Storm Winds

  “The Wind Dancer. You failed to fulfill your promise and Citizen Marat is most annoyed with you.”

  “You can’t take it from me.”

  “Oh, but I can. Where is it?”

  “I won’t tell you. Soon you’ll be skewered like a chicken for the roasting.” She smiled confidently. “This is Spain and I have protection in high places.”

  “A colonel is not so high and his protection will not help you in San Isadoro.”

  Her smile faltered. “You’re well informed.” She shrugged. “He will soon return.”

  “But not in time.” Dupree stepped aside and motioned for her to precede him. “I think we’ll go down to the dining salon. I saw an item of furniture there that might prove useful.”

  She glared at him and then turned and strode from the room.

  Dupree followed close behind, his eyes on the straight, proud line of her spine. The marquise had courage, he thought with satisfaction. A woman with courage was always a more interesting challenge.

  “I’ll not tell you where it is,” she repeated over her shoulder. “You might as well go back to that canaille and tell him you failed.”

  “I won’t fail.” Dupree moved down the hall after her. “You’ll tell me. You’ll beg me to let you tell me.”

  She gazed at him incredulously. “You jest.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, no.” He smiled. “I never jest.”

  The woman was weeping again.

  Begging him to let her tell him where she had hidden the Wind Dancer.

  Begging to be released from darkness.

  Dupree smiled as he lifted the glass of wine to his lips and leaned back in the chair he’d taken from the dining salon to loll in comfort on the adjoining veranda. Here he could enjoy the fresh air and look down at the city below and still hear the sounds coming from the dining salon.

  “Please, I can’t …” She began sobbing. “Merde, I can’t bear it.”

  Soon he’d let her give him the information he desired. He was growing bored with the task. The woman had been broken for over two days and her courage had not given her the stamina he’d hoped. She had been as easy as all the rest, and he owed this victory as he did all those others to his mother. She had shown him the secret of the mastery of a soul.

  The whip was crude, the burning brand jarring, but the darkness …

  Ah, the darkness was the very monarch of discipline.

  No candles burned in the lanterns hung beside the wrought iron gate. No light flickered beyond the arched windows of the casa.

  Juliette felt a mixture of dread and anticipation as she reined in before the iron gate of the pretty little house. It would be over soon. She would see her mother and take back the treasure Celeste had stolen. Her mother would be angry with her and say words that would cut and sting. Dieu, why did that knowledge still bother her after all these years?

  Jean Marc glanced at her as he dismounted. “We could go to an inn and wait until tomorrow—”

  “I want to do it now,” she interrupted. “I want to be done with it.”

  “The house looks deserted.” Jean Marc lifted Juliette down from her mare and tied both horses to the trunk of the cork tree growing to the right of the courtyard gate. He tried the gate and it swung open. “It’s odd, the gate’s unlocked.”

  Juliette followed him into the courtyard. The casa did look deserted, she thought. Yet, though it was too dark to see very much, the courtyard didn’t appear unkempt and the green and white mosaic fountain in its center still sprayed a gentle cascade of water into the deep basin below. She went to the fountain, looking up at the dark windows of the house. Her hand dipped into the water, idly scooped up a handful, and let the drops run through her fingers. “What if she’s gone?”

  “Then we’ll go after her.” He lit the lantern he was carrying. “But to do so we’d have to find out where she was headed. Let’s see if there are any servants—Christ, what’s wrong?”

  Juliette was staring in horror into the waters of the basin of the fountain. “Marguerite!” She thought she had screamed it but it came out as a hoarse croak. “I almost touched her. Marguerite …”

  Jean Marc took a step closer and the light of the lantern played on the clear water.

  Marguerite Duclos sat upright in the fountain, only her dark hair floating above the surface of the water like ropes of seaweed. She sat not four inches from where Juliette had dipped her hand, her open eyes stared blindly forward, her black gown water-puffed about her rigid body.

  “I almost touched her,” Juliette repeated numbly.

  Jean Marc drew Juliette away. “I think you’d better go back to the street and wait for me there.”

  “Why?” Her gaze flew to his face and she answered her own question. “You think she’s been murdered.”

  “A fountain isn’t the most ordinary place for a woman to die.” He turned toward the door.

  “I’m going with you.” Juliette glanced back at the hair floating on the water and shuddered.

  “No.” He lifted his arm and the light of the lantern stabbed into the shadows of the courtyard. “Where do the walks on either side of the house lead?”

  “To the veranda at the rear of the house that overlooks the mountains and town. My grandfather liked to sup out there on occasion.”

  Jean Marc tried the knob and the front door swung open. “If you won’t go back to the street, stay here. I don’t know what I’m going to discover.”

  Her mother. He was afraid they’d find her mother dead, Juliette realized.

  Jean Marc slipped quietly into the house and silently closed the door.

  Juliette stared at the fountain. She couldn’t comprehend her sense of loss. She had disliked Marguerite intensely and yet the woman had been such an integral part of her childhood, it was as if a portion of her past had been stolen.

  “Dear me, I can’t credit my good fortune.”

  Juliette whirled to face the west side of the courtyard.

  Dupree.

  She couldn’t believe it. As fastidiously elegant as when she’d last seen him at the abbey, he was standing at the mouth of the walk and had clearly just come from the rear of the house. In one hand he carried a lantern and in the other a pistol. It was leveled at her heart.

  He took a step forward and smiled at her. “Life is truly extraordinary, is it not? And here I thought my pleasure was at an end. Would you like to tell me how I come to find you here?”

  Juliette didn’t answer.

  “No, I’ll not stand for disobedience from you again, Citizeness Justice.”

  “The marquise is my mother.”

  “And you believe your loving mother wished to share her treasure with you?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid she changed her mind and gave the Wind Dancer to me instead.” He nodded at the oak chest in the shadows. “Indeed, she entreated me to rid her of it.”

  “You lie.”

  “Oh, no. She knelt on the floor at my feet and kissed my hand and begged me to take the Wind Dancer. She offered me her body and any service I wished her to perform if only I would take it. Naturally, I could not refuse her.” He smiled reminiscently. “I let her pleasure me many times.”

  “You killed Marguerite.”

  “Four days ago. I had no use for her.” He tilted his head. “Tell me, are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would not believe another woman would journey here unattended, but then you possess a boldness I’ve not found in other females. Your mother, too, showed unusual courage. Would you like to see her? She’s in the dining salon off the veranda.”

  “Have I a choice?”

  “No.” He motioned with the pistol. “Into the house.”

  She gazed at him a moment, then turned and walked to the brass-bracketed front door and opened it. If she could keep Dupree talking, perhaps Jean Marc would hear and be warned.

  “Why did you put Marguerite into the fountain?”

  Dupree followed her into the spacious
foyer. “The stench. I realized I’d be here for a few days. There was no sense despoiling the air and making my stay unpleasant. You know, I’ve thought a good deal about you since we parted company. I truly valued our acquaintance.”

  “I understood you set a price on it.”

  Dupree chuckled as he nudged her with the pistol in the direction of the large salon to the left of the foyer. “What a clever child you are. Yes, I couldn’t bear to part company without attempting to have you returned to me. Tell me, what was the name of the chit who escaped with you?”

  Juliette didn’t answer.

  “Loyalty. What a splendid virtue. But I shall find her, you know. She left a trinket behind with an excellent likeness.”

  Juliette stiffened. “The locket?”

  “I only recently discovered the miniature, but on my return I shall find good use for it.”

  They entered the dining salon and Juliette paused just inside the door. She scarcely remembered this room. They had been there only a few months, and she had always been fed her meals upstairs in the nursery. The long, gleaming mahogany table was intricately carved in a floral design and the twenty mahogany chairs cushioned in crimson brocade. A handsome mahogany sideboard occupied one side of the room and a chest carved with the same artistry as the long table rested beside the two long doors opening onto the veranda.

  “Isn’t it a splendid room?” Dupree nudged her toward the doors at the far end of the room. “I’ve spent many happy hours here.” He set the lantern on the table and threw open the doors. “Come. Let’s look at this magnificent view of the town.” He pulled her out to stand before the low stone balustrade and Juliette stared down the steep, stony hill at the lights of Andorra some two hundred feet below.

  “Where is my mother?”

  He smiled at her. “Don’t you hear her? I do. Listen.”

  She heard nothing but the rustle of the wind through the pine trees marching down the hill.

  No, the rustle wasn’t coming from the trees but from the dining salon.

  She slowly turned her head and looked back toward the French doors.

  “Yes,” Dupree said softly. “She’s waiting for you.” His hand closed on her arm and he pushed her back toward the dining salon, stopping inside the doors. “Now, let your ears guide you.”

  The rustle came again, louder, closer.

  From the elaborately carved chest to the left of the veranda doors.

  The mahogany chest measured five feet long by four feet high and gleamed with dark beauty in the flickering light of the candle.

  The rustle came again, like autumn leaves blown by the wind.

  “Open it.” Dupree’s eyes fixed eagerly on her face. “She’s waiting.”

  Juliette swallowed and moved leadenly to stand before the chest.

  The rustle came again.

  Dupree motioned with the pistol.

  She slowly reached down and raised the lid.

  She screamed.

  She slammed the lid down.

  “What the—” Dupree’s strangled shout behind her jarred her out of the stupor of horror into which she had been hurled by what she had just seen. She whirled as Jean Marc, his arm around Dupree’s neck, dragged the man through the open doorway out onto the veranda.

  Dupree’s eyes bulged from his head as he attempted to get his breath. He tried to lift the pistol, but Jean Marc’s hand tightened around him and then jerked the pistol from his hand as he dragged him toward the stone balustrade.

  Dupree turned his head and glared at Jean Marc. “I’ve seen you before at the convention. You’re Andreas. I’ll remember you. I won’t forget—”

  “Remember me in hell.” Jean Marc pressed the gun to Dupree’s side and pulled the trigger.

  Dupree howled.

  Juliette shuddered. She had never heard anything like that cry, high, keening, an animalistic mixture of rage, fury, and frustration.

  Jean Marc lifted Dupree’s slight body onto the balustrade and rolled him over the edge.

  Juliette walked slowly to the balustrade and looked over the side. Dupree lay still and silent on the rocky hillside some thirty feet below.

  “Is he dead?” she asked haltingly.

  “If he’s not, he soon will be. He was bleeding like a slaughtered pig and that fall is enough to kill a man.”

  “He’s not a man, he’s a monster.” She closed her eyes. “I knew it at the abbey …”

  “The abbey?”

  “It was Dupree.”

  Jean Marc nodded jerkily. “I thought I recognized him. Marat must have sent him.”

  She nodded and opened her eyes. “My mother’s in that chest.”

  “I was afraid she was. I was on the veranda when I heard the two of you come into the salon and hid on the walk beside the house when he dragged you here.” His arms suddenly enfolded her and held her tightly. “I was afraid to try to overpower him while he had the gun pressed to your side. I had to wait until he was distracted.”

  Juliette’s arms hung limply at her sides, but they suddenly slid around Jean Marc to cling fiercely. “He wanted me to see her.”

  Jean Marc’s hands gently caressed her back. “Shh.”

  “She was always so beautiful. She’s not beautiful now …” Juliette shivered uncontrollably. “She’s lying there in that chest She’s naked and there are snakes and roaches crawling all over her. In her hair, in her mouth …”

  “Mother of God!” Jean Marc held her tightly, then gently pushed her away. “Will you be all right if I leave you for a little while?”

  Juliette’s eyes opened. “Where are you going?”

  “Your mother.” He turned and left the veranda.

  Juliette’s palms clutched at the rough stone balustrade as she heard the chest open again. She heard Jean Marc’s muttered oath and then the sound of movement.

  Ten minutes later Jean Marc came back to the veranda. “Come with me.”

  She gazed at him numbly for a moment and then let him lead her through the house and up the stairs. “Where are we going?”

  He opened the door at the head of the stairs. “I want you to look at your mother.”

  “No!” She tried to pull away. “Not again. I don’t—”

  “Look at her!” He jerked her into the room and grasped her shoulders from behind. “Dammit, I don’t want you remembering her the other way for the rest of your life. You have enough hellish memories now.”

  Her mother lay on the bed covered by a white silk sheet. Her lids and mouth were closed and though her face was gaunt it held a peaceful expression. She must certainly have yearned for death these last days, Juliette thought dully.

  “How did she die? The snakes?”

  “The snakes were harmless,” Jean Marc said. “He stabbed her.”

  “Oh.” She should do something but she couldn’t think what it was. “Burial. I’ll have to go to the priest and arrange for—”

  “No.” Jean Marc shook his head. “We can’t be found here. Just the fact that we’re French would encourage them to use any excuse to throw us into prison. We’ll stop at the church and leave a note and money for the priest with full instructions.”

  Juliette cast one more glance at her mother before turning away. “Whatever you think best. Can we go now?”

  Jean Marc hesitated. “In a little while. Just give me time to look for the statue.”

  “It’s in a chest in the courtyard,” Juliette said. “He was about to leave when we came. I think he’d just finished …” She had to stop and steady her voice. “I’d really like to go now, please.”

  Jean Marc took her arm and led her from the room, down the stairs, and out of the casa. “Go to the horses,” he said gently. “I’ll just check to make sure the statue’s in the chest and join you in a moment.”

  She nodded and crossed the courtyard, careful to avoid glancing at the fountain. Jean Marc joined her only a few minutes later and tied the chest containing the Wind Dancer on the back of the stallion.

/>   His gaze was concerned as he lifted her on the back of the mare.

  “Dupree’s dead.”

  Juliette shuddered. “Can evil like that ever die?”

  “Don’t think about him.” Jean Marc slapped her mare’s haunches with his reins and kicked his own stallion into a trot. “Don’t think about anything.”

  They rode half the night toward the coast.

  “We’ll rest here until daybreak.” Jean Marc lifted her down from her horse. “Merde, you’re cold. Why didn’t you tell me?” He wrapped her cloak more closely about her and then enfolded her in a blanket. “Sit here while I find wood for a fire.”

  “I didn’t feel cold.” Juliette huddled in the blanket still only vaguely aware of the cold wind cutting through her. It was nothing compared to her inward chill.

  The ground was stony, barren of vegetation, the night starless and bitter. She could hear the howling of the wind through the passes of the jagged blue-black mountains to the north.

  Dupree had howled like that when Jean Marc had shot him.

  “Come here.”

  She looked up to see Jean Marc standing before her. He opened his cloak and, for an instant, the wind caught it, forming flaring, hawklike wings.

  Black Velvet.

  He had looked like this the first time she saw him, she thought hazily. Then he was kneeling, taking her in his arms and enfolding her in the security of those wings.

  A little of the ice clawing at her eased and then melted away. “The fire …”

  “I’ll make the fire after you go to sleep. I think you need this now.”

  She buried her face in his shoulder. “She didn’t love me, you know. I was always in her way. When I was very tiny, every night before I’d go to sleep I’d say to myself ‘Tomorrow she’ll love me. Tomorrow …’ ” She shook her head. “The only reason she bore me was that she hoped to give my father a son.”

  Jean Marc tightened his arms about her.

  “I didn’t think she mattered to me any longer.” She fell silent, thinking about it. “But she must have meant something or I wouldn’t feel so … empty. I can remember her at court. She was so beautiful that everyone wanted to reach out and touch her. The queen kissed her hand and called her enchanting. I used to stare at her and wonder …”