Jésus-Christ! Terror slammed into him. Adrien snagged his baldric and ran from the room in the direction of the stables, his uncles on his heels.
Pushing the horses to their limit, Adrien and his uncles raced toward Maillard, only to be halted abruptly upon entering the town.
Adrien’s heart plummeted.
Shops on the main floors, homes directly above, the roads and abodes were filled with activity; the streets chaotic and clogged. Its calamity spiked his frustration and anxiety as Adrien and his uncles maneuvered their way through the mass, unable to race the final stretch of the two-and-a-half-hour journey.
Two-and-a-half torturous, fear-laden hours.
The sun burned down upon him. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a sweep of his sleeve, Adrien desperately searched for the inn. Shouts from the windows above, haggling merchants and customers, squeals and laughter of dashing children, and the nickering of horses clashed together, and yet it was all a distant din. Adrien’s heart was pounding so fiercely, it resonated in his ears, muffling the noise.
“You there!” he called out to a pauper who caught his eye in the throng. “Where is the inn?”
“To the left.” He pointed up the street. “The first street to the left, my lord.”
Adrien’s gaze darted in the direction. It wasn’t far, but with the congestion before him, it was going to take a while. He tossed the pauper a coin and began shouting to those blocking his path. It moved people along. Too slowly. It was all too damned slow!
Every horrible scenario of what Charlotte might do tormented his mind and twisted his entrails. He prayed, he prayed, he prayed he was in time.
From her note, Charlotte wasn’t going to stop until Catherine was dead. Even more terrifying was the fact that Catherine was completely unaware Charlotte had been Baillet’s mistress. His sister could easily fabricate an explanation as to why she was at the inn.
Catherine wouldn’t have any reason to mistrust her.
Would Baillet notice Charlotte? Would he somehow foil her plans? Adrien desperately hoped so.
Finally turning the corner, Adrien spotted the inn at the end of the cobblestone road that was lined by three-story half-timbered buildings. He was almost there. His heart hammered harder. The inn was ever nearing. But not fast enough. Merde. Too many carts, horses, and people were in the way. Every minute mattered. Ready to jump out of his very skin, Adrien could wait no longer.
He leaped off his horse in the middle of the street, leaving it for his uncles to attend to, pushing and shoving his way through the afternoon crowds. His destination—the front doors of the inn.
The moment he tore across its threshold, he stopped dead in his tracks, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the darker interior. He heard weeping. A woman’s tears.
Scanning the few occupants in the room, some standing, some seated at the tables before him, he spotted Catherine’s maid and Baillet in the far corner.
Odette pleaded. She wept.
His blood froze. Seeing how distraught she was, he knew he was too late. Dear God, something had happened to Catherine.
The maid met his gaze. “Monsieur!” She rushed to him.
Adrien gripped her shoulders. “What has happened?”
Tossing a quick glance about, Odette lowered her shaky voice, “Your sister . . . she has . . . poisoned my madame. My sweet, kind madame.” Her chin dropped. She wept harder, her shoulders shaking.
Adrien’s knees almost gave way.
“Y-Your sister has locked herself in one of the rooms upstairs, and won’t come out,” she bemoaned. “Sh-She has the antidote. She won’t hand it over. I don’t know if it’s too late. I don’t know what poison she gave her.” Tears welled from her eyes. “She’s in a terrible way. . . and Monsieur de Baillet refuses to help. He-He’s leaving.”
Baillet approached then, his expression bland. “That’s correct. I am leaving.” He looked pointedly at Adrien. “I hope you enjoyed fucking my betrothed. It seems you did such a thorough job of it, she’s no longer interested in marrying me. None of this”—he gestured toward Odette—“is any of my concern.”
“You would actually leave her to die?” Adrien asked, stunned.
“As I said, this isn’t my problem. I do, however, intend to speak to His Majesty about your sister. I feel it is my duty to rid society of this madwoman. She tainted the broth and then admitted to it. For God’s sake, she could have killed me.”
Adrien snapped. Grabbing Baillet by the lapels of his justacorps, he slammed him backward onto a nearby table.
“You are to blame for all of this!” Adrien bellowed.
Baillet stared up at him, his eyes wide with fear. “Un-Unhand me!” His hands flew to Adrien’s wrists, but he couldn’t pry himself loose.
“You toyed with Charlotte’s affections! You used her. You misled her into thinking you cared. You brought this on!” He pulled Baillet up then slammed him back down, so that his head struck the table with brute force. Baillet yelped. “You’ll not speak a word of this to the King, Madame de Maintenon, or anyone, for if you do, I’ll call you out and end your worthless life.”
“Your—your sister poisoned a lady. That is against the law!” Baillet was foolish enough to protest.
“It will be Catherine’s word against yours, since she is the one lying on a bed right now. Not you.”
Adrien released Baillet.
Baillet sat up and smoothed his jacket. “If she lives.”
Rage exploded inside him. Adrien smashed his fist into Baillet’s jaw, knocking him off the table and onto the stone floor.
“Adrien!” Paul rushed in and grabbed his arm, Robert and Charles following directly behind. “Leave him to us. Go help your lady.”
Charles and Robert were already yanking a disoriented Baillet to his feet none too gently.
Adrien turned and ran up the stairs, two at a time. Odette was quickly on his heels, calling out which room. Upon bursting into Catherine’s room, the air shot out of his lungs, the sight before him hitting him like a physical blow. Leaving him cold and breathless.
Her auburn hair was fanned out on the pillow. A delicate hand clutched her stomach as she softly moaned and writhed, eyes shut. Horrified, he moved closer.
She was pale, so pale. Her complexion was almost gray.
Odette sobbed anew. “The pain gets worse at times. She had the tainted broth over an hour ago . . .”
Adrien sank down on the edge of the bed, taking Catherine’s hand in his. Her skin was cold. Clammy.
She opened her eyes. “Adrien,” she breathed.
A knot welled in his throat. He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “I am here, ma belle.”
“Your sister and Baillet . . .”
“I should have told you she was his mistress,” he choked out. “I’m sorry.”
Again he kissed her hand again, fighting to maintain his composure. “Please forgive me, for . . . not being forthright, about my sister, about my affections. I love you.” Tears blurred her sweet face. He cupped her cheeks. “I am going to make this right. Stay strong. You are going to be fine. I’ll make certain of it.” He kissed her brow. “I love you, Catherine.”
A small smile graced her lips as a single tear slipped out of the corner of her eye.
“Charlotte!” He smashed his fist against her locked door, her room close to Catherine’s. “Open this door.”
Silence.
He slammed his shoulder into the wooden barrier. It gave but did not open. “Charlotte!” With fury and fear, he slammed his shoulder into the portal once more.
It flew open.
He found Charlotte curled up like a child, her arms tightly wrapped around her legs, crouching in the corner of the room on the floor. Her eyes red and swollen, she’d been crying extensively. She made such a pathetic sight, it momentarily unbalanced Adrien.
“Dieu, Charlotte, what have you done?”
Large tears streamed down her face. “I—I wanted him to . . . l-love me . . . He—He doesn’t lo
ve me.” She sobbed, anguished. Broken.
He crouched down to her level. “I love you, Charlotte,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “I am begging you to help Catherine.”
She shot to her feet, startling him. “NO!”
It was then Adrien noticed a small pouch clutched in each of her hands.
“I hate her! She has his heart.” Her bottom lip quivered as she inched her way to the window. If what she had in the pouches was the antidote, he feared she’d scatter the powders to the wind.
“No, Charlotte. She doesn’t. She’s not going to marry him. There isn’t going to be a wedding. She doesn’t have his heart. He left, without a care over her condition.”
Her watery eyes widened slightly. “He—He did?”
“He isn’t capable of loving anyone. Please . . . Charlotte . . . Please, tell me you have the antidote.”
“Of course I do. The witch advised me to purchase both . . . in case the wrong person takes the poison. Sometimes these things are difficult to contain.”
He didn’t want a lengthy discussion. Or details of her misdeed. Time was of the essence. Still crouched he held out his hand. “Please, give me the antidote.”
She moved closer to the window. His stomach tightened with terror.
“Why? So you can save her? You love her more than me.”
He lowered his arm. “I am trying to save your life, can you not see that? If Catherine . . . dies . . . you’ll be arrested and executed.”
She froze.
With a strangled cry, she pressed one pouch-filled hand to her mouth. “I . . . d-don’t want that.” She cried hard, her shoulders slumped.
“Then give me the antidote, and I swear, I won’t let anyone harm you. You’ll return home. To Hôtel d’Aspe. You’ll be with family who love you.”
She shook her head. “No . . . noooo . . .” She moaned. “. . . I—I want to go to a cloister. The one Maman went to. She . . . She was h-happy there . . . I want to be happy, too.”
He rose. “If a convent is what you desire, it will be so, on my word. But first, ma chérie”—he held out a hand again—“you must give me the antidote.”
She stared at his open palm.
“Please, Charlotte. I love you. Let me help you. I don’t want you placed in prison.”
She gave him a quivering smile. “You do love me, don’t you, Adrien?”
“Very much,” he said from the heart.
Slowly, she stretched out her arm and held out a pouch to him.
He grabbed it from her grip. “What is in the other pouch?”
She handed him that one as well. “It is empty. It had the poison. If you want the antidote to work best, you need to mix it with wine.”
Adrien shot out the door.
Midnight. And still Catherine writhed.
In and out of consciousness since Adrien had given her the wine-based concoction, she looked no better. He paced. He prayed. By the predawn hours, he was beside himself, fear and worry clawing at his vitals.
What if the witch who had sold Charlotte the antidote had lied? What if the concoction he’d given Catherine was merely crushed herbs that did nothing at all?
She was still now. Far too still. Trapped in a deep slumber.
One he couldn’t rouse her from.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, he held her hand, the nearby candelabra illuminating her sleeping form and her lovely, peaceful face in the darkened room. Dear God, he couldn’t lose her. Not his beloved Catherine. He couldn’t stand the heart-shattering thought. She was his. His heart belonged to her. Her heart belonged to him.
They belonged together.
Tenderly, he caressed her hand, watching each breath she took, willing another and another from her.
The clock on the mantel over the hearth ticked. And ticked. And ticked.
He felt damned helpless. Utterly useless. Unable to awaken her from this wretched unnatural sleep.
He wanted to do something, anything to help her, but there was nothing more he could do. Except wait. It was maddening to simply sit there, fighting to hold on to hope, battling against the cold dread slowly slicing through him.
Odette came each hour to check on her mistress. She’d be back in the room soon and he hated it that he’d have to tell her that there was still no improvement.
Adrien squeezed Catherine’s hand. “Ma belle . . . wake up. Please wake up.” Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to her lips.
He heard a soft sigh, then felt her lips move under his. Her fingers threaded through his hair and she kissed him back.
His heart missed a beat. He sat up. “Catherine!” The dawn broke, spilling the day’s first rays into the room. She was awake and her complexion had improved. She was better! She looked beautiful.
At the commotion, Odette raced into the room. Upon seeing her mistress awake and smiling, she let out a screech of joy and rushed forward, dropping herself down on the other side of the bed. She snatched up Catherine’s hand and caressed it. “Madame, you are well!”
“A bit weak, but yes, I feel much better,” Catherine said.
With a giant foolish grin on her face, Odette petted her hand and stared at her as though she were gazing upon a deity. “Worry not, madame, I’ll make certain you regain your strength in no time—”
Adrien cleared his throat, snagging Odette’s attention.
Odette’s eyes widened. “Oh . . . I’m—I’m sorry.” She rose and retreated to the far corner of the room.
Adrien’s light green eyes returned to Catherine, the love that shone there making her heart sing.
“It felt as though you were asleep for a hundred years,” he said.
“It has been a hundred years since you last gave me a morning kiss.” She grinned. “I like being awakened like that. Now, then, was I delirious or did I hear you say earlier that you love me?”
He grinned back. “I did indeed and I will say it again and again. I love you. I can’t live without you. I don’t want to. The night of the masquerade, you woke me from a slumber and brought me to life, heart, body, and soul. I will awaken you with a kiss for the rest of our lives. Say you’ll marry me.”
She was beaming, her heart nearly bursting with joy. “Yes! Yes, I will marry you.” She sat up and leaned in for a kiss. Just as their lips touched, Odette broke into a loud wail, startling both Catherine and Adrien out of the moment.
Odette sobbed, blew her nose in a handkerchief she’d pulled out of her bodice, then resumed her blubbering.
“Odette, there’s no need to carry on. I’m going to be fine.” She smiled lovingly at Adrien. “Everything is going to be better than fine.”
“Madame . . .” Odette sniffled loudly. “I—I have a confession to make. I cannot carry this on my conscience anymore.”
“Oh?” Catherine said. “What confession?”
“Well . . . you see . . . that—that night . . . when you asked me to add the aphrodisiac to Monsieur’s wine . . .” Odette shifted nervously from one foot to another. “Well . . . I added the powder . . . but I made a tiny error . . . You see, it turns out I mixed up the powders I got from the apothecary . . . I gave Monsieur le Marquis something to boost his . . . digestion rather than his libido.”
Catherine and Adrien locked gazes, then burst out laughing.
Adrien pulled her tightly into his arms. “It would seem, my love, that the passion between us has been real from the beginning.” He gave her a soft, tender kiss that left her wanting more.
She caressed his cheek. He was hers. All hers. Forever more. “You know, if you marry me, you run the risk of easing tensions between you and the King. Your father may not think you so reckless anymore,” she gently teased.
He laughed. “I love you so very much, I’m willing to marry you—even if it pleases my father.” Adrien kissed her soundly. It was a kiss full of passion. Full of love.
A kiss that held the promise of happiness ever after.
Little Red Writing
Moral of the Story of Lit
tle Red Riding Hood
One sees here that young children,
Especially pretty girls,
Who’re bred as pure as pearls,
Should question words addressed by men.
Or they may serve one day as feast
For a wolf or other beast.
I say a wolf since not all are wild
Or are indeed the same in kind.
For some are winning and have sharp minds,
Some are loud, smooth or mild.
Others appear plain kind or unriled.
They follow young ladies wherever they go,
Right into the halls of their very own homes.
Alas, for those girls who’ve refused the truth:
The sweetest tongue has the sharpest tooth.
CHARLES PERRAULT
(1628-1703)
1
“Who is he?” Just as the question tumbled from Anne’s mouth, the man in the light gray justacorps disappeared into the crowd. Again.
Her sister Henriette glanced over her shoulder. As usual, the Comtesse de Cottineau’s Saturday Salon was filled to overflowing. Though their patroness had been called away due to a family emergency, she’d insisted that Anne and her sisters carry on with the popular weekly event in her absence. Aristos and literati who frequented her home had been admitted and were presently milling about.
Henriette turned back. “Who?”
Who indeed.
Anne was the last person to be taken in by a handsome face, but she couldn’t stop herself from trying to locate the man with the disarming gray eyes. Smoky eyes that had locked with hers for several seconds and quickened her pulse. A stunning reaction on her part. Unprecedented, actually. Twice he’d drawn her attention out of the masses straight to him by doing nothing more than directing his smoldering gaze her way—once, even when she was engaged in a fascinating discussion about Spanish literature with the Marquis de Musis. Both times the beautiful dark-haired stranger had been at a distance in a different part of the Great Room, but she felt the heat of his regard long before she spotted him.
Maddeningly, he kept vanishing into the sea of faces.
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