
Marchand swallowed hard after she left the kitchen, so ashamed of his reduced circumstances he didn’t know if he could finish his meal. Then, much to his surprise, Arabella returned, carrying her own plates.
“Would you mind very much if I joined you in here? It’s been ages since I’ve had company for my midday meal and eating alone at that big empty table quite depresses my appetite.”
He stared at her blankly until aware his mouth was open. Then he moved quickly to relieve her of her dishes and to seat her upon the opposite stool. He settled back before his stew, his eyes downcast, his pride chafing, while a wonderful sense of gratitude blossomed toward Nicole’s mother.
“This is not the first kitchen I’ve ever eaten in, m’sieur. My husband has all the titles behind him. I am but a physician’s daughter. I’ve been known to eat lunch over an autopsy table. I don’t mind the surroundings as long as the food is good and the company stimulating.”
“And did you find the company stimulating at the autopsy, madame?”
“A dead bore, actually.”
And he grinned at that, a wide beaming smile that overset the pallor and the bruising and the whiskers to give her a glimpse of the man who’d won her daughter’s heart.
“You have a very nice smile, Marchand. May I call you that?”
“This is the kitchen, madame. By all means.”
“Mrs. Kampford, I would like some wine also. And do not glower at me so. I am old enough to take spirits at a meal if I so choose.”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the dour reply.
“Please resume your meal, Marchand. Mrs. Kampford may be prickly company but she is an excellent cook.”
He was still smiling as if relieved to be enjoying normal conversation in someone’s kitchen. Then abruptly his animation faded and she could see his dark eyes fill before he lowered them to his plate, as if he felt he had no right to enjoy this morning when others he loved would not. What an awful time he must have had of it, she thought to herself.
“How is the wine, m’sieur?”
“Very good, thank you,” came his hushed reply. And they continued to eat in silence for some time, Marchand trying to focus on his meal, struggling to keep his hands steady; Arabella trying not to act upon her sympathy by pretending not to notice how frequently he was wiping at his eyes.
She studied him, bemused. He wore a pauper’s clothes but his actions were crisp and disciplined, his manners and modesty befitting a higher class. She wondered what kind of man her daughter had fallen in love with.
“What is it you do in Paris, Marchand?”
Again, she saw him stiffen up. “I am currently without work, madame.”
Because he was waiting for some negative reaction to that news, she went on smoothly as if it was unimportant. “What is it you used to do?”
“I was in the military.”
Ah, that explained his regimented movements and rigid sense of protocol. “A noble pursuit.”
“When the cause is noble, madame.”
“How unfortunate that so few of them are.”
His gaze came up—he had nice eyes, too; dark, intelligent and direct, she noted. She liked that. She liked him.
“And what do you know of causes, madame?” He didn’t ask that belligerently, but rather with the challenge of one who liked a good debate.
“Oh, believe me, m’sieur, the medical profession is full of causes, motivated by greed and prestige but rarely by the love of humanity.”
“Then they must have much in common, the military and medicine.”
“A pity more can’t see beyond what is accepted to what is good and right.” And he was still for a moment, sensing she was no longer talking theory.
“Limited vision can often be safer.”
“And how do you view things, Marchand?”
“Carefully, madame.”
She smiled. “Very wise of you.”
“If I was so very wise, I’m not sure I would be here.”
“More wine?”
“I think not. My head is cloudy enough already.”
Arabella stood. “Since I don’t care to take all my meals in the kitchen, let me see if I can find something suitable for you and the young lady to wear. I’ll have a bath readied so you can clean up. I would prefer you feel comfortable in my house.”
His gaze was suddenly very sober. “I don’t know if that’s possible, Madame Radouix.”
Arabella came to stand beside him and slipped her palm beneath his chin, tipping his head up toward the light. He squinted his eyes.
“Look up at me,” Arabella instructed.
“What is it?”
“Habit. Always a doctor’s daughter. You are very pale, Marchand, and there’s a bluish cast to the whites of your eyes. Let me see your hands.”
Puzzled, he extended them.
“Your nail beds are very pale as well. Almost as if you’d lost a great deal of blood.” Discreetly, she pushed back his cuffs then examined his neck with her glance.
He pulled his hands back, his look growing guarded. “I hit my head. Could that account for it?”
She probed the back of his skull and found evidence of a wound. It was recent enough for him to wince at her light touch. “That must be it,” she murmured. “Drink plenty of fluids. Rest. Recover yourself.”
“I don’t think that’s possible either, madame.”
And as she looked down at him, Arabella was wondering if he was right. Because she didn’t think his blood loss was due to a bump on the back of his head.
“Marchand, I would like to give you something, a small token to thank you for your care of Nicole.”
“Please, madame, nothing is necessary,” he began to protest, but she waved him off.
“I insist. Wear this always and know of my gratitude.”
And she reached behind her nape to unfasten a lightweight chain, draping the fine link about his neck. Curiously, he reached up to finger it, craning his neck to see what dangled from its end.
It was a small silver cross.
Chapter Eighteen
THE RADOUIX TABLE hosted a tense gathering that night. Musette was the only one animated and Arabella was politely drawn into conversation as the young woman gushed ab
out the beauty of the grounds and the lush vegetable gardens that reminded her of her own rural home. The young Parisian was wearing one of Nicole’s gowns and the fit wasn’t bad. Cleaned up, she was a very attractive woman. Arabella was aware of a certain sullenness in her daughter’s regard of her friend. A sullenness that altered to ill-concealed anguish when directed upon the young man opposite.
Marchand sat coatless at the table and was obviously uncomfortable. He was too broad of body for any of Louis’s jackets, so he was relegated to shirtsleeves. His clean-shaven face was nearly as white as the fine linen; and his eyes stood out like large, dark blue-edged bruises. He ate quietly and kept a covert eye on the way Louis and Nicole moved their food about their plates without partaking of any of it.
He was in the process of reaching for his wine when it sounded soft against his ear; a delicate whisper.
Marchand. He gave a sudden gasp, his hand knocking the glass over. He stared at the spill stupidly, watching the deep crimson puddle outward upon the snowy white linen.
Marchand.
A silky female purr. One he recognized.
He leapt up out of his chair, looking behind him as if he expected to find Satan at his shoulder.
“Did you hear—” He broke off and glanced at the others who were gazing at him in blank surprise. Realizing how he must look, he stammered, “Forgive me. It was nothing. I’m sorry,” and he began frantically trying to blot up the vivid red stain spreading across the tablecloth.
“It’s all right,” Louis was saying as he reached to stay the clumsy efforts.
Marchand just stared at Louis’s long-fingered hand, so flawlessly fair and smooth, staring as if it was something alien and awful instead of a casual gesture from his host. His eyes came up then, round and black, and he began to back away from the table.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t feel well. I—I’m going upstairs.” And he practically fled.
Before Nicole could rise, Musette excused herself to go after him.
By the time he reached the door to his room, Marchand was drenched in an icy sweet. He was certain he would hear nothing over the rasp of his own breathing and the loud thunder of his heart, but it came again, that low seductive whisper.