Destiny's Kiss

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  For a moment, amazement that a duc would apologize to her kept Lirienne from answering. Philippe’s elbow jabbed her back, and she said, “You only speak what you feel. Once we had the freedom to do that without fear.”

  “You have selected a wife,” the duc said with a smile, “who is not only lovely, but wise. An excellent choice in these troubled times.”

  Philippe murmured something as the duc led them through the kitchens to a small, but clean, room overlooking the Seine. One corner of Notre Dame was visible past the trees edging the river. A table and a pair of sturdy chairs were set beneath the window, but she stared at the wide bed. Dampening her lips, she looked again at Philippe.

  He was in deep discussion with the duc, their voices low and intense. Mayhap he had not noticed that there was no settee. There must be a way to have one moved here from one of the front rooms without raising too many questions. She had no idea how.

  The duc bowed his head to her as he backed out of the room. “I trust you will excuse Fantina for not being here to greet you. She continues to rest in the hope that we may be able to leave Paris before the month ends.”

  “We appreciate your generosity,” Philippe said with a tight smile. “Good evening.”

  Lirienne was silent as Philippe closed the door and went to look out the window. Without turning to her, he said, “I shall be back soon.”

  “Where are you going, Philippe?”

  “You worry too much. Go to sleep.”

  Again, Lirienne glanced at the wide bed. “Philippe, I think—” The door closed, and she sighed. He had been even more impatient today as they waited for dark so they might slip across the river to this sanctuary.

  She lingered over brushing her hair, but as an hour passed and then another, Philippe did not return. With a sigh, she slipped beneath the comforter that was too warm for the evening. She clung to the very edge of the bed and closed her eyes.

  She did not expect to find sleep, but she woke when the door hinges creaked. The sound, which she had not noticed earlier, was like a shriek in the night. From under her eyelashes, she watched Philippe slip into the room. He was carrying something large. Silencing her curiosity, she fought to keep her breathing even as he dropped it to the floor and crossed the room.

  Closing her eyes was no help. She was as aware of him as she would be of daylight splashing into the room. When he whispered her name, she did not move. Heat seared her when he lifted the cover and settled it over her shoulders. His fingers lingered on the blanket, but he did not touch her. If he did, she was unsure that she could keep from flinging herself into his arms to savor his kisses.

  He stood there, not moving, for what seemed like an eternity. Then he walked away. She tensed, waiting for the bed to shift as he joined her.

  Instead, she heard the scratch of a chair and the uncorking of a bottle before something was poured into a glass. He was still sitting there, staring out the window, when she lost her battle against sleep.

  Notre Dame’s bells rang as Lirienne took a bonnet from the peg by the door. Although she had not met the sickly duchesse in the two weeks they had been in this grand house on Île de la Cité, the duc had brought her a box of his wife’s clothing. The linen bonnet decorated with tricolor ribbons and a hint of lace was the finest thing she had ever owned.

  She peered into her bag to be sure she had the sous Philippe had given her for shopping. How had this household managed before she’d arrived? The cost of food was absurd in Paris, and she had found a small bakery not far from the Louvre where she could buy day-old bread for what she could afford.

  Pulling the bag closed, she draped the strings around her wrist and let it drop against the fullness of her pink satin skirt. She loved this dress with its lace kerchief over her shoulders. The full skirts whispered against the floor as she went out the kitchen door.

  The scent of heat hovered over the stones of the street. The inkling of a breeze off the river brought the aromas that were so different from the country’s greenery and animal droppings.

  The activity beneath the almost cloudless sky sucked her into the traffic crossing the bridge. Buffeted like a leaf caught in a storm, she tried to avoid bumping into people. The crowds were worse today than usual.

  Was that why Philippe went out at night? He had not explained where his nightly sojourns took him. He left each night with moonrise and returned to sleep on the pallet he had carried into their room the first night. In the morning, she tiptoed out of the room, trying not to wake him. She could not remember when they had last spoken.

  She sighed. If she let Philippe know that she was awake when he came back to their room, she guessed he would not sleep on the pallet. Maybe she should. Maybe by taking her into his arms, he would bring her into his life. This was not how it should be. Even if they could not have a marriage like her parents’, he had told her he needed her help. Why didn’t he ask for it now?

  Easing out of the crowd, Lirienne paused before a doorway which was open to allow the heat from within to mingle with the summer day. She entered the bakery, and the perfume of fresh bread wafted over her. She squared her shoulders in preparation for the negotiations for two loaves of bread. Each day, the price rose. Each day, she tried to save a few sous.

  The street was even more clogged when she left the baker’s shop with only a single loaf. She could not afford more. She frowned when she realized that no one was moving. When she tried to push her way through, she was cursed at.

  Lirienne froze as she heard the unmistakable sound of wood wheels. Sickness clawed its way from her stomach into her throat. Staring at the hollow-eyed people sitting in the tumbrels, she listened to moans of despair and prayers for mercy. Her eyes locked with those of a young woman whose hair hung in dirty strings along her back as she rode to her death.

  She flinched when she heard the woman called vicomtesse. That woman could be her. The man next to her could be Philippe. Although the queen was imprisoned at one end of Île de la Citè in the Conciergerie, it had been easy to forget the horror filling the city while walking among the trees edging the Seine. One word could betray them, Philippe had warned her. She bit her lip to keep from calling out for sanity.

  “Fine day for an execution, isn’t it, madame?” asked a deep voice behind her.

  She ignored the question, but he repeated it a bit louder. Heads swivelled toward her. She could not allow someone to call attention to her now. Copying the most vile accent of the streets, she replied, “Any day’s a fine day.”

  “Thought you looked a bit upset.” He stepped closer.

  Glancing at his face, over which greasy hair hung, she raised a single brow. “It’s not easy to see when I’m so short.”

  “I can—”

  “No need,” she hurried to say. She had seen too much already. “I have to get home to my babes. They want some breakfast.”

  “It’s nearly noon.”

  Again she arched one brow. “I got delayed getting out of bed this morning.”

  He chuckled lustily, and she edged away into the crowd. She never had thought she would copy Madame Fortier’s coquettish ways, but they had worked.

  The tightly packed crowd refused to give way easily. She had to fight for every step as they sang “La Marseillaise.” The song clanged through her head louder than the rumble of the death carts’ wheels.

  The two carts continued along the street toward the guillotine at La Place du Carrousel, drawing the people with them. As soon as she could, she scurried to the nearest alley. She paid no attention to the reek of garbage and human waste. She wanted only to put the grisly scene behind her. When she heard footfalls, she looked over her shoulder. A man was reeling drunkenly at the other end of the alley. She rushed toward the bridge.

  She hurried across it and to the back of the duc’s house. She jumped aside as a wagon rushed along the narrow drive that was hidden among the trees. The driver shouted to the horses as they reached the street, and the wagon vanished at top speed into the tra
ffic.

  Who was driving so recklessly? Fear gripped her. Had someone broken into the duc’s house? Lifting her skirts, she ran to the kitchen and tossed the bread on a table.

  She looked into the small room where she slept alone each night. Desperately she longed for Philippe’s arms around her. She had been so unaware of the truth of what was happening in Paris because Madame Fortier had no interest in matters beyond her boudoir. She had heard of how people were dying in Paris, but, after the scare of the Grande Peur two years ago when many houses in the countryside had been ransacked, the Revolution had seemed so far away.

  The door from the front of the house crashed open. The duc rushed in, then paused. “What are you doing here?” Not giving her a chance to answer, he added, “I thought you had left with Fantina.”

  “She’s left?”

  “Just now. I thought—” He muttered a curse as a thump came from the front of the house. “You can’t leave now.”

  “Why not?”

  He took her arm and led her back into the finer section of the house, where about two dozen people had gathered. She stared at them, for she had seen no one but the duc and Philippe since they’d come here. As he called orders, she realized these were the real servants of the household, who had stayed to protect their lord.

  She stiffened when she heard the duc say, “And make sure there is water. This may become a siege.” He looked at her and asked, “Can I dare believe you know how to fire a gun, Madame de Villeneuve?”

  “I have, but—”

  “Accuracy is not an issue when there are so many ready to see us dead.” He handed her a pistol.

  Her question was halted by the sound of glass shattering. Shouts from the street flooded into the house. She had been right. The Revolution had been far away. Now she was in the middle of it.

  “Where is Philippe?” she asked as the duc started up the stairs.

  “I don’t know, but if he tries to come here now, he’s dead.”

  Philippe was glad he had learned much about subterfuge in the past two weeks. Slipping into Blois’s house with the ease of a rat finding its way through a sewer, he doubted if anyone had seen him in the shadows. He hoped he was not too late, but he could not try to get back into the house before night arrived. A fortnight of searching for Lucien’s murderer had led only to betrayal.

  Hearing the shouts from the streets, he inched to the kitchen door. He glanced at the window where Lirienne usually sat and brushed her hair. A smile twisted along his lips. Watching her do that every evening was the sole bit of pleasure he had found in Paris. That and his fantasies of having her hair caressing him as he drew her to him in that bed where she spent the nights alone. He was not quite certain why he still slept on a pallet on the floor. The passion on her lips was honest and innocent and eager.

  He pushed those tormenting thoughts from his head as he reached the door. Calling out lowly, he waited for it to open. Mercier, whom he knew served the duc in the stable and drove the coach, motioned for him to enter.

  “They are guarding the front of the house,” the man whispered. “Madame de Villeneuve—”

  “She’s still here?” Philippe cursed. Lirienne should have been on her way out of Paris with Blois’s wife by this time. That had been the plan, if they were betrayed. “I thought you were taking her and the duchesse from here.”

  “My son took the duchesse.” Mercier smiled swiftly. “He is young and daring, and my place is with the duc.”

  Philippe nodded, then gave the man some quick orders. He did not wait to see if Mercier obeyed them. Any man who would not avail himself of an opportunity to escape this maddened city was both brave and loyal.

  Striding through the door into the main section of the house, he wished for a lantern. A single drop of light could doom them all. From the street came the drunken sounds of the rabid crowd. He called the duc’s name lowly. A shadow moved and pointed to the stairs.

  Two shadows broke away from the others when he reached the top of the stairs. One rushed to him. With a smile, he drew Lirienne into his arms.

  “You’re alive!” she gasped. “I—”

  He silenced her with a kiss. A mistake, he knew, when she softened against him, sweet and so enchanting he wanted to forget about everything but relishing each treat she had waiting for him. Her lips parted, and he could not resist delighting in the flavors of her mouth.

  “You’re back, de Villeneuve!”

  Mallory Blois’s voice brought him back to his senses. Raising his mouth from Lirienne’s, he said, “I thought she was to go with your wife.”

  “She was not here when Fantina left.” He glanced at the window, where the flicker of torches in the street warned of the growing crowd.

  “We have to leave immediately. We—I’ve been betrayed.”

  Mallory nodded. “I warned you that asking questions so close to the Conciergerie would be too dangerous.”

  When Lirienne stared at him in amazement, Philippe wished he had time to explain how he had been seeking information during those nights he would have enjoyed spending with her. “I had no choice then, and we have none now. We must leave.”

  “You’re right.” He scanned the hall and sighed. “We cannot hold out much longer. I thank you, Madame de Villeneuve, for your courage.”

  Philippe wanted to ask what had happened because, in the light from the torches, he could see rips and stains along her gown. Such questions could wait. As he took Lirienne’s hand and led her to the stairs, he whispered, “You should have left at the first sign of trouble.”

  “And where was I to go?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  Glancing back at the door that shuddered with the force of the mob, he said, “If we’re lucky, out of Paris. If not, to the guillotine.”

  Six

  Lirienne peered through the darkness as they skulked across the courtyard between the kitchens and the stables that were thick gray blocks. She strained to hear any sounds to make her believe they could flee the mob, but heard only the shouts from the front of the house and the fearful thud of her heart. She wished she had the pistol, but its single shot had been used hours ago when a few fools had tried to storm the house.

  “Philippe, what—?”

  “Be silent, wife, and do as I tell you.” He pulled her toward some trees in the courtyard’s far corner. “Do as I tell you, or I swear by all the saints, I’ll leave you here to die.”

  Lirienne blanched. Would he really leave her alone? She did not want to believe that he would, but she discovered with every passing day how little she knew this man who had been a part of her dreams for four years.

  He pulled off his ebony cloak and tossed it over her shoulder. Looking down, she saw her skirts reflecting back the moonlight until she pulled the cape over them. He held out his hand, and she took it. She had to trust him tonight. He and the duc were the only allies she had. And, she realized, with a pulsing of terror, she was their only ally.

  “The others—”

  The duc puffed as he rushed to where they stood. “They know what to do to save their necks. As servants, they should be safe from the mob.”

  “Follow me,” Philippe ordered, and put his finger to her lips to silence her next question.

  She was not surprised no one had taken note of this small gate behind the stables. Filthy water ran beneath it, and she guessed it came from the stables to wash out the filth of the stalls into the Seine on the other side of the walkway. Hoping no one heard their splashing steps, she clutched Philippe’s hand as they emerged out onto a narrow street. She pulled the cloak more tightly around her, then frowned as she looked at him.

  Slipping her fingers into a rip on his coat, she tore it farther. He started to curse at the sharp sound, then nodded, reaching for his other sleeve. She turned to the duc, but he already was sending the buttons on his coat flying into the bushes. Bending, she ran her fingers through the thick mud and darkened he
r cheeks and forehead before wiping her dirty hands on her skirt.

  “You are skilled at this,” the duc said with a hushed laugh as he copied her motions.

  Philippe gave her no time to answer. Pulling on her hand, he led her away from the duc’s house and walked along the river, staying in the shadows of the other houses that were not lit. She fought to keep her pace even with his, for he walked at a stroll. To call attention to themselves would be disastrous. She started when someone called out behind them, but relaxed when she heard another man answer from across the street.

  “Don’t panic,” Philippe murmured.

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “It’s not far.”

  Wanting to ask what “it” was, Lirienne bit back the question as they hurried across the bridge she had crossed earlier that day. The shouts of the mob were muted, but she could not forget that they now stood in the shadows of the Louvre where the guillotine waited.

  “You should come with me to the Loire,” the duc said in a tone that suggested the two men had already discussed this. “You might be safe there.”

  “No, we are going to Vachel de Talebot’s house which—”

  “Was overrun last week. He may be dead already. You know, firsthand, how swift the mob’s vengeance is.”

  Her breath caught. Vachel de Talebot? If the man who had offered them a place to spend the night of their wedding had been arrested, he could very well be dead. Her words withered in her throat, but Philippe spoke.

  “Vachel had plans in place if that happened,” he said, frustration clipping each word.

  “Unless his plans offered a swift escape, he might not have been able to flee. The attacks were all along that river valley south to the mountains.”

  Philippe halted in midstep. “So far?”

  “Your lands are not in that direction.”