Tender the Storm (55 page)

"What about the peace talks?"

Smiling easily, he answered, "I made that up. I had to give you some reason for my presence here. I was playing for time, you see. I did not know how long it would take to persuade you to return to England with me."
Or how long it would take to clear up this business of
La Compagnie.
That thought, however, Rolfe prudently kept to himself.

Dizzy with happiness, she fell back against the pillows. She could see it all now, and she felt weak with the knowledge of it. Rolfe had loved her so much that he had put himself in the gravest danger to come and fetch her. And her reception of him, to say the least, had been less than welcoming. Any other man would have simply walked away from her.

Rolfe must love her. He regarded her as his wife. And the pretense that she had accepted his
carte blanche
was no more than that —
a pretense so that he could protect her in the only way that was open
to him. How different, how generous did his actions with respect to
herself
now appear.
And how thankless, how churlish her own with respect to him.
She was so ashamed.

He had trusted her with his very life. She might easily have denounced him. He had trusted her that much and, oh God, she had not trusted him. She had told him nothing of her brother. And the pity of it was that, had she done so, her anxieties these many weeks past would have been easier to bear.

"How did you find out about my brother?" she asked.

For the first time, Rolfe hedged. He had a very good idea of what was going through Zoë's mind. She was flattered to think that his only reason for coming to Paris was to find her. Evidently, his iniquities, one by one, were being exonerated. He was not so confident that he wished to disabuse his wife of this new softening towards himself. This was not the time to explain his involvement with Housard. Later, in England, when he had her safely under his hand would be time and enough to explain the whole. He wasn't about to deceive her. On the other hand, he would take whatever steps were necessary to tip the balance in his favor.

"What touches
you,
touches me," he said simply. "Naturally, I pursued every lead on your brother and sister that came my way. I am not without friends in France. With their help, I discovered what I wished to know. I set a watch on the house. The rest you know."

"But how did you know that my brother was
Le Cache-Cache?
How did you know about
La Compagnie?"

Without blinking an eyelash, he answered, "I heard it all when you were talking in the boathouse. You were not very discreet."

Zoë looked up at him, her eyes betraying the torment of her thoughts. She said one word, "Claire?" then faltered before continuing with a catch in her voice. "It's the not knowing that is so awful. Oh God, if only I knew, one way or another, whether she lived or died, I could bear it." Her eyes never leaving his, she swallowed and whispered, "If you know something, anything, Rolfe, you needn't be afraid to tell me. Nothing, oh God, nothing could be worse than this." She wanted to say more but she could not trust herself to speak.

Rolfe said her name on a sigh and wrapped his arms around her, as if he would absorb some of her pain. Measuring his words, he said, "I don't want to give you false hope."

Abruptly she pulled back. "You know something!"

Damning himself for doing the one thing he had promised himself he would not do, he said cautiously, "What little I know makes no appreciable difference."

"What do you know?" She could not know that her nails were digging into his shoulders.

It was too late to retract. "Your sister Claire was in Bordeaux in the
Spring
of '94."

Leon had told Zoë as much. "Go on," she said.

"At that time, there was a flotilla of American ships in the harbor. She may have booked passage for America under a false name. It's more than certain that she tried."

"Claire?
In America?"
Her voice had taken on a feverish quality. A light leapt to life in her eyes.

Rolfe shook his head, depressing her hopes. "If she
is in America, why has she not sent you word? That was more than a year ago. There's been more than enough time."

"I don't know. There could be a million reasons."

"There! You see? This information, if it is information, scarcely adds one jot to your peace of mind."

"Rolfe, tell me the truth! What do you think has happened to Claire?"

For a moment, he debated whether or not he should confide his misgivings. Not all of those ships had reached a safe harbor. It was entirely possible that Zoë's sister had found a watery grave in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. He looked into those half- fearful, half-hopeful eyes and knew that he would do almost anything to keep them free of pain.

He swallowed his uncertainties and said, "What I think is that, for some reason, your sister does not wish to be found. Think carefully, Zoë. Do you want to find her in these circumstances?"

Into the aching stillness, she whispered, 'Yes."

"Then we shall find her. Once we are safely in England, I shall put men onto it. If Claire is alive and in America, if it takes the rest of our lives, we shall find her."

She knew that the task must be monumental. "You would do that for Claire?" she asked.

"No, my darling.
I shall do it for you."

The moment was too charged with emotion. Zoë knew that one more word in this vein, and she would shatter into a thousand pieces. There were questions that must be asked and answered. There were things that she must say to this proud, generous man whom she had wronged. She had misjudged him not once,
but twice. He was no hero, but he was no knave either. He was merely a man, with a man's share of flaws and absurdities — and oh, she loved every one of them.

She reached for him, her hands cupping his dear face. "You make me feel ten feet tall, do you know?" And she promised herself, silently, that from this moment on, she would do everything in her power to make him feel the same way.

A shudder passed over him. His voice rough with emotion, he said, "Does this mean that you forgive me?"

"No," she said, and lost her voice as she swallowed the ache of her tears. The light in his eyes dimmed, and she hastened to complete the sentence. "Not unless you forgive me, too."

Her answer brought a constriction to his chest. "I don't deserve
. .

She practically flung herself at him and rolled him to his back, pressing her lips to his in a long silencing kiss. When she pulled back, she was panting. Breathless and menacing at the same time, she said, "What you deserve, my dear husband, is exactly what you are going to get."

"And what is that?" he asked, slanting
her an
unquiet look.

Her eyes were dancing. "I aim to play out a female's fantasy" she purred. "Do you think you are man enough to take your punishment?"

For a moment, bemused, he stared at her. There was no mistaking the gleam in her eye. Grinning, stretching, he linked his hands behind his head. "I'm man enough for you." he baited.

She crouched over him. Trying to bite back her laughter and failing miserably, she got out, "I hope I don't shock you, but even if I do, it won't do you a bit of good to beg for mercy."

His smile was brazen. "You won't shock me and I won't beg for mercy."

"No?"

"Emphatically not!"

In a very short while, his wife proved that his boasts were empty. Rolfe did not care.

"For God's sake, don't keep after me! I'm doing it for you! Don't you understand? I'm doing it for you and our unborn child!"

Jean Tresier cursed vehemently as the tears started in her beautiful blue eyes. "Rose," he said, and though the anger was almost choking him, he gentled his voice. "After this is over, we'll go away somewhere. We shall make a fresh start. That's what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

She ignored the inducement, and asked tearfully, "Why are you so angry? Is it because I found out about the duel? You weren't going to tell me, were you? When was I supposed to find out —when they brought your corpse home for me to lay out?"

He pulled her onto his lap and cradled her gently in his arms, letting her sob out the fears and frustrations for both of them.

She was right about one thing. He was angry.
But not with her —never with Rose.
He was angry with the fates, those capricious deities which decreed that good fortune should smile on one man while another should be dogged by ill luck.

Helpless.
He felt helpless to change his lot. But Paul Varlet had offered him a way out. A man would be a fool not to seize his chance when it was offered.
A do-or-die chance.
It was worth the risk.

By degrees, she quieted. Trying to lighten her mood, he said, "I'm not angry. I'm hungry — starving, in point of fact. Go on now. Put supper on the table while I wash up."

He watched her for some few minutes as she busied herself about the room. Rose, he was thinking, was not cut from the same cloth as any mistress he had ever known. When he thought of her at odd moments during the day, he did not often think of her in the boudoir. He thought of her as she was now, as she went about her domestic duties, doing the scores of inconsequential things that she deemed necessary to make a home for him. He smiled, thinking that he had only to picture her as she was now, totally absorbed in the task of slicing up a loaf of bread, and his whole body would go hard with wanting her. And since he had discovered that she was with his child, the wanting had increased to almost unmanageable proportions.

He went to her then, wordlessly taking the knife from her hand and setting it on the table beside the loaf of bread. "I've changed my mind," he said. "And the hour is late. You should not have waited up for me. But since you have . . ." and he drew her into their bedchamber, loosening her clothes as he urged her to the bed. In the sweet solace of her body, he found a momentary oblivion.

The following morning, when she tried to deflect him from his purpose, the anger returned.

"This duel is over
her, Zoë
Devereux, isn't it? You
still love her! Why do you deny it?"