Jo Graham - [Numinous World 05]

by The Emperor's Agent (epub)

  "So then he asked how I was liking Paris, and I said I just got here and I hadn’t seen anything yet but it all seemed very noisy with the construction everywhere."

  "He’s building three hospitals and an aqueduct," I said. "And widening the streets around Les Halles. Michel, did you have to criticize everything you could think of?"

  "I didn’t criticize!" he said. "I just said it was noisy. Which it is. And how should I know it was his construction?"

  "Whose construction did you think it was? George III? The Czar?" I put my head in my hands.

  "I’m sorry I don’t know everything like you do," Michel said hotly. "After all, I’m just some jumped-up bumpkin, not a lady in tatters like you!"

  I stood up, face to face with him, my face as scarlet as his. "Did you have to be a complete idiot?"

  "Do you have to be a complete shrew?"

  "Shrew?"

  "Shrew!"

  I raised my hand to slap him, but he grabbed my wrist. I tried slapping at him with my right hand, but he caught that too. His grip was steel, and there was no way to break his grasp.

  His hands were just a shade too tight around my wrists, and I felt a shiver that had nothing to do with anger.

  He saw it in my face, and an expression that was almost a smirk settled over him.

  I stomped on his foot.

  He picked me up even though I was no lightweight and hauled me bodily into the bedroom.

  Doing so involved letting go of one hand, however, and the buttons on his tight white pants suffered enormously from being ripped loose. And after that it was a different kind of passion.

  Lying disheveled on top of my gold duvet in the afternoon, I got my breath back curled against his side, my skirts around my waist, one stocking on, one stocking off, wearing nothing else below the waist. His pants were a sad casualty on the floor, but he was still wearing his dress coat with shirt and waistcoat. The gold oak leaves on his collar had impressed themselves on the inside of my arm where it was pinned against him. I stretched lazily.

  "I don’t think you’re an idiot, Michel," I said. The warmth of his skin felt good against the inside of my thigh.

  "I don’t think you’re a shrew," he said. His voice sounded rough and half dozing, the tension drained away.

  I rubbed my thigh back and forth against him, sticky with his seed.

  "We forgot the letters," he said. "Does it matter? You just came off your courses."

  "It should be safe," I said. "At least a day or two more. You forget all the time."

  "So do you," he said, and nuzzled against my hair.

  "We’re both terrible about it," he said. "No common sense at all."

  "I know," I said.

  "Would it be so awful?"

  "What? If I were to get pregnant?" I craned my neck to look at him. "You tell me."

  He shrugged as though unconcerned. "I like children. And I like you. And I like the way we fight."

  "So do I," I said. I put my head against his shoulder. I didn’t want to think about it. If it happened, I would deal with it then. I didn’t trust him quite that much. Or perhaps it was fortune I didn’t trust.

  "Am I an idiot?" he asked, and I knew he didn’t mean with Bonaparte, but I pretended I thought that was what he meant.

  "Yes, " I said. "No political sense at all. Was it a total disaster?"

  He shifted his arm under my head. "I don’t know. We talked about the Army of the Rhine and the last campaign. That seemed to go well enough. And then Madame Bonaparte arrived and walked me out. We ran into her daughter and a friend of hers in the garden. Did you know Madame Bonaparte grafts roses? She knows a lot about horticulture."

  "I didn’t know," I said. "And her daughter? Is she well? I heard she was injured in the bomb last winter."

  "She seemed well enough to me," Michel said. "She and her friend Mademoiselle Auguié giggled at me behind their hands every time my back was turned."

  "Well," I said, smiling, "Your pants were rather tight."

  "I couldn’t sit down," he said. "I had to tower over Bonaparte the entire time."

  I rolled my eyes where he couldn’t see. "And that was a wonderful idea."

  "If you thought the pants were a bad idea you should have said so."

  "I didn’t know that you actually couldn’t sit down," I said. "You should only wear them for dancing."

  Michel glanced over to where they lay in a heap. "I’m not sure I’m going to wear them for anything," he said skeptically.

  "I can sew the buttons back on," I said.

  It seemed that Michel wasn't wrong about how badly it had gone with the First Consul. Spring turned into summer and he wasn't assigned. He continued on full pay, on indefinite leave in Paris. Of course, with the peace, it was possible there simply weren't many commands available, but I couldn't help seeing the shadow of Moreau's long disgrace, the year and a half when he had gone without a command, getting more and more bad tempered and unreasonable.

  Not that Michel was either bad tempered or unreasonable. A summer in Paris with plenty of money and few cares seemed to agree with him after two years of more or less solid campaigning, ending in a difficult winter battle. We spent our mornings riding in the Bois de Boulogne, our evenings in taverns with my friends or his, or sometimes both together. His friends were mostly officers his age but junior to him in rank, the kind of young men who made high-spirited companions for actresses, free spending to a fault.

  Michel was the soberest one. Perhaps it was because he was usually the ranking officer in any group, or perhaps he was simply more serious by nature, but he was the one who lost the least money at cards, the one who attempted to dissuade friends from betting on who could swim the Seine, made noxious by sewage in the summer. He was the first to want to leave the party at night, the least likely to be drunk. Perhaps it was because he had the most to look forward to at home afterwards.

  I should not have been surprised that he took to Auguste Thibault, who was anything but a gallant. Isabella and her artillery colonel were still in Paris, and I asked them to dinner as soon as we had moved and had an actual dining room. Michel and Auguste sat at the table long after the last of the cheese was eaten, discussing increasingly technical details of gunnery over several glasses of my favorite Madeira, until Isabella and I wished we had another parlor to withdraw to. In the end, we went in the bedroom and sat on the bed while they went on and on.

  Isabella kicked her shoes off and curled up on the foot of the bed, smiling. "I’m glad you see you found a man who suits you," she said. "You look very well, Ida. I was worried for a bit, last year."

  I flopped back against the pillows, propping one under my head. "Oh, we suit. We suit very well." It was Michel’s pillow, and it smelled like him. "I was worried myself, last year. But I came through, didn’t I?"

  "Even if he’s not the First Consul?" Isabella grinned knowingly.

  "Michel doesn’t know about that," I said, glancing toward the door. He and Auguste were refighting something or other around the table, possibly an artillery duel at Lodi. "I don’t see any point in bringing that up. He doesn’t ask about my past and I don’t ask about his."

  "Does he have much of one?" Isabella asked.

  I shrugged. "Men always have a past. I’m sure there are things I don’t need to know. But I know what kind of man he is, and I trust that."

  "I hope you’re not given reason to be sorry," Isabella said. "Awful things happen all the time, and they’re always done by someone else. Only not really. I don’t want to know what makes Auguste go white around the mouth like he does. He keeps his secrets. And now he has these secret meetings on Tuesday night. I begged him to tell me if it was political, and he swore it wasn’t, but he won’t tell me where he goes or why."

  "To protect you? " I sat up straighter. It had been only a few years since the Jacobin clubs met in the cellar of St. Sulpice, and revolutionary and counterrevolutionary societies continued to meet in secret, some to the left of the government a
nd some to the right.

  Isabella shook her head. "He says it’s not political, but he’s sworn to reveal nothing."

  "That would make me nervous," I said.

  It certainly made me nervous the next Tuesday night, when Michel went with him.

  I paced around the apartment for hours, wondering what they were doing and what I should say, wondering how I could say it without seeming to attack Michel’s complete lack of political sense. There was nothing of the conspirator in him, and if he played at that game I was sure he would be played for a fool.

  Men had been denounced for nothing more than attending the wrong meeting, being in the wrong company at the wrong time. Men had gone to the guillotine for nothing more than that.

  The hours went by. Eleven came and went, then midnight. It was nearly one when he came in.

  I was still sitting at the table, the candle burned almost all the way down, a nearly empty glass of Madeira in front of me that I had been nursing for hours. I looked up, and all the things I had planned to say melted in sheer relief at seeing him.

  "Elza?" He put his hat on the chair by the door and came over to me, his brow furrowed with concern. "Why aren’t you in bed? You look awful. Did something happen?"

  "No," I said. I stood up and took his hands, wanting to touch him.

  "I was with Auguste," he said, "And the time slipped away. I didn’t mean for you to sit up for me."

  "I have to know," I said, and it came out all in a rush. "I’m not like Isabella. She doesn’t want to know. But I have to. If you’re part of something, if you’re putting yourself in danger…."

  He squeezed my fingers, his mystified expression changing to something more like discomfort. "Are you imagining me in some Jacobin conspiracy? I promise you, I’m not. I told you I had no interest in plotting with Moreau or anyone else."

  "Then what are you doing?" I asked. "If it’s whoring and gambling with Auguste and his friends, just tell me that so I’ll know and not worry. I don’t own you, and I wouldn’t be hurt by that kind of thing."

  "I would never do that." Michel looked honestly amazed. "Why in the world would I visit a whorehouse? I mean, all right, once or twice a few years ago, when I was on leave and didn’t have any attachments, but why would I do that now?"

  "I don’t know." His hands were warm in mine. "Variety?"

  Michel laughed, throwing his head back. "Variety? When we have an entire circus right here?" He slipped his arms around me, solid and comforting. "Believe me, Elza, there is absolutely no reason I would visit a whorehouse, with Auguste or anyone else."

  "Then where were you?" I asked, looking up at him. "Michel, I need to know."

  His eyes slid away from mine. "Need?"

  "Yes," I said. I reached up, my hands against his lapels, the gold oak leaves scratchy under my hands. I found his eyes again and pulled them back to mine.

  He searched my face and sighed. "It’s a lodge meeting."

  "A lodge meeting?" My voice sounded incredulous to my own ears. "You mean Masonry or something? My father was a Mason. Of course the ceremonies are secret, but he never hid that he was going to the lodge. There’s no reason to."

  Michel sighed again. "Something like that. I’m a Mason too and it’s not particularly secret. This is…a more esoteric form of Masonry, I suppose. Not political. Just more esoteric."

  "With Auguste."

  "Auguste is a member, yes. He asked me to come with him." Michel met my eyes levelly. "I promise you it’s nothing political. And I’m not supposed to talk about it."

  "Esoteric." I suddenly wondered about Lebrun, about the legitimate lodges he had described in the days when I was acting as his medium. Auguste Thibault seemed an unlikely member for one of those groups, but I could certainly imagine Michel’s interest.

  "I’m not supposed to, Elza.” " He put his head to the side, meeting my eyes fully now. "I have to ask you to respect my oaths."

  I nodded. “"I understand. And I won’t ask you any more." Isabella was right. There are things we don’t want to know. And right now anything involving demons or angels was one of those things.

  Michel pulled me close, his face against the top of my head. "Thank you. I promise you it’s nothing to worry about. Now come to bed."

  I did, and I asked him no more. And I told him nothing either.

  Thermidor came, the hottest part of the summer when anyone who can leaves Paris for the country. It was too hot to wear nightclothes, even with all the windows open. We threw the duvet on the floor and slept naked on the bare sheets, waking skin on skin in the first morning light. There was something deliciously sensual about waking up beside him, one hand against the creamy, freckled skin of his back, about running my fingers over his thighs while he slept. Moreau had never liked being in a state of undress, and my husband, Jan, had never spent a full night with me that I could remember. To watch the first stripes of morning sun through the window slowly crawl up the bed across his scarred legs was almost more intimate than I could bear.

  I had thought that I loved before. Now I knew I had been wrong. What I had felt for anyone else was nothing to this. With it came utter panicked vulnerability.

  Sometimes I picked fights with him to prove I could. Angry words and slammed doors were proof against belonging to him utterly and completely, the last defense of a heart in surrender. I wanted to submit and to conquer all at once. Fortunately, it was possible to do both in the bedroom and still wake in the morning without recriminations, without apologies that stained the entire day with tears and promises of affection.

  We had come in from riding in the Bois de Boulogne, a hot afternoon interrupted by a summer thunderstorm that left us both drenched and laughing, hurrying home while the lightning still cracked. I threw my sodden coat over the chair and took off my waistcoat in front of the empty fireplace while Michel unbound his queue and shook his head like a big dog, sending droplets of water everywhere. I laughed. "Stop that! You're getting me wetter!"

  He only grinned and shook his head again, taking off his coat and draping it over the chair back. "It's just a little water."

  "True enough," I said, throwing my soaked cravat at him so that it smacked him in the face.

  "My amazon," he said, throwing it back. "Was there ever another like you?"

  "If I were an amazon," I said, taking off my waistcoat, "I should not be yours. You should be mine."

  "Should I now?" He sat down on the chair, incidentally crushing my coat, and started taking his muddy boots off. "Is that how it works?"

  I nodded. His red hair was all over the place, falling in sodden threads about his face. "Oh yes. Some hapless soldier lost in the mountains and captured by fierce amazons. I think the captain would like you all to herself." My eyes lingered on his face, watching the color rise in his cheeks. "And so pretty when you blush."

  At that he truly did, turning red even as he dropped his second boot on the floor. "Would she?"

  "She would," I said. I crossed the floor to him, standing very deliberately before him, hips tilted forward to show off female form in man's clothing, reached down and lifted his chin roughly. "Have you ever been tied up?"

  Michel swallowed. He didn't look away, his eyes on mine. "No," he said.

  "A big fellow like you would put up quite a fight, I imagine," I said. "But then you wouldn't be much use to me if you weren't a fighter."

  "Use to you for what?" he said, his breath in his voice.

  "Breeding stock," I said, tilting his chin up more tightly. "I expect my girls could get quite a lot of use out of you. After I'm done."

  His eyes widened, anticipation warring with shame.

  "Stand up," I said, "And take your shirt off."

  He did it, unfastening the two buttons at the placket and pulling it over his head, shaking one of his hands loose where he hadn't gotten the cuff undone first.

  "Very nice," I said, putting the flat of my hand against his chest, firm and implacable. "Now the pants. Or should I have my girls str
ip you?"

  "I'd probably put up a fight about the pants," he said, even as his fingers tangled with mine getting the buttons loose.

  "Then I'd have to teach you a lesson," I said. I gave him a little push. "Kneel over the ottoman."

  It nearly broke the spell. "What, right here in the front room?"

  "There's no one here but us," I said. The apartment only had two rooms. "Now do as I tell you."

  "Amazons have ottomans?" He was nervous. I could see it in the way he moved, nervous but eager.

  "I suppose I'd use a rough barrel, but I don't happen to have one in the parlor," I said. "So get down there and shut your mouth if you know what's good for you."

  At that he did as I said, his knees on the floor, his chest stretched against the brocade fabric of the ottoman. His neck and forearms were sunburned, but his back and buttocks were all pale skin, redhead fair, a few freckles across the back of his shoulders.

  "That's right," I said. "Reach over and hold the legs on the other side. Stretch as though you were tied to them." I wasn't sure he'd actually abide the ropes yet. "And get your knees apart." I kicked them apart with my booted feet, wider than comfort, wide enough to expose the cleft of his buttocks, the shadow of his scrotum beneath. "I believe you need to learn a lesson, troublemaker."

  His breath was fast, but he bent his head like a boy in penance.

  "There's only one thing to do with a defiant one like you," I said, and brought my riding crop down across his buttocks.

  He actually cried out, more in astonishment than pain, as I'd stopped far short of giving him all I had, but he hadn't seen it coming. It had stung. And surprised. And somewhat more. His head rose, dripping red hair falling away from his face, from the line of his throat, passion writ in every line of his body.

  "I have a lesson to teach you about amazons, soldier," I said, and laid it across the back of his thigh sharply. "You belong to me. You'd best not forget it." Another, this just at the join of leg and crack, hard enough to leave a red mark. "And get those knees apart!"

  I shoved them apart again and he groaned. "Please."

  "No pleading," I said. "It doesn't become you." Another one, sharp and quick with just the leather pad at the end. "You are here to service me."