by Anne Stuart
“The obvious one. You have something you could sell. In the streets of Paris few people are fortunate enough not to sell whatever they can.”
“Be quiet,” she snapped, casting a worried glance at Charles-Louis. Despite the hard life and lack of nourishment, he’d grown. His clothes were ragged, torn, and too small for his adolescent body. He was thirteen years old, and there was nothing but childlike blankness in his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter, Ghislaine. His ears may hear, but his mind cannot. He won’t know if you decide to sell your body on the streets to feed and clothe him.”
It was said, out in the open. Suddenly she could feel the Englishman, panting and sweating on top of her, his breath fetid in her face, his hands hurting, hurting…
“No!” she cried, the protest tom from her.
Old Bones had merely shrugged. “I forgot. An aristo has standards.”
“I would kill,” she said, her voice flat and full of despair. “I would stab people and steal their purses. I would rob the corpses of my family. But I cannot sell myself on the streets. I would go mad.”
“Murdering pickpockets seldom make enough to feed themselves, much less three people,” Old Bones pointed out.
A bizarre sense of humor surfaced. “You expect to live off the rewards of my whoredom?”
“It’s logical. I can find the customers, make certain you’re safe.”
“You can protect me?” Her laugh was cold as ice.
“No one can protect you. No one can protect any of us. But I can help. You survived once—don’t bother to deny it. I’ve lived on the streets of Paris for too long not to have an idea of what happened to you when you disappeared this summer. You survived, but you failed to prosper. You can do it again, this time for a good cause.”
“Damn you, I can’t…” Her cry of protest was interrupted by Charles-Louis’s sudden hacking cough.
“He needs a blanket,” Old Bones said, his cracked voice pitiless. “He needs warm soup and medicine. He’ll die, sooner or later. And he’ll die before you do—he’s much weaker. Do you want to watch that?”
She shivered. It was cold, so very cold. She thought back to Madame Claude, with her smug face and fine sheets, and she thought of her customers. Of the raddled old earl with his taste for pain. Of Nicholas Blackthorne, glancing at her and dismissing her as a faceless prostitute.
“I won’t go back there,” she said fiercely.
“You don’t have to go anywhere. M. Porcin at the butcher shop asked me whether you might be amenable to earning a little money. You would go to his house, and he would pay you.” If he had been sympathetic or kind, she would have refused. As it was, he was only matter-of-fact. “An hour or less, Ghislaine. Lying on your back, thinking about all the ways you could spend a few extra francs. How can you say no?”
She wondered. And then she knew that she wouldn’t, couldn’t say no. If she had survived being bound and raped, she could survive M. Porcin’s gruff pleasures. He was not a cruel man—he occasionally gave her a scrap or two of meat for her brother, and his eyes were sad, not evil. She could take his money, and survive.
In the end, she did it three times. Twice with M. Porcin, when the hunger grew too bad and Charles-Louis’s bones began to show through his pale, dirt-streaked skin. She had cause to bless the childlike silence that had descended upon him. He didn’t know what she was doing for him. He need never know the shame his sister had chosen.
The third time was the final one, and she was never certain if it counted with the sins engraved on her soul or not, since the act wasn’t completed. It hardly mattered. She’d lost her soul long ago. She’d lost her God shortly thereafter.
“I won’t,” she told Old Bones, when he’d informed her someone else had demanded her services. “M. Porcin is one thing. He’s a kind man, and he finishes quickly. He expects nothing of me. I won’t go to a stranger…”
“Porcin was taken today,” Old Bones said wearily, too inured to show sorrow or dismay. “He was denounced by a member of the neighborhood committee. They don’t waste their time with people like Porcin. More fodder for Madame La Guillotine.”
Ghislaine accepted his fate with nothing more than a shrug, dismissing a man who, in his way, had tried to be kind. “So you have already found a replacement,” she said.
Old Bones shook his head. “Not exactly. The man who denounced Porcin. He had his reasons.”
Ghislaine felt the first tiny trickles of fear penetrate her defenses. “They were?”
“Porcin’s shop is a thriving business. The man wanted it. He also wanted you.”
She didn’t flinch. “I imagine the prosperous shop was a greater enticement,” she said flatly. “I refuse to take responsibility…”
“Stupid aristo!” Old Bones spat. “This isn’t a game. The man is dangerous. He’s asked for you. You cannot say no.”
“I can! I can choose.”
“He’ll find you. He’s a powerful man, growing more powerful every day. He’s one of the leaders of the new society adept at stabbing a neighbor in the back, at finding a weakness. He’s already risen far in the revolutionary government. There’ll be no stopping him.”
“I won’t…”
“You will. You will go to his house, and you will do anything he asks of you. If you don’t, Charles-Louis will die.”
“How could he even know of us? Of me, of Charles-Louis…?”
“You’re a distinctive sight, Ghislaine. For all that you stay in the shadows, the people know of the aristo and her brother, hiding in the night. You’re far too pretty, even in your rags, to escape notice. And the man makes it his business to know everything. Don’t think you can protect Charles-Louis either. You can protect no one from this man. The best you can hope for is to appease him.”
Once more she glanced at Charles-Louis. His eyes were closed, his matted hair obscuring his filthy face as he leaned against the wall, his thin chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing. Every word would have reached his ears. She hoped and prayed that Old Bones was right, that none of it reached his mind.
“When?” she asked, knowing she had no choice. “Where?”
“Porcin’s old house. He’s already taken possession. Tonight. You don’t know the man, but don’t be fooled if he pretends to be pleasant. He’s a wolf who’d tear your throat out for pleasure. Watch yourself.”
“And who is this wolf?” she asked wearily.
“His name,” said Old Bones, “is Jean-Luc Malviver.”
It took Ghislaine a moment to realize where she was. Lying on her back in a Scottish meadow, the sun bright overhead, the sweet smell of spring flowers teasing her senses. The ground was hard beneath her, but no harder than the streets of Paris. The sun was warm, blessedly so, and the sky was very blue. The dark, stinking city streets were long gone. She would never have to set foot in France again.
For the first time she welcomed the truce Nicholas had called. If she had no sense of honor she could be well on her way, out of his reach, and for some reason she was loath to go. She knew enough about hiding from an implacable, rapacious enemy to get away from him. But she’d given her word, and she intended to abide by it. Besides, this day of peace, of warmth and sunshine and nature, was giving her back something she’d lost long ago.
She sat up, staring around her with simple pleasure. She’d never thought much about the future—life was something to be gotten through, one day at a time, and to repine would be just as deadly as to hope.
But if the winds of fate were kind, she would like to live in the country. Someplace devoid of city stinks and people, a place with trees and flowers and birds, with the smell of fresh earth and swift-flowing water.
She liked this place. The purple-blue mountains in the distance, the ancient trees, the rocky soil. It was unlike any place she’d ever been—both lonely and peaceful. She could be happy in a place like this.
She had no idea whether it was the season for berries, but she rose unhurriedly to he
r feet. Her hair had dried in a tangle down her back, and she considered hacking it off with the now-sharp knife Nicholas had given her. She couldn’t do it. The victims of Madame La Guillotine had their long hair cropped, so as not to interfere with the blade. Every time she thought of chopping off her own locks she could feel the cold steel against her vulnerable neck.
There were no berries, but there were flowers. She knelt down, bringing her face close to inhale the fragrance, loath to end its short sweet life by plucking it, when she heard a familiar, infuriating drawl.
“How charmingly bucolic, Ghislaine,” Blackthorne said. “Rather like Marie Antoinette playing milkmaid. If I knew you were longing for rural pleasures, we could have stopped sooner.”
She didn’t move, unwilling to give him that satisfaction, but the scent of the flower sharpened, growing acrid. She rose, slowly, looking at him across the short expanse of clearing.
“Did you catch anything?” It was a polite question, but he merely shook his head, advancing on her, and her wariness exploded into sudden panic.
“Not until this moment,” he said.
She stumbled backward when he reached her, desperate to avoid him. “You gave me your word you wouldn’t touch me,” she said, not caring that her voice showed her fear much too clearly.
His smile was narrow and very dangerous. “What can I say, ma mie? As usual, I lied.”
Chapter 14
Ghislaine looked like a frightened fawn, staring at him out of huge, dark eyes. She seldom showed fear, but this moment was different. Her defenses had momentarily fled, and Nicholas told himself he was glad. The small trace of compunction he felt was easily ignored.
“I’m only going to kiss you, ma belle,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, the voice he used for calming restive horses and nervous women. He was very good at using that voice; few women could resist its seductive purr.
Ghislaine was made of sterner stuff, of course. He expected no less of her. She continued to back away from him, as if he were the fiend incarnate, something he’d expect of a weaker soul. She wasn’t a woman who was easily cowed—anyone who used poison so effectively was hardly a shrinking violet. But there was something about him that shook her. That knowledge pleased him immensely.
“You promised,” she said again, still backing away.
“I have no honor, I warned you of that,” he said, advancing steadily. “Besides, it’s a beautiful afternoon, there’s a soft breeze and a lovely woman nearby. It’s too much for even the saintliest soul to resist.”
“And you’re hardly the—” She tripped as she moved backward, and he caught her as she fell, pulling her up against him with only the lightest of clasps. She struggled, but he knew a token struggle when he felt one. She was capable of much more force.
“Just a kiss, love,” he said, putting his fingers under her chin and tilting her head up to meet his mouth. She held very still as his lips tasted hers, but he could feel the faint tremor that ran through her small, strong body, and he wondered idly what caused it. Hatred? Or desire?
He lifted his head to look down at her. Her eyes were closed, and her face looked white, strained. “Open your mouth,” he murmured. “The sooner you give in, the sooner it will be over. It’s nothing more than a simple kiss.”
It required only the slightest pressure of his fingers to make her open her mouth, and he kissed her slowly, leisurely, with all the expertise he had at his command. She stood in his arms, if not acquiescent, at least riot fighting him. Her body was stiff at first, and then slowly grew more pliant, her hips tilting up against his with the light encouragement of his hand at the small of her back, her perfect breasts through the thin layers of clothing pressing against his chest. He could hear the lazy buzz of bees in the background, the distant song of birds, and the wind rustled through the leaves overhead as he kissed her, until she was shaking, until he was shaking, until he wanted to push her down in the sweet-smelling grass and tear away her clothes and his, until he wanted to find comfort in the sweet danger of her body.
He was never quite certain what stopped him.
Surely not a lack of desire—he was as randy as a young boy, ready to burst if she even touched him.
Maybe it was the way her hands tightened on his shoulders in helpless pleading. Maybe it was the softness of her body and the ferocity of her soul. Maybe for once in his life he wanted to do a decent thing.
He released her slowly breaking the kiss first, trailing his mouth across her cheek until he knew she could stand without falling. Until he knew he could stand without falling. And then he stepped back.
“You see,” he said in a voice that sounded completely unmoved. “Nothing but a simple kiss.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at him in shock and dismay. An odd reaction, to be sure, to something as commonplace as a kiss, he thought.
“If that was a simple kiss,” she said, “I can’t imagine what a complicated one would be like.”
“I could always show you,” he said, reaching for her, but she was quick this time, dancing out of his reach. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the house. If you’ve failed to provide us with fish for dinner, I’m going to have to do something about it myself. That ancient chicken Taverner brought back will take hours before it’s edible.”
“I suppose you’ll want me to wring its neck,” he said in a long-suffering tone.
Her smile was just slightly unsettling. “Not at all. I’m very good at killing… chickens.”
He couldn’t help it, he let out a shout of laughter, one free of the darkness that usually hovered around him. “Just so long as you don’t poison the poor creature.”
She was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before, her huge brown eyes wide and wary, her delectable mouth open in surprise. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
“Why are you looking so stricken?” he asked, still uncharacteristically good-humored. “Did I discover your foul plan? If you’ll pardon the pun.”
He couldn’t coax an answering smile from her at his dreadful joke. She simply stared at him, ashen-faced. And then she turned and ran.
He was half-tempted to chase after her, but he kept still as she raced across the meadow, her skirts and chestnut hair flying behind her. She looked like a wood sprite; innocent, delectable, and he knew if he chased her he’d catch her all too easily. He wasn’t ready to do that, as he felt his light mood darken once more.
He’d left his fishing tackle down by the river when he’d given in to temptation and come in search of her. He’d go back and fetch it. For one brief moment she’d come surprisingly close to kissing him back. Perhaps he’d be able to coax an even more enthusiastic response from her as the shadows lengthened.
He wasn’t quite sure if he wanted her enthusiasm. It was the most obvious revenge of all, seducing the hate-filled Ghislaine, stripping her clothes, her anger, her defenses away, until she was lying entwined with him, panting, breathless, sated and disarmed. It would be far too easy. He knew how to make a woman respond to him—he was adept at it, and even someone as murderously vengeful as Ghislaine wouldn’t be able to withstand him for long.
He smiled mirthlessly. As a talent, seduction ranked somewhere above skill with cards and a step below fine horsemanship. He possessed those two talents as well. Why wasn’t the world his to command?
His earlier, equable mood had vanished with daylight as he made his way back to the decrepit hovel that had once been a gentleman’s elegant hunting lodge. Smoke was issuing from the chimney, the ripe smell of wood smoke teasing the air, and he realized it had grown chilly once more. He paused, staring at the ruined house, and wondered whether, if things had been different, he could have saved it. And then he shrugged. The damage had been done long ago, decades of neglect taking their toll and the fire being the final straw. His martinet of a father had been uninterested in frivolous pleasures such as hunting, and the mad Blackthornes weren’t noted for the care they gave the
ir property. Though given the extent of the ruination, it was probably his grandfather who had first let the place disintegrate.
That grandfather had been murdered in his married mistress’s bed. One uncle had been killed in a duel, another by his own hand. It was no wonder the place in Scotland had fallen to rack and ruin. The Blackthornes were too busy destroying themselves to pay heed to a simple country house.
What would it take to put the place in good heart again? More than he possessed, that was certain. He wasn’t sure why he’d held on to the place—it was patently absurd when you considered the five hundred acres of prime hunting and fishing land that surrounded the building. He could have sold it time and again to pay a portion of his monumental debts, to stake himself to a new round of gaming. But he hadn’t, and he could only blame an errant sentimental streak.
There was no room in his life for sentiment, for warmth or weakness. The beauty of the countryside had almost tricked him into thinking otherwise. By now he should have learned that the only thing he could count on was himself.
One thing was for certain; he wasn’t going to spend another chaste night in bed with Ghislaine. He was going to seduce her out of her murderous intent and then abandon her. His earlier fancy of taking her back to London was discarded. She was having a demoralizing effect on him. He was starting to care about her. And he had no intention of caring about anyone.
He noticed no sign of Tavvy, a fact which both pleased and disturbed him. He knew only a moment’s discomfort when he saw the remains of the chicken Ghislaine had butchered and gutted. There wasn’t a chef in the world who could stay squeamish.
The chicken might have been old and tough, but it certainly smelled wonderful when he stepped into their makeshift room. Ghislaine was at the far end, eyeing him warily, and he noticed with passing regret that she’d bundled her silky chestnut hair behind her.
He was tired of waiting. She was there, at his mercy, and he wanted her. Why in God’s name should he hesitate? He’d always prided himself on a total lack of decency—urges and desires were to satisfy, and to hell with the cost. He couldn’t afford to weaken now. If he showed Ghislaine any pity, he’d end up with a knife in his throat or a belly full of poison.