Almost - Almost A Bride Part 27

Arabella wrinkled her nose. "There'll be fleas in the beds, mark my words."

"Then we'll sleep on the floor." He dismounted, handing his reins to Arabella. The scruffy dog, as Arabella knew it would, began fawning over him the minute his feet touched the ground. Jack ignored the animal but it pranced around his ankles as he strode into the inn, dropping his head below the low lintel.

Jack emerged in a few minutes. "It's not much, but it'll do."

"Fleas?" she asked with a quirked eyebrow.

"Doubtless." He reached up and lifted her down, holding her for a minute between his hands. "There's a cauldron of soup, however, a loaf of barley bread, and a deep tankard of home brew. I'll bully some clean quilts out of the lady of the house. She's slatternly but pleasant enough."

Arabella in truth was too bone-tired to care if she made a banquet for fleas and bedbugs. The prospect of soup was appealing, and there would be a well or a pump. She reeked of sweat and horseflesh and longed for cold water and a sponge.

Jack made good on his promise and the landlady produced a pile of blankets and quilts that, while none too clean, had been kept in a cedar chest and were at least flea-free. Arabella declared the straw mattress on the rickety bed frame unspeakable and spread the bedding on the floor of the small chamber under the eaves. It was a cool night and she huddled against Jack under blankets that they piled on top of their own cloaks. To her relief Jack fell asleep even before she did and she turned on her side, clasping him in her arms, feeling the rhythmic movements of his chest as he slept.

They left before dawn the next morning and as they grew closer to Paris the atmosphere in the countryside changed. Where before they had aroused a pa.s.sing curiosity if at all, now suspicious eyes watched them when they rode through the villages and small towns. When they changed horses they were met with surly responses and high prices. Arabella grew uneasy but was rea.s.sured to see that Jack took it all in his stride. He responded to rudeness with rudeness, glowers with the same, and it seemed that this deflected suspicion.

They approached the St. Denis gate into Paris just as the bells for closing the city gates were ringing. Jack spurred his horse forward to the gatehouse and Arabella followed suit.

The gendarme regarded the travelers with narrowed eyes filled with mistrust. "Gates are closing."

"But they are not yet closed," Jack pointed out evenly. "I ask leave for my wife and me to pa.s.s. We're visiting her sick mother in Maubert. She might not last until morning." Silver glinted in his gloved hand as he half opened it against his thigh.

Arabella gave a deep mournful sigh and said plaintively, "I beg you, sir, let me pa.s.s. My mother is sick unto death."

Jack let his hand fall to lie alongside his booted foot in the stirrup. Again silver flashed as his fingers twitched. The gendarme approached. "Maubert, you say?"

"Rue de Bievre," Jack responded, allowing his hand to fall open as the other's slid beside it. The exchange was completed so quickly and so silently that no one in the guardhouse would guess that their colleague was now in possession of a considerable sum of livres.

"You've but half an hour to get off the streets before curfew," the gendarme growled as he stepped back.

They walked their horses through the gates and they clanged shut behind them. Arabella swallowed a thickening lump in her throat. They were locked in this city of h.e.l.l and terror. People moved along the streets and lanes, keeping to the shadows close to the walls. There was fear everywhere, on every face, in the sound of every footstep.

Jack leaned sideways and laid a hand on her bridle above the bit. "I think it would be best if I lead your horse. I know where we're going and we mustn't get separated."

"No," she agreed, "but I need my reins in my own hands. I won't lose sight of you. Where are we going, by the way?"

"To Maubert, of course," he said. "One mustn't lie to the gendarmes." A smile touched his lips, a humorless smile, and the gray eyes held a cold and reckless glint.

Arabella had been to Paris some years before the revolution but she knew little of the city's geography outside the palaces of the Louvre and the Tuilleries, and the grand mansions of the n.o.bles that surrounded them. Now they were riding through narrow streets whose high walls threw them into semidarkness. The cobbles were slimy and her horse slipped and would have gone down if she hadn't hauled back on the reins, steadying him. It was a good job she had the reins in her own hands, she reflected a little grimly. They were having to ride in single file along some of the narrower streets and her mount needed little encouragement to keep his nose up against the backside of his leader.

They emerged into a large cobbled square across the river from the fearsome turreted edifice of the Conciergerie, its blank gray stone walls towering above the water. Arabella gazed at the structure in the center of the square. She had only ever seen pictures of it before, this supremely efficient instrument of execution. The blade hung at the top of a long post. The block with a neat indentation for the neck was on the dais immediately below. Even in the dim light of dusk, the rusty stains on the blade and the wooden block were visible.

This was where the queen had met her death. She had been brought from the prison of the Conciergerie in a tumbrel to this place. The city was still redolent of the stench of blood and death. Close by, she knew, lay the prison of Le Chatelet.

They rode over the bridge across the Seine, hurrying now as the bells for the street curfew began to toll from every church steeple. Jack turned through a bewildering series of alleyways running up from the river and she kept pace behind him as it grew ever darker, then he drew rein outside a tall building and looked up at the facade. Windows were all shuttered and the house looked unoccupied. He moved his horse close to the door and rapped with his knuckles in a curious repet.i.tive series of knocks. Then he waited. He seemed to be counting, Arabella thought. Then he repeated the series. Three times this happened, and when he had fallen silent for the third time the door opened a crack.

Jack turned to Arabella, gesturing urgently that she should dismount and go inside. She fumbled with her cloak bag and he hissed, "Leave it." She jumped down, staggering for an instant. She had been in the saddle for so many hours, her legs were unaccustomed to carrying her. She recovered quickly and edged her way through the crack in the door, glancing over her shoulder, but Jack and the horses had disappeared.

A woman, tall and gaunt, with white hair caught up under a kerchief, surveyed her with a suspicion that Arabella sensed was habitual rather than personal. "Who are you?"

"Jack's wife." Arabella pressed her hands into the small of her back to ease the crick. It seemed best to keep things simple.

At that the woman merely nodded and gestured towards the rear of the pa.s.sageway. Arabella obeyed the gesture and found herself in a large, crowded kitchen-mostly men, but a few women bustling over pots and skillets, one rolling out pastry at the long, flour-strewn table. "Who's this, then, Therese?"

"Jack's back," the woman announced. "This is his wife."

There was no chorus of exclamations, no questions, merely calm scrutiny and nods of comprehension. "Come to the fire, Jack's wife," an elderly man said, gesturing to a stool. "Had a long ride, have you?"

"Two days," she said, taking the stool. "From Calais."

There were appreciative nods at this feat of endurance. Someone thrust a cup of wine into her hand and she sipped gratefully.

A door opened somewhere behind her and she felt rather than saw Jack come in. She a.s.sumed he'd been taking care of the horses. She turned her head, saw him drop their bags on the floor, and then saw him no more as he was engulfed in the crowd, who surrounded him, soft-voiced questions pouring forth so quickly that he was hard-put to answer them.

At the mention of Charlotte, a sudden absolute silence fell. Arabella gazed into the fire, letting the wine warm her, wondering how well these people had known Jack's sister. She guessed that they were not all born of the n.o.bility, but they were brought together in a common cause and she had the sense that they had been together fighting for this cause for a long time. How many of them had been lost? she wondered. She felt a little like an intruder and stayed on the stool by the fire, waiting for Jack to give her a lead.

At last he came over to her, resting his hand on the top of her head in a proprietorial gesture. "Arabella, will you explain what's brought us here?"

She told the story that Claude Flamand had told her. Jack's hand remained on top of her head. She kept her voice even, without emotion, concealing the upsurge of joy that Jack in front of his friends had acknowledged the part she had played, had declared her his partner.

"We heard nothing, Jack. Little information comes out of Chatelet at the best of times, but not a word of Charlotte." Therese came over and put her hand on Jack's shoulder. "The ma.s.sacre at La Force was so . . . so complete."

"I know," he said, his voice a harsh rasp. His hand dropped away from Arabella and he reached to refill a goblet from the carafe on the table. "We know that Charlotte was part of the ma.s.sacre. If by some miracle she survived, none of us could have known, my friends."

Arabella, to her surprise, broke in strongly, "There's little point in repining. If she is there, we have to get her out. I'm told money will do it."

No one took offense at her interjection. Therese said, "If it's directed in the right way, it can work. But if it goes to the wrong person, then it brings disaster. Men have been executed for trying to bribe the securite." She gave a short laugh. "They are not all corrupt, astonishingly enough."

"We must first discover if the comtesse is indeed in Le Chatelet." A brawny man who looked like a stevedore spoke up as he hefted a ma.s.sive log into the hearth. The roasting pig turning on the spit dropped grease onto the flames and the fire flared.

"Aye, Jean Marc. Someone needs to go in," Therese said. "A woman. They don't let men into the women's quarters." She looked around the a.s.sembled group. "Our faces are known on the streets. The jailers come from these parts. There's a great risk that one of us will be recognized."

"I will go," Arabella said. "If you tell me how."

"No," Jack said definitely.

"Yes," she said as definitely.

There was another silence, broken only by the sound of spitting fat, the gurgle of wine streaming from a flagon into a cup, the thump of the rolling pin against the table. Arabella held Jack's gaze.

"It makes sense for madame to go," Therese said eventually. "We'll dress her right, tell her where to go. It's easy enough to get in if you're selling something and can give the jailers a bit of a smile."

"No," Jack stated.

"Yes," Arabella responded. "I can smile at a jailer as well as the next woman. My French will pa.s.s muster, particularly if I keep it simple. My accent is perhaps not quite convincing, but if I speak low . . ."

"They're not ones for conversation at the best of times," the elderly man by the fire said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "A smile, a giggle, take a little pinch, an' you're in, home free."

Arabella couldn't help smiling at Jack's expression. She guessed rightly that it was the little pinch that was horrifying him. "I'm not made of porcelain, love," she protested.

"That's not the point."

"Let's eat. Time enough to talk about this on a full stomach," Therese declared. "Come to the table, all of you." She began to wipe the flour off the table with a damp cloth and the other women hurried around putting out skillets of potatoes and cabbage, loaves of bread with crocks of b.u.t.ter, earthenware plates and utensils. One of the men carved thick slices from the roasting pig still on the spit and piled them on a wooden trencher that was set in the middle of the table.

Arabella took a place on one of the long benches at the wooden table, Jack beside her. He refilled her cup as the flagon was pa.s.sed around and forked meat onto her platter. She ate with appet.i.te, listening to the conversation but partic.i.p.ating little. It became clear not only that this little group had been responsible for getting Jack out of France after his sister's arrest, but that Jack had worked closely with them during the worst of the revolution. They had all been part of the effort to get the hunted out of the city and on their way to the coast or across the borders into Austria or Switzerland.

She knew the man he had shown her, the rake and the gambler, the man who could drive another to his ruin; she knew the sophisticated member of the world of fashion, the friend of the Prince of Wales; she knew his politics, knew that he took more than a pa.s.sing interest in England's government; she knew that all dogs without exception fawned upon him.

But this man she had only heard about. She had not met him in person before. The man who smuggled refugees out of a revolution-torn country, who put his life on the line with appalling regularity. The man in his shirtsleeves, the neck open, eating with his elbows on the table, forking meat into his mouth as he talked with this motley crew who were both friends and colleagues in a shared enterprise. And yet, she thought, leaning back a little the better to see his profile, this aspect of her husband was probably the essential aspect-all the rest was a veneer, a thick one certainly, but a mask nevertheless. And this man was the one who could drive a man to ruin and death for vengeance's sake.

"You must be tired," Jack said suddenly, turning to look at her. "Have you eaten enough?"

"Plenty," she said.

"Then let us find you a bed."

"Not yet." She took up her wine cup. "We have to plan for tomorrow and there's much I need to know."She looked towards the woman who had admitted her to the house. It seemed obvious that this was Therese's house, and that she was one of the leaders of the group.

Therese leaned her forearms on the table and said, "You will dress as a market woman, carry a basket of fresh loaves. There are jailers with money. They'll buy from you, and if you ask in the right way, they'll let you into the women's quarters to see if you can sell the rest of your wares."

Arabella nodded, contemplating the right way. This was presumably where the little pinch came in. "What if they buy it all and I have none to take into the prison?"

"There will be another layer of rolls under a cloth. You tell them it's yesterday's. They won't want it, but if you play it right, they'll let you in to see if you can get rid of it to the less discriminating." Her voice had a bitter edge to it and Arabella understood her to mean those who were starving.

Jack set down his wine cup. "I haven't agreed to this yet," he stated.

"Then go apart with your wife and discuss it," Therese said. "There's a bed in the apple loft . . . it'll give you some privacy." There was a murmur of agreement and Jack swung his leg over the bench and stood up.

"Come," he said.

Arabella swiveled over the bench and stood up. "Thank you for supper," she said. "It was delicious."

"Our pleasure," her hostess responded. "If you need anything, Jack, you know where to find it."

He gave her a short nod, then directed his wife with a hand in the small of her back towards the rear of the kitchen. He scooped up their bags and gestured towards a ladder in a pantry just off the kitchen. Arabella climbed up and emerged into a moon-washed loft that smelled of apples and hay. Jack followed her and leaned down to reposition the ladder so that it didn't protrude through the floor, then he dropped a trapdoor over the opening.

This was privacy, Arabella thought, looking around. There was a straw mattress with a piece of rough ticking over it, and a few wrinkled apples on a rack. Apart from some empty barrels in the far corner, that was all she could see. "If we're to be up here until morning, I need to visit the privy," she said.

"There's a chamber pot behind the barrels." He bent over his valise, rifling through its contents while she took care of her needs. He was in his stockinged feet, his shirt unb.u.t.toned to the waist, when she emerged from the seclusion of the barrels. He said without preamble, "I don't want you to do this."

"No, so you've said." She stood at the low window looking out over the roofs and chimney pots of the city. "But I want to do it. And I don't see any alternative, do you?"

He was silent for a minute, then he came up behind her, sliding his arms around her, drawing her back against him. He bent his head to kiss the nape of her neck. She turned slowly in his arms, running her hand down his bare chest, pressing her lips to his nipples, inhaling the earthy scent of his skin, the mingled smells of horseflesh and leather and sweat. So different from his customary crisp, clean fragrance of laundered linen and dried lavender. Her fingers fumbled with the fastening at the waist of her riding skirt. There was a sudden desperate urgency in the small bare room, a shared need that required no words. Her skirt rustled to the floor and she kicked it roughly aside.

Jack unfastened his britches with one hand while the other pushed up beneath her now grimy petticoat to stroke over her hips, her thighs, to caress the curve of her belly. Their breath came quick as they stood together in the moonlit window. She pushed his britches down to his knees, grasped the taut muscular backside, stroked his p.e.n.i.s between thumb and forefinger, moved herself against him in insistent demand.

He took her waist and lifted her onto the narrow sill as she curled her legs around him, offering her opened body to the thrust of his p.e.n.i.s. Her mouth covered his as if she would devour him, her tongue driving within as he drove deep into her body. He held her hips, supporting her as she moved against him, matching his rhythm that grew faster, deeper as her climax neared, a tightening coil in her belly. She heard her voice murmuring words she didn't understand. She bit his lip, tasting his blood as the coil, tightened beyond bearing, sprang apart and she cried out against the stifling hand that he pressed against her mouth as his own climax throbbed against her womb.

He let her slide down his body as he slipped out of her, his hands still clasping her bottom, pressing her

against him belly to belly. He kissed her again. "No," he said slowly, reluctantly, as if the last pa.s.sion-filled minutes had not interrupted their earlier conversation. "I don't see any alternative."

Arabella smiled with just a hint of triumph. "I am your match, my lord duke. In all things."He laughed a little, although his eyes were still grave. "I don't dispute it, my dear. I never have."

Chapter 22.

Arabella and Jack stood on the street corner, looking at the great gates to the prison of Le Chatelet. The gates stood open and people pa.s.sed freely into the courtyard. Soldiers, gendarmes, vendors. The sounds of haggling and ribald laughter were on the air.

Arabella glanced at her companion. If she hadn't watched him dress that morning she would never have recognized her husband in this disreputable-looking character in filthy knee britches and torn shirt, a ragged kerchief around his neck, his black hair hanging loose and lank in greasy locks around his unshaven face. A filthy cap sat low on his forehead but beneath it she knew that the telltale white streak was gone, dyed as black as the rest of his hair. His front teeth were mostly blackened stumps.

She looked down at her own ragged red petticoat, bare legs, and wooden clogs, reflecting that she made an ideal companion for the ruffian beside her. Her blouse had once been white with lace edging at the low neck. Now it was gray, the lace torn, but it exposed the same amount of her bosom as in its heyday, and the ragged equally grimy fichu did little to hide the mounded flesh. Her hair was pinned into a straggly knot on top of her head, covered by a mobcap that had also seen better days.

A wide straw basket was slung around her neck on a long leather strap and bounced against her hip. It was filled with fresh-baked bread, brioche, and rolls whose baking fragrance had filled the apple loft from before dawn. Beneath a gray cloth was another layer, equally fresh, for distribution among the prisoners. There were two stale rolls that she would produce if the jailers demanded proof that the lower layer was inedible to all but the desperate.

For an instant she thought of her London image, the exquisite care that Jack had taken to transform her country self into a leader of the world of fashion, the perfect consort to his own immaculate appearance. The contrast was so absurd she could have laughed if she wasn't terrified out of her wits.

"Are you sure?" Jack asked quietly.

"Positive," she said, and moved away from him towards the prison gates. As she felt his presence recede with her every forward step, her sense of vulnerability increased and her heart was beating so hard and fast she thought she would be sick. But she kept walking, merging with a knot of other vendors, allowing herself to be carried in their midst through the gates and into the courtyard. The prison walls rose on three sides, tiny barred windows, mere specks in the forbidding gray stone. The courtyard was busy, even cheerful. Men were throwing dice, playing cards, women indistinguishable in dress from herself were selling wares from straw baskets. A donkey with heavily laden panniers stood patiently in the center of the courtyard, head lowered against the beating sun, while his driver haggled with a group of gendarmes over the copper-bottomed pans and skillets that filled the panniers.

Arabella paused and took stock. Her heart had slowed a little now that she was through the gates and in the midst of what seemed a very ordinary scene, if it weren't for the grim backdrop. She selected a group of gendarmes sitting in the shade by a closed door in the left-hand wall of the prison and made her way over to them, tossing her head in a little coquettish gesture as she reached them and dropped a curtsy.

"I've fresh bread, citoyens-a sou for a loaf, two sou for brioche," she said, lifting the napkin to reveal her loaves. "Straight out of the oven they are."

"You're a tasty bit yourself, citoyenne," one of the men said, beckoning her closer with the stem of a foul-smelling pipe. "Let's take a look in there."

Showing him her basket meant bending low towards him, revealing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s almost to the nipples. Unflinching she did so, smiling with what she hoped had a hint of seductive invitation. This was a woman not much better than she ought to be, ready enough for a little slap and tickle.

The gendarme prodded a loaf, then leered at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Nice plump pair there," he said with a grin at his companions. "Let's see how fresh they are." He thrust a filthy hand down her blouse, his fingers rough against her skin as he felt for her nipples.

She jumped back with a cry of mock outrage. "Indeed, citoyen, that's no way to treat a respectable married woman."

"Is that what you are?" demanded one of the others, who sported a thick red beard. "Come 'ere, then. Let's get a closer look at that there bread of yours."

Once again she went through the humiliating little ritual. The men exchanged ribald jokes and intensely personal comments that fortunately required no complicated verbal response, so she bridled, and smiled, and murmured form protests that only made them laugh.

"Well, let's 'ave a couple of them rolls, then," red beard said finally. He winked at his fellows. "Got a good piece of sausage here to go with 'em."

This comment drew raucous laughter and Arabella decided she'd had enough. She grabbed rolls from the basket. "One sou for two, citoyen."