Rendezvous (9781301288946) (16 page)

Relieved when Etienne Lazare stalked
away from him, Jean-Claude directed his gaze toward the approaching
shoreline. The sea spray misted against his cheeks, but some of the
salt droplets originated from his own eyes. His beloved France. How
he had ached for this day when he would once more gaze upon the
only land he could ever call home. Yet the time had arrived and his
vision blurred with tears. All he could see was her face. Isabelle,
the woman he had once cherished as his wife.

The shock of seeing her again had been
enough to kill him. Time had changed her so little, her face yet
blessed with that radiance, that purity which had once captured his
heart. It touched him even now when he knew the painful truth about
her.

She was so beautiful. He had forgotten
how much so. No, he lied. He had never forgotten. Isabelle's image
had been ingrained upon his soul even when he had sought life anew
in the arms of the gentle Lady Sarah Belvoir. God forgive him, even
when he had laid his poor Sarah to rest in the churchyard, his
thoughts had been of Isabelle, wondering if she yet
lived.

And now he knew. Isabelle was very much
alive and recently married to that darkly handsome man with the
mocking eyes. Jean-Claude should at last be able to put her out of
his heart, concentrate only on his return to France, the purpose
that drew him back.

But he could not. The pain that she had
caused him, the years of separation, even the knowledge that she
now had another husband—one look at her and none of that seemed to
matter. Jean-Claude buried his face in his hands. God help him, he
still loved her.

What was that fool Varens doing? Lazare
wondered as he studied the comte's trembling shoulders. Shivering
with cold or weeping over his return to France?

"Bah!" Lazare snorted. "What a
weakling!"

Why had he ever bothered to seek out
Varens? The man would likely prove useless for the role Lazare had
in mind. Lazare's gaze shifted to the companionway that led to the
cabins. He knew which door Belle sheltered behind. Might it not be
better even now to slip below and make an end? He fingered the hilt
of the knife concealed beneath his cloak. Perspiration beaded his
brow as he thought of pressing the sharp tip to Belle's slender
white throat, the point breaking through the skin, slicing in a
slow arc, the rivulets of her warm blood trickling over his
fingers.

A shiver of ecstasy coursed through
him, stirring an ache deep in his loins, but he forced his hand
away from the knife. He had waited too long for his revenge to
finish it that quickly, that easily for Belle. And that Carrington
fellow was watching him again.

"Stare all you like, Englishman,"
Lazare muttered, self-consciously touching a hand to his scarred
flesh. "In a month's time the maggots will have devoured your
eyes."

And as for the Avenging Angel—Lazare
sneered—she would count herself blessed if her own death came so
swift as the one Lazare envisioned for Carrington. Because Lazare
had far different plans for Belle, a vengeance more subtle and
sweet. She herself had given him the key to it, that long ago night
when her fever had raged. In her delirium she had cried out her
terrors of being locked away in the Conciergerie, of mounting the
steps to the guillotine, of her despairing love for Jean-Claude
Varens.

"So rest while you
may,
ma belle
."
Lazare's mouth tightened with grim satisfaction. "I am about to
make all of your worst nightmares come true."

Paulette's laudanum took effect.
Oblivious to the rocking of the ship and the three men who stalked
the deck above her, Belle slept.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The drums pounded in Belle's head. Like
marionettes, the soldiers' stiff arms rose and fell, beating out
the steady rhythm. They kept step beside the rough wooden tumbril
creeping through the streets, bearing the latest cache of victims
to the guillotine's relentless blade.

Tossing on the cot, Belle moaned,
trying to pull herself out of the dream. But the webbings of
nightmare held her fast, as tight as the cords that seemed to bind
her hands.

She was not a spectator. This time it
was she who stood braced against the jolts of the cart, her arms
bound behind her as she stared out over a sea of jeering faces that
had lost all trace of humanity. Gaping mouths, burning eyes, their
features were indistinguishable except for the man who stood a
little apart, gentle and solemn, untouched by the hatred of the
rabble surrounding him.

"Jean-Claude! Jean-Claude!" Her throat
muscles ached with the effort of trying to call to him, but the
drums sounded louder, drowning out her cries. The cart lurched to a
stop, and rough hands seized her, dragging her to the ground. She
strained toward her husband, but Jean-Claude had turned, about to
vanish into the crowd.

"Jean-"

"Belle!"

This time her cry was cut off not by
the drums, but by someone shouting her name.

"Belle! Wake up!" The hands gripping
her shoulders gave her a brisk shake.

She felt herself slipping back into the
midst of the mob, but the deep male voice, so familiar, so
insistent, snapped the tenuous threads of the nightmare. With a
gasp, Belle jerked to a sitting position. Forcing her eyes open,
she struggled to focus on the person perched on the edge of the
cot, bending over her.

Glossy black hair tumbled over a
furrowed brow, anxiety mirrored in dark-fringed eyes of crystalline
green. The mouth that should have been smiling with its customary
lazy good humor was not.

"Sinclair?" she said
thickly.

"Yes, I am right here,
Angel."

The simple words had a strange effect
on her. She flung her arms about his neck, burying her face against
him, drawing comfort from the unyielding hardness of his shoulder.
He felt so solid, so real after the phantom images of her
nightmare.

His arms closed about her, strong and
steadying. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he rested his chin
against the top of her head, gently rocking her.

"It's all right, Angel," he murmured.
"You are here, safe with me."

Belle released her breath in a
tremulous sigh. Yes, but where was here? Her mind yet hazy with
sleep, she turned her head enough to study the room through bleary
eyes. She took in the swaying lantern, the trunks propped against
the wall, the empty glass tumbled upon the floorboards of the cabin
aboard the Good Lady Nell.

Memory flooded back to her, of waiting
on the dock, finding the little boy, seeing Jean-Claude, telling
Sinclair—

Sinclair! With a jolt, she realized how
she clung to him like a frightened child. She struggled to break
free. He attempted to soothe her, but she wrenched out of his arms.
Her head swam so dizzyingly she was obliged to sink back flat on
the cot.

With a low groan, she covered her face
with her hands. It was the cursed laudanum. That was what was
causing her to feel so weak and to behave so strangely. She'd be
damned if she would ever touch the stuff again. The brief peace it
had brought her was not worth the self-loathing she now
felt.

She noticed Sinclair's weight shift
from the cot and thought he had left her. But he returned to her
side in a minute. Pulling her hands down, he dabbed a cool, damp
cloth upon her brow.

"Don't!" she said, twisting away from
him. "I am not ill. I was only having a nightmare."

"I know," he said softly. "Do you want
to tell me about it?"

"No!"

She thought her blunt refusal brought a
flicker of hurt to his eyes, but in the dim light it was hard to
tell. He looked unconcerned enough as he straightened. "Well,
perhaps some other time."

"How long have I been asleep?" she
demanded.

"The entire crossing. We are anchored
at Le Havre. When you did not come on deck, I grew concerned and
came below to check on you.”

And found her raving in her sleep like
a madwoman. With another groan, Belle managed to sit up and roll
her legs over the side of the cot. She made a futile attempt to
smooth her hair, imagining how disheveled it must be, what dark
hollows she must have beneath her eyes. She hated Sinclair seeing
her this way. All her life she had made it a practice to conceal
her hurts, her weaknesses from the scorn of the world. Yet in the
last twenty-four hours, how much of her inner self had she paraded
before Sinclair? She felt stripped naked in front of the
man.

It only made matters worse when
Sinclair noticed the empty glass on the floor. He picked it up,
sniffed it and tasted some of the dregs with one finger to his
lips. Although he frowned, he said nothing.

Belle felt as though she could not face
his contempt or his pity, but she had never learned to spare
herself. Slowly she got to her feet and looked him full in the
eyes, but found only understanding, an understanding that seemed to
delve into the depths of her soul.

It alarmed her even more than the
physical attraction she felt for Sinclair. She had spent too long
building the wall about herself to have it so easily breached.
Quickly she averted her gaze.

"Where is Paulette? I would have
thought she would be the one to come down and wake me."

"She was ogling the sailors as they
launched the longboat." Sinclair hesitated and then added, "All of
the other passengers have already been set ashore."

Belle supposed that was Sinclair's kind
way of telling her that Jean-Claude was already gone. Belle felt
the familiar tug of loss, but suppressed it. What difference did it
make? It was not as though she and Jean-Claude had anything more to
say to each other, at least nothing that he would care to
hear.

She drew herself up, groping for her
dignity, that mantle of pride which had stood her in such good
stead all these years.

"It is time we were going ourselves.
Get Lazare down here to help with the trunks. As soon as we are
ashore, we will want to see about hiring a carriage,"

"Belle." Sinclair stopped her as she
moved toward the door, his hands resting on her shoulders. He
turned her to face him.

"There is no need for such haste. We
could linger a day or two at Le Havre, give you- give both of us
some time to recover and lay our plans."

She refused to look up at him, but she
saw his hand move and knew that he meant to caress her cheek. She
felt so empty and aching inside. God, how she wanted Sinclair's
touch—no, needed it.

For that very reason she shied away,
refusing to let him come any closer. "No," she said. "Two days from
now I intend to be in Paris."

Belle backed out of the cabin, slamming
the door closed between them.

Paris- that city of broken dreams and
shattering nightmares. How many years ago had it been that Belle
had crept through its gates, her meager possessions bundled in a
shawl, her heart thudding when she thought of how narrowly she had
escaped from the dank confines of the Conciergerie, that last stop
on the journey to the guillotine. She had paused but once outside
the walls surrounding Paris, vowing never to return and so risk her
life again.

Yet here she was. Belle's lips curved
into a self-mocking smile as she braced herself against the sway of
the coach. Whoever said that wisdom was supposed to come with age?
Well, she had survived seeing Jean-Claude again. She would survive
the return to Paris as well. She had never yet heard tell of anyone
being slain by a memory.

Paris seemed to press in about her, the
eternal din of the city assaulting her ears, vendors crying their
wares, newspaper hawkers bellowing out the headlines, workmen's
hammers clanging, donkeys braying.

She stared out the window, every rut,
every crack of the Rue St. Honoré as familiar to her as if she had
ridden down it just yesterday. The street threaded through a narrow
canyon of tall buildings, the smoke from the chimneys hanging in
the air like a blue mist, the houses the same mad jumble of
architecture, turrets, gables and neoclassic all crammed side by
side. Little had changed except that she noted that No. 17 appeared
unoccupied. The five-story dwelling had housed the flat she had
shared with Jean-Claude those few happy days they had known
together, before the Revolution had turned into a reign of terror,
before he had discovered her secret.

But the timber frame structure now wore
an air of dilapidation, the windows broken or boarded over. It was
somehow appropriate. In that house all her dreams had died. Gazing
upon it was like viewing an open grave, and she was quick to avert
her eyes.

"Have we nearly arrived at
this Baptiste's?" Sinclair's voice startled her. She had thought
him asleep. Weary from the journey, he had hardly roused himself
even when they had passed through the
barrière
in the thick wall that
surrounded Paris. She turned from the window to find him sitting up
on the seat opposite, wincing and rubbing his leg, cramped by the
narrow confines of the coach.

"It is not much farther," she assured
him.