Surrender to a Stranger (37 page)

Jacqueline looked at Laura as if she had lost her mind. “He said he thought of me?” she repeated stupidly.

“Yes!” shrieked Laura again, piercing Jacqueline’s ears with the high-pitched sound. “Come downstairs and hear it for yourself!”

Jacqueline needed no further encouragement. Now fully awake and shaking with excitement, she bolted from the bed and practically flew along the corridor and down the stairs ahead of Laura, her black wool skirts flapping and bobbing behind her, without shoes, her hair almost totally free from the pins that had been holding it earlier that day, tumbling down onto her shoulders in a tangle of disarray. Armand was back. It was too wonderful to be believed, but there it was. He was alive, he was safe, and he was back. And he had come to her. She raced down the hallway that led to the library, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps, desperate to see him, to touch him, to hear the warm, deep, velvety sound of his voice. She threw the door to the library open with a bang and burst into the room, panting from the exertion and her excitement, her eyes hungry for the sight of the man who stood with his back to her beside Sir Edward, politely laughing over some pleasant joke.

Icy-cold disappointment washed over her in a giant, suffocating wave, robbing her of the ability to speak. She stared blankly at the figure who stood before her, resplendent in a turquoise velvet frock coat shimmering with elaborate silver embroidery, with splendid lace cuffs blooming out from the sleeves, breeches of the snowiest satin over white stockings, and delicate black shoes with diamond buckles, his head capped with a magnificent silvery white wig, his slender hand idly holding a crystal glass half-filled with brandy. The Marquis de Biret turned slowly to face her. Using every shred of the self-discipline that had been instilled into her since she was a child, she bit down on her trembling lip and managed to meet his gaze calmly, instead of screaming
Where is Armand? Why is he not with you?
at the top of her lungs.

François-Louis stared at her. For the briefest of moments he looked stunned, as if she was not at all what he had expected. His eyes swept over her critically, and Jacqueline realized he was taking in her short, tangled hair, her wrinkled black gown, her pale, drawn skin, and puffy, red-rimmed eyes. A far cry from the sight she had been when he had last seen her, she recalled bitterly, over six months ago now, shortly before her father went to trial. She had received him in the garden at the Château de Lambert, dressed in a gown of fern green and pale yellow stripes, with an elegant matching ruched silk bonnet to protect her head from the sun as she worked clipping roses to fill an enormous basket. They had already decided to postpone their marriage until her father was released, but François-Louis had come to inform her that he was going to be extremely busy over the next few months and would not be able to see her as much as he would like. Jacqueline had understood, in fact not really minded, for she was far too preoccupied with her father’s welfare and the running of the Château de Lambert. After her father was executed François-Louis had not come rushing to her side as he should have, but instead had sent her a note, scented and beautifully scripted, filled with words of sorrow for her loss, encouraging her to be strong, and apologizing for his inability to be with her due to a troublesome illness that necessitated that he remain in bed.

“Jacqueline, mon amour,”
he murmured, sweeping into a low bow before her and pressing her hand to his lips. He raised his eyes to hers, which were not deep blue at all, but a pale, watery blue, and frowned with apparent concern.
“Etes-vous malade?”
he demanded, asking if she was ill.

“Non,”
replied Jacqueline, desperately trying to control the maelstrom of emotions that were surging through her. Calm yourself, she told herself slowly. He may have decided they should travel separately. He might be on his way to her at this very moment. Anything was possible.

“I am relieved to hear it,” François-Louis returned in heavily accented English. “Sir Edward and Lady Harrington have been telling me that you are faring well, except for your concern for my welfare these past few weeks. I hope now that I am here, all your concerns may be put to rest.” He gave her a satisfied smile, evidently confident that the mere fact of his presence was enough to make her world right again.

“I am pleased to see that you are safe,” returned Jacqueline honestly in English.
But where is Armand?

“Well now,” boomed Sir Edward, “let us all sit down while the marquis continues his story of how he managed to escape those murdering revolutionaries. Jacklyn, you sit over there,” he instructed, pointing to a low chair next to Lady Harrington.

François-Louis positioned himself in front of the fireplace and leaned casually against the mantel, totally at ease before his small, attentive audience. “As you all know, I was arrested shortly after Jacqueline escaped, and falsely charged with conspiracy. I was imprisoned at the Luxembourg. It was, of course, horrendous beyond imagination, to be stripped of my rights and held against my will, but I was comforted by the knowledge that Jacqueline and her sisters were safe. I knew it was simply a matter of time before they called me before the Tribunal and sentenced me to death, but I had made peace with God and with myself, and was resigned to my fate.” He paused to take a sip of his drink.

“How brave you were,” sighed Laura, entranced.

Jacqueline turned her head to see Laura perched like a little yellow bird on the edge of her seat, gazing adoringly at François-Louis. She is attracted to him, she thought to herself, with more amazement than irritation.

The marquis gifted Laura with an indulgent smile. “It was the middle of the night,” he continued in a low, hushed voice. “I was lying on my bed, or rather the small, hard frame that passes for a bed in prison, when I became aware of a dark figure prowling about in my room. I immediately sat up and demanded to know who the devil he was and what was he doing, skulking about in the middle of the night. I thought perhaps he was one of the guards, looking to see what he could steal from the prisoners while they slept. Such thievery is common in prison, but I was not about to let it happen to me or any of my fellow prisoners.

“Well, although the fellow is dressed in a guard’s uniform, he is not someone that I have ever seen in the prison before. He looks a bit shocked when he realizes I am awake, but then regains his composure and asks if I know which of the prisoners is the Marquis de Biret. ‘I am he,’ I told him without hesitation. ‘What is it you want of me?’”

Jacqueline thought it strange that Armand would be so careless as to ask a prisoner to identify the man he was looking for, but she said nothing.

“‘I am here to rescue you, Monsieur le Marquis,’ the man replies gravely,” continued François-Louis. “‘Are you indeed?’ I asked, more than a little amused. ‘And just how do you propose to do that, good citizen?’ ‘The guards are drugged,’ the fellow assures me. ‘Dress yourself in this uniform and we will simply walk out of here.’”

“As easy as that?” gasped Laura.

François-Louis smiled at her. “That is what the poor fellow thought, anyway. In truth, it was not such a bad plan, if not for one major flaw.” He paused again and thoughtfully swirled the amber liquid in his glass around and around, teasing his audience, holding their attention taut.

Jacqueline bit down hard on her lip and resisted the urge to beg him to continue, which she knew was exactly what he wanted. It was all a game to him, she realized bitterly. He was talking about a man’s life, about events that could shed light on what had happened to Armand, but to the Marquis de Biret, who was standing safe and sound in a warm English library sipping brandy before the fire, it was simply a performance, an interesting story he would tell again and again before he had exhausted its entertainment value in the privileged circles of English society.

“Come now, man, do not leave us hanging, what was the flaw?” demanded Sir Edward jovially.

“I am afraid not quite all the guards were drugged,” replied François-Louis. “We made it out of my cell and through the corridors of the prison, but when we stepped outside there were a half-dozen armed guards waiting there to greet us.”

“Oh my,” breathed Laura with a mixture of excitement and horror. “Whatever did you do then?”

“We had to fight them,” François-Louis told her casually, as if such activities were a normal part of his everyday life. “I myself managed to incapacitate four of them, and was working on a fifth when I noticed that my accomplice was not faring nearly so well.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Jacqueline sharply.

François-Louis peered at her over the crystal rim of his glass. “I mean he was being badly beaten,” he clarified.

Jacqueline paled.

“De Biret, perhaps such details are not entirely appropriate in the company of ladies,” suggested Sir Edward.

“My apologies,” returned François-Louis with a small bow to Jacqueline. “I forget that I am no longer in France, where violence and bloodshed is a part of everyday life, even for ladies.”

Jacqueline returned his apology with an icy stare. No one needed to tell her what life in France was like. Dear God, why had she ever asked Armand to go there?

“Naturally I went to the man’s assistance, and succeeded in making the odds a bit more even, at which point he was able to break free and we both started to run,” continued François-Louis. “We actually put some distance between ourselves and the guards, but the Luxembourg grounds are extensive and there was little to offer us cover. The guards began to fire upon us. I was fortunate enough to escape being hit, but my accomplice was not so lucky.”

Jacqueline bit down viciously on her lip to keep from crying out. The warm, metallic taste of blood seeped onto her tongue.

“Of course I stopped and tried to help him up, but his injury was in the leg, and severe enough that he was no longer able to run. ‘Go on without me,’ he pleaded, ‘that at least one of us might live.’ And so, although it went against the most basic code of honor by which I have always led my life, I made the decision that it was better for me to live and see that his life was not wasted for naught. ‘God be with you, friend,’ I said. And then I ran, as hard and as fast as I could, until I was sure the devil himself could not have kept up with me had he wanted to. And then—”

“You left him there?” interrupted Jacqueline suddenly in French, unable to control herself any longer. It could not be true. He was mistaken. “You left him injured and bleeding in the snow, for the National Guard to arrest?”

“There was nothing I could do for him,” returned François-Louis flatly, speaking to her in French. “I thought it best that at least one of us get away.”

“You could have tried to help him,” insisted Jacqueline, her voice beginning to shake with emotion. “You could have helped him up and dragged him with you. You could have fought the guards and tried to secure a weapon. You could have held one of the guards hostage. You could have allowed yourself to be arrested with him and looked for another opportunity to escape—” She was babbling on in French, listing off all the alternatives she would have tried before abandoning the man who had tried to save her life. “You could have done something,
anything,
besides leaving him there—”

“Jacqueline,” interrupted François-Louis firmly, visibly puffing up with indignation, “you speak of things you know nothing about. You yourself tried to take on the National Guard when they went to arrest your brother, and where did it get you? Antoine was still arrested, and you were sentenced to death by the Tribunal—”

“At least I tried to help him,” countered Jacqueline, her voice breaking. “At least I did not simply stand back and let those murderers take him—”

“Jacklyn, my dear, I believe you are overwrought,” broke in Lady Harrington, who had been trying without success to follow their argument. She rose from her chair and went to her. “I think you should come upstairs with me now,” she said gently, holding out her hand. “The marquis is spending the night here. You may see him again tomorrow, when you are feeling better.”

Jacqueline looked up at Lady Harrington through blurred eyes. Numbly she reached out and took her hand, taking comfort from the strength of the older woman’s firm, motherly grip.

“If you will excuse us,” said Lady Harrington as she steered Jacqueline toward the door. “We bid you good night.”

Jacqueline did not turn, could not bring herself even to look at François-Louis. Blindly she allowed herself to be led out of the room, wishing to the very depths of her soul that she had never asked for the safe return of the Marquis de Biret.

Crying, soft, feminine and persistent, filled the frozen morning stillness of the prison called La Force.

Armand did not try to block it out as he used to when he first arrived. Instead he forced himself to listen, using the pitiful whimpering to intensify his fury as he slowly pushed himself up and down against the frigid stone floor of his cell. The muscles of his arms and chest were rigid and swollen from the effort. He knew they would ache by tonight, but he bit down hard on his teeth and forced himself to do five more, and then five again, enjoying the utter concentration that the task demanded, the single-mindedness of purpose that temporarily relieved him from thinking of anything but pushing his body to its absolute limits. His arms quivered and shook in protest at their treatment, and with a grunt of satisfaction he released them and fell against the floor, breathing heavily, his hot cheek resting against the filthy, cold stones. He turned over onto his back and stretched his arms out above him, then slowly began to lower and raise them in a smooth arc over his chest, flexing his wrists, then bending his elbows, easing away the rigid tension in his muscles, stretching them to minimize the pain he knew he would feel later. After a minute he stood and gave equal attention to stretching out the muscles in his back, his sides, and his legs, rewarding them for the exercises he had put them through these past two hours. He breathed slowly and deeply, wondering at his ability to inhale air that on his arrival had seemed so thick and foul he had thought he would probably choke on it. The realization that he had finally grown accustomed to it revolted him.

His exercises done, he walked over to the wall on the far side of his cell and studied the neat row of pale nicks carved into it. There were twenty-one of them, each one representing another endless day spent in this godforsaken hole. He bent down, picked up a small, sharp stone that lay in the corner, and patiently added another one. He took his time with the task, taking care that the mark he made was even with the others, and wondering absently if he should go back to the beginning and make all the nicks a little deeper so they would be sure to last once he was gone from this place. He ultimately decided against it, feeling it did not matter whether the nicks lasted or not, as long as they were there to help him keep track right now. He knew he had only considered it because the day stretched out emptily in front of him and he wanted something to do, and that realization seemed so grossly pathetic he was infuriated with himself. He heaved the stone against the wall with such force it burst into three small, uneven shards, and he refused to acknowledge his regret at destroying his writing instrument by going over to pick up the pieces. Instead he threw himself down against the hardness of his trestle bed, which was far too short to accommodate his height, and attempted to focus on something other than this place. He closed his eyes and tried to free his mind so pleasant images would appear, but for some reason nothing would come, not even a mental picture of Angélique, and he was filled with a crushing sense of despair.

He wanted a drink badly. It was unlike him to give in to self-pity, but at the moment he felt that if he could just down a bottle or two, things might start to look up. It was ridiculous, of course, it went against everything he had taught himself about survival, but he did not care. He wanted a drink, almost as much as he wanted to see Jacqueline, to hold her in his arms and feel the creamy slim softness of her crushed against him, just once more before they executed him, and that also seemed so pitiful and ridiculous he began to laugh, a harsh, mocking sound that was certain to confuse the guards and his fellow inmates. No doubt they would think he was starting to become unbalanced. He wondered grimly if perhaps he was.

He was going to die. He was quite sure of it, having considered all the possible alternatives. He had no doubt that Sidney and his men had looked for him, but without knowing who he had gone to France to save, the chances of them tracking him down in this prison were minimal. He had been arrested under the identity of Citizen Michel Belanger, so a check of prison records would lend no clue as to where he was incarcerated. In accordance with his instructions, the crew of
The Angélique
would have returned to England after he missed meeting them by a week. He knew Sidney would not leave it at that, that he would desperately try to dig up information on who had been Armand’s target in France. But Armand never made any notes about whom he was going to rescue, so there would be no written clues waiting for Sidney at his home. The only person who could offer any information was Jacqueline, and Sidney would have no reason to think to question her.

He wondered if her precious marquis had arrived in England yet. He probably had, given that Bourdon had agreed to honor his safe passage out of France in exchange for Armand. The papers Armand had provided him with were good. As long as De Biret kept his head there would be no reason for him to be detained while he traveled to the coast. Once he got there, Armand had no doubt that Monsieur le Marquis was resourceful enough to get himself onto a ship to England. The counterrevolutionary network ran deep, and the profits of illicit trade meant there were usually British smuggling ships to be found looming off the coast. For many, the immediate profits of war were far sweeter and certainly more tangible than the bloated ideals the revolutionary government had promised but not managed to deliver.

What kind of welcome would Jacqueline give her long-lost betrothed? he wondered with contempt. Would she run to him and shower him with tears, her beautifully aristocratic face pale and drawn with worry? Unlikely, he decided. Quite frankly, he could not imagine Jacqueline showering anyone with tears. She had never wept in his presence, not when she had been sentenced to death, nor when he had told her of Antoine’s death, nor even when she had stood alone on the deck of
The Angélique
and watched the lights of her beloved France flicker and fade into the darkness. Jacqueline, he sensed, carried far too much pain, and death, and hatred, to let anything make her cry.

But she was nothing if not practical, his Jacqueline. After all, had she not agreed to sleep with him, an untitled, dishonorable merchant of human cargo, simply to see her far more noble betrothed safely delivered to her? And with that same practicality in mind, she had ultimately decided to permit herself to enjoy it. After all, why not? She was only sampling a taste of what De Biret would be giving her every night of her married life, if the man had either the brains or the balls to realize what a brilliantly erotic jewel he had stumbled upon. He clenched his fists in fury at the thought of De Biret laying his hands upon her. It was not right that he should be permitted to do so. The man was a spineless fop who had left her to rot and die in the Conciergerie without so much as paying a visit to see how she was faring. And then, when he was threatened with his own execution, he agreed to a vile, cowardly plan in which the life of the man who sought to save him was traded for his own. His actions filled Armand with loathing. The man was not fit to be in the same room with Jacqueline, never mind touch her and taste her and call her his wife. He shifted restlessly on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Jacqueline would never know the true circumstances of her betrothed’s escape, he reflected bitterly. De Biret would undoubtedly describe it to her as if he had performed some great act of daring and heroism, and she would have no reason not to believe him. She would probably be dismayed that Armand had not returned, perhaps even experience some needling twinge of guilt, but in time she would get over it. The revolution had forced Mademoiselle Jacqueline de Lambert to contend with tragedies and losses far greater than his death. He wondered if she would marry her marquis right away. She probably would. After all, there was no reason to wait.

He let out a bitter sigh and closed his eyes.

She would be forced to wear a gown other than black for the occasion. He smiled. If he were to pick a gown for her, it would be of the iciest gray silk, shot throughout with shimmering strands of silver, to match the sparkling brilliance of her silvery eyes. Her honey-colored hair would be piled high in loose curls, with a few wayward tendrils cascading down the length of her neck, idly grazing the silken skin across her collarbone. If she were his, he would see to it that she had diamonds to wear, for only the rarest and most brilliant of diamonds could lie against her skin and not be dulled by the magnificence of her own beauty. And when they were finally alone, he would slowly remove the pins from her hair until it poured over her shoulders like liquid gold, and then he would reach out and gently take her face in his hands and claim her lips with his, tasting her and touching her and coaxing her until she was clinging to him and pressing against him with all the need and hunger that he knew she held locked within her. He let out a groan of frustration and angrily flung his arm over his eyes, blocking out the image.

A new thought occurred to him. What if, during their one incredible night of lovemaking, they had managed to create a child? It was unlikely, but possible nonetheless. Strangely enough, the thought of leaving behind a child with Jacqueline did not displease him in the least. But the realization that their child would be raised as the son or daughter of the Marquis de Biret filled him with a dark and painful rage. The man was weak, vain, selfish, and cowardly. What the hell kind of father would he make? Not that he himself had been much of a father to Angélique, or husband to Lucette, he reminded himself with disgust. He had loved them more than anything in the world, but that had not stopped him from spending most of his time chasing his own pleasure rather than taking care of them. He had not been able to protect them, had not been there when they needed him most. He had failed them, just as he had failed his mother. And if, by some twisted jest of fate, he had managed to create a child with Jacqueline, he was failing that child, too, by dying and abandoning it to be raised by a lily-livered coward who cared more about his own preservation than the principles by which he lived his life.

Voices were filtering down the corridor, interrupting his thoughts. One was the coarse, guttural sound of his jailer, a nasty, hulking brute by the name of Pinard, who never missed an opportunity to make it clear to his prisoners that he enjoyed his work immensely. The other voice was clipped, tense, and filled with impatient authority. Armand’s lips curved into a smile. Nicolas Bourdon had finally come to pay him another visit. The day was going to have some diversion after all.

The jangling of heavy keys sounded outside his door. He stood up so he could meet his guest on his feet and waited with eager anticipation as the door creaked and then swung open, revealing the filthy Pinard and the immaculately dressed Nicolas Bourdon.

“Inspector Bourdon, it is my pleasure to welcome you once again to my humble quarters,” Armand murmured as he made a small bow. “You will, I hope, forgive the condition of my suite, but the staff here is not overly preoccupied with matters of cleanliness.” He shook his head and sighed dramatically.

“Leave us,” snapped Nicolas to the jailer as he stripped off his heavy leather gloves. He waited until the door had closed before turning his attention to Armand.

“Perhaps you would like to sit,” suggested Armand graciously, indicating a hard wooden chair.

“No,” replied Nicolas, his voice cold and adamant, as if accepting Armand’s invitation to sit would be equivalent to accepting a bribe.

“Then you will not mind if I do?” returned Armand, already pulling out the chair and stretching his long legs in front of him as he seated himself. He lazily folded his arms across his chest and regarded Nicolas with amusement. “Tell me, Inspector Bourdon, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

Nicolas scowled. It was clear he did not think Armand should be so relaxed in his presence. “I thought perhaps you might have tired of your accommodations,” he began, his voice sarcastic and slightly taunting.

“You have come to offer decorating suggestions?” asked Armand pleasantly, as if the idea appealed to him immensely.

Nicolas ignored the remark. “I have been authorized by the Committee of Public Safety to make you an offer which I think you will find most interesting.” He paused, waiting for some expression of curiosity from his audience. Armand eyed him calmly and said nothing.

Nicolas began to slap his gloves rhythmically against his thigh. “If you are ready to confess, we could see about having you moved to a place considerably more comfortable.”

Armand looked at him in confusion. “Confess?” he repeated blankly.

“I could not get you a full pardon, of course,” qualified Nicolas. “The Committee of Public Safety does not take kindly to those who plot against the Republic of France. But I can see to it your life is spared, and that you are sentenced only to serving time. In exchange for saving the Tribunal the costly business of another trial, they have agreed to be lenient. I am willing to suggest to them that you be deported. Of course there would be forced labor involved,” he acknowledged, “but that would not last forever. Perhaps ten years, say fifteen at the very most. I am told the climate in the tropical colonies is actually quite pleasant. I think you would find such an arrangement preferable to the chill of this cell, or the blade of the guillotine.”