Time for Eternity (6 page)

Something told her it wouldn’t matter whether he knew her story, at least not for very long. “My mother left me on the doorstep of my father’s ancestral home. He never acknowledged me, but his maiden sister raised me and educated me on her estates in Provence.” She glanced again to the fire. She had loved Lady Toumoult. “She died of consumption.”

“Your father did not provide for you?” His voice was sharp. “If his sister raised you, your birth must have been common knowledge.”

She wished it weren’t. “I’m sure he had other things on his mind.”

The duc poured himself another brandy, frowning. “I remember d’Evron now. He didn’t even try to speak for moderation. He just packed up his household and emigrated.”

“Since I was not a regular member of his household I was left behind.” How frightened she had been at being left on her own in the midst of a country in chaos. She had no right to go with him, she reminded herself. She was not legitimate. She wasn’t even his servant. She had no claim on anyone. “I … was seventeen. I made my own way. Madame LaFleur hired me.” Her eyes filled. The old lady who had treated her more like a friend than a servant would be on her way to the guillotine shortly. The two women she’d cared for and who had cared for her in return would both be dead. Maybe it was her fault somehow. Maybe she was bad luck …

“Well,” Avignon said as though something was decided. “There is nothing for it. You must go to England.”

“With no money, no acquaintance, no references? Even if I had money for the passage, my situation would be even worse in England.” When families emigrated, they took their support system with them. Even if all you had was a title at least it was an entrée to society, an automatic calling card. She had neither family nor birth.

That took him aback. He studied his brandy. When he next glanced her way, he looked disgusted. “We will speak more of this.

In the meantime, you had better stay here as my ward.”

What was he saying? And then she had a very good idea what he was saying. She straightened her back. “If you think that because I am a bastard I was born with loose morals you are wrong. I’ll find a position.”

His eyes met hers and steadied. “No, I do not think that. But everyone else does. So you will not find a position. No woman would have you in a household with her husband or her sons. You were lucky to find an old lady who still had money to hire a companion, but no family, no desire to live the remainder of her life on foreign soil, and who obviously had no idea of your situation.

Lightning will not strike twice.”

She felt her breath coming quickly. “I’ll hire myself out to a shop or a factory.”

He chuffed a laugh. “Shops aren’t hiring. The whole fabric of the economy is coming apart, in case you haven ’t noticed. The National Assembly gave the factories to the people. The men who owned them and knew how to run them picked up and went where the government couldn’t nationalize a lifetime of hard work. The aristocrats who owned land that was confiscated took their money with them when they left. Which leaves—bread riots.”

“There must be some way I can earn my keep.” She hated that her voice sounded small.

He sat forward, grabbed her hands, and held them palm up. His warm touch to her bare skin sent shocks of something through her. She tried to pull away, but she couldn’t. For having hands that looked so elegant he was strong. “Who will hire you for hard work with these hands?” Abruptly, he let her go. “Where are your
brains,
girl?” His voice was hard. “You don’t belong in a factory, even if you could talk someone into giving you work. You’ll say you can act like them, blend in. But you’d betray yourself.

And they’d have you out on your ear or arrested for concealing your aristocratic background before you could blink. Only a brothel would take you.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to contain the tears. “I know my chances,” she choked. “No matter what you think, I’m not stupid.”

He took a swig of brandy. “Then stop acting like it,” he muttered. “You’ll stay here.”

He didn’t say it as though he wanted her here. But that didn’t lessen the danger. She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I can’t stay here.” Somewhere she found courage she didn’t know she had. She sat up and put her empty glass back on the tray.

“Whether you serve one man or many, a whore is a whore. And I’m not a whore.” She rose.

“I’m not assaulting your virtue, for God’s sake. I said you could stay as my ward.”

“And who would believe
that,
your grace?” She surely didn’t. “You are what, thirty-five, forty? I am twenty-one. You’re not old enough for me to be your ward.”

To her surprise, his shook his head wearily. “Oh, I am more than old enough to be your guardian.” He seemed to muster his resolve. “At any rate, you have no choice. And whatever they think, they will accept you because I demand it.”

She didn’t want to stay under this roof for more than one night. One night. Even that could be dangerous. She had this dreadful feeling she shouldn’t be anywhere near him or she’d end up doing something dreadful. And yet another part of her wanted her to do that very dreadful thing, whatever it was. Was she afraid she would succumb to the wicked duc’s wiles? A sense of urgency and dread crept over her that was almost overwhelming. Tonight. She ’d get through tonight, do what she must, and then be away.

Because a man so attractive, so
dangerous
somehow, could break her heart in the worst possible way if she let him.

Where were these thoughts
coming
from? Françoise shook her head to clear it.

She might have had a schoolgirl’s crush, but she was in no danger of actually falling in love with Monsieur le Duc. He was nobility of the first consequence, just the type who always looked down on her, and wild to a fault, irresponsible. He lived his life as though there were no Terror, no slow dying of the hope that the ideals of the Revolution would save man from himself. He didn ’t use his influence to push France back into the right course. He cared for no one, not even the prime articles he mounted as his mistresses. Françoise may have daydreamed about the handsome devil next door worshipping at her feet, but in the cold light of reality, the devil was much more stubborn and despicable than her daydreams. Not someone she could care for.

And not someone who would have the slightest interest in a dull and virtuous girl, of no birth, whose looks were well enough but who was not a beauty, inexperienced and unfashionably dressed. He must be positively laughing at her fear that he would take advantage of her virtue.

She sighed. In some way that was … depressing. But … in another way it was a relief. What interest would he have in her?

Which made his offer of sanctuary most puzzling. But one she need not fear to take advantage of for a few hours.

She looked up and found him watching her. She realized she had been staring at the Aubusson carpet. She sat down again in the wing chair. “Very well. I accept your kind offer.”

“I am never kind.” The duc unfolded himself from the chair and pulled the bell rope.

Gaston materialized as though from thin air. “Your grace?”

“Show Mademoiselle …” He realized he did not know her name and looked to her.

“Suchet,” she supplied.

“Ah, yes. Show Mademoiselle Suchet to a suitable room so she may refresh herself before dinner. A room off the
west
hall, Gaston, if you please.” He gave Gaston a sharp glance. “I suppose you could not procure a female attendant upon short notice?”

Gaston showed not the slightest dismay at this odd command. In fact he looked confident and … pleased. “Of course I can, your grace.”

“Ahhh. Not something beyond your powers.” His grace seemed disappointed.

“No, your grace.” Gaston bowed. “If Mademoiselle will come with me …”

How would he pass her off as his ward when his servants knew he was ignorant of even her name, she had no idea. Perhaps they were forced to discretion through fear.

“And Gaston, see that Fanchon is here tomorrow afternoon for fittings for the girl.”

Gaston blanched.

“Ahhh. Finally a task worthy of your talents, I see.” Avignon turned away as though they didn’t exist and downed his brandy in a single gulp.

Françoise followed the stiff-backed majordomo out the door. He stopped and whispered to the young footman who had let them in. The handsome lad with a red queue of hair, unpowdered like his master’s, nodded and scurried to the back of the house.

Gaston bowed, his face neutral. “Mademoiselle?” Then he turned and walked sedately up the grand staircase. Françoise followed. She had no choices here. She was about to become, at least for tonight, the Duc d’Avignon’s ward. May God protect her soul.

Henri Foucault, Duc d’Avignon, stared at the closed door. What the hell was he thinking? She was an innocent, for God’s sake.

And that was a recipe for disaster. She’d fall in love with him. They always did. Attractive as she was, he didn ’t dally with innocents. He looked up at the painting over the fireplace, an old hunting scene. Fifteenth century. It had been about the time the paint was still wet on that canvas that he’d learned his lesson about innocents …

The tower room was round, its windows narrow slits in the stone that looked out across the valley. Now they revealed
only darkness and winking lights from the windows of the village far below. A huge bed laid with brocades and velvet
dominated the space. He turned to the girl he had desired since the moment he saw her at her father’s side. She was
everything he was not, innocent, hopeful. Perhaps for a few years she could give him back his faith that life was worth
living. At least until she grew old and died.

Just now her blue eyes were wide with fright. How much was the normal apprehension of a virgin on her wedding
night? He knew she coveted him. He had felt her eyes on him in her father’s feast hall for many nights, and after the
battle, when he had fought like the demon he was against the invading hordes of Saarland, she had welcomed him back to
the castle with tears of relief. And now, for saving her father’s realm, she had been given to him in matrimony. He smiled
to reassure her. “You must be tired after that long banquet. May I order a bath for you?”

He enjoyed bathing far more than his hosts here in the Alsace. He had been an itinerant mercenary for nearly a century
and a half now, wielding his strength for civilizations from the North of Africa to the Yangtze River, picking up bits of their
cultures along the way. He was a skilled general. And he fought his battles at night, often taking the enemy by surprise. It
was an effective strategy. Kingdoms vied for his services. He fought for anyone who paid his price, having long ago
ceased to care who won and who lost. Life stretched ahead, and he felt insanity lurking in wait for him if he did not find
some meaning in it. She could give that to him. Perhaps.

She shook her head. Her breath was coming in little gasps.

He turned away lest the intensity of his gaze upset her. He would show her pleasure tonight. Once he had bedded her, all
would be fine. He unbuckled his scabbard and chain mail, shined bright for the wedding ceremony, and laid them on a
carved bench. Perhaps a look at what was in store would steady her. He pulled his shirt over his head.

When he turned to face her, naked to the waist, there were beads of sweat on her forehead and she alternately flushed
and paled.

“What is it, Lady Cerise?” he asked, concerned. “Are you well?”

Her eyes were dilated pools of midnight blue. They matched the voluminous folds of her velvet dress. “They say you are
the devil,” she whispered.

Had she discovered his secrets? “They always say that about a strong man.”

“You fought like twenty men, stronger than a man can be.”

Which is why he always moved on after getting his gold. Not this time. He was sick unto death, if death were possible
for one such as he, of roaming the world. He couldn’t have family. He at least wanted love. “The better to protect you,
now you are mine.”

“They say …” Her voice was distant now. Not a good sign. “They say that when the battle was done, you returned to
the field strewn with slain bodies and while everyone did celebrate in the camp, you … you drank the blood of the dead
under the full moon.”

Very bad. “What old woman has been filling your ears with lies?” He moved in toward her, to comfort her, let her feel
the warmth of his body.

That was when he saw the dagger in the hand she hid in the folds of her skirts. She couldn’t kill him, but he didn’t want
to let her see him heal either.

“Give me that,” he said, imbuing his voice with calm.

“My father has given me unto the devil,” she said, panting. “In return for victory.”

“I thought you wanted this …”

“Before I knew you for a monster.” Her voice cycled up into a wail. “I must save my immortal soul.”

He’d have to take the knife. Her eyes grew even bigger. And suddenly the knife was not aimed at him, but turned
inward, toward her own lush breasts. He grabbed for her arm.

Too late. She pulled the knife in with both hands. Black bloomed on her midnight dress.

“No!” he breathed as she sank to her knees. He cradled her in his arms. He daren’t pull the knife out. The innocent
creature had somehow dealt herself the perfect killing blow, up, under her ribs to her heart.

“May God forgive me …” The last word burbled with blood that leaked from her mouth.