by Anne Stuart
Ghislaine smiled in the darkness, fighting the tension that seized her heart. She glanced toward the kitchen, afraid, mortally afraid. What if Charles-Louis was changed beyond recognition? Could he speak? Had he recovered from the horror of that time on the streets of Paris, or did he still possess the mind of a child? Did he know what she’d done? Would he hate her for it? What if it wasn’t really he?
The door opened beneath her shaking fingers. There was only one lone monk in the kitchen. He was leaning over a large pot on the stove, stirring it, his face serene and totally absorbed. It was a handsome, patrician face, oddly familiar. The body beneath the rough hemp robe was of medium height and formed with a certain elegance; the tonsured hair was bright gold. And then he turned, sensing her presence, and she was looking straight into Charles-Louis’s beautiful brown eyes, full of lively intelligence.
“Ghislaine,” he said, his voice deeper, his smile gentler.
She ran to him, flinging herself against him with noisy sobs, clutching at him, determined to prove to herself he was real, he was alive. “It’s you,” she sobbed. “It really is you.”
“Of course it is,” he said, holding her tightly. “I’ve been here, and safe, for years.”
She pushed him away, suddenly furious. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you send word? I was half-crazy with grief and despair! How could you let me believe you were dead? You were all I had.”
“No, Ghislaine,” he said gently. “You had yourself. The strongest person I have ever known. I know what you did for me. Sooner or later you would have destroyed yourself for me. There was only one way for the two of us to survive, and that was without having to worry about each other.” He touched her face, his hand gentle. “I escaped from Malviver and his men and wandered the city streets until the good brothers found me and took me away. It was a long time before I even remembered who and what I was. By the time I did, and I was able to speak again, I’d been here for more than a year. There was no way I could find you, and I decided it was better this way. You needed to get on with your life, without a little brother holding you back.”
“Damn you, Charles-Louis,” she said. “That should have been for me to decide.”
“Always the bossy older sister,” he said with a wry smile. “You wouldn’t have made the right decision. I made it for you. I’ve found a peace I never would have thought possible. And you…?”
She shook her head, managing a smile despite the brightness of tears filling her eyes. “I’ve done very well,” she said, ignoring the tear in her heart where Nicholas Blackthorne lived. “Why did you finally decide to tell me where you were?”
“I didn’t. As far as I was concerned, it was better that you believed me dead. The Charles-Louis you knew is gone forever. I’m Frere Martin. Cook extraordinaire,” he said with a wry grin, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I gather we share a talent in that area. Wouldn’t Maman have been horrified?”
Ghislaine found she could smile too, thinking of her proper Maman’s insistence on class structure. “Then why am I here?”
He shook his head, and if the calm that settled in his brown eyes didn’t leave him, it faded somewhat. “That’s what disturbs me, and Old Bones as well. When he showed up here I was astonished to see him. He’d been unable to trace how he got word—a friend told a friend who told an acquaintance. He’s a suspicious old heretic, you know that as well as I do. He thinks there’s something afoot.”
The sense of dread had been riding Ghislaine’s back since she’d left Venice, but she’d ascribed it to her despair over Nicholas. Now she found herself wondering if she had more concrete reasons to worry. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I think you should leave. Take your friend and leave Lantes, leave France, as swiftly and as quietly as possible. I have a bad feeling about this, ma soeur. And my bad feelings are usually right.”
“But what about you?”
“What about me? I’m happy here, happier than I ever dreamed of being. No one can reach me here—nowadays even the church has some protection from the state. Don’t worry about me. You need to see to your own safety. You’re not invulnerable, you know. You need to take care of yourself.”
For a moment she didn’t move. “I will never see you again, will I?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head. “It’s better this way. The past is behind us. I have my life, a strong, good one. You need to find yours.”
She’d found it. And given it up, for a whim of nobility. She wanted to cry and scream, beg and plead. She’d lost him once, she didn’t want to lose him again. She’d lost Nicholas, she couldn’t lose everything.
She didn’t dare touch him, to hug him goodbye. “I’ll miss you, little brother,” she said.
“I’m bigger than you now,” he pointed out. “Go with God.”
She wanted to scream at him that she didn’t believe in his God. But something had given him a peace she couldn’t even begin to imagine, and for that she thanked Him. Instead she leaned over and dipped her finger in the stew that was bubbling away quite cheerfully, bringing it to her mouth.
“Needs more salt, Frere Martin,” she said evenly. “God be with you.”
She ran from the kitchen, into the gathering dusk, before her tears would betray her. She ran into the woods, away from her last glimpse of her baby brother, lost and found and lost again, and the tears blinded her, deafened her, so that she stormed down the pathway, heedless of the noise she made, heedless of the danger.
“Is she happy, madame?” Old Bones’ voice came to her softly across the cool air.
Ellen had taken a seat on a rock near the gates to the monastery, as far removed from the old man as she could politely manage. He made her uneasy, with his old, far-seeing eyes, his tattered clothes, his race that she’d been taught to view with distrust. Together in the shadows, in the midst of a foreign country with danger all around, she wished she could overcome her childish prejudices and move a little closer. She needed some comfort. Some courage.
But old habits died hard. And besides, there was no reason to suppose there was danger all around. Only an odd sort of prickling sensation at the back of her neck.
“Happy?” she echoed, considering. “She could be.”
Old Bones sighed. “Still fighting, is she? Always a fierce little creature, she was. She has friends to watch out for her. You, who must be crazy to have followed her into France, a well-bred English lady like yourself.”
“I thought you said I could earn a decent living on the streets?” she countered with belated amusement.
The old man smiled. “So you could. You’d fetch an even prettier price in a drawing room. Are you a good friend to her?”
“I am. My husband, too. And my cousin Nicholas…” Her voice trailed off.
“The cousin. That must be the man she loves.”
“What makes you think she’s in love?”
Old Bones shook his head. “I know her very well indeed. I can only hope she is not too stubborn to take that love. She—” His voice came to an abrupt halt. “Someone’s coming.”
Ellen slid down from the rock. “But who…?”
“Do as I tell you.” The age-quavered voice was nevertheless firm. “I want you to hide. No matter what happens, stay hidden. You may need to run for help. If this is the kind of trouble I expect it is, you will do no one any service by getting yourself killed as well.”
“As well? Who’s going to get killed?” Ellen demanded in a nervous whisper, matching his tone of voice.
“If we’re lucky, no one. But I sense that luck has just run out. Hide, you stupid English girl. Wait and listen. If you hope to be of any use at all, for pity’s sake, hide.”
She dove into the undergrowth, scrambling for cover. Thorns tore at her face and hands, ripped at her clothing. She sank down on her belly in the dirt, breathing in the dampness of the wet spring earth, holding herself as still as the stone she’d been sitting on. Holding herself as still as Old Bones, as he s
tood alone in the clearing, waiting.
She saw the man, and it was no surprise that it was the dark man from the inn, the man who’d frightened her. She could barely hear the quiet conversation, and she strained, trying to translate the gutter French that was so very different from the polite phrases her governess Miss Plimpson had taught her.
At the memory of the so-correct Miss Plimpson, a hysterical laugh bubbled forth in her throat, and she had to bite her hand to stifle it. “Wait, and listen,” the old man had told her. It was all she could do.
“Where are they, old man?”
“Gone,” said Old Bones, not wavering. “I should have known it was you, Malviver. When I heard about the dark stranger from Paris, I should have known. You took care to keep out of my sight.”
“An easy enough task. You aren’t allowed in decent company.”
“And you consider yourself decent company? Why can’t you let my Ghislaine be?”
“She has a debt she owes me, one I intend to see that she pays. In full, with her body and her blood. You played along very well, old man. I’m surprised you didn’t guess sooner who was behind it!”
“I’m getting old,” the man said sadly. “Too old to live.”
“I agree,” said the dark man, moving forward. A moment later Old Bones crumpled to the ground in a heap of rage.
Ellen bit down on her wrist to stifle her scream. She tasted her own blood, and dirt, and she lay there and shook, horror washing over her, certain it could get no worse.
She was wrong. The dark man moved to the rock she’d recently vacated and sat down, spreading his fine brown cape around him, and waited. It didn’t take long. Within minutes Ghislaine came crashing through the bushes, with a complete disregard for the trap awaiting her.
She stopped dead still at the edge of the clearing and took in the scene before her. Old Bones’ body lay huddled and seemingly lifeless on the ground in a pool of darkness. The man who sat behind it was hidden in shadows.
She took a tentative, disbelieving step forward. “Malviver?” she said in a hoarse voice.
“The very same. You thought you’d killed me, didn’t you? You underestimate the lower classes, citizeness. We are very hard to kill.”
Ignoring him, she sank down next to Old Bones, her hands touching him with great gentleness. “Apparently not.”
“He’d served his purpose. Where is your little English friend? We wouldn’t want her left behind. She might raise all sorts of unpleasant questions. I’ve risen high in the government during the past years in my own quiet way. My power is almost unlimited, if I’m careful. This little sojourn of mine is in the nature of a personal matter. I wouldn’t want word to get back to my superiors. A thirst for vengeance denotes a weakness, and Malviver is known to be a man without weakness.”
“She’s gone,” Ghislaine said flatly.
“Don’t be absurd. Where could a well-bred Englishwoman have gotten to in this mountain hamlet?”
“Someplace where you can’t find her. You’ve been behind this all, haven’t you?”
“Of course. It’s taken me a long time to find you. I’d just about given up—the old Jew was a stubborn soul, and not even the most refined of questioning devices could get the information out of him. I knew he must know where you were. The fat woman at the inn had no idea. I’m sure she would have told me before she died.”
“You killed Marthe?”
“A traitor to her class.” Malviver dismissed her. “I’d just about given up hope when I remembered your little brother. He was easier to find. And then setting this little trap was surprisingly simple. It took you longer than I expected to show up, but I have learned to be patient.”
“Are you going to kill me?” To Ellen’s listening ears Ghislaine sounded no more than distantly interested in her fate.
“Certainly not. I am taking you back to Paris.”
“You will have to kill me,” she said flatly.
“Oh, it may come to that. Or I could see to it that you stand trial for various crimes against the republic. You and that saintly brother of yours. Madame La Guillotine has been far too lazy of late. I could always see her put to good use again.”
“You will leave him alone!” Ghislaine said, her voice cold and fierce.
“Still trying to protect him? It’s a simple enough matter. My carriage awaits at the bottom of the hill. Raise no fuss, and I will see to it that your brother will live out his days in blissful peace. I have no interest in him—I’ve left him alone for the past decade.”
“And me?”
“As for you,” Malviver said in his harsh voice. “I intend to make certain you regret ever having crossed me.”
She had no choice. It was all Ellen could do to keep from leaping up from her spot in the undergrowth. But Old Bones had warned her. There was nothing she could do, for now at least. If she revealed herself, she’d simply wipe out their only advantage.
She could just manage to see Ghislaine’s small, determined figure. She bowed, graceful and aristocratic in her agreement. “May I take my valise with me?” she inquired in a diffident tone of voice.
“If it holds more clothes like the rags you are wearing, then you’ll have no need of it,” he replied, sounding smug. “The mistress of Malviver will have to dress the part. At least in public. I have a certain quiet reputation.”
“It holds very little of value,” Ghislaine said with deceptive sweetness. “Merely a few pieces of clothing and some of my cooking herbs.”
“I should have come for you when I heard you were at the Red Hen,” he mused. “I was too busy for you then, making my way. Your cooking talents will be a side benefit. I haven’t had a decent meal since I came to this god-forsaken place.”
Ghislaine’s smile was cool and ghastly in the moonlight. “I can prepare you the very thing,” she murmured.
And Ellen felt the chill all the way to her bones.
Chapter 24
Ellen lay in the bushes, unable to move, her body frozen with horror and despair. She lost track of time—the night grew dark, the moon scudded by overhead, and the wind picked up, tossing last year’s leaves around her body. Still she remained, motionless, rigid in shock. Until she heard a strange, choking noise.
“You… still there… girl…?”
She flew from her hiding spot, racing to the huddled body, kneeling beside him and taking his skeletal arm in hers. “You’re alive,” she sobbed. “I thought he’d killed you…”
“Just barely,” he said. His voice was only a thread of sound, and his eyes were milky and glazed over. “You have to get help.”
“I’ll get bandages.”
“Not for me, you stupid twit. I’m done for, and past time.” He coughed, and dark blood came from his mouth. “You need to get help for Ghislaine. I thought I had time to warn her he still lived. I should have known Malviver would be behind this. He never forgets. He came after me to find where she was, years ago, and I told him she was dead. I thought I’d convinced him. Never underestimate your enemy—that’s a good lesson to learn.”
“Yes, sir,” Ellen sobbed, stroking his arm.
“Come now. You don’t call a dying rag-picker sir, especially if he’s a Hebrew.” Old Bones wheezed. “Go for help. Not at the inn—they’re a bunch of thieves and scoundrels. There’s nothing you can do for me—the wound’s mortal, and it won’t take long. I don’t even feel it now. It’s just so damned cold. Go on with you.”
“No,” Ellen said, stripping off the ragged shawl she’d tied around her shoulders and draping it over his pitiful frame.
“Don’t be a fool,” he gasped. “There’s nothing you can do for me. I’ll be dead in no time. Your duty is to Ghislaine.”
Ellen didn’t hesitate. She took his clawlike hand in hers, and indeed, it was icy cold. She held it firmly in her lap, sitting back on her heels. “No one deserves to die alone,” she said. “Ghislaine would want me to stay.”
“You’re as stubborn as she is. God protect me
from stupid Christian women and their sense of duty.” He choked again, and his limp body shuddered in the darkness. “Stay then, damn you,” he whispered finally. “In all, I’d be glad of it.”
They found her there, kneeling by the old man, his lifeless hand clasped in hers, as she wept for him. She heard their approach, but it was too late to run and hide. And indeed, she hadn’t the strength.
“Ellen!” It was Tony, strong, wonderful Tony, leaping off his horse, sweeping her into his arms, tight against him. “I could strangle you!” he said, covering her tear-streaked face with kisses, holding her so tightly she thought he might break her ribs. “If you ever pull such a trick again I’ll beat you, I swear that I will. We’ve had the devil’s own time finding you. Damn it, Ellen…” He silenced his own tirade by kissing her, hard on her mouth.
“This is all very touching,” a familiar, cynical voice said, but there was no missing the edge beneath the icy tone. “But whose body were you mourning over so affectingly? And where is Ghislaine?”
“Oh, my God, Tony, he’s taken her,” she cried, breaking free from the comfort of his embrace.
“Who’s taken her?” Nicholas demanded harshly.
“Some man… he killed Old Bones…” she babbled, glancing back at the old man lying in the dirt.
“Make sense, woman!” Nicholas said furiously. “What man? When did he take her?”
“His name was Malviver. I don’t know how long ago they left, maybe a couple of hours ago, I’m not sure. He had a coach, he said. I hid in the woods, and I couldn’t hear everything…”
“Malviver,” Nicholas said, his soft voice truly terrifying. “She thought he was dead.”
“Obviously he was not,” Tony said, still clasping Ellen tightly against him.
“No,” Nicholas said, and his smile was white and savage in the moonlight. “That pleasure has been reserved for me. And who says there isn’t a just God? Where were they headed? For Paris?”
“I don’t know. I assume so. We have to do something about Old Bones,” Ellen said with a shudder. “We can’t just leave him here.”