Gypsy Lady (26 page)
"Are
your
manners so wonderful?" she asked through
gritted teeth.
He
grinned suddenly. "No! Mine are terrible!" Then
he
added wickedly, "But you see,
I'm
not an impudent
baggage,
so people overlook mine, but yours. . . ." His voice trailed off
suggestively.
The frustrated fury that
had been smoldering inside her for hours exploded, and giving a scream of sheer
rage, she flew at him, her fingers outstretched, intent on clawing his mocking
face to shreds. He met her furious charge with a laugh, easily trapping her
arms at her sides, and caught her up next to his hard body. Thrashing like a
wild thing, she threw up her head and accidentally cracked him a painful blow
on the chin. A surprised grunt escaped him, and in spite of the shower of
sparks before her eyes, she managed to deliberately repeat the process. But it
wasn't quite as effective, for he merely lifted his chin out of the way. Goaded
beyond reason, she bit him savagely on his breast, her sharp little teeth
cutting through the pique waistcoat and even the linen shirt beneath it. With
intense satisfaction she heard him yell and felt his fingers purposefully
tangle in her long hair. It was worth even the pain of his jerking her away
from him, breaking her vicious bite, to know that she had hurt him.
His breast smarting, Jason
stared grimly down into her upturned face. Jesus Christ! What a little
firebrand! He ought to toss her out in the gutter and have done with her. But
even as he thought it, his gaze lingered on the willful mouth, and he was
conscious of a sense of displeasure. Most women found him attractive, so why
did this slip of a girl keep fighting him? His mouth tightened as she twisted
in his grasp, still apparently determined to do battle.
Catherine's head hurt from
the crack she had given him on the chin, and his fingers, pulling her back by
the long hair only added to the throbbing pain that was pounding in her
temples. But resolved not to retreat, she glowered so fiercely at him that he
was suddenly reminded of a thwarted kitten and couldn't control an amused
twitch at the corner of his mouth. Incredulously, she stared as he began to
smile, and slowly he released the painful grip on her hair.
Holding her firmly away
from him, he asked, "Shall we cry quits again? You've managed to scar my
face, and I shall probably wear your teeth marks for some days to come. All
things considered, I think
you
are the decided
victor—this time,"
Catherine
gave a small, wary nod. His abrupt reversals were confusing, and she wished
desperately he would either remain the hard-faced man who sometimes frightened
her or stay the beguiling, fascinating stranger. One man she could hate, but
the other! . . . When
he
smiled crookedly at her as he was doing now, one black lock of hair falling
carelessly across his brow, she
fell
prey to a
treacherous, trembling sense of excitement, a feeling that at any moment
something wonderful was going to happen. Dear God! He twisted her emotions in
such knots she couldn't think clearly!
It
suddenly dawned on her that she was very close to smiling back at him, and with
a shock she discovered the blanket had fallen to the floor. Wiggling from his
relaxed hold, she bolted for the protection of the blanket. Wrapped safely in
its concealing folds, she turned, surprised to discover he was watching her
with a curious expression.
"Are
you really that modest? You shouldn't be—you have a lovely body," he said,
laughing out loud as a blush burned brightly in her cheeks.
Very
much in a good humor, he said, "I can.
see
that
in Paris it is going to cost me a fortune to clothe you. I can't have my
beautiful mistress garbed in an old blanket. I'm positive you must be longing
to be rid of it."
Her
eyes grew wide at his mention of Paris, and she whispered, "Paris? Are you
really taking me to Paris?"
Smiling
broadly, unaware of the icy chill creeping through her body, he replied,
"Mais oui!
And
that,
my cross little kitten, is actually what I came to
tell you. I have been busy since last night making arrangements and saying
good-byes. Pierre has prepared a bath for you, and your clothes are ready. As
soon as you're dressed, we leave."
Mistaking
the sudden stricken look, he tipped her head gently back with one long finger
and said, "I know you must be weary of these mad dashes across England.
Once we reach Paris, I can assure you we'll be there for some time
..
I'm thinking of renting a chateau outside the city, and
in Paris, I'll buy you all the feminine finery your heart desires."
The
icy numbness increased its grip, and stupidly she stared at him. Growing
annoyed with her lack of enthusiasm, he chided, "Come now. I promised you
a trip to
Paris originally.
I would think you would be
happy that I'm honoring our bargain."
A
stiff-lipped smile was his only answer, and impatiently he hastened her down
the stairs to his own bedchamber. There he continued to prod her until she was
bathed and dressed, and at last they were once again in the carriage, this time
heading for Dover.
It
was a beautiful spring day, with several hours remaining before dark, and as
the shining black horses sped down the road, Catherine found herself forgetting
the circumstances surrounding this journey and enjoying the fading yellow
sunlight. She - could almost pretend that Jason was her suitor and they were on
their way for a pleasant afternoon outing. As the hours passed and the night
closed over them, she pushed away the now familiar worries and arguments that
began to buzz in her head and let a queer tranquil feeling of acceptance, of a
waiting for the right opportunity, invade her body and still the barren
thoughts.
It
was only in the gray dawn when they stepped on the boat that would take her
from England that the strange tranquility left her. She knew a wild feeling of
panic, a feeling that if she didn't escape now she would never be free again.
But Jason, watchful and curiously comforting, halted her involuntary movement
to flee by simply sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her to their cabin.
He left her almost immediately, locking the door behind him. Catherine,
resembling a trapped, dumb animal, gazed about the small cabin, thinking wildly
that at least, this time, he had left her clothed.
è
The ride from the ferry to Paris was nearing its
end. They had left behind the pale green, rolling hills and quaint white
farmhouses that sat back from the road. They would soon be in the city.
Catherine had not acquired Jason's knack for sleeping in the lumbering coach,
and she was looking forward to the journey's end.
They had stopped at posting
inns along the way only long enough for a change of horses and a hurried meal,
which often consisted of Jason ordering a basket of sandwiches so they would
not have to linger at the next stop. Once they were held up for several hours
while a broken spoke in one of the wheels was repaired. Watching Jason pace the
floor of the private sitting room of the provincial inn, Catherine was
conscious of the fact that Jason's impatience to reach Paris had little to do
with her. Her fears that she would spend the journey fighting off his attempts
at lovemaking had proven groundless. He was barely aware that she was in the
coach with him and seemed to have dismissed her from his mind. She was annoyed
to find that his lack of attention bewildered her.
The coach wheel hit a
particularly deep rut in the road —France's roads were even worse than
England's and England's were ghastly—and though the whole vehicle shook from
the impact, Jason who had been asleep for some time continued to sleep, his
loose-limbed body swaying in unison with the jolting carriage.
Quietly she studied him,
noting how in sleep his face still had an exciting aliveness to it, the harsh
lines disappearing, making him look younger—not at all like a man who would
kidnap and rape an unwilling woman! But Catherine knew from bitter experience
how quickly his expression and intent could change. Frowning, she wondered
uneasily exactly what he had planned for her and if eventually he would see
that she was returned to England. She knew too little about him to even hazard
a guess. Briefly she explored the possibility of throwing herself on his mercy
and confessing the truth, but discarded it almost as soon as she thought it.
The time for revelations of that nature was long since past, and angrily she
berated herself for the stubborn fool she had been.
Lost in her brooding
thoughts, Catherine stared moodily out the window. Then, turning her head, she
suddenly met Jason's emerald gaze head-on. He had awakened and, with narrowed
eyes, had been studying her averted profile. The look in his eyes was so
coldly calculating that for one instant she feared he had read her mind. But
grimly determined to give him no cause to extract his own humiliating form of
punishment, she asked primly, "Did you rest well? You must have been
exhausted to have slept so long."
Jason gave her a lazy,
amused smile, his green eyes glinting wickedly as he drawled, "How very
proper you sound —exactly like some convent-bred schoolgirl." He paused,
watching her with open mockery before adding softly, "But we know
differently, don't we?"
Catherine swallowed the
harsh words that fought to pour out, and her eyes burning with resentment, she
answered tartly, "You may think you know whatever you like. I have no
intention of losing my temper, so if you plan to amuse yourself by baiting me,
I assure you—you're bound to fail!"
His left eyebrow flew up in
surprise at her cool reply, but he completely disconcerted her by asking
sharply, "What were you thinking about just now?"
Startled, her violet eyes
wide, she countered, "Why? What difference does it make to you what I
think?"
He shot her a sparkling
look and murmured, "Ordinarily I wouldn't give a damn what any woman was
thinking, but I have the uneasy feeling there's something you haven't told
me—something I should know!"
Unable to help herself, she
blurted, "How do you know that?"
"You have a very
expressive face, my little
sorcière infernale,
and I'm afraid your
thoughts are rather transparent."
Deeply mortified, she
retorted, "If I'm so transparent, why did you ask? Why didn't you just
read the answer on my face?"
Grinning at her apparent
discomfort, he said, "Ah, but I wanted to be positive!"
She almost rose to the
provocation, but guessing he was deliberately goading her into losing her
temper,
she glared at him venomously and subsided in
dignified silence.
For some minutes, there was
absolute quiet in the coach until Jason began to point out places of interest
on the outskirts of Paris.
Dusk was falling when Jason
ushered her across the marble-tiled foyer of the Hotel Crillon and guided her
to the long polished counter where the stiffly correct concierge, wearing a
somber black and white uniform, awaited them. Catherine stood to one side as
arrangements were made for their rooms. Her gown was mussed, and she was hungry
and wanted a bath, and she didn't care what the hotel staff thought. But she
jerked as one stuck with a pin when the concierge murmured, "If Madame and
Monsieur Savage will follow me?" and escorted them to a magnificent suite
of rooms on the third floor.
After giving them a tour of
the two bedrooms, each with separate dressing rooms and sitting rooms, he
turned to Jason apologetically. "Our instructions did not reveal that
Madame Savage would be with you. We shall make certain that an extra room is
prepared for madame's maid near your valet's quarters. May I add that if Madame
or Monsieur
needs
the services of the Hotel Crillon's
staff until your own servants arrive, please inform me, and I shall see to it
at once!" Then with a low bow, he strode from the room, leaving an ominous
silence behind him.
"Madame
Savage?"
Catherine burst out angrily. Jason turned to her, a mocking smile tugging at
the corners of his lips. One heavy black brow rose quizzically at her outraged
tone of voice.
"Would you prefer I
blazoned the fact that I have brought my mistress with me?" he asked
dryly. "The Crillon is a conservative and highly respectable hotel. When
my uncle sent word ahead of my arrival, he didn't know you were traveling with
me. He still doesn't for that matter. If he had known, I'm certain he would
have made more discreet arrangements."
A decidedly nasty gleam in
her violet eyes, Catherine marveled with false innocence, "Could it be you
actually care what people think of your actions? I never would have guessed it
from your past performance. But then, perhaps this uncle of yours is someone
you admire. I wonder—would he condone rape and abduction?"
Ignoring her obvious
sarcasm, Jason shrugged his broad shoulders indifferently. "My uncle's
views of my morals are already well known to me, and you might be surprised
how often his opinion of me agrees with yours."
He walked over to the heavy
carved door that opened onto the carpeted main hallway. "I will order a
bath prepared for you and see that a maid is sent to unpack your things, meager
though they be. As tired as you must be, I suggest that you eat dinner in your
rooms and retire early." Not waiting for an answer and without another
word, he left.
For a moment, Catherine
stared at the closed door with disbelief. He wouldn't just leave her here like
this! But as the seconds passed and Jason did not
return,
it appeared he not only would, but had! Her exhaustion falling away like a
veil, she flew across the room and threw open the door. Hesitating in the
doorway she glanced quickly in either direction down the wide white and gold
hallway, but the corridor was empty, not even one of the black-and-white-clad
servants in sight. Standing there she nibbled her full bottom lip, understandably
uncertain as to her next move.
Thoughtfully, she stepped
back into the room shutting the door firmly behind her. She had no money and nowhere
to go. For the present her best line of action would be to accept Jason's
highhanded actions. It went against her grain to so docilely submit, but she
had not slept well for days, and a definitely vulgar growl of hunger from her
empty stomach settled the point—she would wait at least until she had eaten and
washed some of the grime of the journey from her body before embarking upon
further strategic moves. Almost resigned, she wandered through the elegant
apartments, unable to stop herself from exploring curiously.
The suite of rooms was
spacious and beautifully appointed. Cream walls and high ceilings with crystal
chandeliers blended tastefully with the soft gold of the rugs that clothed the
polished wooden floors. Heavy drapes in dark gold velvet hung at the long windows,
and Catherine was enchanted to discover a pair of glass-paned doors that opened
onto a small balcony.
A tap on the door to the
suite interrupted her wanderings, and at her cautious command to enter, the
door opened, and a tiny brunette maid with lively brown eyes walked into the
room. She gave Catherine a shy smile and dropped a curtsy, murmuring as she did
so that she had been sent to help madame and that her name was Jeanne.
The maid's black uniform,
with its lacy white apron and matching cap did nothing to detract from Jeanne's
youthful freshness. She was undoubtedly pretty, with rosy cheeks that bespoke a
country background. She couldn't have been more than sixteen. Watching the girl
as she unpacked her few belongings and arranged them in the armoire in the
bedchamber, Catherine wondered spitefully if Jason had chosen Jeanne
himself—and for other reasons than lady's maid to his so-called
wife!
Instantly ashamed of herself and her suspicious thoughts, she left Jeanne to
the unpacking and drifted aimlessly through the empty rooms ignoring the view
of Paris at night that was unfolding beneath her windows.
The lamps that lined the
cobblestone streets below had been lit, and the glowing yellow light fell in
pools of brightness that interspersed the inky blackness of the night. Stylish
carriages, pulled by spirited horses whose hooves beat out a soft tattoo of
sound, swept by as they carried their fashionable occupants to many dissimilar
places of entertainment. Some, no doubt, were on their way to one of the
theaters, perhaps the Theater Francais, affectionately known to the Parisians
as the House of Moliere, or for the gentlemen there were the gambling halls
that provided a variety of amusement—not all of it on the dicing tables.
Almost directly across from
Catherine's windows was the Place de la Concorde, where a decade before, the
unfortunate Louis XVI had lost his throne and his head to the guillotine.
Beyond it, the slow-moving Seine River rolled peacefully on its way throughout
the sprawling city.
But Catherine, her previous
tiredness returning, had no eyes for the intriguing sights, and was delighted
when Jeanne announced that her bath was ready.
Hurriedly stripping off her
gown, Catherine slipped into the hot, rose-scented water, relishing the silken
feel as it flowed over her aching body. A bar of fine rose-smelling soap was
floating on the water, and she scrubbed herself from the crown of her black
head to the soles of her feet. Jeanne assisted by keeping the water hot,
entering periodically with a copper kettle filled with additional hot water.
By the time Catherine had been bathed and her hair rinsed to the satisfaction
of both of them, the brass tub was filled to overflowing.
Stepping from the tub,
Catherine submitted somewhat gingerly to Jeanne's brisk attention, but the maid
was so efficient and impersonal that in no time at all Catherine had been
thoroughly dried, dusted lavishly with powder, and helped into a soft white
sleeping garment that was positively indecent! She had no time to object, for
Jeanne held out a robe of black velvet barely a moment before another knock on
the door signaled the arrival of the food Jason had ordered sent up.
Later, drowsily replete
from the excellent meal she had eaten and the unaccustomed amount of wine, Catherine
lay on the blue sofa sleepily blinking eyes that refused to remain open.
Dreamy-eyed, she stared around the room. She felt such a strong sense of
physical well- being that it was impossible to think clearly, and it wasn't too
many minutes longer before her long-lashed eyes closed, and she slept.
It was very late when Jason
returned to the hotel. His message to Livingston asking for an early audience
with Monroe had been sent, he had had his meeting with Frangois de
Barbe-Marbois, the French minister of finance, and because he and his uncle
had decided that it would not come amiss to have family reasons for being in
France—not all of the Beauvais family had gone to the New World—Jason had sent
notes to relatives who had remained in Paris. After eating dinner in the
private dining room at the hotel, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that
a cousin was requesting his company in the foyer.
Michel Beauvais was a slim,
well-favored young man who had been on the point of leaving for an evening's
entertainment at one of the better known gambling spots when Jason's
hand-delivered note had arrived. An exceedingly amiable fellow, Michel had
instantly decided to stroll over and greet his American cousin. The two young
men took to one another
instantly,
Jason promptly fell
in With Michel's offer to show him the night life of the city. And as the
evening progressed, Michel proceeded to acquaint Jason with brief, often
amusing, accounts of his various relatives—definitely stressing the ones to
avoid.