Dark Enchantment

by Karen Harbaugh

  A soft pity moved in him . . . well, who would not feel such a thing? But it was a useless emotion. There were larger things at stake in his life than the fate of a gutter-found girl. He needed to remember that. He settled the girl in the bath, slowly, half afraid she would break.

  He moved away to bring over the sponge that Mme Felice had put on the bed, but a sharp gasp brought his attention to the girl again. She had awakened, and her hands gripped the side of the tub with whitened fingers. She looked frantically about, then caught sight of him.

  He could not help staring at her. Firelight flickered in her eyes, dark-fringed and green as grass. He had never seen the like—irises so green that they had no other color in them to mar their purity. The girl gazed at him, and her hands loosened from the sides of the tub, chastely covering her breasts, then slowly, finally, she looked away.

  Jack closed his eyes and turned from her, fumbling with the towels, then remembered that he was going to give Mme Felice the sponge. He did so, averting his gaze from the girl.

  “Shhh, shhh, mademoiselle.” Mme Felice’s voice was soft and soothing. “You need not be afraid. M. Sir Jack, he is an honorable man and will not harm you, nor will I.” The girl said nothing, but he felt as if she were looking at him again, her eyes boring into his back.

  I hope she is not married, and it was not her husband who beat her, he thought suddenly. He sat stiffly on a nearby chair, not quite looking at her except from the corners of his eyes. Yes, she had been staring at him, as if he were a wild animal sure to attack. Attack? he thought, disgruntled. Why, had he not saved her from certain death? He would hardly attack her, especially since she was the means to bring him funds for the reclamation of his estates.

  A thread of guilt wove its way through his thoughts, but he thrust it away. He was getting soft, and he could not afford that. There was no room for softness in the life of a mercenary. He turned and coolly gazed at her, as if her eyes had not affected him at all, and examined what the tin tub did not cover.

  She met his eyes and her gaze did not waver, but he forced his mind into an analytical vein and stared back. She was indeed too thin, as he had noted before, but she had a wide, intelligent brow, a stubborn chin, and a sensitive mouth. His gaze lingered at her lips, and he briefly wondered what it would be like to kiss them, for they were plump lips, unlike the rest of her. She gasped again as Mme Felice brushed the sponge against her back, but she bit her lip and closed her eyes as if exerting discipline over herself. It worked; she had no emotion on her face when she opened her eyes again and looked at him, and he felt at once sorry and admiring of her fortitude. Surely she must have come from a noble family; few else were trained to such discipline except those groomed for King Louis’s court.

  “Ah! I am sorry, mademoiselle,” Mme Felice apologized. “I will be more gentle with your hurts.”

  Jack thought he saw a flicker of shame before the girl’s face became smooth again. “It is nothing,” she said, and he noted her voice was low and husky, smooth and sweet as sherry. “I thank you, madame, for your care of me.”

  Mme Felice chuckled and shook her head. “Ah, it is not I you should thank. It is M. Sir Jack who brought you here and commanded that I bathe you.”

  “Why?”

  Mme Felice raised her brows at the stark question and looked at Jack, clearly expecting that he answer. He stared at the girl coolly. “Because if I had not, you would have been killed, or at the very least taken to the authorities and accused of murder.” The landlady gasped and crossed herself, but the girl merely looked at him.

  “Ah,” she said. “I thank you.”

  He turned to Mme Felice, grinning. “Do not worry, madame. She is not a desperate criminal, but fought in self-defense.”

  A concerned look came into the girl’s eyes, and she gazed earnestly at him. “Did you see a young girl—she was in the alley, and dressed like a chambermaid? I hope she was able to get away—”

  “She ran from the alley as if a devil were after her, mademoiselle, if she was the one who left her apron behind.”

  The girl relaxed and closed her eyes. “Yes, that was the girl. I am glad she escaped.” She was silent and did not open her eyes. Jack was glad—her gaze disturbed him, making him feel as if he were not in control of himself, almost as if he were drowning, for his breath grew short looking at her. He had thought her hair a dull muddy brown, but Mme Felice had washed her hair and rinsed it, and now it was a deep red in the light of the sun that streamed through the windows.

  She is too thin, a scarecrow of a girl, and just a girl at that, he thought. Girl . . . he could not think of her as “the girl” forever. She had a name . . . ah, yes.

  “What brings you to Paris, Mlle de la Fer?” Catherine de la Fer, he remembered.

  The girl’s eyes opened, and a flicker of fear appeared in them, quickly suppressed. “It feels like a long time since I have been called that,” she said softly. Mme Felice cast an encouraging look at him over Catherine’s head, obviously curious about the girl’s background. He hid his smile at the landlady’s curiosity and waited patiently for the girl to speak.

  There was a long silence as the girl looked absently into the fire. “I had forgotten I had come to Paris.” She looked at him briefly, then into the fire again. “I came to . . . look for work.”

  Jack looked at her skeptically. When he had felt her wrist for her pulse, he had noted that though her hands were wounded and chapped from the cold, they were hardly those of a young woman used to working. What roughness she had was on her right hand, the kind a swordsman—swordswoman—would have.

  “You did not find work,” he stated.

  She glanced at him again. “No, I did not, not honest work, and I would not stoop to any other kind.”

  Mme Felice looked approvingly at the girl. “Of course, honest work is difficult to find . . . without a reference. Sometimes one’s former employers are bad-natured, and will not give any such.”

  “I had no . . . no, they were not good-natured,” the girl said.

  Jack hid his smile. His landlady was clever. It was clear now that the chit was not a runaway servant, but one who came from a family of privilege. Mme Felice grinned triumphantly over Catherine’s head and raised her voice. “Now you must turn your back, M. Sir Jack, for I must dry off mademoiselle and cover her.”

  His lips twisted. “I have seen her unclothed before, madame,” he protested, but turned his back—not before he caught the girl’s blush, however.

  “You may turn around,” Mme Felice said at last.

  He turned to see the girl sitting next to the fire with a large cloth wrapped around her. She did not look at him, but continued looking at the fire. Irritation pricked at him. At the very least she could acknowledge his presence—he was not an insignificant piece of furniture, after all. He watched as Mme Felice combed the shoulder-length hair, becoming absorbed in the repetitive motion through the slowly drying, curling hair, until a knock at the door startled him.

  “Entré!” Mme Felice cried, and the chambermaid came in with a set of clothes. “Et voilà! The clothes. If you will stand, I will dress you.” Catherine stood, unresisting except for a slight trembling, and Jack grinned. Yes, she was obviously of aristocratic stock—she took Mme Felice’s offer of dressing her as if she were used to being served.

  The girl looked at Mme Felice. “Thank you,” she said softly. But well behaved, he thought. Then, too, her experiences must have humbled her if she had not had a gracious manner from the beginning. Mme Felice gave him a stern look, and with a grin he turned his back.

  And turned again when the girl’s voice rose frantically, saying, “These are not my clothes! I must have my clothes back!”

  She clutched the cloth to her tightly, shaking her head, and looked anxiously around the room.

  “My dear mademoiselle,” he said. “Your clothes were filthy, torn, no doubt vermin-filled, and not worth saving. I burned them.”

  Fury burned in her eyes as she
looked at him. “They were mine. My clothes! And my sword and dagger! What did you do with them?”

  He eyed her coolly. “You will wear the clothes you are given. As for your weapons, they are here. I cleaned your sword.”

  “Give me my sword,” she demanded.

  “I will not,” he said.

  “Give it to me now.”

  He looked her up and down. “What, do you think you will use it on me? In the state you’re in? Put on the dress, and I will think about it.”

  She stared at him, grinding her teeth, and one hand opened and closed as if she wished to feel the haft of the sword in it.

  “Hush, mademoiselle!” Mme Felice said soothingly. “You must put on these clothes for now—if you wish to wear boy’s clothes, you may, but later, hein? Put these on, and eat what Marie will bring us for our breakfast, and then we may talk of finding other clothes for you.”

  The mention of food closed the girl’s mouth, and her eyes shut briefly as she visibly trembled. “Very well,” she said.

  Jack turned his back once again, until Mme Felice’s satisfied, “There!” gave him leave to turn. The clothes were too big on the girl and hung on her as if she were a child trying on her mother’s dress. But they were clean, warm, and covered her well.

  She looked at him, her expression grave, and held out her hand. “I would like my sword, please,” she said.

  He hesitated, wondering if he should give in, for it was clear she still needed food and rest. But though her face was still and composed, there was a pleading in her eyes, and it occurred to him that her sword was one of her very few possessions. He lifted it, and held it out to her.

  She came forward and took it, and for one moment held it up as if poised for battle. But her arm trembled, then shook, and the sword’s point fell to the floor.

  She stared at him. “I am weak,” she said, and her voice was bitter. “An idiot, and nothing but a weak woman.”

  He wanted at first to agree with her; she’d been foolhardy for taking on two strong men when she was indeed exhausted from lack of food. But he looked into her eyes again, and thought instead of her courage.

  “You did well, considering your state,” he said. He grinned. “Clumsy, but I’m sure with time and practice, you’ll improve.”

  She looked sharply at him, and then her lips opened as she took in a deep breath. “Do you think I can?” she asked.

  Hope made her eyes widen, making her look almost pretty, and Jack suddenly felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Of course,” he said. Mme Felice looked at him in dismay, but he avoided her eyes.

  “Can you teach me? Teach me to be the best with the sword?” the girl asked, her voice eager.

  “Of course,” he said, ignoring both Felice’s whispered mutter and crossing of herself . . . as well as the creeping feeling that he was putting himself to more trouble than the girl was worth.

  Her face brightened, and she smiled at last, hesitantly at first, then widely.

  She was lovely when she smiled. Jack suppressed a groan. Women were trouble, and pretty ones the very devil.

  But he had always taken on the devil and came away richer for it. He forced a smile on his face. “I promise it, mademoiselle,” he said.

  Chapter 2

  CATHERINE WATCHED SIR JACK FROM the corner of her eyes as she wolfed down the food Mme Felice had brought her. She paused only briefly in her survey of him to close her eyes and savor the food—tiens, it was heaven, this delicately herbed and spiced chicken, and the bread was rich and thick with butter—better than she had tasted even at . . .

  Her mind sheered away from the remembrance and she gazed at Sir Jack again, then looked away. He was alarmingly handsome, and she did not trust him. His looks guaranteed that he would get his way—were not people fooled by a man’s or woman’s good looks? And she knew that no one gave aid to anyone without some advantage to themselves.

  Therefore, Sir Jack wanted something from her, and no doubt he expected to get it easily. Well, she was somewhat grateful for the clothes, and very grateful for the food, but she would not make it easy for him to get what he wanted from her. She had learned better than that.

  Memory pricked at her, but she focused on the food again and her assessment of Sir Jack. He was tall, and clearly strong, and stubborn, Catherine thought, and when he closed his well-sculpted mouth it was with firmness, which gave his words a finality that brooked no disobedience. She wondered if he had been a soldier at some time—a scar marred his smooth left cheek. It did not really detract from his looks, but gave him a rakish air . . . which was another thing she did not trust.

  And yet, he had looked at her with his very blue eyes, and the expression in them was kind. She found herself staring at him again, and he was looking at her, his gaze assessing. No, no, surely she had been mistaken thinking she had seen kindness. He wanted something from her, she was sure, and no doubt it was not going to be to her advantage.

  However, he had offered to teach her how to fight, and she would hold him to it. A slight niggling thought told her that she should return something for the lessons he promised, but she gave a mental shrug. If he came through with his promise, then she would think of something.

  Her stomach began feeling full, but Catherine still ate. She could not know when she would eat next, after all.

  “Eat too much, too fast, and you will make yourself ill, mon enfant.”

  She looked at Sir Jack sharply, but there was nothing but that kindness again. She wondered if the kindness was an attitude he assumed to disarm her. Her stomach did feel tight, however, and perhaps it would be best if she stopped. She took a piece of bread from her plate and put it in her pocket for a future meal, then set down her fork. She eyed the knife next to the plate—it was well honed and had a sharp point. It would work well as a weapon should he try anything she did not like; she was alone with him, for Mme Felice had left, even though she had protested.

  She could see he watched her carefully; she thought she saw pity on his face when she put the bread in her pocket. Anger made her hands turn to fists. She needed no pity. Quickly, she thrust her hand in her pocket again and returned the bread to the plate.

  “It is always wise to keep provisions for another day,” he said gently.

  She gazed at him steadily—why had he said that? To warn her that she may not have more food? To let her know she would shortly be let out into the streets? It could not be because he wished to preserve her sense of pride. . . . She took the bread again and put it in her pocket, watching his expression.

  He frowned. “I will not bite, child,” he said.

  “I am not a child,” she said.

  “You cannot be more than fifteen.”

  “I am twenty, monsieur.”

  His brows rose and he rocked back in his chair. “You are trying to seem older than you are, I believe.”

  Irritation rose, and she stood from her chair. “Not at all. I am quite grown, and as you see, taller than most women.”

  He stood then, and she forced herself not to flinch as he rose above her. “You are a mite, a flea, a little thing, easily picked up in one hand.” He reached out for her, but she stepped back and seized the knife on the table.

  He held up his hands and laughed. “Little fire-eater. No, I will not pick you up and spoil your dignity.” He sat again, and crossed his leg over a knee, then waved his hand at her. “Sit. I believe you, and yes, you are taller than most women. You are very thin, however, and your form suggested a young girl rather than a fully-formed woman.” His voice was bland, apparently uninterested.

  Catherine looked away, feeling a blush creep over her face, and then confusion. She felt embarrassed, but glad he did not find her attractive, yet indignant that he did not. She glanced at him—his gaze still measured her. In truth, she should be glad he did not find her to his liking. It was safer that way.

  She sat then, and stared at the leftover food on the plates before her. It was clear
he could afford good food, enough to feed his tall body as well as a hungry stranger, with no concern that there was food leftover. Was he a procurer of women, and Mme Felice his accomplice? She cast back into her memory . . . no, he had called Mme Felice his landlady, and they had not the sly, furtive demeanor that often lurked beneath the whoremasters’ and mistresses’ so-called charity she had hidden from since she . . . since she had gone through all her money.

  She probed her memory a little more and shivered. She had thought she could find a paying occupation, but she had no skills other than reading and writing, and there were clerics enough to do that for the unlettered. For anything else, she needed either to have apprentice papers or references from former employers, and she had neither. She was not even able to find a job mucking out stables, for she was also expected to handle horses, and she had never saddled one in her life, for all that she thought she had ridden many.

  “Mademoiselle.”

  The sound of Sir Jack’s voice jerked her out of her recent memories and she looked up at him.

  “Mademoiselle, tell me of yourself, of your family.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled slightly. “It is clear to me you are not commonborn, but of a good family, perhaps even a noble one. I do not know why you came to the state in which I found you, but it seems reasonable that your family would want to know where you are, and if you are safe.”

  Fear lanced through her, and she stood, stumbling, overturning her chair on its back. “No,” she said, and her voice shook. “No. I—” She forced control over herself, clasping her hands together so that they would not shake. She made herself gaze steadily at him. “I do not remember my family, or where they are.” She tested her words in her mind . . . they were true, more or less. If she allowed herself to push back the veil that seemed to shroud her memory, she could possibly remember, as she had remembered her name. But madness lay beyond that veil, and she did not want to disturb it.