Rendezvous (9781301288946)

  Too weary to resist Paulette's insistence, Belle accepted the glass and set it down on top of a small shelf affixed to the wall. By pretending she would take the laudanum in a few minutes, she managed to be rid of Paulette at last, encouraging the woman to take the air on deck.

  As the door closed behind Paulette, silence settled over the cabin, as heavy as the weight of memories pressing upon Belle's heart. She stretched out on the hard cot, flinging one arm across her eyes.

  How strange it all was. After a lifetime of being haunted by thoughts of Jean-Claude, Fate should decree that their paths cross on this particular day, a day in which he had not once entered her mind, a day in which she had admitted to feeling desire for another man.

  What must Sinclair be thinking of her now? Again she had told him more than she had ever intended. Even he had looked a little shocked when she informed him about the divorce. But there had been no censure in his eyes. He would have drawn her into his arms if she would have let him, and for a brief second the temptation had been great.

  But what a mockery that would have been for both of them—to wail out her grief for her lost love against Sinclair's strong shoulder. For she did still grieve for Jean-Claude, perhaps more so than if he had died.

  The feeling angered, frustrated and shamed her. Obviously, Jean-Claude had managed to rebuild his life and remarry. Doubtless his bride had been some winsome English lass of gentle birth, not the mongrel daughter of a second-rate actress from Drury Lane.

  And now he was a widower, but with a sweet-faced little son to bring him consolation. A son that might have been hers if things had been different.

  Groaning softly, Belle rolled onto her stomach. Her gaze fell upon the laudanum Paulette had left. With such agonizing thoughts to torment her, even sleep with all its attendant nightmares seemed not so bad. Against her will, Belle reached for the glass.

  The Good Lady Nell shuddered, her prow sluicing gracefully through the choppy channel waters. Overhead the sails snapped and billowed in the stiff breeze. The brisk wind had long since driven most of the passengers below except for the three men who ranged themselves along the deck and watched the outline of the distant shore emerge ever more sharp and clear.

  Sinclair perched atop a barrel lashed to the deck, his easy pose belying the tension knotted between his shoulder blades. Through a haze of smoke from his cheroot, he divided his time between keeping an eye on Lazare and studying Jean-Claude Varens.

  Varens stood alone by the deck rail, his fine-chiseled features suffused with an expression of melancholy. Despite the simplicity of his dark suit and high-crowned beaver hat, something in the comte's dignified carriage would ever mark him as an aristocrat, one of those noblemen who positively reeked of virtue, duty, and honor.

  Sinclair tried to picture Belle as Jean-Claude's wife, tried and failed. She had too much strength, too much vitality to be wed to a dull dog like that. Yet it appeared to be Varens who had ended the marriage, and Belle the one who still grieved.

  Sinclair wished that Belle had not bared so much of her heart to him that morning. She might come to hate him for that, making their relationship more awkward than it already was. And there was some of her private pain he did not wish to know. Bad enough that he desired the lady beyond all reason. He didn't need her stirring any deeper emotions inside him.

  Yet it was his task to discover all that he could about her, to decide if she was the one passing information to Napoleon. But the assignment was beginning to leave a more bitter taste in his mouth than a stale cigar.

  With a heavy sigh, Sinclair abandoned his lazy pose. Striding to the rail, he flung his cheroot into the churning waves. It was then that Lazare made his move. Out of the corner of his eye, Sinclair watched with some surprise as Lazare approached Varens.

  Jean-Claude gave a start as though rudely awakened. Sinclair expected that the comte would snub any effort at conversation, sending Lazare on his way with a chilly dismissal. Instead, Jean-Claude made a stiff bow. Although he looked somewhat apprehensive, he listened courteously to what Lazare had to say.

  A passing acknowledgment between travelers meeting by chance on the same vessel? Sinclair wondered. He wished he could inch close enough to hear what was being said without attracting attention, but that was impossible. It didn’t matter anyway, for Lazare had finished his remarks. With a brisk nod, he moved on and Varens returned to staring over the side.

  How strange, Sinclair thought, his eyes narrowing. Strange indeed now that he happened to think about it—that Belle's former husband should sail to France on the same ship as she.

  Belle would doubtless dismiss Sinclair's concern with an impatient shrug. A bizarre coincidence, she would likely say.

  "There's only one problem, Angel," Sinclair murmured. "I don't much believe in coincidence."

  Relieved when Etienne Lazare stalked away from him, Jean-Claude directed his gaze toward the approaching shoreline. The sea spray misted against his cheeks, but some of the salt droplets originated from his own eyes. His beloved France. How he had ached for this day when he would once more gaze upon the only land he could ever call home. Yet the time had arrived and his vision blurred with tears. All he could see was her face. Isabelle, the woman he had once cherished as his wife.

  The shock of seeing her again had been enough to kill him. Time had changed her so little, her face yet blessed with that radiance, that purity which had once captured his heart. It touched him even now when he knew the painful truth about her.

  She was so beautiful. He had forgotten how much so. No, he lied. He had never forgotten. Isabelle's image had been ingrained upon his soul even when he had sought life anew in the arms of the gentle Lady Sarah Belvoir. God forgive him, even when he had laid his poor Sarah to rest in the churchyard, his thoughts had been of Isabelle, wondering if she yet lived.

  And now he knew. Isabelle was very much alive and recently married to that darkly handsome man with the mocking eyes. Jean-Claude should at last be able to put her out of his heart, concentrate only on his return to France, the purpose that drew him back.

  But he could not. The pain that she had caused him, the years of separation, even the knowledge that she now had another husband—one look at her and none of that seemed to matter. Jean-Claude buried his face in his hands. God help him, he still loved her.

  What was that fool Varens doing? Lazare wondered as he studied the comte's trembling shoulders. Shivering with cold or weeping over his return to France?

  "Bah!" Lazare snorted. "What a weakling!"

  Why had he ever bothered to seek out Varens? The man would likely prove useless for the role Lazare had in mind. Lazare's gaze shifted to the companionway that led to the cabins. He knew which door Belle sheltered behind. Might it not be better even now to slip below and make an end? He fingered the hilt of the knife concealed beneath his cloak. Perspiration beaded his brow as he thought of pressing the sharp tip to Belle's slender white throat, the point breaking through the skin, slicing in a slow arc, the rivulets of her warm blood trickling over his fingers.

  A shiver of ecstasy coursed through him, stirring an ache deep in his loins, but he forced his hand away from the knife. He had waited too long for his revenge to finish it that quickly, that easily for Belle. And that Carrington fellow was watching him again.

  "Stare all you like, Englishman," Lazare muttered, self-consciously touching a hand to his scarred flesh. "In a month's time the maggots will have devoured your eyes."

  And as for the Avenging Angel—Lazare sneered—she would count herself blessed if her own death came so swift as the one Lazare envisioned for Carrington. Because Lazare had far different plans for Belle, a vengeance more subtle and sweet. She herself had given him the key to it, that long ago night when her fever had raged. In her delirium she had cried out her terrors of being locked away in the Conciergerie, of mounting the steps to the guillotine, of her despairing love for Jean-Claude Varens.

  "So rest while you may, ma belle." Lazare's
mouth tightened with grim satisfaction. "I am about to make all of your worst nightmares come true."

  Paulette's laudanum took effect. Oblivious to the rocking of the ship and the three men who stalked the deck above her, Belle slept.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The drums pounded in Belle's head. Like marionettes, the soldiers' stiff arms rose and fell, beating out the steady rhythm. They kept step beside the rough wooden tumbril creeping through the streets, bearing the latest cache of victims to the guillotine's relentless blade.

  Tossing on the cot, Belle moaned, trying to pull herself out of the dream. But the webbings of nightmare held her fast, as tight as the cords that seemed to bind her hands.

  She was not a spectator. This time it was she who stood braced against the jolts of the cart, her arms bound behind her as she stared out over a sea of jeering faces that had lost all trace of humanity. Gaping mouths, burning eyes, their features were indistinguishable except for the man who stood a little apart, gentle and solemn, untouched by the hatred of the rabble surrounding him.

  "Jean-Claude! Jean-Claude!" Her throat muscles ached with the effort of trying to call to him, but the drums sounded louder, drowning out her cries. The cart lurched to a stop, and rough hands seized her, dragging her to the ground. She strained toward her husband, but Jean-Claude had turned, about to vanish into the crowd.

  "Jean-"

  "Belle!"

  This time her cry was cut off not by the drums, but by someone shouting her name.

  "Belle! Wake up!" The hands gripping her shoulders gave her a brisk shake.

  She felt herself slipping back into the midst of the mob, but the deep male voice, so familiar, so insistent, snapped the tenuous threads of the nightmare. With a gasp, Belle jerked to a sitting position. Forcing her eyes open, she struggled to focus on the person perched on the edge of the cot, bending over her.

  Glossy black hair tumbled over a furrowed brow, anxiety mirrored in dark-fringed eyes of crystalline green. The mouth that should have been smiling with its customary lazy good humor was not.

  "Sinclair?" she said thickly.

  "Yes, I am right here, Angel."

  The simple words had a strange effect on her. She flung her arms about his neck, burying her face against him, drawing comfort from the unyielding hardness of his shoulder. He felt so solid, so real after the phantom images of her nightmare.

  His arms closed about her, strong and steadying. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he rested his chin against the top of her head, gently rocking her.

  "It's all right, Angel," he murmured. "You are here, safe with me."

  Belle released her breath in a tremulous sigh. Yes, but where was here? Her mind yet hazy with sleep, she turned her head enough to study the room through bleary eyes. She took in the swaying lantern, the trunks propped against the wall, the empty glass tumbled upon the floorboards of the cabin aboard the Good Lady Nell.

  Memory flooded back to her, of waiting on the dock, finding the little boy, seeing Jean-Claude, telling Sinclair—

  Sinclair! With a jolt, she realized how she clung to him like a frightened child. She struggled to break free. He attempted to soothe her, but she wrenched out of his arms. Her head swam so dizzyingly she was obliged to sink back flat on the cot.

  With a low groan, she covered her face with her hands. It was the cursed laudanum. That was what was causing her to feel so weak and to behave so strangely. She'd be damned if she would ever touch the stuff again. The brief peace it had brought her was not worth the self-loathing she now felt.

  She noticed Sinclair's weight shift from the cot and thought he had left her. But he returned to her side in a minute. Pulling her hands down, he dabbed a cool, damp cloth upon her brow.

  "Don't!" she said, twisting away from him. "I am not ill. I was only having a nightmare."

  "I know," he said softly. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

  "No!"

  She thought her blunt refusal brought a flicker of hurt to his eyes, but in the dim light it was hard to tell. He looked unconcerned enough as he straightened. "Well, perhaps some other time."

  "How long have I been asleep?" she demanded.

  "The entire crossing. We are anchored at Le Havre. When you did not come on deck, I grew concerned and came below to check on you.”

  And found her raving in her sleep like a madwoman. With another groan, Belle managed to sit up and roll her legs over the side of the cot. She made a futile attempt to smooth her hair, imagining how disheveled it must be, what dark hollows she must have beneath her eyes. She hated Sinclair seeing her this way. All her life she had made it a practice to conceal her hurts, her weaknesses from the scorn of the world. Yet in the last twenty-four hours, how much of her inner self had she paraded before Sinclair? She felt stripped naked in front of the man.

  It only made matters worse when Sinclair noticed the empty glass on the floor. He picked it up, sniffed it and tasted some of the dregs with one finger to his lips. Although he frowned, he said nothing.

  Belle felt as though she could not face his contempt or his pity, but she had never learned to spare herself. Slowly she got to her feet and looked him full in the eyes, but found only understanding, an understanding that seemed to delve into the depths of her soul.

  It alarmed her even more than the physical attraction she felt for Sinclair. She had spent too long building the wall about herself to have it so easily breached. Quickly she averted her gaze.

  "Where is Paulette? I would have thought she would be the one to come down and wake me."

  "She was ogling the sailors as they launched the longboat." Sinclair hesitated and then added, "All of the other passengers have already been set ashore."

  Belle supposed that was Sinclair's kind way of telling her that Jean-Claude was already gone. Belle felt the familiar tug of loss, but suppressed it. What difference did it make? It was not as though she and Jean-Claude had anything more to say to each other, at least nothing that he would care to hear.

  She drew herself up, groping for her dignity, that mantle of pride which had stood her in such good stead all these years.

  "It is time we were going ourselves. Get Lazare down here to help with the trunks. As soon as we are ashore, we will want to see about hiring a carriage,"

  "Belle." Sinclair stopped her as she moved toward the door, his hands resting on her shoulders. He turned her to face him.

  "There is no need for such haste. We could linger a day or two at Le Havre, give you- give both of us some time to recover and lay our plans."

  She refused to look up at him, but she saw his hand move and knew that he meant to caress her cheek. She felt so empty and aching inside. God, how she wanted Sinclair's touch—no, needed it.

  For that very reason she shied away, refusing to let him come any closer. "No," she said. "Two days from now I intend to be in Paris."

  Belle backed out of the cabin, slamming the door closed between them.

  Paris- that city of broken dreams and shattering nightmares. How many years ago had it been that Belle had crept through its gates, her meager possessions bundled in a shawl, her heart thudding when she thought of how narrowly she had escaped from the dank confines of the Conciergerie, that last stop on the journey to the guillotine. She had paused but once outside the walls surrounding Paris, vowing never to return and so risk her life again.

  Yet here she was. Belle's lips curved into a self-mocking smile as she braced herself against the sway of the coach. Whoever said that wisdom was supposed to come with age? Well, she had survived seeing Jean-Claude again. She would survive the return to Paris as well. She had never yet heard tell of anyone being slain by a memory.

  Paris seemed to press in about her, the eternal din of the city assaulting her ears, vendors crying their wares, newspaper hawkers bellowing out the headlines, workmen's hammers clanging, donkeys braying.

  She stared out the window, every rut, every crack of the Rue St. Honoré as familiar to her as if she had ridden down
it just yesterday. The street threaded through a narrow canyon of tall buildings, the smoke from the chimneys hanging in the air like a blue mist, the houses the same mad jumble of architecture, turrets, gables and neoclassic all crammed side by side. Little had changed except that she noted that No. 17 appeared unoccupied. The five-story dwelling had housed the flat she had shared with Jean-Claude those few happy days they had known together, before the Revolution had turned into a reign of terror, before he had discovered her secret.

  But the timber frame structure now wore an air of dilapidation, the windows broken or boarded over. It was somehow appropriate. In that house all her dreams had died. Gazing upon it was like viewing an open grave, and she was quick to avert her eyes.

  "Have we nearly arrived at this Baptiste's?" Sinclair's voice startled her. She had thought him asleep. Weary from the journey, he had hardly roused himself even when they had passed through the barrière in the thick wall that surrounded Paris. She turned from the window to find him sitting up on the seat opposite, wincing and rubbing his leg, cramped by the narrow confines of the coach.

  "It is not much farther," she assured him.

  "Good. I may never be able to straighten again." Flexing his arm muscles, he bestirred himself, leaning forward to peer out the same window as she did. In doing so, his shoulder brushed up against hers. She was quick to draw back. When she had slammed the cabin door between them, she had attempted to erect an invisible barrier as well, keeping Sinclair Carrington at arm's length, suppressing all response to his penetrating eyes and that seductively soothing voice.

  If Sinclair noticed her reaction to his closeness, he made no comment upon it. Instead, he lowered the window glass to obtain a better look, and then grumbled, "These streets are crawling with French soldiers."

  "Well, we are in France, Mr. Carrington," she reminded him. But she took another look for herself and saw that he was right. Caught up in her own memories of Paris, she had failed to notice one very obvious change.