The Shadow and the Star (11 page)

She lay awake thinking, staring into nothing, her mind going round and round with policemen and money and letters of character. It all fell inward into light sleep and restless dreams. When something hit her leg, she jolted instantly wide awake with her heart right up in her throat.

She started up in bed, her blood pounding so that she couldn't hear a thing. Her room was utterly black; not even moonlight or cloud reflections gave shadow or substance to anything. From somewhere outside, a cat howled and spat. Leda took a deep breath, holding her throat. A cat. Of course, a cat had got in through the window. It had been quite a heavy touch—too forceful for vermin, she thought, while an old story about rats the size of big striped toms shivered through her head.

"Scat!" she hissed, plumping the covers. "Are you still in here, you awful beast? Scat, now, kitty!" She stood up and collided with the sewing machine table where she'd moved it, clutched her stubbed toe with a vexed cry, and fell backward onto her bed—

And onto a large, living, moving shape.

She was too stunned to scream, and suddenly it was not there—it—
he
—it was a man—in her room—she whirled around and lurched off the bed in her terror. She couldn't see anything—the poker—a man—in her room—God help her—she tried to scream, but found her throat closed tight and the panic beating through her veins. She skittered backward toward the door, lunged into the sewing machine table again, and knocked it over. It fell with a crack, and another sound, a strange soft grunt.

She stood frozen, listening.

Faintly, something scraped the floor, a noise that suddenly seemed to make everything real and even more terrible. He was truly there; this was no dream; she'd knocked the machine onto him and he was pushing it off. The sound of scraped wood came again, soft and undeniable. Tears of fright started in her eyes.

"Don't touch me!" she cried in a voice that came out all quavery. "I've a poker in my hand!"

He made no response. A horrible stillness seemed to thicken in the room. If he moved, it was in utter silence. She thought he was between her and the door, blocking escape; she stood paralyzed, with little half-mad sounds of weeping stopped in her throat.

"Go away," she said in the same impossibly shaky voice. "I won't make a fuss."

The silence lengthened. Leda swallowed, and then she thought she heard him—very, very faintly—she heard a whisper, like an intake of his breath. She was sure he was still there, near the door—if he was going to leave without hurting her, he could have done it already. She would have heard him turn the lock, open the door. He was still there; he wasn't finished—what did he want,
what did he want
?

Very slowly, she bent down, her hand searching for the poker by the bed. Her fingers encountered smooth, curved metal—she jerked back, and then felt again, shaping a long blade. It was hard, and heavy, heavy enough to swing in self-defense. She gripped it by both hands and began to straighten up.

An instant later she was on the floor. It was as if her knees had just collapsed beneath her; her stomach wrenched; she felt fuzzy in her mind, uncertain of what she had been doing. She thought in confusion that she had been hit, that it was morning, that thunder echoed in the street outside.

Her fingers closed on the weapon. She heard the thump of a footstep, and could not even scramble back from the sound, her limbs shaking so that they wouldn't obey her.

"Give it to me."

The low voice made her jerk like a helpless puppet. It came from closer than she expected; he was standing up; he was not two feet from her.

"I don't mean you any harm," he said in the darkness.

Something seemed to have happened to her brain in that strange moment of collapse. In the midst of shuddering befuddlement, her mind focused on one thing only: she fixed with preternatural intensity on
him
, on his words, on his voice, on his heat. He was not British. Even in his faint murmur she could hear the accent; the different stress, strange and yet familiar, the distinctive mix of vowels.

Her heart began to pound in hazy recognition. Her body still shivered as if she were freezing. She put her arms around herself, reeling with sickness.

"Mr. Gerard!" she whispered.

For the first time in her life, she took the name of the Lord in vain, and fainted.

She recovered her senses in darkness, still wobbly and bewildered. A moment after she opened her eyes, the sharp, sour smell of a match stung her nose. Light flared, sending crazy shadows across the walls.

She could not think straight. Something dark moved above her: she looked up and saw the black figure holding a sword, masked and hooded like an evil dream; he—it�touched the flame to the candle and turned to glance down at her.

She made a suffocated sound, unable to form words. The malevolent figure moved, as if to bend over her, and she began to cry, curling up in terror. The other paused, then reached up and jerked at the nape of his neck. The mask came free and drifted to the bed. He pushed the hood back off his head.

His golden hair glittered in the candlelight. He stood still, watching her with metal-cold eyes.

"Mr. Gerard," she whispered numbly. She tried to sit up and only managed a feeble spasm of muscles. "Lie still," he said. "Rest."

She laid her head back on the hard floor, unable to do anything but obey. Wordlessly, she watched him lay the sword on the floor and bend over her, kneeling on one knee, supporting himself with one hand pressed heavily into the pallet. He laid his palm against the side of her face, his fingertips resting on her temple. "Breathe with me," he said.

She made a sound, half of a hysterical giggle. Her stomach heaved unpleasantly and the laugh turned into a moan. He shook his head. "It's important. Watch. Breathe in." She gulped a breath.

"Let go," he said. "Slowly." His eyes held hers, infinitely gray. "Think of a waterfall. Follow the water as it comes down."

She felt as if she were floating, sliding down a long slope. Her breath flowed out of her, endless, going and going until she lost herself in his eyes, in his silent command, and drew air in again.

The strength began to come back into her limbs. But still he held her with his steady gaze, and the breath oozed out of her again like that infinite waterfall, tumbling down and down until she was empty of it, drifting free of earth. And then it flooded into her once more, bringing strength and heart. She used his energy to find her own, growing easier with each breath, until finally she was rational enough to realize how outlandish it all was.

"What are you doing?" she demanded weakly, putting her hand up to push his away. "What has happened?"

He used his arm on the bed to shove himself upright, and then slowly sat on the edge of it, one leg outstretched, looking down at her. "I nearly killed you," he said curtly. His mouth had a queer tautness, almost a grimace. "I apologize for it."

He didn't sound in the least contrite. In fact, he sounded brusque, as if he had more important things on his mind.

"
But—why
?" she asked plaintively.

For a long moment, he surveyed her. Then he said, "It was a misjudgment. I thought I needed to defend myself."

Leda sat up, still bewildered. "You struck me?"

"No, ma'am." His mouth curved grimly. "Perhaps better if I had."

Her brain ached. She let herself droop, resting her forehead in her hands. "This is impossible. Why are you in my room? You're a gentleman. I don't—"

Her eyes fell on the sword. She gazed at the gorgeous curved scabbard of reddish-gold lacquer inlaid with flying cranes in mother-of-pearl; the golden hilt, too, shaped like the head of a crested bird. Two tassels of braided bronze hung from fittings on the scabbard. The lower length of the sheath was banded by golden openwork of tiny flowers and leaves, embellished with colored enamels gleaming richly in the candlelight. Slowly her hand slid downward, covering her mouth.

"Oh, goodness," she whispered. "Oh, good God."

She lifted her head. He sat watching her without expression.

Leda's heart began to pound with greater terror than before. That he could kill her if he pleased she had not the slightest doubt; there was not one trace of humanity or compassion in his perfect face, not a shadow of mercy. She began to feel ill again.

"Think of the water falling," he commanded softly.

She swallowed and let the air flow from her lungs, still staring at him.

"Try to calm yourself," he said. "I'm not going to murder you. Tonight my—composure—seems to elude me. I didn't intend you any hurt."

"This is utterly insane," she said weakly. "Why are you in my room?"

"I'm presently in your room because you have broken my leg, Miss Etoile."

"Broken your… but I… oh, mercy!"

"It's something of an inconvenience, yes."

"Broken your leg," she repeated in despair. "But surely not! You were standing a moment ago!"

"With some concentration," he said. "The agent of my undoing would seem to be a sewing machine." He looked at the fallen contraption and added enigmatically, "Perhaps I should find some enlightenment in that."

She curled her fingers in her nightgown, frowning at his outstretched leg. Somber-colored fabric contoured it loosely, except where the cloth was bound tight around his calf by dark string ties on his strange, soft, split-toed footwear. Everything he wore was shadow-obscured, clothing cut in simple, flowing lines like none she'd ever seen before.

"I could walk, with focus enough," he said in a dispassionate tone. "But I think that would be foolish. It would compound the injury. I don't believe it's necessary or desirable. And I don't wish to leave until you've regained your spirit, Miss Etoile, and can remember to breathe without me." He met her nonplussed look, and smiled suddenly, a quiet smile, absurdly charming. "And no," he said, "I'm not mad, you know."

"I must be," she said. "I just can't—I never would have thought—Mr. Gerard! You're a gentleman. You—and Lady Catherine—why, this is perfectly fantastic! That it would be you. The—" She stopped on the very verge of saying,
The police will never dream of such a thing
.

His smile vanished. In a still, soft voice, he said, "Lady Catherine, of course, has nothing to do with this."

Leda dropped her eyes. "No, no! Of course not," she said quickly.

A long silence passed. Leda felt queasy and faint with uncertainty. Her hip ached where she had crashed against the sewing table. The room began closing in on her.

"You really ought to breathe, Miss Etoile." His calm voice found her in the gathering darkness. "I'd rather you didn't expire on me."

She imagined the waterfall, followed a single drop cascading down, found the murkiness receding from the edges of her eyes. "Oh, yes," she said shakily. "Thank you." She kept her eyes on the floor, her mind racing madly.

"You should lie down again."

"That hardly—seems appropriate," she said. She could not believe that she was sitting on the floor in her own room with a notorious and dangerous criminal, a gentleman with a broken leg who calmly recommended that she lie down. She thought she should sound an alarm, but she wasn't certain she could reach the door, much less the police. Whatever he had done to her, it had sapped her strength down to the bone. If he repeated it—she thought perhaps it really would kill her.

But she should do something; scream or pound the wall or
something
. Why had no one heard the crash of the table? Why didn't she take up the poker and attack him? How fast could he move with a broken leg?

But she didn't. She looked at him sitting on the edge of her bed with no sign of discomfort, just that one leg resting straight, and was afraid of him.

"You know who I am," he said. "If you intend to turn me in, you can do it at your leisure. For the moment, rest until you recover completely."

She closed her eyes. "This is preposterous."

"I won't leave you."

She opened them. "You won't leave me," she repeated giddily, and laid her head down on the floor, cradled in her arms. "How very reassuring!"