Chapter Four
Emmanuelle gasped back the next word.
Caught.
Turning on one boot, her pursuer placed himself in the passage entrance, crossed his arms, and tilted his head at an impudent angle. Wavy strands of black hair flickered over one shadowed blue eye. The curve of a smile briefly moved his mouth. Then he advanced on her.
Her heart in her throat, Emmanuelle stood her ground. She would stand and face the enemy, for to run would only prolong the inevitable. Besides, she excelled in close combat.
Wide, strong hands pressed her against the stone wall and secured her forearms up by her shoulders. She wore long gloves that covered her wrists from the cold. He pinned her legs with his thighs and pressed his hips against hers.
All this happened only because she allowed it.
“We have shared this dance before, musketeer.” She hated saying the word.
Had she known before he wore the king’s coat, she would have never allowed him to touch her. Her thoughts struggled between fleeing and surrendering. Because to taste his kiss one more time…
“And so now you are mine,” he said in slow, mocking tone. “La Belle Dame sans Merci.”
A single movement swept his breath across her chin, and his hard male body crushed against hers. Her senses heightened by the chase, she smelled rich, fruity wine on his tongue. Beneath that vibrant tang, he smelled of cypress powder—a man’s scent combed into the hair—though, he was the least foppish of men.
She lifted her chin. “You believe me that illusory woman of legend?”
Drifting from his every pore the unmistakable scent of desire teased at her better judgment.
“I have a portrait sketched by a witness to your crime. I am sure you are familiar with the Marquis de Marle. He is dead. Along with the widow de Beaux.”
The woman was dead? No. It was not possible!
“Where is this drawing? I know naught of what you speak. Do you always leap to accuse without first learning the facts?”
“I do not. But the portrait speaks loudly your guilt.” His gaze glinted with fire. A cold, yet lusting fire.
Emmanuelle closed her eyes. Easier to concentrate when not looking into her captor’s alluring eyes. But not much easier, for the hardness of his body was so apparent. And it was not mere muscle and bone she felt limning her curves. Though, the man was not at full alert. He did not give it concern. But she knew how to use his arousal. Futile male lust could be easily overtaken.
“I see. A condemning portrait. Hmm…” she offered. “So, you believe you have in your hands quite a catch. Tell me, do you always roust with your prey before arresting them?”
He raised a fist before her face, clasped as tight as his jaw. She did not flinch. Instead, she rejoiced in the ease it took to rile the musketeer.
“I’ve a lettre de cachet for your arrest.”
“Arrest me or not. But you’ll have a time proving a crime without evidence.”
“I have a witness.”
“And I have my innocence!”
She thrust a knee against his thigh and managed to push him away. Wisely, she remained a barnacle against the wall. If she fled now he would tail her closely. She could not return home knowing someone followed.
She needed either to convince him of her innocence—which, at the moment, even she was not sure of—or to take him out.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
He chuffed a brief, snorting laugh, so mocking it plundered her in the gut as if a quick fist.
“Not very observant, eh?” He stretched a hand up and down the tunic in an illustrative manner. The silver cross fleury boldly declared his alliance.
Curse her bloody insistent desires—she’d had sex with a musketeer!
“So you answer to the king.” She lifted a shoulder. “That means nothing without proof of this supposed crime.”
He reached inside his doublet and produced a piece of rolled velum. Snapping it open, he displayed it to her. She could easily discern the drawing, for moonlight gilded the shadows where they stood. Charcoal dashed in thick, curving lines to form a head and shoulders. Her face.
Of all the saints she had cursed in her lifetime, what was happening? Marle was not dead. Was he...? And the woman—a widow she did not know—she was also dead?
The musketeer still blocked her escape from the alleyway. The miniature crossbow strapped to her left hand was useless. She’d not had time to reload during the chase.
“This is not me.” She ripped the drawing from his grasp and let it drop at their boots.
“Then why the flight? You know me from but one encounter, woman.” He gripped her wrist, lifting the crossbow into a moonbeam. He looked it over without touching it. “Was our tryst so distasteful you could think only to flee from the prospect of round two? Or perhaps you saw the tunic and guilt pushed you to run?”
Again, she shrugged. “It is merely that I do not repeat insignificant encounters.”
“Insignificant?” His eyes flared and he tightened his grip. But as quickly, he resumed control of his countenance. “I will grant you that. But was it distasteful?”
Shockingly, he seemed genuinely interested in her opinion of their liaison. Another piece of armor dropped. So typical of a man.
She leaned close—close enough to kiss—and smiled a straight but promising smile. “No. Rather…sweet, I’d say.”
“Sweet?” Now he appeared offended. “Mademoiselle, I am not a man of sweetness. Nor, I suspect, are you inclined to such tender constitution. But now I know why it was so difficult for you to come—“
“Not difficult at all, monsieur,” she quickly defended. “Merely…oh, shall I say…bored?”
He gaped. Not difficult to strike the heart of a man’s masculinity—his ego.
“You are evil, through and through,” he ground out.
“Not evil,” she refuted with a gasp, struck by that cold label. Her heart melted and dripped to her gut. Not evil. Not by choice. She so wanted to be good…
“I know women like you, Mademoiselle sans Merci. Believe me, you are evil.”
“And who are you, then, to be so well acquainted with such women?”
He dared to brush his lips across hers, shifting their distance to but a breath. “I am Athos.”
“Athos?” She blinked. What sort of— Wasn’t Athos the name of a mountain? “Just that, nothing more?”
“That is all you need to know. Now, if you will humor me—”
“I bend to no man’s whim,” she retorted.
“Still, I wonder where you were this morning?”
This morning? She had followed Marle. The fire. Her frantic escape.
Oh, hell, what disaster had she walked into?
“I-I was at home.” The truth. For the musketeer had not specified what time in the morning.
“Impossible,” he countered.
“Why do you say so?”
“I’ve a valet who places you at the home of Madame de Beaux moments before she and the Marquis de Marle were murdered.”
Emmanuelle turned aside and looked toward the end of the alley. Just two long strides to the open street. But the musketeer would be on her like a mongrel on a rat. Besides, this condemning information— She could not run, she must have it all.
A pox on the saints, would he not look away from her? It was as though he beamed a bright and all-knowing light through her brain with those compelling and liquid blue eyes. Dangerous eyes.
She was all too familiar with danger. Danger followed her like a hungry child. She hadn’t the first clue what to do with a child. But danger, oh, she knew what to do with that.
“You smell of smoke, mademoiselle. I noticed it earlier during our tryst.” The menace in his eyes softened. Yes, he would favor memory of sex with a stranger. But too quickly, that chink in his armor smoothed to steely awareness. “There was a fire at the widow’s home.”
“That means nothing. I have come from the Green Fox where I sat for an hour before a blazing hearth.”
“A convenient lie. You know I am right. You are la Belle Dame sans Merci, an enemy to the French nobility, a rebel fighting for the common man’s justice.”
She tilted her head. How could he give such a pronouncement with a straight face? “That doesn’t sound like such an awful woman to me.”
“You commit treason against the king’s law by meting out a justice of your own choosing.”
She could but shrug at the reality, yet remained at keen awareness. The level of his anger had risen at her admitted stance against the king. She would strike soon.
“The Marquis de Marle’s valet claimed a beautiful woman with long black hair murdered his master.”
Emmanuelle flinched away as Athos caressed her hair. But he was too fast and held a clutch of her thick tresses between his fingers. He pressed it to his nose and drew in a deep breath.
“Lovely,” he said. He looked her over from her bosom, heaving from exertion—but well covered with her buttoned doublet—up along her neck to her face. “In so many ways I have yet to discover.”
“Am I the only woman in all of France with beauty and long black hair?” she insisted.
“You lay claim to beauty as if it is a given.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but the insult worked like a slap across her face.
Never before had she encountered such arrogant impudence. Most men she could prevail upon with but a wink and a suggestive smile. And if not, a more physical approach, like a fist to his jaw, usually proved sufficient. But this man—while she contemplated punching him, she couldn’t avoid also the idea of kissing him...
Merde, what was she thinking?
She’d had enough dallying for one day. Instinct took over.
Lowering her shoulders and adjusting her balance, she spun on one foot, lifting and straightening the other leg. Her boot heel connected with the musketeer’s jaw. His shoulders hit the wall and the back of his head hit the hard stone with a satisfying crack.
Landing the kick, she turned and fisted her hands at her sides.
“You have no proof,” she spat. “You will never have proof of such a hideous crime, for I am not guilty.”
As the musketeer stumbled forward, still dizzy from her foot upon his skull, she lunged and delivered the coup de grâce—a punch under his jaw. He staggered backward and slid down the wall. He’d be out for a good while.
And she must leave the city.
Now.