Destiny's Kiss (10 page)

“I have learned someone wants me dead badly enough to pay well for my severed head.” He did not pause as she choked back a gasp. “The first ship I could book passage on is leaving for Philadelphia.”

“In America?”

“There is a large colony of
émigrés
there. They will welcome us until it is safe to return to France.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “If you wish,
ma petite
, I will have us divorced before the ship sails. Then you can remain here.”

She did not falter. “I do not want to leave you.” She did not add the rest of the words she longed to speak. Far away in America, far away from Madame Fortier, she might be able to win his heart as he had won hers.

“I hope you don't come to regret this decision,” he said as he closed the wooden box and lifted it.

“I hope so, too.”

Seven

A storm hung on the edge of the horizon, piling up gray clouds that were luring the sun toward them. By the wharves, the ships rocked to the waves that were rising in anticipation. The men lading the ships worked with a frantic air.

They could be no more frantic than Lirienne was to get aboard the ship that would be taking them to Philadelphia. The journey to the coast had left her nerves frayed. More than once, while they raced across the dark countryside, the carriage had turned off the road and into the trees to avoid what might have been pursuit. They could not trust anyone, so they slept during the day in the carriage while it was hidden behind an abandoned barn or in the woods.

Philippe had not said a single word to her since they'd arrived in Le Havre, and she guessed he was as eager as she was to put France behind them. Or was it something else? She had seen him glance at the municipal offices they passed. Did he still think of divorcing her and leaving her here? If he had, he had not slowed. She was still his wife, and she was going to travel with him on his journey to find a haven where he'd be safe until he could return to claim his birthright.

For the past hour, they had been trudging through the day's waning heat to reach the wharves. Philippe had had the coachman leave them near the edge of the city. He had urged Mercier to return without delay to the
duchesse
and help her guard the château and the
duc's
heir. The coachman had been whipping up the horses even as Philippe picked up the wooden box and handed her their small bag.

Now they crossed the uneven boards of the wharf. It alone separated them from the Atlantic that touched distant America on the far shore. She glanced at the prows of each ship, but none of them had
L'Étoile
painted on her.

She was concentrating so much on trying to find the ship that would allow them to escape from France that she almost stepped in front of a carriage. Philippe yanked on her arm, pulling her back out of the way. Around them, she heard growls of discontent as the carriage slowed. She was about to ask why when she saw all work had stopped. The stevedores stared at the fancy carriage which carried two men. One of the workers raised the hook he was using to guide the crates and shook it.

Philippe rushed her along the wharf past the carriage. When she saw him look back, she did, too. The carriage was surrounded by men.

“Philippe, if—”

With a tight smile, he put his finger to her lips. “Say nothing,
ma petite
.” He swore under his breath and shook his head. “The fools! They should know better than to come here in that coach.”

She nodded, understanding now why he had ordered the coachman to leave them blocks away from the port. She turned her head as she heard the shouts and did not hesitate when Philippe hurried her away. Guilt pinched her. If they did not help these poor men, the pair might be torn apart by the mob gathering on the wharf.

“Don't worry,” he murmured, as if he were privy to her thoughts. “From the looks of that coach, they are not of the nobility. The stevedores and the authorities will plague them for a while, then release them.” His jaw worked before he added, “They seek a finer class of blood to sate themselves with.”

Sweat edged Lirienne's palm as she locked her fingers around the bag's handles. That finer class of blood ran through Philippe's veins, and no one would believe that it did not also flow in hers. With her other hand in Philippe's, she said nothing as they walked toward the shadows drooping over the warehouses with the ending of the day. She scanned the wharf, although she had no idea what form trouble might take. Beads of perspiration stuck to her back. When her skirts dragged through mud, she did not lift them. It would disturb more of the odors hidden beneath the mire.

A man ran toward them. She bit her lip to imprison her scream. Philippe's fingers closed in a vise around hers, and she did not dare to breathe. The man scurried past, intent on whatever errand had brought him here. Slowly she released the breath cramping her chest.

Philippe squeezed her hand and gave her a crooked grin. He bent toward her, and she guessed he wanted to whisper some instructions to her. She turned her head so her ear might be under his lips. With a nearly silent chuckle, he brought her face up so he could press her lips to his own.

At their touch, which woke the unquenchable fire, her hand glided up to his shoulder as she stepped closer to his lean body. His moan of yearning sent joy through her.

He released her, saying, “Be brave,
ma petite
. We shall defeat these curs.”

“I hope so.

“Have faith.”

She nodded again. She trusted him to save her from the fervor of the rabid revolutionaries, as he already had. What she had seen in Paris was not what she had envisioned when she had heard rumors in the country about the uprising that would bring liberty and equality to all of them. She wondered, as she saw him glance around with an expression of disbelief, if he had had any idea how horrible the situation in Paris would be. How could he? He had been raised to a gentle life of music and flirtations and privilege.

Looking past the ships, she knew neither of them could guess what might await them when they stepped off the boat in America. In Philadelphia. She never had heard of the city before Philippe told her that was where they were bound, but when he had said the Americans had declared their independence from the English nobility in that city, she had dared to believe she might find her own there.

“Just stay close and do as I do,” Philippe whispered, tearing her from her hopeful thoughts.

He tugged her along the wharf. Their footfalls sounded a hollow tattoo on the boards. She almost cried out with relief when she saw a three-masted ship with
L'Étoile
written on the bow. Their ship! Their route to life and freedom from fear of the guillotine separating their heads from their shoulders.

“Halt there!” came a shout as they reached the bottom of the board leading up to the deck.

Lirienne stiffened.

In her ear, Philippe whispered, “Don't look so guilty. He's not talking to us.”

She looked up onto the deck to see the man who had spoken. He did not wear a uniform, but his officious manner made it clear he was some sort of harbor official. His hand was outstretched to a young woman who was regarding him with horror.

“But,
monsieur
,” the young woman lamented, “those are the only papers I have.”

“You cannot expect that I would allow you to use such royalist papers, do you?” He slapped a slip of paper against his other hand. “Perhaps I should call for the local authorities to speak with you, Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens, if that is your true name.”

“It is! I am Veronique Saint-Gaudens.” Tears flowed from her eyes.

Sympathy swelled in Lirienne. The slender woman, who must be close to her age, had no one with her, so Lirienne guessed she was traveling alone. “Philippe—” She turned, but he was gone.

She smiled when she saw him walking up the plank as if he had no cares. That pose did not deceive her, for she had seen it too often in the past week. He was furious at the rabble's mistreatment of their betters. That was the exact term he always used.
The rabble's mistreatment of their betters
. Even though he risked his life to step forward like this, he would not allow a young woman to be abused by this haughty official. Philippe might see nothing wrong with Madame Fortier tormenting her servants, but, like a knight of old France, he would rush to the aid of a maiden in need of help.

Climbing the plank in his wake, she fought the bouncing of the board to get to the deck just in time to hear him ask, “Is there a problem, citizen?”

The official eyed him, then smiled as he noted the low state of their clothes that were stained from their hard journey to the coast. “Nothing that need concern you, citizen.”

“This young lady—”

“Citizen,” he growled, “I said this is none of your concern.”

Before Philippe could speak again and chance infuriating the other man more, Lirienne cried, “Veronique, is that you?” She tried to walk across the swaying deck. Holding on to the railing, she managed it. She hoped her smile looked sincere. “I didn't know you were sailing with us. When we were coming along the wharf, I said, ‘Philippe, that must be Veronique,' and he said, ‘Lirienne, I believe you are right.'” She dropped her bag and flung her arms around the sobbing woman who was staring at her in amazement. She pulled the woman's head close to hers in the embrace and whispered, “Let us help you!”

The woman nodded and drew away, still holding Lirienne's hands. A smile wavered weakly across her lips. “I didn't see you! When Papa told me to look for friends on this ship, I had no idea he meant you and—”

“Philippe's eyes are so keen,” Lirienne hurried to say when Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens hesitated. “I should have known to listen to him.”

“When did you arrive in Le Havre?”

“A few days ago.” She dared a glance toward the official who was watching with a puzzled expression. When he opened his mouth, she hastily said, “We wanted to enjoy a short visit with the Moulins family before we sailed. When did you arrive here?”

“Last night.”

The official began, “Madame—”

“I wish I had known,” Lirienne replied as if she had not heard him. “You could have joined us last night.”

“If I had known, I would have been delighted.” The young woman wiped away her tears with a trembling hand.

“Madame—”

Again she cut the official off. “You know what an excellent cook Madame Moulins is. She made Philippe's favorite chicken. And the children. The little one is almost walking, and the older ones have their
maman's
pretty eyes. Little Jacques is already half as tall as Philippe. I do not doubt he will be as tall as his grandfather's vines, so he'll be a great help picking the highest grapes. It was—”

“Madame!” the official almost shouted.

Lirienne turned to him. “I'm sorry. I'm just so happy to encounter my dear friend Veronique. We haven't seen each other in several months.” Turning to the young woman, she added, “It is so good to be with you. I have so much to tell you.”

“I trust it can wait,” the official said tartly, “until I have cleared you to leave the country.”

“Yes, we're going to America.” Her stomach nearly lurched when she spoke the words she did not quite believe herself. Keeping her smile in place, she did not slow her chatter. She avoided looking at Philippe, because she could sense his smile. He would find her belittling of this self-important, most likely self-appointed official amusing. “Can you imagine? All the way across the ocean? I think I would like to visit New York and Savannah, too, Philippe. Maybe we can go to New Orleans. I understand they speak French there. Or Montréal in Canada. Or—”

“Sir, will you silence your wife, or must I?”

Philippe put a hand on her arm. “Forgive her. She is young, and she is very excitable.”

“So I see.” His shoulders grew rigid. “I will look at your papers as soon as I have an explanation from this young woman.”

“Is there some sort of a problem with Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens's papers, Monsieur—”

“Rimbaud.” He tapped his fingers against the page again. “I cannot allow anyone with such royalist papers to leave France.”

“May I?” Philippe held out his hand.

“
Monsieur
, I should not allow anyone else to see these.”

“Monsieur Rimbaud, Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens is my wife's dear friend.” He held out his hand again.

Lirienne was certain she saw something glitter on it, but the papers were handed over so quickly she might have been mistaken. When a hint of a smile curled Philippe's lips, she knew she had not been. His bribe had gotten them married. Now it might help this young woman.

For a moment, she lost herself in the fantasy of him mounted on a fine charger as black as his hair. He would wear armor like that in the gallery of the Fortiers' house. With a long lance in his hands, he would be the champion of the countryside, saving his vassals from harm and doing his liege's bidding.

She sighed. That part of France, a part that might never have existed except in the stories told around the hearth in the kitchen, was gone. The vassals wanted to determine their own lives, and the liege was dead, his blood spilled beneath the guillotine's blade.

Lirienne glanced at the paper Philippe held, although she had no idea what the swirling lines meant. When Philippe muttered something too low for Monsieur Rimbaud to hear, she wondered what he had discovered.

“Monsieur Rimbaud,” he said, his voice still nonchalant, although his hands clenched the page, “you must be able to see the problem.”

“I do. These passport papers are signed in the first year of the reign of King Louis the Seventeenth, not the first year of the Republic.”

Lirienne glanced at the young woman who again wore a frightened expression. Was she nobility like Philippe, trying to get out of France before she was sent to the guillotine?