Surrender to a Stranger (19 page)

He knocked on her door. “It is me, Mademoiselle,” he said in French. “I have come to see if there is anything you need.”

There was no response. He thought perhaps she had fallen asleep, and wondered if maybe he should simply leave and check on her later. But light was spilling out from the crack under the door, and he realized if she slept then she had failed to extinguish the candles in the cabin, and that was extremely dangerous. A fire on a ship was no small concern. He lifted his fist and rapped on the door again.

“Mademoiselle, are you awake? You have left the candles burning in the cabin,” he said sternly, his voice a little louder than before.

This time a faint moan answered him. He wrenched the door open and entered the cabin.

Icy-cold fear gripped him as he took in the sight of her lying on the floor, pale and weak and barely breathing, her face white and twisted in agony. Her eyes fluttered open to look at him, and she let out a pitiful sob.

“I am dying, Citizen,” she whispered. Then, with what obviously took an incredible amount of effort, she lifted her head to the chamber pot on the floor beside her and retched into it violently.

He snatched up a towel that was draped over the bath and dipped a corner of it into the cool water before falling to his knees at her side. When she had finished her retching, he urgently took her head into his lap and wiped her face clean.

“What in God’s name have you done to yourself?” he demanded, his voice low and trembling. Her eyes were closed and in his panic he started to shake her until she wearily lifted her lids and looked at him. She moaned in protest at his rough handling of her, but he was almost beside himself with concern and did not care to be gentle. “Tell me, Jacqueline, or with God as my witness, I will beat it out of you, sick or no. What have you poisoned yourself with?” he demanded, grasping her shoulders and forcing her to sit up.

She stared at him dully, confusion and nausea clouding her vision. At first she did not recognize him. He was not Citizen Julien, or the captain of the National Guard, or Jean Poitier, peasant farmer. No, he was stripped of his cosmetics, and he was back to being the man under the disguise, the man with whom she had shared a bed in a run-down inn in Paris. But who was he? And why was he so angry with her? She had not tried to escape. She was dying. Should he not treat a dying woman with a little more consideration? She lifted her hand and weakly tried to push him away.

“I am dying,” she protested helplessly. “Why are you torturing me so?” She closed her eyes and sank back against his arm, not caring that he was still trying to make her sit. “Do you think I would bring this agony on myself?” she moaned.

He took a deep breath as her words reached him. She had not poisoned herself. Her anguish at leaving her country and giving up her fight was not that great. He did not know why he had rushed to that conclusion, but he did not pause to think on it. Now that he knew she was going to live, he was anxious to do something to relieve her considerable discomfort.

He placed his arms beneath her legs and shoulders and gently lifted her against his chest. She felt light, too light for a woman her height, he thought angrily. The weeks spent in that foul prison, coupled with months and months of deprivation living in a country that did not have nearly enough to feed its population, had obviously taken its toll on her slender frame. He stood and pulled back the covers on the bed before gently laying her on its clean sheets. Her face was as white as the linen of the pillowcase. He carefully drew the covers over her.

He went to the door to call for assistance and saw the boy who had brought a blanket for her on deck walking down the passageway.

“You there, bring me an empty bucket, a bucket of clean, warm water, some cool drinking water, and some hard biscuits,” he called out sharply. “And be quick about it.”

“Yes sir, Cap’n, right away, sir,” answered the boy excitedly as he bolted down the passageway.

Within minutes the boy returned with the required items. Armand took them and gave him the chamber pot in return, instructing him to empty it over the side and rinse it well before bringing it back. Then he closed the door and turned his attention to Jacqueline.

He removed his heavy overcoat and rolled up his sleeves before pulling a chair over to the side of the bed and seating himself on it. Then he dipped a clean cloth in the bucket of fresh water and gently washed her face, taking comfort in the fact that she did not feel the least bit feverish. After a few moments she opened her eyes and stared at him, her gaze distant and cloudy.

“I am dying, Citizen,” she told him weakly.

He shook his head. “No, Jacqueline, I would never let you die while you were in my care. It would be bad for business.” He gave her a smile and continued to gently sponge her face.

“Then what in the name of God is wrong with me?” she cried pitifully, before lurching up and retching horribly into the bucket he held for her.

He waited calmly until she had finished, then wiped her face and held a glass of water to her lips. “Take some to rinse your mouth and then spit it out,” he instructed. “It will make you feel better.”

She obeyed him, grateful for his assistance and at the same time mortified that he should see her in such an awful condition. It does not matter, she told herself weakly. I am dying, and only a fool would be concerned about appearances at a time like this. She felt him guide her back to lie against the pillow, and then the cloth was sponging her face again. The cabin was still swinging up and down in a dreadful, rocking motion, spinning her in circles and making her feel utterly miserable.

“Citizen Julien,” she whispered feebly.

“My name is Armand,” he told her. “Armand St. James.”

She paused, letting that piece of information sink in. Of course. He had said he would not tell her who he was until they were beyond the danger of capture. And now they were safe, on his ship, heading toward England, and she was not going to make it after all because she was going to die. It seemed monstrously unfair that she should die before seeing her sisters, never mind the fact that she still wanted to kill Nicolas, but there it was. It did not matter anymore. Nothing mattered. All she wanted at this moment was for the ship to cease its rocking. Then she could die relatively peacefully.

“Monsieur St. James,” she began again, her voice weak and quavering. “Could you please get your ship under control so it stops this torturous motion?” she pleaded.

He found he could not help but smile, so certain did she seem that he could accomplish such a feat. He realized she had never been on a ship before, and obviously knew nothing of how uncomfortable it could sometimes be. He was well used to the turbulence of a rough sea and was not bothered by the swaying and rocking that had reduced her to this pitiful state.

“Mademoiselle, were it within my power, I would stop heaven and earth to make you more comfortable, but unfortunately what you ask lies beyond my ability,” he told her apologetically.

“But I am dying, and this constant movement is making it worse!” she protested, her voice filled with despair.

He smoothed her damp hair off her forehead and gently stroked her ashen cheek. “No, Jacqueline, I have already told you, I will not tolerate you dying while you are in my care,” he quipped lightly. “It is merely the motion of the sea and the ship that has made you so ill, and believe it or not, it will pass.”

She opened her eyes again and looked at him, her stomach threatening at any moment to lurch back up into her throat. “Are you sure?” she asked, quite torn between her desire to live and, in that moment, her even stronger desire to die.

“I am sure,” he replied with a nod. “Once you are finished with your retching, I will give you a little water to drink, and then we shall see if we can get some of this biscuit into you. It is thoroughly dry and tasteless, but it will ease the turmoil in your stomach. Come morning you will be feeling much better, I promise.”

She lifted her lids once again to look at him. He seemed sincere, with his blue-green eyes studying her intently and his large, strong hands lightly pressing a cool cloth to her face. She was embarrassed that any man should see her in such a profoundly humiliating condition, yet somehow she took comfort in the fact that he was there. He was gentle in his nursing of her, and his confident manner told her she really was going to live. At this particular moment that was only a mixed blessing, but if he said that come morning she would be feeling better, then it must be so. She sighed and closed her eyes.

He watched her in silence for a few moments, and then, thinking she had fallen sleep, he rinsed the cloth in the pail of water and started to rise. He wanted to find that boy and get him to bring back the clean chamber pot in case she was sick again. The other bucket needed to be emptied. The cabin seemed cold, more coal should be added to the stove. Perhaps he should order some weak tea for her. As he moved to see these things attended to, her hand weakly fluttered up and grasped his, holding him there.

“Do not leave me,” she pleaded softly.

Her eyes were frightened, her grip on him feeble but steadfast.

“I will be but a moment,” he told her.

“Do not leave me,” she repeated, shaking her head.

He felt her grip increase slightly, as if she would hold him there by her own power, which of course she could not.

Her request touched him. At this moment she wanted him near, not because there was anything more he could do for her, but because she took comfort in his presence. That realization pleased him, although he could not imagine why it should be so.

“Very well, Jacqueline,” he said softly. Still holding her hand in his, he reached up with the other and lightly stroked her cool cheek with the back of his fingers. “I shall not leave you.”

She sighed, a sound that was mixed with relief and exhaustion, and once again closed her eyes to sleep.

His promise made, he settled back in his chair and prepared to watch her for the remainder of the night.

By the time they landed at Dover the following afternoon, Jacqueline was feeling somewhat better, although not entirely recovered. At Armand’s insistence, or Monsieur St. James, as she preferred to call him, she managed to eat some plain biscuits and tea when she awoke. Satisfied that the worst of the seasickness had passed, Armand ordered her to spend the morning resting in his cabin while he left to tend to the duties of his ship. At first she was happy to obey these instructions. But by the time they were about to dock she had recovered enough to feel restless, and felt anxious to escape the confines of the cabin. She was gazing ruefully at her peasant’s clothes, which lay discarded in a careless heap on the floor, when Armand returned carrying an armful of silk and lace.

The lavender gown he gave her to wear was trimmed with ruffles and puffed out generously over several layers of petticoats and an aqua-blue skirt. It would have been lovely on a woman who filled it properly, but on Jacqueline’s thin frame the creation hung limp and shapeless. The extent of its poor fit was obscured somewhat by a filmy gauze scarf, which she crossed over the front and tied in a wide bow at the back of her waist. Once she had tucked the remains of her hair up into a blue satin hat with a fluffy gray plume and donned the matching blue cape trimmed in lavender, she decided that her appearance, although no longer beautiful, was at least presentable, and that was enough. Her days of fretting for hours in front of her mirror, wondering if her hairstyle was quite the latest rage, or if her gown needed more ribbons and lace, and did her tiny high-heeled shoes match her gown exactly, were gone forever. Her excessive preoccupation with her beauty and the latest trends in fashion was part of a Jacqueline who no longer existed. She had died, as surely as if she had mounted the steps to the guillotine and been extinguished beneath its heavy blade. She stared blankly at herself in the small shaving mirror she discovered in Armand’s chest, feeling cold and distant toward the pale, thin reflection that gazed disinterestedly back at her.

When she stepped up onto the deck the crew members momentarily halted their activities to stare at her in amazement. As she walked by they seemed to regain their senses and politely bowed their heads to her. Although she realized that compared with her appearance when she boarded the ship anything would be an improvement, their reaction to her made her feel a little better. Perhaps she did not look quite as awful as she thought.

“Well, it’s a vision you are and that’s all there is to it,” gushed Sidney enthusiastically in French. He bowed deeply before offering her his arm. “Come, I’ll take you to the captain.”

He led her to the bow of the ship, where Armand was supervising as men on the dock grabbed the heavy ropes that were being tossed to them by his crew and expertly tied them around huge iron posts. He turned as she approached and stared at her, critically eyeing her up and down as if he was trying to decide whether he liked what he saw.

“Are you feeling better?” he demanded, his tone brusque and impersonal.

“Much better, thank you,” replied Jacqueline. She noticed he had changed into an immaculate pair of dove-gray breeches, a fitted charcoal frock coat, and a white shirt with a neatly tied cravat. A enormous open black overcoat further emphasized his unusual height and the wide breadth of his shoulders. His golden-brown hair was tied back with a length of black velvet ribbon, but several wisps at the front had worked their way loose and were blowing in the cold wind. As he stood there assessing her everything about him spoke of power, confidence, and control. There was an understated elegance to him, a bearing that could only be described as aristocratic, even though Jacqueline knew he was not. She suddenly felt uneasy in front of him, and acutely embarrassed by the memory of her illness the night before.

“Good.” He turned abruptly to resume his supervision of the docking of his ship. Instead of being irritated by his brusqueness, Jacqueline was relieved his attention was no longer on her.

Sidney escorted her to a place by the railing where she could watch them dock and not be in the way. Once the ship was secured, a heavy plank was lowered to bridge the gap between the deck and this unknown place called England. It was then that Armand went to her.

“Come, Mademoiselle,” he said, offering her his arm. “A carriage is waiting below to take you to your new home.”

She looked at him and gravely shook her head. “It is not my home, Monsieur St. James, and it never will be. It is merely a place of refuge, for that is what I have become, have I not? A refugee?” She looked away. “I have deserted my country, which is crimson with the blood of injustice and persecution, for the peace and security of another,” she stated bitterly, her voice heavy with self-contempt.

He stared at her thoughtfully a moment. “If it makes you feel any better, you did not exactly flee,” he pointed out. “As you will recall, I had to practically drag you here against your will. But had I not intervened, Mademoiselle, you would have been executed, and I fail to see how death in France could possibly be preferable to life in England. You are not a deserter, Mademoiselle, you are a survivor, and by the very act of your survival you deal a blow to the new Republic.”

She clenched her fists in frustration. “My survival is worthless, unless it is used to help bring about the end of the tyranny that is destroying France. Only that can give my life meaning. Can you understand that?”

His eyes narrowed and he took a step toward her. “If you think for one moment that I will permit you to involve yourself in counterrevolutionary activities here, you are very much mistaken,” he told her in a warning tone.

Her eyes locked with his. “Forgive me, Monsieur St. James, but I was not aware I required your permission for anything I choose to do while I am here. Once you deliver me to Sir Edward I am no longer your responsibility, is that not so?” she demanded coldly.

He stared at her a moment, weighing the powerful sense of purpose that flashed in those silvery-gray eyes. She was right of course. Once he turned her over to Sir Edward, she was no longer any concern of his. She was just another rescued aristocrat. She owed him her life, but it was not his custom to demand payment of any kind from those whose lives he had saved. Nor was it usual for him to set parameters on the activities of his clients once they were safe in England and no longer under his protection. All he asked was that they not reveal his identity as their rescuer to anyone, ever. As long as they fulfilled that simple request, they could go about their new lives in England as they pleased. If they chose to assist the counterrevolution, that was their affair, not his. Why should this case be any different?

“You are right,” he conceded brusquely. “Once you are with Sir Edward you become his problem, not mine.” And what a relief it will be to be rid of you, he added silently. Once again he offered his arm.

She laid her hand stiffly on his arm and permitted him to escort her off the ship and into the fine black carriage that was waiting for them. The journey to Sir Edward’s home was several hours, and for most of the trip they both remained silent. Armand settled back in his seat and closed his eyes, using the lengthy journey to finally catch up on some much needed sleep. Jacqueline stared out the window at the frozen countryside around her, thinking about the corruption and carnage she had left behind. But after a time she put those thoughts of death and injustice aside, and began to contemplate the reunion that lay ahead. She wondered if her sisters had changed during the five months since she had seen them. Monsieur St. James had told her Séraphine had not spoken since the news of her father’s death. Perhaps the sight of Jacqueline would change that. Nervous excitement began to flow through her veins, filling her with a pleasant sensation of eager anticipation she had not experienced in many, many months.

“Do you know that is the first time I have seen you smile?”

Startled, she turned her gaze to him, and realized he did not sleep, but appeared to have been studying her for some time. “I was thinking of my sisters,” she rushed out defensively, making it sound as if the act of smiling was a weakness on her part.

“It is no sin to smile, Mademoiselle,” he remarked, his tone faintly teasing. “I have been known to do it on occasion myself.”

Disconcerted, she turned her attention back to the window, even though it was now dark and she could see nothing.

“There is something I must ask of you, Mademoiselle.”

“What is it?” she asked, still keeping her attention fixed on the blackness that stretched out forever beyond the windowpane.

He leaned forward in his seat, closing the distance between them, demanding her full attention. She shifted uneasily, feeling trapped by his proximity, by the strength and power he exuded even when he was simply sitting. She inhaled the scent of him, clean and masculine and vaguely spicy, and quite unlike the scent of any other man she had known. The memory of François-Louis flashed into her mind, and she was shocked by the realization that except for a brief moment of searching for him in the courtroom, the thought of her betrothed had not once crossed her mind during these past four days. Since she had not expected him to risk his life by coming to her defense at her trial, and it never occurred to her anyone would try the almost impossible feat of rescuing her, perhaps that was not so surprising. Their match was, after all, an arrangement worked out between her father and François-Louis, and neither really knew the other well enough to harbor any feelings of love. But thinking back to those occasions they had spent time together, and even stolen a few forbidden kisses, Jacqueline could recall the cloying scent of sweet perfume that pervaded everything about him, from his heavily powdered wig to the lacy handkerchief he kept tucked among the extravagant ruffles of his shirtsleeves. Not that the use of heavy scents by aristocratic gentlemen was in the least unusual in France. But Monsieur St. James did not smell like any gentleman Jacqueline had ever known. Stripped of his wigs and cosmetics and filthy disguises, he had a clean, crisp scent she found eminently preferable to the expensive perfumes the nobility of France regularly doused themselves with.

“I must ask you not to disclose that it was I who rescued you from the Conciergerie,” stated Armand seriously. “As far as Sir Edward and his family are concerned, I merely used my connections to get you to the coast, where I picked you up to take you safely to England. They know nothing of my activities within France, and it is essential that those details remain secret. Do you understand?” he demanded.

“But why?” asked Jacqueline in confusion. “Sir Edward was a friend of my father’s. He is as much against this revolution as I am. And England is at war with France. Why must your work be kept a secret here?”

“Because, Mademoiselle, there are spies everywhere,” he explained. “If the revolutionary government learned it was I who was secreting condemned and suspected aristocrats out of France, they would watch my movements closely and focus their efforts on trapping me. As soon as I was caught I would be executed. But as long as no one knows of my work, my actions are not watched and I can continue to cross the channel freely,” he explained.

“How often do you go to France?” asked Jacqueline curiously.

He shifted back against his seat. “Often enough.”

Jacqueline felt excitement rising within her. “When will you be going again?”

He regarded her suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

Jacqueline hesitated. If she blurted out that she wanted to cross the channel with him the next time he went on one of his assignments, he would certainly say no. But if she could find out when he was going, she might be able to board his ship without his knowledge, and return to France secretly. It was a possibility that merited some consideration, but in the meantime she must be careful not to arouse any suspicion.

“No reason,” she told him nonchalantly. “I was simply curious about how often you had to risk your life to earn your living.” She idly ran her hand over the plush crimson velvet covering the seat. “If your ship and this carriage are any indication, you obviously have to risk it often enough to support a rather expensive style of living.”

“Your concern for my welfare is truly touching,” he remarked dryly. “But since your lying still needs practice, let me make something absolutely clear. Nothing you do or say could ever persuade me to take you back to France to have your vengeance on Nicolas Bourdon. You would never get out of there alive, and if you were captured they would not hesitate to use every painful, degrading means at their disposal to force from your lips the identity of the man who helped you escape in the first place. Therefore, Mademoiselle, you would not only be risking your own life, on which you obviously place little value, but also my own, and if I am to die, I would prefer that it be over a risk I have decided to take.” He reached out and wrapped his hand firmly around her neck, pulling her closer and forcing her to meet his gaze. “Listen well, Jacqueline,” he said softly. “You must abandon these fantasies of going back and concentrate on the new life you must build for yourself here. For I promise you, whether I have the authority or not, I will never permit you to return to France. Do you understand?” he demanded harshly.