Bond of Fire (3 page)

She twinkled at him, enjoying their old joke. He’d begun it when he found her enveloped in coif and apron like a maid, while helping her husband experiment with black powder. “What a pleasure to see you again,
Monsieur
O’Malley.”

“May I present to you a very old and trusted friend, Jean-Marie St. Just, recently arrived from New York?” He indicated his friend. “You asked earlier about their unusual political structure, and he can answer you.”

“Enchanté, madame la marquise,”
St. Just bowed over her hand with all the grace of a dance master or a master swordsman, his tongue easily uttering the formal greeting.

She sank into a curtsy, deeper than protocol demanded, her brain spinning. He was an American—and so graceful? She’d met Ambassador Jefferson, of course. But somehow she’d thought of him as the exception, with the others as barbarians, incapable of managing court attire’s full-skirted coats and dress swords.

The would-be suitors and their allies muttered their disapproval. Skirts rustled, heels tapped—and violin strings sawed.

The musicians had returned for the
contredanses
, the openly seductive half of the evening. Anyone present could simply find themselves a partner, form into a line with other couples, and begin to dance. Each dance’s steps were usually very simple and designed to allow a great deal of flirting.

Recognizing their opportunity, the horde of men around her surged forward.

Hélène instinctively flinched, and St. Just’s fingers, which had started to release hers, tightened. Perhaps she was crazy, but she thought she heard him growl.

“May I have the honor of a dance, madame?”

“
Certainement
, Monsieur St. Just.” She granted him a regal smile. “I would be delighted to help celebrate your visit from such a distant shore.”

St. Just inclined his head and tucked her hand protectively into the crook of his elbow.

She tilted her chin up, trying to look as if her pulse wasn’t racing a little too fast, and glanced around. “Please excuse us, ladies, gentlemen.”

Edged glares were shot at him, but everyone moved back, giving them room. St. Just calmly guided her into the set, treating everyone other than the musicians as moving—but unimportant—obstacles. O’Malley blew her a kiss from the palm of his hand and quickly gained a lady.

Others found partners and moved into the dance with them, jostling to be close by. Skirts slapped against each other in the hurly-burly, sending ruffles shaking like leaves in a storm. Men clamped down on their swords’ hilts, yet the masculine trinkets still slapped their legs and bounced against other people.

She frowned slightly, considering the tumult, and St. Just drew closer. “Is it always like this?”

“The king and queen probably retired some time ago.” He glanced down at her, visibly considering how much to say. “That makes this ballroom one of the better opportunities to find company for the rest of the night, if you haven’t done so already.”

She opened and closed her mouth, shocked by both his frank words and her body’s enthusiastic response.

“Please relax, I know you’re a virtuous widow.” He patted her hand. “I only wish to dance.”

The musicians swept into the first chord before she could recover from being openly called a
virtuous
widow. Did she want that appellation? Or would she rather be wicked? She curtsied to him automatically, her mind spinning through possible explanations for his behavior and her own.

The music moved to the next measure, a familiar dance, and a step she mercifully knew exactly how to perform. She took both of his hands and stepped forward. An instant later, she realized her mistake.

Their arms crossed, and her face was only a few inches from his body—his hard, very masculine body.

She gulped.

They stepped away, spinning and uncrossing their arms. Somewhere down the line, a dancer was laughing with the rich, unmistakable certainty of imminent carnal satisfaction.

Hélène’s gaze shot up to St. Just.

His mouth wore a bitter curve.

The next time the dance brought her toward him, he made sure she finished at an all-too-respectable distance from him.

But why? Why was he the only man here who didn’t hunt her?

CHÂTEAU DE SAINTE-PAZANNE
(a day’s ride inland from the west coast of France)
THE VENDÉE, FRANCE, APRIL 1787

Celeste de Sainte-Pazanne shielded her eyes against the harsh sun, looking for the most beloved figure in the world. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and the air shimmered with heat, sending little swirls of dust above the road below.

Forests rippled over the surrounding hills, now quiet and waiting for nightfall. The small river, which gave Sainte-Pazanne its name and prosperity, flowed patiently toward the Atlantic, one of the few local rivers which didn’t feed into the Loire. Its mother spring had never run dry, even in a drought as severe as this one. Wheat fields whispered in the light breeze, while cattle slept under ancient oaks.

If she saw him first, they could always take their time returning to the château—and pretend his horse had thrown a shoe or something similarly silly. Papa and
Maman
had always grumbled good naturedly over her thinner excuses, knowing they could trust Raoul’s honor, but had never punished her too severely. Surely today they’d be even more lenient, since he would return to the academy tomorrow.

She’d worked so hard on preparing to see him this time, starting with the prettiest dress
chère
Hélène had sent her. But while she’d been having her hair pinned up in the latest fashion, her clumsy, clumsy maid had scorched her dress. She’d had her thoroughly whipped, of course, until all the girl could do was cry about not being able to sit down. Idiot! As if that mattered next to damaging her perfect dress.

Thankfully,
Maman
’s maid had fixed everything with a clever bit of embroidery, so all was well now.

She’d probably have another maid soon, her third this year.

There! His chestnut gelding Samson was just cresting the ridge to enter the small valley.

She waved her hat wildly, its long ribbons whipping like banners.

Raoul stood in his stirrups and swung his own hat like a semaphore. He dropped back into the saddle and kicked Samson into a gallop. They charged toward her down the well-tended road like immortals, or a knight of old come to carry his lady off. Other horses, which had been idly grazing in the green pastures, flung up their heads to watch. Some neighed and came down to the stone walls to race beside him, forming a cavalcade.

She laughed for sheer joy and spun, hugging herself. Dearest, dearest Raoul. Normally such a sober young cadet, but he’d remembered her longing for a romantic display on her nineteenth birthday.

She ran to join him, leaving her mare tethered by the small roadside shrine.

Raoul jumped off Samson a few feet away from her, tossing his reins over the well-trained horse’s head to bring him to an immediate stop.

They flung themselves at each other in a pool of blazing sunlight, as if all the saints blessed their love.

“Raoul,
mon amour
!”

She had no words after that, because he was kissing her too fiercely, his arms locked around her, and her feet dangling off the ground. She sank her hands into his hair and set about the delightful task of convincing him his sentiments were returned in full.

Some minutes passed before either of them formed a sentence. Raoul was the first to do so, of course.

“Do your parents know you’re here? Anyone could see you. Promise me you’ll be more careful in the future.”

Dearest Raoul, always so concerned about her reputation.

“I’m sure they do, but I promise to be good next time.” She pretended to dust off his hat, while watching him straighten his cravat.

Raoul de Beynac came from a long line of soldiers, famed for honor, courage, intelligence—and lack of money. He was a natural with horses and the sword and a deadly shot from a remarkably young age. His dark eyes were normally calm, but he could trip up a liar within moments—or make her heart sing. Even Papa had admitted Raoul had the quickest brain of any young man in the Vendée and the bravest heart. At barely twenty, he was still filling out his long-limbed frame with muscle.

Someday, she’d be able to see everything that lay underneath his coat. Someday…

“
Maman
told me to take flowers to the Blessed Virgin’s shrine. She had to know you’d be arriving on the same road from your sister Louise’s house.”

“Très bien.”
His crisp voice gave his approval such a martial air, she almost swooned.

Ah well, her parents were glad she had such an honorable lover, even if she wasn’t always so certain of the benefits. She was sure if she’d been pregnant,
chère
Hélène would have given her a large enough dowry for them to marry. Instead, they had to wait for him to graduate from the cavalry school at Saumur and take up his commission from the king.

Raoul clapped his hat back on his head, and they strolled together, hand-in-hand, toward the patient Samson.

“How do you think I look?” she asked, a trifle nervously. This was the first time in years he hadn’t immediately complimented her on something about her appearance.

There was a pause.

Celeste stared up at him, shocked and hurt. Hélène had sent her new outfit by special courier from Paris, saying it was all the rage. The tightly fitted peach satin jacket flattered her bosom and tiny waist, while the creamy muslin skirts hinted at her long legs. The pure white fichu at her throat would hopefully inspire a man to consider removing it. She’d thought when she’d donned it she looked quite fetching, and hopefully irresistible.

“Celeste,
mon ange
, remember never to fear me! I would give my life not to hurt you.”

She did so enjoy hearing him call her an angel.

He caught up her hands and kissed them extravagantly. “You are far too beautiful for me to describe. You are ravishing, incredible, a goddess come to earth, a…”

She peeped up at him through her eyelashes, her sore heart eased somewhat. “But?” she prompted.

“You should be wearing honest French silk and thereby supporting our starving weavers in Lyons.” He kissed her fingertips, eyeing her a bit sternly. “Instead of flaunting imported Hapsburg muslin from Austria.”

Oh, was his problem as simple as that?

“Dearest Raoul, you are always considering other people’s welfare. Just as you stand up for peasants against noblemen’s mischief or the clergy’s abuses. Or argue the merits of the Americans’ republic, because it allows ordinary citizens to protect themselves.”

He spread his hands, clearly recognizing the litany of arguments he’d had with her father. He’d never backed down, although he’d always been very respectful to a retired soldier.

“You will be a splendid officer, always looking out for your men—and your wife.” She kissed him on the cheek.

“Are you certain you wish to marry me?” A greater seriousness sharpened his voice and deepened his eyes.

A breeze whispered down the road, making the dust dance around her ankles like demons. Samson tossed up his head, snorting nervously.

Celeste stiffened her spine, determined to fight as well as any man for the only joy she’d ever truly dreamed of. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Never that, Celeste, never. Count me faithful beyond death as I have sworn before, as I will swear again.” Fierce devotion blazed from his countenance. “But you are young and have never left Sainte-Pazanne. You could meet another…”

“Not like you!” Truth rang through the valley.

His lips curved warmly, as though he wished to kiss her. She leaned forward hopefully, but he continued speaking relentlessly.

“Or I could be killed. I am a soldier, Celeste. I could lie in my grave long years before you come to meet me.”

Leaves rustled somewhere deep in the forest, like a foretaste of a hollow future.

“That doesn’t matter. That has never mattered.” She gripped him by the arms, as desperately as she’d follow him across France and Europe given the chance. Her throat was very tight, and she fought to utter the words that would make him understand.

“Celeste, my heart…” Their gazes locked, his as passionate as hers. His strong hands wrapped around her wrists, tying them together.

“I have loved you for as long as I can remember, and I will love you until the day I die,” she choked out.

“If I go first, Celeste, above all else I want you to be happy.”

She shook her head fiercely, the tears on her eyelashes haloing him in light until he seemed an angel come to earth.

“You are everything that makes my life worth living, Raoul. If I ever offer myself to another, may the good Lord strike me dead!”

“My love!” Raoul fiercely snatched her to him, and their lips met, sealing the eternal pledge.

PROVENCE, JULY 1787

“This way, I believe,” St. Just’s fine tenor announced their next turn.

Hélène obediently nodded, more conscious of his leg brushing hers through her silk skirts than any logic involved in deciphering the labyrinth. Truth be told, she cared very little whether or not they found the center or not, so long as she was with him.

Hundreds of miles away, Paris was stiflingly hot, broiling in an inferno of dust, disease, and starvation. There had been no rain since February, only the brutal sun hammering everyone and everything. Little food could be grown, and only the wealthiest could buy what tidbits could be found. The desperate poor took to the streets in riots to demand salvation from their monarch, while the rich and powerful argued over who wouldn’t have to pay to save France. At night, it seemed the city’s stones radiated heat back to the uncaring stars, together with the dying screams of those unwary enough to risk their lives by going out.

But here, all was quiet, filled with hot sunlight, lavender, and anticipation. After five months amid stone walls and angry crowds where St. Just was the only one who spoke sense to her, she’d followed him here to compel action between them.

After months of seeing each other almost every day, of dancing and riding together, of shared books and idle chatter, of laughing together and sometimes finishing each other’s sentences.

Of sitting side by side at long musicales or salons, of their fingers entwined between them, hidden by her skirts, before they’d clapped for the performer.

Of tendrils of heat flushing over her skin when he read poetry in a salon, his voice deepening and slowing over phrases of a man yearning for the woman he could not have.

Of his eyes searching for her the minute he entered a room and joy leaping into his gaze before he quickly reined it in.

Of their hands and arms brushing each other in a dance, the fine silks and muslin whispering past when they moved slower and closer than a dance master would recommend.

But never touching each other above the elbow.

She needed to resolve looks, and voices that fell away during phrases into something, something that matched the leap of her heart whenever he watched her, or she dreamed of him at night.

She’d accepted an invitation to this château for a week, well aware that neither her parents nor her confessor would approve of the deeds done there. A discreet purchase of a filthy painting from her host’s collection had gotten her into an isolated suite, with a very private entrance. She could spend as much time as she chose with any man present, and no other guest need know.

Rodrigo Perez, Mademoiselle Perez, and St. Just had arrived the day after she did. Mademoiselle Perez had already established her claim on several of the party’s members, which suited Hélène very well. Surely they’d keep her far away from St. Just.

The labyrinth Hélène strolled through with him was made of boxwood, clipped taller than even
Monsieur
Perez. The scent of lavender, hot and rich as her unfulfilled hunger for the man beside her, rolled into her nostrils from the hillsides above. The most beautiful man in the world, in mind and body—she wished she understood why he wouldn’t make advances to her, even though she’d felt his hand linger on hers a little too long during a dance, been scorched by his gaze when he saw her in a new dress…

She’d even considered him as a husband.

It didn’t matter now whether he had any money or not, since she had more than enough for two. Bernard’s family had always been comfortably established, but he’d made a fortune with his explosives inventions after he retired from the artillery. He’d left his nephew a substantial sum to protect the marquisate, and he’d also been extremely generous to her. She could marry anyone she wanted to, especially since her birth—to be brutally honest, as well as snobbish—was haughty enough to allow her a great deal of eccentricity anyway.

Including bestowing her favors on a man whose social position was undefined. He carried himself like a prince, yet he was clearly the junior member of a very secretive household.

She truly didn’t understand why he traveled with
Monsieur
Perez and Mademoiselle Perez.
Monsieur
Perez was a tall, strong man, carrying such a formidable aura that she’d seen members of the king’s Swiss Guard snap to attention upon his approach. Yet he looked only a few years older than St. Just and might be considered handsome, if one appreciated Roman features marked by a wicked scar across the forehead. Certainly his dark eyes were very fine and had set more than one lady—and gentleman!—sighing after him at this corrupt court. He’d bestowed notable attentions on none of them.

Mademoiselle Perez, on the other hand, was a middle-aged female of considerable beauty, when she was in good spirits. Upon her arrival in France, she had quickly joined a private club notorious for its unbounded lechery—although they did not prey upon anyone outside the group, nor indulge in any sins other than lust. All of which made it one of the more disciplined clubs here at court.

“Are you certain you’ve never been trained in rhetoric?” St. Just asked, his thumb rubbing sensually over her hand in a manner totally in contrast to his words. “The way you had the Royal Academy scientists in the palm of your hand, they’d have voted you a member.”

Hélène blushed and laughed. “Truly, you are too kind. I simply read what
Monsieur le marquis
had written.”