Sail Away (9 page)

"Ah, well, he is young, perhaps he tells you the truth. But I promise you, he has a mama who has a nice English girl picked out for him."

"I do not think so."

"Zoe, cherie, he is
gentil
, he makes you happy—why desire what you cannot have? He did make you happy, yes? There was not much pain?"

Zoe remembered what Christophe had said.
"Angelique does not know everything about Englishmen."
She smiled and hugged the memory tight to her. “Yes, he did, and no, there was not, and I thank you for capturing him for me! No sister could have been more helpful."

"If you do not have your monthly, tell me immediately. I will go to Suzanne and ask for the herbs."

"I think I will be fine,” Zoe assured her. Angelique really was the most thoughtful friend, but she did not know everything about Englishmen. Or everything about Zoe Colbert, either.

"Phil, I have to find her!” Kit finished tying his cravat, donned his coat, and stuffed yesterday's shirt and smallclothes into his grip. He knew Curtis would upbraid him for the haphazard packing, but he really didn't care.

"I always knew you were a romantic, Coz, but I never expected you to let that interfere with self-preservation. For heaven's sake, stop buzzing about and drink this terrible coffee."

He sat at the small table and obeyed, but he neither knew nor cared about the taste of the coffee or the small, hard roll. “I can't leave her here."

"Of course you can. You must. What were you planning to do, kidnap the wench? A pretty surprise that would be for Aunt Arethusa!"

"My mother has nothing to do with this."

"It may seem so here in Paris, my dear boy, but it would be quite another matter in your mama's drawing room."

Kit was ready to tear his hair. “I wish you would at least attempt to be helpful!"

Philip finished his coffee and grimaced. “That is precisely what I am doing, but you refuse to pay attention. Kit, these Parisiennes are charming and accommodating. They are also, I must remind you,
French.
One can't simply pick them up as souvenirs. Odds are she wouldn't want to come with you if you asked—"

"That's all I mean to do, Phil. If last night was just a frolic, I shan't try to hold her. But if it was not, if she feels as I do, I must know."

"That's very handsome of you, Coz. Still, even if she is prepared to abandon her aged
maman
or whatever she has in the way of a husband or lover, you have to realize she would not be allowed to leave France."

"There must be a way. Can't we delay our departure?"

"Not if you still want to get out of Paris. I sent our luggage on ahead to the ship, to save room aboard the barge."

"Surely we have funds enough to stay on for a bit."

Philip frowned, abandoning his lighthearted banter. “Yes, we do—but you're forgetting the political climate. With things as they are, the French see every foreign visitor as a potential spy. Probably with good cause—I'm sure Paris is crawling with English agents, and some from other countries as well. If we were to suddenly change our plans, we would attract the attention of the authorities, and in this madhouse that is one thing I do not wish to do. I'm sorry, I really am, but it's the barge or nothing, now. We must meet Monfort at the boat no later than a quarter of two o'clock this afternoon. He's leaving at two, with or without us."

Kit could not argue with his reasoning. “I have four hours, then. I'll start at the theatre up the street and work my way back down. I'll see you here at half-past one, without fail."

Philip met his eyes. “You're serious, aren't you?"

"Never more so.” Kit shrugged, knowing how foolish he must seem to his worldly cousin. “I do realize you're probably right, Phil—but for my own peace of mind I need to be sure."

"Damn. Ah, well, my own fault—and that of a lady we could name. Come along then, Sir Galahad, I'll help you seek the fair damsel. But we turn back at one o'clock."

"Thanks, Phil!"

"And next time, explain to the chit that she really
must
leave you a glass slipper."

Zoe had her hands full the following morning, and had just enough time to prepare the guest room. Her father's colleague arrived very early, bringing with him a trunk that was filled not with his clothing, but with flour and other staples. Marie kissed the gentleman on both cheeks and promised him a magnificent dinner.

After her father and his guest retired to the first-floor clinic, Zoe found herself drawn once more to the window. Christophe had said that he would be leaving today; perhaps she would have one last chance to see him. She hoped he would take care. Things had been difficult in the last week or two, and there were desperate men about who would not hesitate to rob a well-dressed foreigner, especially an
aristo
.

She leaned against the window frame and closed her eyes, wondering how it was that Papa had not immediately seen the difference in her. So much was clear now that had never made sense. Even so simple a thing as kissing—a few boys had tried to steal kisses from her, and she had never understood why the clumsy act had been spoken of so romantically in songs and stories. Now she knew—it was not the kiss itself so much as the man who did the kissing. And the caressing, and the holding close ... Zoe could still feel the solid warmth of him against her body. She had not felt so warm or so safe in longer than she could remember, and the touch of his hands! Her own hesitant exploration of her own body had never produced such excitement and pleasure. Like the princess in the storybook, she had been kissed by her prince, and she had awakened.

Perhaps it would have been better if she had slumbered on in ignorance. Yesterday when she stood here, she had despaired of ever learning what passed between a man and a woman. Now she knew, and despaired at the thought of never knowing it again. Of one thing she was certain; even if he had not taken her body completely, that beautiful, thoughtful Englishman now owned her heart.

And she would probably never see him again.

But no—was that not Christophe, down the street? It had to be—there could not be two men so tall as his cousin Philippe. They were proceeding along the avenue, talking to passers-by, knocking on doors. They were probably safe enough, two of them together in the daytime, but what they were doing was not prudent. Zoe could barely make out her lover's face at this distance, but he seemed to be in distress. His cousin shook his head at whatever the Frenchman was saying, then tapped Christophe's shoulder and gestured down the street.

Across the way, Zoe saw that M. Monfort had come out of his shop. He looked around him, then began to walk toward Christophe and his cousin. Further down, Philippe saw Monfort and began to walk toward him. Christophe continued speaking to someone, a man Zoe did not recognize, and as Philippe moved further away two or three other men began to gather around Christophe. They seemed to be talking to him, and they looked angry. Her heart beat faster as she struggled with the catch on the window. It did not take much to start a riot in these uncertain times, and his friend was too far away.

The window slid up and on the cold winter air she heard the shouting, made out bits of sentences. “Damned aristos ... our women! Get out ... be damned!” Someone caught Christophe by the arm, and as he was pulled around he swung his cane and knocked his attacker down, but another jumped on him from behind. Zoe screamed “No!"

Both Philippe and M. Monfort turned and saw what was happening, but the men out in the street had closed around Christophe before they could get back to him. Zoe stood frozen. She could not see him, his friends were making no progress through the mob—

And then came the crack of a pistol shot, and everything went deadly still. Zoe stood staring down, seeing the puff of smoke too near where her lover had stood. A shiver swept through her, and it its wake all fear had gone, leaving only a cold determination. No! She would not let him lie there and be trampled. If the mob killed her too, what of it? What had she to lose now? She slammed the window down and caught up the poker from the fireplace. “Marie?
Marie!
Go find my father,
immediamente!"

Christopher St. John, Baron Guilford, awoke in surroundings so far beneath his usual standards that he wondered whether he was truly awake or just having a nightmare brought on by a terrible hangover. A ragged piece of rough homespun, smelling strongly of horse, covered the lower half of his face; he was lying in what he took to be a stall. The deduction was assisted by the presence of a nanny goat and her kid, and the hay he lay upon had a decidedly unpleasant reek to it.

He turned his face away from the smell and the movement brought a wave of nauseating pain that emptied his stomach, adding to the noisome assortment of odors that surrounded him. A stabbing pain in his head flared with every breath, overwhelming the little strength he had. As consciousness fled, he was grateful for the respite.

"Christopher, if you can hear me, please open your eyes.” A man's voice, dry and unemotional. A British voice, with the accent of an educated man, but not the voice of anyone he knew.

"Christophe? Awaken,
sil vous plait
.” Feminine, and definitely more familiar. Someone he knew very well indeed, at least in the Biblical sense. One of his new friends from the party—was it last night? Zoe. Zoe and Angelique. Had he found her, then? He tried to raise his eyelids, but just that tiny effort rammed a spike right through his head.

"Christophe, you are safe for now, can you hear me?” A gentle hand wiped his forehead with a wet cloth that smelled faintly of eau de lavender, a decided improvement over eau de goat.

"Mm.” Very, very carefully, he eased his eyes open. Black hair and beautiful dark grey eyes. Zoe? He thought it was Zoe. He swallowed, his throat scratchy. “How—?"

"An English doctor was visiting my father. He has tended your wound, you were
tres fortunate
."

Very lucky? If this was luck, misfortune must be Hell. “What happened?” he whispered.

"You do not remember?"

"It is not uncommon in such cases, my dear,” the first voice said. Its owner, a smallish, plain-looking man with keen dark eyes leaned over Zoe's shoulder. “But his speech is clear, thank heaven. I believe the damage was minimal. Lord—ah, that is, Christopher. What is the last thing you remember?"

Kit glanced around as best he could without moving anything but his eyes. He was in a small, cheerless room, with one grimy window and sloping walls. The last thing he remembered made no sense, but—"Goats,” he said.

"Goats?” the doctor echoed, looking perplexed.

"We hid him in the stable while you went to find your friends,” Zoe explained. “He must have awakened."

"Oh, excellent. I had thought he was unconscious the entire time. If you would allow me to examine your eyes, sir...” The doctor raised St. John's eyelids and waved a finger before them. “Follow the finger with your eyes, if you would. Yes. Very good. I need to test something here, now. Please keep your eyes open if you possibly can."

He took a candle from the stand beside the bed and brought it near. Kit squinted, his eyes tearing at the brightness, and it was taken away. “Very good,” the doctor said again. “Normal contraction. I believe our surgery was a success."

Surgery? For a headache? “Thank you so much.” Kit swallowed, grimacing. “What surgery? Why?"

"Drink this.” The doctor held a cup of water for him. “You sustained a terrible blow to the head that cracked your skull inward. The condition is called a depressed cranial fracture. Such an injury causes pressure on the brain. If the pressure is not relieved, coma and death result. You had such an injury, and I performed the operation with what appears to be complete success."

The words went past too quickly to make sense. “I—I can tell I was hit on the head.” It was nice to be certain of something, anyway. “Please, what happened?"

"You were shot,” the doctor said curtly. “A fool with a pistol. You must have turned your head away at the precise moment the ball struck. It tore through your scalp and left a visible crack in your frontalis—in English, your skull. And, by the way, the surgery increased your net worth; you now have a silver ten-centime flattened into a plate that is holding your brains in. You must keep as quiet as possible for the next three weeks, at least."

He felt as though it would be a lot longer than that before he could be anything but quiet. “My cousin—the man I was with—what of him? And M. Monfort?"

"They ‘ave escaped, Christophe,” Zoe said. “I was watching from the window. Your friend ran to you, but the other man pointed to your wound and pulled him away. They must have believed you were dead, and they would have died, too, if they had stayed out in that mob."

"Yes. I saw a man with a gun, moving toward me, then nothing. Then goats."

The doctor nodded. “Loss of memory after a blow to the head is quite common. You were lucky, young man. The fool must have got hold of a weak batch of gunpowder, or we would not be having this conversation."

There was no memory. As he lay there, struggling to recollect, the doctor went on, “You must be very careful in future, my young friend. You have used up a lifetime's supply of luck."

Kit shivered. “I—I cannot remember!"

"Just as well, don't you think?” The doctor's look was not unsympathetic. “How old are you, my lord?"

"Eighteen,” he said quickly, then, under the doctor's penetrating stare, “Honestly, I am. As of last month."

"Old enough to face death in battle, I'm sure.” The doctor's mouth tightened. “Well, the memory may return. I almost hope, for your sake, that the loss is permanent."

"How did I get here? Where are my friends?"

"Gone. They ‘ave returned to England,” Zoe said. “I believe they were aboard a barge that left for Le Havre just before the gendarmes arrived."

"Who brought me here, then?"

"We did—our housekeeper, my father and I. We thought you were dead too, at first. I asked the gendarmes if Papa might ‘ave your body for scientific purposes—” Her hands fluttered in distress at his reaction; she patted the undamaged side of his face. “Oh, no, Christophe, not really, only so we might give you a decent burial without being brought under suspicion. It is so dangerous—"