Surrender to a Stranger (16 page)

“Your papers, Citizen,” demanded the guard who had come over to inspect their cart.

Citizen Julien released his grip on her and reached into his coat to produce the required documents.

“When did you come into Paris, Citizen Poitier?” the guard asked as he examined the papers.

“Just after dawn,” replied Citizen Julien gruffly. “Didn’t sell as much as we hoped.”

The guard walked around and looked at the few baskets of vegetables in the back of the cart without much interest. He lifted his bayonet and shoved it into one basket, and then another, damaging some of the produce. Evidently satisfied that there was nothing in there except turnips and potatoes, he returned the papers to Citizen Julien.

“Quite a catch we just made, was it not?” the soldier demanded with a mixture of arrogance and pride. It was obvious his mind was still on the previous arrest, and he wanted to be congratulated as if it was he who had made the discovery.

“Indeed it was,” agreed Citizen Julien enthusiastically. “Those cursed aristos will try to sneak out in almost anything these days, won’t they?” He spat on the ground to show his contempt.

“None of them get past this gate,” the soldier boasted. “We have a nose for them. One look at a driver and we can tell if something is amiss. That’s how we caught the Comte Rabourdin and his entire family last week. The comte and his wife tried to make us believe they were simple servants traveling with their children to find work outside of Paris.”

“And what made you think they were not?” asked Citizen Julien with interest.

“They did not look like servants,” explained the soldier. “Oh, their outfits were convincing enough, but none of those lily-white hands had ever done an honest day’s work.” He looked over at Jacqueline. “Now, your wife there, that is a woman who knows what it is to work for a living,” he said with authoritative approval.

Citizen Julien glanced at her without much interest. “She pulls her weight,” he agreed. “Although, thanks to me, she now has twice as much weight to pull,” he joked crassly. He reached over and rubbed her familiarly on the stomach.

Momentarily forgetting her terror of being discovered, Jacqueline lifted her head to glare at him.

The soldier snorted with laughter. “On your way, Citizen Poitier, so I don’t have to listen to your wife yell at you.” He waved them on with his hand.

“As you wish, Citizen,” replied Citizen Julien with a dramatic sigh.

He snapped the reins against the bony rump of the horse and the cart rattled slowly through the gate and beyond the barricades of Paris.

Jacqueline moved as far away from Citizen Julien as the cart would allow and bit down hard on her lip. I will be back, she promised herself as she watched the lights of the city recede into the darkness.

This was only a delay. Nothing would keep her from having her revenge. Nothing.

Jacqueline felt herself falling, as far and as fast as if someone had pushed her off a cliff, and then her cheek came to rest against something warm. She sighed and nuzzled her face deeper into the padding that had cushioned her fall. The tremendous weight of her head was more than she could bear. She lifted her hand to adjust the mysterious pillow that was providing such delicious relief.

And sat bolt upright as she realized she was resting against Citizen Julien’s shoulder. She ground her fists into her eyes and shifted farther away from him.

“We still have a few more hours. You should try to get some sleep,” he told her gruffly.

“I am not the least bit tired,” Jacqueline informed him. In truth she was utterly exhausted, but she did not want to admit that. Especially since Citizen Julien showed no sign of being tired whatsoever.

He looked at her skeptically, noting the dark circles that had formed under her eyes. He knew he was driving them at a grueling pace, but it was essential they reach the coast as swiftly as possible. Still, when he delivered her to Sir Edward, he did not want her to collapse with exhaustion. “You can lean on my shoulder if you like,” he offered.

“No,” she replied stiffly. She pinned her gaze on the endless expanse of road and countryside ahead, willing herself to stay awake.

It was the afternoon of the following day. When they had started out, Jacqueline assumed they would drive for a few hours and then stop somewhere for the night, which would give her the perfect opportunity to sneak away from Citizen Julien while he slept. To her dismay, she quickly discovered that Citizen Julien was determined to make it to the coast without stopping. When they were about ten miles out of Paris, they were met by a rider who appeared out of the darkness leading two strong horses that could easily pull their light cart at a swift and steady speed. Their ancient nag was unhitched and the new horses were quickly strapped into place. Citizen Julien was a skillful driver, guiding them through the darkness and around ruts and holes in the road with apparent ease. But as the horses tired and Jacqueline assumed that they would stop at an inn to rest for the night, another mysterious rider appeared out of the trees with two fresh horses. And so it went, with Citizen Julien relentlessly pushing on toward Boulogne, and a series of men meeting them at prearranged stops with fresh horses every few hours.

When Jacqueline complained of hunger, Citizen Julien reached into the back of the cart and produced the basket Justin had packed for them. It was loaded with cold chicken and beef, cheeses, breads, fruit, two bottles of wine, and three bottles of some other clear drink. It was undoubtedly more than enough to feed the two of them on their journey. When Jacqueline delicately asked if they could stop so she could attend to her personal needs, Citizen Julien calmly got down from the cart and escorted her into the woods. He then pointed out exactly which tree she might use for privacy and waited patiently for her to reappear. The trees he selected were always slightly isolated from the others, so Jacqueline found she could not possibly slip away and quietly disappear into the darkness of the woods without him noticing. Every hour took her farther and farther from Nicolas, and with every hour she grew more anxious and determined to escape. She feared that if she allowed herself to be reunited with her sisters and placed under the care of Sir Edward, she might find it difficult to escape the peace and safety they offered and return to France to have her revenge. She was afraid her hatred might start to ease, and her fury over the horrendous injustice dealt to her and her family might somehow gradually fade in the light of a new and tranquil life. She would not let that happen. She could not. The lives of her father and brother demanded vengeance. The destruction of the world she once knew could not go unpunished. She knew she could not destroy the revolution. Nor could she reverse the despicable evils it had inflicted on her country and her people. But she could kill Nicolas. And with that relatively small, simple act, something in her would be assuaged. She had to get back to Paris.

“Citizen Julien, I need to stop for a moment.”

He sighed and pulled in the reins. He leapt down from the cart and waited for her to climb down before leading her into the woods to find a satisfactory spot. The forest they had been traveling through was particularly thick with evergreens at this particular point, and it was difficult to find a tree that was relatively solitary from the rest. Jacqueline stood patiently as Citizen Julien considered where to send her.

“Find a place over there somewhere,” he ordered as he waved his hand disinterestedly ahead of them. “And be quick about it.” He seated himself on the ground and leaned wearily against a tree as he prepared to wait for her.

She walked forward into the woods and critically evaluated the breadth of several trees before finally stepping behind one that was very wide and quite a distance away from where Citizen Julien was waiting. Directly behind this tree were two thick evergreens, and with a few hurried steps she had disappeared behind them. Fairly certain that he could not see her, she quickly started to make her way deeper and deeper into the forest. Her heart was racing as she silently threaded her way through the dense growth, knowing in just a few minutes Citizen Julien would call out for her to hurry and would expect some kind of response from her. While she realized she could not expect to outdistance him in a few minutes, she hoped she could at least hide herself in the thick forest. Since Citizen Julien would have no idea which direction she had taken, he would not be able to find her. Pressured by the constraints of time, he would eventually be forced to abandon his search and continue toward Boulogne alone. Jacqueline would wait until she was absolutely certain he was gone, and then return to the road and start her journey back to Paris. No doubt a coach or cart would eventually pass and be able to take her at least part of the way. She did not think anyone would be suspicious of a young farm girl on her way to find work in the city. Certainly no one would ever suspect her of being an escaped aristo who was trying to get back into Paris. How she would eat, where she would sleep, these things were of no concern to her. The most important thing was to return to Paris and kill Nicolas. Nothing else mattered.

She continued to weave her way through the woods, wondering how many minutes had passed since Citizen Julien had left her. She paused for a moment and hid behind a tree, her heart pounding in her chest as she listened for the sound of him calling for her. The forest was quiet except for the occasional trilling of birds. There was nothing to indicate Citizen Julien had even noticed she was taking an inordinately long time to see to her personal needs. Perhaps he had fallen asleep as he sat and waited for her. If so, so much the better. She could quietly make her way even farther into the woods without being noticed. Hardly able to contain her excitement, she looked about as she considered which direction she should take next.

“Lose your way, Mademoiselle?” drawled a sarcastic voice.

With a startled gasp she lifted her head just in time to see Citizen Julien swing himself off the branch he had been sitting on and land gracefully in front of her. He stood with his feet braced apart and his hands planted firmly on his hips, the scowl on his face telling her in no uncertain terms that he was absolutely, unconditionally furious.

“Citizen Julien, thank goodness you found me,” stammered Jacqueline awkwardly as she took a few steps back. He looked enraged enough to throttle her, and a strong sense of self-preservation told her that a little distance between the two of them would be in her best interest. “I was trying to get back to the cart, but these woods are so dense I could not find—”

“As always, Mademoiselle, you are a remarkably poor liar,” he interrupted, his voice low and furious. “But your relative ineptitude at lying is nothing compared to the contempt with which you treat your life.” He reached out for her as he said this, roughly grabbing her by the arm and jerking her into him. “I believe what you need, Mademoiselle de Lambert, is for me to take you over my knee until I succeed in beating some sense into you, or at least make you think twice before trying to escape me again.” The hard, grim set of his mouth told her he was deadly serious.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” spat Jacqueline, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and aristocratic indignation.

He ignored her order and clamped his enormous hands painfully about her shoulders, holding her still as he stared into her eyes, two shimmering gray pools of righteous defiance that glared back at him with a fury that quite possibly matched his own.

“I have tried to be patient, Mademoiselle,” he began, his words slow and measured, as if he was trying to rationalize whatever he was about to do. “I realize your actions are in response to the tragedies that have been inflicted on you. I am sympathetic to your shock over the loss of your brother and father, and I understand your need to blame and your thirst for vengeance—”

“You understand nothing!” she burst out furiously as she struggled to free herself from his painful grip. “You are not part of the noblesse. You are a bourgeois merchant who trades in human cargo, making a living from those who have been unjustly thrown into prison, saving only those whose families or friends can afford to pay your fee. Then you return to England, where you sit safe and smug until your life necessitates that you take on another assignment, like me. What do you know of honor, or duty, or the agonizing need to avenge the ones you have loved?” Her voice was thick with loathing and contempt.

His expression became hard. “You know nothing whatsoever about me, Mademoiselle,” he ground out tautly. “Do not dare presume to judge me.”

She stared at him in silence for a moment, wondering for the briefest of seconds what he was alluding to. His gaze seemed clouded, as if the pain of some memory had suddenly pierced through his anger and he was fighting with every ounce of his will to suppress it. She watched as he struggled, and was aware of the exact instant when he had succeeded in subduing whatever thought or memory had disturbed him. Once again the sharp focus of his anger returned to her.

“But we were speaking of you, Mademoiselle,” he reminded himself softly, staring at her with renewed interest.

He released his hand from one of her shoulders and raised it to lightly trace the contour of her jaw. The day was crisp and cold, yet his fingers were warm against her cool skin, the strength that they so brutally exerted on her shoulder mere seconds earlier restrained in favor of a lighter touch.

“Such a delicate, aristocratic neck,” he commented softly. The tips of his fingers slowly burned a path from the line of her jaw to the point where her pulse was beating rapidly in her throat. “What a tragedy it would be for such a perfect column to be laid bare beneath the sharp blade of the guillotine, warm and dripping with the blood of those who placed their necks under it before you.” His fingers continued to lightly caress her skin as he spoke, causing a warm, tingling sensation wherever they stroked. Jacqueline felt a shiver shoot all the way down her spine. She told herself it was because the air around them was so cold.

“Then again,” he continued, his fingers traveling upward to absently caress her cheek, “it is possible you would be arrested before you ever got to Paris.” His other hand released its hold on her shoulder and moved to cradle the side of her face. He held her steady as he gazed down at her, his eyes the color of a summer day, all field greens and sky blues. “Do you know what would happen to you if you were arrested in a village?” he asked softly, his thumbs lightly brushing over her cheeks, inexplicably causing them to grow hot and flushed with the sensation of his gentle touch. “They would take you prisoner, and they would lock you up while they decided whether or not it was worth their trouble to take you all the way to Paris,” he told her, his voice low and strangely hypnotic. “And it is possible, Mademoiselle, that the men who guarded you would see that underneath all of this filth and cosmetics, there lies a hidden beauty.” His words were low and strangely hushed, as if he was speaking to her from far away. He stared at her intently, holding her prisoner now only by the gentle touch of his fingers and the husky whisper of his voice. Jacqueline gazed up at him, listening to the rhythm of his words and accepting the exquisite heat of his touch, and the animosity between them seemed to disappear, or rather stop, as if it was suddenly suspended somewhere high above them and no longer relevant. She stared into those turquoise summer-day eyes, burning in their intensity, and found that she could not move, could not speak, could not even understand what it was he was saying. All that seemed to matter was that they were alone, together, in the middle of a forest where time and place and who they were had suddenly ceased to matter.

“I have seen your portrait, Jacqueline,” he murmured, his hand reaching around and threading into the hair behind her neck. He spoke her name slowly, sensually, as if it was a glorious piece of music that must be treated with care. Jacqueline was vaguely aware that it was the first time he had called her by her given name, and an unfamiliar sense of pleasure flowed hotly through her.