The Ruby Pendant (30 page)

He stopped at
last and drew back, watching her. Her eyes were almost fever bright, her cheeks
were flushed and her hair had tumbled down about her shoulders in a silvery
cascade. She ought to have been affronted, but she was not; her head was tilted
back, the white arch of her neck inviting more. He could not let it go on, he
had to defuse the situation somehow.

`How did I
measure up to the impressive Mr Devonshire?' he asked, his smile pulling at the
scar on his cheek.

She felt
crushed and ashamed and angry too. 'There is no comparison,' she said flatly,
resuming her sitting position back against the wall. 'He would not have kissed
me like that.'

`Not even if
you asked for it?'

`I did not!'
she flared.

`No? Not in
words, perhaps, but it was there in your eyes. Your eyes will always give you
away, ma chèrie.'

She was silent,
angrily pummelling her bag to make a pillow. Then she lay down and closed her
eyes. If they were shut, then he could not read the longing in them, could he?
He had awakened her womanhood in a way that no one else had. That was why she
had clothed him in the mantle of Philip, she decided, to make him more
acceptable, more English. But Philip, the Englishman, or Philippe, the French
Captain, she knew it was the same man. Had fate been making fun of her, and the
reality was not in England but here, in France?

He sat down
beside her and covered her with his blanket. 'I am sorry, that was unpardonable
of me. Perhaps I am jealous.'

`Jealous?' Her
eyes flew open again. 'Of whom?'

`Why, the
gentleman in London.'

He was flirting
with her, playing a game. She laughed to cover her confusion. 'That is absurd.
Mr Devonshire has another love, he told me so.'

`He did?' he
queried, puzzled. How had she come by that idea? 'How ungallante of him.'

`Oh, it was my
fault, I was quizzing him. He said he was in love but could not marry, even
though Papa encouraged him to offer for me.'

`Did he? Make
an offer, I mean.'

`No, which
proves he had another attachment. Unless, of course, he found me unattractive.'

`Never that,'
he said. 'You are beautiful, he would have had to be blind not to see it.'

`Oh, what is
the point of talking about it? It is all in the past. I must learn to live in
the present and the present is here, with you.'

`And I am
second best, is that what you mean?'

`No, no, I did
not mean that. I meant...' She stopped. What had she meant? That she knew there
was only one man? If she said that, he would only deny it again. 'Oh, when it
comes to flirting, you are a master, aren't you?'

`It takes two
to do that.'

`Oh, we are
back to that are we? Now who is being ungallante?'

`I am sorry,'
he said softly. 'That was unforgivable.'

`I am glad you
realise it.'

It seemed there
was no more to be said. He lay down a foot or so away with his back to her and
pulled his cloak about him, pretending to sleep. She hitched herself up against
the wall to look down at him. He was right; it did take two and she had wanted
him to kiss her. 'Captain,' she said. 'I am sorry too.'

He turned to
face her, propping himself on one elbow. `Don't be. I should have known better
than to take advantage of you. I ought to be the strong one.'

`Oh, you are!
Immensely strong. And brave. Look how you rescued me.'

`You rescued
yourself. It was very resourceful of you.'

`But it was you
who thought to scatter the horses.'

`You untied
them, so it was easy. Now, go to sleep.'

`Will you
sleep?'

`Of course.'

`But you have given
me your blanket. Won't you be cold?'

`No.'

`But you would
be warmer under the blanket.' She lifted it to allow him to move closer and
share it. He put his arm about her and she lay down with her head on his
shoulder. It was disgraceful behaviour for a well-bred young lady, but she
could not see that the rules of convention were valid in this situation.
Besides, she was not a well-bred young lady, she was a love-child, which was a
much pleasanter term than bastard. She could hear his steady heartbeat against
her ear, could feel his warm breath on her forehead and felt secure. It was a
feeling she had not experienced since her childhood when she had always been
protected and cossetted by her papa.

`Am I really
such a wanton?' she murmured.

`No, of course
not, but you certainly know how to tempt a man.'

`Must I
apologise for that too?'

`No, I was
trying to find an excuse for my bad behaviour.'

`I think it
would be much better if we could always be honest with each other,' she said,
remembering that she had not been entirely honest either. He did not know the
true story of her birth. That was still an insurmountable obstacle. And so was
James. But she did not want to think about him. It would spoil the moment and
she wanted to savour it.

`Of course it
would,' he said, wishing it could be so. `Go to sleep, now. When it grows dusk
we must move on again.'

`There is too
much buzzing in my head, questions, puzzles, uncertainties, keeping me awake.
'Tell me about the comte and comtesse.'

`The comte was
a wise and good man,' he said slowly. `He did not deserve to die in that
dreadful fashion. He was prepared to adopt the new ways, to share his wealth,
but simply because he had a title, he was one of the hated aristos. Someone
denounced him. The whole family was arrested and taken to Paris for trial. It
was a travesty, as most trials were in those days. They were sentenced to
death, the comte, comtesse, their son Antoine and even the baby.'

`That was me?'

`Yes, you.'

`How did I
escape?'

`I know only
what I heard from others who were there. I was only ten years old myself at the
time, you understand?'

`Yes, go on.'

He smiled to
himself. The opportunity was heaven-sent. Now he could tell the true story
without her knowing that it was his lordship himself who had told him. 'You
were all being transported in a tumbril, which was how they took the convicts
from the prison to the guillotine; it was meant to humiliate them. The comte
and his son, who was the same age as me, stood together in the front of the
cart, with the comtesse behind them, holding her baby daughter in her arms.
There were huge crowds, all pressing in and shouting and being held at bay by
the prison escort. An English gentleman pushed his way through so that he was
walking alongside. He asked your mother to give the child to him and he would
take care of her. She handed you over. Of course, it was only rumour and most
people did not believe it could have happened that way, but the fact of the
matter is that the records show only three executions that morning, not four.'

`Do you believe
it?'

`The evidence
is in front of my eyes, Juliette. I do not doubt who you are.'

`What was my
mother like?'

`Beautiful.
Everyone loved her.' The more he told her, the more she realised that he was
who he said he was. But accepting that opened up a whole new set of questions
about Philip Devonshire. It was no good asking him because he would never
answer them.

`Are you sure
she did not know the Englishman? Could she have met him before that day? After
all, it is a strange thing to do to give your child away to a stranger.'

`But they were
all about to die. It gave you a chance of life, where before there was none.'

`I thought...'
She stopped. How could she tell him what Lady Martindale had told her? He would
be disgusted.

`What did you
think?' he asked softly. 'Did you think you were the child of the Englishman?'

She turned
startled eyes on. him. 'What made you say that?'

`This is where
all the questions are leading, isn't it?'

`Then do you
know?'

`I have no
proof, of course,' he said, picking his words with care. 'But you know you are
the image of your grandmother, the comte's own mother, the one whose portrait
the lieutenant copied. It was a famous portrait, everyone was talking about it
because it was such a good likeness. You, my dear Juliette, are a Caronne and
anyone who tries to tell you differently is either lying or mistaken.'

`Oh.' Why
hadn't she thought of that herself? It meant Lord Martindale was not her
natural father, but a very brave and benevolent man. As a child she had loved
him with an unswerving devotion and believed in his goodness; she should have
remembered that instead of condemning him. By running away, she had hurt him
dreadfully and subjected him to unfair gossip. 'I wonder, will he ever forgive
me?'

`The comte?'

`I was thinking
of Lord Martindale. But yes, the comte too, if he can look down and see me
now.'

`I am sure they
both do.' He paused, then went on. `Do you wish to return to England?'

`I thought I
did. I longed for it. But now, I am not sure. Except, of course, I should like
to see Papa again.'

Lying in his
arms, in the gloom of an animal shelter, with a keen December wind blowing in
through the cracks, she realised that it did not matter who she was or what his
name was. What mattered was that they loved one another.

`It is
difficult to explain,' she said. 'But since I have been in France, I have
learned that things are not always black and white, that people are not always
what they seem. It is the same sort of thing as you were saying about honour
and shame. Friend and foe cannot be decided by national boundaries. On this
side of the road, everyone is my friend and on the other, there are only
enemies and I must hate them. James, for instance, is no ordinary English
aristocrat, might even be my enemy, I have no way of knowing. And you...'

`Me?' He
affected surprise.

`I believe you
are...' Whoever he was and whatever he was, made no difference. She would go
along with his game of make believe until she discovered why he played it. 'You
are my friend.'

`Good. Promise
me, that whatever happens, you will always believe that.'

`Why? What is
going to happen?'

`Nothing bad, I
hope, but one can never tell. Now we have talked enough. Go to sleep.'

She slept, while he lay awake, wondering how much longer
he could keep up the pretence. He had been a fool to suggest dancing and an
even bigger fool to kiss her, but who could resist such temptation? There were
times when he was sure she had seen through him, when she hinted that she knew
him, but others when she appeared to accept what he said. She would not have
talked to him about Philip Devonshire if she had truly believed he was the same
man. How angry she would be when she finally learned the truth! But he would not
be there when she did; he could not return to England. He had to obey his
orders and that meant exile from the land he had thought of as home, ever
since, as a confused ten-year-old, he and his mother had landed at Dover with
Viscount Martindale. He had better try and keep his distance in future.

Chapter Ten

When Juliette woke, it was dark. He was already up and had
fetched water and risked a fire to boil it, so that she could wash. It was
another sign of his thoughtfulness, the way he anticipated her needs, but she
had long-since ceased to think of him as a coarse soldier. The young men she
had met and danced with in London paled into insignificance beside him.

Even her
feelings for Philip Devonshire, she told herself, were no more than the
immature longings of a schoolgirl. She had grown up. She had ceased trying to
compare the two men. It was as if, losing the first, a kindly Providence had
produced a second, alike and yet very different. Philippe was his own man,
stronger and yet gentler. Scar and bushy beard, beetle brows and quick temper
were infinitely preferable to smooth cheeks and an even smoother tongue. 'I do
believe that, under all that hair, you are a gentleman,' she told him.

`Why, thank
you, my lady,' he said, executing a mock bow and making her laugh. The sound of
her laughter lifted his own spirits and once again he found himself admiring
her fortitude. He must not let anything happen to her and the only way of doing
that was to part with her. And the prospect of that was breaking his heart.

`Why are you
looking so sad?' she asked.

`I am not sad,
chèrie,' he said, forcing himself to smile. `But we have a long ride ahead of
us and cannot afford to dally.'

They ate and
drank and left the hut to spend another night in the saddle. They stopped
occasionally to rest the horses, but when dawn came, he did not suggest taking
shelter as he had done the night before, but plodded on, along the river bank
towards Hautvigne.

She wondered if
he meant to leave her there after all and what her cousins would say about
that. Even knowing she had every right to be there, she did not want to go
back, but then they passed through Hautvigne, ignoring the track up to the
chateau, and took the road to Toulouse. It was strange, but now she was almost
sure she was totally French, she felt more English than ever; however their
slow, steady progress southwards seemed to preclude a return to England. The
strange thing was that she did not care. She was free of her bonds, free of the
hostile atmosphere at the chateau, free of the constraints that had been forced
on her by her place in London society, free to be herself, to love whom she
chose. And that was the man who rode beside her. It was easy to forget the
wider implications of a war she hardly understood, when she was riding beside
him through the quiet countryside that had not changed in hundreds of years.
There were acres of vineyards, boulder-strewn hillsides dotted with sheep,
small towns and even smaller villages, people going about their daily work,
children playing, none of whom spared them more than a cursory glance. It was
like a waking dream, this steady plod, without destination or meaning.