Tender the Storm (53 page)

In a low tone, she embarked on an explanation of the steps she had taken in preparation for their flight to America. Everything had been arranged, she told him. She had procured false passports. They would have to book passage for America once they reached Bordeaux. There should be no difficulty there, since French ships regularly plied the ocean between Bordeaux and New Orleans and there were often American ships in the harbor. She had enough gold to pay for their passage and to take care of their needs for a long time to come.

When she came to the end of her recitation, Leon gave a disbelieving laugh. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "Is this the little Zoë who, last time I saw her, scarcely knew how to tie the bows of her bonnet under her chin? How did you get to be so grown up?"

She shrugged off the good-natured cajolery. "I grew up in haste when you and Claire were not there to look out for me," she answered.

"Poor Zoë," he said, and touched a hand to her cheek. "You've done well."

"Thank you."

"When do we leave?"

"Soon . . . very soon.
There are still a few things I need to arrange. In a day or so, everything should be set."

Something in her voice alerted him. "You do intend to come with me?" he asked.

Her hesitation was barely noticeable.
"Of course."

Leon noticed it. His voice expressionless, he said, "You're thinking of him, aren't you —your protector?"

"Yes." When Leon said nothing, she went on, "I love him, you see. But you needn't think that I shall remain with him. It's better for everyone if I go with you." And very much afraid that she was on the point of losing her control altogether, she forced herself to turn to more prosaic matters.

Though Leon was against the suggestion, fearing that detection would lead to Zoë's certain arrest, he was finally persuaded to return to the house and hide himself in the attics. It wasn't Zoë's logic that decided him, but the thread of hysteria which underscored her words.

There was nothing more to say. Zoë was the first to leave the boathouse. Leon was only a step behind. The door creaked as it closed. Leon carefully locked the door and slipped the key into its hiding place. He straightened just as someone stepped out of the shadows.

Rolfe's voice came to them, chilled and rigid with anger. "You must be Zoë's brother.
Le Cache-Cache,
I presume?"

And before Zoë had gathered her wits, Leon had launched himself at the bigger man, his short leaded stick making a vicious arc in the air.

Zoë gasped as she heard the crack,
then
cried out in relief when she realized that Rolfe had brought up his walking cane to ward off the blow.

Panting, grunting, the two men went at each other like demons. Zoë circled them, crying out for them to stop. "Rolfe! Leon! For the love of
God! 'Oh
please! Don't do this!"

Neither man paid her the least heed. In desperation, with some obscure notion of protecting the one who lost the contest, she reached for one of the paddles which leaned against the side of the boathouse.

And then she heard it. The sickening thud against flesh and bone as a blow struck its mark, and almost immediately afterwards, the groan of someone in acute pain.

One man, obviously the victor, was crouched over his felled opponent. In the dim light, Zoë could not make out who was who.

Sobbing, she raised the paddle and brought it down smartly, meaning only to knock the wind out of the victor. Her aim went wild. It hit the man on the side of his head.

"Oh forgive me, forgive me," Zoë sobbed out, and dropped the paddle.

Her words were the last thing Rolfe heard before he slipped into darkness.

Rolfe lost consciousness for only a few minutes. But it was time enough for Leon to slip away. As he shook his head to clear his dazed senses, Rolfe could hear Zoë above him, muttering to herself. It registered that she was bathing his face with a wet kerchief. Since the threatening storm had finally broken, and the rain was pelting down in buckets, soaking him, her attempts to relieve his distress were scarcely appreciated.

Batting her hand away, he let out a roar of rage. "You damn well tried to murder me!" If she had shot at him with a pistol, he could not have felt more betrayed.

Zoë sat back on her heels. "It was an accident," she said contritely. "The paddle slipped."

"He won't get away, you know," he said savagely, suddenly remembering his assailant. "I have men posted at every exit." And as if to add weight to his words, shouts and sounds of a struggle came from farther along the riverbank.

"Oh God!" wept Zoë. "What are you going to do with him?"

Rolfe sprang to his feet, looming over her like a great beast of prey. A man came running up and Rolfe moved aside to converse with him. Zoë sat in miserable, sodden silence. She gasped when Rolfe reached down and swung her into his arms.

"What I'm going to do with your brother," said Rolfe sternly, "is take him back to England. It's yourself you should be afraid for, not that misguided boy!"

Forked lightning streaked across the sky, turning night into day.
Rolfe's features, hard, forbidding, looked as if they might have been etched in stone.
A peal of thunder directly overhead made the earth and air vibrate alarmingly. Zoë threw her arms around Rolfe's neck.

"I'm afraid of storms," she mewed in his ear, pressing herself into the shelter of his body

Rolfe cursed and made rapidly for the house, hugging Zoë to him.

Once in her chamber, he threw her none too gently on the bed, then went to light a candle. They were both soaked to the skin.

"Strip out of those wet things," he snarled at her.

Zoë was not sure whether she was more afraid of the tempest which raged outside or the tempest which raged inside the quivering towering man who seemed to dwarf her chamber. Round eyed, she made haste to do his bidding.

Though she knew that it was not the time to argue with him, her fears for Leon could not be stayed. "I don't understand," she said. "What has my brother to do with you? Why should you wish to take him to England?"

She was down to her lacy
underthings
, and made no attempt to remove them. Rolfe had no hesitation in peeling out of his wet garments. With quick, angry movements he stripped to the skin. He found a towel and began to dry himself vigorously. All traces of the elderly Monsieur Ronsard seemed to vanish before Zoë's eyes.

As a specimen of the male animal, her former husband was splendid, Zoë acknowledged. That blond hair, those broad shoulders, sleek muscles, lithe movements —as her eyes devoured him, her breath quickened. So much masculine power, she hoped, would not be let loose against-her own puny person.

"Didn't you hear me?" he barked,
starding
her. "I told you to get out of those wet things."

A flash of lightning, a clap of thunder coming almost simultaneously, acted on her like the lash of a whip. In a matter of seconds, she was naked and drying herself off with the towel Rolfe had thrown at her.

"You still haven't answered my question," she pointed out as inoffensively as she could make the rebuke.

Rolfe tied a fresh towel around his waist and turned to scowl at her. What he wanted to say was that he was taking her brother to England to hang him as a spy. But even though his temper was at boiling point and his wife deserved to suffer some of the agonies
he
had been made to suffer, he could not voice the lie. Strangely, his reluctance to hurt Zoë tested his temper to the limits.

"You need not fear for your brother's life," he snarled viciously. "And before you voice one more untruth let me tell you that I know everything there is to know about his involvement with
La Compagnie.

In England, hell
be
given sanctuary. I give you my word. But as for you, my girl . . ." He let the unsaid words hang threateningly on the air.

The threat did not register with Zoë. Leon would come to no harm. Rolfe had said so. She believed him. And suddenly, the weight of the whole world seemed to have lifted from her shoulders. Rolfe had taken command. And she could only wonder at herself for not confiding in him sooner.

Her thoughts brought a smile to her lips, and Rolfe, noting it, exploded into wrath. "Damn you, Zoë! Your blow might have killed me! But you knew that, didn't you?"

She could no longer doubt that Rolfe was in a towering temper. He had every right to be, she silently allowed. But that he should think that she had tried, deliberately, to do him an injury hurt her to the quick.

"The paddle slipped out of my hands," she said imploringly. And because his scowling face unnerved her, for something to do, she reached for her
nightrail
.

Rolfe snatched the filmy garment out of her reach. Slowly turning to face him, she tensed for what was to come.

Reading her wide-eyed look correctly, Rolfe smirked. "You're afraid of me," he said nastily, "and you damn well ought to be."

She tried reasoning with him. "Rolfe, remember that you are an English gentleman." There was no softening in that hard look. Desperate, Zoë fell back on flattery.
"An English gentleman, Rolfe!
There is no higher praise you can aspire to. Everyone knows
that the English are kind to weaker creatures." And by her whole demeanor she tried to convey that she must surely be a prime candidate for that protected species.

One foot on the floor, one knee braced on the bed, he crouched over her. Zoë inched away "And what word of wisdom do you have for a betrayed husband?" he demanded through set teeth.

"B-betrayed?"

"I know it all! Passports! Gold! America!" His voice increased in volume. "Damn you, Zoë! You were making plans to run away from me again."

Zoë had sometimes witnessed Rolfe in a temper. But never like this. He was shaking from the force of his emotions. She licked her dry lips. There was something primitive here that she had not quite
grasped,
something to do with the sexes. She did not think it was the moment to point out that she had divorced him and was therefore free to order her own life to suit herself.