Storm Winds (68 page)

Juliette started to laugh helplessly. “Jean Marc,
you’re truly impossible. You make me dizzy. Only you would become involved in such convoluted maneuvering to get what you want.”

“Some things are worth a great deal of trouble.” He took a step nearer, his gaze searching her face. “You are, Juliette, and so is my Wind Dancer.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I was worried because we had to leave the Wind Dancer in France.”

“I suppose I was afraid to tell you. I stole the statue from the queen and she was your friend.”

“You stole because of love, not greed,” she said softly. “And, God knows, you tried to repay her in every way you could. I can’t condemn you for that.” A frown suddenly furrowed her brow. “But wait, there’s something that does bother me. When you arranged to have me sent to the abbey, was it because you thought I might be able to tell the difference in the statues?”

He grinned teasingly. “Well, Desedero did warn me that an artist would be able to tell the difference.” His smile faded and he slowly shook his head. “No, Juliette, even then I knew I had to find some way to keep you in my life.”

She turned toward the pedestal and leaned her head back on his shoulder as she stared dreamily at the Wind Dancer.

Everything leads me to you
.

The words she had spoken to Jean Marc in love came suddenly back to her. She had the odd feeling they applied also to this statue that had drawn them, shaped all their lives, inexorably interwoven their paths, even leading Jean Marc and her to this new land. “That’s because you have excellent good sense and knew I would love and protect you for—”

“The groom says I must ask you if I can ride my horse now.”

They turned to see Louis Charles, his eyes glowing with eagerness, standing in the doorway behind them. “Please, Jean Marc, may I ride—” He stopped, his gaze on the statue on the pedestal across the room. “What is that?” He moved slowly across the library until he stood before the pedestal. “I’ve seen this before. I
know
him.”

Juliette and Jean Marc moved across the room so that they stood on either side of the little boy before the pedestal.

“He’s called the Wind Dancer and he once belonged to your mother.” Juliette watched the little boy’s face. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

Louis Charles nodded, his eyes curiously intent as he stared directly into the shimmering emerald eyes of the Wind Dancer. “I remember, this statue was at Versailles. But he seems
more
now.”

Louis Charles had been too young to recall any but Desedero’s statue, Juliette realized. “You’re older now. Perhaps you view it differently.”

“Yes.” Louis Charles’s gaze never left the statue. “May I come here to see it every day?”

“Of course, if you like,” Jean Marc said.

“Oh, yes, please,” Louis Charles whispered. “It belonged to
Maman
. You see, I don’t have anything else that belonged to her. I must see it every day and remember … You understand?”

Juliette felt the tears sting her eyes as she recalled what Catherine had told her about Louis Charles’s desperate unhappiness regarding his mother’s burial.

Another link. Another path merged by the Wind Dancer.

“Yes, we do understand, Louis Charles.”

The three of them stood there for a long time, looking at the Wind Dancer, remembering.

Then, slowly, tentatively, his gaze never leaving the emerald eyes of the Wind Dancer, Louis Charles reached out and took first Juliette’s hand and then Jean Marc’s.

All facts regarding Marie Antoinette—her life at Versailles and imprisonment at the Temple—are as accurate as my research could make them. As for her character, a good deal had to come from my imagination, inferences I made from the huge, conflicting body of writing on this tragic queen. In an age abounding with larger-than-life figures, she seemed quite ordinary. Not particularly clever, she was undoubtedly selfish and flighty in her youth, yet she was also sentimental, generous, a very good mother, and brave at the last in the face of adversity and death.

Danton’s brilliance and earthy love of life are well documented and in sharp contrast to the rabid fanaticism of some of the other leaders of the revolution. Many historians believe that if he hadn’t grown weary of the insanity taking place around him and absented himself from the political scene at a crucial period, he might have been able to guide the country through the turmoil and spare France the worst of the Terror under Robespierre.

The Comte de Provence declared himself King of France on the announcement of the death of Louis XVII and later did ascend the throne after the return of the Bourbons. No evidence exists he had anything to do directly with the death of the royal family but he was known to be ambitious, jealous, and manipulative with no liking for his royal brother.

Did Louis Charles escape the Temple?

Opinion is divided. According to record, a child named by the government as Louis XVII died in the Temple on June 8, 1795. No doubt exists of the child’s death, only that the child was Louis XVII. At the time rumors were rife that there had been an escape and a substitution and in later years at least forty claimants came forth asserting they were Louis XVII. Their stories regarding aid received, dates, and methods of escape are as varied as the claimants themselves.

The reason I chose January 19, 1794, for the child’s escape was that in the historical record that date appears to have been a mysterious turning point for the boy in the tower.

After that night the child was totally isolated and never seen alive again by any disinterested witness who had previously known and could identify him. During the next six months no sound was heard from the child by his sister, who occupied the upstairs apartment. This was an unusual circumstance since the boy had cried for two days when separated from his mother and had been clearly heard by Marie Thérèse. There were tales of his apartment being walled up, of the child being fed through a hole, but records of masonry work being done are curiously absent from the Temple accounts. There are only accounts of cleaning of stovepipes and the insertion of a glass window above the boy’s stove.

Madame Simon spent her last years as a charity inmate of the Home for Incurable Diseases and was described by the sisters as a clean, well-behaved, decent old woman and perfectly sound mentally. Yet she stated to the sisters that Louis Charles had been spirited out of the Temple in a cart of dirty linen and a dumb child with rickets taken from a Paris hospital had been
substituted. She still swore to this fact on her deathbed in 1819 while taking the last sacrament.

Suppositions abound that there were two substitutions during the period between January 19, 1794, and June 5, 1795. It seems strange that after the child in the Tower died, his sister, who was on the premises, was not called down to identify the body.

Of course, there are many historians who claim there was no possibility of escape, that tales of Louis Charles’s survival are just that—tales.

But I find it intolerable to think of that desolate child dying in his grim, lonely Tower. I choose to think he escaped, that there was one beam of light and hope for him during the period of his darkness.

And, if I believe, and you also believe … then it must be so.

About the Author

IRIS JOHANSEN, who has more than twenty-seven million copies of her books in print, has won many awards for her achievements in writing. The bestselling author of
Firestorm, Fatal Tide, No One to Trust, Dead Aim, Final Target, Body of Lies, The Search, The Killing Game, The Face of Deception, And Then You Die, Long After Midnight
, and
The Ugly Duckling
, she lives near Atlanta, Georgia, where she is currently at work on a new novel.

FATAL TIDE

ONE

Cool water, smooth as glass as Kelby swam through it. Jesus, he was thirsty. He knew all he had to do was open his lips and the water would flow down his throat, but he wanted to see beyond the arched doorway first. It was huge and ornately carved, beckoning him forward.…

Then he was through the arch and the city was spread before him
.

Giant white columns built to stand forever. Streets laid out in perfect order. Glory and symmetry everywhere …

“Kelby.”

He was being shaken. Nicholas. He came instantly alert. “Time?” he whispered.

Nicholas nodded. “They should be coming back for you again in five minutes. I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page. I’ve decided we scratch the plan and I take them out by myself.”

“Screw you.”

“You’ll blow it for both of us. You haven’t had anything to eat or drink in three days, and you looked like a truck ran over you when they brought you back to the cell.”

“Shut up. It hurts my throat to argue.” He leaned back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. “We go as we planned. I give the word. Just tell me when they start down the hall. I’ll be ready.”

Go back to the sea. There’s strength there. No thirst that couldn’t be satisfied. He could move without pain through the buoyant water.

White columns shimmering …

“They’re coming,” Nicholas murmured.

Kelby opened his eyes only a slit as the door was unlocked. The same two guards. Hassan had an Uzi cradled in his arm. Kelby was so hazy he couldn’t remember the other guard’s name. But he could remember the toe of his boot as he kicked in his rib. Yes, he could remember that.

Ali, that was the bastard’s name.

“Get up, Kelby.” Hassan was standing over him. “Is the American dog ready for his beating?”

Kelby groaned.

“Get him, Ali. He’s too weak to stand up and face us again.”

Ali was smiling as he came to stand beside Hassan. “He’ll break this time. We’ll be able to drag him into Baghdad and show the whole world what cowards the Americans are.”

He reached down to grab Kelby’s shirt.

“
Now
.” Kelby’s foot lashed upward and connected with Ali’s nuts. Then he rolled sideways, knocking the Arab’s legs from beneath him.

He heard Hassan mutter a curse as Kelby leapt to his feet. He got in back of Ali before he could get off his knees, and his arm snaked around Ali’s neck.

He broke it with one twist.

He whirled to see Nicholas smashing the Uzi into Hassan’s head. Blood spurted. Nicholas hit him again.

“Out.” Kelby grabbed Ali’s pistol and knife and ran to the door. “Don’t waste time on him.”

“He wasted a lot of time on you. I wanted to make sure he’d gone to Allah.” But he was running after Kelby down the hall.

In the front office another guard jumped to his feet and reached for his gun. Kelby cut his throat before he could lift it.

Then they were outside the hut and running toward the hills.

Shots behind them.

Keep running.

Nicholas looked over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Go on, dammit.”

Sharp pain in his side.

Don’t stop.

The adrenaline was draining away and weakness was dragging at every limb.

Go
away from it. Concentrate. You’re swimming toward the archway. No pain there
.

He was running faster, stronger. The hills were just ahead. He could make it.

He was through the archway. White columns gleamed in the distance
.

Marinth …

Lacy golden fretwork
.

Velvet drapery
.

Drums
.

Someone coming toward her
.

It was going to happen again
.

Helpless. Helpless. Helpless
.

The scream that tore from Melis’s throat jarred her awake.

She jerked upright in bed. She was shaking, her T-shirt soaked with sweat.

Kafas
.

Or Marinth?

Sometimes she wasn’t sure.… It didn’t matter.

Only a dream.

She wasn’t helpless. She’d never be helpless again. She was strong now.

Except when she had the dreams. They robbed her of power and she was forced to remember. But she had the dreams less often now. It had been over a month since the last one. Still, she might feel better if she had someone to talk to. Maybe she should call Carolyn and—

No, deal with it. She knew what to do after the dreams to rid herself of these trembling fits and get back to blessed normalcy. She tore off her nightshirt as she left the bedroom and headed toward the lanai.

A moment later she was diving off the lanai into the sea.

It was the middle of the night, but the water was only cool, not cold, and felt like liquid silk on her body. Clean and caressing and soothing …

No threat. No submission. Nothing but the night and the sea. God, it was good to be alone.

But she wasn’t alone.

Something sleek and cool brushed against her leg.

“Susie?” It had to be Susie. The female dolphin was much more physically affectionate than Pete. The male touched her only rarely, and it was something special when he did.

But Pete was beside her in the water. She saw him out of the corner of her eye as she stroked toward the nets that barricaded the inlet. “Hi, Pete. How are you doing?”

He gave a subdued series of clicks and then dove beneath the surface. A moment later Susie and Pete came to the surface together and swam ahead of her toward the nets. It was strange how they always knew when she was upset. Ordinarily their behavior was playful, almost giddily exuberant. It was only when they sensed she was disturbed that they became this docile. She was supposed to be the one teaching the dolphins, but she was learning from them every day she spent in their company. They enriched her life and she was grateful that—