“I am still hungry, M. Sir Jack. Will you bring me the plate of apples?”
“Of course.” He seemed relieved to have something to do; he walked to the table beside her, picked up the plate, and held it out to her.
She moved up a little to take the food, watching him closely. He watched her, as well, following the movement of her hand to the apple slices, to her lips, but did not move to take any of it away from her.
His gaze lingered on her mouth, and she looked back at him, feeling at once uneasy and . . . she did not know. She felt at this moment that he was not a threat to her, and that he probably would not be in the future. But she was not entirely sure if she wanted him to look at her. She thought of what she must have looked like when she had been half out of the water—well, she had overheard him say once when he thought she was not near that he preferred plump women. So she was safe from his advances, she was sure. But she remembered someone had said she was unattractive. Her gut twisted; it had not prevented her from being hurt somehow. She felt sure of that, but was not sure what exactly it meant. Not knowing made her feel unsettled . . . or perhaps it was the way Sir Jack was looking at her. She could not stand it any longer.
“Is there something you want?” she asked abruptly. She gestured meaningfully at her bath. “It is not a convenient time, as I am sure you can see.”
He blinked, and seemed to shake himself. “Ah, yes. My apologies. In truth, I should have left as soon as I saw—” He stopped abruptly.
Catherine wondered if she should ask why he had not, but she was still too unsure of him—of anyone, for that matter—to question. She crouched back into the bath and the knife in her hand gave her comfort.
He averted his eyes, gazing at the fireplace instead. “That is, I came to let you know that I will be leaving soon.”
She stared at him, a sinking feeling entering her heart. She did not want him to leave. “But you promised that you would give me lessons in fencing.”
“Fichet will do it instead; he is as good at it as I am.”
His reply should have satisfied her, for it kept the spirit of his agreement with her. But the sinking feeling grew, and she realized she wished to be taught by him, not anyone else.
“But you said that Fichet did not know some sword tricks you do, and you promised to teach me those tricks.” She frowned. It was not precisely what she felt, but it would work. She wanted . . . she was not sure what she wanted, but Sir Jack had brought her to this warm place that had food; perhaps if he left she would have to return to the alley.
She thought she saw guilt on his face before he said gruffly, “Fichet has other tricks with the sword; he can teach you those until I return.”
“Where will you go?” she asked, feeling desperate.
“Breda, in Holland. My king calls for my service, and I must go.”
Catherine nodded slowly. She remembered duty, suddenly, and understood it in her bones, though anxiety gripped her at the thought of his leaving. She had become . . . used to him. He was easy to look upon, and she admitted she liked to look at him, even wanted to see if she could bring the light of kindness and humor into his eyes that she had seen before. She had seen Fichet and Mme Felice bring laughter to him—they were his friends, he had said. Perhaps he could be her friend as well some day.
She drew in a long, slow breath at the thought. She had no reason to trust anyone, let alone men. It frightened her a little to think of it, but she had seen the affection and friendship between the innkeeper and his wife; perhaps it might not be an impossible thing for her to have a friend and that friend be Sir Jack.
“I don’t know how long I will be gone, Catherine.”
The sound of his voice took her out of her thoughts and she looked at him again. “No idea at all?” she asked. She wanted to know, suddenly, urgently. He smiled, then, and despite the cooling water, she felt warmed.
“A fortnight, a few months, perhaps.”
She shivered—how was she to find out if they could be friends, if he were to be gone that long?
“Cold, Catherine?”
She looked up at him—he had used her Christian name twice, but she didn’t reprove him. Perhaps he, too, wished to be friends. But she said nothing of that, and nodded slowly. “Yes, the water is definitely cooling.” She looked at her hands and grimaced. “And I am turning into a raisin—see?” She wiggled her fingers at him to show him the beginnings of wrinkles at the fingertips.
He stepped closer, a looming figure between her and the firelight, but she kept herself from flinching from him as he took her hand and examined her fingers. “Indeed,” he said, and though his voice sounded solemn, an amused light grew in his eyes. “When I return, and when we duel for money, we can advertise you as the amazing dueling raisin woman. People will come to see you from all the provinces, and you shall be famous. We’ll then be so exalted in wealth as to rival your king’s court.”
An odd feeling grew under Catherine’s breastbone, a bubble of lightness. She felt her lips turning up, and then a laugh broke from her. It surprised her; she did not remember when she had last laughed. “I would like to see it happen,” she said. “Except not the raisin woman part.” She looked at the large towel Felice had left nearby and hesitated. The water was definitely cool now, and even if she asked Sir Jack to fetch Felice or a chambermaid, it would take a while before either of them came to help her. She would be cold again, and she despised being cold. She glanced at Sir Jack—there was nothing in his eyes but amusement. He did not find her attractive, she was sure. There could be no harm in having him give her the towel. “I would be pleased if you brought the towel to me, M. Sir Jack.” Her nervousness forced the words out in a command.
His brows raised, but he bowed ironically deep. “I am only your lowly servant, mademoiselle,” he said, and came forward, holding the cloth out to her. She took it and then looked at him again. His smile had an ironic cast, as if he expected some challenge, or was challenging her in some way. Rebellion rose in her; she admitted that she did not like that he thought her unattractive. Well, then! What did it matter if he looked at her or not?
She lifted her chin, brought the soft linen towel up between them, then rose from the water. Slowly she wrapped the towel around her, stepped out of the bath, then walked to the fireplace. She turned to look at Sir Jack, giving him just as much of an ironic smile as he had given her. “Well? You said you were my servant. Fetch my clothes—they are there on the bed.” She knew she was being impertinent, knew she should remember to be grateful to him for all that he had given her, but she did not feel like being grateful to him. She felt she owed him something, and resented it. It put her into his power somehow, and she did not want to be in anyone’s power.
“And what if I do not?” One corner of his lips lifted in a slight grin.
She bit her lip to still the sudden feeling of laughter again, for she wished to hold on to her resentment a little longer. She tried to look down her nose at him, which was difficult, she realized, because he was so much taller than she. “Well, then, you are not a very good servant.”
A speculative expression came over his face. “A good servant needs to be paid, mademoiselle.”
“I will pay you in coin after a while,” she said. She turned away, facing the fire, suddenly conscious of her poverty. She had nothing but her rosary, her cross, and her dagger, and she did not want to part with those. She thought of the beads on her rosary . . . perhaps it might be possible to replace one or two of the beads with paste, and sell the stones for money. That was a possibility. She knew very well that she owed Sir Jack, Fichet, and Mme Felice a great deal.
A sound from him made Catherine look up, and she saw he was closer now, and his hands came up to her shoulders. She was proud of herself: She did not flinch at all this time, and the fear she felt at his touch was very, very slight and soon gone.
“There are other ways to pay,” he said.
Her heart grew suddenly cold. She knew from her time in t
he alley of the ways women paid men. She had chosen to starve rather than pay for food that way; indeed, she had even approached a man once to sell her body but had vomited so badly when he agreed that he had left quickly. If she was going to vomit every time she sold herself, she had thought, she would starve faster than if she did not do it at all.
“I will not lie with you,” she said bluntly. She felt his hands move from her, then return, his finger under her chin to make her look at him.
His expression was kind, and he touched her cheek gently. “I am not asking for that, Catherine,” he said. “Just a kiss. I am leaving soon, and would have something to remember you by.”
She wet her lips nervously. A kiss, that was all. She suddenly remembered long ago that her mother had kissed her on the cheek—there could be nothing wrong with that. If that was payment, she could do it. She nodded and presented her cheek.
Jack’s hands pulled her closer, and she stiffened—she could not help it—but he did not seem to mind, for he leaned down and kissed her cheek, a featherlight touch of lips to skin. He moved away, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She raised her gaze to his, and looked away from the warmth that was clearly there. “That . . . that was not so very bad,” she said, and glanced at him again.
Amusement was clear in his eyes. “Thank you. I have been told in the past that my kisses are somewhat tolerable.”
Obviously he had kissed other women . . . and, she suspected, not on the cheek. Her gaze lowered to his lips. She wondered . . . no. “When will you be leaving?” she asked instead.
“On the morrow—and don’t tell Fichet or Mme Felice! They will no doubt nag me about something or other, and I would rather not have to deal with it.”
She nodded, and crossed her fingers behind her back to negate her apparent agreement. She knew suddenly that she did not want to be left behind with the innkeeper or his wife, even though she was fairly sure by now that they would never complain of her presence.
They were . . . kind people, she realized with surprise. She did not remember meeting any such, but then, she remembered very little so far about her life before the alley. In fact, she felt reluctant to think at all, and had been content just to exist and survive these few weeks since the alley. She frowned. Weeks had passed, and she did not know how many.
“Are you displeased that I am leaving?”
Catherine looked up, startled out of her thoughts. There seemed a question in his eyes that made his words seem more than a trivial inquiry.
“A little,” she replied, honestly but cautiously. “You promised to teach me fencing, not Fichet, and I assumed it would be only you and not anyone else. But a king’s command is always his subject’s duty.”
He nodded, seeming both relieved and disappointed, but she looked away, not knowing how to respond. A chill draft drifted past her, and she shivered.
“I will need to dress now; will you ask Mme Felice to send up a maid?” She turned to her clothes set out on the bed. “I am still not used to dressing myself.”
No sound came from behind her, however, and she glanced at Sir Jack. A frown creased his brow as he stared at her, and he stepped quickly toward her and seized her arm, too quickly for her to flinch or step away. Anger flared in her.
“Take your hands from me,” she said between her teeth. Her hands turned into fists.
He did not; instead, he turned her so that she faced away from him. “Your back. Your weals are gone.”
She twisted so that she could stare angrily at him. “What of it? I imagine I heal quickly.”
His expression grew grim with suspicion. “No one recovers that quickly from such wounds. All you have left are pale stripes across your skin, scars older than those of a few weeks.” He took one of her hands and turned them palm up. “There is no scarring there, either, though I know I saw bloody cuts on them when I found you.”
She pulled away her hands and shrugged. “Perhaps you were mistaken in what you saw.”
Indecision stayed a moment on Sir Jack’s face, then disappeared. “Perhaps.” He turned abruptly to the chamber door. “I will fetch Mme Felice . . . to help you dress.” He strode to the door and left through it, closing it again with a decided slam.
Jack closed the door and leaned against it, breathing deeply and pulling as much control as he could gather through his heated body. Damn the inn-wife! She must have known Catherine was taking her bath, and had not told him, so that he’d get a good look at her without her clothes.
Very well. So he had not thought the woman—he could not deny she was a fully-formed woman any longer—was the sort he favored, and he was wrong. He had thought she was a skinny waif, but she had changed over the course of these weeks so that she had filled out, and her breasts had become full, her body lean but lithe. When she had leaned over the edge of the tub, her waist had curved in, then out to hint at trim hips, and the whole had stopped his steps toward her, stopped his very breath. It was worse when she had covered herself with the linen towel; it had covered everything, but the firelight had revealed a delectable silhouette that did nothing but bring him to wild imaginings.
He blew out a long breath. Very well. He was wrong. Catherine was indeed the sort of woman he liked; in fact, lusted after.
Then she had turned and gazed at him with her wary green eyes and he had felt . . . lost, as if he had mistaken his way after a long march and found another way to a new land. It had taken all his control not to seize her and make love to her right then and there.
But he remembered he was a gentleman, and hoped he sounded intelligent enough after his surprise to bid her a good farewell. He winced. Well, he had bid her a farewell all right, much more than he intended. But he could not at the end resist holding her, and thought he had done well only to kiss her cheek.
He pushed himself off the chamber door and went down the hall to his own room. He would not leave for Holland on the morrow, but tonight, for he was not sure if he could stand any more of Felice’s machinations, or the chance that he might just see more of Catherine than he should.
It was just as well, however. He opened the door and entered his room, looking immediately for his knapsack. He would pack lightly for travel, and bring as much money as he could spare for the king and his cause. He’d bring his musket, as well, in case he’d be required to leave for England and fight for Charles’s return.
It’d be a relief, truth to tell, for Catherine’s fast-healing wounds disturbed him. He’d been well educated in the lives of the saints, and he remembered mention of such wounds on those holy folk. But the devil could also cause marvels to aid his sorcerers. . . .
Jack shook his head. He did not believe in such things; he’d never seen any supernatural marvels that people had claimed to see, and what he had seen had clearly been the creation of disordered minds, or outright frauds. He’d grown from boy to man in the company of the king, and had seen for himself the very un-Christian strife such superstitious thinking had brought to both France and England. He was, in fact, not inclined to believe in the dogma of either the Roundheads or the Catholics. Give him the rationality of Sir Isaac Newton, or Galileo, over the ravings from the pulpits.
Surely there was a rational explanation for Catherine’s wounds and quick healing; perhaps it was as she said, that she had healed quickly.
At any rate, Catherine and her problems were a moot point; he was leaving, and as soon as he was gone from Paris, he could focus on his true duty, his duty to his king.
Chapter 4
CATHERINE LOOKED AT HER HANDS, turning them slowly over. Her wounds . . . she had painful wounds, she remembered, but they were gone now. They were lean and smooth, with the beginnings of calluses on them, but no blood on them now, no wounds that slowly seeped red. Trembling seized her, and she sat slowly on the bed next to her clothes. Sir Jack would not hurt her . . . at least, she did not think so. But his words forced her to think, and memories rose inside . . . a whipping, an agonizing pain between h
er legs, and then blood, too much blood. She closed her eyes. Blood on the floor, blood on her hands, long ago, and again when she was the creature in the alley.
It was not a dream. She had hoped it was and had set aside the memory to the darkness in her mind, but Sir Jack had seen it, too.
She shivered again and let the linen towel around her drop while she reached for her shift. Quickly she pulled on the thin material, and covered herself with a blanket as she moved to the fireplace and sat on a stool in front of it. She stretched out her feet to the warmth and moved uncomfortably as a prickling went through them in response to warming past an icy cold.
She held out her hands to the fire, as well, and the light flickered over them, smooth and white. There was no mark on them, and she liked the way they looked now. A faint image came to her mind: at one time they had been plump hands. Now they seemed lithe and strong, well on their way to handling a sword—competently, she hoped. The wounds on them had appeared . . . twice, she believed. Once, long ago, and again in the alley—no more than twice in the alley. It had happened whenever she had seen someone abused, and would not stop until the abuse had passed.
She did not know what it meant. A word struggled to the forefront of her mind: stigmata. The word brought forth faint memories: lessons with nuns, the ritual of mass, of confession, of prayer, the lives of saints. However, she was sure she was no saint.
Perhaps it was a curse, a punishment for a crime. Fear formed a lump in her throat. She had caused some of the blood to flow in the time-long-ago, she realized. Surely this was a punishment.
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