Chapter 8

CATHERINE AWOKE WITH A START. THE room was cold, as were her shoulders, which were naked above the sheets and blankets of the bed. She pulled up the sheets and attempted to find more warmth for a while, but restlessness made her thrust away the bedcovers and pull on the clothes she found at the foot of the bed. Jack must have put them there, she realized. As far as she remembered, they had fallen to the floor as they had . . .

As they had made love.

Warmth flooded her, and she was not certain whether it was embarrassment or the remembrance of pleasure and comfort. Remembrance, perhaps, because she could feel a smile moving her lips upward.

Except for that one instance of unreasoning terror, she had felt comfortable, warm, and oddly secure. She frowned a moment as she pulled on her shirt and trousers. “Secure” was not the right word. She had felt vulnerable and exposed, and there was nothing secure in that. She picked up a hairbrush and made a face at it. She hoped she could untangle her hair as well as Felice had done.

She sighed, remembering the warmth of Jack's arms around her, the heat of his body, the strange, soothing excitement of his kisses and touch. She had not minded any of it; she had, after a while, sought it.

Trust. The word came to her, and a part of her recoiled—she trusted nobody. But Jack . . . she did trust him, at least with her body. He had fed her and taken care of her, and then had pleasured her.

She caught sight of her hands in the small wall mirror as she clumsily brushed her hair. She put down the brush and looked at the palms of her hands, then turned them over. There were no marks on them, and even better, they looked strong and competent.

A defiant glee made her grin. Well, she had no doubt sinned in laying with Jack, and if Père Doré was right that her stigmata was a holy thing, then it would surely not return. Good. She was better off without it, and she could not see what purpose it had other than to give her pain. She wrinkled her nose in disgruntlement. If God had wanted to give her a blessing, she did not know why it was not something more useful, such as healing powers or the ability to lead armies to victory. Certainly King Louis's armies could use some help, and it was not as if God hadn't used a woman to lead the armies of France before. And if the stigmata was some kind of punishment, it made no sense that God would keep her from remembering what sin she had done to warrant such a punishment. If she did not remember the sin, she would very likely repeat it, after all. She shook her head. No, it made no sense at all.

Her stomach growled loudly, and she put her hand over it. She was hungry. Now, this was something that made sense. If one was hungry, one ate, and then one was filled and that was the end of it. She would go down to the common room below and see if Jack had ordered a meal.

She sighed happily to find that Jack had indeed ordered food, and that one of the inn's maids was just putting it on the table in front of him. This was another thing she liked about him—he never stinted on food, despite his teasing about her appetite.

The look he gave her when she sat across from him seemed tentative; it sat oddly on his face, she thought, for he had normally a determined expression when at repose. But the look disappeared when she sighed, surveying the food before her—a roasted capon, buttered bread, dried fruit, cheeses, and wine—and amusement replaced it. The amusement became a chuckle when she bit into the capon leg and moaned as the salty and herbed juices burst on her tongue and she swallowed the tender meat.

“Hush, ma chère, the other guests will think we are in the throes of lovemaking with the sounds you make over your food.”

Catherine drew in an indignant breath, intending some sharp words, but she choked instead and began to cough. Jack rose, thumped her back until she regained her breath, and then gave her a glass of wine. “I did not moan,” she said at last.

“Yes, you did.” He picked up the other capon leg and bit into it, chewing thoughtfully as he gazed at her. “You moaned as if you were at the height of pleasure. I should know, since I—”

She hastily put her hand over his mouth. “Tiens! Very well, I did moan.” His eyes twinkled above her hand, and she moved it away. “You are teasing me,” she said, but could not help smiling a little.

“Yes,” he said. He nodded toward the food, then moved closer to her, his voice lowering. “Do continue to eat. I find I like hearing you moan—”

She stuffed a piece of dried apple into his mouth. “Eat,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat. “Or else I shall have all of it, and you shall have none.”

“True,” Jack said, after he had swallowed the apple. He glanced down at the food he had put on his plate and then back at her, the uncertain look again in his eyes. “We should not have done it, Catherine.”

A sinking feeling made her lower her eyes to the chunk of bread she had broken off the loaf. She gnawed at her lip and tore small pieces off the bread onto her plate, trying to gather her thoughts and emotions together, trying to identify them. Did he not like what they had done? He had protested only a little at first, then had gathered her up in his arms and had pleasured her until she had cried out helplessly from the sensations he had made in her. Surely he would not have done it if he had not wanted to?

She looked at him squarely. “Perhaps,” she said. “But I wanted to. If you did not like it, you should have said so.”

“Of course I liked—” He stopped and winced. “That is, it was not right.”

Her heart lightened, and she grinned. “I am glad you liked it, for I did, very much. And if it was not right, then I am still glad, for Père Doré said that the wounds that appear on my hands and my back are most probably a holy thing, and I would much rather not have them, for they are a painful nuisance. So, it is reasonable, is it not, that if I do what is not right, then the holiness will leave me, and I will not have the wounds?”

Jack opened his mouth and shut it again. A disgruntled expression crossed his face. “Is that the only reason you wanted to do it?”

Catherine gazed at him uncertainly. What did he want of her? First he said they should not have done it, and now he looked discontented when she told him a very practical reason why she had. She shook her head slowly, trying to think over her reasons, her emotions. It was difficult; she was used to thinking of sheer survival, and she had only recently been focused on conquering fear—successfully so far, she thought. Had she not continued to allow Jack to make love to her, even after she had become terrified? And there were other feelings . . . she frowned fiercely, shaking her head again.

“I . . . wanted not to be afraid,” she said. She looked at him, and the irritation on his face faded a little. “I was not afraid, by the end. And I felt . . . I felt I wanted to give something back to you.”

The irritation returned. “I have told you I do not want your gratitude.”

Frustration seized her. “You have it, nevertheless,” she said sharply. “I have told you my reasons, and look you, they are reasonable. Why do you say we should not have done it?”

His lips pressed together in clear frustration. “It was not honorable. You belong to another, the Marquis de Bauvin. Even if not that, you belong to your family, and they are the ones who are to say who you may bed.”

Anger made her clench her hands. “Honor. Bah! Worse than that, I now have a sin on my soul, but do I care?”

He said nothing, but raised an eyebrow at her and tapped his fingers on the table, impatiently waiting for her to answer her rhetorical question.

She hunched her shoulders in irritation. “Very well, I care, a little, and will confess it when I go to a priest the next time, but I will no doubt want to do it again if it means that my wounds will not return. I would rather do something pleasant than bear something that gives me pain. And . . .” She stopped, hesitating, struggling for words. “And . . . I want to choose. I wish to choose with whom I stay or give my body or—or even my heart.”

Felice's words came to her suddenly, that Jack had fallen in love with her. She gazed at him, searching for any sign of that love, hoping she would recognize it if she saw it. But he looked away, and she saw only frustration instead.

Felice must be wrong, Catherine thought. For all that she did not remember much before her life in the alley, and had thought only of finding food and shelter, she had managed to observe a few things while there. Even among the whores and the people of the streets she had seen something that could have been love on their faces.

She was not certain that she had seen it on Jack's face, or that what she had seen he felt only for her. She made herself shrug, as if she did not care. She knew he was her friend, however, and that was more than she had had before in her life; she would be content with that . . . make herself content with it.

His expression did hold some sympathy, though, when he replied, “I understand, ma chère. Who would not wish the freedom to choose what they will? But that is not the way of the world.” He took her hand in his, rubbing her palm with his thumb for a moment, before moving back and sighing. She gazed at him—he seemed suddenly much older than his twenty-four years, the scar on his cheek deeper, etching his face with weariness. “Our obligations . . . give us a home in ourselves to return to, when we have no other. Honor gives us an anchor when the storms of war and loss toss us beyond endurance.” He gazed at her steadily. “This is what I have learned since boyhood, Catherine. This is what I live by. That, and hope.”

She nodded slowly, realizing that she knew little of Jack, other than he was a soldier and he had left his family behind in England to fight for his king. She felt a little ashamed she had not been more curious about him; he had been very much her enefactor, after all, and she was most certainly obligated to him.

Obligation . . . he had said obligations acted as a home to him, and suddenly she understood. She wished freedom from obligation to him, of course. But it was also something that tied her to him, and she was not sure she wanted totally to undo that tie. The thought of it was like traveling the path to a home where friendship lived.

She nodded, taking his hand and squeezing it briefly. “I understand. I do not like to be obligated to you at all, which is why I wish to pay you back in some way. But it is an obligation that reminds me that you are also my friend, and I cannot regret it.”

He looked at her then, gazing long into her eyes, and seemed about to speak. But his lips pressed together again, almost grimly, and he gave a brisk nod. “Good,” he said. “Then we understand each other.” He jerked his head toward the door. “The evening darkens. We will travel again this night, and if we are not attacked, then I think we can be more at ease that another such creature as we saw in Paris will not come after us. We may then travel during the day, as normal folk might.” His smile was wry, as if he did not quite believe in the word “normal.” He rose. “Come, let us leave. I have ordered fresh horses. We will not need to travel as far and fast this time.” He grinned suddenly. “You will be glad of that, I think.”

Her spirits had fallen when he seemed not to respond to her mention of friendship, but lifted again at his grin. It mattered not what he said about their relationship, she thought. It was enough for now that there was understanding between them and that he perceived her moods and thoughts quite clearly. Surely such understanding existed among friends, whether the word “friendship” was spoken or not.

She rolled her eyes at him. “See, this is why I must eat as much as I do! You would work me to the ground, and I must have a great deal of food to sustain me.”

He laughed and waved his hand at the still-laden plates. “Go ask the innkeeper to pack it up so that we may take it with us. I cannot have you fainting from hunger in the middle of the road.” He turned and strode out the inn door.

Catherine grinned, feeling relieved and lighter of heart. Surely once she returned home, her family would allow Jack to visit from time to time. Her thoughts lit on her former betrothed, the Marquis de Bauvin, but flitted away again. Time enough to think of such things once she returned home. For now, she would seize what joy she could of Jack's company, and leave tomorrow's troubles for tomorrow.

   

No natural or supernatural attacks came that night, much to Jack's relief. He and Catherine rode steadily under the moonlit sky, their collars, scarves, and hats close around their faces for warmth. No movement disturbed their travel except for the flit of owls across moon-illuminated clouds and through the silhouette of barren trees. If they heard a lone wolf howl, it was a problem easily rid of with sword or musket—much easier than some hell-born demon.

He glanced at Catherine, who rode at his side. He could see nothing of her face except for the occasional cast of moonlight on the tip of her nose. She had been silent since they left the inn; he wondered what she was thinking.

He scowled. No, he did not want to know what she thought. It was clear she sought his attentions as a means to an end. At best, she sought his friendship. Her reasons were practical; he could see her point of view and if he were in her place, he'd seek to rid himself of the affliction of the stigmata.

His scowl turned into a reluctant smile. He had to admit, she was a determined wench, and he doubted she would allow anything to get in her way once she set her mind on having it. If she was determined to rid herself of the nuisance of a so-called blessing, she would clearly do it as quickly as possible.

His grin turned wry. That he had refrained from entering her and putting his seed into her was but a weak concession to honor. The truth was, he'd been more than willing to help her, and his protests had been weak at best. But the other side of that truth was that he was torn between seizing what he could of her body and heart in the short time they had left together and wanting what was best for her—returning her to her family in as whole and untouched condition as he could.

It was a damnable thing, and ever the tale of his dog-spewn life, panting after what he could not have and losing what he held dear. He rolled his shoulders around in a shrug, trying to loosen the tension. He glanced at Catherine, who kept her attention to the road ahead. He'd miss her when they parted, he knew. She was not like any woman he had ever met, and he was certain he would not find another that would suit him so well.

He shrugged his shoulders again. It was just as well, therefore, that affinity for one's spouse was not required for a marriage, but practical considerations were. And, except for his damnable loyalty to his king and his wish to keep Catherine by his side, he was in essence a practical man. It was best that he keep his mind on what was useful, not on anything else. He looked into the darkness of the road ahead of them, hoping for some flicker of light that might indicate the existence of an inn or farmhouse. They must have traveled a good forty miles by now; another ten would bring them to Rouen, not far from Catherine's home. Since there had been no attack so far—supernatural or otherwise—it might be best to rest and return her in as fresh a condition as possible. They would procure a coach, and travel the last ten miles or so in comfort—and God knew he could use some comfort himself—so her family would see that he had taken care of her as well as anyone might. It would go far in convincing them to pay him for her return . . . and perhaps allow him to visit her again at some time in the future. He rolled his shoulders again, trying to shake the ache from them. If, of course, she was not then married to the Marquis de Bauvin, and if the marquis had not taken her away to his own estates.

He wondered about the secrecy that surrounded the marquis—even Fichet had not been able to discern rumor from truth, and gathering intelligence was the innkeeper's foremost talent. Could the demon have come from the marquis? Fichet did say that the marquis sought some power in the de la Fer family. Other than having some little influence at court, he could see no advantage for the marquis in marrying into the family except for the usual breeding of heirs. The man by all accounts was rich and influential all on his own.

Jack let out a short, harsh laugh. Aye, there it was: now he was looking for any evil there might be in the marquis, so that he might have the excuse to keep Catherine for himself. Any objective mind would come to the opposite assertion: that the demon came from Catherine herself, or from her influence. He had seen the stigmata himself, and the demon had appeared in her presence, not in any other wise. He had no such evidence regarding the marquis.

He caught Catherine gazing at him, her head cocked in a questioning manner. “Did you say anything, Jack?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, nothing, ma chère. Merely reflecting on my faults and foolishness.”

The moonlight lit one corner of her upturned mouth. “Ah. I wondered why you were silent for so long.”

This time Jack's laugh burst from him unwillingly. “Minx! It's a miracle my self-worth hasn't been stripped from me long before now, with your sharp tongue.”

“Perhaps it would take a miracle to do it, then.” Her voice was sly.

He laughed again. “No doubt, for we Marstones are damnably full of pride.”

“Then it is good I am your friend, Jack, for think how much more troubled you would be if I were not as sharp of tongue as you say I am.”

He grinned, but sobered at the thought of how her presence had changed his life. “‘More troubled' or less? I tell you, ma chère, I do not know if I would have been as troubled if I had not met you.”

He regretted his words immediately, though he had meant it only as a joke, for she said nothing, and he could see her body hunch in the saddle for a moment, as if warding off a hurt.

He sighed. “Ah, Catherine, never fear, you are worth all the trouble in the world.”

She straightened then in her saddle, and he regretted his words again, for he could see her eyes widen in gladness in the light of the moon, and he had already determined that they would part into their own lives once she returned home. Saying such things would only make parting more difficult.

“Perhaps we'll have another duel at some time,” he made himself say. “With some word of mouth, we could raise a little more money—you'd like that, wouldn't you?” It was not what he meant, but it'd make the sting of his leaving less.

He could feel her gaze on him, and when he glanced at her, she seemed neither offended nor put off, but thoughtful.

“Indeed” was all she said in reply.

Again he wondered what she thought—but no, he'd not go that way again. He turned his attention to the road and shut his mouth on any other unfortunate words he might say.

   

Catherine allowed the silence between them to lengthen until she was forced to contemplate her own thoughts. Clearly honor kept Jack from spiriting her away from her home, that and her wish that she recover her memory and learn once again what it was to be Catherine de la Fer of the noble de la Fer family. She would ignore the first and pursue him shamelessly, for she did not entirely see much practicality in his honor. But the closer she came to her home, the more her curiosity and the need to know herself, her own true self, strengthened. She had been the creature of the alley forever, it seemed, and then something that felt neither human nor animal, but something in between. And now . . . now she had known Jack's gentle, heated touch, and she felt she had gone beyond that in-between state into . . . something very close to human. All that she needed now was to remember.

She looked at the road in front of them with eagerness. Not long, now, before they came to Rouen, and Jack had told her that her home was not far from that. The road seemed a milky stream in front of them, as if some heavenly milkmaid had spilled her bucket on the way to her home. She grinned at the image that came to her mind—Jack was right that food still occupied her thoughts more than it should.

The road seemed to widen a little ahead of them, and she breathed a sigh of relief, for it meant that a town was sure to be near, and then they could rest. This night's journey had not been as hard or as long as their first, thank God. But she was chilled to the bone and wished for a good soft bed, and—Catherine could feel a determined smile form on her lips—she would make sure Jack would be in the bed with her. She had been successful the night before; she felt she could be just as successful this time, too. She would seize what she could of their time together—if she had not learned anything else from her time in the alley, she had learned that if she did not seize what she could, she would have nothing at all.

She looked forward, then, to the end of this part of their journey, and urged her horse forward a little faster on the road.

The silence between them relaxed and became companionable, partly from fatigue, partly because . . . she felt it was from their friendship. For all the tension that existed between them, regardless of anything Jack said, she knew in her heart they were friends. She looked at the moon, frowning a little. A dimness seemed to cast itself across the light—thin clouds, she thought, but if they grew thicker, it would be too easy to lose their way and take the wrong road. She looked at Jack, who seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. Perhaps she should alert him; indeed, the scene ahead of them seemed to shift, for a mist seemed to arise from the dirt and cobbles, blurring the outlines of the road with the trees to either side. Her frown grew deeper. The mist hung low, curling forward toward their horses' feet like beckoning hands, and then rose like slow, cold flames along their legs. Her mare flicked her ears forward and gave a concerned snort, and Jack's gelding tossed its head nervously. Catherine could see Jack's hand tighten on his reins. Clearly he, too, felt uneasy.

She cast a quick look behind her, and dread grew in the pit of her stomach. She could not see the road behind them; the moonlight should have illuminated it as clearly as it did the road before them.

She turned her attention to the road in front of them—no, that was not clear any longer, either. The mist had risen higher, up to the horses' knees, and she could feel a chill touch her feet from time to time. She halted her horse as Jack drew his to a stop.

“God's blood, this is a nuisance,” he said, clearly disgusted. Catherine nearly laughed at his pragmatic tone, but a finger of mist crawled up to twine around her ankle, and a stab of ice pierced her foot, making her jerk in her saddle. She swallowed.

“We must leave here, Jack,” she said.

“Certainly,” he replied, his voice ironic. “Where would you suggest we go?” He nodded toward where she thought the road must go. “If you can find the way out, lead on!”

“This way,” she said, jerking her chin in the way they had been going . . . or as much as she could determine the way. The mist rose higher, and snaked along her leg, and another lance of pain pierced her calf. She gasped. “We must go, quickly!”

Jack stared at her. “What is it?”

She looked wildly around her—a faint, sweet, familiar scent came to her, and her hands began to prickle with imminent pain. Despair seized her as the mist crept higher, and her back began to ache. She felt as if she could not move.

“Catherine, speak to me. What is wrong?”

Jack's firm, patient voice roused her out of the fear that had numbed her muscles. She nudged her horse forward. “We must go. There is . . . there is evil here,” she said between gritted teeth, for icy pain seethed up the skin along her spine.

Jack muttered something in English—she thought it might have been a curse—and he moved his horse forward. The gelding tossed its head again and pranced about nervously; Catherine was glad she had a more placid mount, for her mare only flicked her ears forward again.

The mist rose higher, and Catherine swallowed bile. The familiar sweet scent grew stronger—she glanced at Jack, the sight of him dimmed by an occasional rise of mist—did he not smell it?

She wet her lips, and made herself breathe long and slow. She would not be afraid. She had vowed it. She lifted her chin and encouraged her horse forward a little faster.

“Damned fog.”

A lift of mist obscured Jack from her sight for a moment, making her heart hammer quickly.

“I thought I'd left fog like this behind when I left London,” he continued in a conversational tone. “But the devil would have it I'd be plagued with it in France, as well.”

A bubble of laughter escaped her. Despite the threat she felt around her, the aggrieved note in his voice at the contrary nature of France's climate pierced her fear and made her heart feel lighter.

“We have more fog than you English think,” she said, trying for an equally casual tone. “Such as . . . such as this, for example.” She glanced at him, and caught the glimpse of an encouraging smile.

“Eh, this, a fog?” He gave a skeptical snort. “This is nothing compared to what we have in England. This is the sun at noontime, ma chère! Why, if you were to have a real English fog, you'd swear you were fighting your way through a bale of wet Suffolk wool.”

She grinned, but shuddered when the mist rose thickly between them as if to defy Jack's words, chilling her so that she could hardly feel the reins in her hands. The cold crept up from her spine to her neck and seemed to creep up to her face. Her chest felt stiff, and she took in a slight, moaning breath.

“Catherine.” Jack's voice held concern, an edge of urgency. “What is it?”

She forced her attention on him beside her, and her leg bumped against his. She looked up—he had moved his horse closer to hers. Warmth spread from where they touched, and moved over her heart; a heat grew there, and the prickling in her hands receded. She put her hand over her heart and felt the cross underneath. “Jesu, Marie,” she breathed in relief.

She looked ahead of them and saw nothing but dark blankness—no moonlight or shadow, only a deep formless grey. “Do . . . do you see anything, Jack?” she asked. She cleared her throat, for her voice had come out a whisper. “It looks . . . like nothing,” she said, forcing her voice out louder. “It is as cold as a grave.”

“No . . .” Jack's voice sounded thoughtful. “No, I've been in a grave, and even this is a damned sight warmer, I give you my word.”

His words startled a laugh from her, and the chill retreated until her hands unstiffened on the reins.

He let out a long breath. “But I'll admit, it's as bad as the worst fog I've seen, and I've seen the worst.”

“It chills me to the bone, Jack, but we can't go back or stay here.”

He looked at her, but she could not discern his expression, for the darkness obscured his face. “I should say not,” he said. “I'll not sit in the middle of wet Suffolk wool.” She could see his hand gesture in front of them. “But damned if I can tell whether forward is any different than backward.”

She took in a deep breath that came more easily to her now, and summoned up a smile. She nodded in the direction at which he had waved. “That must be the way; we have not turned one way or another, and if we leave the road, we'll know by the sound of the hooves on grass instead of dirt and stone.”

He nodded, and they moved forward.

She could see nothing, only a dark, grey, formlessness in front of her. She felt for the chain around her neck and pulled out her cross, holding it tightly in her hand. It gave her comfort, and the prickling in her hands and the pain across her back receded. She sighed. At least she had not bled again. She noticed that Jack had brought out his sword. He, too, must have felt the strangeness of the mist.

She was not sure how long they rode through the thick fog; she was only aware of how fingers of mist would catch at her legs with a freezing grasp. But she noticed that as long as she kept near Jack and kept her hand on her cross, the paralyzing chill would go no farther than her leg.

It was an evil thing, this mist. It reminded her somewhat of the monster she had faced in Paris, though she was not sure exactly how. Perhaps it was the cold, or that elusive scent—and yet, the monster had certainly not smelled the same as what she was sensing.

Dread tried to force its way up from her gut, but she tamped it down. This was no time to give in to her fears. But she could not help thinking that Père Doré was wrong; here she felt the signs of the stigmata she bore, and if it were true that it was a holy thing, then surely she would not feel it after having lain with Jack.

It was all of a piece; the stigmata had come in the presence of evil, regardless of the state of her soul. It had nothing to do with whether or not she was in a state of grace, but in the presence of evil. It must mean, therefore, that the stigmata was more a curse than a holy thing.

She briefly closed her eyes and swallowed down despair. It was just as well that she return to her home and that Jack go on to Breda. If she was cursed, she did not want to endanger him any more. Even if they were not attacked, manifestations of her curse would certainly delay them. Indeed, even if Jack did not feel this mist as painfully as she did, it was nevertheless an obstacle.

She would show him, once she returned home, that she was content to stay there, and then she would seek a convent or find a way to travel on her own, perhaps even fight duels for money once she regained some knowledge of who she was. She had shown she was capable of winning one so far; surely there were others she could win.

“There, it seems we are out.” She heard a clear sigh of relief from Jack. She looked up from her thoughts; stars shimmered in the dark night sky where the moonlight did not overpower them, and behind them the trailing mist seemed to curl into itself and fade away. She let out a long, shuddering breath; her hands and her back ceased to hurt. Cautiously she released her cross and glanced back again . . . the mist was still gone. “Yes,” she said. “It's disappeared, and the evil with it, Dieu merci.”

“Are you well? Damned if you didn't seem about to faint, ma chère.” His teasing voice held a note of rough concern. It made her smile a little, for he sounded as if he talked to a fellow soldier, and she realized she had done well. Many other women would indeed have fainted or screamed.

“Not I!” she said firmly. “Did I not cut off the head of a demon? What is a little mist to me?”

Jack chuckled. “Little fire-eater. If you could, you'd fight the Dev—”

“Shh, shhh!” Catherine said hastily. “Do not tempt fate, Jack! Did you not feel the evil in the mist? It crept up my legs like a viper and froze me with its bite, I tell you.” She gazed at him, hoping he would understand, that he would not think she had gone mad, for no mist was like the one she described.

He was silent for a moment. “It was the damndest thing, Cat.” He took in a deep breath. “When I was a boy, I attended a hanging. The man deserved it—he'd . . . he'd done a foul thing to two little girls in the village near my home, and then killed them. The whole village came out to watch and throw offal at him; God knows he deserved it. I never thought about evil until then—hell, I was just a boy, and if you'd asked if I believed in it, I might have had my doubts before then.” He fell silent again and drew in a deep breath. “But just before they pulled his neck, the man looked around, grinning as if he were at a wedding instead of being measured for his own funeral. And I swear, if I didn't believe evil existed before this, I believed it then, for the man looked me straight in the eyes and he had nothing behind his own except the cold soul of the Devil himself.” He let out a long breath and shook his head. “I doubt I felt all the things you did, ma chère, for you're a sensitive thing, but I felt as if that man were staring at me the whole damned time we were in that mist, and that I was going to my own hanging.” She shuddered, for she could understand the sensation. “If I ever complain about wet English Suffolk wool fog again, ma chère, slap me. I'd much prefer it than . . . that.” He jerked a thumb behind him.

He hesitated, and she saw him glance at her. “I'm of half a mind not to return you to your home, Cat, for if you've got this kind of thing so near it, it can't mean any good.”

She thought the same thing, but she shrugged. “Or it could be merely the consequences of being with me, Jack. No—” She held up her hand at his imminent protest. “You cannot say you haven't thought it, for certainly I have. And this . . .” She jerked her head toward the road behind them. “This shows me I must find out all I can before I go anywhere else.”

“Hmph.” The sound was disgruntled, as if Jack could not find words to protest. He shook his head. “But—”

“And what is this ‘Cat' you called me?” she interrupted. She did not want to talk more of the mist or her fate, for she feared she'd break down and agree with him and avoid returning home altogether.

He chuckled. “‘Cat' is ‘le chat' in English, ma chère. It's often what we English call women named Catherine, and it fits you, for considering all you've gone through, I think you've got more lives than a cat.”

She smiled, for the thought pleased her. She liked cats; they were one of the best survivors on the streets and were good at ridding houses and alleys of vermin. She, also, had rid the alleys of human vermin . . . and with God's and the Holy Mother's help, she'd survive whatever she encountered. She nodded. “You may call me Cat, then. It is a good name.”

“I thank you. I shall,” Jack said, and there was laughter under his words. He gestured at the sword at her side. “Heaven knows you can scratch as well as a cat.”

“‘Scratch'!” Catherine made her voice sound insulted. “I do more than scratch! I can fight even an accomplished swordfighter—you have seen that yourself.”

“‘Fight'!” he said, and snorted in apparent disbelief. “‘Scratch,' that's all, ma chère. With a bit more training, I might say you could fight—”

“Might!” she cried in protest. “I have had plenty of training!”

“Not in my opinion,” Jack said firmly. “Next inn we find, we rest, then you train again.”

“Jack—!”

But it was a weak protest. She was glad they argued as friends, and if it meant she'd train to fatigue later this day, she did not mind, for it meant they could, for now, put the thought of the mist, evil, and her future aside.

For now. She closed her eyes briefly. I do not want to think any further than that, Dieu me sauve, she thought. Tomorrow, she would return to her home, but before that, she would make love to him one more time if she could. She would focus only on that . . . just for now.