The Curious Rogue (20 page)

“Mayhaps I have named you wrongly,” he quipped, unable to resist the tease, even though she could not hear it. His long strides brought them to a small, neat cottage at the end of a lane on the outskirts of the town. He hurriedly looked about, knocked, and slipped in when it opened.

“This is the one you spoke of?” the handsome woman asked in surprise as she followed Martin up the stairs. Tapping at the door with his boot, he glanced up the stairs to a bedchamber.

“Your tastes have changed, mon cher.”

Martin frowned at the woman. “It is not as you think, Marie-Thèrése. I have explained.” He deposited Elizabeth on the bed.

“Ah,
oui,
” she agreed sceptically. The gentleness with which he removed the sleeping figure’s boots reinforced her belief otherwise. “What ever happened to her?” she asked looking at Elizabeth’s dirt-stained face and clothing.

Martin ignored her words, took her arm, and guided her into the corridor outside the bedchamber. “Let her sleep as long as possible. When she awakens, tell her I have gone to learn what I can of her brother and will return as soon as possible. Do not let her go out or be seen by anyone,” he cautioned.

“I am suddenly become the fool?” Marie-Thèrése laughed gently. “You had best turn your mind to what you must do or you shall not return,” she warned.

“You know what to do if that should happen?”

“It shall not.”

Taking her hand, Martin kissed it. “I appreciate this very much.”

“Then be gone before
Monsieur
Truval arrives,” Marie-Thèrése laughed. “He might not believe you are only an old friend. I would dislike you having to kill him,” she teased, cocking her head coquettishly.

“That would be most incommodious,” he agreed with a grin, “not only for you but also for me. I have no wish to explain my presence to a
gendarme,
as you well know. There is no need to show me the way out.”

“One never could keep you from going,” she sighed, watching his back disappear down the stairs. Going back into the bedchamber where Elizabeth lay, Marie-Thèrése picked up the candle at the bedside and studied the dishevelled, begrimed figure.

“I have never before seen that look in Martin’s eye when it came to a woman. Not in all the years I have known him.” She shook her head. “There is no telling what attracts a man.”

* * * *

Consciousness crept upon Elizabeth in degrees of pain. Not sure why every muscle ached, she thought to call Spense and opened her eyes. An unknown tiny-figured wallpaper blurred before her. The shoulder which had struck the ground when Martin had tackled her protested vehemently when she tried to sit up.

She passed a hand over her eyes and opened them again. The sight of her reddened, dirt-stained hand brought the memory of the day crashing down upon her.

Where am I?
she questioned, frantically gazing about the chamber. The style of the furniture and the delicate papering clearly bespoke the French influence.
Where could she be?

Let me think. We were near Treguier, outside it in fact. I hid. Further searching of her mind revealed nothing else.

Did Martin bring me here or did someone find me?
she wondered with fresh alarm. Elizabeth struggled upright, threw back the light covering, and saw that she was still fully clothed.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

The light, tinkling voice startled Elizabeth. She swung to the doorway and encountered a vision in a silk negligee.

“But do not be afraid,” the ethereal figure said and floated toward her.

“Where...” Elizabeth swallowed the lump of fear in her throat. “Where am I? How did I come here?”

“You are in Treguier,
naturellement.
Martin brought you here last night”

The two women assessed each other. Elizabeth thought she was defeated at every comparison. “Where is Martin?” she asked at last.

“Martin.”

The name rolled off the others tongue with an intimacy that surprised Elizabeth.

“He asked me to tell you he is seeking word of your brother and will return.”

“And you?”

“I am, let us say, an old friend. Allowing you to remain here is a way of repaying a debt,” Marie-Thèrése explained as she toyed with the ruffling of her negligee.

Elizabeth suddenly became overwhelmingly aware of the state of her disarray. She swung her feet to the floor and rose stiffly. “Would it be possible... could I wash?”

“I thought you might wish this.” Marie-Thèrése fluttered her hands. “Come, a bath has been prepared.” She floated from the room, the silk swirling about her delicate ankles.

Following with a painful limp, Elizabeth wondered if Martin had ever kissed this woman as he had her. She was angered to find she cared.

* * * *

The luxury of soaking in warm water, softly perfumed with rose hips, soon revived Elizabeth’s spirits. With their return curiosity surged strongly.

When Marie-Thèrése returned with a delicately flowered robe of fine cambric, Elizabeth wrapped it about herself. Then she sought answers to some of the questions teeming in her mind. “You say you are an old friend of Martin’s?”

“
Oui,
and you?” Marie-Thèrése interrogated in return.

“Oh, no. I did not meet him until two nights past. He has been hired by... by a friend to help bring my brother home.” The other’s arch smile made her want to enlarge on the explanation.

“I wished to come with him to help. My brother is very ill and requires nursing.”

Marie-Thèrése’s features suddenly saddened. “If he is in one of Bonaparte’s prisons, he will require more than that.”

“Why do you think he is in a prison?” Elizabeth countered, wondering what explanation Martin had given her.

“There can be no doubt you are
anglaise
,” Marie-Thèrése stated flatly and motioned at her soiled garb on the floor. “I had not thought you English women so daring. Is it perhaps a lover Martin is to free?”

“Of course not,” Elizabeth said indignantly. “But I doubt I would have come,” she looked down at her painful hands, “if I had known what lay before me.”

“But travelling with Martin is its own reward,
n’est-ce pas
?” The French woman winked.

Heat flamed to Elizabeth’s cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean,” she choked out.

“That I do not believe.” Marie-Thèrése’s laugh tinkled gaily. “But it is none of my concern. Martin and I are old friends. We ask no questions.

“Now come with me,” she continued. “You look to be Margot’s size. She left some of her gowns here when she left with that handsome captain last month.”

“You live here with other ladies?” Elizabeth asked. “Is this not your home?”

“
Oui.
But living alone does not suit me. There are a few other... ladies who stay from time to time.” Marie-Thèrése glanced back at her questioningly.
Did the English woman not know...

“I do hope my presence does not put you in any danger?”

Her guest’s words broke into Marie-Thèrése thoughts. “Not if no one sees you. Here is Margot’s room. I will bring a breakfast tray for you.
Monsieur
Truval always insists I eat with him before he leaves.” Marie-Thèrése opened the door and fluttered on her way.

Going to a wardrobe in the room, Elizabeth chose the simplest of the flamboyant and rather risqué gowns within it. Even at this, the one she chose was so décolleté it made her blush. She pieced together the conversation she had had with Marie-Thèrése and all she had seen. Just as the Frenchwoman entered with the breakfast tray, the realization dawned.

“Why are you staring so?” the courtesan laughed as she set the tray upon the table in the room.

“Oh, nothing... nothing,” Elizabeth stammered, her face blanching. “When do you think Martin will return?” she asked.

“When he has learned what he wishes to know. Now come and eat. You look rather ill at the moment.

“That gown is quite nice on you. Martin will be pleased.”

“But I don’t want him to be pleased.” Elizabeth’s hand went to the low neckline. “I must have my clothing back,” she demanded.

“As soon as it is dry. I ordered it to be washed,” Marie-Thèrése said calmly, studying Elizabeth. “Now eat.” She watched as the other woman toyed with her food. The young Englishwoman acted very peculiarly for one who was in the company of Martin. Could it be he spoke the truth?

“Mon Dieu,”
Marie-Thèrése gasped, watching Elizabeth meticulously unfold the napkin and place it in her lap. This one was not intimate with him. It was indeed her brother he meant to free.

Elizabeth looked up. “Yes?”

“Nothing.” Marie-Thèrése fluttered her hands. “I was just thinking that your clothing should not be hung out for all to see,” she said and hurried from the room.

During the following three days Elizabeth found her hostess polite, even friendly. But she insisted that she spend her time in her room, permitting Elizabeth to move freely about the house only from midday to the late afternoon hours.

To all her questions, Elizabeth received evasive answers. She learned only that Martin was well thought of and had a loyal, protective friend in Marie-Thèrése. With little to occupy her time, Elizabeth’s concern for her brother grew. She clung to remembrances of him as a refuge from the turmoil that Cavilon and Martin evoked.

At the end of the third day she and Marie-Thèrése were seated in a small parlour when a French peasant silently appeared before them. Relief filled her when she realized it was Martin.

“You have found him?” she questioned eagerly.

“Yes and no.” He nodded a greeting to her while going to Marie-Thèrése and kissing her hand. “I know which prison but not where he is within it,” Martin explained. He drew the Frenchwoman to her feet and put an arm about her waist, winking at her questioning look.

“When shall you make the attempt to free him?” Elizabeth forced herself to continue, trying to ignore the fact that he was kissing Marie-Thèrése’s ear.

“In two... three days,” he replied nonchalantly.

“Three days. But what shall we do until then?”

Martin’s eyes flicked to Elizabeth’s, then back to Marie-Thèrése.

Feeling a blush spread warmly over her cheeks, Elizabeth rose. “Is such a delay truly necessary? I would think it dangerous for... for all of us to remain here overly long.”

“The English mind,” Martin smiled at the woman in his arms, “is always precise.

“You are correct, Miss Jeffries.” He turned his gaze back to her. “We will leave in the morn, before daybreak. I have found an abandoned cottage where we shall be safe enough.”

Elizabeth paled as the thought of being alone with this unsettling man, but she raised no objection. “I shall be ready in the morn, then,” she told him and walked to the door. “Good eve.” She glanced back and hurried out.

Martin dropped his hands from Marie-Thèrése as soon as Elizabeth was out of sight. He sank tiredly onto the sofa.

The courtesan walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy. She sat beside Martin and handed it to him, frowning. “I dislike being used to...” Seeing his scowl, she let her words trail away and then began again.

“It was very naughty of you not to tell me what an innocent Miss Jeffries is,” she scolded. “She was most embarrassed when she realized what kind of a house you had brought her to. I’m surprised she didn’t march right out.”

A smile eased the distress and fatigue marking his features.

“The temper is there but also a great deal of common sense. That is what the English women are noted for,
nest-ce pas
?” When Martin did not answer, she added, “Elizabeth is very troubled and, I think, not only for her brother. She would not speak of herself, and though she was curious to know about you, she flinched whenever your name was mentioned. What have you done to make her so uneasy?”

“Little... enough.”

Marie-Thèrése reached out and massaged the tense muscles in Martin’s neck. “At times,” she mused reflectively, “I wonder who each of you really fear—others or merely yourselves?”

* * * *

Elizabeth’s dreams that night were haunted by Cavilon and Martin. Both men taunted and teased her in relentless pursuit. Lying awake in the early dark hours, she tried to sort through her confused feelings and realized that she was attracted to both men but also repulsed by both.

Why compare the two? she questioned for the hundredth time. They are such opposites—two opposing extremes. Cavilon, at times so foppish, even effeminate. Martin, always arrogant, conceited, even antagonistic.

Why did he desire her when he seemed to hate her? Marie-Thèrése pleased him more. He had made that abundantly clear, and she was certainly agreeable.

Elizabeth shook herself. Such thoughts would never do. When Morton is safely in England, Martin will be gone, never to he seen again, and I will wed Cavilon. For now I must concentrate on helping Morton. On not doing anything that will harm his chances to be freed.

“Two days alone with Martin,” she breathed. A cold chill ran through her. Was it caused by fear or what?

Elizabeth shook her head angrily. “Martin is a means of freeing my brother, nothing more,” she whispered aloud.

Chapter Twenty-one

Long before anyone thought to stir in Treguier, Martin knocked at Elizabeth’s door. He was surprised when it opened. Elizabeth stood before him, dressed in the French
culotte
and shirt Marie-Thèrése had given her, her duffel bag in hand, ready to depart. Anger welled within him as she raised troubled eyes to his.

“There is food in the kitchen for you,” he said tersely, and stood back to let her pass. Following her, he pondered his hostile response. He did not understand it or his resentment even as desire for her surged through him. Inner conflict made him pace impatiently while he waited for Elizabeth to finish eating.

“I can take this with me,” she offered seeing his scowl darken.

“Eat. We shall not be able to have a fire. This may be your last warm meal for a time,” Martin answered curtly.

Watching the two, Marie-Thèrése was perplexed by Martin’s manner with the Englishwoman. It was apparent he was doing his best to make her dislike, even hate, him, yet she was certain he loved her.