“Then I’ll stay.” He stepped aside, leaving an unencumbered path to the door. It did not lessen by one ounce the threat he presented. He was being symbolic. To Jean-Paul, he said, “You can leave me with her. She’ll pick up that stool and knock me over the head if I annoy her.”
Jean-Paul studied him. “She’ll do worse than that. She’ll yell and you’ll have thirty half-dressed women at the door, asking what you’re doing here.”
“Ah. Now that would call for undiluted terror on my part, so I’m hoping she don’t do it.”
Jean-Paul took a moment longer. Then he made some decision that did not involve picking up his ridiculous, dangerous knife, which was good. He sat in the chair to pull his boots on. “I’m not needed here.”
“Neither of you are needed,” she said. “In fact, I will get dressed and go down to the gardens of the baths and sit in the shade. I will let the maids bring me medicinal teas and little iced cakes. I feel the need for soothing.”
“You detest tea and cakes. Ask for lemonade.” Jean-Paul did not stay to dress properly but only gathered up his clothing to carry away with him. He slipped the knife he so unexpectedly carried into the hidden sheath inside of his jacket. One could not ask one’s tailor to make such an alteration. It must be Gabrièlle who sewed that for him.
“You are deserting me,” she said.
“I am escaping. Call me cowardly, but I have no wish to stand between the two of you.” He kissed her, unnecessarily, on the forehead and left. Smiling.
She was alone, suddenly, with Guillaume LeBreton.
He stood, being inscrutable, which was one of his talents. In the stark white robe he became dark and exotic. The long folds and draped sleeves made a mandarin of him.
How does he pass unnoticed through the streets of the city? It is as if a lion joined a pack of dogs and none of them remarked upon it. “Did you follow me from my house?”
“Something like that. You didn’t make any secret where you were going.”
“It was a perfectly useless thing to do, following me. It is over between us. We know it is impossible. We said farewell.” She ran out of words abruptly.
“I changed my mind.”
He did not move, except to breathe. He was like an idol that was made of smooth, brown stone, but also alive. His hands were in the knot of his belt. It was a little to the side and tied twice. He would take less than a moment, untying it.
She picked up her comb to have something to do with her hands. Set it down again. She would feel more comfortable if he talked more.
“I see your plan,” she said. “You do not want me to regret parting with you. You have come to give me another hour of your company so I shall become delighted not to see you again. There is a logic in this. If we were to live cheek by jowl for a week, I would wish you in Parthia or on that island in the Pacific where the birds are the size of dogs and have never learned to fly.”
He paid no attention to what she was saying. He loosened the knot that tied the belt of his robe.
“There is no reason to take your clothing off in that menacing and improper way. We will do nothing whatsoever that requires a lack of clothing. When I said you should stay, I . . .” I was not looking at your body. I was not thinking about it. I cannot think clearly when you are nearby. “I meant that we should talk.”
His robe was loose in long, strong lines down his body. Like columns. He took three slow steps and he was beside her. She did not try to move. He lifted her toward him until their skin touched.
Fragile restraints broke everywhere in her mind. She placed her hands flat upon his chest and shoved cloth aside so she could kiss him there.
She could not speak. Not at all. Her muscles made decisions without consulting her brain. Her body flared into fire. Heat raced through her blood, curled low in her belly, rushed to fill the empty spaces of her mind.
He was warm and naked. Her hands fumbled with the edges of his robe, opening it upward, across his shoulders, deciphering the message of dark hairs and brown skin and the ridges of bone and muscle that were the body of Guillaume LeBreton. If she thought too much about this, she would push him away and stop this. She did not want to let him go, so she did not think.
Where had her robe gone? How had it become untied?
It did not matter in the least.
She was distracted. So distracted. It was as if her fingers could see color. The deep tans of his face. As if the rough prickles of his neck became visible when she explored him there. He was too vivid for mere feeling. He consumed every sense.
I should not do this . . . She did not say that aloud. She did not even think it loudly.
He stroked her body, all the way up and down the length of her. He spread his hands on her hips. Rough palms molded her skin, held to her bone, as if she were sculpted and he were the artist. Awe spoke from his hands. He found her beautiful. More than beautiful. It was as if he worshipped.
He was sweet and forbidden fruit. Forbidden to her in ten thousand ways. A single desperate indulgence. She had set him aside and walked away in pain, knowing the exact limits of her freedom. Now she came home to find forbidden fruit growing, unexpectedly, in her garden. Guillaume.
Kisses deep inside her mouth. Kisses that traveled happily across her lips. Kisses that strayed over her face and down her throat so that she raised her head, eyes closed, and gasped for air. Anticipated, anticipated, waited with every stitch of her being for the next small nip, the next lap of his tongue. He was a man who understood many nuances of loving a woman with his mouth. She trembled, thinking that, and pressed herself against him and she was lost in him.
He was simply so strong. She felt no effort in his muscles when she was lifted, carried, set upon the cool wood of the sideboard. Objects shuffled aside, falling to the floor. None of it important. She slid her fingers deep into his hair. It was warm, coarse in texture, smooth, reassuring to hold on to.
Her legs opened around him. The linen of his robes rubbed her inner thighs. She did not remember when she had decided to be foolish. She must have decided this.
He set her legs apart farther and touched her, intimately, drawing her into every shade of madness. Inescapable persuasion lay in every soft touch.
She could only hold on to him. Panting. No one could think at such a moment. It was a stupid moment to try to think in.
The back of her thighs were on the smooth edge of the sideboard. She slipped, slipped downward, slipped inches along him, feeling his skin to her skin. Knowing this not with her hands or with her skin but with the too-sensitive, inarticulate fire between her legs that could not tell one texture from another, only that they all were pleasure. All joyous. All demanding. All her body, committed to this pleasure, became suburbs of urgency to a city on fire.
Standing, he held her. Cupped her to him. She felt him enter her. Settle himself inch by inch inside her to the hilt. She wrapped her legs around him and hung on as he began to move. She was poised upon him, held tightly as he stroked in and out.
He stopped, buried deep, so that she clenched around him. He was huge within her. A universe within her.
He said, “We’re a pair of damned idiots.”
It was so exactly her own thought that she did not know whether it was his voice or her own voice in her mind. “We are stupid as guinea fowl.”
His laughing was erotic inside her. Beyond erotic. Every atom of her vibrated with it. He said, “Let’s make the most of it.”
I cannot stand this.
She gasped. The climax grabbed her and shook her. She arched, brought her hand to cover her own mouth, and bit down to muffle her scream.
Guillaume was motionless and powerful under her. She closed around him. Again. Again. Her breath sobbed in and out. Her head fell back limply.
He gripped to hold her. Thrust into her, oh, incredibly deeply. Thrust again. Twice more, quickly.
He pulled out and spent onto her skin and held himself against her and gasped.
Coitus inte
rruptus. Guillaume was prudent. There would be no child. No scandal and disaster. He was careful with her when she had lost her mind. He was reason, when she had become heedless as the daisy she was named after.
He held the weight of her as if it were nothing. Held the two of them together. Then, slowly, he let her slide against him down to find the floor.
I cannot have him. I shall want him every day of my life.
When her bare feet touched the cool tiles, she let her head fall to his chest so that he would not see her face. Tears squeezed out between her eyelashes. If she brushed her face, very carefully, against his chest, he would not discover that.
They stood, holding each other without words. Then he said, “Now it smells like somebody’s been making love in here. That’ll keep those chambermaids from asking questions.”
“You are romantic beyond words.” She pushed away from him.
He set his huge hands upon her shoulders, where they were heavy and conclusive. He kissed her firmly and sweetly, taking his time. When he finished that, he held her and looked at her. “I can’t take care of you, can I? I can’t put myself between you and whatever it is you’re facing.”
“You cannot be with me at all.”
He was . . . beyond all her experience. His face, craggy and brutal. His scar, dreadful and shiny and translucent. One had to know how to see him under the ugliness. When one did, there was only strength there.
That is why I love him. “I thought we had parted. I cannot say final good-byes to you again and again. I cannot even do it twice.”
“No, you can’t. You look different when you’re wet and your hair’s all plastered down, dark as ink. Your bones jut out . . .” he touched her cheeks, drew a line along her jaw, “here. And here. You’re stripped down to where the beauty is.”
“There is not supposed to be fondness between us.”
“There is, though,” he said. “Didn’t anybody ever warn you about men?” Enclosing her face in his palm, he was like a man with a flower he’s afraid he’s going to bruise. “I’ll be the first to tell you about men. You can’t trust us.”
She could not find a steady voice to say anything. The breath in her throat was painful. “We end this now, mon ami. I do not want to see you again.”
The instant he delayed before he removed his hand was his answer. So eloquent, that little delay. Then he stood up and pulled his robe tight. He went out without a word, closing the door behind him as silently as the merest puff of wind.
Twenty-five
HAWKER CLIMBED FIVE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS AND pushed open the third door on the right, being cautious about it. A skinny fellow sat in a chair, leaned close to the window. Whipcord-tough muscle on every inch of him. Six feet tall. No color at all in his hair. British Service.
The cove said, “Hello, Rat.”
“And a merry hello to you, too. You’re . . . let me see. They were talking about some weakly animated corpse walking about. That would be . . . Pox. Pocket. No . . . Pax. That was the name.”
“Paxton. I’m Paxton to you, Rat.”
The Old Trout had lumbered him with that name. She said, “So, you came back, Rat.” “Go wash your hands, Rat, you’re dripping blood.” “Close your mouth when you chew, Rat. You’re not an animal.” “Rat, go to de Fleurignac’s and take the watch for the night.” So here he was, taking the watch and being called Rat by a cove only two or three years older than him. He couldn’t even stab him for it. It was a sad comedown.
The white-haired boy stood up. “They said you’d be relieving me. They didn’t ask my opinion. Don’t steal anything.”
He offered back a couple of words he’d picked up at Le Brochet’s tavern. A flavorful insult apparently. He’d have to find out what it meant.
He didn’t get answered. Pax turned his back on him and stretched a few times. He gathered his bits and pieces from the table. Hat, cane, a spyglass that folded into itself, a fist-sized piece of bread. “Everybody’s home. Victor de Fleurignac came in an hour ago. Doyle’s woman got back from the baths about six.”
“Fine.” Be interesting to see where Maggie went when she thought nobody was watching.
“You’re on duty till dawn,” the boy told him. “Watch the house. Follow the de Fleurignac woman if she goes out. The night glasses are on the table. Don’t break them. And don’t fall asleep.”
“I never fall asleep when I’m working.”
“Don’t start now.” Pax took a last glance out the window, to the Hôtel de Fleurignac. “Remember who comes and goes. The servants, too. And don’t show a light, for God’s sake.”
“I know what to do.” He’s treating me like I’m a green ’un. He hasn’t been at it so long himself.
“There’ll be lamps on the street. You’ll see if anybody comes to the door. If it looks interesting, get down and follow. You’re not here to sit on your arse. And don’t be seen.” Pax had to run his finger down the whole catalog, didn’t he? “We have a man in that corner, down in the dogleg at the end of the street. If you go out, give him a sign as you go by.”
“I’ll do that. Shut the door quiet-like when you go.”
He got a mean, suspicious glare out of Citoyen Ghost-hair Paxton. Then he was finally left alone.
The window had a good, straight view of Maggie’s house. This was the way to spy. Inside, where nobody saw you hugging a wall and chased you away.
The wood of the chair was still warm when he sat down, which he didn’t like much.
He put his elbow on the windowsill and leaned out, not worrying that somebody might see him this high up. The air smelled like city. Had some substance and weight to it. It was full of city noises, too. A proper hum and clamor going on underneath everything. It was a relief to be out of the countryside. He didn’t mind admitting, all that rural quiet made his flesh creep.
The room was familiar, too. He’d lived in places like this most of his life. This was somebody’s home, this attic. Home to lots of somebodys, in fact, not even counting the fleas. There were six straw mats on the floor. Six boys slept here. Looked like they shined shoes for a living.
Doyle had bribed them to keep away. That was how he worked. He didn’t scare them off. He paid them.
There were two hours, more or less, of daylight. Then the night watch. He knew how to keep a watch at night. He didn’t need Paxton the Pale telling him what to do. That Paxton ain’t so much. If he’s Service, I could be Service.
It wouldn’t be so different from belonging to Lazarus. Except the British Service didn’t kill people with quite the same verve and abandon as Lazarus. He could learn that, if he had to. He was already getting the knack of it.
Look at this morning. He hadn’t killed Le Brochet, had he? He’d been downright merciful.
He’d finished with Le Brochet and got safe away. The ragtag and bobtail was running off in the wrong direction. Nothing better in this life than hearing the hounds baying to the east while you wriggled off west.
He’d kept a map in his head, like Doyle was always saying. That told him where to find a quiet street that hooked round to the side. All private. There was a fine old brass fountain at the end with the faucet shaped like a dolphin.
He pumped some water and was kind of admiring himself for being particularly clever and sluicing the blood out of his shirt. The water came out of the dolphin’s mouth, like it was shooting the cat after drinking all night. Just no telling what people would want to put in the public street. That was when Doyle came up behind him, silent-like, and said, “Good. Here you are,” and about scared him out of his skin.
A big man shouldn’t be able to walk that quiet. Uncanny, that’s what it was.
Doyle didn’t have his knife out. He just walked up all easy and pleasant. “That was a nice interrogation. You wrung him dry. Why is he alive?”
Now there was no point in even speculating how Doyle got here or how he knew about Le Brochet. “I figgered it’s a good idea to leave him breathing.”
“Is it?�
�� Doyle was patient as a bloody panther or something. Just ominous.
“I can always come back and kill him later.”
“Good thought.”
Well, Doyle would like it because that’s what he’d said himself a couple of times. “It’s easier to come back and kill somebody than to come back and unkill him. And if I think up some new questions later on, he’s not going to be talkative if he’s dead.”
Doyle kept waiting, like there was more to it.
He took a deep breath. Hell, try the truth. “And I knew you wouldn’t like it if I slit his throat.”
“That’s a start. Take a handful of that dirt over there and smear it down the front of your shirt to hide the blood.”
Nobody seemed surprised when Doyle brought him back to the house in the Marais. The Old Trout listened to what he had to say about Le Brochet and sent him to eat in the kitchen. She called him Rat.
Twenty-six
MARGUERITE FINISHED HER LETTER TO HER banker in Rouen and began one to the citoyen mayor of Voisemont. There were orders to be given about the hay harvest. A dozen women in the village had been left with no support when the army took their sons. It was all very well for the louts in the tavern to talk loudly of killing the aristos. They made no plans to pay the schoolmaster or give food to those women. She must.
There were more letters to write. Concerning the orphanage in Rouen. Concerning the factory in Lyon and fifty women out of work there. It would be some time before she could sit at peace and write fables again.
When it began to be dark, she lit candles. Four on her desk, one beside her bed, one on each end of the mantel. She pulled new paper across the desk and began another letter.
The door of her bedroom opened. She looked up and saw Victor in the mirror, carrying a cup and saucer.
People appear small in a mirror. Victor stood in the doorway, and he was of a size she could have held him in her hand like a doll. She could have picked him up and tossed him out the window. Unfortunately, he did not live in a mirror.
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