The Bride Wore Scarlet (13 page)

Alone with his fevered dreams of Anaïs de Rohan.

T
he Église St-Nicholas was a beautiful old church, tucked into a nook between the Rues au Beurre just below the Grand Place, on the edge of Brussels's more crowded, less upper-class neighborhoods. Further from the heart of royal Brussels than some, St. Nicholas was an interesting choice of churches, Anaïs considered as she roamed beneath its vaulted roofs.

But for some reason, Madame Moreau preferred it.

Perhaps it had something to do with the church's simplicity. The soothing colors and restrained giltwork. Even here, however, in this place of quiet, the signs of the city's political turmoil were apparent. The church had been repeatedly bombed and burned over the centuries, and in the Chapel of the Holy Virgin, a passing churchwarden told her, there was a French cannonball still lodged in one of the pillars.

Anaïs thanked him, but did not investigate, preferring instead to wait near the entrance and the row of confessionals through which the congregants were intermittently rotating. Instead, she lit a candle for Nonna Sofia, then took a moment to say a prayer.

Though she had been baptized in her mother's Anglican church, Anaïs had been steeped in Catholicism from an early age. As a child, she had often accompanied her grandmother and Maria to Mass at St. Mary's, for her parents had been liberal in such matters. In Tuscany, there had been no other church
to
attend. Anaïs found the religions . . . well, not interchangeable, precisely.
Complementary
, perhaps, was the word—and far more alike than some would make out.

So she settled into the Église St-Nicholas with the ease of visiting an old friend. A quarter hour later, a small, round lady with blond hair came in from the narthex carrying a market basket threaded with a bright green ribbon. The unusual basket was just as Petit had described.

Putting it down by the door, the lady pulled a scarf more fully over her hair, then went directly to one of the open confessionals. Anaïs followed, stepping up into the one adjacent.

“Bless me, Father for I have sinned,” she said in French, her lips near the wooden screen. “I am Anglican. Will you hear my confession?”

The priest hesitated but an instant. “Of course, my child,” he said, his voice soft. “If you aspire to a state of grace with Our Lord then you may seek the sacrament of reconciliation here.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It has been four months since my last confession. These are my sins. I have lied once to my father and my mother. I have several times used unladylike language. And I have had impure thoughts about a man to whom I am not married—actually, it was . . . well, a little more than just a thought.”

“Ah,” said the priest. “That last one—do you mean to marry him?”

“No, Father.” Anaïs fleetingly squeezed her eyes shut. “There is . . . someone else.”

“You are married to another?” His tone sharpened. “Promised to another?”

“No, neither, Father,” she managed. “I . . . I am just waiting for the right one.”

“Then you must try to be more patient, my child,” the priest gently chided.

“I am sure you are right, Father,” she said. “I am sorry for these sins, and all the other sins I may have forgotten.”

“Very well,” said the priest. “I will not give you penance. You must instead take these things into your heart to be pondered most gravely, and pray for patience in—well, in that last matter.”

“Yes, Father.”

Swiftly, Anaïs said her usual cobbled-together prayer of contrition. She could see out of one corner of her eye that Charlotte Moreau had stepped down from the confessional and was heading toward her basket.

“Your sins are truly forgiven,” said the priest when she had finished. “Go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God,” said Anaïs.

She hastened down the steps then through the narthex.

Following Madame Moreau out into the brilliant sunshine, Anaïs managed bump into her basket ever so slightly. “Oh!” she said, grabbing as if to steady it. “I do beg your pardon. I mean—
zut!—excusez moi!
”

“
Mais certainement.
” Madame Moreau moved as if to sweep past her, then froze, her eyes widening at once. “Oh—but you are English!”

Anaïs feigned surprise. “Why, yes,” she said. “Are
you
? I rather thought you looked familiar.”

“I am English, yes.” The lady's face warmed, but it did not take away the lines of grief about her eyes. “Or I
was
, I should say. But no, I think we cannot know one another. I have not lived in England for many years.”

Anaïs laughed. “Well, if I were to live many years
away
from England, I might choose Belgium, too.” Then she dropped her voice ever so slightly. “But you know, I fancy I
do
know you—or rather, I have seen you. Across the street, I mean. In the Rue de l'Escalier?”

The lady blinked uncertainly. “I do live there, yes.”

Anaïs smiled hugely, and stuck out her hand. “I'm Mrs. MacLachlan,” she said. “Anaïs MacLachlan. I think we must be neighbors.”

The lady took the hand a little warily. “I am Madame Moreau.”

Anaïs did her best impression of Nate's overebullient setter, without quite leaping upon the lady. “Oh,
what
a pleasure to meet you so soon!” she said. “After all, we just moved in yesterday. Isn't Brussels perfectly marvelous? Such life everywhere one looks! And the shopping.” She paused, and widened her eyes. “I was just telling Mr. MacLachlan—we are on our honeymoon, you know—that I am going to bankrupt him quite utterly on lace and porcelain. And those little blue tiles—from Antwerp, someone said? In any case, I vow, I must take a trunkload when we go home.” Then her face fell a little. “When we
do
go home, of course.”

Madame Moreau was looking a little dazed. “Well, my felicitations on your marriage,” she managed. “And welcome to Brussels.”

“Oh, thank you.” Anaïs smiled yet again. “Well, it was
such
a pleasure.”

“Yes, a pleasure,” Madame Moreau echoed.

“I hope you will call upon me someday?” Anaïs began to drift up the hill.

“Why, thank you,” she said, but did not respond in kind.

Anaïs pointed up the street. “I was just on my way to the flower stalls,” she said. “Is this the right way?”

“Oh, yes.” Madame Moreau's placid expression was slowly returning. “Shall I show you? I was just going up to the Grand Place myself.”

Anaïs tried to look hopeful. “Oh,
would
you join me?” she asked. “I do so dislike shopping alone, but the house is a little dreary, and I wanted flowers. And Cook needed a few things as well.”

“I should be pleased to,” said Madame Moreau as they fell into step together. “You must be in Monsieur Michel's house? One of the servants mentioned seeing baggage yesterday.”

“Yes, we have taken it for a year,” said Anaïs. “Though I am not sure how long we shall stay.”

Madame Moreau cast her a sidelong glance. “I do hope Monsieur Michel is well?”

Anaïs lifted one shoulder. “I believe he may be traveling abroad,” she said. “It was all arranged through agents and bankers. We don't know anyone here.”

“Yes, I see,” Madame Moreau murmured. “How did you come to choose Brussels for a wedding trip?”

“Oh, it was my husband!” Anaïs tossed her hand. “He fancies himself a bit of an artist. Or an architect, perhaps. He wished to do some drawing of all the marvelous buildings.”

“And what of you?” asked Madame Moreau. “Would you not have preferred Paris? The shopping is a bit better there.”

Anaïs pulled a gloomy face. “I
did
prefer it,” she confessed, “but I think my husband did not.”

“You think?” Madame Moreau shot her a curious glance. “But you are not sure?”

Anaïs shook her head. “I do not yet know him terribly well, to tell the truth,” she said, dropping her voice as they strolled up the slight hill. “My father arranged it. He said it was time I remarried.”

“Oh, you are a widow,” murmured Madame Moreau.

“Sadly, yes,” said Anaïs. “My late husband—well, it was a love match. Not one my father approved of, mind you, for John hadn't two shillings to rub together, but we were happy. I do think most highly of Mr. MacLachlan, though. I am sure the three of us will get on famously once we all grow accustomed to one another.”

“The three of you?”

Anaïs brightened her expression. “Yes, I have a daughter,” she said. “Jane is just four years old. And already I miss her so much I could cry.”

Madame Moreau made a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat. “She did not come with you?”

Anaïs shook her head. “My husband thought travel would not suit her,” she said quietly. “I daresay he is right. And this
is
a honeymoon. But I confess, I did not quite expect—ah, but I mustn't trouble you, Madame Moreau, when we just met. Look, this
must
be the Grand Place! Oh, my! How magnificent the buildings are!”

“Yes, let me give you a little tour,” said the lady. “I think I have lived here long enough I can tell you what each one is.”

“How kind you are.” With a little sound of delight, Anaïs hooked her arm through Madame Moreau's.

They circled the square at a leisurely pace, taking in the guildhalls and the Hôtel de Ville with its incredible openwork spire, Anaïs oohing and ahhing at all the right moments. Soon she had one arm full of flowers, and was picking over a selection of hothouse fruit at one of the stalls in the middle of the square.

“So, do you think I should persuade Mr. MacLachlan to take me to Paris for a few days?” she said offhandedly. “Have you seen it? Is it worth it?”

Madame Moreau cut an odd look up at her. “Indeed, it is splendid,” she answered. “It was my home, in fact, until a very few months ago.”

Anaïs feigned surprise. “Was it? How do you like Brussels, then? What brought you here?”

They strolled away from the fruiter's stall, Madame Moreau's expression pensive. “I was widowed last year myself,” she finally said. “I make my home now with my husband's uncle. He is attached to the French diplomatic corps here in Brussels.”

“Oh, it
is
reassuring to have family one can count on, isn't it?” Anaïs paused to pick over a pile of lace handkerchiefs at a stall in front of the
hôtel
. “I feel most fortunate.”

“A widow's life can be very hard,” Madame Moreau agreed.

“Oh, yes.” Anaïs selected a handkerchief, and gave it to the stall keeper. “Have you any family left in England?”

Madame Moreau bit her lip, and just for an instant, Anaïs thought she glimpsed fear in her eyes. “No,” she said. “I have no one.”

“Oh,” said Anaïs softly as she counted out coins. “How dreadful for you. I do not know what Jane and I would have done had Papa not taken us in.”

“He did take you in though?” said Madame Moreau as they set off again.

Anaïs nodded. “He declared he would not, of course,” she said, “when John and I first married. And even after the babe came, his letters were cool.”

“Oh, dear,” said Madame Moreau. “How sad for you.”

“Oh, no,” she declared. “Once he actually
saw
Jane—well, what can I say? He was utterly charmed. He came for us just after the funeral. A grandchild changes everything, you know. All can be forgiven. Oh, look—is that an organ grinder?” She pointed across the market square.

“Why, yes,” Madame Moreau replied, but her gaze had turned suddenly inward. “I believe it is.”

“How utterly delightful.” Anaïs smiled, and offered her arm. “Why do we not take a closer look?”

Just then a long shadow fell across their path.

Anaïs looked up to see Geoff standing by the opposite stall, waiting for the pedestrians to clear. His expression was dark as a thunderhead.

“Oh,” she said a little witheringly. “Look. There is my husband now.”

Chapter 9

To fight and conquer in all our battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

I
t was too late; already Geoff was stalking across the cobbles, bearing down upon them like a fully-gunned frigate as he swept off his tall, very expensive hat. He was dressed today like a wealthy young gentleman of fashion in a dark morning coat, cut away to reveal the lean turn of his waist and a pearl-gray waistcoat of jacquard silk. His black stock was tied tight and high against the brilliant white collar of his shirt.

The path cleared before him as he approached, a brass-knobbed walking stick in hand.

“My dear.” He tucked the hat beneath his arm and bowed stiffly, his eyes lined and hollow, as if he had not slept.

Anaïs forced a smile. “How fortuitous, Geoffrey,” she said brightly. “I have had the good fortune of meeting one of our neighbors.” Swiftly she made the introductions.

“A pleasure, Mr. MacLachlan.” Madame Moreau bobbed a rather deep curtsy—in the face of Geoff's sartorial splendor and piercing gaze, even the Queen herself might have done so.

“Indeed, ma'am.” Geoff bowed over her hand. “Might I give you my arm, my dear, and persuade you to walk home with me?” he asked, returning his hat to his head.

“Well, actually, we were just—”

But something deep in those glittering eyes stopped her.

Madame Moreau must have sensed her unease. “Please, Mrs. MacLachlan, do go,” she said, again shaking her hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

But Anaïs held on to her fingers an instant longer than she should have. “Promise me that you will call for tea tomorrow,” she blurted. “At four. Would that be convenient?”

Madame Moreau looked faintly anxious. “Well, yes . . . I daresay I might do. If I cannot, I—I shall send word.”

Anaïs released her hand, and gave a little bob. “Then I shall bid you good day,” she said. “Thank you for a lovely morning.”

They left Madame Moreau standing a little forlornly by the lacemaker's stall and walked home past the Hôtel de Ville, Anaïs's hand tucked into the crook of Geoff's arm. And though he did not drag her, Anaïs could not but be reminded of how he'd hauled her up the stairs that night at the St. James Society.

But this time, his mood was not one of mere aggravation. It was a cold, barely restrained fury.

He spoke not a word until they were past the front door of the house. Then he slammed it shut and whirled on her. “Now, Anaïs, pray tell me,” he gritted, “just what part of
‘You will take Petit along
' did you not understand?”

“But Geoff, I thought that was—”

“What, ambiguous?” He hurled his hat onto the hall table. “Optional? A mere suggestion?”

“—unnecessary,” she snapped.

“Oh!” he shouted, dragging the word out derisively. “Then what about ‘
I wish you to exercise every precaution
'? Did that instruction miss its mark as well? Was it
unnecessary
?”

Anaïs narrowed her eyes, then began to toss her things onto the coat rack. “No,” she said, yanking off her scarf, “but I simply thought—”

“By God, Anaïs, it is not your place to think.” Geoff's eyes drilled down into her, his voice more ominous. “Did I or did I not say that I would make—and again, I quote—
every decision at every turn of this operation?
”

One of the housemaids peeked round the corner, then jerked back again.

Anaïs sighed. “Geoff, why are you so upset? It isn't as—”

“Yes. It is.” He was almost snarling now. “Now was that, or was it not, our bargain? Because the time for negotiation was then, not now.”

“Oh, as if you would have entertained any thought of negotiation!” Somehow, she managed to lift her skirts and brush past him to the steps.

“Anaïs,” he snapped. “
Get. Back. Down. Here.
”

His voice had grown not louder, but instead deathly quiet. She cut a glance over her shoulder to see that Geoff's eyes had a strange, unholy look about them; both distant and yet all too seeing. Something apprehensive ran down her spine.

“
Now
,” he rasped.

Anaïs shook off the sudden frisson, then turned on the steps, still holding her hems aloft. “No,” she said. “If you wish to berate me, Geoff, then come upstairs and do so in my bedchamber. Not here in the front hall as if we're a pair of common fishwives.”

His face going faintly pale, he strode across the hall.

“And the gauntlet is taken up,” she murmured, turning and starting up the rest of the stairs.

“I only wonder it took you this long to fling it down,” he retorted.

Once inside, Anaïs held on to the door and let him stride past, then closed it herself so as to keep him from slamming it. “Now, Geoff,” she began, “be reasonable.”

His eyes glittered, cold and blue, like a shaft of ice in sunlight. “I do not have to be reasonable,” he rasped, backing her up against the wall. “
You
do.”

“But why—”

“Because I say so!” Geoff gritted. “Because Lezennes is a dangerous man.”

“And he was nowhere in sight!” said Anaïs, throwing up her hands.

“You don't know that.” His perfect jaw twitched. “What if he was?”

Anaïs tried to rein in her temper, but it was a struggle. “For God's sake, Geoff, I'm not blind,” she managed, “or witless.”

“And what if he was having her followed?” Geoff leaned in, planting a hand against the wall by her shoulder. “Good God, Anaïs, what if DuPont is wrong, and she's as wicked as he is?”

“But she is not,” said Anaïs hotly. “That much I do know.”

“But you
don't
know,” he bellowed. “You simply don't. You met her—what? Less than an hour ago? Damn it, woman, just do as I say!”

It was madness, she knew, to provoke him, but Anaïs was angry. Something worse than angry, perhaps. She could literally feel the blood thrumming through her veins as it had not in years. She came away from the wall and looked up at him, hardening her gaze.

“So I'm to just do as you say,” she retorted, “blindly, without question—
or
what
?”

In a flash his hand caught her, his fingers digging deep into the hair at her nape, turning her face to his. “Or so help me God, Anaïs,” he rasped, “I'll turn you over my knee and wear out your backside.”

Anaïs let her gaze flick hotly down him. “Oh, do you think so?” she whispered. “Why don't you just give that a try, Geoff? Yes, you're oh-so-rigid and perfectly controlled, aren't you, until someone challenges—”

His mouth was on hers before she could draw breath.

This time there was no gentleness in his kiss. His mouth opened over hers, urgent and demanding. One arm lashing round her waist, he drove her head back against the wall as his fingers tightened in her hair, stilling her to the determined thrust of his tongue.

For long moments he kissed her, pillaging her mouth and giving her no chance to respond in turn but instead forcing her against the wall with his weight. Hungrily his hand cupped over her breast, his thumb circling her nipple till it hardened. One of his thighs thrust between hers, then the lust swamped her again, leaving her sagging against the wall, yearning for more, yet still outraged.

She wanted to smack him a cracking good blow across the cheek.

She wanted to drag him to her bed, and slide her hands beneath that well-tailored façade of civility he wore. Wanted to stroke and tempt and touch until his bare skin shivered beneath her fingers.

She was strongly favoring the latter. But before she could settle the matter in her mind, he turned his face from hers and uttered a quiet oath.

Anaïs went with option one, the back of her hand.

The resulting
crack!
was not entirely satisfying for they stood too close, but it achieved her purpose.

“Bloody hell!” Eyes wide, Geoff stepped away, touching at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Next time
ask
,” Anaïs snapped.

He simply stared at her.

Deliberately, she cocked one eyebrow. “You can even ask now,” she added, “so long as it's politely done.”

“I . . . beg your pardon?”

“Yet another good idea,” she answered. “You certainly ought to be begging my pardon. Now, are you inviting me to your bed or not? Just so I know where I stand.”

“Good God, Anaïs,” he whispered. “Have we both run mad?”

He turned and strode to her window, one hand set at the back of his neck, the other at his hip, pushing back his coat in that pensive posture that had already become almost achingly familiar to her. But there was still a strange, uneasy feeling in the air.

Anaïs followed, and watched him stare blindly out the glass, the muscles of his throat working up and down.

He spoke again, without looking at her, his voice mystified. “I really
don't
know whether to bed you, or turn you over my knee.”

“You're far more apt to survive the first,” she advised.

“Anaïs, we can't go on like this.”

“I am not a child to be spanked, Geoff.” She stood beside him, resisting the urge to set a hand on his arm. “If you want an invitation to my bed, ask. If you wish to send me away, try. But if you are simply angry because you desire me—and if you're going to coddle me at every turn because of it—then you're the one who risks compromising this mission, not me.”

“Aye.” His voice was surprisingly soft, but his eyes had taken on that haunted, otherworldly look again. “Aye, perhaps you're right. But for God's sake, Anaïs, just don't . . .”

Don't what?

She looked at the beautifully sculpted turn of his face caught in a golden shaft of sunlight, and wanted to beg him for the answer.

Oh, she wanted to beg him for more than that. But despite her anger, her swollen lips, and the hair now tumbling so wantonly down her shoulder, Anaïs still had a little pride left to her.

“What do you want, Geoff?” she asked softly. “What do you want of me? Just say it.”

He exhaled suddenly and roughly, then shocked her by reaching out. He pulled her into his arms, and inexplicably, she went.

Geoff set his forehead to hers, his eyes closed. “Don't refuse to do as I say, Anaïs,” he whispered. “Don't make me send you packing, do you hear? For I'll do it. I swear to God. I will.”

And he could, she realized. He had warned her, in fact, that that was precisely what he would do—and long before they'd ever left London.

She was still angry, yes. But perhaps—just
perhaps
—she had not handled this well. As her mother was ever fond of pointing out, Anaïs was like her father, often well-intentioned but emotionally ham-fisted.

In a pinch, she could handle Lezennes, she felt confident. But Geoff didn't know that, and his protective instincts would likely have overridden that knowledge anyway. And he wasn't just driven by lust. He was a gentleman to his very marrow. But she was not quite ready to admit any of this nascent insight to him. No, not yet.

Geoff, however, had suddenly loosened his embrace. Anaïs looked up to see him staring out the window again, more intently this time. She let one arm fall, turning to look.

In the street below, Charlotte Moreau was hastening along the pavement looking anxious to get home. At Lezennes' door, she set down her basket, opened her reticule, and began to paw through it as if searching for a key.

That very instant, however, the door burst open and a little girl dashed out on a cry of delight, a gray-garbed servant on her heels.

Madame Moreau dropped the reticule and swept the child up in her embrace.

Beside Anaïs, Geoff stiffened. The air in the room seemed to still, then go utterly cold.

Again, Anaïs felt that odd frisson down her spine, and this time it felt like fear. “Geoff?”

As if he hadn't heard her, he stepped nearer the glass, lifting one hand to touch it as he stared down into the street. Madame Moreau was still kneeling on the pavement, holding the little girl close. Geoff's every muscle appeared to have gone rigid, and his eyes had taken on that strange, distant look once more.

He swallowed again. “She is frightened,” he said, the words deep and hollow. “Terrified. She . . . sees the blackness.”

Anaïs set a hand to his shoulder blade. “Who?” she murmured. “Charlotte?”

But his eyes were not precisely focused on Charlotte. “Yes. Madame Moreau. Her darkness is—” He stopped, and exhaled slowly and deeply.

Something was wrong.

Anaïs had sensed it, almost from the moment they had stepped inside the house. No, from the moment he'd touched her hand in the market square. It was as if his emotions were so tightly tethered the rope might snap. As if he were clinging to . . .
something
for all he was worth. Or shutting something out.

And just now—that explosive temper, that raw, utterly sensual kiss—all of it had been driven by passion and fury, yes, but something unbridled had run beneath it, like an underground stream wearing away at Geoff's emotional bedrock.

He was a man who kept his emotions shut tightly away, but today it was as if he'd edged too near a precipice.

The slamming of a door recalled Anaïs to the present. She looked up to see that Charlotte and the little girl had vanished, and Lezennes' door had shut.

Anaïs urged Geoff from the window, the better to see him.

He came, but his motions were those of an automaton. His face was rigid, all color drained away, and his eyes had taken on that eerie, icy look, like a wild creature—like a
wolf
—as if he looked through her, or far beyond her. As if he saw not this room, but another time or another place entirely.