Lights were beginning to blossom behind shutters. Men were peering out their doors or darting out into the street in their nightcaps and nightshirts to stare at the smoke and fire-glow. Questions were shouted at René, but he made vague answers, shielding Cyrene’s disheveled state from view with his body as much as he could. In a caricature of the pose of lovers, they made their way through the streets. Their passage was swift but not so headlong as to be remembered, cautious but without panic. They did not stop until they reached the house where René was lodged.
It was a dwelling like thousands of others in hundreds of small towns across France, neither a hovel nor a mansion. There were a few differences, however. The lower floor was used for storage only since it was subject to flooding, and there was a porch, or gallery, from the word for a long room,
galerie,
on the front and rear of the upper floor to protect the inside rooms from the hot summer sun. The roof was of split cypress shingles instead of slate, and the walls between the crossed timbers were of soft bricks sealed with a plaster made of mud mixed with lime and deer hair instead of the stone of the old country. The entrance was through a door in the lower floor, then up an inside stair to the upper gallery.
Cyrene moved ahead of René up the narrow treads, feeling her way in the dark. On the gallery, she stood aside as he opened the door. At his gesture, which indicated that she was to pass before him into the house, she drew back, assailed by an accumulation of distrust.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice low.
“Oh, the purest self-interest. You would hardly expect anything else, would you? Of course, if you prefer the lieutenant’s company, you are free to go.”
He was a tall, broad shadow looming above her there in the dimness. She could not see his face, but the derision in his tone seemed directed indiscriminately at both her and himself. She would not let it or the threat she sensed in his presence sway her. “What do you expect to gain?”
“A few hours of your time.”
“My time?”
René heard the suspicion in her tone with resignation. She could not be blamed for it, heaven knew. He wished that he could think she had no cause. It wasn’t so. He had betrayed her, and he knew it. More, his most virulent impulse at this moment was to do the same again, to take advantage of the situation in which he had found her. He had not realized he had fallen so far. If she was not so independent, and so beautiful even with her painted face and wildly tangled hair, if the sight of her did not clutch at his insides and twist his soul with longing, then he might have been able to let her go or to give her up to the justice she doubtless deserved. Neither course was possible. Neither could be borne. There only remained the indelicate and debasing use of force. And the question of how far his elastic conscience would permit him to go to achieve what he wanted.
He inclined his head in a bow he was not certain she could see. His voice deep, he repeated, “Your time. If you please?”
There came from down the street the clatter of drums and the sound of a fife as the barracks was emptied of soldiers to fight the fire and search out those who had despoiled the king’s warehouse. It struck Cyrene as less than prudent to stand debating René’s purpose in spiriting her away there in full view while she was still in her disguise. With a pugnacious tilt to her chin, she went before him through the doorway. She stopped in the middle of the inside room, waiting as he closed and locked the panel door and moved to strike tinder to light a branch of candles.
The room was revealed to be a small salon. It was pleasantly livable, with a touch of luxury here and there. The furniture was of native cypress carved and fitted by hand here in Louisiane and was therefore simple in style. The chandelier, however, was of bronze dore and Baccarat crystal, and a series of Brussels tapestries depicting the hunt hung on the whitewashed walls, while the carpet had been made in Brussels also and the pair of vases on each end of the central fireplace was of superior faïence. The plan of the house was typical, with three large rooms across the front and three smaller ones at the back, and with each room opening out of the other without passageways. To the rear of the salon was a dining room where silver gleamed in the dimness. Through the doorway on the right could be seen the bedchamber with the bed of cypress wood swathed in velvet hangings. The other doors were closed.
Cyrene spoke out of bravado, to fill the silence. “You are lucky in your accommodations. Not many new arrivals here are so well placed.”
“I had help in finding them.”
“Madame Vaudreuil, I suppose.”
“As you say. The house belongs to a woman recently widowed who wanted to return to France.”
“You bought it?” There was sharp curiosity in her tone.
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
What did he mean? Was he thinking of staying in the country? It was so unlikely, on second thought, that the possibility did not seem worth pursuing. Outside in the street could be heard the tramp of booted feet. She went still, listening. The soldiers passed on by, their regular treads fading.
Cyrene moistened her lips. “What will happen if — if they find me here with you? If they learn you took me away? Will there be trouble?”
“Nothing of moment, though it’s kind of you to be concerned.”
“I am not—” she began sharply, then stopped. She was concerned, though she did not want to be. She tried for a shrug. “I was thinking of myself, of course, and of just how beneficial your protection is likely to be now. But I would not have you think me ungrateful. I do thank you for the rescue; it was most… timely.”
“It was my pleasure.”
She sent him a quick glance, aware of an undertone to the words she was not sure he intended. He had moved to a bellpull beside the fireplace. He gave it a tug. As he turned back to her, his expression was bland and yet the light in his gray eyes was clear and intent.
“It must be nice to have such highly placed friends to smooth your way, no matter what happens.”
“Yes,” he agreed, though the word was without inflection as an African serving woman appeared in the door and he gave her his attention, ordering that wine and glasses be brought. When the woman had slipped away to do his bidding, he turned toward Cyrene once more. “Tell me something: Did the escapade this evening have a purpose or was it merely to even the score between us?”
“It had a very good purpose,” she said, the words sharp. “We wanted our property, which was taken from us. And we got it!”
“I see. The rest was an accident.”
“The rest you and the soldiers brought on yourselves.”
Her eyes caught the reflection of the fire that leaped and crackled under the mantel of the fireplace, giving her the wild look of some cornered animal that was heightened by the blue shadows of exhaustion under the fine skin beneath them. The hastily fastened tie of her chemise had come loose in their flight. Her torn bodice spilled open halfway to her waist, revealing the softly rounded curves of her breasts with their pale pink blush like the skin of perfect peaches. The combination of unbridled spirit and innocent vulnerability was maddening. René had been trying not to look, but now he allowed his gaze to rest on her like a pilgrim approaching a distant shrine. When he spoke his voice was abrupt.
“You risk a great deal for the sake of a few beads and pots. It would be a shame to have to watch the fleur-de-lis burned into such fine skin as yours or to see it scarred by the whip.”
A flush rose to her cheeks as she looked down to see what he found so compelling and realized her exposed state. She clutched the edges of her bodice together, swinging away from him in a swirl of crumpled and stained skirts.
“It’s more than pots and beads,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s our way of life.”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “The lady smuggler. It will be a miracle if you escape hanging.”
The color left her face as she faced him once more with her hand clutching her bodice. “But you said — I thought—”
The black rage that had been hovering in his mind closed in around him: anger that the Bretons would allow her to run the risk she had tonight, anger that she was so bound to them that she would do it for their sake, anger that he had no right to prevent it, but most of all, anger mat she could think he would harm her. It became a shield, that anger, and a weapon.
“You thought,” he said, “that I meant to keep you safe now that I have you?”
The coldness of his tone was like a blow. She would not let him see that she felt it, but neither could she pretend indifference. There was not only her safety involved but that of the Bretons, who would be implicated with her if she were brought up before the Superior Council on smuggling charges. Baldly she asked, “Don’t you?”
“I might, if the reward equaled the risk.”
“I have no way to repay you.”
He shook his head, his smile pitying. “Except the traditional coin of an attractive woman.”
“You expect me to—”
“I have need of a mistress.”
The denial leaped like flame into the rich brown of her eyes before she answered. “Never!”
“Think carefully. You were alone when I saw you, but if you were questioned there are those who would wonder where Pierre and Jean Breton were last night, as well as Gaston.”
A shiver ran through her. She wanted to speak, to marshal excuses for the Bretons, to exonerate them, but the words would not come. There was no excuse that anyone would accept, least of all this man. Long seconds passed. The light died from her gaze, leaving it desolate.
“I rather thought you might see reason,” he said softly.
“Reason?” she said, her voice trembling with suppressed pain and an odd weakness. “Reason? When you are threatening my life?”
“A harsh accusation. I prefer to think of it as simple coercion.”
She stared at him, at the taut planes of his face and the shadow of something like distaste in his eyes. She said slowly, “I have come to think there is nothing simple about you.”
“You would be wrong. There is one thing. I want you, and whatever it may take, I will have you. If you mean to sacrifice yourself for the Bretons, it might as well be now as later.”
His words scarcely penetrated. Suddenly there broke from her a single question. “Why?”
“I thought I had made that clear.”
“I can’t believe there isn’t something more. There are plenty of other women who would be happy to accommodate you.”
“You gratify me,” he said, the comment acid with irony.
“What is it? What have I done to you?”
“You suspect revenge? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“There must be something.” She stepped nearer as if to press home her point.
“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “it’s something I’ve done to you.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You would not be in danger if I had not used you, had not been the cause of you losing your goods so that you felt the need to retrieve them. The fault is mine. I am in a position now to protect you, as I promised. And that’s what I intend to do.”
“Out of guilt? I absolve you of it. Now let me go.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can!” she cried in desperation. “This whole business is farcical. For all we know, Pierre and Jean and Gaston may be under arrest at this moment.”
“They appeared to be well away to me. Strange, isn’t it, when you were caught?”
“We agreed to separate.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“It’s true!”
“I’m sure it is. Will they come after you, do you think, if you don’t return?”
“They certainly will. Is that what you are afraid of?”
“Only if they try to do something foolish. I think it will be best if you send a message explaining that you have taken refuge with me and decided to stay, for the time being.”
“I haven’t agreed,” she snapped.
“Haven’t you?” he asked, his voice as steady as his gaze. “Haven’t you, indeed?”
Try as she might, Cyrene could discover no weakness in his stand, no relenting in his manner. There was nothing to be done except to write the letter to the Bretons detailing her whereabouts and urging caution. René gave her privacy for the task, going away to speak to the serving woman somewhere in the back of the house. Cyrene sat for long moments, bending the quill pen in her fingers and frowning into the fire, then dipped the point into the inkwell provided for her and began with slow reluctance to force it across the page.