“Like you?” She eyed him with contempt. She could see he was well-to-do despite his rumpled appearance and smelly clothes. “What I am or what I become is no concern of yours. Now let me go.”
“Why are you dressed as a boy?” he asked in the French he knew so well—which was fortunate, he thought, since the girl clearly would know no English.
“You think I could survive as a woman? Living in the catacombs? The streets? I wouldn’t last a day. Bad things happen to homeless women. Now will you take your hands off me?” She wriggled in his grasp.
Ryan wondered what could have driven a young woman to become a thief and live among the dregs of humanity. Despite her dirt-streaked face, he could tell she would be quite pretty if she were cleaned up. He made his voice gentle. “Why do you live this way?”
She looked at him as though he were daft. “I told you—because I don’t want to starve. So I live as a man and steal to survive.”
“Don’t you have family?”
“No. But that is none of your business.”
“But surely—”
She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. “You wouldn’t understand anything about me or my kind. And if you don’t let me go, I’ll be sent to prison, and I’d rather die.”
He saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes but also noted how she bit down on her lip—hard—to hold them back.
A shrill whistle cut into the silence that hung between them.
A gendarme was running toward them. Ryan found himself wishing he had longer to think about whether he should let her go.
“I will take over now,” the gendarme said when he reached them. “It’s not often we’re able to catch these wily bastards.”
The gendarme’s brows lifted as he realized it was a woman in Ryan’s grasp but surprise quickly turned to a scowl. “A woman thief. It always disgusts me.” Grabbing her arm, he jerked her roughly to her feet.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to be so rough with her,” Ryan said as he stood.
He yanked Angele’s wrists behind her back and tied them with a thin rope that had been looped around his belt. “If these thieves want to pretend they’re men, then that’s how they’ll be treated.”
The gendarme spotted the reticule on the ground and bent to pick it up. Then, grasping Angele’s arm tightly, he steered her toward the street.
Ryan kept up with them. “Where will you take her?”
Angele turned to look at him coldly. “What do you care?”
The gendarme gave her a sharp smack on the back of her head. “Be quiet. People are in church. They don’t want to hear the likes of gutter trash like you.” Curtly, he told Ryan, “Jail. For a long, long time. She won’t get mercy because she’s a woman, believe me.”
Rounding the corner to the Place Denfert-Rochereau, Corbett came running to meet them, then slowed, wide-eyed, to see the angry-faced young woman, her hands tied behind her back. “You…you mean the thief was actually a woman?”
Ryan stared after the gendarme and the girl as they kept on going. “Yes,” he said quietly, sadly, “I’m afraid so.”
He watched them till they were out of sight, needled to wonder why he felt so deeply moved.
Perhaps it was the spirit mirrored in her eyes.
And the strange, smoldering desire he felt to try to tame it.
Chapter Two
Angele fought to keep track of time, but it was difficult. She could not distinguish night from day, because there were no windows. The only light came through the small square in the door when one of the guards walked by holding a lantern.
Twice a day a bowl of thick, sour-smelling gruel was pushed through the opening. But since the food was always the same, she could not tell the difference between morning and evening meals.
Once a day a guard would briefly open the door to exchange buckets of water for drinking and personal needs, but that, too, didn’t occur on any kind of schedule.
At first, she had tried to talk to the guards. She wanted to know when she would go before a judge, and she asked what day it was…what time it was. But no one ever answered.
The day she was arrested, she had been puzzled when she was not taken to the central jail in Paris. Instead, she was led along streets and alleys and finally down steps to a dark, narrow hall lined with cells.
Sometimes she could hear the other prisoners, and they all sounded like women. Maybe that meant the city jail was full of men, and the women were kept elsewhere. But then she did not know about such things as jails and prisons and wouldn’t be learning now if not for the meddling stranger.
Thinking about him made her stomach churn with fury.
Why had he been so determined to catch her? Most people would have minded their own business rather than chance entering the catacombs. He had obviously fought off Bruno, and Felix, too, which was quite a feat. She had passed them on her way in and called out that someone was after her. They had said to keep on running, that they would take care of it.
She had noticed the stranger spoke French with a foreign accent. American, probably. If she had not fallen, she would have escaped. And he would have eventually got turned around and lost and never found his way out.
And it would have served him right, too, she thought with a fresh wave of anger. Thanks to him, she might be sent to prison for years and be an old woman when she got out.
“Damn him,” she whispered in the stillness. “And damn Uncle Henry all the way to hell.”
Uncle Henry.
The name rolled like hot bile over her tongue.
He was her father’s brother and the reason that her life—her whole world—had been ripped to pieces. If not for him, her father would still be alive, for he’d had him accused and convicted of a crime he did not commit.
Stripped of everything he owned, the shame and humiliation had driven her father to take his own life, and she and her mother were left alone and poverty-stricken.
The reason Henry Mooring hated his brother Cecil and wanted to destroy him was quite clear. In the past, Henry had caused their father much grief with his gambling and drinking, which resulted in his being disinherited. Cecil was bequeathed everything. He offered to share with Henry, but Henry was furious and said he didn’t want his charity, vowing revenge. It had been a long time coming, but when it did, Cecil never had a chance against Henry’s carefully planned scheme.
But Henry hadn’t stopped with taking over the family property and all the wealth and position that went with it. He also wanted Angele and said it did not matter that she was his niece. When she rebuked him, he had brutally raped her and vowed if she did not marry him he would see her in prison, just like her father.
When her mother found out about it, they had fled England and gone to France, her mother’s native country. There they used her mother’s maiden name of Benet, because they learned word had spread across the Channel that Henry Mooring was offering a huge reward for their return. They were forced to hide, but it was not long before her mother died without warning in her sleep. Angele suspected she had just grieved herself to death.
So Angele was left alone to fend for herself, which was not easy after the way she had been raised. Surrounded by maids, she’d never had to do a thing for herself and spent her time riding the horses she adored over the countryside she loved.
But her mother had also seen to it that she learned everything a well-bred young lady should know. As a result, Angele was just as comfortable among nobility and royalty as she was with the groomsmen who tended the horses and the gardeners who cared for the estate’s lush gardens.
It had been a happy life, and though Angele was in no hurry to marry, she enjoyed the attention of would-be suitors. One day, when the time was right, she intended to take a husband and have children. She was confident of continuing the lifestyle she was accustomed to, never dreaming what fate so cruelly held in store. The thought of winding up orphaned, homeless, and starving was inconceivable.
Now, to make matter
s worse, her uncle’s threat had, ironically, come true: she was in prison. And all because of the interfering stranger.
She had thought of little else since that day, playing over and over in her mind all the details. And she had concluded that there was a moment when he’d been about to let her go. A few more seconds, and she was sure he would have shown mercy. There had just been something in his eyes once he discovered she wasn’t a boy. He had kept on holding her, and she had seen how the anger and disgust faded to the slightest glimmer of compassion.
She had sensed something else as well, and that was how he had continued to hold her after he knew she was a woman. His fingers had caressed her breasts ever so slightly. Then came another staggering awareness, one that flamed her cheeks to recall. He had been lying on top of her, and while it might have been her imagination when she felt the sudden hardness pressed against her, she didn’t think so. Such thoughts were not invented in her mind, especially after her uncle’s brutal attack. And in a way, it had brought the terror washing back.
He had teased her about how she could be a courtesan, his wit fascinating at such a time. He was probably a very pleasant person under normal circumstances. He certainly had a nice smile, warm as spring sunshine.
He was strong, she could tell. Yet, as he continued to hold her, his grip lightened a bit, as though he were afraid he might be hurting her. That was why she was so sure that, given a little more time, he would have let her go. He seemed to care. Otherwise, why would he have told the gendarme not to be so rough with her or asked where she was being taken?
She told herself she was being silly. The whole thing had happened so fast, and he probably hadn’t given her a second thought once it was over.
Still, there in the damp darkness, Angele preferred to dwell on the stranger rather than her miserable past or precarious future. She also felt a bizarre kind of comfort to remember his touch. It had made her feel that as long as he held her, she was insulated against all harm. And that was an emotion she’d not known in a long, long time.
Tears welled in her eyes, and Angele furiously blinked them away. Her uncle had tried to make her cry the night he raped her, so he would know she felt the pain he intended to inflict again and again until she agreed to marry him. Then he would be gentle, he said. He would not take her so roughly. But Angele had refused and promised herself to be so strong in the future that nothing—no one— would ever make her shed a tear.
To take her mind from the nightmare of the past, she again thought about the stranger, wondering what kind of life he led. He probably had a wife, a family. And he looked like a man of position and wealth, even if his clothes were rumpled and dirty from chasing her.
Then she made herself think of good times, like riding her horse Vertus, her hair blowing about her face as they galloped across the lush, green valleys, wild and free. It was a memory she would forever cherish, for it would likely never be again. Her uncle had taken Vertus, like everything else, and she was no longer free and likely would not be for a long time—if ever.
She felt a little stirring in the pit of her stomach and knew it was not hunger that gnawed but will—the will to survive, no matter what.
“I will not let them beat me down,” she said aloud.
“I will not let them beat me down,” she repeated, and with each word an inner strength surged. She could feel it winding about her heart, warm and caressing. There had to be a way. There had to be.
And she said it again, even louder, because it felt so good, better than anything had made her feel in too long to remember.
Screams of protests exploded around her from the other prisoners.
“Shut up, you bitch.”
“We ain’t listenin’ to your caterwauling.”
“Hey, I’m tryin’ to sleep. Shut that hole in your face.”
A few seconds later, footsteps sounded outside her door, and Angele cringed. She’d let herself get carried away, and the guard had heard, and there was no telling what he might do. She’d heard the other prisoners yelling back and forth, talking about the torture called The Grave. A wooden box buried in the ground, it was where rebellious prisoners were laid out like corpses and covered up with barely enough air to breathe. They were left there, buried alive, until they were almost dead. And oh, God, she prayed it would not happen to her.
A key turned in the lock.
She had been sitting on the floor, leaning back against the cold wall, but straightened in apprehension.
The door opened. A lantern was held up, and in its glow, she could see the guard called Leon. He was scowling as he swung the lantern about, searching the shadows. Then he saw her and growled, “All right. Get your thievin’ as over here and don’t give me no trouble. The commandant wants to see you.”
Angele cringed. “Please. I meant no harm. I was just talking to myself. Maybe I was too loud, but I didn’t mean to be. I’ll be quiet. I promise.”
His scowl deepened as he walked to where she was crouched. Reaching down, he twined his fingers in her hair and gave a hard yank. “Don’t argue with me, you little bitch, or I’ll tear it out by the roots.”
Angele managed to stand. He shoved her toward the door, and she nearly fell but righted herself in time.
“Walk ahead of me.” He pulled a leather baton from his belt. “And if you try anything, I’ll lay your head open with this.”
Angele had no doubt he would. She had heard him do it to another prisoner and had peered out the opening in the door to see the blood streaming down her head. She had been dragged out and never brought back. Angele wondered if she had died in The Grave.
After climbing steps that seemed to go on forever, she was taken to a small office where a man sat behind a desk.
He had dark, mean eyes, bushy brows, and a hawk nose.
His mouth twitched with either pleasure or annoyance.
She could not tell which.
He stared at her in silence for a few seconds, then stood and waved Leon from the room and told him to close the door after him.
“My name is Captain Duclos,” he said, rising. Then, hands splayed on his hips, he began to circle her as his gaze flicked up and down in scrutiny. “Skinny,” he murmured. “But you should still bring a good price.”
He took her by surprise when his hand clamped about her throat to jerk her face close to his. “Open your mouth.”
She did so, dizzily recalling how her father had always looked at a horse’s teeth before buying the animal.
She fought to keep standing despite how her knees knocked together. He had said she would bring a good price and frantically wondered what he meant. She wasn’t a slave to be sold at auction. She was a prisoner, and there was a difference. Dear Lord, there had to be.
He released her, and she coughed a few times before she was able to ask, “When will I go before a judge? I’ve been here—”
His hand closed around her throat again. “You will not speak unless I ask you a question. Is that understood?”
She struggled to nod.
He went back to his desk and sat down. “This is not the city jail,” he said, as though she did not have sense enough to figure that out for herself. “We take prisoners here when they don’t have room there. But we are getting crowded here, as well. I have to make room. Some of you have to leave.”
Angele wanted to ask where she would be taken, but he looked as though he was hoping she would so he’d have an excuse to choke her again. She swallowed her curiosity.
“You are a thief. You will go to prison for a long time. You may even die there. How do you feel about that?”
It was her cue to speak, and she quickly did so. “I…I feel badly,” she said, wanting to sound contrite when it was all she could do to keep from springing across the desk and raking her nails down his arrogant face. But she had to play by the rules if she was to survive, and that meant she had to appear whipped, beaten. “If you will let me go,” she dared add, “I promise I will never steal again.”
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br /> “Really?” He smiled and leaned back to stare at her through templed fingers.
“Yes. I swear it.”
“And why were you stealing in the first place?”
“I was hungry.”
“And what will you do when you get hungry again?”
“I’ll find work.”
“Doing what?”
She had no idea. She had tried everything, from mending clothes to scrubbing floors. But she couldn’t let him know that. “I’m not sure. There must be something—”
“Of course there is. And it’s the only way you can stay out of prison.”
Apprehension was a snake, curling about her spine. “What do you mean?”
He did not meet her querulous eyes. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be well taken care of. A man will be coming in a few hours to pick you up. Leon will see to it you get a bath and clean clothes.” He wrinkled his nose. “You smell to high heaven. All you wenches smell.”
He shoved a piece of paper across the desk along with a pen. “Here. Sign this.”
His hand was positioned so that she could not read what was written. “What is it?”
“It merely says that you agree to be released to this man’s custody in exchange for his paying your fine to get you out of jail and making sure you won’t go back to being a thief.
“Not that anyone really cares what happens to you,” he added with a smirk. “You told the police you have no family, that you’re all alone in the world. But it’s a formality, just in case.”
“But I don’t know this man,” Angele protested. “And I don’t know what kind of work he offers. Maybe I’m not suitable. And if I’m brought back, it will look terrible, and the judge might give me a harsher sentence.”
Threat was a thundercloud in his eyes as he slammed his fists on the desk. “It doesn’t matter that you don’t know him. And you’ll be suitable once he fattens you up a little. And don’t worry about a judge giving you a harsher sentence if you come back. I’ll make sure you stay in your cell till you die. Now, sign this if you want to live.” He tapped the paper with the pen.
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