A Midnight Dance (2 page)

Sabine remained indecisive for all of two heartbeats before she tore out of the room and was on her sister’s heels, the thought of getting close to Jules quickening her steps. As she raced up the darkened alley, Isabelle’s laugh drifted back to her on the warm summer breeze, inspiring her own. Sabine emerged onto the main street near the front entrance of the theater. Her foot slid out from under her, her bottom colliding hard with the cobblestone road; a sharp pain shot up her spine and made her wince.

The roar of laughter from the crowd exiting her father’s theater assailed her ears. Her left palm stung. Her derrière ached. And she blinked back the tears, mortified by the spectacle she’d just made of herself. Chin-down, she was too afraid to look up. Afraid that in the crowd she’d see her Dark Prince, or rather, see him laughing at her.

Isabelle was at her side in an instant, falling to her knees and throwing a consoling arm around her shoulder. “Sabine . . .”

A pair of black polished boots appeared next to her just then. She looked up. Her heart flip-flopped.

It was
he.
The handsomest man in the realm. Her dark-haired prince. He lowered himself down on his haunches.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice caressing over her. She was lost in the vision he made, his most kissable mouth voicing words of concern for
her
.

She blinked.

He frowned slightly. “Is she mute?” he asked Isabelle.

“No, my lord. She can speak.” Her sister pinched her back.

Sabine flinched. “I—I am fine. Thank you.”

Then it happened. He smiled. At
her
! And what a glorious smile it was.

“You lost your slipper,” he said. Picking up her fallen shoe, he gently clasped her ankle and slipped it back on her foot. She forgot to breathe.

He rose, and to her amazement, he held out his hand. Isabelle pinched her harder. Sabine jerked and quickly placed her hand in his. It was warm, strong, and felt so right. She knew he’d held the hand of many beauties from the finest families in the noble class, but at that moment his hand was all hers. His attention was hers. His melting smile was only for her.

She rose with his help, ignoring the pain in her backside.

“Do be careful.” Then he leaned in. The world shifted beneath her feet. Her breath lodged in her throat. “You have beautiful hair,” he whispered in her ear, and with a wink he walked away, enveloped back into the throng that had been waiting for him.

“Oh, Sabine . . .” Isabelle stepped up behind her and, hugged her around the waist. Resting her chin on Sabine’s shoulder, she said, “Can you believe what just happened?”

Her hand and ankle still tingled where he’d touched her. The glass slippers had more than worked their magic this night. And she knew right there and then, down to her very marrow, that the next time they’d meet, there would be more magic to come . . .

 

 

This was sheer madness.

But what choice did she have?

Sabine Laurent struggled to maintain a brave façade before her two younger cousins.

The flickering flames of the campfire ahead drew closer and closer as her cousin Gerard drove their cart through the darkened forest. Her heart thundering in her ears, she could barely hear the crunching of twigs and leaves beneath the wooden wheels.

Robert, Gerard’s younger brother, sat silently in the back with the flagons of wine, the very air around them thick with tension and trepidation.

“Sabine, what if this goes terribly wrong?” Gerard whispered, his tone laced with dread.

That was the very question tormenting her. She prayed she wasn’t leading them to their deaths. But then, if they didn’t have the funds they owed in two weeks, they were all dead anyway. Not just the three of them, but the balance of her family, who were at home, thankfully unaware of what she was about to do. Unaware that at the marketplace, mere hours ago, she’d stumbled upon the very miracle they needed.

“You will call me Elise. Not Sabine. All will be well if we do not deviate from the plan,” she managed to say firmly, her tone belying her mounting fear. For the first time since her father’s death last month, there was a glimmer of hope. A way to clear their debts and spare their lives.

A means to more than restore her family’s fortune.

A means to search for Isabelle . . .
Her throat tightened instantly. She missed her sister more than she could allow herself to feel. The pain was too excruciating to bear.

Isabelle was her other half. Her heart and soul now empty without her.

Sabine took in a quiet breath and steeled her courage.

Just ahead, in the heavily guarded camp, there was a wealth in silver.

And by God, she was going to steal it.

She couldn’t—wouldn’t—have anything else taken from her. Or lose anyone else she loved. Her losses in the last eight years had been too many. And too great.

Fate had
finally
shone in their favor. That morning she’d chanced upon the most incredible conversation between two thieves-of-the-sea. Clearly, the two degenerates thought that in a town filled with ignorant French peasants, so far from the Italian border, it was safe to discuss in Italian their latest captured prize from Spanish ships and the route they were taking to rendezvous with more men of their ilk.

But Sabine had understood every astounding word.

There were many things she blamed her father for. There were many reasons she still harbored bitterness toward him, even after his death, but the education he’d provided his twin daughters with was better than what most women of the upper class received.

Male laughter erupted from the camp. Sabine jumped.

Stay calm
.
You can do this
.
You can
.

She was no stranger to the theater. Her late father was the prominent playwright Paul Laurent. She’d been raised around actors and knew how to put on a convincing performance. As children, she and Isabelle used to write their own plays and perform them for the servants. Acting was in her blood. She could play any role.

Even the role of a whore.

Sabine adjusted her neckline a fraction lower, her fingers fidgety, the coarse material a sharp contrast to the sumptuous gowns she’d once owned. Her wealthy middle-class family had had social standing once. A magnificent townhouse in one of the most prestigious areas in Paris. A bright future.

Now their future was bleak—that is, if they didn’t get hold of that ever-nearing treasure.

“What will we do if we cannot get them to drink the tainted wine?” Gerard pressed. “What will
you
do if, when alone with their leader, he wishes to sample you before the drink?”

Another round of laughter rushed up at her from between the trees and shrubs. Tightening her jaw, Sabine stared straight ahead at the camp with cold resolve.

She’d come to terms with exactly what she’d do. Though she’d never admit it to her cousins, she was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice and let the scoundrel have her body. She’d detach herself from the act, numb herself to it—just as she’d numbed herself against the loss of her sister these last five years—and acquiesce.

Whatever it took to succeed, that’s what she’d do.

She couldn’t enter a situation like this and not be resigned to the very real possibility that he’d have her before she’d get him to down the wine.

“They could murder you, Sabine. All of us. But not before they rape you. Repeatedly,” Gerard added.

Dear God, she didn’t need this. His words were only shredding her courage.

“Leave Sabine alone, Gerard,” Robert defended. “If—If she says it’s going to work, I believe her.” Sweet Robert, just sixteen, trusted in her. Her family had always looked to “sensible Sabine” to fix matters. There was nothing “sensible” about this plan. But desperate people were forced to do desperate things. It sickened her that this was all she could come up with to save them from the consequences they faced.

“If we don’t pay the taxes we owe the Crown, they could arrest us and throw us into debtors’ prison,” she said tightly. “You’ve heard the stories. You know what happens to women confined in cells with all-male guards. They are raped.
Repeatedly
. And let’s not forget the conditions of the prison. Disease is rampant within its walls. I doubt we’d all survive the incarceration. And if they decide instead to cast us off our land, we’ll starve. One by one. There will be no escaping it. Hunger is still widespread. The realm has yet to recover from the ravages of the
Fronde
.” The
Frond
e—the civil uprising incited by a group of ambitious noblemen—had almost dethroned their young King and thrown the country into chaos. Five years since the end of the unrest, and still the realm reeled.

If only there had never been an uprising.

If only her father hadn’t sunk them further into debt once they were forced to move out of the city to their country home. If only he hadn’t sent Isabelle away. She’d still have her sister. Then she wouldn’t be so hollow inside.

“But, Sabine . . . this plan . . .” Gerard’s voice trailed off.

Why did he insist on arguing with her? He knew the reality they faced.

“Gerard, if you”—twisting around, she looked back at Robert—“either of you have a better plan, speak of it now.”

Robert lowered his eyes.

“Well?” she pressed, demanding a response.

“I’ve no other plan,” Robert murmured. “Though I wish I did.”

So did she. Sabine turned her attention to Gerard.

“What about you, Gerard? Have you something better to suggest?” In the moonlight, she could make out his profile as he stared straight ahead.

His face was taut and he swallowed hard before he said softly, “No.”

“Then we’ll proceed with my plan.” Good God. She was really going to go through with this.

She was going to have to face a camp full of men, convince them that a woman who was still a virgin was an experienced harlot, and persuade their leader to purchase her services. It was the only way to enter the camp. Once inside, she and her cousins would have to make sure every man ingested at least some of their tainted wine.

Heaven help them.
This plan is beyond mad . . .

She readjusted the neckline of her dress, desperate to distract herself from the terror twisting in her belly.

This is going to work out in our favor because it has to
.

“A King’s ransom in silver is just ahead. Our plan will work. Be brave.” It amazed her how courageous she sounded while her very entrails quivered and quaked, unsure exactly whom she was trying to reassure more—them or herself.

“Well, well, what have we here?” The voice came out of nowhere.

Her heart lurched.

A dark-haired burly man had appeared from the thicket with several large intimidating friends. He scratched his scruffy chin and grinned. It was mirthless and menacing.

She met Gerard’s gaze. The fright in his eyes was unmistakable. Her courage faltered.

“Go on,” she whispered, forcing the words out. There was no turning back now.

These men didn’t look as though they’d let them simply drive on past.

Gerard glanced at the men and gave her one last look. Holding his gaze, she silently pleaded for him to proceed before her courage completely gave out, her bottled-up fright so barely contained.

Finally, he cleared his throat and got down from the cart.

“Sir, we’re hungry and your cooking fire drew us. Spare us some food and we’ll provide you with wine to wash it down.” Gerard sounded so convincing, it elated her. All those times she and Isabelle used to force him to act in their plays had rubbed off on him.