Rendezvous (9781301288946) (17 page)

"Good. I may never be able to
straighten again." Flexing his arm muscles, he bestirred himself,
leaning forward to peer out the same window as she did. In doing
so, his shoulder brushed up against hers. She was quick to draw
back. When she had slammed the cabin door between them, she had
attempted to erect an invisible barrier as well, keeping Sinclair
Carrington at arm's length, suppressing all response to his
penetrating eyes and that seductively soothing voice.

If Sinclair noticed her reaction to his
closeness, he made no comment upon it. Instead, he lowered the
window glass to obtain a better look, and then grumbled, "These
streets are crawling with French soldiers."

"Well, we are in France, Mr.
Carrington," she reminded him. But she took another look for
herself and saw that he was right. Caught up in her own memories of
Paris, she had failed to notice one very obvious change.

The Parisians still crowded into the
streets as though they owned them, heedless of being crushed
beneath the wheels of any passing carriage. But few of the citizens
any longer sported the red caps or the tricolor cockade of the
Revolution. What she now saw in abundance were indigo blue
uniforms.

Soldiers swaggered their way along the
Rue St. Honoré, jostling civilians out of their way, cursing,
laughing, some even singing at the top of their lungs.

"More signs of Bonaparte's influence,"
Belle said.

"It gives a fellow a damned uneasy
feeling. The last time I saw that much blue it was facing me from
the opposite end of the battlefield."

Despite her determination to keep her
distance from Sinclair, his words intrigued her. So he had once
been in the army, most likely the British.

Before she could pursue the matter
further, the carriage drew to a halt before the faded brick
building that housed Baptiste Renault's fan shop. Without waiting
for the post-boy to come round, Sinclair opened the door himself
and leaped to the ground. A disgruntled look crossed his face as
his glossy Hessians sank up to the ankle in mud.

"Welcome to Paris, Mr. Carrington," she
said dryly.

Grimacing, he turned to help her down.
Instead of offering her his hand, he caught her about the waist and
swung her clear of the coach, depositing her upon some planking
that had been placed to bridge the distance from street to shop.
Momentarily she was aware of the tensile strength in Sinclair's
arms and other sensations caused by her breasts grazing against the
hard wall of his chest, sensations she was quick to
deny.

When their coachman whipped up the
horses, moving off to seek out the stables, she glanced back the
way they had come. "I don't see any sign of the other carriage with
Paulette and Lazare."

"I am sure they will catch up with us.
No fear of us managing to lose Lazare—" Sinclair broke off, giving
vent to a startled oath.

Belle gasped as she saw it, too—the
roan horse bearing down upon them in a blur of hard-pounding hooves
and galloping legs. Paris boasted no such luxury as sidewalks. She
and Sinclair had no choice but to dive to one side, slamming up
hard against the brick wall of the shop.

The rider flashed past, missing them by
inches, pelting them with spatters of mud churned from beneath the
flying hooves.

"Damned idiot!" Sinclair straightened,
staring in disgust at his sleeve, which now matched his boots. "Are
you all right, Angel?"

Belle took a minute to catch her breath
before nodding.

"Then let's get inside," Sinclair said,
"before we are killed just trying to alight from our
coach."

They had mounted the first step to the
shop and Sinclair was reaching for the door when they heard the now
distant rider's bellow. "Give way. Clear a path for the citoyen
consul."

Belle arrested her movement in
mid-step, her gaze flying up to meet Sinclair's. He looked as
uncertain as she, caught between anticipation and disbelief. There
was more than one man in France who held the title consul. It would
be the most incredible piece of luck if she were about to obtain
her first glimpse of—

"Bonaparte! Bonaparte!" The cry rose up
from the crowded street behind her. Whirling about, Belle saw a
troop of four mounted horsemen forging a path through the throng of
carts, pedestrians, and donkeys. The first three—two wearing a
profusion of gold braid on their military jackets, the third garbed
in the more colorful attire of the Mamluke—acted as a vanguard for
the fourth rider mounted atop a snow-white stallion.

It was this rider that the children ran
alongside and cheered, while humble working women and ladies alike
frantically waved their handkerchiefs, and the shouts of the men
grew more frenzied.

"
Vive Napoleon! Vive la République
."

Belle caught hold of the wrought-iron
railing along the steps, bracing herself for her first view of the
man she had come so far to abduct, that Monster from Corsica, as
her countrymen termed First Consul Napoleon Bonaparte.

Her initial reaction was one of
disappointment. Garbed in a plain gray greatcoat, he seemed of
insignificant stature with a poor seat as well. He rode his horse
like a sack of grain, leaning slightly forward to maintain his
balance. When he trotted farther up the Rue St. Honoré, only yards
separated her from his prancing mount. Situated as she was, partway
up the stairs, she obtained a clear but brief view of the profile
set beneath the black beaver cockade. Pale as marble, Bonaparte's
features held the fierce majesty of an eagle. When he turned
slightly to acknowledge the greetings of the crowd, she saw that
his eyes burned like live coals. As his mount surged past, she was
left with an impression of boundless energy and an arrogant
self-assurance.

No mean adversary would this Napoleon
Bonaparte be, she surmised. But rather than being dismayed at the
thought, it sent a tingle through her blood at the prospect of the
dangerous challenge before her. She felt somehow stronger, more in
control of herself than she had since experiencing the shock of
Jean-Claude's intrusion back into her life.

Even after the cheering had died away,
she still quivered with excitement as she turned to face Sinclair.
She felt unreasonably delighted to sense he felt it, too. As
Sinclair stared after Bonaparte's retreating figure, there was a
spark in his green eyes, even though when he glanced down at Belle,
he ruefully shook his head.

"We both have to be quite mad," he said
in low tones. "The people in this city acclaim that man like a
demigod. If we are caught trying to—"

"We won't be caught, Sinclair," she
whispered back, clutching at his arm. "He can't always be parading
in their midst, surrounded by his entourage."

Sinclair merely raised his brows before
offering her a strangely wistful smile. "At least I can thank
Monsieur Bonaparte for one thing. He appears to have jogged your
memory. You finally have recalled my name. Ever since we left that
blasted ship, you have Mr. Carringtoned me nigh to
death."

His half-teasing, half-serious
complaint doused some of her excitement. She slowly withdrew her
hand from his arm, remembering her vow to keep a wall between them.
But at the moment she could not seem to lay her hands upon so much
as a single brick. She experienced an uncomfortable vision of her
recent behavior from Sinclair's point of view.

"Have I truly been that much of a
shrew?" she asked.

"Not shrewish, merely distant, as
though you had retreated to another world.”

"I am sorry. I don't usually inflict my
partners with such—such womanish moods." She had to swallow a large
measure of pride before she could continue. "I fear I have always
been something of a fool over Jean-Claude Varens, but I assure you
I have recovered myself. You won't be treated to any more such
scenes as took place in the cabin."

"Good God, Angel. You don't have to
apologize to me for having bad dreams." His eyes held that
expression of warm understanding, his smile soft. "I have never
been one for the stiff-upper-lip attitude. When you are around me
and something hurts you, feel free to go ahead and
swear."

She felt herself returning his smile
and half-reached out to take his hand.

"And you don't have to be afraid to
touch me, either," he added.

"Yes, I do. Your touch seems to have an
unaccountable effect on me."

"A bad one?"

"No, merely one I'm not prepared to
deal with," she admitted frankly. "I am taking enough risks on this
mission without hazarding anymore."

She tried to meet his gaze levelly, but
looking into Sinclair's eyes could be as dangerous as touching him.
She was quick to turn the subject.

"We should hardly stand here on the
steps all day. They are accustomed to more curious sights here in
Paris, but I fear eventually people will begin to stare. Come
inside and meet Baptiste Renault, my one true friend in
Paris."

Sinclair sketched an elaborate bow and
opened the door for her, motioning her forward. As she passed
beneath the portal, he gazed down at the top of her head, the soft
blond curls haloing her perfect features. He felt as though he and
Belle had at last reached some sort of an understanding, but the
final line was the same. She had rejected him again.

He was not so conceited as
to believe that every woman would fall at his feet. He had met with
his share of rebuffs, but they had never mattered. He had simply
moved on to find a more interested
partie
.

He could not possibly be yearning for a
woman he had heard cry out in her sleep for another man, a woman
who might be the very spy he had been sent to betray. He could not
be that big of a fool, could he? Sinclair refused to answer that
question, refused to examine his own feelings any further. Like
Belle, there were some risks he was not prepared to
take.

Realizing that while he had been
consumed with such troubling thoughts Belle had already vanished
into the shop, he followed her inside, closing the door behind
him.

The interior would have been dark, the
towering houses across the narrow street cutting off much of the
sunlight, had it not been for the glow of dozens of candles.
Looking about him, Sinclair realized he had stepped into a sort of
workshop, the smell of glue and parchment heavy in the air. Four
rough-hewn tables were covered with fans in varying stages of
completion, some of the parchment newly stretched out on half
circle hoops while others lay complete, spread out to
dry.

Sinclair had never paid much heed to
ladies' fripperies before. But he knew enough to recognize
first-rate craftsmanship. Handles of wood, ivory, or
mother-of-pearl were carved with an intricate delicacy. The
classical scenes depicted upon the leaves of silk were miniature
works of art.

The workroom was a hive of quiet
activity. Several women were painting fans with fairylike strokes;
a young man was busy with the stretching, while an older man deftly
wielded a shaving iron upon a piece of tortoiseshell.

When Sinclair and Belle entered, the
work abruptly ceased, curious eyes turning in their direction.
Sinclair waited to take his cue from Belle, but she was silent, her
attention focused on the older man.

This individual got slowly to his feet,
and Sinclair was startled to see how short he was, a regular gnome,
scarce coming up to Belle's shoulder. The craftsman's features even
seemed elflike, the bulbous nose too large for his florid face, the
chin pointed, the salt and pepper hair straggling over his
forehead.

He regarded Belle calmly through eyes
of chocolate brown possessing the twinkle of youth, although the
pockets of lined flesh beneath them spoke more of the wisdom of
age.

"
Bonjour
, madame, monsieur," he said.
"And how may I serve you? I usually do not require beautiful ladies
to come into my workshop. I would be happy to display my wares in
the convenience of your home."

"No. I have not come about a fan."
Belle's voice sounded odd to Sinclair, strangely suppressed. He
noticed a gleam in her eye as she continued, "We are Monsieur and
Madame Carrington. We have come about the apartment to let above
stairs."

"But of course." The gnome
bowed, rubbing his hands together. "Please to come this way." He
motioned Belle and Sinclair toward a doorway at the side of the
shop. Pausing only long enough to glance back at his workers and
command, "Back to work,
mes
amis
.
Vite,
vite!
" He slipped through the door, moving
with a light spring to his step.

Sinclair allowed Belle to precede him,
concealing a slight frown. This was not precisely what he had been
expecting, but Belle appeared unperturbed. Doubtless her friend
Baptiste awaited them upstairs.

The little man led them into a small
foyer, from which a narrow flight of stairs yawned upward, The
gnome spoke in a loud voice, clearly meant to carry back to the
workroom. "I am sure you will find the apartment most satisfactory,
Madame Carrington. It belongs to a charming actress, Mademoiselle
Fontaine, and her lover, but she likes to have the lodgings sublet
when she is touring in the provinces."