Chapter 2

CATHERINE WATCHED SIR JACK FROM the corner of her eyes as she wolfed down the food Mme Felice had brought her. She paused only briefly in her survey of him to close her eyes and savor the food—tiens, it was heaven, this delicately herbed and spiced chicken, and the bread was rich and thick with butter—better than she had tasted even at . . .

Her mind sheered away from the remembrance and she gazed at Sir Jack again, then looked away. He was alarmingly handsome, and she did not trust him. His looks guaranteed that he would get his way—were not people fooled by a man's or woman's good looks? And she knew that no one gave aid to anyone without some advantage to themselves.

Therefore, Sir Jack wanted something from her, and no doubt he expected to get it easily. Well, she was somewhat grateful for the clothes, and very grateful for the food, but she would not make it easy for him to get what he wanted from her. She had learned better than that.

Memory pricked at her, but she focused on the food again and her assessment of Sir Jack. He was tall, and clearly strong, and stubborn, Catherine thought, and when he closed his well-sculpted mouth it was with firmness, which gave his words a finality that brooked no disobedience. She wondered if he had been a soldier at some time—a scar marred his smooth left cheek. It did not really detract from his looks, but gave him a rakish air . . . which was another thing she did not trust.

And yet, he had looked at her with his very blue eyes, and the expression in them was kind. She found herself staring at him again, and he was looking at her, his gaze assessing. No, no, surely she had been mistaken thinking she had seen kindness. He wanted something from her, she was sure, and no doubt it was not going to be to her advantage.

However, he had offered to teach her how to fight, and she would hold him to it. A slight niggling thought told her that she should return something for the lessons he promised, but she gave a mental shrug. If he came through with his promise, then she would think of something.

Her stomach began feeling full, but Catherine still ate. She could not know when she would eat next, after all.

“Eat too much, too fast, and you will make yourself ill, mon enfant.”

She looked at Sir Jack sharply, but there was nothing but that kindness again. She wondered if the kindness was an attitude he assumed to disarm her. Her stomach did feel tight, however, and perhaps it would be best if she stopped. She took a piece of bread from her plate and put it in her pocket for a future meal, then set down her fork. She eyed the knife next to the plate—it was well honed and had a sharp point. It would work well as a weapon should he try anything she did not like; she was alone with him, for Mme Felice had left, even though she had protested.

She could see he watched her carefully; she thought she saw pity on his face when she put the bread in her pocket. Anger made her hands turn to fists. She needed no pity. Quickly, she thrust her hand in her pocket again and returned the bread to the plate.

“It is always wise to keep provisions for another day,” he said gently.

She gazed at him steadily—why had he said that? To warn her that she may not have more food? To let her know she would shortly be let out into the streets? It could not be because he wished to preserve her sense of pride. . . . She took the bread again and put it in her pocket, watching his expression.

He frowned. “I will not bite, child,” he said.

“I am not a child,” she said.

“You cannot be more than fifteen.”

“I am twenty, monsieur.”

His brows rose and he rocked back in his chair. “You are trying to seem older than you are, I believe.”

Irritation rose, and she stood from her chair. “Not at all. I am quite grown, and as you see, taller than most women.”

He stood then, and she forced herself not to flinch as he rose above her. “You are a mite, a flea, a little thing, easily picked up in one hand.” He reached out for her, but she stepped back and seized the knife on the table.

He held up his hands and laughed. “Little fire-eater. No, I will not pick you up and spoil your dignity.” He sat again, and crossed his leg over a knee, then waved his hand at her. “Sit. I believe you, and yes, you are taller than most women. You are very thin, however, and your form suggested a young girl rather than a fully-formed woman.” His voice was bland, apparently uninterested.

Catherine looked away, feeling a blush creep over her face, and then confusion. She felt embarrassed, but glad he did not find her attractive, yet indignant that he did not. She glanced at him—his gaze still measured her. In truth, she should be glad he did not find her to his liking. It was safer that way.

She sat then, and stared at the leftover food on the plates before her. It was clear he could afford good food, enough to feed his tall body as well as a hungry stranger, with no concern that there was food leftover. Was he a procurer of women, and Mme Felice his accomplice? She cast back into her memory . . . no, he had called Mme Felice his landlady, and they had not the sly, furtive demeanor that often lurked beneath the whoremasters' and mistresses' so-called charity she had hidden from since she . . . since she had gone through all her money.

She probed her memory a little more and shivered. She had thought she could find a paying occupation, but she had no skills other than reading and writing, and there were clerics enough to do that for the unlettered. For anything else, she needed either to have apprentice papers or references from former employers, and she had neither. She was not even able to find a job mucking out stables, for she was also expected to handle horses, and she had never saddled one in her life, for all that she thought she had ridden many.

“Mademoiselle.”

The sound of Sir Jack's voice jerked her out of her recent memories and she looked up at him.

“Mademoiselle, tell me of yourself, of your family.”

“Why?”

He smiled slightly. “It is clear to me you are not commonborn, but of a good family, perhaps even a noble one. I do not know why you came to the state in which I found you, but it seems reasonable that your family would want to know where you are, and if you are safe.”

Fear lanced through her, and she stood, stumbling, overturning her chair on its back. “No,” she said, and her voice shook. “No. I—” She forced control over herself, clasping her hands together so that they would not shake. She made herself gaze steadily at him. “I do not remember my family, or where they are.” She tested her words in her mind . . . they were true, more or less. If she allowed herself to push back the veil that seemed to shroud her memory, she could possibly remember, as she had remembered her name. But madness lay beyond that veil, and she did not want to disturb it.

He gave her a skeptical look. “You know your name—Catherine de la Fer—and I am sure it is your true one, for you gave it in extremity. It is not a name for a commoner.”

“How do you know?”

His smile was ironic. “‘De la Fer'—‘of the blade.' It is a name for a knight, a chevalier, not a peasant.”

She nodded, accepting his statement. It made sense. If she had been a peasant, or any kind of commoner, she would have had some kind of practical skill she could have used . . . unless she had forgotten. She tested the veil over her memory . . . no. She had no skills other than reading or writing, and what little sword-skill she had.

“So, who are you, and where do you come from?”

She shook her head. “Monsieur, I assure you, I do not remember. You must be right about my name, and I think I might have said that I was from Normandy. But beyond that, I do not remember and . . .” She took in a deep breath and gazed at him steadily. “The pain of remembering is so great that I fear it will take time.”

He nodded. “Yes. The wounds on your back—they are severe. I am not surprised you would not want to remember it, but surely you remember something of the whipping?”

Fear pierced her, not as strongly this time, and she shook her head. “No. I remember only fear, monsieur.”

“Are you a Huguenot, then, trying to escape punishment?”

Catherine smiled. This, she remembered. “No, I am Catholic, and—” Panic seized her, and she looked about the room, searching frantically. “My cross, my rosary—where is it?”

“Peace, mademoiselle.” Sir Jack put his hand in a pocket of his coat. “Here it is.” He dangled the cross and rosary in front of her, but jerked it away when she tried to grab it.

Anger flared. “Give it to me,” she demanded. “It is mine.”

“So you remember that, at least.”

“Yes. Give it to me.”

“No. Not unless you tell me more about yourself.” His jaw had tightened, his eyes had grown cool, and there was no kindness in his face now. “I will have the truth, or I will most certainly return you to the alley where I found you. Where did you come from, and why did you run away? That is the only reason I can see for a gentleborn lady to be starving and dressed as a boy in the alleys of Paris.”

She kept her eyes on the rosary that swung in front of her. “By the cross, M. Sir Jack, I do not know. Perhaps I ran to escape another beating.” Yes, that felt right. She nodded. “Yes, I believe that is true.”

“Did you try to escape your husband?”

Fear arose in her with that question, and yet . . . it did not seem correct. She frowned. “No . . . I do not think I have been married. Perhaps I was going to be married.” Nausea twisted her stomach, making her clench her teeth. She looked up at him. “Yes. I think I was going to be married, and I did not want to be.” She took in a deep breath and let it out again, dispelling the sick feeling in her belly. “Trying to remember it makes me feel ill in my stomach.”

Sir Jack's lips turned up for a moment, and then he chuckled. “I do not blame you for feeling so. I have avoided marriage these five years since my majority for that very reason.”

Catherine allowed herself a smile, then held out her hand. “May I have my cross and rosary now?” she asked.

He gazed at her for a moment, and the measuring expression she had seen before crossed his face.

He held out his hand and dropped the cross into hers. Profound relief made her sigh and press the cross to her lips before she tied the rosary to her waist and tucked the cross on the necklace under her bodice. Strength bloomed under her breastbone, dispelling fatigue, and this time her smile when she looked at him was not forced.

“Merci, M. Sir Jack,” she said.

“You are welcome.”

There was silence for a while, with only the soft crackling of the fire making comment, and it felt oddly companionable to her. And yet, Catherine was sure that Sir Jack wanted something of her. She waited.

He stirred from his contemplation of the fire and looked at her. “Do you want to find your family?”

Emotions flooded into her—fear again, panic, revulsion. But there was also yearning, and a concern for . . . someone. She did not know who it might be, but she was sure it was someone younger. There was no urgency, however, except perhaps beneath the fear that she not return. She looked at him. “I do not know,” she said honestly. “I think it is best that I do not return home at this time. There is . . . danger.”

“Ahhh. Danger.” A flicker of light gleamed in Sir Jack's eyes, and he grinned. “I would think you'd be the sort to take on danger, M. Fire-Eater.”

His words made her smile; it warmed her that he thought her fierce and brave. But she shook her head. “No. I am not that much of an idiot, M. Sir Jack. I do not seek danger, but Dieu me sauve, it seems to seek me out.”

“It amounts to the same thing,” he said, shrugging.

She grinned. “And I think you are the sort to seek it out?”

He laughed. “Aye, devil take it. It's the reason why I'm best suited to the life of a soldier than a gentleman farmer.” His expression darkened for a moment, showing a weariness beneath it.

“Ah,” she said. It was as she thought—he was a soldier.

He laughed. “You think you discern much about me, do you, mon enfant?”

She grinned, feeling relief that they had come away from discussing her background. “Yes.”

“How so?”

Catherine gazed at him, up and down, giving him as thorough an assessment as he had given her. “You are well formed for such an occupation, and the scar on your cheek—clearly recent—tells me that you had suffered it either in a duel or in war. Your hands are soft except for the calluses I would expect from a man of war, but well muscled. You were quick to come to my side when I—” She took in a quick breath at the memory of her recent fight, and let it out slowly. “When I was fighting in the alley, and you were quick with you knife. You must be reasonably well-to-do if you do not stint on feeding a complete stranger such as myself. You also have an English accent. Therefore, you are not just a common soldier. You must have come to France in King Charles's court, biding your time until the Lord Protector—” Sir Jack made a small growl and looked as if he were about to spit, and she paused, waiting for him to do so. She had never seen a gentleman spit, and she was curious to see if the barbarian Englishman would do it. But he did not, and she continued. “Until Cromwell leaves or dies.” She sighed and looked at him. “Tiens, that is a difficult name to say—‘Cromwell.' ”

His face looked grim. “I'd be pleased if you did not say his name in my presence, mademoiselle.”

She nodded. No doubt he had suffered in the war against the usurper and did not want to speak of it. She shook her head, however. “We might need to speak of him at some time. What am I to call him if we must?”

“You can call him a bloody damned—” Sir Jack finished his sentence in a string of incomprehensible words.

Catherine bit back a laugh, as she was sure he had said some very bad words, but she looked at him innocently. “I do not think I can pronounce those words, M. Sir Jack. They are very English.”

He stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Aye, so they are, and not a thing for a lady to say in good company, mon enfant.”

“Are you, then, not good company?” she asked, putting on an innocent look.

He grinned. “You will find that I am very bad company. You need only ask Mme Felice or her husband, Fichet.” His grin faded, and he looked into the fire. “Beware, mon enfant, for I am a bad man, indeed.”

Catherine looked at him, at the scar that formed a sure line down his cheek and the grim look that had settled over his mouth. She was certain he could be very deadly; had she not seen how he had so swiftly killed that man in the alley?

Yet for all her wariness of him, she felt, deep down, that she did not mind. She did not understand it, for she also felt she could never trust anyone, especially a man.

She looked at him. “Do you mean, M. Sir Jack, that you might betray me at some time?”

He returned her gaze, and his eyes were cool. “Most certainly, mon enfant, I will betray you. Beware.”

She nodded, and wondered at herself, for she did not really mind. Perhaps it was because he told her so instead of hiding it. She could prepare for such a thing if she was told about it first, and she appreciated him telling her outright.

“Very well,” she said. “I will beware.”

He chuckled. “That's all? I would think a little thing like you would run as soon as I looked at you.”

She considered him, dispassionately this time, and shook her head. “No. Because you told me, I shall be prepared.”

He looked at her curiously. “‘Prepared'? And what will you do if I were to betray you?”

She looked at him calmly, deadening the feeling she had allowed to grow in her heart. “I shall kill you,” she said simply.

A slow smile formed on his lips. “Will you, mon enfant?”

“Yes. If you betray me, that is.”

“Should I teach you the art of the sword, then, if it will only end in my death?”

She gazed at him and nodded slowly. “Yes, of course.”

“Why?”

“You promised to do so, and you are not the sort to take back promises.”

He sat back in his chair, away from the fire, and the dimness of the room obscured his expression. “Perhaps I might, if I would also be the sort to betray you.”

She gazed at him, glad she had stilled her feelings. It made her feel in control of herself and this conversation, and she would never let another have control over her again. She gazed at him, still coolly. “You will, however, because it will be profitable for you.”

He moved forward again, and she could see that his smile had grown, and now he seemed amused. “How so?”

She paused, for she was not sure at first, but she gazed at her sword set aside next to the fireplace. The firelight glinted off the metal of the haft, the color of silver and gold coin, and it set off a spark in her mind.

She turned to him, smiling slightly. “I will duel for money.”

His expression turned skeptical. “You will lose, and be killed. How profitable is that?”

“You will train me—you said so yourself.” She put a challenge in her voice.

He did not bridle or take up the challenge as she had hoped, but pursed his lips, his look still skeptical. “And what man will want to fight you?”

She leaned forward. “No one, unless you fight me yourself. Teach me, and we will put on a demonstration—it will be a novelty, and Parisians love a novelty, and gambling most of all.”

He was silent for a while, assessing her again with his eyes, and then he grinned, then chuckled.

“Ah, mon enfant, you get ahead of yourself. You haven't even received your first lesson.”

“Teach me,” she said, her voice low and as fierce as she could make it. “Teach me, and you shall see.”

He gazed at her up and down, and it seemed he truly looked at her for the first time. “I think . . . I think perhaps I shall,” he said slowly, his smile fading though his eyes still twinkled. “I think I shall.”

An old rebellion flowered in Catherine's heart, and she held out her hand, steeling herself against flinching when he took it in his. She squeezed it hard and shook it firmly.

“Then it is a bargain, M. Sir Jack.”

He brought up her hand to his lips, kissing it gently, and she pulled away from him, thrusting her hand behind her back.

He grinned. “A bargain, Mlle de la Fer. And do call me Jack.”

Catherine looked away from him, rubbing on her skirts the hand that he'd kissed. She might call him Jack in time, but she would not allow him to kiss her. No, she would never allow that.

She gazed at him again, and tried to soothe the unsettled flutters that suddenly twisted her stomach. He still stared at her, and his expression had changed to amused kindness again . . . and something else that caused his jaw to set stubbornly again.

The thought occurred to her that it did not matter what she wanted. Sir Jack would get his way, one way or another.

She pressed her lips together firmly. Not if she could help it, she thought. Sweet heaven, not if she could help it.