Storm Winds (47 page)

She looked at the desk across the room where the journal Juliette had given her lay. She knew Juliette had wanted to set her free, but the method was one she couldn’t accept yet. Vasaro had healed the gaping wound but the scar tissue was still too sensitive to trust. Still, she had promised Juliette she would use the journal and she could not break her word.

Catherine suddenly rose to her feet and moved toward the desk. She had an hour or two before she had to go to the fields. She sat down at the desk and opened the journal. She would ignore those first pages and start the journal on the first day she had arrived at Vasaro, the time her life had really begun.

She paused, looking blindly down at the page and remembering how Philippe had smiled at her on that day. She had thought he was as beautiful as the flowers, but that had not turned out to be the case. His beauty bloomed only on the surface, and there was no substance beneath it to take root. If she could be fooled by Philippe for so many years, how could she trust her judgment?

She was baffled by François’s behavior tonight. He should have been angrier. Why had he decided to go meekly back to Paris in defeat? He was a strong, determined man and it wasn’t reasonable he should give up so easily.

Catherine shook her head as she dipped her pen in the inkwell again. Why was she worrying about Etchelet’s reasons? She should be grateful he wasn’t pursuing Jean Marc, and she was certainly happy he was leaving Vasaro and returning to Paris. She had no time to try to fathom why he did not react in the way she had thought he would or to worry about her own reactions to him.

Flowers were much easier to understand than people.

François mounted his horse and sent him galloping out of the stable yard toward the golden field of broom, where he could see Catherine’s familiar figure standing near the flower cart.

Christ, it was nearly noon and she must have gotten no rest since early yesterday morning. As he approached she turned to look at him and he could see the lines of weariness beside her mouth, the dark circles beneath her eyes. Her gray-blue woolen gown was darkened with sweat, and the contrast between this woman and the silk-clad lady of Vasaro was nearly unbelievable to him. Yet they both possessed strength and dignity and a beauty that sent a surge of pure lust through him. Lust and a frustration that led him to pull up the horse before her and say roughly, “Go back to the house and lie down.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said go to bed. You’re exhausted and won’t admit it.” He glanced at the workers picking the broom fields. “I’ll stay and do what’s necessary. What has to be done here? They seem to be working quickly enough.”

“They’re good workers and they know their tasks. Philippe said all that was needed was a presence, the knowledge that someone was overseeing the—” She stopped and shook her head. “I can’t let you help. This is my work.”

He smiled as he looked down at her. “I’m not trying to take away your work. I’m merely attempting to make myself useful while I’m a guest at Vasaro. I’m
afraid I’ll have to impose on you for a little longer. I don’t feel as fit as I thought I would today.”

Her gaze flew to his face. “You’re ill?”

He shook his head. “Just unable to contemplate a long, jarring ride to Paris. No doubt I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“You’re welcome, of course.”

“Then let me act as the presence of authority and you go get some rest. Tell the driver of the cart you’ve put me in charge for the next few days.” He smiled coaxingly. “I assure you it would save me from excruciating boredom. I don’t function at all well away from the bustle of Paris.”

“No?”

“No, and it will give you a chance to discuss the running of Vasaro with your Monsieur Augustine and try to form some kind of plan for proceeding. You wouldn’t want Vasaro to suffer while you learn what’s needed of you.”

“That’s true.” She hesitated. “You’re sure this is your wish?”

He nodded. “If you’d so favor me.”

She started for the cart and then halted. “You won’t tell anyone we were wed?”

“Why should I? The bond doesn’t exist now that it’s not needed.”

She gave him a dazzling smile and hurried over to the driver of the cart.

What the devil was he doing? François wondered. He’d had no intention of lingering at Vasaro. When he’d mounted his horse he’d intended to say his adieus and then start immediately for Paris. He had other things to do beside loll in this garden of paradise.

“You’re Monsieur Etchelet, are you not?”

François turned to see a small, ragged boy who looked vaguely familiar. “Yes.”

The blue eyes of the boy gazing at him were grave, his expression intent as if he were weighing François. Then, suddenly, he smiled radiantly. “Hello, my name’s Michel. Would you like to pick the flowers with me today?”

“You’re sure of the information?” Dupree asked.

Pedro Famiro nodded. “In two days’ time the colonel will leave for San Isadoro to examine the fortifications. He’ll be gone for at least a fortnight.”

A fortnight was even more than Dupree had hoped for.

The soldier asked, “It’s what you wanted?”

Dupree nodded and handed him a gold piece. “You’ve done well. Tell me when the colonel leaves Andorra and there will be another one for you.”

Famiro grinned with sly lasciviousness. “You wish not to be caught with Gandoria’s woman? I don’t blame you. He’s said to be jealous of his property and I can vouch for his skill with a sword.”

“A man must be cautious.” Dupree sipped his wine. “The enjoyment of a woman’s body is worth much but not a sword thrust through the heart.”

Famiro rose to his feet. “True. Trust me, I’ll see that you keep your skin in one piece and your manhood rutting in the marquise.”

Dupree smiled blandly. “Oh, I do trust you, my friend.”

A moment later he watched Famiro walk out the door of the café and saunter down the street. Famiro would have to die but not immediately, he thought idly. He could attend to that small detail directly before he left Andorra. He wouldn’t want any hint of suspicion to fall on him until he’d completed his mission.

He looked at the casa on the hill. In the past weeks it had become his custom to sit by this window of the café every evening to view the marquise’s pretty casa. He enjoyed imagining her going about her life unknowing how insecure the walls of her casa were.

Two more days. He had been three weeks in this hellhole of a town and now he was finally to be rewarded for his patience. He’d wait until the day Gandoria left Andorra to kill the cook, he decided. A
theft and murder in a street not too close to the casa would not cause undue suspicion.

His gaze on the casa became almost caressing as he felt excitement harden his groin.

Two more days.

The rain fell, a fine mist washing the grass on the hills to verdant brightness and pearling the blossoms in the fields.

The pickers moved down the road, returning to the village to wait for the rain to end.

Catherine glanced at François as they walked slowly back to the manor and laughed ruefully. “I know it’s very foolish of me to be glad we can’t pick today, but I do love it when it rains here at Vasaro.”

“I can see you do.”

Rain pearled her skin as it did the flowers, and her eyes shone soft, luminous.

“You’re Basque, aren’t you? Do you have rains like this in the mountains?”

“The rains aren’t this gentle. They’re usually hard and bitter and cause torrents to rush down to the valleys.”

“But you liked it there?”

“There’s a beauty and wildness … Yes, I liked the mountains.”

“You like Vasaro better?” she asked quickly.

He smothered a smile. In the past week he had found Catherine passionately jealous of her Vasaro. Everyone must love it as she did. “I like Vasaro much better,” he said gravely.

She nodded with satisfaction. “Anyone would prefer Vasaro to those harsh mountains.” She paused. “Why do you never talk of yourself?”

“I fear to bore you. I’m not at all interesting.”

She didn’t look at him. “I … find you interesting.”

His heart leapt in his breast. She meant nothing by it, he told himself. “You’re very kind.”

She slanted him a suddenly mischievous smile. “I’m not kind, I’m curious.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“If you like the mountains, why did you choose to leave them and go to Paris?”

“The revolution.”

Her smile faded. “I keep forgetting the revolution.”

“I keep forgetting it myself. I think Vasaro must be like the waters of Lethe.”

“You’ve been a great help to me in this past week,” she said haltingly. “But I suppose you must be eager to return to Paris now that your health has improved.”

He should be eager to return. He knew he had already been there too long. The ties were becoming stronger with each passing day and soon would become impossible to sever.

Catherine turned to look at him, clean, glowing, her luminous eyes questioning.

He tore his gaze away from her. “Next week will do as well,” he said gruffly. “If you’ll permit me to stay.”

A brilliant smile lit her face. “Oh, yes, I’ll permit you to stay.”

The marquise screamed.

“Don’t do that!” Dupree flinched as he pressed the barrel of the pistol to the woman’s throat. “You hurt my ears. Screams are for later. Get up, we have work to do.”

He set the candlestick on the night table beside her bed and gazed at her appraisingly. Even tousled from sleep Celeste de Clement was amazingly beautiful with her violet eyes wide with fright, the flesh of her shoulders and upper breasts gleaming with the texture of fine Lyon silk.

“Who
are
you?” The marquise’s voice shook with
anger and fear. “How dare you break into my house in the middle of the night and threaten me with a pistol. Do you know who I am?”

“I know.” Dupree frowned. “You’re wasting my time, Citizeness. Please get out of bed.”

“Marguerite!” the marquise screamed.

“Is that the woman who looks like a black crow?” Dupree shook his head. “I’m afraid she won’t be coming. I dislike an audience when I work. It robs the situation of a certain intimacy.” He took two steps back away from the bed. “Now, please get up or I’ll have to shoot you. I wouldn’t kill you, but I assure you the wound would be most painful.”

Celeste de Clement hesitated and then slowly swung her bare feet to the floor and stood up. “What is this all about?”

“The Wind Dancer. You failed to fulfill your promise and Citizen Marat is most annoyed with you.”

“You can’t take it from me.”

“Oh, but I can. Where is it?”

“I won’t tell you. Soon you’ll be skewered like a chicken for the roasting.” She smiled confidently. “This is Spain and I have protection in high places.”

“A colonel is not so high and his protection will not help you in San Isadoro.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re well informed.” She shrugged. “He will soon return.”

“But not in time.” Dupree stepped aside and motioned for her to precede him. “I think we’ll go down to the dining salon. I saw an item of furniture there that might prove useful.”

She glared at him and then turned and strode from the room.

Dupree followed close behind, his eyes on the straight, proud line of her spine. The marquise had courage, he thought with satisfaction. A woman with courage was always a more interesting challenge.

“I’ll not tell you where it is,” she repeated over her shoulder. “You might as well go back to that
canaille
and tell him you failed.”

“I won’t fail.” Dupree moved down the hall after her. “You’ll tell me. You’ll beg me to let you tell me.”

She gazed at him incredulously. “You jest.”

He shook his head. “Oh, no.” He smiled. “I never jest.”

The woman was weeping again.

Begging him to let her tell him where she had hidden the Wind Dancer.

Begging to be released from darkness.

Dupree smiled as he lifted the glass of wine to his lips and leaned back in the chair he’d taken from the dining salon to loll in comfort on the adjoining veranda. Here he could enjoy the fresh air and look down at the city below and still hear the sounds coming from the dining salon.

“Please, I can’t …” She began sobbing.
“Merde
, I can’t bear it.”

Soon he’d let her give him the information he desired. He was growing bored with the task. The woman had been broken for over two days and her courage had not given her the stamina he’d hoped. She had been as easy as all the rest, and he owed this victory as he did all those others to his mother. She had shown him the secret of the mastery of a soul.

The whip was crude, the burning brand jarring, but the darkness …

Ah, the darkness was the very monarch of discipline.

No candles burned in the lanterns hung beside the wrought iron gate. No light flickered beyond the arched windows of the casa.

Juliette felt a mixture of dread and anticipation as she reined in before the iron gate of the pretty little house. It would be over soon. She would see her mother and take back the treasure Celeste had stolen. Her mother would be angry with her and say words that
would cut and sting.
Dieu
, why did that knowledge still bother her after all these years?

Jean Marc glanced at her as he dismounted. “We could go to an inn and wait until tomorrow—”

“I want to do it now,” she interrupted. “I want to be done with it.”

“The house looks deserted.” Jean Marc lifted Juliette down from her mare and tied both horses to the trunk of the cork tree growing to the right of the courtyard gate. He tried the gate and it swung open. “It’s odd, the gate’s unlocked.”

Juliette followed him into the courtyard. The casa did look deserted, she thought. Yet, though it was too dark to see very much, the courtyard didn’t appear unkempt and the green and white mosaic fountain in its center still sprayed a gentle cascade of water into the deep basin below. She went to the fountain, looking up at the dark windows of the house. Her hand dipped into the water, idly scooped up a handful, and let the drops run through her fingers. “What if she’s gone?”