It seemed she was content to eat in silence. Just as Will was about to judge his experiment a failure, she said, ‘So, are you out of tall tales?’
‘Have you not grown tired of my exploits?’
‘Not at all. But there is something else I’d like to know about. Won’t you describe your childhood? You’ve spun many stories of your roguish life, but nothing of how you became who you are.’
The whirlpool of the past swirled in memory, threatening to suck him down into its maelstrom of fear, hunger, pain and grief. He shook his head to distance it. ‘There’s nothing either entertaining or edifying about it.’
‘It was … difficult?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d still like to know. I’ve never met a man like you. It’s ill bred to be so curious, I realise, but I feel driven to discover how you became who you are.’
He saw an opportunity and grabbed for it. ‘I’ll tell you about my youth—if you tell me about yours. Over our travels, I’ve blathered on at length about my misspent life. You’ve told me nothing.’
After a moment, she nodded. Exultant, he exhaled the breath he’d been holding.
‘Very well. But you first. How did you learn all these things you seem to do so instinctively? To move as silently as silence itself. To be so aware of everything, everyone, all the time. The ability to be anyone, mingle with anybody, to converse as an English aristocrat or a Viennese workingman.’
‘Silence, so as to move and not be seen. Awareness, in order to snatch purses and not get caught. Pickpockets in England are transported or hung. And to be anyone? Perhaps because I have been almost all those things and had to mimic them to survive until I mastered the roles.’
‘How did the nephew of an earl, even an illegitimate one, become a thief, a pickpocket and a working man?’
Will thought of the taunts and hazing at Eton that no amount of bloody-knuckle superiority had stopped. Crude drawings of cuckoos left on his chair, muttered obscenities about his mother issuing from within a gaggle of boys, impossible to identify the speaker. Would this daughter of aristocrats scorn him, too, when she knew the truth?
Somehow, he didn’t think so.
‘During her come-out in London, my mother, a clergyman’s daughter, was bedazzled by my father. The younger son of the Earl of Swynford, he was a rogue, gamester and self-centred bastard of epic proportions. He lured her to his lodgings, a midnight excursion that ruined her reputation. When she refused to slink away to the country in disgrace, her family disowned her. For a time, they lived together at some dismal place just outside Seven Dials, but after losing a fortune at cards one night, he fled to Brussels. His older brother, now the earl, had already warned him he’d pay no more of his debts, and my father wasn’t prepared to adapt himself to a debtor’s life in Newgate. He left behind my mother, six months gone with child. Mama managed to eke out a few pennies doing needlework, enough for us to survive.’
Though all he remembered was being hungry. Frightened. Alone. And, later, angry.
‘And then?’ she prompted softly.
‘When I was five years old, the local boss made me a runner and the street lads became my family. For the next six years, I learned the finer points of card sharping, lock-picking, house-breaking, knife-fighting and thievery.’
‘Did your father never come back for you?’
‘No. I heard he died of a bullet wound, courtesy of a man he’d been trying to cheat at cards in some low dive in Calais. But among his papers, later delivered to the earl, were letters written by my mother, begging him to make provision for their child. The earl set his solicitor to investigate and, once paternity was established, he had me brought to Swynford. Although, over the years, I’m sure he’s regretted the decision to turn a second-storey boy into a gentry-mort, my cousins did their best to make me into a proper Ransleigh. Especially Max. Now, your turn.’
He caught her chin, making her face him. ‘Who are you, Elodie Lefevre? Because if you’re St Arnaud’s cousin, I’ll eat this tree.’
Before she could deny or dissemble, he rushed on, ‘Don’t you owe me the truth? I’ve told you about my ill-begotten youth. I’ve kept you safe and brought you almost to the gates of Paris. I simply can’t believe St Arnaud would have left his own cousin in Vienna. Beaten her, perhaps, but not abandoned her; someone in the family would have taken him to account. Who are you, really?’
He held her gaze, implacable, willing her to confess, while his heart pounded, frantic with hope and anticipation.
Finally, she said softly, ‘I was born Elodie de Montaigu-Clisson, daughter of Guy de Montaigu-Clisson, Comte de Saint-Georges. Our family home was south of the Loire, near Angers.’
He ran a map of France through his head. ‘Isn’t that in the Vendée?’
‘Yes.’
That fact alone could explain so much. ‘Was your family involved in the Royalist rising against the Revolution?’
‘My papa joined the Comte de La Roche-jaquelein, as did almost all the nobility of the Vendée. I don’t know much, I was only a babe when the Republic was declared. But I do remember turmoil. Being snatched from the house in the middle of the night. Fire licking through the windows. Living in a garret in Nantes. Mama weeping. More fighting. Then that day … that awful day by the river.’
She’d lived in Nantes. Suddenly he recalled the event that had outraged all of Europe. ‘You witnessed The Noyades?’
‘The Republican soldiers herded all the townspeople to the quai beside the river. They marched the priests on to a small boat, locked them below and scuttled the vessel.’ He could almost see the rippling surface reflected in the bleakness of her eyes. ‘They did it again and again, one boatload of priests and nuns after another. All those holy ones, drowned. I was five years old.’
A child so young, watching that. He put a hand on her shoulder, stricken. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It was terrible. But it was also wonderful. There was no screaming, no pleas, no panic. Just … serenity. Mama said they went to a secret place in their hearts, where no evil could touch them.’
Like you do now, he thought. ‘And after? If I’m remembering correctly, the Revolutionary government offered amnesty to all Vendéeans who surrendered and took the oath of allegiance. Did your father?’
‘He died in the final battle. We left the garret in the middle of the night, our shoes wrapped in rags to muffle the sound, and boarded a ship. I remember wind shrieking, rain lashing, travellers screaming, thinking we would all drown like the priests and have to swim to heaven. Then … calm, green land, Mama weeping on the shore. We travelled north for many days, around a great city, surrounded by people speaking a language I couldn’t understand.’
‘You sailed to England, then? A number of émigrés went to the north, supported by the Crown.’
She nodded. ‘Mama, my elder brother and I settled in a cottage on land owned by Lord Somerville.’ She smiled. ‘He had a wonderful garden. I used to spend hours there.’ The smile faded. ‘It was my secret place when Mama wept, or food supplies ran low. When the children in the village taunted me for my poor English and tattered clothing, for being a foreigner.’
‘If you were living in England, how did you come to the attention of St Arnaud?’
‘My brother, Maurice, ten years older than me, despised the Republicans who seized our land, killed my father and turned Mama into a grief-stricken old woman. When Napoleon abolished the Directoire and made himself First Consul, instituted the Code Napoleon and promised a new France where merit and talent would be rewarded, Maurice was ecstatic. He hated living as a penniless, landless exile, dependent on charity. He determined to enter Napoleon’s army, perform great feats of valour and win back our lands. So we returned to France. On his first army leave, he brought home a friend, Jean-Luc Lefevre.’ Her expression turned tender. ‘I loved him the first moment we met.’
Instinctive, covetous anger rose in him. He squelched it. Devil take it, he wouldn’t be jealous of a dead ma
n! ‘Whom you married. He was lost in the war?’
Pain shadowed her face. ‘He fell at Lützen. He died the day after I reached the billet to which they’d taken him.’
‘Is that when you learned to walk like a man? To disguise yourself on the journey?’ At her sharp look, he said, ‘I was a soldier, remember. I know what happens in the aftermath of battle. It’s … dangerous for women.’
Eyes far away, she nodded. ‘There’d been another battle at Bautzen, just after I buried Jean-Luc and left for home. Skirting the battlefield, seeking shelter for the night, I came upon a ruined barn. Inside were several soldiers, deserters probably, with a woman. They were … ravishing her.’
He’d seen enough of war to know what happened to some men when the blood-lust faded. Dismay filling him at what he feared he’d hear next, Will seized her arm.
Caught up in memory, she didn’t seem to notice. ‘I heard her crying, pleading with them.’ Tears welled up, and absently she wiped them away. ‘I heard her, but I did nothing to help. I was so ashamed.’
‘Thank heaven you did nothing!’ Will cried, relieved. ‘What could you have done, except invite the same treatment?’
‘Nothing, probably,’ she admitted. ‘But I vowed never to be so helpless again. I went back to the field—the burial teams hadn’t covered all of it yet—and “borrowed” a uniform from a dead soldier. It was already bloody, so all I needed was a bandage around my head. I wanted to be ready.’
‘In case you encountered renegade soldiers?’ Will nodded his approval. ‘Ingenious, to use the uniform as protection.’
‘As protection, and also to be able to intervene if I encountered a … similar situation.’
‘Intervene?’ he echoed, appalled. ‘I trust you never attempted to! Such men are beyond reason or shame; trying to stop them would have gotten you beaten, or worse.’
‘I never had the opportunity. If I had, though, I planned to tell them there were willing women in the next town, and ask that they leave the one they had to me, since I was wounded and lacking my usual vigour.’
Will stared at her a moment, astounded. But foolhardy as such an action would have been, he could believe Elodie would have attempted it—and shuddered to think what might have happened.
‘Why did you travel to Lützen alone, anyway? Did your husband have no family to accompany you?’
She shook her head. ‘His family were aristos, like mine. All but he were killed or scattered during the Terror.’
‘Had he no friends, then?’ When she shook her head, he burst out, ‘But to travel among rival armies after a battle, a woman alone? I can’t believe you took such a risk!’
‘To save the life of someone you love is worth any risk. You, who have done so much for Monsieur Max, must know that is the truth.’
She had him there. He knew without question he’d face any danger to protect his cousins.
‘Soon after I got back to Paris,’ she continued, ‘Maurice came to me. His mentor, St Arnaud, needed a favour.’
‘A hostess for Vienna.’
‘Yes. My brother met St Arnaud through the army; he approved of us because we were ancien régime, part of the old nobility, like he and his mentor, Prince Talleyrand. Maurice had become Arnaud’s protégé, so, when he needed a hostess, Maurice suggested me.’
‘Did you know about the plot?’
‘Not until after we arrived.’
‘And St Arnaud used this “Philippe” to compel you to participate? Who is he—your lover?’
Even to his own ears, the question sounded sharp. Elodie merely smiled and shrugged.
‘Something like. But enough for now; I’ve already told you more than you told me and we’re losing the light. Besides, as you’ve said, we will be in Paris soon, perhaps even tomorrow.’
Her eyes on his, she laid her hand on his leg. Every muscle froze.
‘In case our pursuers were able to figure out what happened after Karlsruhe, we should refashion ourselves once more. Enter Paris in the early morning with the crowd heading for Les Halles, just another farm couple with something to sell. I still have a simple gown in my pack. I could change here and we could stay at an inn tonight … as man and wife.’
The breath seized in his lungs. There was no question what she offered, with her gaze burning into his and her fingers tracing circles of fire over his thigh.
And no reason not to accept. If this were a trick to impair his vigilance, he’d just have to risk it.
‘I thought you would never ask, my dear Brother Innocent. Let me help you change.’
‘Not yet. I intend to wash in the river before putting on a clean gown.’ She wagged a teasing finger at him. ‘You stay here. No peeking!’
But her laughing eyes and caressing fingers told him she wouldn’t mind at all if he watched her bathe.
He couldn’t have kept himself from following her if the whole of Napoleon’s Old Guard stood between him and the river.
Chapter Eleven
The chill of the early summer water shocked her, sending shivers blooming down her skin, but Elodie welcomed its bracing grip. Ah, to be clean, to wear her own clothes again!
Perhaps as soon as late tomorrow, she would find Philippe. As always when she thought of that moment, she felt stirring anew the mingled joy and anxiety that sat like a rock in her belly.
First, she’d have to deal with Will Ransleigh.
She couldn’t deny a groundswell of regret that their paths must diverge. He was an amusing companion, a born storyteller, and more skilled at disguise, evasion and subterfuge than anyone she’d ever met.
Dissembling their way across Europe, they’d made good comrades. Despite the danger, this journey from Vienna had been unique and magical, a gift she would remember and savour, something never to be experienced again.
She would miss him, more keenly than she’d like, but there was no question of a future. Now that Paris loomed and parting was inevitable, best to get on with it as quickly as possible.
She just hoped she’d be able to carry out her plans for that parting without a check, unease fluttering in her gut. Acquainted now with Will’s high level of vigilance and excellence of observation, she’d need to be exceptionally careful in order to make her escape.
But before she eluded him, there was one final gift she could give—to him and to herself. Today and tonight, she would send him to the moon and the stars on a farewell journey of pleasure he would never forget.
Steeling herself to the cold, she strode into deeper water, quickly washing herself and her hair with a small bar of soap from the saddlebag. Despite warning him away, she knew he’d be watching from the copse of trees bordering the stream.
She’d start with a show to whet his appetite.
Shivering in the chill, she waded back to knee-deep water. With slow, languorous movements, she smoothed back the wet mane of hair, knowing it would flow sleekly over her shoulders. She leaned her head back, letting sunlight play over her breasts, the nipples peaked and rigid from the cold.
She lathered her skin again, then cupped her breasts in her hands and caressed the slippery nipples between her thumb and forefinger.
Sensation sparked in them, hardening them further, while matching sensation throbbed below. Half-closing her eyes, she imagined Will’s hands mimicking the action of her thumbs. Would he bring his tongue to them, or use that hot, raspy wetness to stroke her tender, pulsing cleft?
She wanted him to tease her body to madness, as she’d imagined so many nights when she lay alone, chaste as the church floor they bedded down upon, acutely conscious of him sleeping beside her.
Heat crested and flowed outward from the slippery abrasion at her nipples, the hotter moisture at her centre. The fire building within now insulated her from the water’s chill, made her breath uneven, her legs tremble, eager to part and receive him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so ready for a man, or ever wanting one as badly.
She opened her eyes to a muted splash
ing, and found Will, already shed of coat, boots and hose, wading out to her. Need blazed in his eyes.
Desire squeezed her breath out, gave it back to her in short, shallow puffs. The sensations at her breasts, between her legs, spiralled tighter, stronger.
‘Shall I wash you?’ she asked, her throat so dry she could hardly get the words out.
‘If you’d be so kind.’
Oh, she wanted to be kind! She tugged at his shirt, impatient for an unimpeded view of the bare chest he’d teased her with so many nights on the road.
The skin was golden, sculpted over broad, muscled shoulders. His flat nipples were peaked, like hers. She couldn’t wait to taste them. Couldn’t wait a moment longer to see all of him.
Impatiently she tugged open the buttons of his trouser flap, freeing his member, which sprang up before her, proud and erect. Wobbling a bit in the current, he yanked the breeches further down and stepped out of them, tossing them back to the bank.
Her pulse stopped altogether, then stampeded. She could only stand, gaping at this Greek god of a man who’d come to earth to bathe in the stream and steal her heart. Would loving him transform her into some other being, a cow, a tree, as so often happened to unfortunate maidens who tangled with the Olympians? she wondered disjointedly.
Her admiration must have been obvious, for when she forced her gaze from his magnificent physique back up to his face, he was smiling. ‘Soap?’ he suggested.
She looked for it, then realised she still held it in her hand. After dousing him with water, she applied it to his neck, shoulders and chest. Breath catching in her throat, she massaged the film into a froth, touching, caressing, memorising the hard curve of muscle, the hollows between sinew and bone.
She thought he might break then, seize her and take his pleasure, but to her surprise and delight, he remained completely still, allowing her to touch him as she wished while standing so close she could feel his heat down the whole length of her body.
The Rake to Redeem Her Page 9