What an odd thing to say. Or perhaps not so odd; Durant seemed to comprehend Elixabete’s situation better than anyone.
“Yes, my lord.” Elixabete curtsied and whisked away, a sprite in a big brown dress.
“What brought you back?” He advanced on Emma, curiosity dancing in his lively green eyes.
“Lady Fanchere received an invitation to the prince’s ball tomorrow night, and so we returned to prepare.” She hesitated, reluctant to tell him everything, but what was the use of hiding the truth? He was going to find out somehow, and better if he heard it from her. “Actually, I received an invitation, too.”
“You did?” Imperiously, he gestured her into the library.
She found herself obeying him without question. He had an air of command about him, and she remembered he was, after all, the son of a duke and a privileged member of English society.
He indicated a love seat by the window.
She placed herself in one corner.
He placed himself in the opposite corner, not three feet away. In a stern tone, he asked, “Since when does Prince Sandre invite a paid companion to one of his royal dances?”
She felt as if she were facing a strict older brother. “He wishes to court me.”
“Have you lost your mind?” His voice rasped with dismay.
She expected him next to point out the chasm between a prince and a serving girl.
Instead, he said, “Have you not heard of his cruelties, his excesses? You can’t marry a man like that. You would be miserable living with him, and die an early death while under his thumb. Believe me. Many have.”
She stared at him, wondering at the way he leaned forward, at the shadow that darkened his eyes and the intensity with which he spoke. She wanted to assure him she knew all those things, and that she had an ulterior motive.
But how would that improve matters between them? He’d warned her about getting involved in the situation here. He would hardly approve of her helping the most wanted man in Moricadia.
Most important, she could never hint that she had met the Reaper.
“Lady Fanchere is quite enthusiastic about Prince Sandre.” Emma was very good at being noncommittal; she had learned the art while working for Lady Lettice.
“Lady Fanchere is a kind woman who sees the best in everyone, and she’s related to your beloved prince.”
“I know.” Emma glanced out the window. The sun was starting to sink below the horizon. She needed some privacy, some time to prepare in case, just in case, the Reaper somehow managed to follow her here. “I comfort myself that the prince can court me, but I don’t have to accept.”
“Once Prince Sandre has indicated his intentions, and the rest of the country knows about it, do you believe you can walk away from him?”
“Until I agree—”
Durant snorted. “My dear, even you can’t be that naïve. If you dared refuse him, he would hunt you down and bring you back, and make you pay for humiliating him.”
He chided her so passionately, she wavered, then remembered again—the Reaper. She was doing this to help the Reaper. “Surely it’s not so desperate as you paint it.” Jumping to her feet, she said, “I must go. It’s bedtime.”
Durant looked outside in astonishment. “It’s still light!”
“I’m tired. From the journey.”
He stood tall, unsmiling, forbidding. “I suppose you want a good night’s sleep so you’ll be fresh for the ball tomorrow night.”
“Of course.” Good excuse. “Yes!”
“You know, at one time, I had thought of courting you myself.”
“Don’t be silly.” She laughed.
He didn’t. “But what’s a man who will someday inherit a dukedom when compared with a prince of a small country?”
Her amusement faded. “I don’t believe you, but even if I did—why would you imply such a cruel thing?”
“Cruel? For what other reason than the desire for wealth and security would a woman like you marry such a man as Sandre de Guignard?”
The scorn with which he spoke caught her by surprise, and so did the rage that lifted her like a wave rising on the incoming tide. Lunging at Durant, she said, “You know nothing of what a woman like me desires. You’ve never been so poor that if you didn’t obtain a position, you would have to work the streets as a prostitute. You’ve never rubbed a minor noblewoman’s smelly feet, knowing full well that when she was satisfied, she would kick you away. You’ve never wandered in the forest, so cold and lost that lonely death beckoned and you wanted to run to its arms.” She gestured widely. “Yes, you were in prison for two years, but you put yourself there. Women like me are placed in this prison of poverty and desperation through no volition of our own, and we live and die there without hope of ever escaping. So don’t judge me, my lord. You know nothing of my motivations.”
“Emma . . .” His hand rose as if to cup her cheek. He stared into her angry eyes. . . .
And for a moment, she had the oddest feeling of familiarity . . . and fear. What was it about this man that made her react so violently to his disdain?
Then the wave of fury crashed around her, and she didn’t care. Turning, she flounced out of the library.
Chapter Twenty-three
As Emma hurried to her bedchamber, she wiped a few angry tears off her hot cheeks.
How dared Durant speak to her so critically? What did he know about women “like her”? His whole life had been one of privilege. Or at least, until the last two years it had been a life of privilege. Stupid to care about his opinion when he stayed here in Moricadia, lazing about, doing nothing to relieve his family’s worry; he was a man of little honor or loyalty.
Yet she couldn’t forget that he had been kind to Elixabete and Damacia, and she knew that in another time and place she would have been enchanted by his interest in her.
Oh! She couldn’t make sense of that man. First he was indolent. Then he was kind. Then he implored her to stay away from Prince Sandre for her well-being. Then he accused her of being nothing better than a strumpet, trading her body for money.
She started up the second stairway to her bedroom in the servants’ quarters when Tia stopped her. “Miss Chegwidden, do you remember me? I’m the maid who helped you on your first day here.”
“You’re Tia.” And Tia was acting oddly, not looking at Emma, pretending to be subservient to the extreme. “What’s wrong?”
“Thank you for your graciousness.” Tia curtsied. “I’m here to assist you. Your chamber has been moved.”
“Moved?” Emma scrubbed her handkerchief over her red eyes. “Why moved?”
“Those were my instructions, ma’am. If you would follow me . . .”
Emma glanced up the narrow stairway, then hurried to catch up. “All right, but I’ll need to get my belongings. . . .”
“I transferred everything to your new chamber. There was not so much that I needed help.” Tia said the words with such a lack of inflection, they were a criticism that made Emma wince.
“No, I suppose not.”
The maid led Emma down a broad corridor hung with oil paintings and gilt- framed mirrors, and stopped before a wide door. Opening it, she waited while Emma entered.
Emma gaped at the large, sumptuous room. An oriental rug of brown, red, and cream covered much of the polished wood floor. A mirror hung over the dressing table covered with creams and cosmetics. A red velvet chair sat on one side of a fireplace set with wood.
While Emma watched, Tia knelt and lit the fire. “It’s warm for a fire,” she ventured.
“As the sun goes down, the evening will grow chilly, and you’ll want the heat after your bath.”
After my bath?
Tia closed the amber drapes of velvet hung at the windows and opened the bed curtains to reveal the massive bed. Going to the tall wardrobe, she opened it and said, “I’ve hung your gowns here, and your under- and nightclothes are here.” She showed Emma the drawers. “I’ve taken the liberty of laying
out one of your nightgowns and a robe.” She gestured toward the bed.
Emma gawked at the white lace-trimmed garments.
A soft knock rattled the door.
“That would be the water.” Tia let a procession of serving maids carrying steaming buckets into the room. Two burly scullery maids followed lugging a huge tub.
Brimley stood in the entrance, holding a cold supper laid out on a tray. He handed it to Tia, who placed it on the table beside the bed. Then as she directed the placement and filling of the bath, Brimley asked, “Is all to Miss Chegwidden’s satisfaction?”
She stared at him, horrified.
He used his most proper stuffy-butler tone, and he wouldn’t look at her.
This was why he hadn’t spoken to her as she entered the château. Clearly, he was indicating his loss of respect for her.
He had come up especially to indicate his loss of respect for her.
And she didn’t want that. She liked Brimley. She respected him. But like Durant, he had warned her against getting involved in Moricadian affairs. How could she explain her actions in a way that would make Brimley accept them as wise? In his book, what she was doing was the epitome of unwise.
So in a faltering voice, she said, “Yes, thank you. All is most satisfactory.”
“Tia pleases you as your lady’s maid?”
Emma darted a glance at Tia. The girl stood, hands folded before her in the manner of a docile servant—in the manner Emma had so often used herself—and stared at the floor. “Tia pleases me, yes.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Brimley bowed, head turned away, turned on his heel, and left.
The rest of the servants left with him. None of them looked at her—she was being snubbed by her peers. Because she was above herself? Or because it was the despised Prince Sandre who paid her court?
Only Tia remained, and she helped Emma out of her clothes and into the tub. While Emma bathed, the maid bustled around, building the fire higher, warming the towels, warming the sheets, pouring a crystal glass of deep red wine. She helped Emma wash her hair, and when she was finished, she helped her out, dried her, and held the nightgown so Emma could slip it over her head and the robe so she could put her arms into it.
Tia never spoke. Never looked at her.
Emma broke the stifling silence. “You may have the bath removed; then leave me to enjoy my solitude until the morning.”
Tia looked surprised, as if she had expected Emma to break under the unspoken criticism. But she did as she was told, placed the wine and the food tray on the table before the fire, and in only a few minutes, Emma was alone.
In the distance, she could hear the deep rumble of thunder, like a criticism about everything she thought and everything she did. In this large room, she felt small and dirty, and cheap. She had bought this luxury under false pretenses, and while she knew she was doing the right thing, she also knew how her acceptance of Prince Sandre’s courtship looked to everyone except the optimistic Lady Fanchere. She did look like a strumpet grasping at her chance to escape the hopelessness of her life. Not that women hadn’t done exactly that for all of history, but few had had to face so degrading and cruel a bridegroom as Prince Sandre.
Sitting down on the velvet chair, she pulled her comfortable old shawl around her shoulders, picked up her comb, and began to work the tangles out of her hair.
As he had for so many nights, Jean-Pierre sat on his drowsing horse, quiet, immobile, concealed by the brush beside the main road. He was alone; for too long the Reaper had evaded him. And the prince would not wait forever.
As he had so many times before, Jean- Pierre touched the whip slash that had opened his face to the bone. It was red, infected, a reminder, as Prince Sandre had hoped, of his failure.
So Jean-Pierre had shed the company of his men, the men who grew impatient with the long hours of waiting, who gossiped among themselves about Sandre’s obsession with catching the Reaper and, with their gossip, let servants know where they were going and what they were doing.
Now Jean-Pierre slept by day, and by night he watched the road, his rifle loaded and at the ready.
Tonight it was after midnight. The shadows were thick. The half-moon sailed high in the sky. In the distance, he heard the inevitable thunderstorm, and cursed viciously.
Every night, another storm rose over the horizon, bringing gusts of windblown rain and lightning flashes to set the world on fire. As if the damp weren’t miserable enough, he knew the peasants pointed to the tempests as proof that the Reaper controlled the weather. For didn’t he always appear in a clap of thunder and disappear in a flash of lightning?
Superstitious serfs.
He stiffened.
Nearer at hand, he heard the clop-clop of a horse galloping down the road.
Silently, he slid the rifle from the leather holster.
The rich Irishman, Mr. Gillespie Cosgair, rounded the corner, leaning over the neck of his gelding, glancing behind and urging him on as if in a panic.
In a panic? Because he was being chased by the Reaper?
Jean-Pierre put the rifle to his shoulder.
Another horse came around the corner in hot pursuit.
Count Belmont Martin raced down the road, his eyes fixed on Cosgair’s back, his face contorted in a killing rage.
Once again, Martin’s wife had made him a cuckold.
Jean-Pierre slid his rifle back into the holster.
And waited.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Reaper slipped into Emma’s room through the door that connected to the next-door sitting room, and moved soundlessly to the middle of the room.
She sat before the fire, wrapped in her favorite old shawl, leaning forward to capture the heat of the flames and sliding her comb through her long, dark hair. The sight of her pensive silhouette made his heart melt even while the fire backlit the thin material of her nightgown and showed him the outline of her long, slender legs.
She put her comb down. Took a sip of wine and ate a handful of grapes. The shawl slipped off one shoulder, and he saw that she wore a new nightgown with lace straps and a lace bodice. Lace! As if her beauty needed any enhancement.
Unbidden, a raw sound escaped him.
She turned and saw him, clad in his costume of rags and shredded scarf, mask and white powder.
Slowly, she straightened. The other nights, his appearance had given her joy. Not tonight. Tonight she seemed uncertain, and rushed into explanation. “We had to leave suddenly. I didn’t dare leave a message, and I was afraid you couldn’t find me. I didn’t want you to think I was . . . that I was avoiding you.”
He wished he thought that. He wished she were less honorable, less determined to do what she thought was right.
He wished he desired her less. He wished . . . he wished one of them could walk away. Instead, they met in secret, drawn together by mutual desire.
He strode to stand before her. Taking the comb out of her hand, he ran it through her dark hair, lifting it as if he were spinning ebony.
Outside, the thunderstorm rumbled closer, flashing heat and light into the soil, igniting trees and slashing the earth with hail.
She sighed and relaxed, as if his ministrations gave her pleasure. “When I left England, the length was down to my hips, but when I realized how difficult Lady Lettice would be, I cut most of it.” It hung down just past her shoulder blades now. “As Lady Lettice said, it’s not as if it’s a pretty color.”
Dropping the comb to the floor, he put his knee on the wide seat beside her. Gathering handfuls of her hair, he crushed it in his fists like a miser with his gold, then used it to tilt her head back for his kiss. He probed her mouth, seeking pleasure in the taking.
She tasted of red wine and ripe fruit. She smelled of lavender soap and warm woman.
God, he wanted her. It seemed as if he’d always wanted her, that all his life he’d been waiting for her, for the moment when they would meet and fall in love, and he would take her in his arms and
make her his.
He ran a fingertip across the low, off-the-shoulder neckline, then lightly touched each nipple as they strained against the lace inset. He observed the blush that rose from beneath her neckline, felt the press of desire, and knew that only his restraint kept them apart. She was in love with him, had fallen easily for the romance of his deeds and his dark masquerade. But she loved an illusion, and until he could reveal himself, he had to hold back from the final claiming.
She tilted her head back, silently inviting him to touch her with his lips, to take what was his.
He had to leave now, before he succumbed to her enticements.
He turned away.
She stood and grabbed his arm.
He looked back.
She shook her hair away from her face and glared at him, one hand clutching his arm, the other lifted in a fist. “You kiss me. You caress me. But it’s a game with you. You always run away, and you always leave me frustrated. Why should I think tonight is any different?”
He wanted to answer, but he couldn’t break his silence.
“I won’t be here tomorrow night.” She lifted her chin, angry and defiant.
He turned back, spread his hands to ask why.
She threw off her shawl. “I’m going to the prince’s ball.”
This silence that imprisoned him drove him mad. He wanted to speak to her, to beg her not to go, to forbid her to pursue this dangerous course. But he couldn’t.
So she kept talking. “That’s why we came back from Aguas de Dioses. I’m going with Lord and Lady Fanchere as the prince’s guest.”
He shook his head.
“You know why I’m going to the ball. This last week . . . every night with you, it’s been wonderful. But every morning I wake up, terrified you’ve been shot, imprisoned, killed. You don’t even . . . You wear white. White! At least you could wear a black cape over your costume while you ride. The tourists would still see you, hear about you. They’d still be afraid. They’d still run away, depriving Prince Sandre’s treasury of their gold. But no. You won’t listen to me. You have to stand out as much as possible, be the brightest target you can be. I can’t stand it.” Her fingers gripped him more tightly. “I know you don’t like it, but I will continue to encourage the prince—I must know what his plans are. It’s the only way.”
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