Surrender to a Stranger (49 page)

At that point Sidney unceremoniously stuffed a rag into his mouth, so Jacqueline could not find out whatever it was Nicolas was going to swear. It did not matter. She was free of him forever. She did not doubt that he would be severely punished for losing the Black Prince and the escaped Mademoiselle de Lambert yet again. Perhaps he would even be executed this time. The thought should have pleased her, but instead all she felt was emptiness and sorrow. She was getting away, but thousands of others like her were trapped here and would die. She turned and looked up at Armand.

“Can we go now?” she pleaded softly.

He looked down at her in surprise. He had thought she would want to bear witness to Nicolas’s humiliation, and perhaps have the satisfaction of issuing a few choice parting words to him herself. Instead she looked up at him sadly, her silvery eyes filled with weariness and pain. He berated himself for not being more sensitive.

“Of course, Mademoiselle,” he returned, his voice gentle and low. He took a step, and then hesitated. He turned to her and slowly offered her his arm.

She laid her hand gracefully upon it and extended her other hand out to Philippe, who was watching Armand’s men produce a skiff from a crevice of rock at the end of the beach. Philippe looked at her uncertainly a moment, as though he was beyond such childish comforts as hand-holding. He did not take it, but instead awkwardly lifted his arm to her, trying to imitate what he saw Armand doing. She smiled and laid her hand upon it. Slowly, the three of them began to walk down the beach.

Jacqueline sat before the small stove in Armand’s cabin, methodically working an ivory comb through the tangles in her wet hair. The sea was relatively calm, leaving
The Angélique
free to skim quietly over its gently pulsing surface. Jacqueline was grateful for that, because it meant she had been able to languish comfortably in a steaming-hot bath, soaking away her aches and tension as well as the layers of grime she had accumulated during her stay in France. She had soaped her hair three times in an effort to rid it of the red color Justin had put on it, but was not entirely convinced it had all come out. She held up a damp lock and examined it against the soft orange glow of the candles on the table. She was almost certain it was tinged with auburn, but she told herself it could just be the light. She purposefully set to work on another tangle.

She did not know where Armand was.

When they boarded
The Angélique,
he instructed Sidney to take her to his cabin, to bring her clothes, a tray of food, and a hot bath, and to provide her with anything else she might wish for. Philippe had started to go with her, but Armand had told John to take him to another cabin. Philippe protested, but Jacqueline explained to him that he would have to stay in his own cabin tonight, as she wished to take a bath and wanted him to do the same. They argued briefly over the necessity of his taking a bath, but in the end he shrugged his shoulders and allowed himself to be escorted to a different cabin. By that time Armand had disappeared, presumably to issue orders to the rest of the crew before retiring himself.

While she was eating, Sidney returned with a silk and lace nightdress for her to sleep in, and a beautiful gown and cape for her to wear tomorrow. Jacqueline contemplated the exquisite nightdress for several minutes before carelessly tossing it over a chair and rifling through Armand’s trunk for one of his soft cotton shirts instead. She did not want to sleep in something that had belonged to his wife, Lucette, or perhaps to one of his many mistresses. Besides, she found his shirts comfortable to wear, and this would be the last time she would have the opportunity to do so. After all, her business with him was completed. She had saved his life, just as he had saved hers. She no longer had to feel guilty for stupidly sending him into a trap. She owed him nothing, just as he owed her nothing. When they reached England tomorrow, they would return to their separate lives and that would be that. She sighed.

The sound of voices arguing in the hall distracted her. Curious, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and went to open the door. Philippe was standing with his back to her, having risen from the makeshift bed he had prepared at her doorstep. Armand stood in the hall facing him. He was freshly bathed and had changed into a loose white shirt and charcoal breeches. His hair had also changed color, from black to its usual mixture of brown and copper and blond. He was holding a crystal decanter of red wine in one hand and a single glass in the other, and was looking mildly irritated.

“You’ll not disturb her—she needs her rest,” Philippe was saying authoritatively as he looked up at Armand, who towered well over a foot above him.

Armand looked at Jacqueline with helpless exasperation. “Perhaps we should ask Mademoiselle de Lambert whether or not she is willing to receive a visitor,” he suggested mildly.

Philippe whirled around in surprise. “I thought you might be sleeping,” he stammered. “I didn’t want anyone to wake you.”

Jacqueline smiled. “You are most thoughtful, Philippe, but as you can see I am fully awake. You may return to your cabin now.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Think I’ll just stay here for the night,” he told her nonchalantly. “Just in case you need me.” He looked meaningfully at Armand.

Armand raised one eyebrow at the impertinence of the young pup and looked at Jacqueline, waiting to see how she would handle this.

“That won’t be necessary, Philippe,” Jacqueline assured him, feeling slightly embarrassed by Philippe’s determination to protect her virtue.

“I don’t mind,” he replied easily, preparing to settle down once again on his mound of blankets.

Armand looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Jacqueline’s cheeks grew warm.

“Philippe, I really would prefer it if you would sleep in your own cabin tonight,” she told him casually. “You need a good sleep, and you cannot get one sleeping on the floor in the hallway.”

“I’ve slept in worse places,” he scoffed. “It won’t bother me.” He began to shake out his blankets.

Jacqueline raised her eyes in helpless frustration to Armand. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say this was her problem and she would have to deal with it.

She drew her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Philippe, I am asking you to return to your cabin,” she stated, her voice more pleading than authoritative.

He stopped arranging his bed and looked at her in surprise. “You mean you don’t want me here?” he demanded in disbelief.

“No,” she replied, her face burning. “I do not.”

He looked at her, and then at Armand, who calmly accepted his scrutiny. Finally he looked back at Jacqueline. “Well then,” he said, his voice tight with embarrassment. “I guess I’ll go back to my room.” He quickly scooped up his blankets and pillow and hurried down the corridor.

Feeling as if she was about to go up in flames, Jacqueline turned and went back into the cabin. Armand followed her and quietly shut the door.

Awkward silence gripped the tiny room. Armand went to the table in the center of the cabin and put down the decanter and the glass. He poured a glass of wine and held it out to her.

“Did Sidney bring you everything you need?”

“Yes,” she replied, accepting the glass.

“Good.”

She could not think of anything else to say. She took a huge swallow of wine, wishing desperately that some words would come to mind.

Armand stood before her, wondering what to do next.

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to reach out and pull her into his arms, to thread his fingers into her hair and kiss her lips and face and throat and shoulders, to tear that blanket off her and carry her to the bed and caress her all over with his hands and lips and tongue until she was as desperate with need for him as he was for her. Instead he simply stood there, frozen, unable to do anything lest he frighten her.

For weeks now he had tormented himself with images of her, all the while believing he would never see her again. The thought of her had been his escape, had lifted him out of that cell and into a world that was filled with peace, and joy, and life. She did not know it, but she had kept him from going insane. And now that she was really here, warm and alive and vibrant, he just wanted to be close to her, even if that meant all he could do was look at her. He knew he would not be able to bear it if she sent him away. And so he simply stood there, feeling like an awkward, nervous schoolboy, totally in awe of the incredible woman who was before him.

She was utterly, unbearably magnificent. The champagne strands of her hair were shimmering brilliantly against the sapphire wool of the blanket she clutched so primly to her shoulders, as if by holding on to that soft scrap of material she could shield herself from the power of his desire for her. She nervously studied the contents of her glass, her silvery-gray eyes sparkling with the brilliance of the sun upon the sea, her silken skin aflame with the heat of the wine. She overwhelmed him. Not just with her beauty, for he had always known she was beautiful, from the moment he first saw her miniature in Sir Edward’s study. When he learned she had been arrested, he swore he would not rest until she was safe from the bastards who sought to destroy her. But he had not known her then. He had simply thought she was young, and beautiful, and innocent, and such a lovely combination did not deserve to be slaughtered on the guillotine in the name of liberty. As with all the other men, women, and children he had saved during his personal war against the Republic, he had thought of her as something abstract, an exquisite work of art that needed protection from the violence and destruction of revolution and war. If he succeeded in saving her and her brother, it was another strike against the government that had butchered his family, and coincidentally, a gift to Sir Edward. Nothing more.

It was not until he sat at the back of the courtroom in the Palais de Justice that he began to realize what a remarkable creature he had come to France to save. She was, of course, far more beautiful in the flesh than any artist could ever have painted her, but he could not fault the artist for that. What he had not expected was her courage, her strength, her fierce, unwavering determination. They could condemn her to death, but they could not destroy her. They could strip her of her home and her belongings, force her to send away her sisters, murder her father, beat her brother almost to death before her eyes, and then throw her into a freezing, dank cesspool to rot for weeks before parading her in front of a furious mob to endure the bitter humiliation of a mock trial. They could do all of that and more, but they could not break her. She was strong, and brave, and willful. She had been raised to be a delicate blossom, forever sheltered in a crystal château, but when her world was shattered she revealed herself to be forged from steel. She was a survivor.

And she had been ready to sacrifice herself for him. She had been safe in England, with her new life ahead of her. Yet she had come back to France and risked her life so he could be free. He had thought she cared only for vengeance, that the force that drove her was the desire to murder her enemy. But when Bourdon stood before her, bound and helpless, she had not so much as spoken to him. She had scarred his face, but a scar was nothing compared with the deaths of her father and brother. Her return to France had nothing to do with vengeance, he realized, and everything to do with him. The enormity of her actions astounded him.

“Why did you come for me?” he asked quietly.

She raised her eyes from the contents of her wineglass, surprised by his question. “I—I should never have asked you to help François-Louis,” she stammered. “It was stupid of me not to sense it was a trap.”

The mention of her betrothed irritated him, tainted the moment. “Did Monsieur le Marquis reach England safely?” he asked dryly.

Jacqueline winced at the sarcasm in his tone. “Yes. He came to see me at the Harringtons’. That was how I found out you had been captured.”

“I see.”

He wondered whether she still intended to marry the fool, but he could not bring himself to ask. If she said yes, then he had no business being here. He wondered what story the spineless little fop had given her, to explain how he had managed to escape while the Black Prince did not. He wanted to tell her that the idiot was not fit to touch her, that he was weak and selfish and stupid, that he dallied with other women in prison, God help him, he even wanted to tell her that underneath that ridiculous wig the man was bald. But he said nothing.

“When I learned you had been caught, I knew I had to do something,” she continued, trying to fill the awkward silence that stretched between them. “I mean, I had sent you there. I could not bear the thought that you would die because of my stupidity. You saved my life, and I repaid you by sending you into a trap.”

“You did not send me there,” he informed her. “You hired me to go. I did not have to accept your proposition. It was entirely my choice.” He moved a step closer to her, closing the distance between them. “As I recall, you even paid me in advance,” he murmured, his voice low and slightly husky. “Remember?”

She felt a hot flush streak from her face right down to the pit of her stomach. She released the blanket she was clutching slightly and took a nervous swallow of wine, thinking back to his terms of payment.

“I remember,” she breathed.

He reached out to take the wineglass from her hand and placed it on the table behind him. “Do you know how many times I have relived that night?” he demanded, his voice taut and strained. He held her steady with his gaze.

She shook her head, desperately clutching the corners of her blanket.

He reached out and lightly caressed the soft silk of her cheek. She did not move away, but stared up at him, her eyes shimmering with desire and uncertainty.

“It is strange,” he mused as he explored the incredible perfection of her cheek, “it was the thought of you that kept me sane when I was in prison.” He began to slowly lower his head. “And now you are here, you are real, and I feel I am about to go out of my mind.” He held his lips a breath away from hers. “How is it that you can have such power over me, Jacqueline?”