“Helping Louis Charles to escape could destroy you.”
“Not if it’s done correctly.”
“But why take the risk?”
“A whim.”
She shook her head. “Tell me, Jean Marc.”
He was silent a moment. “Because I don’t like the idea of a child being made the pawn of nations merely because of his birth.” He gazed intently at her. “And because I never again want to see you hurt and broken the way you were the day Marie Antoinette was guillotined.”
Hope spiraled into joy. “I wasn’t broken.”
His lips twitched. “No, not broken but certainly radically bent.” He made a gesture as if to sweep her from the room. “Now, go order my bath. I shall feel better able to cope with you and Catherine once I have the sleep washed out of my eyes.”
Jean Marc descended the stairs an hour later to find Juliette coming in the front door.
“It’s too late,” Juliette said cheerfully. “Catherine’s gone. I just sent her to the Temple in my carriage. You must go there if you wish to argue with her, but that would be very foolish.”
Jean Marc didn’t seem overly upset at the news. “What a clever move on your part,” he said calmly. “Then I’ll argue with you instead. Come join me for breakfast.”
“I’ve eaten already.” She followed him into the breakfast chamber. “It’s after noon. You should be having dinner instead of breakfast.”
“That’s not what we’re supposed to be arguing about. Let’s consider what good your presence can do here in Paris.”
“I can paint the fans. I can act as courier.”
“We’ve formed another network. You don’t know these people and they don’t know you.”
“That was intelligent. François said he suspected the Comte de Provence had an agent in the royalist group at the Café du Chat.” She frowned. “But you must not let the count know you’re aware of his agent or he’ll take other steps to block your attempts.”
“François hasn’t cut his ties with the group and goes to the Café du Chat frequently.” Jean Marc sat down at the table and put his napkin on his lap. “I know you’ll find it incredible but we did think of that possibility even without you.”
“No one knows?”
“Nana Sarpelier.” Jean Marc buttered a croissant. “I trust that meets with your approval?”
“Oh, yes.” Juliette’s brow knit in thought. “When do you plan on freeing Louis Charles?”
“As soon as possible. But we have to have help from inside the Temple. François has been trying to influence the couple who care for the boy.”
“The Simons. The queen said she thought he was only stupid, not cruel. Do you think there’s a possibility they might help?”
He shrugged. “Bribery wouldn’t be a factor. François says they’re fiercely loyal to the republic but seem fond of the boy.” Jean Marc took a bite of croissant and chewed it thoughtfully before he added, “There are a number of problems as I see it. First, getting the boy out of the prison. Second, out of Paris and past the barriers. Then, where does he go from there? Perhaps to Vasaro for an interim period, but he won’t be safe there for long. If we take the boy to his relatives in Austria, he’ll probably have a fatal accident before he’s free a year. If he goes to another monarchy, they’ll use him as a pawn.”
“No!” Juliette sat down across from him. “Both the king and queen told Louis Charles before they died that he mustn’t strive to get the throne back.”
“As I said, there are problems.” Jean Marc finished his croissant and reached for his cup of chocolate. “We haven’t formulated a firm plan to resolve any of them, but I’ve been working on a way to get the boy out of Paris that has a certain flamboyant appeal you might appreciate. That’s where I was last night.”
“Indeed?” she asked, intrigued. “How are you going to do it?”
“I think I’ll wait until Monsieur Radon’s finished before I divulge this particular plan.” He finished his chocolate, set down his cup, and patted his mouth with his napkin. “But you can see we’re working diligently on the little king’s behalf. Why don’t you go back to Vasaro and let us get on with it?”
She shook her head.
“I didn’t believe you’d agree.” Jean Marc stood up. “I suppose I must make the best of the situation. Come along.”
“Where?”
“Seven weeks, three days, and six hours,” he said softly. “It came to me while I was in the bath. It’s been a long time, Juliette.”
Too long. She could feel her heart start to pound just looking at him, at the high sheen of his dark hair, at the slightly wicked curve to his lips as he smiled at her. “Yes.”
“Let’s see, I’ve argued with you to no avail. You’ve robbed me of Catherine to try to persuade to reason. I see no way to impose my will upon you except the one you accept most readily.” He held out his hand to her. “Come to bed, ma petite.”
Her heart was now beating so hard she could feel its thunder in every part of her body. He had said he missed her and what she saw in his eyes must be affection at the very least. She smiled brilliantly as she placed her hand in his and said meekly, “As you wish, Jean Marc.”
“As I wish? When have you ever done as I wished?”
The sound of their laughter echoed from the high-arched ceilings as they ran up the stairs, down the hall, and into his chamber.
Jean Marc’s laughter vanished as soon as the door shut behind them.
At first Juliette didn’t notice his sudden sobering as she started toward the bed, her fingers fumbling at the fastenings of her gown.
“No.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and saw him taking off his pearl-gray satin coat.
“Don’t undress, Juliette.” His voice was soft, his gaze night-dark. “Not yet.”
She gazed at him uncertainly. “But you’re undressing.”
“Oh, yes.” He strolled forward and draped his coat carefully over the back of the blue and ivory tapestry-cushioned chair. “As quickly and expediently as possible.” He began to unfasten his white linen shirt. “But I’ve decided I don’t want you to do it.” He gestured to the chair where he had laid his coat. “Will you sit down?”
She crossed the room and dropped down on the chair he’d indicated, staring at him in bewilderment. “Jean Marc, you’re behaving very oddly.”
“Am I?” He stripped off the shirt and threw it aside. “Bear with me. It all has a purpose.”
She didn’t care a whit about his purpose. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to close her fingers on the dark, springy thatch on his chest, rub her palms on the smooth, hard musculature of his shoulders. “It’s been seven weeks, Jean Marc.”
He nodded. “Too long. I had a good deal of time to think.” He sat down on the bed, pulled off his left boot, and then tugged at his right boot. “About you, Juliette.”
Her hands closed tightly on the cushioned arms of the chair. Sweet heaven, he was beautiful. The sunlight streaming into the room bathed him in a golden glow, delineating each feature of his face, the tough, sinewy grace of his chest and shoulders.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I thought?” He tossed the other boot aside before he stood up again and quickly resumed stripping.
“Could we speak of this later?”
Jean Marc was naked now and she could feel heat suffuse her body as she looked at him.
He stood in the middle of the room, standing with legs slightly astride, lean buttocks tight, every muscle tense, his manhood boldly aroused.
She couldn’t breathe, the air in the room seemed heavy, vibrating with the same arousal she saw in him. She started to stand up and go to him.
“No.” He moved forward and pushed her gently back down in the chair. He dropped to his knees beside her chair, took her hands, and held them tightly. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“What?” He knew what she wanted of him, and it had nothing to do with him kneeling before her like a b
eautiful naked God come down from Olympus to seduce a mortal.
His gaze fastened intently on her face. “I want to give you something. I’ve always been the one who has taken. Now I want you to take.” His hands tightened on her own. “Use me, Juliette.”
Shocked, she merely stared at him.
He lifted her hand and placed it on his naked chest. She could feel the springy hair brush her flesh and the thunder of his heart beneath her palm. “I want you,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you more. It’s important that you know that.”
“Then, by all that’s holy, take me,” she said in exasperation.
The faintest smile tugged at his lips as he shook his head. “Tell me what you want. Do you want me to undress you?”
She nodded jerkily. “It would be an excellent start.”
He rose to his feet and pulled her up from the chair, his hands deftly undoing the fastenings at her neck. As his fingers brushed her flesh she inhaled sharply. Her gaze flew to his face, and what she saw there caused her heart to start to pound harder.
The golden olive of his skin was pulled taut with strain over his cheekbones, and his dark eyes glowed as they held hers. “Do you remember that first day in the cabin on the Bonne Chance?”
“Of course I do.”
Her gown fell into a pool of green silk about her feet.
His head lowered slowly and he placed his lips with the greatest gentleness on the exact place where her shoulder met her arm. “S’il vous plaît, Juliette.”
She shivered as his hands moved to the tie of her petticoat. She knew he was trying to tell her something, but the fever of need was rising and she couldn’t think,
The petticoats fell to the floor and his hands moved up to caress her breasts through the thin linen of her chemise, squeezing and releasing rhythmically. She made a sound low in her throat and closed her eyes as sensation after sensation rippled through her.
“I’ve been thinking about how you looked lying on the bunk on the ship, how brave you were at the Place de la Révolution. And I recalled the child I first knew at the inn at Versailles. I thought about how you told me you felt when you painted. Swathed in moonlight and sunlight …” As the last of her undergarments fluttered to the floor he whispered, “Drunk on rainbows …”
“Did I say that?” Dear heaven, that had been over five years before at the inn when she had first met him. “That was a long time ago. I’m surprised you remember.”
“I probably remember every word you’ve ever said to me.” His fingers moved down to pet and caress the curls surrounding her womanhood. “I’ve decided I’m jealous of your painting. I want to be the one to show you rainbows.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. “Pleasure. Pleasure so intense it’s close to pain. The way you feel when you’re painting.” He laid her on the black velvet spread, then followed her down and gently parted her thighs. He entered her slowly, carefully, until he filled her entirely. Her nails dug into the velvet coverlet. His very slowness and deliberateness was unbearably erotic and sensual. “Your pleasure, Juliette.”
And in the fevered hours that followed she came to realize that it was her pleasure alone of which he was speaking. He used his knowledge of her body and responses to arouse and sustain her pleasure at heights they’d never before reached in their months together. Time after time he roused her to a frenzy of passion and then gave her an equally fiery release.
But he never once allowed himself release, never permitted himself that final climax of passion.
Afternoon became evening and their coming together became less frantic but still urgent.
“Jean Marc …” She could scarcely speak through the hot haze of pleasure still surrounding her as she held him tightly within her body. “Why …?”
He looked down and his warm smile embraced her. “I told you once I’d learned to control my responses over the years of playing the game.” He leaned down and kissed her lingeringly. “I saw no reason why I shouldn’t use that control to bring you pleasure.”
And then, finally, she understood. He would probably never say the words, but this self-imposed restraint was an apology for all his past attempts to dominate and subjugate her. The tears stung her eyes as she looked up at him. Jean Marc truly must care for her if he would give up his blasted battleground and yield so much to her.
“Was it enough?” Jean Marc whispered.
She nodded. “Rainbows …”
“Then”—his voice was almost inaudible—“s’il vous plaît, may I take my own pleasure?”
Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “Please, Jean Marc.”
He moved swiftly, strongly, the expression on his face harshly contorted as if he were in pain. Perhaps he was in pain. The past hours of restraint must have been incredibly difficult for him.
Only a moment later he stiffened, throwing his head back, the cords of his neck distended, as shudder after shudder of release convulsed his body.
He collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in gasps. “Mother of God, I didn’t think I’d be able to do it.”
She didn’t see how he had done it. She gently stroked back a dark lock of his hair that had fallen down on his forehead. “Jean Marc, I believe you must be as idiotically noble as that crazy old Don Quixote in the Cervantes book. You didn’t have to—”
“Noble? Nonsense. Pleasure has nothing to do with nobility of the soul.” He moved off Juliette and lay down beside her. He drew her into his arms and held her close. He was trembling, shivering, as if he had been through a terrible ordeal.
“You think not?” Her arms slid around him and she held him possessively, protectively.
The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing.
“You’re sure it was enough?” Jean Marc asked when his breathing had steadied. “I wanted it to be another ‘something beautiful’ for you to remember.”
She nodded as she drew closer to his long, strong body. How could it not be enough? she wondered as she blinked back the tears. This surrender had been no easy thing for him. He had made himself vulnerable to her and at the same time given her his trust. “Oh, yes, it was, Jean Marc.” She pressed a loving kiss in the hollow of his throat. “Something very, very beautiful.”
The bitch was back.
Dupree felt the joy rise within him as he moved out of the shadows of the house across the square from the Andreas residence. His mother had been right as usual. Everyone was coming to him. The de Clement bitch had returned to her lover, Andreas. Even the Vasaro girl had arrived on the scene. If he wished, he could go to Robespierre and denounce both women—and Andreas for harboring them.
The power was sweet, heady, and he enjoyed toying with it for a moment before putting it reluctantly aside. Not yet. It had come to his attention in these weeks of watching the Andreas house that there was far greater power to be gained by holding his hand for a while.
He wiped the fluid running from his broken nose with a lace-trimmed handkerchief and limped down the street to the waiting carriage. His hip ached badly, as it always did after standing all day. Well, it wouldn’t go on much longer. He had found out all he needed to know to get both the Wind Dancer and the power he needed to maintain his position in his mother’s life.
The letter he had placed in the pocket of his coat that morning seemed to spread a glowing, comforting warmth while whispering of safety, riches, and revenge.
He opened the door of the carriage and carefully, painfully, pulled himself up the step and into the coach. “The Café du Chat,” he called to the man on the box. He didn’t bother to give the direction. The man had taken him to the café many times before.
Nana Sarpelier sat at a long table in the back room of the Café du Chat gluing sticks onto the painted rendering of the guillotining of Charlotte Corday, the murderess of Marat.
She looked up when Dupree came into the room. She involun
tarily recoiled, but recovered quickly. “Pardon, Monsieur. This is a work room. Customers are not served here.”
“I’m allowed here.” Dupree limped forward and dropped into the chair across the table from her. “I’m allowed to do anything I wish to do. Your friend Raymond Jordaneau sent me back here to see you. You’re Nana Sarpelier?”
“Yes.” She gazed at him warily. “Who are you?”
“Your new master.” His smile only twisted the left side of his face. “Raoul Dupree. Ah, I see you’ve heard of me.”
“Who hasn’t, Monsieur? Your fame during the massacres—”
“Don’t bother to pretend,” Dupree interrupted. “I’m well aware you’re an agent for the Comte de Provence.” He smiled as he saw her stiffen. “That frightens you, doesn’t it? Good, I enjoy fear in a woman.”
“You’re going to turn me over to the tribunal?”
“If I were, I’d not be here now.”
Nana gathered her composure. “That’s just as well. For naturally your accusation is entirely false.”
He shook his head. “I’ve been watching this café for many weeks. I knew almost at once that all of you here were royalists.”
Nana remained silent, gazing at him with no expression.
“You see, I followed François Etchelet here from Andreas’s house one night.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “And I asked myself what could be the connection between an official of the Temple and Jean Marc Andreas. You do know Andreas has the Wind Dancer?”
“Has he?” Nana placed another stick on the fan.
“I think you know. Then I asked myself another question. Who could have told Andreas that Celeste de Clemente had the Wind Dancer?” He smiled. “The queen, of course. My former employer, Marat, had always suspected the Comte de Provence had a group of royalist sympathizers here in Paris whose duty was to free the noblesse and the royal family. Pursuing that suspicion was going to be my next task after I returned from Spain.” He leaned back in the chair. “You can see how all the pieces fit together?”
“Very clever.”