The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  “Are you mad?”

  Juliette opened the door a crack and peered out cautiously. The shrubbery started only a few feet away, and there seemed to be no one in sight.

  “Don’t go.”

  “Be silent or come with us. One or the other.” Juliette clasped Louis Charles’s small body tighter and opened the door wider. She drew a deep breath, leapt from the carriage, and darted across the dusty road and into the shrubbery. Branches lashed her face and clawed at her arms as she pushed through the bushes.

  “Come back to the carriage at once! You can’t leave me.”

  Juliette muttered an oath as she bolted through the shrubbery. Even in the cacophony of shouts and clatter of sabers Marguerite’s shrill voice carried clearly. If Juliette could hear it, she would be foolish to believe none of the attackers would.

  Louis Charles whimpered beneath the gag, and she automatically pressed him closer. Poor baby, he didn’t understand any of this madness. Well, she didn’t either, but she wouldn’t let those murderers harm either the child or herself.

  “Stop!”

  A sudden chill gripped her and she glanced over her shoulder.

  Black Velvet.

  The man who had sat watching the battle was now crashing through the underbrush behind her, his cloak flying behind him like the wings of a great bird of prey.

  Juliette ran faster, trying desperately to outdistance the man in black.

  Tears were running down Louis Charles’s cheeks.

  She jumped over a hollow log, staggered, and almost fell as she landed in an unseen hollow behind it. She regained her balance and ran on. Pain stitched through her side.

  “Merde, stop. I mean you no—” The man broke off, cursing.

  A glance over her shoulder revealed he had fallen to his knees in the hollow that had almost been her own undoing.

  She felt a surge of primitive satisfaction. She hoped the villain had broken his leg. It would serve him well if—

  A bullet whistled by her ear, striking the tree next to her.

  “The boy. Give me the boy.”

  The guttural voice came not from behind but ahead of her!

  A huge, burly man dressed in ragged trousers and a coarse white tunic stood only a yard in front of her, holding a smoking pistol in his hand. He threw the empty pistol aside and drew a dagger from his belt.

  Juliette froze, her gaze on the gleaming blade of the knife.

  She couldn’t go back toward the man in black. She desperately sought some way to escape.

  The branch lying on the path a few feet away!

  “Don’t hurt me, Monsieur. See, I’m putting the child down.” She set Louis Charles on the ground at her feet.

  The huge man grunted with satisfaction and took a step forward.

  Juliette snatched up the branch and brought it up between the man’s legs with all her might.

  He screamed, clutching his groin and dropping the knife.

  Juliette picked up Louis Charles again and darted past her victim.

  Only seconds later she heard the man cursing as he pounded after her. How had the lout recovered so quickly? She knew how disabling a blow to that part of a man’s anatomy could be. Only a few months earlier the Duc de Gramont … A stream to jump. Her skirts trailed behind her in the water.

  Within seconds she heard the splashing of heavy boots in the water.

  He was closer!

  A meaty hand grasped her shoulder, jerking her to a halt.

  “Bitch! Whore!”

  She caught the gleam of metal from the corner of her eye as he raised his dagger to plunge it into her back.

  Sweet Mary, she was going to die!

  The dagger never fell.

  She was jerked and whirled away from the peasant’s blade with such force she fell to her knees on the ground.

  Black Velvet.

  She gazed in stunned amazement at the bloody stain spreading on the shoulder of the black velvet cloak worn by the man who had thrust her aside to take the peasant’s blade himself.

  Pain wrenched the tall, lean man’s features into a grimace even as his own dagger plunged into the other man’s broad chest.

  The burly peasant groaned, then slumped to the ground.

  The man in black velvet stood there, swaying, before staggering to lean against a pine tree a few feet away. One hand clutched at his left shoulder from which the dagger still protruded. His olive skin had faded to a sickeningly sallow shade, his lips drawn thin. “My dear Mademoiselle de Clement. May … I say.” His voice faded. “That … you … make it damnably hard for a man to … rescue you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Rescue?”

  “I brought reinforcements to help the guard when I learned of the plan to attack the carriage. If you’d stayed in the coach—” His palm clutched blindly at the bark of the tree as his face convulsed with pain. “The battle should be … over by now.”

  “I didn’t know what was going on,” Juliette whispered. “Whom to trust. Who are you? Where did you come from?”

  “Jean Marc … Andreas. An inn nearby … Inn of the Blind Owl …” His gaze shifted to the peasant lying on the ground a few feet away. “Not clever. Boots …”

  His eyes closed and he slid slowly down the tree trunk in a dead faint.

  “Don’t argue with me. You must send for the physician in the village and I’ll need hot water and clean linen.”

  Jean Marc opened his eyes to see Juliette de Clement belligerently confronting a large, stout man. Jean Marc dimly recognized him as Monsieur Guilleme, the proprietor of the inn where he had been residing for the last few weeks.

  The innkeeper shook his head. “I’ve no wish to offend His Majesty by sending for the physician in the village if Monsieur Andreas truly saved the life of the prince. We must wait for the court physician to arrive.”

  “The palace is too far. Do you wish to be responsible if he dies?”

  Why, she was scarcely more than a child, Jean Marc realized hazily. When he had first caught sight of the girl running through the forest his only impression had been of a thin, graceful form, a storm of shining dark brown curls and wide, frightened eyes. Now, although she stood with spine straight, shoulders squared as if to compensate for the fact that the top of her head barely came to the third button on the innkeeper’s shirt, it was clear her slim body bespoke only the faintest hint of the maturity to come.

  “Can’t you see the man’s lifeblood is pouring onto your floor?”

  Jean Marc shifted and became aware he was being held upright by two soldiers dressed in the uniform of the Swiss guard, both of whom were grinning as they watched the confrontation. “What a truly depressing … picture,” he whispered. “I devoutly hope … you’re not referring to myself, Mademoiselle.”

  Juliette whirled to face Jean Marc, and an expression of profound relief lightened the tension in her face. “You’re awake. I was afraid …” She turned back to Monsieur Guilleme. “Why do you just stand there? He must have the dagger removed from his shoulder immediately.”

  Monsieur Guilleme spoke soothingly. “Believe me, sending for the court physician is best. You’re too young to realize—”

  “I’m not too young to realize you’re more afraid for your own skin than for his,” Juliette interrupted fiercely. “And I’ll not have him bleeding to death while you stand there dithering.”

  Jean Marc grimaced. “I do wish you’d stop talking about my pending demise. It’s not … at all comforting.”

  “Be silent.” Juliette glanced back at him, her brown eyes blazing. “I’m sure speaking is not good for you. You’re behaving as foolishly as this innkeeper.”

  Jean Marc’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “That’s better.” She nodded to the two soldiers supporting Jean Marc. “Take him to his chamber. I’ll follow as soon as I deal with the innkeeper. And be gentle with him or, by the saints, you’ll answer to me.”

  The soldiers’ grins faded and they began to bristle with annoyance as th
e girl’s fierceness turned on them. Christ, in another minute the chit would have the men dropping him in a heap on the floor. He flinched at the thought and asked hastily, “The prince?”

  “I told you not to—” She met Jean Marc’s gaze and nodded curtly. “He’s safe. I sent him on to the palace with my nurse and the captain of the guard. I thought it safer for him.”

  “Good.” Jean Marc’s knees sagged and his eyes closed wearily. He let the soldiers bear the brunt of his weight as they half dragged, half carried him toward the stairs.

  The next ten minutes proved to be an agony unsurpassed in Jean Marc’s experience, and when he was finally lying naked beneath the covers on the wide bed in his chamber he was barely on the edge of awareness.

  “You won’t die.”

  He opened his eyes to see Juliette de Clement frowning down at him with a determination that was strangely more comforting than tenderness would have been. “I hope you’re right. I have no—”

  “No.” Her fingers quickly covered his lips and he found the touch infinitely gentle in spite of its firmness. “I told the innkeeper you were bleeding to death only to make him move with some haste. He wouldn’t listen to me. He thought me only a stupid child.”

  “A grave error in judgment.”

  “You’re joking.” She gazed curiously at him. “I think you must be a very odd man to joke with a dagger sticking in your shoulder.”

  Her image wavered before him like the horizon on a hot day. “Only because I find myself in an odd predicament. I’m not at all a heroic man, and yet I’m thrown into a position where I must”—he stopped as the room tilted and then began to darken—“act the hero.”

  “You do not consider yourself heroic?” Juliette’s tone was thoughtful. “I see.”

  “I wish I could. It’s growing fiendishly dark. I believe I’m going to—”

  “Go to sleep.” Her hand swiftly moved to cover his eyes. “I’ll stay and make sure no harm comes to you. You can trust me.”

  She lied. He could trust no woman, he thought hazily.

  But Juliette was not yet a woman, she was still a child. A strong, brave child whose hands were as gentle as her tone was sharp.

  Yes, for the moment he could trust Juliette de Clement.

  He let go and sank into the waiting darkness.

  When he next opened his eyes Juliette was kneeling by the bed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t wake up yet,” she whispered. “The village physician’s here.”

  “So you … won.”

  “Of course. The man appears even more foppish than the court physician, but I hope he’s not a fool.” She hesitated. “He’s going to pull out the dagger now.”

  Jean Marc stiffened, his gaze flying across the room. A small, rotund man dressed in a violet brocade coat and wearing an elaborately curled white wig stood by the hearth warming his bejeweled hands before the blaze. “I’ve no doubt I, too, will be wishing I hadn’t regained my senses in a few minutes. I have no fondness for pain.”

  “Of course not. You’d be a twisted soul if you did.” Still kneeling, she frowned thoughtfully. “Listen to me. It will hurt, but there are ways of making the pain less. You must try to think of something else, something beautiful.”

  The physician straightened his cravat and turned away from the fire. Jean Marc braced himself.

  “No, you mustn’t tense, that will only make it hurt more.” Juliette reached out and took both Jean Marc’s hands in her own. “Think of something beautiful. Think of— No, I can’t tell you what to think. It has to be your own beautiful picture.”

  Jean Marc watched the physician stroll toward the bed.

  “I’m afraid I can’t oblige you,” Jean Marc said dryly. “Would you settle for panic? Beauty evades me at the moment.”

  “It shouldn’t. There are a great many beautiful things in the world.” Her hands tightened on his. “I always think of how I feel when I’m painting or when I look at the Wind Dancer.”

  “The Wind Dancer?” Jean Marc’s muscles contracted, his gaze shifting from the approaching physician to Juliette’s face.

  “You’re heard of it?” Eagerness illuminated her face. “It’s the most beautiful statue in the world. Sometimes I look at it and wonder—” She broke off and fell silent.

  “Wonder what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “It’s just that I don’t see how any man or woman could create such beauty,” she said simply. “It’s more than beauty, it’s—”

  “Don’t tell me.” Jean Marc’s lips twisted. “The dream.”

  She nodded. “You have seen it. Then perhaps you could think of the Wind Dancer.”

  He shook his head. “I regret I’ve never seen your Wind Dancer.”

  Her face clouded with disappointment.

  “Well, Monsieur, I see you’re awake.” The physician stood beside the bed, smiling cheerfully. “I’m Gaston St. Leure and I’ll soon have that dagger out of your shoulder.” He stepped closer. “Now, brace yourself while I—”

  “No, don’t listen to him,” Juliette said fiercely. “Look at me.”

  Jean Marc’s gaze was drawn by the sheer intensity of her manner. Her brown eyes were brilliant, sparkling with vitality in her thin face. The high color in her cheeks glowed rose against cream skin, and he could see the tracery of blue veins at her temple pounding with agitation.

  “Something beautiful,” she said urgently. “What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

  “The sea.”

  “Then think of the sea.” She shifted her grasp so that his hands encircled her wrists. “Hold on to me and tell me about the sea. Tell me how you remember it.”

  “Storm … power … The waves dashing against the ship. Gray-blue water shimmering in th—”

  Searing, white-hot pain!

  “The sea,” Juliette whispered, her gaze holding his own. “Remember the sea.”

  “One more pull,” the physician said cheerfully as his grasp tightened on the hilt of the dagger.

  “Hush.” Juliette’s gaze never left Jean Marc’s. “Tell me more about the sea.”

  “In the sunlight on a calm day it’s … as if we were floating on a giant sapphire.”

  Sparkling brown eyes holding the pain at bay.

  He moistened his dry lips with his tongue. “And when the ship draws near the shore …”

  Her skin, a rose resting in a bowl of cream, glowing like candlelight.

  “The water turns to … emerald. You’re never certain—”

  Pain!

  Jean Marc’s back arched off the bed as the dagger came free of his flesh.

  “That does it.” The physician turned away from the bed, the bloody dagger in his hand. “Now I’ll get rid of this thing and clean and bandage you.”

  Jean Marc lay panting, the room whirling about him. He could feel the blood well from the wound and run down his shoulder.

  “You’ll have to let me go,” Juliette said.

  Jean Marc stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  She tugged, wriggling her wrists to escape his grasp. “I can’t help the physician if you don’t release me.”

  He hadn’t realized he was still holding her arms. He slowly opened his hands and let her go.

  She sat back on her heels. Sighing with relief, she briskly massaged her left wrist. “That’s better. The worst is over now.”

  “Is it?” He felt terribly alone without the girl’s touch and wanted to take her hands again and hold on to her. Strange. He couldn’t remember when he had ever accepted solace from a woman. “That’s comforting to know. I should certainly hate to think the worst was yet to come. I told you I wasn’t fashioned of the stuff of heroes.”

  “Not many men would have borne such pain without crying out.”

  A faint smile touched his lips as his eyes closed. “Why should I bellow? I was thinking of … something beautiful.”

  Juliette straightened in the chair, arching her spin
e to rid it of stiffness. The movement did little to ease her discomfort after the hours of sitting immobile. She really should get up and walk about the chamber, but to do so might wake the man lying on the bed. Andreas’s sleep had been restless and fitful since the physician had left some hours before. Her glance wandered about the large chamber, seeking something to distract her. The furnishings of the room were quite luxurious for a country inn, and the chamber probably the best Monsieur Guilleme had to offer, but it held little of interest to her.

  Her gaze drifted back to Andreas’s face, studying it with the same fascination that had caught and held her even in that first moment of panic and danger in the carriage. Mon Dieu, how she would love to paint him.

  Excitement banished her weariness as she studied his face. How she wished she had a sketching pad. She had given up painting recognizable likenesses of people because she almost always offended her subjects. So she had decided it was not worth the bother to paint faces from life. Yet she knew that here was a man who would not care how cruelly she portrayed him, how brutally honest her brush strokes. He had no need for flattery because he knew exactly what and who he was and cared not a whit what others thought of him.

  His bronze face was too long, his cheekbones too high, his lips too well defined, his dark eyes too sharp and determined beneath straight black brows and heavy lids. His features, taken individually, were all wrong, but fit together in perfect harmony to form a whole far more compelling than one that was merely beauty.

  What a challenge he would be to paint, to peel off the cynical armor and see what lay beneath, to solve the mysteries beyond those black eyes. He wouldn’t readily reveal those secrets, yet, given a little time, she was sure she’d be able to paint the man, not the mask.

  But what if she were not given the time? Any deep wound was a hazard, and he might well be taken from her before—

  His lids flicked open to reveal those black eyes, totally alert and wide awake. “What are you thinking?”

  She was startled and blurted out, “I was hoping you wouldn’t die before I could paint you.”

  “What a truly touching sentiment. Go to bed.”

  She stiffened and then forced herself to relax. “Don’t be foolish. The physician said you might run a fever. Do you think I’d go to such great trouble to save you and then let you die for lack of care?”