Just thinking about her made him smile. Maybe he could talk her into staying one more day at the inn. What would one more day matter? They’d already spent almost four weeks on a journey envisioned to take just over two. At odd times on the road, he’d considered trying to stretch it out even more, eking out every last second of joy from an experience as unparalleled as it had been unexpected.
Now, for the first time, he was beginning to envision a bond that might last not just a handful of nights, but weeks, months … into the hazy future.
As he stretched languorously, savouring the prospect, suddenly Will realised he was alone in the bed.
He sat bolt upright, his heart hammering. Not the faintest glimmer of dawn showed yet under the curtained windows. Probably she’d gone to the necessary, he thought, trying to force down the alarm and foreboding welling up in his gut.
She’d given him all of her freely, everything, as honestly as he had given it back to her. Stripped bare, with no defences, holding nothing back, they’d created a union of souls as well as bodies. She wouldn’t just … leave him without a word.
His anxious, clumsy fingers struggled with flint and candle on the bedside table, but the additional flare of light just confirmed she wasn’t in the chamber.
He jumped out of bed. Although the saddlebags he’d given her in exchange for the bandbox she’d packed in Vienna sat against the wall, they were empty; the gown, shift, chemise, stockings and shoes she’d donned after giving him back the monk’s robe were gone.
Emptiness chilled him bone-deep as he admitted the unpalatable truth.
Damn her, she’d reduced him to a pudding-like state of completion, not out of tenderness, but so she could escape.
Escape him—and run off to her Philippe.
Nausea climbed up his throat and for a moment, he thought he’d be sick.
Betrayed. Abandoned. An agonising pain, worse than he’d felt after being shot by Spanish banditos, lanced his chest.
He dammed a rising flood of desolation behind a shield of anger. With iron will, he forced back deep within him an anguish and despair he’d not felt since he’d been a small boy sitting beside his dying mother.
It was ridiculous, he told himself furiously, carrying on like a spinster abandoned by the wastrel who had deceived her out of her virtue. The circumstances were nowhere near the same as the tragedy suffered by that five-year-old. He hadn’t lost his only love, he’d merely been tricked by a lying jade.
But she’d not got the better of him yet.
Stupid of him to forget one rogue should know another. He’d forced this journey on her, giving her no real choice. Their adventure had been based on a bargain, each of them getting something they wanted.
She was trying to cheat him out of doing her part.
The sound that had roused him moments ago must have been Elodie, sneaking away. Without the instincts for survival Seven Dials had honed so well, he might never have heard her. It had already been nearing dawn the last time they’d coupled, so she couldn’t have got far.
If Elodie Lefevre thought she’d seen the last of him, she was about to discover just how hard it was to dupe Will Ransleigh.
Chapter Thirteen
Her few remaining worldly goods concealed beneath the chickens in one of the baskets she carried on each arm, Elodie hurried in the dim pre-dawn with the press of other farmers heading into Paris. Too impatient to stroll at the crowd’s pace, docile as the birds in the dovecote on the pushcart in front of her, she darted around the vehicle, causing the startled doves to flutter. Driven by an irresistible urgency, she only wished their wings beating at the air could fly her into Paris faster.
She had to escape Will, before he woke to find her gone. As skilled as he was at tracking, she must lose herself in the safety of the great rabbit warren of Parisian streets well before he set out after her.
There, as she began her quest, she’d also lose this nagging temptation to go back to him, she reassured herself.
It didn’t matter how energised and alive he made her feel. Their time together had been an idyll and, like all idylls, must end. Besides, what they shared was only the bliss of the night, no more permanent or substantial than the lies a man whispered in the ear of a maid he wanted to bed.
A dangerous bliss, though, for it made her wish for things that life had already taught her didn’t exist. A world of justice not ruled by cruel and depraved men. A sense of belonging with friends, family … a lover who cherished her. Safety, like she’d felt in Lord Somerville’s garden. Illusions that should have vanished long ago with her childhood.
It ought to have been easy to leave him. She knew what he planned for her. She’d allowed herself the reward she’d promised, a spectacular night of passion more fulfilling than any she’d ever experienced.
Up until that very last night, she’d been successful in keeping her emotions, like tiny seeds that might sprout into something deeper than friendship if dropped into the fertile soil of his watchful care, clutched tightly in hand.
Her devotion to Philippe was a mature growth, a sturdy oak planted firmly in the centre of her heart. He was her love, her life, her duty. Returning to him should have shaded out any stray, straggly seedlings of affection germinated by Will Ransleigh.
But it hadn’t. Even as she hurried to fulfil the mission that had sustained her for the last year and a half, she ached. A little voice whispered that the wrenching sense of loss hollowing her out inside came from leaving a piece of her soul back in Will Ransleigh’s keeping.
Very well, so passion had forged a stronger bond than she’d anticipated. She’d been privileged for one brief night to possess her magnificent Zeus-come-to-earth. But she could no more cling to him than had the maidens in the myths. She’d not been transformed into a cow or a tree; she mustn’t let leaving him turn her into a weakling.
She’d just have to blot out the memory of their partnership on the road, forget the sparkle in his eyes and warmth in his smile as he spun tales for her. Obliterate all trace of the feel of him buried in her, catapulting her into ecstasy with skill and tenderness.
She wouldn’t have to worry about him pining over her. When he woke to find her gone, he’d stomp the life out of any tendrils of affection that might have sprouted in his heart.
Time to put Will Ransleigh and the last month out of mind, as she always put away troubles about which she could do nothing. Time to look forwards.
The sun just rising in a clear sky promised a lovely summer day. She should be excited, filled with anticipation and purpose. She suppressed, before it could escape from the anxious knot in her gut, the fear that, despite all her scheming, she would not find Philippe.
Losing him was simply unthinkable.
Her agitation stemmed from fatigue, she decided. Certainly it couldn’t be pangs of conscience at deceiving Will, she who wouldn’t have survived without honing deception to a high art.
Besides, she had given him passion—the only honest gift within her keeping. She had no regrets about that.
As she rounded a bend in the road, the walls of Paris towered in the distance, casting an imposing shadow over the west-bound travellers. She forced her spirits to rise upwards like her gaze.
No more time for fear, regret or repining. The most important game of her life was about to begin. After waiting so long and being so close, she was not about to fail now.
Fury and contempt for his own stupidity fuelled Will’s flight from the inn, which he quit within minutes of discovering Elodie’s deception. Since they’d be entering the city separately, he’d no need to play the farmer. Let the innkeeper roast the fowl for dinner and chop the gig into firewood, he thought, his anger at fever pitch.
Unencumbered by cart and poultry, he was able to move swiftly.
Just a half-hour later, he spotted Elodie as she entered the city gates—his first bit of luck that day, for, once inside, despite her farm-girl disguise, there was no guarantee she’d actually make for Paris’s larg
est market.
Walking quickly, two baskets of squawking chickens on her arm, she did in fact continue towards Les Halles. Camouflaged by the usual early-morning bustle of working men, vendors, cooks, housemaids, farmers, tradesmen, soldiers and rogues returning from their night’s revels, he was able to follow her rather closely.
If he hadn’t been in such a tearing rage, he might have enjoyed making a game of seeing how close he could approach without being observed. Though anger made him less cautious than he would have normally been, he was still surprised he was able to get so near, once reaching her very elbow as she crossed a crowded alleyway.
Hovering there had been foolish, as if he were almost daring her to discover him.
Maybe he was. With every nerve and sinew, he wanted to take her, shake her, ask her why.
Which was more stupidity. He knew why she’d fled, had been expecting it, even. He accepted that she’d outplayed him in the first hand of this game, and in the one tiny objective corner remaining within his incensed mind, he realised it was unusual of him to be so angry about being outmanoeuvred. Normally he would allow himself a moment to admire her skill, learn from the loss and move on.
He would not—could not—examine the raw and bleeding emotions just below the surface that contributed to his unprecedented sense of urgency and outrage.
He paused on the edge of the market square, watching as she sold off the chickens and one basket, then moved on to purchase enough oranges to fill the other. He could corner her immediately, but it was probably wiser to wait until he could catch her where there were fewer witnesses who might take her part in the struggle that was sure to follow.
After Elodie left the market area, Will dropped back further, though he was still able to follow much closer than he would have expected, based on how alert and careful she’d been during their escape from Vienna. As consumed as he was by fury, he still wondered why.
Basket of oranges on her arm, she proceeded south-west to the Marais. This area of elegant town houses, so popular during Louis XIV’s reign, had been already in decline by the Revolution, and many of the magnificent hôtels with their courtyards and gardens looked shabby and neglected. Elodie paused before one of impressive classical grandeur which, unlike its unfortunate fellows, was well tended, its stone walls and windows clean, its iron fences painted, its greenery freshly clipped. After staring at the edifice for a few moments, she turned down the alleyway leading to the garden entrance at the back.
Was this the abode of the mysterious ‘Philippe’?
Watching her walk towards the gate, Will pondered his next move. Prudence said to take her before she could disappear within, if that’s what she intended.
But if he stopped her now, he might never learn who occupied that house. She had to know he’d be furious if he caught her; if she hadn’t revealed the secret of this elegant Marais town house to an accomplice and fellow traveller, there was little chance she’d do so to an angry pursuer.
Curiosity—and, though it pained him to admit it, jealousy—battling logic, Will hesitated. If he waited here, intending to seize her after she came back out, it was possible she might exit by the front door and he would miss her. But in her disguise as a farm girl, it was unlikely she’d be permitted to leave by the grand entrance.
Unless Elodie de Montaigu-Clisson Lefevre had resources he wasn’t aware of. During his stay in the city after Waterloo, he’d learned enough about official Paris to know this fine mansion wasn’t Prince Talleyrand’s home, though it might belong to one of the Prince’s spies or associates.
While he dithered, uncharacteristically uncertain, she trotted down the pathway and disappeared through the kitchen entrance and his opportunity to grab her was lost. Exasperated with himself, he retreated down the alleyway bordering the hôtel and scrambled up the wall beneath a tree conveniently clothed in thick summer greenery that camouflaged him while allowing him a clear view of the kitchen and garden.
Huddled on the wall against the tree, calmer now, he considered his options. There was no point berating himself for not nabbing her when he’d had the chance. After a night of little sleep, his reflexes and timing were off. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed a woman so much, longer still since he’d met one who affected him as powerfully as Elodie Lefevre. As the sensual spell she’d created continued to fade, these atypically intense emotions would subside and he’d recover his usual equilibrium.
With that encouraging conclusion, he set himself to evaluating whether to wait where he was, within view of the servants’ entry, or move towards the front. Before he could decide, Elodie exited the kitchen.
At the sight of her, his pulses leapt and a stab of pain gashed his chest, giving lie to the premise that his intense emotions were fading. Think, don’t react, he told himself as he tried to haul the still-ungovernable feelings under control.
Fortunately, after exiting the back gate, she turned down the tree-bordered alleyway and walked right towards him. This time, he’d grab her at once, before she could elude him again.
Heart rate accelerating, breathing suspended, Will waited until she passed beneath him. He jumped down, landing softly behind her, and seized her arm.
She’d been trained well; rather than yelping or pulling away, she leaned into him, slackening the tension on her wrist while at the same time dropping to her knees, trying to yank her arm downwards out of his grip.
Being better trained, he hung on, saying softly, ‘Hand’s over, and this time all the tricks are mine.’
At his voice, a tremor ran through her and she stopped struggling. Slowly she rose to her feet and faced him, expressionless.
Will wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see on her face: shame? Regret? Grief? But the fact that she could confront him showing no emotion at all while he still writhed and bled inside splintered his frail hold on objectivity with the force of an axe through kindling. Fury erupted anew.
He wanted to crush her in his arms and kiss her senseless, mark her as his, force a response that showed their passion had shaken her to the marrow as it had him.
He wanted to strangle the life from her.
Sucking in a deep breath, he willed himself to calm. He hadn’t allowed emotion to affect his actions since he’d been a schoolboy, when Max had taught him channelling anger into coolly calculated response was more effective than raging at his tormentors.
It shook him to discover how deeply she’d rattled him out of practices he’d thought mastered years ago.
But one thing she couldn’t master. The calm of her countenance might seem to deny he affected her at all, but she couldn’t will away the energy that sparked between his hand and her captive arm. An attraction that sizzled and beguiled the longer he held her, making him want to pull her closer as, despite the hurt and anger he refused to acknowledge, his body, remembering only passion between them, urged him to take them once again down the path from desire to fulfilment.
Though he didn’t mean to follow that road now, just feeling the force crackling beneath his fingertips was balm to his lacerated emotions. He clutched her tighter, savouring the burn.
‘Bonjour, madame. I had to hurry to catch up to you. Careless of you to leave me behind.’
‘Ineffective, too, I see,’ she muttered.
‘What of our bargain? Did the heat of the night’s activities scorch it from your mind?’
When she winced at that jab, he felt a savage satisfaction. No, she was not as indifferent as she tried to appear.
‘I merely wished to begin early to take care of a family matter, just as I told you I would.’
‘Here I am, ready to assist.’
‘It’s better that I do it alone.’
Will shook his head. ‘I’ll go with you, or you can leave Paris with me now. I move when you move, like lashes on an eyelid, so don’t even think of trying to give me the slip again.’
The last time he’d warned her about escaping, he’d talked of crust on bread and she’d licked h
er lips. A flurry of sensual images from their surrender to passion last night flashed through his mind. In the light of this morning’s abandonment, each gouged deep, drawing blood. Cursing silently, Will forced back the memories.
‘So, what shall it be?’ he asked roughly, giving her arm a jerk. ‘Do we head for Calais or …?’
She opened her lips as if to speak, then, shaking her head, closed them. A bleak expression flitted briefly over her face before, with one quick move, she wrenched her arm from his grip and walked off.
In two quick strides he caught back up, grabbing her wrist again to halt her. ‘Tell me what we’re about to do.’
Freeing her wrist again with another vicious jerk, she said, ‘Follow if you must, but try to stop me and, le bon Dieu me crôit, I swear I’ll take my knife to you, here and now. Observe what I do if you must, but interfere in any way and our bargain is finished. I won’t go a step towards England with you, whatever retribution you threaten.’
She delivered the speech in a terse blast of words, like a rattle of hail against a window, never meeting his eyes. Even working with his normally keen instincts diminished, Will was struck by her ferocity and an odd note in her voice he’d never heard before. Something more than anxiety, it was almost … desperation.
Her urgency also shouted of danger, finally giving him the strength he needed to bury emotions back deep within the pit into which he’d banished all loss and anguish since childhood. They weren’t in England yet; his first duty to Max was still to protect her so he could get her there.
She resumed walking at a rapid pace, eyes fixed straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings. Falling into place beside her, he asked several more questions, but when she continued to ignore him, abandoned the attempt. Instead, he transferred his efforts into assessing all the people and activities in the streets they were traversing, alert for any threat.
The Rake to Redeem Her Page 11