Of course. That was why the poor man seemed so distracted. A commission from the king would make his reputation. What interest could an artist like Boucher have in her pitiful dabbling when he could be speaking with kings? Eileen frowned.
“Then by all means, Comte, take Monsieur Boucher to the king, not to me. I can commission him for nothing.”
She swung around and nearly collided with the tall, exceptionally handsome man just entering the room from the vestibule of the Staircase of Ambassadors. People around her dropped into deep curtsies and bows, and instinctively Eileen did the same.
Kingly in demeanor but oddly reserved in manner, the new arrival accepted his subjects’ obeisance briefly before turning his back on the room and lifting Eileen to meet his gaze.
“And who are you recommending to me for commissioning?” Louis smiled wryly at her flustered reaction.
“Monsieur Boucher, Your Majesty,” Eileen stammered, managing to catch the drift of his clipped French. She had not been introduced to the king, but she had seen him frequently in large crowds. At the age of thirty-five, he had reigned for thirty years. He possessed a commanding presence but a gentle face, much like a little boy’s. His smile was almost shy as he looked her over, but his knowledge of his own authority prevented his gaze from being anything less than assessing.
The comte intruded, introducing Boucher and possessively taking Eileen’s arm as he realized the king required introduction here also.
“And why would you recommend Monsieur Boucher to me, mademoiselle?” Speaking in a low, husky voice, Louis gave his nobleman a cold look and appropriated Eileen’s hand. The comte took the hint and dropped behind as they crossed the room.
“Monsieur le comte recommends him, sire. He is said to be a fine artist.”
The artist in question hovered just behind them, listening to their every word. Louis gestured for him to step forward.
“You paint portraits?”
“No, Your Majesty. I mean, yes, for you, Your Majesty.”
Louis waved his hand in the direction of the reception room. “Then find Madame la Marquise and enquire as to whether your services would be accepted.” With a regal wave he dismissed the man, then turned to the nobleman at his side. “Avignon, if you have no further words for Mademoiselle de Lacy, I require her company.”
“Of course, sire.” The comte made a courtly bow before turning to address Eileen. “I shall see you later, mademoiselle?” The question contained a large dollop of self-assurance.
“I think not,” Eileen replied frostily, but from the gleam in Avignon’s eye she suspected he did not believe her. No one in the French court said what they meant or behaved as expected. Her forthright “no” seemed to contain nuances she had never dreamed of to these courtiers.
Avignon departed, leaving Eileen conspicuously on the king’s arm.
“Your Majesty wished to speak with me?” Eileen prompted nervously. Her French had improved over these last months, but her accent caused the best of listeners to wince.
“No, we merely wished to rid ourselves of sycophants.” Louis shrugged, his attention already wandering.
“Then, I thank you, sir.” Irritated, Eileen swept a gallant curtsy and prepared to depart.
Diverted by her intention of leaving before she was dismissed, the king returned his attention to her. His eyebrow lifted. “Where is your Lord Sherburne?” he demanded, refusing to let her go.
Startled, Eileen looked up into a pair of cold eyes. Without thinking, she replied honestly, “At the gaming table earning our keep.”
The king laughed and his eyes became friendly once more. “His uncle pleads his case well, but I can do nothing for him, you realize. The Stuarts are a considerable embarrassment to me.”
Eileen felt the first twinge of icy fear. If the French king and Drake’s noble family could not provide diplomatic persuasion, how would Drake ever win the ear of the English court? She knew Drake too well to deny the answer to that one. He would have to go to London himself.
“He is not a Jacobite, sir,” Eileen offered. “He is a victim of treachery, much as my own father was. His family and his tenants suffer for the greed of one man.”
“And you?” At Eileen’s questioning look Louis expounded, “Do you suffer as a result of this treachery, too?”
Eileen met his gaze. “I gained by it, and will lose for it if he returns to England. But my gain is nothing in the face of his loss.”
Louis contemplated this silently. Before he could reply, the crowd shifted, and Drake appeared. Golden hair powdered and pulled back in a severe queue, linen and lace immaculate and flowing, he appeared every inch the aristocrat, and his bow held a hint of arrogance as he greeted the king.
“Your Majesty.” Cynical eyes swept to Eileen on the king’s arm. “I trust Miss de Lacy has not annoyed you with her pert tongue?”
Louis grinned. “Her French is admittedly abominable, but her tongue is quite sweet. You should have sent her to plead with me in the first place, Sherburne.”
Drake scowled. “That is not why I brought her here.”
The king gave him a shrewd look and released Eileen’s hand. “I know. I respect you for that. Take her home, Sherburne. You are welcome to stay in my court if that is your desire, but she does not belong here. Take her home.”
With that, the king strode away, leaving Eileen to stare after him and Drake to grip her arm. When he began to lead her through the crowd, she balked, forcing him to meet her gaze.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Back to my uncle’s house.” Drake’s jaw was rigid with rage. “The king is right. You have no business here!”
Eileen stared at his beloved features with all the pent-up pain of these last few agonizing days. “No, I don’t,” she replied, searching his drawn face, where all the laughter had fled. “And neither do you.” With that, she tore from his grasp and vanished into the crowd. Had there been a tree in the room, Drake would have sworn it swallowed her up.
Chapter 17
Eileen allowed the maid to help her with her laces and gown, then dismissed her for the evening. She did not need prying eyes for what she did now.
With the maid gone, she slipped into one of the old gowns she had brought with her. The loose construction needed no binding corset, and she could travel with more ease. Fine silks and satins would only draw attention. Blending with her surroundings was much of the secret of disappearing at will.
Drake had told her to go and go she would. He had no further use for her, so she must look after herself. And the child. Even if de Lacy should trace her to the French court, he would not find where she went now. Let him think she had disappeared from the face of the earth. Let him spend his nights worrying when she would expose him. She could not do it now, but someday. . .
Eileen dragged out her canvas bag and packed it with those things that belonged to her. The costly gowns would stay behind. She tied the few gold coins Drake had given her in the corner of a handkerchief. She considered these repayment for what she had taken from Sir John. She needed them now. Pen and ink and paint entered the bag with the coins and the small stack of old clothes. She would leave this life much as she had entered it. Almost.
The sharp rap at her door broke Eileen’s concentration. She almost felt relief. She had no wish to part from Drake in anger. He would understand her need to leave and perhaps lend his aid. Though he could not love her, she hoped he remained her friend. She called a welcome.
Avignon’s appearance in her doorway shocked her. She had forgotten his existence. He entered and closed the door before she could protest.
“That is not the most becoming of gowns to wear to show your appreciation of my efforts,” the comte said disapprovingly. In the candlelight his sagging jowls had a sallow appearance, but his shadow was long and broad as he approached.
“Get out of here!” Enraged, Eileen refused to be backed into a corner but boldly strode forward.
Avignon’s lips cur
led at the corners. “Do not be so quick, my lady. You have no secrets from me. I know who you are and where you come from and why you are here. If you grow tired of your first protector, it would do you well to choose an equally strong replacement. Your enemies are not known for their delicacy and finesse.”
Eileen blanched at this insinuating threat. How could he know of Lord de Lacy? A petty Irish noble could have no connections in this court of kings.
“And you, my lord, are the misbegotten results of the bestial mating of a jackass and a venomous serpent. Get out before I scream you into deafness.”
Avignon appeared startled by the calmness of her curse, but he recovered rapidly. He grabbed Eileen’s wrist and yanked her against him. “I like a woman with spirit. Try your worst, witch. The servants are understanding.”
He bent to cover her mouth with his but Eileen spat in his face and jerked away. With a swiftness that belied his size, Avignon grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, smacking her across the mouth with the back of his hand.
Eileen crumpled to the floor near the grate, her head reeling with the force of his blow. The shock blinded her to thought, and she reacted instinctively. She had been struck before, but then she had been helpless. Not so now. Her hand wrapped around the iron poker behind her. Never again, by all that was Christian, never again.
When Avignon reached for her, Eileen swung with all the force of her petite frame. The poker found its mark at the back of his head.
The resounding crack echoed in the silent chamber. The comte’s bulky body crumbled to the floor with a look of surprise and pain in his eyes before they closed. By the time Eileen scrambled to her feet, blood gushed from his scalp, and he lay in an unconscious heap upon the stone grate.
She had killed him. She knew she had. She wished it could have been de Lacy, but it was too late for futile wishes. Now she must run and hide of a certainty.
Too late now, panic engulfed her, and Eileen began to shake all over. Her head throbbed with the pain of his blow and the salty taste of blood flowed in her mouth. She felt his disgusting hands upon her and the bile in her throat turned to vomit. With painful wretchedness, the king’s banquet came up to fill her chamber pot.
Still aching and terrified by what she had done, she grabbed her small bag and fled—to the only security she knew.
Drake had taken her to his chambers before. She knew how to find them. She raced along long, dark hallways, her steps echoing unnaturally loud in the emptiness. He had to be there. She needed him.
With the familiarity of the intimacy they had shared these last months, Eileen flung open Drake’s door and darted into the room, only to stop and utter a hoarse cry.
In the flickering light of the bed candle, Drake lay half undressed upon his bed, the golden mat of hair upon his chest shimmering in the light while his hands clasped the arms of a dark-haired woman next to him. From the unfastened state of the woman’s bodice and her disheveled appearance as she raised her head, Eileen needed no further explanation. She did not even stop to consider the pain in Drake’s eyes as he cursed and threw the woman aside. Without a word she turned and fled.
By the time Drake disentangled himself and raced to the corridor, Eileen had gone. Disappeared. He turned back into the room and demanded furiously, “Who sent you?”
The woman rose from the bed and shrugged, making no attempt to cover the bared curves revealed by her open bodice. “What does it matter? She is gone, I am here. Stay, and let me show you. . .”
Drake flung her back to the bed. Hands on hips, towering over her, he loosed the sharp-edged sword of his fury. “Who sent you?”
Reading the murder in his eyes, the woman hastily replied, “Avignon. He thought if you were occupied. . .” Cursing, Drake grabbed for his shirt. “Let us hope we find him alive. Come on. I will need you for a witness.”
When she did not immediately follow, Drake jerked her to her feet and dragged her to the door. He had seen the stark terror in Eileen’s eyes when she’d entered so hysterically. He did not need to be told that Avignon had found her. If she had not killed the bastard, he would try his hand on it.
By dawn, the scandal had been averted, but Drake could not rid himself of the murderous look in Avignon’s eyes when he regained consciousness. They had a dangerous enemy in that one, but with any luck at all, they would be gone before the comte recovered the strength to rise from his bed.
With the first streaks of dawn brightening the summer sky, Drake sought the stables. If Eileen had persuaded one of the stable boys to saddle a horse for her, she would lead him a good race. He knew his little heathen. Her fury would give her the strength of ten men. The lead she had gained while he had pacified the authorities would make this a long day’s ride.
Drake breathed a sigh of relief after questioning the stable hands and inspecting the stalls. She had not taken a horse. She had not taken the gowns he had worked so hard to win for her, either, and that oddity irritated him more than anything else she had done. He had not suspected she had any compunction at all against helping herself to anything that might aid her escape. The horse might have been difficult to steal, but the gowns were hers and worth a goodly sum. What would she use for money?
With his uncle’s blessing, Drake commandeered a powerful stallion, filled his pack with wine and food from the kitchen larder, and set out after his errant lady. On foot, she could not be far ahead of him. Then he would see her settled once and for all.
By the end of that first day, Drake’s confidence had dwindled to tired confusion. He had felt certain she would set out on the road to Calais, but no one he met would admit to seeing such a one as he described. He circled Versailles, inquiring at all the inns and taverns along the way, stirring interest and amusement but discovering nothing. It was impossible to believe that no one had noticed a woman of Eileen’s looks traveling alone and on foot. By day’s end, Drake had begun to suspect a conspiracy.
His suspicions increased when he returned to the Calais road at sunset and stopped at a farmyard along the way. The peasant woman in the doorway regarded his fine horse and saddle with ingrained distrust and refused to speak when he questioned her. Her husband appeared in the doorway and made negative answers to all Drake’s inquiries, but as Drake wearily returned to his saddle, he caught the woman’s smug expression of satisfaction. Instinct warned that they lied.
Furious, Drake urged his tired mount down the road until darkness ensured he would not see Eileen if she walked beside him in the road. Cursing women, himself, and the stubborn French, he built a small fire in the field and settled in for the night. In the morning he would be more wary when making his inquiries. She could not be far ahead of him.
The second day was a repeat of the first with the exception that Drake had become sensitive to the lies he was given. He met each negative shake of the head in mounting frustration, and only common sense prevented him from pulling his sword on unarmed peasants and demanding the truth. The one who deserved his ire stayed one step ahead of him as he followed her path of lies.
He would wring her neck when he found her. With all the hours of the day to think about it, Drake realized Eileen had been prepared to run before she came upon him, probably even before Avignon had come to her. The white-faced ghost he had seen so briefly in his doorway had not been calm enough to pack bags and change her clothes. That had been done before she slammed an iron poker into the head of one of France’s noble aristocrats.
Had she planned to tell him she was leaving or would she have just left, disappearing into the night? What had he done to drive her away? Where did she plan to go? Surely she would not return to Michael? Doubt and anger mixed in confusion as Drake searched the roadways and fields and badgered the peasants for some clue to Eileen’s path.
Heartsick and weary beyond all imagination, Drake sank into a tavern chair at the end of the day and swallowed a long drink of ale.
From behind the curtains separating the public room from the kitchen, a maid peer
ed at this travel-stained stranger. Haggard lines of anxiety and exhaustion marred his handsome features, but blue eyes watched warily. Though obviously tired, he did not relax the proud stance of his broad shoulders, and he held his head high. A small frown puckered the maid’s brow as she tried to picture this blond gentleman striking the delicate lady whose bruised face she had seen earlier in the day. She knew men too well and this one did not seem the sort to strike one so much smaller than he. But aristocrats were not to be trusted. She held her tongue.
Drake slept little the second night. Images of Eileen sleeping in cold fields or threatened by drunken strangers kept him from any semblance of peace. She could be trampled beneath the hooves of cattle, abducted by highwaymen, beaten for what few poor things she carried. Drake pounded his flea-ridden pillow with frustration and rose before the break of day.
Not until nearly noon of that third day did Drake begin to realize what Eileen was doing. From what hints he received, she was still on this road, making no attempt to hide herself or disguise her path. How she managed to stay ahead of him he could not fathom, but her disguise he finally understood. A British lady of quality, traveling alone, would attract nothing but suspicion and distrust from these wary peasants, just as he did, and he spoke the language without flaw. Eileen spoke only execrable French, but her mute gestures could communicate in any language. She had retreated into her former silence, passing among the villagers as one of their own kind, or close enough.
Drake clenched his jaw in fury. The little brat did not fear the authorities following her, for she knew they would not be searching for a mute peasant. She could travel the public road with impunity in that guise. Only, she must know that sooner or later he would figure it out. Did that mean she wished him to follow or thought he would not?
If the latter, she would be severely disappointed. She had led him a merry chase, but it was almost at an end. And then he would make his claim permanent. Whatever the future might bring, he would not see this hell repeated. Let the little brat protest as she may, but her days of freedom had finally come to an end.
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