Dragonfly in Amber (62 page)

I finished my own breakfast, and thriftily polished off Jamie's toast as well, then waddled upstairs for my morning nap. I had had small episodes of bleeding since the first alarm, though no more than a spot or two, and nothing at all for several weeks. Still, I kept to my bed or the chaise as much as possible, only venturing down to the salon to receive visitors, or to the dining room for meals with Jamie. When I descended for lunch, though, I found the table laid for one.

"Milord has not come back yet?" I asked in some surprise. The elderly butler shook his head.

"No, milady."

"Well, I imagine he'll be back soon; make sure there's food waiting for him when he arrives." I was too hungry to wait for Jamie; the nausea tended to return if I went too long without eating.

After lunch, I lay down to rest again. Conjugal relations being temporarily in abeyance, there wasn't that much one could do in bed, other than read or sleep, which meant I did quite a lot of both. Sleeping on my stomach was impossible, sleeping on my back uncomfortable, as it tended to make the baby squirm. Consequently, I lay on my side, curling around my growing abdomen like a cocktail shrimp round a caper. I seldom slept deeply, but tended rather to doze, letting my mind drift to the gentle random movements of the child.

Somewhere in my dreams, I thought I felt Jamie near me, but when I opened my eyes the room was empty, and I closed them again, lulled as though I, too, floated weightless in a blood-warm sea.

I was wakened at length, somewhere in the late afternoon, by a soft tap on the bedroom door.

"Entrez," I said, blinking as I came awake. It was the butler, Magnus, apologetically announcing more visitors.

"It is the Princesse de Rohan, Madame," he said. "The Princesse wished to wait until you awakened, but when Madame d'Arbanville also arrived, I thought perhaps…"

"That's all right, Magnus," I said, struggling upright and swinging my feet over the side of the bed. "I'll come down."

I looked forward to the visitors. We had stopped entertaining during the last month, and I rather missed the bustle and conversation, silly as much of it was. Louise came frequently to sit with me and regale me with the latest doings of the Court, but I hadn't seen Marie d'Arbanville in some time. I wondered what brought her here today.

I was ungainly enough to take the stairs slowly, my increased weight jarring upward from the soles of my feet on each step. The paneled door of the drawing room was closed, but I heard the voice inside clearly.

"Do you think she knows?"

The question, asked in the lowered tones that portended the juiciest of gossip, reached me just as I was about to enter the drawing room. Instead, I paused at the threshold, just out of sight.

It was Marie d'Arbanville who had spoken. Welcome everywhere because of her elderly husband's position, and gregarious even by French standards, Marie heard everything worth hearing within the environs of Paris.

"Does she know what?" The reply was Louise's; her high, carrying voice had the perfect self-confidence of the born aristocrat, who doesn't care who hears what.

"Oh, you haven't heard!" Marie pounced on the opening like a kitten, delighted to find a new mouse to play with. "Goodness! Of course, I only heard myself an hour ago."

And raced directly over here to tell me about it, I thought. Whatever "it" was. I thought I stood a better chance of hearing the unexpurgated version from my position in the hallway.

"It is my lord Broch Tuarach," Marie said, and I didn't need to see her, to imagine her leaning forward, green eyes darting back and forth, snapping with enjoyment of her news. "Only this morning, he challenged an Englishman to a duel—over a whore!"

"What!" Louise's cry of astonishment drowned out my own gasp. I grabbed hold of a small table and held on, black spots whirling before my eyes as the world came apart at the seams.

"Oh, yes!" Marie was saying. "Jacques Vincennes was there; he told my husband all about it! It was in that brothel down near the fish market—imagine going to a brothel at that hour of the morning! Men are so odd. Anyway, Jacques was having a drink with Madame Elise, who runs the place, when all of a sudden there was the most frightful outcry upstairs, and all kinds of thumping and shouting."

She paused for breath—and dramatic effect—and I heard the sound of liquid being poured.

"So, Jacques of course raced to the stairs—well, that's what he says, anyway; I expect he actually hid behind the sofa, he's such a coward—and after more shouting and thumping, there was a terrible crash, and an English officer came hurtling down the stairs, half-undressed, with his wig off, staggering and smashing into the walls. And who should appear at the top of the stairs, looking like the vengeance of God, but our own petit James!"

"No! And I would have sworn he was the last…but go on! What happened then?"

A teacup chimed softly against its saucer, followed by Marie's voice, released by excitement from the modulations of secrecy.

"Well—the man reached the foot of the stairs still on his feet, by some miracle, and he turned at once, and looked up at Lord Tuarach. Jacques says the man was very self-possessed, for someone who'd just been kicked downstairs with his breeches undone. He smiled—not a real smile, you know, the nasty sort—and said, ‘There's no need for violence, Fraser; you could have waited for your turn, surely? I should have thought you get enough at home. But then, some men derive pleasure from paying for it.' "

Louise made shocked noises. "How awful! The canaille! But of course, it is no reproach to milord Tuarach—" I could hear the strain in her voice as friendship warred with the urge to gossip. Not surprisingly, gossip won.

"Milord Tuarach cannot enjoy his wife's favors at the moment; she carries a child, and the pregnancy is dangerous. So of course he would relieve his needs at a brothel; what gentleman would do otherwise? But go on, Marie! What happened then?"

"Well." Marie drew breath as she approached the high point of the story. "Milord Tuarach rushed down the stairs, seized the Englishman by the throat, and shook him like a rat!"

"Non! Ce n'est pas vrai!"

"Oh, yes! It took three of Madame's servants to restrain him—such a wonderful big man, isn't he? So fierce-looking!"

"Yes, but then what?"

"Oh—well, Jacques said the Englishman gasped for a bit, then straightened up and said to milord Tuarach, ‘That's twice you've come near killing me, Fraser. Someday you may succeed.' And then milord Tuarach cursed in that terrible Scottish tongue—I don't understand a word, do you?—and then he wrenched himself free from the men holding him, struck the Englishman across the face with his bare hand"—Louise gasped at the insult—"and said, ‘Tomorrow's dawn will see you dead!' Then he turned about and ran up the stairs, and the Englishman left. John said he looked quite white—and no wonder! Just imagine!"

I imagined, all right.

"Are you well, Madame?" Magnus's anxious voice drowned out Louise's further exclamations. I put out a hand, groping, and he took it at once, putting his other hand under my elbow in support.

"No. I'm not well. Please…tell the ladies?" I waved weakly toward the drawing room.

"Of course, Madame. In a moment; but now let me see you to your chamber. This way, chère Madame…" He led me up the stairs, murmuring consolingly as he supported me. He escorted me to the bedroom chaise, where he left me, promising to send up a maid at once to attend me.

I didn't wait for assistance; the first shock passing, I could navigate well enough, and I stood and made my way across the room to where my small medicine box sat on the dressing table. I didn't think I was going to faint now, but there was a bottle of spirits of ammonia in there that I wanted handy, just in case.

I turned back the lid and stood still, staring into the box. For a moment, my mind refused to register what my eyes saw; the folded white square of paper, carefully wedged upright between the multicolored bottles. I noted rather abstractedly that my fingers shook as I took the paper out; it took several tries to unfold it.

I am sorry. The words were bold and black, the letters carefully formed in the center of the sheet, the single letter "J" written with equal care below. And below that, two more words, these scrawled hastily, done as a postscript of desperation: I must!

"You must," I murmured to myself, and then my knees buckled. Lying on the floor, with the carved panels of the ceiling flickering dimly above, I found myself thinking that I had always heretofore assumed that the tendency of eighteenth-century ladies to swoon was due to tight stays; now I rather thought it might be due to the idiocy of eighteenth-century men.

There was a cry of dismay from somewhere nearby, and then helpful hands were lifting me, and I felt the yielding softness of the wool-stuffed mattress under me, and cool cloths on my brow and wrists, smelling of vinegar.

I was soon restored to what senses I had, but strongly disinclined to talk. I reassured the maids that I was in fact all right, shooed them out of the room, and lay back on the pillows, trying to think.

It was Jack Randall, of course, and Jamie had gone to kill him. That was the only clear thought in the morass of whirling horror and speculation that filled my mind. Why, though? What could have made him break the promise he had made me?

Trying to consider carefully the events Marie had related—third-hand as they were—I thought there had to have been something more than just the shock of an unexpected encounter. I knew the Captain, knew him a great deal better than I wanted to. And if there was one thing of which I was reasonably sure, it was that he would not have been purchasing the usual services of a brothel—the simple enjoyment of a woman was not in his nature. What he enjoyed—needed—was pain, fear, humiliation.

These commodities, of course, could also be purchased, if at a somewhat higher price. I had seen enough, in my work at L'Hôpital des Anges, to know that there were les putains whose chief stock in trade lay not between their legs, but in strong bones overlaid with expensive fragile skin that bruised at once, and showed the marks of whips and blows.

And if Jamie, his own fair skin scarred with the marks of Randall's favor, had come upon the Captain, enjoying himself in similar fashion with one of the ladies of the establishment—That, I thought, could have carried him past any thought of promises or restraint. There was a small mark on his left breast, just below the nipple; a tiny whitish pucker, where he had cut from his skin the branded mark of Jonathan Randall's heated signet ring. The rage that had led him to suffer mutilation rather than bear that shameful mark could easily break forth again, to destroy its inflictor—and his hapless progeny.

"Frank," I said, and my left hand curled involuntarily over the shimmer of my gold wedding ring. "Oh, dear God. Frank." For Jamie, Frank was no more than a ghost, the dim possibility of a refuge for me, in the unlikely event of necessity. For me, Frank was the man I had lived with, had shared my bed and body with—had abandoned, at the last, to stay with Jamie Fraser.

"I can't," I whispered, to the empty air, to the small companion who stretched and twisted lazily within me, undisturbed by my own distress. "I can't let him do it!"

The afternoon light had faded into the gray shades of dusk, and the room seemed filled with all the despair of the world's ending. Tomorrow's dawn will see you dead. There was no hope of finding Jamie tonight. I knew he would not return to the Rue Tremoulins; he wouldn't have left that note if he were coming back. He could never lie beside me through the night, knowing what he intended doing in the morning. No, he had undoubtedly sought refuge in some inn or tavern, there to ready himself in solitude for the execution of justice that he had sworn.

I thought I knew where the place of execution would be. With the memory of his first duel strong in his mind, Jamie had shorn his hair in preparation. The memory would have come to him again, I was sure, when choosing a spot to meet his enemy. The Bois de Boulogne, near the path of the Seven Saints. The Bois was a popular place for illicit duels, its dense growth sheltering the participants from detection. Tomorrow, one of its shady clearings would see the meeting of Jamie Fraser and Jack Randall. And me.

I lay on the bed, not bothering to undress or cover myself, hands clasped across my belly. I watched the twilight fade to black, and knew I would not sleep tonight. I took what comfort I could in the small movements of my unseen inhabitant, with the echo of Jamie's words ringing in my ears: Tomorrow's dawn will see you dead.

The Bois de Boulogne was a small patch of almost-virgin forest, perched incongruously on the edge of Paris. It was said that wolves as well as foxes and badgers were still to be found lurking in its depths, but this story did nothing to discourage the amorous couples that dallied under the branches on the grassy earth of the forest. It was an escape from the noise and dirt of the city, and only its location kept it from becoming a playground for the nobility. As it was, it was patronized largely by those who lived nearby, who found a moment's respite in the shade of the large oaks and pale birches of the Bois, and by those from farther away who sought privacy.

It was a small wood, but still too large to quarter on foot, looking for a clearing large enough to hold a pair of duelists. It had begun to rain during the night, and the dawn had come reluctantly, glowing sullen through a cloud-dark sky. The forest whispered to itself, the faint patter of rain on the leaves blending with the subdued rustle and rub of leaf and branches.

The carriage pulled to a stop on the road that led through the Bois, near the last small cluster of ramshackle buildings. I had told the coachman what to do; he swung down from his seat, tethered the horses, and disappeared among the buildings. The folk who lived near the Bois knew what went on there. There could not be that many spots suitable for dueling; those there were would be known.

I sat back and pulled the heavy cloak tighter around me, shivering in the cold of the early dawn. I felt terrible, with the fatigue of a sleepless night dragging at me, and the leaden weight of fear and grief resting in the pit of my stomach. Overlying everything was a seething anger that I tried to push away, lest it interfere with the job at hand.