The Companion - Time For Eternity Part 9

By the time they got to the front door, Jean was there to open it. Outside, it had stopped raining. A groom held a great black gelding prancing at the end of his lead.

"No carriage?" She couldn't ride such a horse.

"No time." Was that all he could say? He mounted. The groom unhooked the lead and Avignon collected the reins, murmuring, "Easy boy." The horse settled. It was really quite amazing. Avignon reached down a hand. It was ungloved. So was hers. She took a breath. Madame needed her. Still his firm clasp on her hand shot sensation straight to her core. Would she ever get over the effect of his touch? He pulled his foot from the stirrup.

"Put your right foot in the stirrup and I'll pull you up."

And he did. Effortlessly, turning her to sit in front of him. He had the reins in one hand and the other around her waist. She should have felt insecure sitting sideways like this, but she didn't. What she felt was his body pressed to hers, all hard planes and muscle.

She had never been this close to a man before. Yet the sensation was totally familiar. His scent wafted over her, spicy, uniquely his, and the electric life that glowed from him seemed to light her from within. The horse clattered over the stones. The night was s.h.i.+ny black and wet. The streets were filling again after the rain shower. Faces flashed past as they thundered through the Marais. They did not turn north toward the Conciergerie, but down to the river through empty streets lined with darkened warehouses. How had Madame gotten here? She must have escaped prison. But how?

At last Avignon drew the horse up in front of an immense stone building with impressive wooden doors twice the height of a man and a crane protruding from the upper story to load freight into wagons. He slid her to the ground and swung down. He cast the reins around a post set for the purpose and grabbed her hand. She ran to keep up with his stride. He pushed open the doors onto an immense darkness. Huge wooden crates and dusty barrels loomed in piles. The place smelled like dust and tar and raw wood and spirits of some kind. Maybe brandy?

Avignon pulled her toward a glow, wending his way between stacks of big spools filled with what looked like lace. They emerged into a clearing in the forest of crates and barrels. A weathered man stood looking down at Madame, who lay on a table next to a desk with a lamp.

Francoise darted to her side. "Madame, are you well?" That was stupid. Her face was like old parchment, her lips so colorless they were blue. Someone had pillowed her head on some sacking. Her eyes looked cloudy rather than their usual piercing blue.

Francoise took her hand. It was cold.

"Glad he brought you, my child," she murmured. She glanced behind Francoise to where Avignon stood. "Thank you, your grace. A kind act."

"Nothing of the sort," he said.

Madame's eyes crinkled. "He won't admit to being kind, will he?"

"The wicked duc? I should think not." The blurring of Francoise's eyes belied her light tone. "Did ... did you escape? But how?

And what has happened to you?"

"My heart ..." the old woman murmured.

"You will get better, Madame, I know you will." She pressed Madame's hand.

"I fade, child. I haven't long." Acceptance filled her voice.

Francoise did not accept. It was all his fault. "How could he expose you to the danger of an escape? He was just to speak on your behalf to Robespierre, use his influence." The wicked duc had killed her friend. A faint smile touched Madame's lips. "No one comes out of that prison through influence, dear. Robespierre and Madame Croute could not afford to give prisoners hope, now could they?" This effort seemed to tire her. She closed her eyes. "I didn't tell him about my heart," she managed.

"But you can't go ..."

Madame opened her eyes. "I can't decline G.o.d's invitation, I'm afraid."

Tears coursed down Francoise's cheeks. She buried her face in Madame's shoulder.

"Promise me one thing." Madame's voice was fading.

Francoise sat up. "Anything." But Madame's gaze was fastened upon Avignon. Francoise turned in time to see him nod once, curtly.

"Take care of her."

Avignon's lips formed a grim line. He didn't like his hand being forced. And obviously Francoise was an unwelcome burden. But he nodded once again.

Madame's eyes drifted to Francoise. "And you, ma pet.i.te dindon. Look deep. Don't be fooled by what is on the surface, even in yourself."

"I won't," Francoise promised. What did Madame mean? What a strange promise she exacted on her deathbed. Francoise glanced back to Avignon. "Can't we make her more comfortable? A blanket perhaps?"

Avignon stared at Madame. "Only G.o.d can make her comfortable now."

Horrified, Francoise turned back. Madame's eyes were open but Madame was no longer there. She had died in the moment Francoise turned away. Could a life be extinguished so ... casually? Francoise groped for breath around the sobs that choked her.

Not fair. Not fair at all.

Lord, what did one do with a mere child experiencing her first taste of death? Avignon glanced to Jennings, who rolled his eyes.

Avignon folded his arms across his chest to suppress the impulse to take her in his arms and make soothing sounds while he kissed her blond curls. He didn't have time to comfort her. He had to get back to Lacaune's before he was missed. He had planned to be gone only long enough to transport into the prison and back out to the warehouse with the old woman, a moment more to blink back to the gentlemen's retiring room at the gaming h.e.l.l. Twenty minutes at the outside.

How long before the guards noticed the old woman's escape? She was not part of a family. She was his neighbor. People would have seen Avignon, his ward up in front of him, galloping through the Marais to the river tonight. All were things to draw attention to him. Henri hoped Robespierre was not as smart as he thought himself.

Henri cleared his throat. Best move this along. "Jennings, do we have an empty crate? I'm certain Mademoiselle would like to see her friend laid out respectfully."

Jennings nodded, showing by the gleam in his eyes that he appreciated Henri's ploy. He disappeared into the shadows. The girl was trying to compose herself.

"Thank you for bringing me."

"It was nothing," he lied.

Jennings returned dragging an empty crate shaped pretty nearly like a coffin. Francoise rose and whirled off the expensive evening cape he'd had made for that opera singer and spread it, red silk lining side up in the crate. Henri picked up the frail old body and laid it in the crate. He pulled the edges of the cape in to cover her. The physical husk looked peaceful. He hoped her soul was likewise.

The girl stared down at what remained of her friend. She was so young and looked so fragile, clad only in the sleeveless night s.h.i.+ft of finest linen. The fair, blus.h.i.+ng skin of her upper arm made him want to touch it. The nape of her neck as she bowed her head was ... vulnerable. He could see the outline of her spine where it disappeared beneath the cloth to join the fragile wings of her shoulder blades.

"Jennings, why don't you take one or two of the men and ... find Madame LaFleur a place of rest in the Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise?"

"Right ho, your grace." Jennings lowered the top of the crate over the dead woman.

"Without a priest or a funeral?" the girl gasped. "Madame would be horrified."

Henri took a breath before he spoke so his words would not be sharp. He laid a hand on her shoulder to steady her. But his words disappeared in his throat at the feel of her flesh on his palm. It sent shock waves straight to his loins. He tried to keep some semblance of pride as he jerked his hand from her shoulder. She was looking at him very strangely. He swallowed once and cleared his throat. "Priests are illegal, and any kind of a ceremony will draw attention to her, and through her, to us."

She looked at him with those big, innocent and experienced blue eyes and managed to look both disappointed and accepting of his refusal. Goaded, he turned to the makes.h.i.+ft coffin and bowed his head. He glanced pointedly at the girl and she did the same.

"Lead me from the unreal to the real. Lead me from darkness to light. Lead me from death to immortality. " He took a breath.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life. I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. We commend the body of thy servant into thy care. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."

She looked up at him, studying his face. "What was that first part from?"

"The Upanishads."

She nodded thoughtfully, as if she knew what the Upanishads were. Of course no good Catholic girl knew the Upanishads. "I wouldn't have thought you'd know the benediction."

He wouldn't tell her he'd been a monk for forty years or so in the thirteenth century. He could still recite big swatches of the Bible. "Even Satan knew the Scripture. I know several."

And then because she made him uncomfortable, he said, just to have something to say, "Can you get this place cleared out, Jennings? We must make room for another s.h.i.+pment."

Jennings gave a mock salute to make sure Henri knew the question was unnecessary. "Absolutely, your grace. It's all spoken for."

When the girl began to peer around her into the shadows, examining the crates and barrels, Henri realized he had drawn attention to something he had no desire for her to know.

"Are all these things yours?" she asked. She rose from where she knelt beside the makes.h.i.+ft coffin and went to finger a bolt of lace. She looked to a barrel clearly labeled SALT.

Well, this was it. No use denying when he'd all but admitted it by giving Jennings orders. Much of elite Paris knew this secret.

"They are."

She turned to him, blinking. "You're a smuggler, aren't you?"

"I'd describe it as being a dealer who doesn't require taxes to be paid on his goods."

He saw her processing that. "That's why you have influence with the new government."

"The new villains like luxury as much as the priests and n.o.bility who were the old villains."

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. That's why dealing in contraband was such a perfect cover. Everyone disdained his activities, even if they craved the results. It wasn't usually so painful to be despised. "Why would you need to break the law? Avignon is the richest property in France."

"Avignon is confiscated." True. True also that he didn't need its income. But his tenants, now, they were likely to starve if he weren't sharing the gains from his trade and his wells with them to keep the land in good heart. The chaos the Revolution had created meant that seed and farm implements had become exorbitant. And of course, there was the real reason he smuggled. The s.h.i.+ps running back and forth from England. She mustn't discover how he used those s.h.i.+ps. Or the rooms at the back of this very warehouse, concealed behind a brick facade. So let her think he was a callous lout, making hay while the country went hungry.

"But smuggling?"

"Robespierre's dependence on my various ... endeavors kept you out of prison, my dear ward. And it gives you lovely dinners like you had last night. You might show more respect."

She swallowed. Then she glanced away. "You are right, of course. How stupid of me."

"Now, I must get you back to the house. Come." He turned and strode out through the shadowy warehouse.

Francoise followed Avignon's echoing steps. Some part of her noted that he was almost running from her. She felt strangely empty. She ought to be sobbing. Her only friend in the world had just died. But after the first tearing sorrow, it seemed inevitable that Madame should die, as though Francoise had experienced and grieved this death before. Madame was fated to die. If she escaped the guillotine she must be felled by some apoplexy, robbed of life no matter the means.

Was there no hope to change one's fate? Francoise felt her purpose for living tremble.

When Francoise emerged Avignon was untying his horse. The heat was back. The cool after the rain shower had been only a momentary diversion.

Avignon swung into the saddle and held out his hand. She knew what would happen if she grasped it. Even his comforting touch on her shoulder in the warehouse just now had sent a s.h.i.+ver of energy down her spine. He took his foot out of the stirrup. She lifted the hem of her s.h.i.+ft with one hand, acutely aware that her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were moving freely under the fine linen. Her nipples tightened.

Then she put a slippered foot into the stirrup and clasped his hand. Warm, smooth, strong-its electric sensation of life struck her harder even than she had imagined.

She wanted that life. After the death she'd witnessed tonight, his feeling of intense life called to her as never before. He swung her into the saddle. Her hip was pressed into his groin, her shoulder to his chest, as she sat sideways on the pommel of the saddle.

The rise of it rubbed right against her most private parts. Her arm just naturally slid around his taut waist to steady herself, even as he held her close and gave the horse the office to start.

They said nothing. He probably felt nothing. But for the second time tonight, she felt ... everything. She was full to overflowing with the strange and the familiar all mixed up together; the feeling of impending doom, the inevitability of it all.

"Look deep," Madame had said. Why? Did she think Francoise saw people only on the surface, even herself? Maybe she was talking about Avignon. Francoise had always thought of him simply as the wicked duc. But he had actually tried to rescue Madame. Not the way Francoise had intended. But neither he nor Madame thought using influence would take the trick.

So he'd engineered an escape from the Conciergerie. That took far more energy and frankly, probably put him in more danger than she intended. Would she have pressed him if she'd known she was asking him to risk his life? It had all turned out badly, but after her first shock, she couldn't blame him. She could only marvel that he had attempted it at all.

She'd been surprised too when he pulled the cloak so tenderly about Madame 's body. But the real shock had been the benediction he'd said to spare Francoise's feelings. He might have just hustled her away without any solace. He might have told Jennings to dump the coffin in the river, instead of sneaking into Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise and burying Madame. His actions tonight were ... kindness. There was no other explanation.

Had she been wrong about the wicked duc? That question echoed through every part of the fullness inside her. It wasn 't supposed to happen this way. Things had gone off track, perhaps dreadfully wrong.

Something hard pressed into her hip. It was his erection. Part of her was not quite so appalled that he might desire her. Part of her was depressed that she was not appalled. It seemed as though she were drifting toward him and there was nothing she could do about it.

This time the trek up through the Marais was slow. The movement of the saddle with the stallion's rolling gait rocked against her woman parts. How far to the Place Royale? She'd be moaning and begging him to use her if she couldn't get out of this dreadful position soon.

At first, she hardly noticed that they were attracting attention. Yet, late as it was, there were loud jests and guffaws along their course. People didn't see a duc and a half-naked woman on a horse every day. Avignon saluted the hecklers as though everything they were thinking was true. How could he?

When they finally arrived at the house, she slid down and dashed through the door Jean held ajar while Avignon dismounted and tossed the reins to a groom. She was fairly humming with need. It was almost as if she were humming with life.

Something inside her roused itself. Avignon was still a horrible danger to her, regardless of his kindness tonight. Bad things would happen if she allowed herself to care about him. It would ruin her entire life. She had to take action.

Yet if one couldn't change fate, what use to resist? Madame's death proved that what would happen would happen. She found that so depressing, it started the tears again.

She shot a glance back to Avignon and saw a look of ... consternation on his face. He did not enter the house, but simply nodded to Jean and said, "See that Mademoiselle has a brandy. She has had a shock."

And then he turned on his heel and left.

Just like that.

He must be going back to his evening of gaming as though Madame had not died or was going to be buried by an Englishman who was probably a Protestant in the dead of night without a priest. Just as though he had not said a benediction over Madame's body.

The man was impossible, and she'd best realize that, and get hold of herself.

Henri materialized in the recesses of the cloakroom at Lacaune's. Tonight had been a disaster. Nothing had gone according to plan. Not only with the escape, but also with the girl. He'd nearly spilled his seed in his breeches during that ride from the Seine to the Place Royale. Her hip ground against his groin with every step Dauphin took. The feel of her body underneath that ridiculously thin night s.h.i.+ft was pure torture. He'd had to hold her in place, hadn't he? Did she realize her breast bounced on his forearm when Dauphin broke into a jog? He must not let her close. He more than anyone knew what would happen if she found out his real secrets.

She'd hate him on sight and scream his secrets to the world. She was an innocent, for G.o.d's sake.

He really had to make a visit to the Rue Lesparre tonight. He 'd spend himself in some woman he didn't care about and that would make him proof against the girl. In his very house! There would be no respite from her. He'd journey down to Avignon for a week or two if he didn't need to be filling up his warehouse with "cargo" again. The next best thing was to spend some time in brothels. And he'd better do it quickly. He'd take a cup of blood into the bargain just to make sure it wasn't hunger that itched in his veins. If only it were that simple.

As for the rest of the disaster, he'd repair what he could. He had already tried to confirm the gawkers' opinion that he was just out on a s.e.xual lark with her by saluting them and smirking. He could also give himself an alibi for his absence from the gaming rooms. Perhaps no one would even notice Madame LaFleur's escape. The guards were notoriously bad at counting prisoners in the crowded cells. Still ...

He stepped through the rows of cloaks and shelves of hats carefully. The pretty, buxom cloakroom attendant hummed to herself as she brushed a tricorn hat. Lacaune's was the most popular gaming h.e.l.l in Paris because of two simple house strategies. The play was honest and the staff was composed of comely females.

He called his power. Companion, he thought. Power surged up his veins. A magenta stain dripped over his field of vision. He didn't need much power to accomplish this task. He reached out and touched the attendant on the shoulder. The girl squeaked in surprise and turned ...

And he caught her in his gaze. Her eyes went blank. He slid an arm around her to support her and kissed her thoroughly so that her lips would be slightly swollen if anyone cared to look. He liked kissing, but he took no pleasure in such a one-sided application of the process. When he finished, he mussed the curls escaping from her exaggerated coiffure and pulled several strands free from the tiny mock-tricorn she wore (in red and blue, of course) to mollify the new gentry. They liked to lose their money to one another and to the house here, just as the old n.o.bility had.

"I have been here for the past hour, " he whispered. "We dallied together. You had the most pleasure you have ever experienced." He might as well let her add to his reputation, unearned though it might be. If anyone ever asked her, which he hoped they would not. He crumpled the satin of her dress, and tore a corner of the lace at her bodice-lace Lacaune's had probably bought from him. Just enough that it would be noticeable if someone were looking for it. Then he let her go.

The reddish tint faded from the room.

"La," she said, blinking. "You take a girl's breath away, milord."