“The abbey.”
“What? I can’t hear you.” His hand slid from her shoulder to her wrist and tightened around it. “Do you wish to become ill? I’ve never seen such a stupid—”
“The abbey. I have to go to the abbey.”
“There is no abbey, dammit.” He turned and began pulling her back toward the house.
“No, I have to go. It’s not finished … I can do better this time.”
He dragged her stumbling up the steps and into the foyer.
“Let me go. I have to go to the abbey.”
He slammed the door and locked it behind them. “Be quiet. I’m cold and wet and not at all pleased with this ploy, Juliette.” He pulled flint from his pocket and sparked it to light the candles in the silver candelabrum on the table beside the door. “You’re a woman who behaves impulsively but not irrationally. You meant me to hear you leave and did this for a purpose. Now, where were you—” He broke off as he saw her face for the first time.
Juliette’s expression was totally blank, her gaze fixed unseeingly before her. Her drenched white nightgown clung to her thin body, and raindrops were running down her cheeks, but she acted as if she didn’t feel them.
She turned and moved back toward the door, fumbling at the lock. “The abbey. I can do it right this time. I have to go …”
Jean Marc stepped in front of her and leaned against the door, blocking her way while his gaze raked her face. A chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the clamminess of his rain-soaked clothing.
Good God, she was asleep! He had heard tales of people walking and talking while asleep, but he had never believed them. Or perhaps it wasn’t sleep but some disorder of the mind.
“Blood.” She had the lock undone and was tugging frantically at the door. “I have to stop the blood.” She was becoming agitated, her eyes glinting with tears. “Why can’t I stop the blood?”
“Juliette, don’t.” He grasped her shoulders. “Let me—”
She screamed.
He went rigid as the raw, tormented sound tore through him.
He couldn’t stand it. He shook her, hard. Harder. “Sacre bleu, wake up! I’ll not have this, Wake—”
“Will you please stop shaking me?” Juliette asked haughtily. “I knew you wanted to hurt me, but this is uncalled for.”
“You’re awake.” Relief surged through him. Her eyes were not only clear but snapping with anger at him. His hands dropped from her shoulders as he stepped back. “Mother of God, you frightened me.”
“You should be frightened. I’m very angry. Why did you carry me down here?”
He gazed at her in astonishment. “I didn’t. You were asleep and walked downstairs and out—”
“Poppycock. No one walks while sleeping, and I certainly wouldn’t.”
“Have it your way.” His gaze narrowed on her face. “You remember nothing?”
“What is there to remember? You obviously came to my chamber and carried me here for some purpose of your own.” She frowned down at the wet gown clinging to her body. “And why did you open the door and let the rain come in? I’m all wet.”
“My apologies.” He studied her face. Clearly, she not only had no memory of what had transpired but was fabricating excuses to keep from remembering. “Perhaps you’d better go up and change your gown. I’ll wake Marie and have her prepare tea.”
“That won’t be necessary. I shall have no trouble going to sleep, if you’re finished with your little jest.”
“Oh, I’ve quite finished.”
She turned away, the cotton nightgown undulating with her body as she moved toward the staircase.
“Do you ever dream of the abbey, Juliette?”
She stopped but didn’t turn around. “No, of course not. Don’t you remember? It’s Catherine who has the bad dreams. I’ve put all thoughts of those canailles behind me.”
“I see.” He stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched her as she climbed the stairs and disappeared down the corridor.
It’s not finished.
I have to go back to the abbey.
Let me do it right this time.
Strange words for a woman who had put those memories behind her.
He blew out the candles and moved toward the stairs. He would change his wet clothes and then go back to the study and try to work. He doubted if he would succeed, but he knew he was even less likely to rest now than he had been before, when it was only his body that was frustrated.
All his life he’d had a passion for unraveling riddles, and now it was his mind that was intrigued by the puzzle Juliette had flung at him to solve.
Anne Dupree sat down gracefully on the satin couch, spreading her wide brocade skirts primly. “You appear in good health, Raoul. You haven’t been to see me in over two months and if I hadn’t heard how busy you’ve been, I’d accuse you of neglecting me.”
“I couldn’t get away. Marat found me irreplaceable.” His mother looked as grand as a duchess in the gown of pink brocade, and the slight stoutness of her tall form made her appear all the more majestic, Raoul Dupree thought adoringly. Anne Dupree’s gray-streaked hair had been dressed in the latest fashion by the maid Raoul had provided her the year before, her lips painted into a vermilion pout and a small beauty patch in the shape of a heart resting just to the left of her lips. Beauty patches enchanted her, and she often bemoaned their passing from fashion. She was gazing at him expectantly, her gray eyes bright with eagerness. Her eyes were not always kind, but they were kind that day.
“But you would have left Marat and come to me if I’d sent for you?”
He nodded, feeling the happiness flood him as he looked at her. “I’ve brought you a present,” he said tentatively. “It belonged to a princess.” He wasn’t sure of the ownership of the necklace, but he knew his mother would value it more if she thought it had been worn by a royal.
His mother’s gaze went eagerly to the silk-wrapped object he had handed her. “The Princess de Lambelle? I heard you got rid of that piece of goods.”
“No, another one.” He watched eagerly as she unwrapped the necklace. It wasn’t as easy to please his mother now as it had been before he’d showered her with this fine house and servants, but surely this trinket would earn him her pleasure. “From the Abbaye de la Reine.”
“Impious whores.” His mother smiled. “You did well there, Raoul.”
He felt an exquisite rush of pleasure. “Marat praised me highly and Danton speaks of wishing to commandeer my services. Should I accept him?”
“I’ll think about it while you’re away in Spain.” His mother held up the necklace. “Very nice.”
Dupree was disappointed. “You don’t like it?”
She smiled. “I was teasing you. It’s a splendid gift.” She held out her arms. “Come here.”
He rushed across the room and sat down beside her. She enfolded him in a close embrace and rocked him gently back and forth. Raoul closed his eyes and let the sweet relief pour through him. She was pleased with him. This was what he had been waiting for through the long months away from her. It was unbearable not to be sure he was doing what she wished him to do. Sometimes the uncertainty had grown into a terrible fever and he had wanted to rush back to her and beg her to give him assurance.
Her hands stroked his hair and her voice was soft as she placed her pouty lips close to his ear. “Have you missed me?”
His arms tightened about her stout body. She knew he was never complete without her but she always made him say the words. “Yes.”
“And you haven’t been doing naughty things with any of those wicked women?”
“No,” he lied. Mother must never know about Camille. She did not mind the anonymous rapine of the women of the abbey but would instantly condemn his relationship with Camille. “You know I always obey you, Mother.”
“And hasn’t it served you well? You’re in the company of great men and soon it will be time for you to take their place.”
He
nodded contentedly, knowing he need not respond. She had been saying those words as long as he could remember. She was sure even when he was a small child he was going to be a great man and had carefully taught him what he must do. The lessons had been harsh and sometimes he hadn’t understood, but she had alternated punishment and reward until he had finally come to the realization of what was required of him. He must become a rich and powerful man and make his mother the queen she deserved to be. She did not belong in this small village, married to the ignorant merchant who had fathered him. It was his duty to free her from this bourgeois prison. His father was dead now but Raoul’s duty was still not done.
She pushed him away and looked down at the necklace again. “Is there a picture in the locket?”
“Locket?”
She gave him an impatient glance. “Of course it’s a locket.” Her nails pried at the golden circlet “Don’t be stupid.”
The locket opened with a snap and his mother regarded the picture critically. “Quite lovely. Was this the princess?”
Raoul took the locket and looked down at the miniature of the girl he had seen for a fleeting moment in the bell tower. He slowly straightened. “Yes, that’s her.” It was an excellent likeness and could be useful. He could ride back to Paris and give it to an artist to reproduce a sketch to hang outside the Hôtel de Ville. He absently stroked the jagged scar that had formed on his throat from that black-haired bitch’s teeth. The two girls had been together, and if he found the girl in the locket, there was every chance he could force her to tell him where to find Citizeness Justice. “Could I have it back for—” He had said it clumsily and could feel her stiffen with displeasure. He hurried on desperately. “Only for a little while. I’ll give you—”
“Certainly, Raoul.” His mother stood up. “Of course you may have it back. You wish to give it to someone else? Someone you value more than you do me?” She smiled brilliantly. “Perhaps you’d better leave now, Raoul. I believe I shall be exceedingly busy this week.”
“No, it was only a thought.” He jumped to his feet, panic racing through him. He could feel the darkness closing around him, the horrid crawling, the black bile coating his tongue. “Forgive me. You know how I was looking forward to spending this time with you. I’ll not be able to see you again until I return from Spain. Don’t send me away.”
She stared at him coldly. “You will beg my pardon for your insolence.”
“I do, I do.” He thrust the locket back into her hand and closed her fingers around it. He would wait until he had returned from his mission to try to persuade her to temporarily relinquish the locket. Maybe she would have grown tired of it by then.
“It’s not enough.”
He immediately dropped to his knees and buried his face in the skirt of her brocade gown. The material was smooth against his flesh and smelled of frangipani and the cedar lining of her armoire. “I do beg your pardon. It was very wicked of me. I’m not worthy to be your son.” He waited. Sometimes the humiliation must be deeper before she rewarded him with her forgiveness. He kissed her hand. “Please, ma mère. I’m truly repentant.”
She must not have been too upset with him. She was stroking his hair with a loving hand. “Then you must strive harder to be worthy.”
“I will, Mother. May I stand?”
“Yes.” She turned away. “I’ve been thinking about it and we must discuss the matter of this Wind Dancer more thoroughly. Possessing such a treasure could be very beneficial to me. It’s far too fine a tool to give to Marat.” She straightened her skirts. “But we can talk of that later. I believe we’ll have goose for supper and then I’ll play the viola for you. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Mother.” He hated goose and she knew it. She was still angry with him. She would watch him eat a large portion of the goose, making sure he gave no sign of distaste. But the punishment might have been worse.
She could have sent him away.
FOURTEEN
The front door was opening.
“Christ, not again!” Jean Marc muttered as he pushed back his chair and swiftly covered the distance between his desk and the door of the study he had deliberately left ajar. After three nights he had begun to think Juliette’s sleepwalking had been only a singular occurrence not to be repeated.
The front door was standing wide open again. The blasted woman was probably halfway to the goddamned abbey. At least she’d picked a night that wasn’t rainy this time.
But when Jean Marc reached the doorway, Juliette had only just reached the bottom of the stone steps. In another moment he was standing beside her.
“Juliette.”
She didn’t answer and, with a muttered curse, he picked her up in his arms and carried her back to the foyer.
She stiffened in his arms. “The abbey …”
“No.” He kicked the door shut with his foot and carried her across the foyer toward the staircase. “It’s over.”
She shook her head, her eyes glazed, unseeing.
He started up the stairs. “You’ve got to stop this, you idiotic woman. I have no desire to spend my nights chasing you through the streets of Paris.”
Why was he even talking to her? She obviously wasn’t comprehending anything he said.
She had left the door of her chamber open and he carried her across the room, laid her on the bed, and pulled the covers over her. A crisp autumn breeze and pale moonlight poured through the open window beside the bed, illuminating Juliette’s strained expression.
He stood looking down at her, his hands closing into fists at his sides, trying to crush the aching pity and tenderness raging through him. He didn’t want to feel like this. It wasn’t at all what he had planned for her. He could permit himself lust, amusement, even respect for a worthy opponent, but not this. Mother of God, he had wanted her for five long years, and he would not let this softness rob him of her.
“Let me do it again,” she whispered.
He could see the shimmer of her eyes in the moonlit darkness, and he knew he couldn’t leave her until those eyes closed and she fell into a normal sleep. He sat down beside her on the bed, every muscle and tendon of his body stiff and unyielding.
Merde, he didn’t want this.
“I can do it right this time. I have to go to the abbey and do it again.”
Her eyes were moistly brilliant now, and the agony in them woke a pain that echoed with unbearable intensity through Jean Marc.
He couldn’t let it go on.
“I’m afraid you’re right.” He gently stroked an unruly curl back from Juliette’s temple and whispered, “Very well, ma petite, we’ll go back to the abbey and do it again.”
“But I have to get to my work, Mademoiselle Juliette,” Robert protested. “I’ve been sitting on this bench so long my bones are melting into it.”
“Hush, Robert, I’m almost finished.” Juliette added a little more shadow to the seamed lines fanning his eyes. “What’s more important? A painting that will give you immortality or doing your chores?”
“Marie would say my chores,” Robert said dryly. “Keeping the house clean and putting meals on the table with no other servants in the house are not easy tasks.”
“But you’ve both done splendidly. I’ll help you with your chores as soon as we’re finished here.” Juliette grinned as she looked at him over the easel. “I suppose you’ll be glad to see us all gone and the house closed again.”
“Of course he will,” Jean Marc answered for Robert as he strolled down the path toward them. “You can escape now, Robert.”
“Merci.” Robert scrambled to his feet and hurried away from them toward the house.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Juliette stiffened with wariness, her gaze avoiding Jean Marc’s. “I would have let him go soon. What are you doing here anyway? Have you nothing better to do than take strolls in the garden and interrupt my work?”
“And a pleasant good morning to you also.” Jean Marc stopped before the easel and tilted his h
ead in consideration. “You’ve caught his likeness. It’s quite adequate.”
“Adequate?” she asked, stung. “I don’t do ‘adequate’ work. It’s excellent.”
“But boring.”
“Boring.”
“There’s no sweep, no daring. As I remember, you didn’t used to be afraid to paint the truth.”
“This is truth. This is Robert.”
“And you obviously chose him because he’s a safe subject and would cause you no difficulty.” Jean Marc shrugged. “You shouldn’t feel bad. Many artists prefer to paint the ordinary rather than challenge themselves.”
“I’m not ‘many artists’.” Juliette glared at him as she set her brush down. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I do challenge myself.”
“Do you?” Jean Marc sat down on the marble bench across from her. “I’ve seen no sign of it of late. You’ve avoided the greatest challenge to your skill.”
“You?” A sudden eagerness tempered the anger in her expression. “Will you let me paint you? If you posed for me, I might be able to—”
“Not me.” He met her gaze. “The abbey. You haven’t painted what happened at the abbey.”
“No!” She recoiled as if he had struck her. “I don’t want to paint what happened at the abbey. It was ugly.”
“And you’re afraid of ugliness.” He nodded. “It’s entirely understandable.”
“No, I’m not afraid. I’ve never been afraid. I just don’t want to paint it.”
“Is it that you don’t want to paint it or you don’t know if you can? Such a subject could be done only by a master.”
“I could do it!”
“But you’re afraid to try.”
“No, I’m not afraid. Why should I be afraid?” She drew a deep, shaky breath. “I wish you’d go away. You’re making me very angry.”
“Am I? You showed a great deal of promise as a youngster. It’s a shame you’ve chosen to become only mediocre.”