Undone (3 page)

The carriage was on its way, full speed, Simon issuing orders out the window to his men.

The driver guided the carriage off the road, into the woods. Concealed by the foliage and trees, they waited. The men from the town would expect the intruder to be riding away from the convent in the opposite direction, yet Simon was headed straight for the town’s waterfront, where his ship was in dock.

The sound of men on horseback grew increasingly loud until they finally thundered past.

When he was confident they were out of harm’s way, Simon ordered the carriage to proceed, and then turned his attention to the moonlight beauty lying on the seat. Down on one knee, he moved his hands carefully over her.

“Wh-What are you doing, signore?” Gabriella asked, a little leery.

“I am checking for any bleeding or broken bones.” Her body was soft and warm beneath his touch. He did his best to concentrate on her injuries, laboring to ignore the appeal of her form, which despite the layers of her shapeless clothing, his experienced hands could easily discern.

Mentally he chastised himself. These were the very sorts of thoughts that had landed him in this mess in the first place.

Carefully, he turned her face and saw the bruise and swelling on her cheek. A fresh wave of fury crested over him. He pulled off her headdress and tossed it aside. Chestnut-colored tresses spilled out—a mass of long, soft curls. He was suddenly seized with the urge to play with the silky locks, to try to awaken her by lightly teasing her with those luscious curls against her ivory skin.

Dieu
, enough.

Simon turned to the other female, who watched him warily. Her features were pleasing in their own right.

“Your name is Gabriella?” He kept his voice gentle, having noted she was the type of woman who could spout tears with little provocation.

“Yes… Gabriella Santino.” For all her previous heroics, her response was timid, and she spoke with eyes downcast.

“And this is your sister?”

“N-no, she is my dearest friend. No two sisters could love each other more.”

“I see. What is her name?”

“Angelica.”

“
Angelica,
” he repeated, her name caressing his tongue as he looked back at the woman who lay motionless on the seat.

“Signore, though Angelica and I have not taken our vows and are not nuns, we aren’t from distinguished families either. We…we haven’t any money to pay you.” Gabriella’s voice was sad and small, and Simon understood well that her simple sentences carried with them years of hardship. However, this was good news for him. Nobles were known to secure their daughters in convents for safekeeping until marriage. He could relax a little knowing he couldn’t be accused of abducting highborn ladies. He’d been incredibly foolish but fortunate this night.

“Is this sort of maltreatment commonplace in your convent?”

The young woman’s eyes filled with tears. “No. Madre Paola is very strict, and, well, unkind, but she has never done anything like this before. Angelica should never have disobeyed her… I heard she sneaked out for our convent’s apothecary, Sister Celeste, to help a child from the town, to deliver the purgatives he needed.”

“And for that she received
this
? Helping a child is not permitted?”

“Well, no, I mean yes, but… Madre Paola has imposed many rules. It was different when Madre Caterina was the Mother Superior, God rest her. We had more freedom then.” Her bottom lip trembled. “I-I’ve never seen Madre Paola so angry. If you had not been there…” She sobbed softly into her hands.

Sighing, Simon labored to maintain his patience, not wanting to vent his fatigue and frustration on the emotional woman. “If the convent is a terrible place, why didn’t you leave?”

Gabriella sniffled, wiping away her tears with a swipe of her hand. “We’ve nowhere else to go.”

The carriage came to a halt.

Simon got out and turned to assist Gabriella by holding out his hand.

She remained seated. “I cannot thank you enough for helping her, signore…” She paused and added, “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Simon de Villette.” The lie—the noble-sounding name—rolled off his tongue and soured his insides. Yet maintaining anonymity outside of France was necessary for his survival. Better that she think him a noble and a naval officer, for there were those who made little distinction between privateer and pirate. The last thing he wanted was to have her in hysterics believing that she was in the presence of outlaws. “That is my ship, and we are ready to set sail.” He gestured toward the sea vessel.

Wide-eyed, Gabriella stared past him at his docked ship. “You are going to help my friend, aren’t you? Wh-What are you going to do with us, signore?”

Leave them and walk away.
But his conscience balked. He couldn’t bring himself to simply abandon them, vulnerable and alone. And in the middle of the night. Especially with one of the women injured.

“If you wish, you may return with us to France. I will obtain medical attention for your friend, and I will assist you both whatever way I can. You have my word.” He held out his hand again and waited while Gabriella contemplated his offer. “I must insist on a speedy decision. I have no desire to confront any irate townspeople.”

It was bad enough he was returning to France tonight without adding to it the complication of having two women in tow, one of whom stirred in him, with inexplicable intensity, a carnal hunger that he was forced to suppress. She was most definitely an innocent. Not the sort of woman he bedded. He wasn’t going to add defiling virgins to his long list of sins.

With but a slight hesitation, Gabriella entrusted her hand to his, murmured her acceptance and renewed gratitude. He helped her down.

Given the hour, the dock area was deserted, yet there was much activity on deck. Simon ignored the curious looks from his crew as he carried an unconscious woman onto his ship, while another woman followed behind.

Both in religious clothing.

How ludicrous was this situation? He definitely needed sleep. He was not himself at all.

He wasn’t going to allow the women to become a problem. He had enough problems already. He’d see that they were reunited with some long-forgotten cousin or friend, offer them some funds to aid them. And be done with it.

Besides, a beautiful woman had never caused him grief in the past. Or problems.

Why should this one be any different?

Chapter Two

Angelica moaned softly. A terrible ache pounded inside her skull.

Little by little, the darkness dissolved until she could detect rays of light. Objects took on recognizable shapes, yet nothing looked familiar. No resemblance to any room she’d ever seen at the convent. The chamber she was in was decorated with colors of light green and gold. A costly green velvet chair sat before the hearth across from the foot of the bed. The furnishings were too fine. Too ornate.

Where am I?

She moved her gaze to the right. Sunlight cascaded from the window. With a groan, she shut her eyes tightly and turned away from the assailing light. The sudden movement sent a stabbing pain directly to her temples.

She remained still, eyes closed, until the pain subsided. Thoughts came to her slowly, scrambled, as she attempted to recall her last memories. The chapel. Madre. The horrible incident with the stick…

Without moving her head, she opened her eyes once more.

A woman sat near the bed, chin down and fast asleep. A woman she didn’t recognize. A woman not in gray, the required dress at the convent. The silver-haired woman’s modest clothing was a distinct contrast to the richness of the room.

Unease seeped into her system; her pulse quickened.

The woman beside her stirred, and her eyes fluttered open. She looked straight at Angelica and came to her feet.

“
Dieu, you’re awake!
” she exclaimed and rushed from the room.

Angelica’s heart jumped to her throat.

Had the woman just spoken
French
? Though she hadn’t spoken the language in years, she’d understood every word.

Dear God. Where was she!

*****

Exhausted, Simon strode toward the dining hall of the Château Arles.

Located by the sea, the isolated château belonged to the recently retired Commodore of the King’s Navy—Robert d’Arles. Simon had spent much of his youth here with Robert, when they weren’t at sea, at war.

It was an ideal place for Simon to rendezvous with his ships.

Robert had returned from Paris during Simon’s brief trip to the Republic of Genoa and was waiting to break fast with him. Normally, Simon would be delighted to spend time with the man who’d saved his life, had raised him as his own and taught him everything he knew about ships and battle.

But not today.

Today there was something he needed to say to Robert. It was a conversation he never thought he’d have. The words he had to voice to his mentor weighed heavily on him.

Dieu
, everything was in shambles. Even his good judgment was askew. Last night’s events further emphasized that. Never had he pursued a beautiful woman without first giving cautious consideration beforehand to any possible reprisals. He’d always prided himself on his self-control, on his acumen. Yet, last eve he’d done something completely impetuous and chased a pretty face into a
convent
.

Thank God, the two women weren’t from noble families.

Having sailed the short distance back to France, his ship had arrived well before dawn. He’d carried the beauty, still trapped in slumber, to one of the second-floor bedchambers and managed to coax her friend to retire to a separate chamber for rest.

He could still feel the heated effects of having Angelica’s soft, sweet form against him, desire still humming in his veins. In fact, each time he gazed upon the captivating face that had provoked his uncharacteristic behavior, raw lust licked up his spine. His physical reactions to her were confounding in the extreme.

Anxious to speak to the moonlight angel, he’d given orders to inform him the moment she awoke. No doubt she’d be pleased to be out of that convent. For good.

Yet he forced himself to stop short of imagining the various ways she might demonstrate her appreciation.

Simon entered the dining hall with her divine singing echoing in his mind.

“Ah, Simon, there you are!” Robert d’Arles—Marquis de Névelon, Comte de Sorbon—rose from the table with the assistance of a cane.

The sight was jarring.

A splinter of wood that had fragmented during a cannon attack had pierced Robert’s leg, fracturing it. It seemed inconceivable that his life at sea was over. A life Robert so greatly adored. At fifty-five, his strong physique sculpted by his physical lifestyle was evident even in the finery of his silk, olive-green doublet and breeches. Simon had always seen Robert as invincible. A high-ranking naval officer. An Aristo whose conquests on the sea and in the boudoir were legendary.

“I wasn’t certain you’d join me this morning. I heard you brought two women back with you. What’s the matter, my boy? Are you finding one at a time is not enough these days?” Simon could readily see the physical misery Robert’s leg was causing him reflecting in his gray eyes, despite his smile.

Robert was a proud man. Simon purposely schooled his features to show indifference to his condition and forced a smile in return. “I’ll have to double my efforts if I’m to hope for a chance of matching your multitude of comely ladies by the time I reach your age,” he teased, hoping his answer was enough to put an end to the topic. A discussion about who the women were and how they came to be here was the last thing Simon wanted at the moment.

Robert chuckled as they sat down at the table. “You’ve done exceedingly well in your own right—not just with the ladies but at sea as well. You do me proud.”

It was a great compliment coming from the greatest man Simon had ever known. He was about to respond when the servants entered with the morning meal. Robert continued the moment they were alone again, not allowing him a reply.

“I understand that your ships have been highly successful. As usual.” His tone was once again full of pride. “Fouquet must have been quite pleased to see the sum.”

Simon swallowed—the food having just turned bitter in his mouth. Simply hearing Fouquet’s name soured his insides and rioted with his conscience.

“Why shouldn’t he be pleased? I’m certain Nicolas Fouquet could use the money to construct an addition to his enormous new château. Isn’t Vaux-le-Vicomte grander than Fontainebleau—the king’s finest palace?” He couldn’t hold back the venom in his tone.

Robert stopped eating. “Careful, now. To suggest—even remotely—that the Superintendent of Finance is misappropriating funds from the treasury is a dangerous accusation to make. Do not make powerful foes, Simon. Let the king deal with Fouquet. You must stay focused on your goal. It’s only a matter of time before you receive the recognition you deserve from our king. Then Louis will at last ennoble you and allow you to become an officer in his navy—just as we have always wanted.”

Robert’s words stabbed straight into the core of Simon’s being. Though he had no choice, Simon hated telling the man to whom he owed his every success, who had championed Simon at every turn, sharing in his dream of betterment—that it was all dead.

The dream was done.

Everything they’d hoped for would never come to pass.

“Robert, it is time to stop dreaming and accept reality; our king is weak. And completely uninterested in his own kingdom,” he said in restrained, even tones, wrestling to keep his ire in check. “He’s left the realm vulnerable to the corruption that now infests it—namely Fouquet and the First Minister Cardinal Mazarin, who both battle for his power. Louis is not going to change. Nor is he going to recognize anything I do. Or have ever done.”

Robert shoved his plate aside. “Nonsense. With your naval successes and the wealth you’ve earned for the Crown, it will only be a matter of time—”

“It will
not
be a matter of time.”