Pale Moon Rider (14 page)

Any further debate they might have had was rendered moot when Antoine woke up with his fever.

“You can hardly keep your eyes open anyway,” Renée said to her brother, forfeiting the game of chess with a dismissive sweep of her hand. “I am surprised Finn has not come to chase me away.”

He has gone to fetch more broth
, Antoine mouthed through a wrinkling of his nose.
Perhaps he could not find enough bat wings and chicken toes to boil in the pot.

Renée smiled. “It is making you feel better, is it not?”

The only answer was another crinkle in the nose and, as if on cue, the door to the bedchamber opened. Finn entered carrying a tray laden with a small bowl of steaming liquid and a fresh poultice.

At the potent influx of mustard vapor, Antoine rolled his eyes imploringly in his sister’s direction, searching for a reprieve.

Can you not tell him I am much better now?

She shook her head. “In this, we must bow to Finn’s knowledge. He has been treating your coughs and runny noses since you were in baby linens and I would not dare risk his wrath to interfere.”

I am not coughing, and my nose is perfectly dry. Look.

He angled his face toward her, but Renée only smiled. “Perhaps tomorrow I will save you from the bat wings,
mon coeur.
Tonight you still belong to Finn.”

She stood and gathered up the scattered chess pieces. Even though Antoine flung himself back against the pillows in abject despair, he did not look all that sorry to see the game ended. His eyes were heavy, the lids drooping with weariness.

When Finn had finished laying the fresh plaster on Antoine’s chest, Renée leaned over the side of the bed and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

“Goodnight. Sleep well. Know that I love you with all my heart. If you need anything at all …” She left the sentence unfinished, for she knew Finn would not leave his side until he was asleep.

Escorting her as far as the hallway, Finn was quick to assure her. “I shall also leave the adjoining door open tonight, although I cannot say it is beneficial to my own state of repose. The young master snores almost as loudly as that Pigeon woman, but I shall endeavour to persevere.”

Renée smiled her thanks, and shared a wink with Antoine, for they both knew Finn should not have invited comparisons on whose snoring was the loudest.

“Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight mad’moiselle. If
you
need anything—”

“I am quite capable of fetching it myself. You must not fuss over me so.”

“Indeed I must. No one else in this godforsaken travesty of a household appears willing or able to do so with the exception of young Jenny, and she has had her hands full today preparing rooms in the west wing.”

Renée bit down on the pad of her lip. Mrs. Pigeon had received a note from Lord and Lady Paxton instructing her to clean and air out the large bedrooms in anticipation of their arrival at the end of the week. They would be bringing several guests and could expect more as the day of the wedding, now less than two weeks hence, drew closer. For the most part, Renée had managed to push the unsavory event to the back of her mind, never really thinking the day might actually arrive, never really believing she might have to go through with it.

Finn interpreted her expression correctly and shook his head gravely. “I promised both your mother and your father—”

“Yes,” she said softly, laying her hand on his arm. “Yes, I know. You promised you would look after Antoine and me until you drew your last breath.”

“It was not an idle promise, though I seem to have failed somewhat in the execution.”

“You have not failed at all. Antoine owes you his life— we both do, many times over. And without you by my side, I should have gone mad long before now. I may still go mad, of course,” she added in a whisper, “but not: because of anything you have failed to do.”

He opened his mouth to question the odd remark but remembered Antoine behind them and settled for clearing his throat. “My last breath is a long way away yet, mad’moiselle. We
shall
endure.”

Renée blew a final kiss in Antoine’s direction and retreated across the hall to her own room. There, she found! the fire had been stoked early enough to make the air nearly as warm and dry as in Antoine’s room. Two fat logs were glowing a brilliant red in the grate, with tiny wavelets of yellow flame licking across the tops. None of the tallow candles was lit, and for that she was grateful, enjoying the clean smell of wood smoke.

Sighing, she rubbed her hand across the knotted muscles at the back of her neck and crossed over to the window. The skies had been overcast and bleak for the past; two days, and there was nothing to see through the pane of glass but darkness. The nearest neighbor was four miles down a long, winding road, so there was not even the twinkle of a distant light to relieve the blackness and sense of isolation. Her gaze touched briefly on the scrolled latch, reassuring herself it was locked as tightly as she had left it several hours ago.

Finn, bless him, had left a decanter of wine on the nightstand and she poured herself a glass, draining half of it in the first few swallows. It was heavy and left a musty, iron taste at the back of her throat, but it was strong; she could feel its effects almost immediately in the warm rush that filled her belly. She forced down the second half and poured another glassful before replacing the stopper in the decanter, determined, if nothing else, to get a few hours of sleep tonight. She still had decisions to make and was no closer to a solution than she feared she would be an hour before the appointed rendezvous.

If she went.

Still at the window, she reached up and pulled the pins and delicate silver
peignes
from her hair. Setting the combs aside, she used her fingers to loosen the thick knot of curls, kneading her scalp at the same time, hoping to massage away the strange, restless feeling that had begun to seep through her body. It was the same every night. Regardless of how tired she was, as soon as she was alone in the darkness of her room, her eyes refused to close, her body refused to relax. She was lucky if she slept more than a few sporadic minutes at a time, luckier still if those minutes were not filled with horrific images from the past.

She had another sip of wine and unfastened the ribbon belt beneath her waist, then shook out the folds of white muslin to let the gauzy fabric hang free and straight. Thinking the numbness that was still spreading through her limbs was caused by the wine, she debated downing the rest of the second glass of wine as recklessly as the first, but then—whether it was because it was so unbelievably impossible it just had to be true, or because somewhere in the back of her mind she had almost been expecting it—she lowered her arms and stood as motionless as the shadowy figure in the corner.

He had not moved or betrayed his presence in any way. Perhaps it had been a subtle flaring of the flames in the hearth that had given him a hint of substance for a fleeting moment, or perhaps it had been the faint scent of mist and saddle leather and damp wool that had betrayed him. In any case she knew, suddenly, and without having to turn to confirm his presence, that the phantom who had been plaguing her every waking and sleeping moment for the past two days and nights was standing less than ten feet from her side.

She closed her eyes and swayed briefly with the flush of icy prickles that melted down her spine. “What are you doing here, m’sieur? Why have you come again?”

“I have been wondering that myself, mam’selle. The only answer I have been able to come up with is … curiosity.”

“Curiosity?”

She heard the soft crush of his boots on the carpet as he moved out of the corner and came up behind her. He stopped short of touching her, but she was acutely aware of his solid and imposing presence at her back.

“Curious,” he said again, “to know if you really understand how dangerous a game you are playing … or if it is just that you thought I would be easier to manipulate than Roth.”

“I do not think either one of you is easy to manipulate, m’sieu
r, nor am I trying to do this.”

“No?”

A black gloved hand reached past her shoulder and she half expected to see the glint of a pistol in its grip. There was no gun, however, and the only sparkle came from her wine glass as he plucked it out of her fingers and lifted it to his mouth.

When he swallowed, it was a hard, male sound, as abrupt and harsh as the curse that accompanied the glass to the table. “Personally, I have always found brandy to be more effective for keeping demons at bay, but I suppose an immature, rusty claret has its uses.”

“You have demons, m’sieur?”

“We are all a little afraid of what lurks in the dark, mam’selle.”

His answer, murmured close to her ear, set a small eddy of sensations whirling into motion between her thighs, and in the next instant, the eddy turned into a strong current, for his hand was at her shoulder, shifting the heavy golden mass of her hair to one side, exposing the curve of her throat.

“Curious,” he said again, as if their conversation had not taken a brief detour. “You said yourself you had heard the stories about how clever I am”—he paused to trace a gloved fingertip along the sloping line of her shoulder— “surely you must have known I would check your story.”

“I did not lie to you, m’sieur,” she said through a shiver.

“You did not tell the whole truth either. Or did you just
forget
you had a brother?”

“Antoine?” she whispered. “He is just a boy. He is not yet fourteen—”

“And already accused of murder. How industrious.”

“H—how did you know—?”

“My dear Mam’selle d’Anton—” his voice caressed her nape, the words spiraled down her spine, the drag of his finger caused her flesh to tighten across her breasts and belly. “I have had two days to discover what would make a beautiful woman like yourself bow to the demands of a bastard like Roth. It might interest you to know I have even seen the warrant.”

Renée was stunned. Maximilien de Robespierre had once bragged of having the most extensive spy network in all the world, but he and his revolutionary tribunal would have been put to shame by the seemingly casual efforts of this English highwayman.

“The charge is false,” she said, trying to regain a measure of composure. “Antoine did not attempt to murder anyone. He heard a shot and ran to help, and when he found my uncle, Lord Paxton was already senseless. He claimed he was shot from behind and could not identify his attacker. I do not think even he believes it was Antoine, but Colonel Roth persuaded him to sign the warrant and to act upon it if I did not agree to help them.”

“They went to all that trouble just to force you to cooperate?”

“I do not understand it either, m’sieur, for I have no doubt there are a thousand women who would gladly ride the roads at night hoping to make your acquaintance.”

He was mildly surprised but obviously not amused by her sarcasm, for when she tried to turn her head, his left hand was suddenly there, cupping her chin, holding her firmly in place. At the same time, his right arm circled her waist, drawing her back against his body. It was, Renée realized at once, the perfect position for snapping her neck should the occasion warrant it. And although she stood tense and trembling in his ominous embrace, she did not attempt to resist the intimacy nor did she provoke him into tightening it.

“Two thousand pounds is a lot of money,” he said slowly.

“Fifty thousand is a good deal more. If I were only doing it to collect the reward, m’sieur, I would have screamed the first night you came into my room and Roth’s soldiers would have come at the run.”

“Yes,” he murmured, “do tell me more about the guards.”

“There are usually two on duty at any given time. One watches the front entrance, one patrols the stables and courtyard.” She glanced again at the securely bolted window latch. “How did you get in here, m’sieur? Finn has been extra diligent at locking the windows at night.”

“I am a thief, remember. I make my living going where I am not wanted, taking things that are supposedly placed under heavy guard.” His hand shifted down from her chin, fitting itself more snugly to the curve of her throat. “Locks only make the challenge more interesting.”

Renée suffered a small wave of lightheadedness. His voice was a soft snarl in her ear, his body was a heated wall behind her, his arm an immovable band of muscle and sinew around her waist. His gloved fingers were fitted firmly enough around her neck that he was surely able to feel her pulse racing along her throat, and try as she might, she was not able to take anything but rapid, shallow breaths.

“Have you any other little secrets you are keeping from me? Any more brothers? A lover, perhaps?”

“Antoine is my only brother. And …” Renée swallowed against the pressure of his hand, “my former fiancé died in
Paris
. He was executed the same day as my father.”

“An
aristo
, naturally?”

She bristled instinctively at the note of condescension in his voice. “He was the son of one of the most powerful and noble houses of
France
, m’sieur, but he was also kind and gentle, compassionate and honorable, if such things are important to you.”