Marrying the Musketeer (45 page)

After a miraculous recovery, Jean-Paul goes in search of the scoundrel who took everything he had. But when he finds her, and discovers her secret, his battle for vengeance becomes a passionate fight for love...

Chapter 1

The air was fetid with the stench of the open sewers that ran through the narrow streets, and only the barest hint of moonlight broke through the thick clouds that lay heavily over the sky, reaching down with foggy tendrils to drift over the very rooftops of the houses that lined the way on each side of the roughly cobbled road.

Miriame stepped carefully on the raised middle of the road, avoiding the edges where the muck thrown from the overhanging second and third stories of the houses pooled into a reeking mass of filthy mud.
 
It had rained early that evening, washing down the raised cobbles, but making them slippery and treacherous.
 
One false step and she would find herself up to her ankles in slime.
 
She had no boots – they had finally fallen apart the week before so badly that no mending was possible – and her feet were wrapped only in rags.
 
That was, indeed, the reason for her mission tonight.
 
She needed boots for the coming winter or her heels would crack until they festered, and her wicked, red chilblains would return with a vengeance at the first hint of snow on the streets, itching her to the point of madness.
 

She’d seen it happen time and time again for those poor souls who lived on the street and were too clumsy or too foolish to steal themselves a pair of boots.
 
Their toes festered in the cold, turning black and ill smelling, until the poison from the evil humors in their feet made them sick and they died.
 

She wasn’t going to let that happen to her.
 
If she didn’t have boots, she’d be stuck inside all winter long.
 
If she didn’t have boots, she’d have no way to make a living during the dark days of winter.
 
Then she’d die anyway.
 
Starvation would kill her just as swiftly and surely as blackened, rotten feet would.

By whatever means possible, she had to have those boots and she wanted them tonight.
 
Judging by the chill in the air, winter was well on its way.
 
She did not want to be caught unprepared by an early snow.
 

She trudged on through the night.
 
The streets were starting to get wider now and the cobbling less rough, though the cobblestones were not noticeably cleaner.
 
She was invading the areas where the wealthy merchants and the gentry lived.
 
The pickings were richer here, though the danger was greater as well.
 
Wealthy folk didn’t like to share what they had with those who needed it.
 
Even less did they like to have a tiny portion of their wealth stolen from them, though what was a mite of luxury to them might well mean the difference between life and death to her.

As far as she was concerned, wealthy folk could spare her a little out of their excess.
 
If they would not give it to her, she would steal it without compunction.
 
She would rather steal from those would could well afford it than take bread from the mouths of those who were just as poor and hungry as she was.
 
She would not steal from beggars.
 
That was as much morality as she could afford.

She drew her cloak around her with a bravado she did not feel.
 
She stuck out in this area of town as she never did in her own shabby quarter.
 
Here, people didn’t wrap their feet in rags for the want of a pair of boots, or wear filthy breeches and coarse woolen shirts that would fall to pieces if they were ever washed.
 
No, the men dressed in fine buckskin breeches and fine white linen shirts and wore powdered, curled wigs on their heads.
 
Their fingers were loaded down with glittering jewels, and, best of all, no doubt their boots had been made specially for their feet.
 
The jewels she would rather have than not, but it was their boots she lusted after with all her heart and soul.
 
Their soft, leather boots - how she envied them their boots...

If the men were dressed finely, the women were dressed even finer, she thought, as a couple of ladies minced past her on their way to their coach.
 
The jewels that just one of them was wearing round her neck would have bought her a dozen pair of boots with enough left over for a hearty feed at the alehouse to boot, even after Conard the fence had taken his cut, greedy, grasping old rascal that he was.

There was no point hankering after those particular jewels though.
 
The ladies were well-guarded by a couple of stout footmen with cudgels.
 
She eyed them up with a careful look.
 
They looked more liked hired bullies than footmen, with their small heads set on huge necks, their thick shoulders and their beefy hands.
 
She knew their type – faster than they looked and merciless as the Devil himself if they ever laid ahold of you.
 
Little hope there of doing a quick snatch and an even quicker scarper down the road and into a dark alley where they wouldn’t find her.

Still, the jewels looked like they would fetch a fair price.
 
She hadn’t seen anything as fine for a long while.
 
Conard the fence, miserly skinflint that he was, would pay her well for such quality.
 
Maybe if she distracted the attention of the footmen somehow, she might stand a chance...

A cuff about the ears brought her to her senses again.
 
A third footman had come up behind her and caught her eyeing up the jewels with desire oozing out of every pore in her body.
 
“Get out of here, you verminous little rat,” he growled at her, swinging the cudgel at her again.
 
“Don’t so much as even think about trying it on, or you’ll be swinging from the end of a rope faster than you can blink.”

Her head still singing from the first blow, she made sure to duck as quick as a wink so his cudgel hit only empty air this time around.
 
The footman swore at her as she scampered off down the street.

She tossed a few choice epithets back at him as she rounded the corner and slowed down to a walk again.
 
The night was still young and well-dressed women were not that uncommon.
 
She would find her boots sooner or later.
 
No bastard son of a stinking two sou whore would stop her from getting her feet done up warm and watertight for the winter.

She wandered around for a while, meeting with nothing promising.
 
A fine, young gentleman with a lace cravat and well-polished boots stumbled by her, his breath stinking of ale.
 
“Fine night, ain’t it.
 
Jes’ fine,” he slurred at her, waving his hand in her direction.
 
She picked his pocket as he passed with a practiced hand, but his wallet was suspiciously light and gave out nary a jingle, even when she gave it a circumspect shake.

She scuttled round the corner to inspect her booty, and muttered under her breath in disgust.
 
He must have drunk or gambled away all his money already.
 
His wallet held nothing but a couple of pewter buttons.
 
Damn, how she hated to risk her neck for so little.
 

She didn’t mind risking her neck for a decent reward.
 
She was not overly afeared of being hanged on the gallows tree till she was dead – after all, death must come to us all.
 
Do what she will, she would meet the grim reaper sooner or later.
 
She would gladly risk her life for a handful of gold coins, or a pair of stout boots, or even for a hot meal that would fill up her hollow insides with a warm, full feeling for a few delicious hours.
 
She risked her life every day, just so that she could survive.

She put her whole fist inside the empty purse just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything the first time she’d looked in it, but no matter how hard she looked, it was still empty.
 
She gave a disappointed sigh and let her shoulders slump in defeat for the barest moment.
 

Just surviving seemed to get harder and harder each day.
 
She would risk her life a thousand times over for the chance to get out of the stews of Paris - to have her own room in a house that didn’t leak, sharing it with people who didn’t stink of despair and cheap wine, and to have a decent meal once a day without having to steal it.
 
But to risk her life for a pair of tarnished pewter buttons not even worth the price of a mouthful of bread?
 
That was truly absurd.

However absurd it was, she still had to get her boots.
 
She would not let a little piece of bad luck upset her.
 
She threw the purse on to the ground in disgust and spat on it for good measure.
 
She hoped the young fool she’d stolen it from died of the pox.
 
To have such wealth and to let it fall from his fingers so easily?
 
He didn’t deserve any better fate.

The theatres were emptying now and the streets were busy for a time.
 
Trade was poor when the streets were busy.
 
Too many eyes were around to catch her.
 
The chance of getting noticed in her thefts was greater, and getting away again could be a problem when there were too many people around.
 
In her rags, she couldn’t blend in with the crowds here – she would have to rely on her speed to escape.
 

She didn’t know this part of Paris as well as she should if she was going to make it her more permanent hunting ground.
 
She’d have to come here in the daytime and scout it out better – find out which alleys were blind and which walls she could scale to get away from pursuers, which roofs were easy to climb and which would lead her into a sudden precipitous drop just at the wrong moment.
 

Even better, if she could once make a lucky hit, she would invest in a nice suit of clothes so, guilty or not, she didn’t have to run for it every time someone missed his wallet.
 

She wandered around for some time, checking out the terrain, until the streets started to empty out.
 
A good time to be making her hit.

She took up her position in a niche on a stone wall that kept her sheltered from the bitter night breezes and waited for suitable prey to wander by.
 
No one would notice her there, or give her any trouble.
 
If she stayed there long enough, like a spindly, long-legged spider, some fat fly would blunder into her web sooner or later.

Her muscles were starting to grow stiff from the cold when she heard the hoof beats of a lone rider coming through the street, the horse’s iron shoes clattering on the cobblestones.
 
Damn it all.
 
She could hardly rob a man on horseback.

Then her ears pricked up.
 
The rider was being followed, she was sure of it, though she doubted that he could tell over the noise he was making.
 
Five or six men, she would say at a guess, with soft shoes on, so they could follow after him without being noticed.

The rider went passed her, and sure enough, close by after him came a group of six men, slithering by in the shadows, their breath misting the chill night air.
 
She shrank back into her niche in the stone wall as they went by.
 
They didn’t see her.

On quiet feet she followed after them, thankful for the rags that made no sound as she walked.
 
The man on horseback must be carrying great wealth if he was worth six stout ruffians to take him down.
 
With any luck, there would be a few crumbs left over for her to pick up when they had done.

She crept along behind them through the dark streets.
 
The man they were following stopped a couple of times at a crossroads, turning his horse’s head first one way and then the other before deciding on a direction to take.
 
He evidently didn’t know exactly where to go.

Miriame smiled to herself in the darkness as the man on horseback passed through the wealthy streets of the town and began to skirt around the edges of the slums that she called her home.
 
She couldn’t imagine that he had any business there, alone and in the dead of night.
 
He must be lost.

More fool him not to stop at a respectable inn and wait for day to break before he carried on his way.
 
Strangers to Paris were the easiest game of all.