A Rose at Midnight

by Anne Stuart

She’d brought the knife, and he was right; it was a great deal sharper than when she’d first taken possession of it. They ate in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the rushing river, slightly swollen after the rains, the faint breeze in the leaves overhead. It was an odd silence, Nicholas thought, watching her out of hooded eyes as he lazily consumed the best meal he’d eaten in twenty years. Considering they were mortal enemies, considering that she feared and hated him, it was surprisingly peaceful sitting by the bank of the river with her.

  And then he broke that peace, not willfully but effectively nonetheless. “Why don’t you tell me how you came to be with my cousin Ellen, working belowstairs?” he said. “Since you’ve admitted a convent had no part in your life, I’d be interested in how you survived the years since the Terror.”

  Her faced turned white. He’d never seen that happen, though he’d certainly heard about the phenomenon. Ghislaine had porcelain-fair skin anyway, with a faint touch of rose in her high cheekbones. Now she looked ashen.

  “A day’s truce does not mean I’ll provide you with entertainment,” she managed to say in a tight little voice.

  She was going to provide him with more than entertainment, but he wasn’t in the mood to point that out to her. “Do you want any wine?” he asked instead. “You forgot to bring mugs, so you’ll have to share the bottle.” He took a long drink. Sacrilege to treat a fine claret so, but it still tasted better than any served in Irish crystal in a London drawing room.

  “No, thank you…” She started to rise, but he caught her wrist, holding her still.

  “Have some wine,” he said in a deceptively gentle voice.

  She didn’t move. “You promised you wouldn’t touch me.”

  “Do as I ask, and I’ll release you.”

  She glared at him, her huge eyes burning with tightly suppressed rage. The irises were small in the bright sunlight, and one could drown in the turbulent dark brown depths, if one was feeling fanciful. He wasn’t the fanciful type. “One drink, Ghislaine, and I’ll release you.”

  She took the bottle in her free hand, brought it to her mouth, and took an impressively healthy gulp. He watched with mixed feelings. He’d half-hoped she would continue to defy him, enable him to prolong the confrontation.

  He released her wrist, when he wanted nothing more than to pull her down against him, and his smile was cool and bland. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Life is a great deal simpler when you choose to cooperate.”

  She scrambled to her feet, knocking over the wine. He watched the dark liquid disappear into the ground with only a trace of regret. “I will never cooperate,” she said. “I will never compromise.”

  “What do you call our truce?”

  She was out of reach, at least temporarily, and he chose to let her go. She smiled then, and her icy determination would have quelled a lesser man. “Lulling my victim,” she snapped. She turned and walked away, without another word.

  Leaving him to stare after her in silent admiration. If all the French had her determination, it was a lucky thing Napoleon had agreed to a peace at Amiens. Otherwise England would be in a great deal of trouble.

  Chapter 13

  Ghislaine’s hands were shaking as she moved through the thick growth, away from the river. Away from her smug, dangerous captor. It astonished her, his ability to enrage and disturb her. She’d had other enemies in her life; cruel, evil, implacable enemies. She’d learned the trick of turning inward, of silencing her emotions and reactions, of facing those enemies with cool determination. So why did Nicholas Blackthorne destroy her self-control?

  The woods were ancient and beautiful, with the sunlight shining down through the leaves, dappling the forest. It reminded her of the woods near Sans Doute, with its ancient oaks and chestnut trees, the smell of the damp, spring-renewed earth, the lazy sound of baby birds demanding a meal. If only she could go back to that peaceful time and place. If only she had cherished it, instead of taking it for granted with the self-absorption of youth.

  The woods thinned out into a clearing, and the grass was spring-green and soft. She sank to her knees, then lay down, face-first, absorbing the smell and the warmth of it into her bones. She hadn’t been that close to the earth since the Terror had first begun. Maybe she could draw her strength again from it.

  She rolled over on her back, staring up into the bright sunlight of a perfect day. If only she could empty her mind, empty her soul, simply drink in the glory of nature.

  But instead the memories returned, the memories she’d pushed away so assiduously during the intervening years. They attacked only at night, in her dreams, when her defenses had vanished. In daylight she was too strong to give in to them, too strong to relive the panic and grief and despair.

  But today was different. Today, lying on the soft grass with the sweet-smelling woods all around her, she would let the memories return. Because if she didn’t, she might forget. Her resolution would fail. And when Nicholas put his hands on her, his mouth on her, she might make the foolish mistake of wanting it. And then there’d be no help for her at all.

  There was probably a simple enough explanation for her current weakness. Life had grown comparatively easy during the last few years. The time she had spent at the Red Hen, learning to cook, had had its own timeless tranquility, a kind of numbness that had made nine years pass almost without her noticing. The shabby inn had become a home of sorts, even within the hated confines of Paris.

  Much as she wanted to, she would never forget the terrible night she had first stumbled in there, bone-weary, the last tears drained from her body, the last ounce of hope gone. She had been standing on the bridge for hours in the pouring rain, staring down into the muddy, fast-moving depths of the Seine, waiting. Waiting for the final burst of energy that would have sent her over, tumbling to her death in the water.

  The rain had washed the blood from her hands, Malviver’s blood. It had soaked her clothes and run down her back in icy rivulets. She had gone as far as she could go, and now there was no hope. She had become one of them. And that knowledge had been the death knell for her soul.

  There had been so many nights. So many horrible nights. The night she and Charles-Louis had finally arrived in Paris, only to find the bloated corpse of their uncle swinging gently above the streets. The night Malviver had sold her to Madame Claude. Who in turn had auctioned her off to the highest bidder, a raddled old British nobleman with a corpulent body and a taste for cruelty.

  At first she’d been drugged into submission, and she’d watched it all from a distance, almost as if it were happening to someone else. At the time she’d been grateful, absurdly grateful that she had that buffer. Until she’d seen him.

  They were leading her upstairs, to await the high bidder’s eager visit, when she glanced blankly into one of the side rooms. Two of the younger girls were there, with a fully dressed man, and they were laughing, the three of them, looking curiously young and carefree. The sound of their laughter had broken through her stupor and she’d made a strangled sound of protest.

  They must have heard her. The man turned to look, and he wasn’t a man, he was a boy, one of almost angelic beauty. Nicholas Blackthorne. He was drunk, and he stared at her without recognition as they hauled her away, but beneath the rough hands that gagged her she’d screamed his name. And then he’d turned back to the two girls, and the laughter had sounded again.

  The dissolute British nobleman not only had a taste for virgins, he also preferred that they fight him. She lay tied to the bed, awaiting him, until the drug wore off. She lay long enough to still hear the laughter, and the sounds that followed that laughter, the groans and thumps and rhythmic sounds that were foreign to her, and the pain in her heart solidified into a knot of hatred so intense it burned through her. It wasn’t the fat, foul-breathed monster who took her maidenhead a few hours later who earned that hatred. Instead she focused on Nicholas Blackthorne, who disported in a Paris brothel while she was being debauched.

&
nbsp; If she hadn’t forgotten him, at least she’d kept herself from thinking of him during the intervening years. His betrayal had run deep, but her need to care for Charles-Louis, to try to find her parents, had been too overwhelming for her to indulge in her own heartbroken anger.

  She no longer had that luxury. As she lay in that soft bed, bleeding and defiled, she had no one to think of but herself. And no one to blame but Nicholas Blackthorne.

  Madame Claude had underestimated her. “The earl was most pleased with you last night, cherie,” she crooned as she unfastened her wrists. “Even though your maidenhead is gone, he still considers you a valuable commodity. He can be very generous to us both, cherie. You will find this life much more to your fancy than you ever imagined.”

  Ghislaine hadn’t said a word; she’d simply stared at the old harridan with dark hatred in her eyes. Madame Claude was unimpressed. “Of course, you mustn’t be too enthusiastic about the comforts. One of the things the earl found most appealing about you was the way you struggled against him. I doubt he’d appreciate compliance. Unless, of course, he was able to properly train you into it. And you needn’t fear that the rest of your working life will involve only people like the earl. To be sure, they make up the bulk of our guests, but we entertain all ages, all sexes. If you prefer women, I know the wife of a high-ranking government official who would find you absolutely delightful. And the young man last night was asking about you.”

  The comment roused her from her tight, controlled rage. “What young man?” Her voice came out raw and almost unrecognizable, the first coherent words she had spoken since Malviver had dragged her into the house.

  Madame Claude halted in her efforts to untie Ghislaine’s ankles, staring at her in frank curiosity. “You speak like an aristo,” she said. “Had I known, I could have held out for a higher price.” She sounded patently disgruntled. “But then, the price you fetched was good enough. And you needn’t worry your pretty little head about what young man. You’re to be kept for the earl’s exclusive use for as long as he wishes. He grows bored easily—chances are you’ll be able to accommodate other patrons within several weeks, but by then the young Englishman will have left Paris. He was easily distracted when I said you were otherwise engaged. Don’t worry—there will be other handsome young men to compensate you for the ones like the earl.”

  The one brief flare of hope had died, smashed inside her. He’d seen her. He hadn’t recognized her, she knew that, but something about her had caught his eye. It hadn’t been a latent memory. It hadn’t been sudden concern for a helpless victim. It had been a passing wave of lust, easily diverted.

  She sat up in the bed, her mind moving at a rapid pace. First and foremost, she had to get away from this place, back to Charles-Louis. And to do so would require every ounce of her intelligence and cunning.

  “I imagine,” she said slowly, “that I would find the experience more pleasant with a handsome young man.” She coarsened her voice just slightly. Too much so would have been unbelievable. Instinct was taking over, telling her that subtlety could be her greatest ally.

  Madame Claude beamed at her. “I knew you were a smart one. You’ll do well at this life if you can come to terms with it, and there’s no better life for a woman. You get paid for what men would take from you for free, and you learn how to master them. How to make the men do what you want. You learn to take your pleasure where you can find it, and you can live a comfortable life of leisure. A few hours of work on your back every night is better than slaving all day in a dress shop.”

  “I can’t sew.”

  “You see. You’ve made a wise choice, my dear. You’ll go far in this business, see if I’m not right.”

  Ghislaine never said a word. Made the right choice, had she? Choice had never come into play since she’d been dragged into this wicked place. But she would choose—never again would she be a helpless victim.

  It took her two days to escape. Two days of enduring the earl’s return visits, two days of enduring the vicious cruelties with which he assaulted her body. Two days of listening to his fulsome compliments, his moans of pleasure. Two days of pain and degradation disguised as an act of love.

  He’d smiled blearily at her as he’d rolled away. “Demme if I don’t take you back to England with me,” he said. “You’ve quite won my heart, gel.” He reached over and pinched her breast, and it took all her self-control not to flinch. “I have friends who’d appreciate a fine little thing like you. And I’ve always enjoyed watching.”

  He sat up, his back to her as he panted slightly. She lay there, watching his soft, white skin, puffy and unmarred. She glanced down at her own body, degraded by his, and her resolve strengthened.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he wheezed, reaching down for his clothes. “You’re still a bit reluctant, but I’ve always liked that in a wench. I’m very good at teaching obedience. I don’t know when I’ve been quite so enamored of a slut.”

  The huge vase was made of heavy, cheap porcelain. Had she used one of the delicate Chinese vases that had decorated Sans Doute, it would have hardly slowed him down. The hideous cracking sound as she brought it down on his head sounded like a skull splitting, and he slid onto the floor without a sound.

  She wondered if she’d killed him. She scrambled off the bed to stare at him, but despite an expression of faint surprise on his face, he seemed to be sound asleep.

  A shame, that. She wanted to kill him. If she’d had a knife, she would have done much worse than that. As it was, she had no choice but to leave him, slumped naked on the floor. She paused only long enough to dump the contents of the chamber pot in his lap.

  She had no clothes but the white night rail he delighted in ripping off her. She took his clothes instead, the baggy pants and billowing shirt dwarfing her small body. She climbed out the window, she who was deathly afraid of heights, not even noticing that she had to drop two flights to the filthy alleyway below.

  She twisted her ankle when she landed, but she made no sound. Moments later she was hobbling off into the darkness, searching for her brother.

  During their weeks on the street, she and Charles-Louis had kept to themselves, wisely trusting no one. The one exception had been a rag-picker known by one and all as Old Bones. He plied his way through the streets, pulling a cart behind him, trading and selling odd pieces of refuse. The man was ageless. Word had it that he was one of that despised race, a Hebrew, and his rheumy old eyes could see farther than most. He’d been kind to Charles-Louis, giving the fretful boy a crust of bread when he could have used it himself, warning Ghislaine when a group of marauding citizens had stumbled drunkenly through the streets nearby, looking for anyone worth butchering.

  In return, she’d brought Old Bones bits and pieces of things that he could find a buyer for, asking nothing in return. A strange friendship had grown up between them. If anyone knew where Charles-Louis was, he would.

  It took her another day and a half to find them. And in the end, she found them in the worst place of all.

  She’d avoided the Place de la Revolution assiduously during the weeks in Paris. Every day she heard the names of people who’d been beheaded. She’d wept the day the king had died, wept when the silly little queen had followed. But on this day she couldn’t keep away. This was the day her parents were among those scheduled to die.

  She wasn’t sure what drew her to that blood-drenched place. Perhaps her parents would have preferred to go to their inevitable deaths thinking she was safe, far away from the horror that was Paris.

  But she had no choice. For her own sake she had to be there. To be with them, in love and sorrow. She couldn’t let them die surrounded by a vengeful mob, with no one to weep for them.

  They didn’t see her as they rode in the tumbrel, amid the jeers of the blood-crazed onlookers. They didn’t see her as they climbed the scaffold, and for that she was glad. She held her breath as the blade fell, but there were no tears. Her tears were gone.

  She he
ard the scream, a short, shrill one, ending in sudden silence. And across the crowded square she saw the figure of her brother, struggling as Old Bones tried to restrain him.

  Another victim mounted the scaffold, and the crowd paid no attention to the disruption in the square. It took her a long time to reach him, but by the time she caught Charles-Louis in her arms he was silent. She never heard him speak again.

  Between the two of them, she and Old Bones kept him fed and warm. He responded to nothing, having vanished into a childlike world where he could barely take care of his bodily functions. She’d even managed to find a few sou for a doctor, but the man had simply shaken his head, helpless to aid Charles-Louis. Shock, he’d said, could do that to a mind. The boy had retreated someplace safe, where no one could harm him. And only God knew whether he’d ever emerge from that self-imposed cocoon.

  She’d done her best to protect him, watching over him, with barely enough to eat as winter closed in around them. Until Old Bones came to her with a gentle suggestion.

  “There is no food,” he’d said.

  Ghislaine had laughed bitterly. “Tell me something new. There’s been no food for days.”

  “There have been scraps. Crumbs, most of which you’ve fed your brother. It’s November now. Your brother will freeze to death on the streets. Most days he doesn’t even remember to put on his cloak. He needs shoes, he needs a blanket, he needs decent food. As do you.”

  She had held herself very still, knowing in her heart what was coming next. She hadn’t told Old Bones where she had been during those lost two days in July, but he was old and wise as time, and he had to have known. And that it hadn’t been her choice.

  She’d grown hard, cold in the last few months. The only love she had in her heart was for Charles-Louis. Even Old Bones she barely tolerated, and only if he didn’t touch her. As he was a man who didn’t care much for other human beings either, they managed well enough.

  “You are not telling me anything I don’t already know,” she said quietly. “Do you have any suggestions?”