Destiny's Kiss

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  He pushed past her to light a candle, which swept aside the few fingers of twilight that reached through the narrow window. Gazing at the bare floors and unadorned walls, she tried to stifle a yawn. They had been traveling since before dawn. During the long ride, Philippe had offered only gruff comments whenever he looked up from the newspapers that their host had given him. He did not share the news with her, but she could tell that the tidings were dreary from his bleak expression.

  He shrugged off his coat. “We must maintain a certain low standard while in Paris during this visit.”

  “I didn’t mean to complain.”

  “You didn’t complain.” He grimaced as he tossed his coat aside. “You never do. All you do is look like a lost child.” Glancing about the cheerless room, he mused, “I’d prefer to stay elsewhere, but my Paris house must be crawling with those ready to denounce me as they did my brother.”

  Lirienne stared at him. Denounced his brother? Was that what this was all about? “Your brother—”

  “Was betrayed to the mob.” His lips grew so tight that white puckered at each corner. “I intend to discover who gave Lucien’s name to them.”

  She put her hand on his arm, but he brushed it off without looking at her. Wanting to soothe him, she said nothing. If she spoke of how she had mourned for her own brother who had died nearly six years before, he would chide her for speaking of her past.

  She drew off the cloak Vachel had given her. Tossing it onto the settee, she grimaced as a cloud of dust rose. She walked to the hearth and saw an iron arm hung over the cold and stinking ashes. It would be possible to cook simple meals, although she saw no hint of an oven.

  Hearing Philippe’s curse, she whirled. He stood by a second door. She edged around the wobbly table. “What is wrong?”

  “A beast is sleeping on the bed.”

  “Beast?”

  He pointed at a shaggy lump in the center of the mattress. “There!”

  “That’s no beast. It’s just a dog.”

  “And her litter.” He grimaced. “I prefer not to sleep where she’s whelped.”

  “They’re nothing but pups. They—” She screamed as she was jerked back at the same time the dog lunged at her, snapping viciously.

  “Fool!” he shouted over the dog’s vicious growls. “She thinks you’re threatening her pups.” When Philippe pushed her out of the bedroom, he slammed the door behind him. “Don’t go in there until I have the creature removed. Do you think you can show that much sense?”

  No wonder he thought she was witless. She so wanted to impress him that she was acting stupid. Trembling, she whispered, “I won’t go back in there.”

  “Wait here while I get the concierge.” Leaning toward her, he tilted her face back. “I need you alive. Don’t do something stupid like getting yourself mangled by some mongrel.” He released her and strode out without looking back.

  She repeated the curse he had spoken. His insults cut through her more viciously than a dog bite. He cared nothing for her, except as a tool to complete his task in Paris. And why should he? He was not the one haunted by a heart that yearned for love. She fought the coldness inching outward from her heart. In his arms last night, she had dared to believe that love was possible between them.

  The door opened. Her half-spoken greeting faded when she saw Philippe was not alone. The skinny man was no taller than she was. Wearing a stained shirt, he scratched his ribs as he stared at her and smiled.

  “Ah, qu’elle est belle! So you’re the tidbit old Sukey wished to nibble upon,” murmured the man whose forehead was covered with more perspiration than hair. “I must say that the old cur has good taste.”

  “Just get the dog and her litter out of here!” Philippe ordered. Going to the bedroom door, he sent it crashing open.

  “Don’t order me about like some fancy lord.”

  “Forgive him,” Lirienne said before Philippe could betray himself. “He’s distressed that the dog almost bit me.” She walked to Philippe and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I think it’s charming that he’s so protective of his new wife. Don’t you?”

  She did not dare to meet Philippe’s eyes, for tension ran along his arm. When she heard the concierge chuckle, she closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer. She stood by Philippe as the skinny man herded the dog out and carried the half-dozen squirming pups in his arms. With another lascivious grin in her direction, he stomped down the stairs.

  “He said there were clean linens on the shelf over the bed. Why don’t you remake the bed?” Philippe went to close the door.

  “Yes, Philippe,” she whispered. If she spoke louder, she might expose her exasperation at his lack of gratitude for how she had mollified the concierge. His foolish fury could have ended his stay in Paris before it began.

  “I’ll get some wood for a fire. With the food you purchased, we should be all right for tonight.”

  She nodded, tired of saying Yes, Philippe and No, Philippe to each of his orders. If he would treat her kindly, she might be more willing to cooperate. But what choice did she have? She needed him now as much as he needed her to survive this visit to Paris.

  Lirienne stitched the cuff of Philippe’s shirt. He had torn it while bringing in the wood. She doubted if he had ever carried wood before, but he had not complained. Not much, she corrected as she glanced from her work to where he sat next to her on the settee. He was reading another newspaper, and his frown drew deeper lines into his face with each turn of the page. Since their arrival here yesterday, he had not smiled once. Maybe he had while she was sleeping in the other room. His gracious offer to let her use the bedroom had amazed her. Then she had realized, he intended to maintain his cultured manners in spite of the changes around them.

  Or maybe he had just wanted to be sure he was not tempted into seducing her with more of his fiery kisses.

  The cushion bounced as he shifted, and she gasped when the needle pricked her finger. She dropped the shirt and popped the finger into her mouth.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “Not badly.” She finished the last stitches and handed him the shirt.

  “You’re very skilled,” he said, putting down the paper so he could examine her work.

  “Maman taught me to sew before she lost her sight.”

  “How did that happen? In an accident?”

  “No.” She gathered up the thread and needle she had bought that morning. “She strained her eyes for too many years doing needlework for the Fortiers. She—”

  “Enough, wife. I’ve told you that I’ve no interest in hearing tales of your past.” He stood, setting the couch to bouncing again. “Is this what’s ahead of us? A lifetime of pleasant conversations in a hovel?”

  She rose. “This is hardly a pleasant conversation. I know you hate what’s happening in the streets, but must you bring that hatred into our home?”

  “Home? This?” He laughed. “When I look at these filthy walls, I long for my real home.”

  His pain struck her again. “Then let’s leave Paris.”

  “Not until I find the cur who ordered Lucien’s death.”

  Lirienne gasped and glanced toward the door. “Philippe, lower your voice. If someone hears, he could kill you, too.”

  “I tire of having to hide the truth.” Reaching for his coat with the tricolor on its white lapel, he said, “Stay here. I have some business to attend to.”

  As he turned toward the door, she whispered, “Please be careful, Philippe.”

  He smiled as he had not in days. Cupping her chin in his hand, he kissed her. When her hands slipped up along his back, he hugged her to him. The kiss deepened. As her body slanted toward his, he explored her lips as if he had never tasted them before. She sighed when his mouth moved along her chin to sample the warmth of her neck.

  Against her ear, he murmured, “I did not guess you would worry so much about me.”

  “You are my husband.” She bit back the words that came from her heart. He h
ad protected her that magical night years ago, and she wished she could help him now. “Philippe, be—”

  He put his finger over her lips. “Rest assured I shall be cautious.” With a swift kiss, he released her and went out the door.

  Philippe did not look back as he hurried down the steps and turned up his collar, even though the evening was hot. No one amid the eddies of people swirling through the streets must identify him.

  As he strode along the avenue he knew well, he wondered if his hasty marriage had been an error. Lirienne possessed a sensuality that beguiled him. It was intoxicating and lured him to sample her lips again and again. Even the disgusting reports in the newspaper could not tear his mind from how lovely she looked sitting beside him. He had considered this marriage a simple way to get what he wanted, but he might have been wrong.

  “She’s just a serving wench,” he muttered, stamping each word on the stones of the street. This was no more than a business arrangement, to get him what he wanted and her what she needed. But what he now wanted was her in his arms again.

  With a curse, he surveyed the street. Much of the city was unchanged. The sewers stank. The streets were clogged with people. Voices resonated off the buildings leaning over the narrow streets.

  Only its heart had altered. What once had been joyous now beat with a yearning for self-destruction. The tricolor was everywhere. As he heard a crowd chanting for the death of the queen and the royal family, he hurried along the street. Glancing back, he saw others joining in.

  A shiver cut along his spine. It was too late to preach restraint. The dream of democracy born in America had spread across the Atlantic and been perverted.

  As he climbed the steps leading up to the building where the meeting had been called, he gazed through an alley to see the sunset turning the Seine into a bloody wound. He wished he could believe that the worst was behind them.

  Philippe pushed the door aside. He nodded to a man who said, “Good evening, citizen.”

  Swallowing his curse, Philippe followed him into a huge room that was lined with benches along the wall. They were empty because the men had congregated in the center.

  He edged past men who were debating each facet of the new government. This was not what he had come here for. Saying nothing, he sat at the back of the room and took note of each man entering. No surprises, although he wondered how many supported this new republic and how many had learned that appearing at these sessions increased the chances of keeping one’s head on one’s shoulders.

  When a tall man with graying hair sat next to him, after the meeting had dragged on for more than two hours without actually beginning, Philippe smiled. “Good evening, citizen.”

  “And a good evening to you.” Strong, brown eyes peered at him. “I don’t recall seeing you here before.”

  “I haven’t attended these meetings before, Monsieur …”

  “Mallory Blois.”

  Philippe frowned. “What are you doing in Paris now?”

  “My wife has recently given birth. During her pregnancy, I did not dare to move her.” He glanced around the room. “If she could travel, we would have been gone by now.”

  Philippe heard the anxiety in the duc’s voice. How had this man, who should be hated by the sans-culottes, kept his head on his neck? What worked for the duc might help him while he sought Lucien’s murderer.

  “You are a brave man, Blois,” he said quietly.

  “Bravery is easy when you have good allies.”

  “I need allies as well.”

  Blois glanced around the room. Philippe understood. Anyone could be a member of the dreaded Committee of Public Safety which had sent scores to their deaths. “Why?”

  He hesitated, then told the duc why he was in Paris. His father had spoken of Blois as a fair man who had earned many commendations during the War of Independence in America. Finishing the tale of Lucien’s death, he asked, “Can you help us?”

  “Us?”

  “My wife and me.”

  “Wife?” Blois smiled. “My wife, Fantina, would be pleased to have the company of a lady of her class.”

  Philippe wanted to snarl a curse. After he had accused Lirienne of being a fool, he was proving himself the greater one. He stared to explain, but Blois continued.

  “Bring your wife to our house on Île de la Cité tomorrow. You will be welcome to stay with us.”

  “You’re in your own house? Is that safe?”

  Blois gave a secretive smile. “You shall understand when you arrive.” Standing, he set his hat on his head. “I look forward to meeting your vicomtesse, de Villeneuve.” He chuckled. “Too bad your father did not live to see this day. He despaired of you ever settling down.”

  “A young man should be in no hurry to select just one woman.”

  “But once you do, you wonder why you even looked at another. Don’t you agree?”

  Philippe nodded, not wanting to do anything to upset this tenuous alliance. Staying on the Île de la Cité would be perfect. In the heart of Paris, he could search more easily for the man who had arranged for Lucien’s death.

  After Blois had left, he threaded his way through the men. Although he was tempted to retort to more than one outrageous comment, he kept his mouth shut. He did not want to call attention to himself … yet.

  The moon shone, but heat clung to the stones. Keeping to the shadows, he strode along the walkway. He glared at one urchin who dared to approach him. The child ran away, jeering. This was what Paris had become.

  As he reached the apartment door, he heard the unmistakable sound of another door clicking shut. He smiled grimly. The concierge’s curiosity was the reason he had selected this house. No one could enter without being noticed.

  Silence greeted him when he opened the door. His shadow lurked monstrously large on the opposite wall, distorted by the jut-out of the chimney. Before he could cross the room, a smaller shadow rose to blend with his.

  “I thought you’d be asleep by now, Lirienne.”

  “I had no idea you’d be so late. I feared something had happened to you.”

  Hearing her voice which was husky with fatigue, he clenched his hands to keep from sweeping her into his arms. Her hair cascaded along her form in an ebony cloak. His fingers ached to sift through it as he tasted her luscious lips.

  He turned and pulled off his coat. As he placed it on the back of the couch, he said, “Again I heeded your advice and was careful. I’ve grown fond of my head being on top of my neck. To change its location now wouldn’t be wise.”

  She laughed, the sound like a crystal bell. “You are a most peculiar man.”

  “Am I?” He had not expected her to say something like this. “And how so?”

  “You can make jokes about something that isn’t funny. Papa always said that was the sign of a man who was either mad or very wise.”

  “And which am I?” He stepped closer to her, unable to halt himself. The faint moonlight glittered on her face like the finest jewels.

  “That is yet to be seen.” Lifting his coat off the sofa, she brushed wrinkles from it. “Did you see the person you longed to see?”

  He laughed, surprising himself as much as her. “How did you know I went to meet someone?”

  “You came here to find your brother’s murderer. To find him, you have to ask questions of people you trust.”

  He was glad the dim light hid his amazement at her insight. Charmaine had warned him that her serving wench was an empty-headed fool, who would have to have each detail of this charade explained to her. Instead Lirienne had helped him, especially when he had almost betrayed himself to the concierge.

  A slow smile drifted across his lips. Mayhap it was possible to pass her off as better than her beginnings to the duc and his wife. It would not be easy, but, if fortune smiled on them, the deception would be short-lived. If fortune did not smile on them, they would be short-lived.

  He shook that thought from his head as he said, I saw him. On the morrow, we leave here
.”

  “We’re leaving Paris?” She smiled. “Thank heavens!”

  “No, we aren’t leaving Paris. Just this hovel.” He laced his fingers through hers, unable to resist touching her. “We are going to a friend’s house on Île de la Cité.”

  “Are you mad?” she gasped.

  “You said I was either wise or mad. After tomorrow, we shall see which I truly am.”

  Five

  “Welcome, welcome.”

  Lirienne tried to keep her mouth from falling open in astonishment as Mallory Blois bowed over her hand. This must be a dream, for she stood in the magnificent entrance to a house that was beyond her imagination and a duc was urging her to think of this as her home. Only her headache told her she was awake.

  The streets, although nightfall had come more than an hour ago, had been filled with the sans-culottes demanding more food and more deaths. Riding in the carriage, which had been dirtied to hide its onetime glory, she had tried to ignore their chanting as they crossed the Pont Neuf. It still rang through her head.

  “Come with me,” the duc said, motioning toward the back of the house as he held up a single lamp that reluctantly lit the hall. “We must take no chance on being seen here.” A smile stripped years from his face. “An entrance hall is the place for the duc and his family to greet friends, not for the footman.”

  “Footman?” asked Philippe as he put his hand at her waist and steered her around mahogany furniture upholstered in unblemished white silk.

  She glanced at him, but his face was as emotionless as the few portraits still hanging in the galleries amid the gilt that seemed somehow tarnished in the dim light. The marble floors and the furniture were more elegant than anything the Fortiers had in their country home, and she suspected these pieces were the least valuable. Others must be hidden in the hope that they would not be stolen.

  The duc chuckled. “Did I fail to mention that is how we have managed to avoid the guillotine? The fools believe Fantina and I are among the servants of the duc, who has fled to his Château on the Loire.”

  “There is no safety there, I have heard.”

  “There is none anywhere in France.” His smile dropped into a scowl. “The best people of France are fleeing to England and America. Soon all that will be left is the heartless rabble that eventually will turn on itself like a rabid beast.” He snarled a curse, then said, “Forgive me, Madame de Villeneuve.”