Angel Hands (19 page)

Mireille had come back...wearing his ring.

But that could mean anything. She was a moral woman who held herself strictly to her principles. Her return might be nothing more than piety and duty. The thought was bitter.

"Have you ever given madame flowers?" Pierre asked.

"I gave her an opera house," he answered automatically.

"Try flowers," Pierre advised, getting to his feet and brushing off his clothes. "They're cheaper."

25. Of Battles and Wars

Mireille paused, her pen poised above the paper. She could not shake the feeling that she was being watched.

It wasn't that she didn't expect to be watched. Why else would...her husband...build trapdoors and secret passages everywhere if not to watch her and every other soul in the place?

No, what bothered her was that there seemed to be no point to his spying. After the brief, tempestuous interlude with Raymond's visit, three days ago, everything had gone back to being as it was. Mostly.

She saw her husband briefly at breakfast, where they spent no more than ten minutes drinking coffee and discussing the day's agenda. She brought him lunch and received further instructions or changes to his orders. She dined alone in the sitting room attached to her bedroom, and at precisely a quarter-to-nine, her husband knocked on the door. She would bid him enter, and they spent precisely fifteen minutes discussing the business of the day. At nine o'clock, he would bow and bid her goodnight, then leave.

He was as punctiliously polite to her as she was scrupulously civil to him. Occasionally, he would call her “
ma petite horloge
” in an attempt to rile her by reminding her that she was both his wife and his pocket watch, and that he would scrupulously keep tabs on both. Other than that, nothing seemed to have changed at all.

Yet, Mireille swore she could see new lines of tension in the way he held himself. His gaze had always been somewhat disconcerting, but now, he seemed to devour her with his eyes. It was more than desire, though. There was an element of confusion in his way of studying her.

With a sigh, she set the pen down and rubbed her eyes. Her head had been aching all day, and now, she felt chilled to the bone. It was getting on for five o'clock and darkness still crept in around this time with the chill of early spring. Perhaps a cup of tea would help revive her for another two hours of work. Or, perhaps she would allow herself a bit of rest this evening. There was not a day she had not worked since coming here, and though there was some gratification in seeing the building come to life again through her efforts—well, hers and her husband's—she had been feeling uncommonly exhausted the past few week.

Certainly, Raymond's ill-omened visit had not helped matters, stirring up pointless yearnings and futile hopes that had left her with sleepless nights and tense days.

Did she love Raymond Lefebre? There was no clear answer for this thousandth repetition of the question. Perhaps, she was guilty of the same fault she had accused him of in that she loved the idea of what he represented more than she loved the actual man. He was security, comfort, and care. She was his damsel in distress, and how easy it would be to let him be her knight! But, the easy thing was very rarely the right thing, and she knew she would not be happy if she broke her marriage vows, even if she could not remember making them.

Mireille folded her arms on the desk and rested her head on them. She was so tired, and her body was sore from sitting so long.

There were still so many things to worry about and to do. She was still trying to figure out what exactly her husband was up to in setting up this opera house. Was this another grand ploy to ensnare Kristin? She doubted he'd have the same scruples about abandoning their marriage. Not if he could have what his heart desired.

She shivered and struggled for a deep breath. Her corset felt too tight.

"Are you well, my dear?"

His voice startled her, and she pushed herself back to sitting upright.

"Yes," she said coolly. "A bit tired, that is all."

Mireille sensed him standing just behind her chair, but didn't bother to look around.

"Is there something you wanted?" she asked.

"Are you unhappy?"

The question struck her as so odd, so out-of-the-blue, that she was speechless for a moment.

"I...I am too tired to be much of anything at the moment," she replied finally, trying to rally her energy and her wit. "Perhaps, I shall retire early this evening. With your permission, of course," she added, unable to hold back her sarcasm.

The silence behind her felt heavy and uneasy. She jumped at the black-gloved hand that extended itself to her.

"Allow me to escort you to your rooms, then," he said, his voice neutral but gentle.

Without meaning to, she found herself forced to use his hand for real support as she pulled herself to her feet. Her body ached and was unaccountably weak. She squeezed her eyes shut against her pounding head.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, silently giving her the physical support she was loath to ask for. He moderated his long stride to match her slower pace as he guided her back to their quarters at the rear of the opera house.

By the time they reached her door, she was shaking slightly from the cold that gripped her bones. He opened the door and led her inside to her room.

"Damn it all to hell," she swore when she saw there was no fire laid on.

"Language, Mireille," her husband corrected, a slight hint of humor in his voice, but she was too tired to look up and see if he was actually smiling. She was too tired to care.

He helped her over to a low sofa before the fireplace and gently settled her onto it. Without a word, he turned and bent to the hearth. In moments, he had the start of a fire going.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Mireille stared at the fire, willing it to burn faster and hotter so she could warm up. He went over to her bed and brought back a blanket, draping it lightly around her shoulders.

She looked up at him, his imposing figure silhouetted by the growing blaze behind him.
Bon Dieu
, even with the blanket, she was so cold!

He tugged off his glove and laid the back of his hand against her forehead for a fleeting moment before pulling off his other glove and tossing them down beside her. He knelt before her, his expression as blank as his mask.

She gasped when he pressed his hands to her cheeks and reached around to touch the back of her neck.

"You have a fever," he said, rising and striding across the room to her bed. He flicked back the covers.

"I am simply tired," Mireille said. "I will be well after a good night's sleep."

He made no reply and came back over to add another piece of wood to the fire.

"Come," he said, grasping her gently by the arms and lifting her to her feet. "You should get into bed."

"I need to undress," she protested as he guided her away from the fire. "Please ring for my maid."

His expression darkened, and she feared he would make some ridiculous objection or attempt to seduce her now, of all times. Instead, though, he nodded and pulled the bell for her maid, then helped her sit down on the bed.

He stood before her, looking down at her, his face inscrutable. She found she didn't care. She was just tired. Tired of puzzles, conundrums, and secrets. She was tired of plots, ploys, and obsessions. She wanted to get warm and sleep.

Her maid arrived, and with a quick bow, her husband left them.

The last thing Mireille saw, as she sank into an uncomfortable slumber, was the tiny glass vase of blooming purple heliotrope on her bedside table. Strange...she thought...heliotrope meant faithfulness...

***

He was not surprised when Mireille did not join him for breakfast. Whether she had been truly ill or just tired the night before, it was clear that his wife was in need of a great deal of rest.

It was strange that he had never really thought of her as needing rest. She had always seemed so driven, so like him. He hardly ever slept.

Seeing her slump down at her desk had shaken him. He frowned. Too many things of late, about Mireille, had shaken him. He did not want to feel as though he had to worry about her so much. It was an inconvenience, no doubt, and it put his entire plan at risk to have her be at anything less than peak performance.

He sighed as he stirred his coffee. This was supposed to have been much simpler. They should have worked together to restore the opera house by day, and taken solace in each other's bodies by night. Eventually, the productions would become renowned, and Kristin would not be able to resist coming to see. Though the fire of his love for her burned low now, he believed that once he heard her voice again, the hard coal of his heart would blaze bright and white hot once again. He would abscond with Kristin, conveniently faking his death so as to leave Mireille comfortably independent as a widow of means and sole possessor of the Opéra de Versailles. He had thought it a most generous plan, one which benefitted them all—well, all except that meddling fop of a husband of Kristin's...and now, he added the meddling artistic director Raymond Lefebre to that list of people who would not benefit.

Yet, perhaps he would, for if Mireille was free once more, there would be nothing to stop them from marrying. He would have Kristin, and Mireille would have her Raymond. And, Raoul would still be left all alone. That part never failed to please him.

He would come to Kristin an experienced lover, skilled enough to make her forget the boy, and in the meantime, Mireille would receive the fruits of his education.

Really, he had devised a most considerate arrangement.

But, here he was, months away from opening night, with a wife who wanted nothing to do with him, and a true love that seemed more unreachable than ever. When had it all gone so wrong?

He sipped his coffee.

It came down to Mireille, he concluded, and her unexpected ingratitude that he simply could not puzzle out.

There was a knock at the door of his study, and Mireille's maid entered, bobbing a curtsey.

"Beggin' your pardon, monsieur," she said, her eyes skittishly glancing everywhere but him. "But, perhaps you should come look at madame. I fear she is very ill. She might need a doctor, I'm thinkin'."

Silently, he rose and followed her back to Mireille's room. Inside, the air was warm but not stuffy, for one window had been cracked open. In the middle of the bed was a small hump under a pile of covers with only a few slender fingertips peeking out.

"Madame, please," the maid said, rushing over and trying to pull the covers off. "You are burning up and must cool down!"

"S-s-so c-c-cold," Mireille chattered, pulling herself into a little ball.

For a moment, all he could do was stare at her. She looked so unlike the Mireille who played the role of Madame de la Persie. In her simple white night shift, with her honey-colored hair unbound, she reminded him of the times he had seen her without the armor of corsets, hoops, and buttons. This was the wild Mireille who swore and threw china around in his lair under the opera. This was the Mireille who had fought him at La Maison Cardinal.

This was not an opera house manager, but a vital, vulnerable young woman who hid herself away as much as he ever had.

The revelation staggered him.

"B-b-blanket, p-please!" Mireille begged her maid, shaking hard.

"Madame, no," the maid replied tearfully. "I'm sorry, but we must cool you down."

Then the unthinkable happened.

Mireille began to cry.

He hadn't realized he was moving until his hands felt the dampness of her sweat-soaked hair and the burning heat of her skin as he took her in his arms. This wasn't the fearsome warrior Amazon he flung words and innuendos back and forth with. This was a very real woman suffering from a foe impervious to words and blows. She shook violently against him, at the same time burrowing into his chest as if to draw out his warmth.

"Oh, no!" she gasped and flailed about, struggling to get out of his grasp. "No, oh—" She stuffed her fist into her mouth and wriggled harder against him, straining for the edge of the bed.

He felt the muscles of her stomach contract beneath his hands and instantly understood. The maid was right there with a basin, and he held Mireille as she retched and heaved, casting up nothing but a pitiful little bit of bile.

Gasping, she collapsed, heavy and limp, in his arms. He saw the spots of high color on her cheeks and the ashy color of her lips.

He realized that Mireille was in far worse shape than anyone suspected. For her fever to have progressed so quickly meant something was very wrong. He suspected a virulent infection was moving through her system. If her fever was not brought down soon, she could very well die in the next few hours.

The thought stunned him.

His Mireille could die. He could lose her...before he had ever had her. Desperation and fear slithered through his veins. No, it could not end like this. Their game was not over. He had not yet won her willingness...and she? She had not won...he paused, realizing that he truly did not know what she hoped to win from their war. It was not an opera house of her own. That much was brutally clear now.

Vibrant, vicious Mireille lay almost unconscious and shuddering in his arms, her eyes fluttering open every so often to look up at him, yet failing to register any recognition. His heart seized in a spasm of pain at the thought that those hazel eyes could close without ever flashing their brilliance or rage at him again.

Pain drove him to clarity, and clarity to action.

"Fetch Buprès," he ordered the maid.

In a flash, Pierre stood before him as he gently cradled his wife.

"I assume that, by now, you know how to break into my safe?" he asked blankly.

"Which one, monsieur?"

He almost laughed. "The one in the wine cellar."