The Companion - Time For Eternity Part 19

"See to her," he ordered, his voice rougher than he planned.

And he made his escape. He had lists to make and plans to lay if he was going to fill a ship with families before the week was out.

Fourteen

"You're keeping his nighttime hours and falling in love with him," the voice accused. "Yet you won't let me out to take control and protect you."

The voice was so clear. Where was it coming from?

The stable in the mews behind the house.

She tiptoed through the deserted house and out into the bright sun. How long since she had seen the sun? She darted across the carriageway and slid through the doors into the dimness beyond. No one was about here either. She could hardly see after the bright morning outside. The stable was lit only by the thin channel of light from the door behind her.

But beyond that knife blade of sunshine, all was darkness. Horses moved in their stalls, blowing softly. The stables smelled of hay and oiled leather.

Someone was in the stable with her. It would be the owner of the voice.

Fear rushed through her. But she had to know who owned that voice and what made it so clear inside her head. It was all she could do to stand there, waiting.

Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A figure moved out from behind the last stall. From the place where Francoise had hidden the leather bag full of sharp shiny steel and strange-smelling liquid in soft bottles. It was a small figure. A woman?

"You are in terrible danger," the voice said. It was clear the voice came from the figure for she could see the shadowy lips moving, but it echoed inside her brain as well. "Let me help you," the voice said. "You must do as I say."

The figure walked forward. Francoise began to tremble.

"I've lived what will happen if you don't." The figure was still in shadows. The outline of the woman was ... familiar.

"What will happen?" Francoise breathed.

"You'll lose your soul and burn in h.e.l.l for eternity."

That sounded melodramatic.

"But true," the woman said as if she could read Francoise's thoughts. The figure walked forward. "You know what you must do. I know you do. You must kill him."

And the figure walked into a channel of light. The face was hers.

Francoise jerked upright with a gasp, emotions making her heart pound in her chest. What kind of a dream was that? She felt full to overflowing. There wasn't room in her chest to breathe. The voice telling her to kill Henri was her own.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare. Nightmares didn't make sense. So it was not a problem that a voice she'd been hearing quite clearly lately turned out to be herself. Better she talk to herself than that she hear other people inside her head. It made her less mad, didn't it? But she was telling herself to kill Henri? How could that be? She would never kill anybody. Especially not Henri.

And never with drugs and decapitation with a sword, for goodness' sake.

Nothing about this was real. She had to cling to that.

Except the leather bag and its ominous contents. That was real.

She was not going to kill Henri. The only way he could d.a.m.n her soul was if love for him festered in her, knowing he didn't love her back. But she wasn't going to fall in love with him. She 'd made love to him. That was different. A lark, an adventure. She wouldn't take back that night at Versailles for the world. But how could she love a care -for-nothing smuggler? The voice was wrong about that.

But was he a care-for-nothing? He had tried to save Madame LaFleur. He had said the benediction over her. That had been kind. Or maybe it had just been expedient, to get Francoise to stop importuning him. In that case why didn 't he just throw Francoise out on her ear? Why did he buy her clothes and jewels and introduce her to his friends to make certain all knew she had his protection? Why did he bother?

Maybe because he wanted to give her a carte blanche.

Well, she wasn't going to accept a carte blanche from Henri. No, Avignon. She wasn't going to call him Henri anymore, even in her mind. And she wasn't going to kill him with that sword either. She'd just leave. As she'd planned. She'd find a situation and go.

She got up and went to the window. The sun was high. It must be early afternoon. Plenty of time to present herself at the agencies. She had to believe she'd find a suitable situation.

But somewhere inside she felt that it was useless to hope. She'd done all this before and it had been useless.

"You've forgotten to complete the section on references. " The dour-faced woman sitting behind the desk adjusted her spectacles and frowned at Francoise over them.

Well, there was the problem, wasn't it? There were really only three reputable placement agencies left in Paris, and the other two had already refused to even accept an application without references. Francoise swallowed. All she could do was try to explain a third time.

"I did not forget. I ... I have good references. But they are not available for consultation."

"What do you mean ... not available?" The interviewer frowned.

Francoise gathered her wits. "Well, Lady Toumoult, sister of the Marquis d'Evron, has unfortunately pa.s.sed on. The marquis and his remaining family emigrated." Let this woman think she had served the family. "And my latest employer, Madame LaFleur, died just Sunday. That's why I'm applying for another position."

"Well, we really don't have a call for ladies' companions these days." The woman looked pointedly at Francoise's walking dress. Francoise blushed. She had realized at the first agency that Fanchon's creation was much too stylish for a servant. But Fanchon's dresses were all she had. "You are too young to teach children. Obviously not a maid. And with no references, I can hardly ..."

Francoise felt a little swirl of panic in her throat. Avignon had been right. But if she couldn't find a situation, she couldn't support herself. She'd be dependent upon Avignon. And if she couldn't escape Avignon, something dire would happen to her. Or maybe she would go mad entirely and do something dire to him instead.

She took a breath and plunged ahead with the only piece of information that might sway her interlocutor, for better or for worse.

"I ... I have been working in the Duc d'Avignon's household since Sunday." Well, maybe not working, but it was only a small lie.

"He lives next door to Madame LaFleur 's house, and kindly took me in when Madame died. Of course, it 's a bachelor's household, so I can't remain there." She dared not offer him directly as a reference.

The woman chewed her lip. "A bachelor's household. Hardly suitable. Still ... the Duc d'Avignon is extremely ..."

Francoise would never know what the woman would have said.

At her back a familiar voice said, "Excuse me, mademoiselle, but his grace is waiting for you in the carriage."

She turned to see Jean bowing, his face totally impa.s.sive.

Avignon had found her.

"I'll just conclude my business here, Jean, and be right out. Thank you." It was amazing she could make her voice sound calm.

Jean took a breath as if to say something, thought better of it, and turned on his heel. "Very good, mademoiselle."

Francoise watched him retreat, his black uniform trimmed with gold braid causing quite a stir among the motley throng crowded into the applications room. Anyone there would have killed to be a paid member of Avignon's household. Anyone but Francoise.

She turned back to the representative of the agency. "I'm sorry for the interruption."

"Well," the woman said, raising her brows, "if you are important enough that the duc sends his carriage ..." She glanced to Francoise. "Did he say that the duc was waiting in the carriage for you?"

"He did." This time the voice was baritone.

Oh, dear. The smell of cinnamon and ambergris wafted over the room. She turned. Avignon was squinting against the light from the open door, and his face was turning pink. But his appearance was, as always, impeccable, dressed in black from head to foot except for the white froth of linen and lace at his throat and wrists. The gold of a signet ring and a quizzing gla.s.s hanging from an enormous black b.u.t.ton on his coat were the only color on his person.

He lifted the quizzing gla.s.s to his eye and surveyed the low-ceilinged room. Everyone in it stepped back a pace. "What, may I ask, is my ward doing in such an establishment?"

"Your ward?" the woman behind the desk squeaked. "Oh, excuse me, your grace. I did not know she was your ward. She was looking for a position as a companion to an older lady."

"Ahhh. A lark no doubt on her part. " He turned his gla.s.s on Francoise. She couldn 't help but squirm. "But entirely inappropriate." He turned back to the woman taking applications. "I'm certain you would not insult my ward by actually offering her such a position." He did not wait for an answer but stepped to the side and motioned Francoise ahead of him. "Come, child."

This was uttered so firmly Francoise found herself obeying whether she would or no. And it didn't matter. The woman behind her believed Avignon a powerful person, Revolution or not. She would never chance offending him. If she believed Francoise was only his ward. And if she believed Francoise was something more (or less) than his ward, she would never place her in a respectable household.

Francoise sighed. Avignon put a hand on the small of her back (protectively? possessively?) and guided her to the door.

As they pushed out into the afternoon sunshine, she heard his breath hiss. He hurried her to the carriage. Jean had no time to leap down from where he sat beside the coachman. Avignon ripped open the door and practically pushed her up into the carriage. He climbed in after her, banging the door shut. The shades were down. She could hardly make him out in the gloom. Was his face blistered? He was that sensitive to light? A stab of guilt shot through her. He'd come out in the afternoon sunlight to look for her.

His own fault. Your affairs are none of his business. Listen to me. You must- The voice again. She shook her head to shut it out.

Avignon pushed himself into the opposite corner where he was obscured in shadows. "What did you think you were doing in there?" His voice was thick.

"Trying to find a position. And now you've prevented me from ever getting a situation by telling them I'm your ward. Which no one believed." She knew her tone was huffy.

"I'm sure that wasn't the only agency you visited."

"It was not." She took a breath and let it out. There was no use lying to him. "They found my lack of references a problem."

"I expect they would. Just as well." He sounded better now.

Her eyes were growing used to the darkness. She peered at him. She must have been mistaken about the blisters. His face wasn't blistered at all. Just pink, a little. No, it wasn't even pink. It must have been the lighting in the employment agency that made her think so.

She resolved not to speak to him again. How would she get through dinner?

What was she thinking? Her problem wasn't dinner, but how in the world she would support herself. With no friends, no references ... And if she didn't take his money, it would be the same in England. But if she did take it ... then he would never be out of her life. And something very bad would happen to her.

The feeling of urgency inside her was almost painful. That something was about to happen. She mustn't let it. But she knew very well that the voice (the voice that absolutely wasn't her-was it?) wanted her to ... to try to kill him. She couldn't do that, of course. What did that leave? She had to get him out of her life.

A bleak feeling descended on her. She wanted him gone. Didn't she?

As it turned out, she didn't have to get through dinner. She came down, dressed in one of Fanchon's evening dresses, at nine sharp, and found him at the street door. He carried a snuffbox and a large black silk handkerchief.

"Au revoir, my aggrieved one. You will have to save any choice words you have planned until later. I am promised to Revientot for dinner this evening. Then it's on to the tables."

All the man apparently did was gamble. Or consort with women like Madame Vercheroux. What did that say about him? He waved languidly as he went out the door.

Four families in one night. Twenty people including that baby. Quite a haul. He 'd almost been caught. But what could he do?

With babies, he had to take extra care, bring them under his power, prevent them, through the power of suggestions, from feeling the pain of translocation. It took time. They'd barely made it out. But now the whole lot of them were secreted in the rooms behind the back wall of the warehouse. Jennings would take care of them for the next few days. He 'd visit when he could to rea.s.sure them.

Henri walked across the park in the center of the Place Royale toward number sixteen under a lightening sky as the city began to wake. He was tired. Transporting himself, and one and sometimes two, others so many times in one night sapped his Companion's strength. The days ahead would be a strain. He had not much time to fill the warehouse.

The Maiden Voyage would arrive in Le Havre from Portsmouth on Sunday. A day to unload. He must have everyone he 'd managed to rescue on the barge and ready to float down the Seine to meet her on Sat.u.r.day night. They could be away Monday.

The girl wouldn't want to go. She wouldn't take his money. He'd arrange with Jennings to set her up.

Why not go with her? An image flashed through his head of an English country manor in Kent, a cozy fire burning in the grate, her head in his lap as he read to her.

Get hold of yourself, man. He was vampire, for G.o.d's sake. She was not. The minute she found out what he was, she'd leave him. If she didn't commit suicide, that is.

I haven't been bored lately.

The thought occurred unbidden, unantic.i.p.ated. Since she'd come into his life he'd seen the world in a new light. Through her eyes. The trip to Versailles was a revelation; her wonder, the freshness of picnicking in the Hall of Mirrors, making love in the king's bedchamber.

Merde. He'd fallen in love with her.

He stopped at the edge of the park and leaned against a tree. Was he insane? How long since he had been in love? Four hundred years? No wonder he hadn't recognized it. But now that he considered, he could see all the telltale signs. Wanting to be with her. Wanting to protect her. A small trickle of belief that she might be able to save his soul by making his life seem bearable.

Well, this had to be nipped in the bud. She must never know. She would be appalled. She considered him the wicked duc.

Making love with him was an adventure to her. Nothing more.

Good. That was good. He pushed himself off the tree and started across the street.

All this meant was another chip in the carapace that he had built around his soul. It would hold. He had his work. He could probably avoid her until Sat.u.r.day. Then he would bundle her aboard the barge that would take her to the Maiden Voyage and get back to work. He managed a saunter as he approached number sixteen. The door opened and the day footman ushered him in. He went straight to his room, banished Drummond by saying, to that gentleman's amazement, that he would change himself, and bolted the door.

Last batch tonight. Good thing. It was perhaps four in the morning. Henri 's strength was seriously depleted, even though he'd slept like the dead all today, eaten like a horse at a tavern, and taken a cup of blood from a tavern wench. He slid along the familiar corridors of the Conciergerie, a black silk scarf tied about his neck and up over his nose to hide his white lace cravat and his face, the white lace at his wrists tucked up his sleeves. The place was swarming with guards since the screams that indicated an escape had been echoing through the corridors all night. He was forced to draw his power quickly and master many minds at once. And of course there was the extra time he had to take with the children. The whole thing was getting difficult.

He slid up behind the guard outside the cell that held the Rideaux family. The captain had taken to putting families in private cells to better guard them. He motioned to the man holding the bars, for silence, and watched hope bloom in the gaunt face. Rideaux's wife, two boys early in their second decade and an older girl, were huddled in the corner, their eyes big.

The guard heard Henri at the last second and turned to face him. Henri called his Companion. The world was washed with crimson. "You will remember nothing," he whispered.

"Watch out!" Rideaux hissed.

It was too late. A sword found Henri's shoulder as he whirled. Where had this one come from? Henri didn't draw his sword. He just locked his gaze into the man's eyes. The guard's sword clanked to the stone floor as the man stood there, wavering.

Henri put a hand to his shoulder. The wound was deep. It would heal, but he couldn't chance infecting the Rideaux family with his blood.

"Fear not," he said to Rideaux, his eyes still red. "I'll be back tomorrow night for you."

The man's face went blank. He nodded.

Henri heard the gallop of many feet. Companion! he called silently. Darkness whirled up and engulfed him. The familiar pain swept through him.

He materialized in the mews behind number sixteen and staggered in through the servant 's entrance to avoid leaving a trail of blood to his front door. At the back door that blood might have come from a beefsteak or a chicken. Stumbling through the kitchen, he surprised the cook's boy lighting fires for the coming day. Did his kitchen staff rise so early? Henri leaned on the butcher block and grinned conspiratorially. "Little the worse for wear tonight." As if that would explain the master of the house using the servants' entrance. The lad's eyes widened, but he pulled his forelock in the ancient gesture of obeisance.