Love's First Light (21 page)
Blood.
Her footsteps soundless, she glanced about for some sort of weapon. Reaching the main landing, she groped around until her fingers closed on a familiar item. A poker near a fireplace. She grasped it firmly in hand, and then headed up to the second story, the stairs now very grand and curving. She pictured the balls and soireés, the social events they might have had here. Lovely women in ornate dresses. Men in tailcoats and intricately knotted cravats, enchanted by the St. Laurents and what must have been a picture-perfect family. Stacia felt a stab of sadness imagining the place in all its glory. Now it seemed little more than a huge, echoing tomb.
She reached the second story and crept across the grand foyer, then down a wide hall. Rounding a corner she saw a flickering light. Someone was inside that room.
There was no sound, just the pale light and the feeling that whoever was in that room, it was not Christophé. Her mind screamed at her to turn and run or wilt to the floor in fear, but she had to know. What if it was Christophé? She took a tentative step forward. And then another and another, until she was at the open door. She pressed herself against the wall, craned her neck, and peered in. A noise sounded from the room, and she reared back against the wall, her heart pounding so loud she was sure she would be discovered. She heard a voice that sounded recent and familiar.
“I have you now. The last of the St. Laurents.” The man grunted, and the sound of a body being dragged across a rug sent chills down Stacia’s arms. Booted feet swung into her line of vision and she gasped, then clamped her hand over her mouth, terrified that she might have been heard. She held her shaking body very still as the man continued. “You thought I killed her, didn’t you?” Dark laughter sent tremors through Stacia’s spine. “She was too sweet. Too innocent. I couldn’t do it. I could not send that child to the guillotine.” Another laugh, but this time it sounded hollow, like it was coming from a man whose mind was broken. “So I made her my servant. And a fine servant she is.”
The man’s words . . . the sound of his voice . . . suddenly all the pieces came together, and Stacia bit down on her lip to keep another gasp from escaping. The servant—Émilie. The voice . . .
Robespierre. He was here.
Oh, gracious Father in heaven!
Christophé.
It had to be.
Christophé.
It had to be.
What was she to do? Everything within her wanted to charge the room and demand something . . . some justice. But she had only a poker and little strength to use it. Instead she crept to the door’s very edge and waited.
She heard a deep sigh of utter exhaustion. She heard the bed creak and covers being pulled up. Within minutes, she heard the snores of someone who must be certain that the man on the floor was dead.
She waited a long while, her head leaning against the ornate paneling of the hall. She lectured herself silently.
You must go in. You must discover the identities of these men. You must find Christophé.
You must go in. You must discover the identities of these men. You must find Christophé.
As soon as the snores grew more even, Stacia crept into the room. There was a small fire lit in the fireplace which, thankfully, gave a little light. And there was the man on the floor, his face turned away from her . . . and blood. Blood on the floor next to his head.
Her stomach turned as she averted her gaze.
Then she remembered her mission—Scarlett’s sure words echoed across her mind:
If we don’t find Christophé, we will all be lost.
She looked back at the man on the floor, then crept closer to his still form.
If we don’t find Christophé, we will all be lost.
She looked back at the man on the floor, then crept closer to his still form.
It was he. Stacia’s hand went to her mouth to keep herself quiet. He looked to be dead. Before she could think, she reached out and took firm grasp of his wrists, then—as quickly and quietly as possible—drug the body from the room.
She refused to look at him, but knew in some deep part of her that a bloody swath was following them from the room and down the hall. She pulled the body to the stairs and then paused to catch her breath. At the top of the stairs, she took a firmer hold on his wrists and pulled him down, step by slow step. Praise be to God that Robespierre’s snoring still sounded in the distance.
Finally she reached the back door. Now what? She couldn’t drag his body all the way to Scarlett’s side. Never mind the patrols. She didn’t have the strength. She looked down and gasped. His skin was very pale.
“Christophé,” she whispered. “Wake up.” She reached out and touched his cheek. It was cold.
There was no hope. He was dead. Her sister’s second chance. Stacia felt anger fill her. It was unfair!
“No. No.” She knelt down beside him and placed her ear on his chest. Yes, there it was—a heartbeat. She shook him harder, hissing in a loud whisper. “Christophé, you have to wake up!”
Christophé swallowed.
Stacia sat back a little, relief flooding through her. He was coming around. She shook him harder and whisper-screamed into his ear. “Christophé, Scarlett needs you. Remember Scarlett? Wake up for her.”
He roused and turned his head toward her, eyes still closed. She grasped tight hold of his arms. “Scarlett needs you and we have to get out of here . . . now!”
Christophé blinked and gasped. So much so that Stacia shushed him. “We must escape. Robespierre sleeps upstairs. He thinks you are dead. We have to get out of here, now.”
He nodded and sat up, his hand going to his head.
Stacia took off her scarf and wrapped its length around and around his head, tying it in the back. The bleeding didn’t seem so bad now. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yes. Yes.” He sat against the bottom stair blinking and looking more and more himself.
“Come then.” She stood and helped him up, then led him, stumbling and half-supporting him, from the chateau. They tottered together down the empty, windswept street. Whenever Stacia heard a noise, she led them into the cover of a bush or around the corner of a house where they would cower for long minutes. Christophé leaned heavily against her, silent, determination etched on his set features.
After what seemed hours later, they inched into the street where Robespierre lived. “Come. Just a little further.”
Christophé shielded his eyes as if he was looking directly into the sun.
Stacia urged him up the steps to the front door, tried it, and gave a little prayer of thanks that it wasn’t locked. She pulled Christophé into the suite of rooms that belonged to Robespierre.
A tiny laugh escaped her chest as they cleared the threshold. They’d made it. And more . . . it was the last place on earth Robespierre would look for his enemy.
Scarlett’s screams were evident the moment they entered Robespierre’s sitting room. Christophé looked down into Stacia’s face, his features intense, but the color had returned to his face and Stacia thought he had gained some of his strength back. “Take me to her.”
“I wouldn’t consider anything else.” Stacia assured him, then leaned in and whispered. “But first I must rid the room of the other women. We must keep you a secret.”
“Who is with her?”
“My mother and the midwife. She has been laboring to have the babe for a long time.” Stacia motioned him to follow her. “You will be seen if you stay here. Follow me.”
Stacia took him to Robespierre’s bedchamber. When she started to lead him to the bed, Christophé shook his head. “I’ll just sit down over here.”
Stacia nodded. “I won’t be long. Rest for a few minutes.”
Her mother and the midwife looked up as she opened the door to the bedchamber that Scarlett, her mother, and she shared.
“Stacia.” Her mother motioned her over. “I can’t believe you have slept through the last hours.”
Stacia shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Let me talk to her. I want to be alone with her for a few moments.”
The two other women looked at her askance. “The birth is at any minute. We cannot leave her.”
“Leave me!” Scarlett shouted with more vehemence than any of them had ever heard come from her red lips. “Leave me with my sister.”
The midwife frowned at her mother. Their mother’s face paled as she looked back and forth between Stacia and Scarlett.
“Mother, please. I will fetch you if Scarlett needs you.”
Her mother pressed her lips together, worry lines framing her mouth. “For a few moments only, Scarlett. The child is coming very soon.” She threw up her hands as she left the room, saying to the midwife, “She has no idea. No earthly idea what’s to come.”
As soon as the door closed, Stacia rushed to Scarlett’s side and grasped her quivering hand in a tight grip. “I found him. He’s injured . . . a rather nasty gash on his head. But he walked here . . . for you, Scarlett. He walked here on the strength of knowing that you need him.”
“Where is he?”
“In Robespierre’s bedchamber. It was the only place.”
Scarlett looked ready to cry and shake Stacia at the same time. “Are you insane? He could come back at any moment and find him. We have to move him!”
“Don’t worry about Robespierre. I don’t think he will return any time soon.”
Scarlett could only stare at her as if she’d gone mad while panting through the next contraction.
“I will bring him. He is waiting to see you. But the women will come back at any moment. Oh, I have so much to tell you! Robespierre . . . he was there. In the chateau with Christophé. I think he thought he had killed him. You were right. We have to escape. All of us. And we must help Émilie get away from him!”
Scarlett reared up suddenly and curled around the mound, grasping her upraised knees. She gasped out. “Bring . . . Christophé . . . to . . . me.”
Stacia ran to Robespierre’s bedchamber, then grabbed and pulled on Christophé’s arm. “Come.
Now.”
Now.”
CHRISTOPHÉ STRUGGLED AGAINST the sudden dizziness as he stood. His head was still sore, but he at least had most of his strength back. Stacia grasped his hand and led him through the dark rooms to Scarlett’s bedside.
“It’s coming. The baby is coming,” Scarlett gasped out as they entered the room.
“I’ll go and get mother and the midwife.”
“No. Wait!” Scarlett no sooner got the words out before she bore down again.
Christophé dropped to the foot of the bed. He lifted the sheet covering Scarlett’s body. The babe’s head was crowning. “Let it come.”
She heaved up and curled over the ball of her stomach as her hand reached out for Stacia’s. Christophé sensed everything within her body focusing on the push as she took a great gulp of air. Her face turned as red as her lips, her breathing suspended. He held his as well, knowing he was witnessing a miracle.
Then Scarlett groaned and pushed with all her might, Christophé came alive. He could feel the life-flow rush back through his veins and into his heart, sending it pounding so he thought it might burst through his chest. He watched, shivers slipping up and down his spine as the baby’s skull ruptured through membrane and flesh and blood.
Serendipitous laughter broke from his chest as the head broke free. He stared at the closed slits of the eyes, the tiny bluish lips, the soft cheeks.
He looked up and saw Scarlett, this women who had become such a part of him, gasp. Their gazes locked as she took a giant gulp of air and then bore down against gravity and space and mass and any calculations he had ever imagined. She became everything in creation at that moment.
She became the giver of life.
He gasped, a profound shiver traveling up and down his frame, as the babe’s shoulders broke free, slick and alive and moving. His throat tightened as the rest of the body slipped as silent as time into his hands.
Thy kingdom come. Thy kingdom come.
He knew the words like an ancient chant and in them found peace. He looked down at the child whose veins carried the blood of Robespierre—and then saw himself and knew. Fool. Utter fool. That’s what he’d been. So focused on destruction and revenge. On death. When what mattered was here.
He knew the words like an ancient chant and in them found peace. He looked down at the child whose veins carried the blood of Robespierre—and then saw himself and knew. Fool. Utter fool. That’s what he’d been. So focused on destruction and revenge. On death. When what mattered was here.
Love. Life. Renewal.
Thy will be done.
He would not kill Robespierre. He would not seek revenge. For as he gazed into the tiny infant’s face, he knew the power of life . . . sensed the sure presence of the Giver of life . . . and it changed everything.
As the infant’s wails filled the room, two women, one Scarlett’s mother and another he didn’t know, burst through the door.
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