Chapter Eight

 

It was more a cottage than a chateau. The two-story structure nestled beneath a red-tiled roof looked in dire need of repair, for tufts of straw sprouted here and there where birds had taken up residence. A sad contrast to the chateau Athos owned east of La Fère, even if his shutters were kept tightly closed all hours during the day.

A medium-sized barn sat behind the chateau. What looked a guest house lay to the south, shaded by a winter-raped willow, was but a crumbling shell. It could not be occupied save by a hibernating squirrel or a nest of pheasant.

Large fieldstones walled the wildly overgrown yard from front to around behind the barn, some so large Athos had to wonder at a man who could lift such a marvel.

Well, there was Porthos. That man was a giant.

He smiled to think of his friend. But mirth faded as quickly as a snowflake melts upon a dead man’s charred remains. Make that a dead widow, and possibly a dead marquis.

Anacreon had taken a stone outside of Ribécourt. That was the first and last time Athos would ever use the farrier on the rue Montorgueil. Shoddy work, that. He needed to check the hoof, see if he could pry out the stone. If it was too large, Anacreon must be stabled and another horse borrowed from the residents of this chateau.

Dismounting onto the soggy front grounds, he paced the length of the chateau, scanning nonchalantly over the façade. He eyed the windows—most with curtains drawn—not sure what he was looking for, but knowing he must take it all in. He was a good judge of people.

Hell, what was he thinking? He could read a woman’s expression no better than a dog could judge a man’s fist angry or pensive. Either way, the dog cringed.

Just as now, Athos held a careful stance before the door, left hand to his rapier hilt, the fingers of his right tapping at his hip. They will be elderly, he thought as he waited an answer to his knock, for the lack of embellishment on the chateau grounds required little energy for labor.

He smoothed a hand down his chest. They would no doubt view his musketeer tunic with reverence. A flash of gold coin would open the door wider. This transaction should not prove difficult.

He leaned back and eyed the yard hugging the main house. The barn door hung open. The nicker of a horse echoed out to him. A woodpecker nesting high above in a ragged cypress tapped in the bark a welcome to the sun that melted the threat of cold.

Much as he could not fathom placing such a crime to the woman he had chased with futile result yesterday in Paris, Athos knew outside appearances always deceived. As well, the ache in his jaw would not allow him to discount the expert kick she’d delivered him.

On the other hand, he had only found evidence from a crossbow, not a musket or pistol.

The woman was an enigma he could not ignore. What reason could she have to murder the widow and the marquis? (If the marquis were indeed dead.) Had it been a lover’s quarrel? A triangle between the three of them? That might explain the relationship between the marquis and the widow de Beaux. But he had trouble placing the gorgeous woman he had swived to the hideous Marle.

Rather, it bothered him to consider she might share her body with such a man.

Hell, was he already making claim to the woman? Sangdieu, but he must play it easy with the beer.

Finally the door swung open. A young woman with copper hair pulled into a chignon did not smile. She looked tired, but open to his presence. Wiping her hands across a wrinkled white apron she waited silently for him to speak.

“I am come to see about using your stables, perhaps renting a horse. Mine has taken a stone and I’ll not make it to Ribécourt.”

“Well…”

“Is the master home?”

“Er…master?”

He hadn’t time for evasion. “Mademoiselle, he either is, or he is not. Which is it?”

“She is,” a confident female voice announced from down the hall.

Athos squinted against the bright morning sunlight streaming through a distant window, which blinded him from immediately identifying the speaker. But like an arrow to the heart that strikes boldly, he knew at once it was she. She was possessed of a deep, assertive voice. A woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

“You?” He stepped inside.

The young woman closed the door behind him and offered to take his hat, but Athos clung to the beaver brim. The red plume dusted his tunic.

The vision in the hallway sashayed toward him, her hips swinging seductively. The very air about her teemed with a heady vibration of—of what? Want? Desire? Deception?

Fool!

Yet even more, a foolish woman. Did she not suspect he would arrest her on the spot?

Athos forced himself to nod courteously. She was en dishabille, dressed only in a morning robe of balding rose velvet. Long black hair flowed over her shoulders and framed a fresh, smooth face.

“My luck blossoms,” he said, determined not to ogle the décolletage the robe exposed. Nor the bare feet peeking from below the hem. `Twas a very conscious effort on her part to reveal such, he assumed. “My suspicions were to take me to Ribécourt for clues to your hiding spot. Who would have thought it would be as easy as following a lame horse?”

“What nonsense do you sputter, monsieur? Is there something you did not ask me yesterday whilst you had me pinned to a dirty wall in Paris?”

The young woman behind him coughed in alarm and his quarry gestured impatiently that she leave them alone. With a reluctant curtsey, the redhead did so.

“Actually” —Athos returned his hand to his sword hilt— “it is not so much what remains unasked, as what remains unspoken.”

She did not so much as flinch. How bold to face him in such a manner.

“As you already know,” he continued, “I possess a letter de cachet, par le roi. Therefore, I arrest you in the name of King Louis XIII, Mademoiselle, er…I have not yet the pleasure of your name?”

“A pleasure? To learn the name of a woman you accuse of such heinous crimes? Really, Monsieur Athos, do you always tup a woman before learning her name?”

“Often. For it is the women whose names I know who generally cause me the most grief.”

“Perhaps, then, I should not gift you with further misery.”

“On the contrary, it will make things easier when filling out your arrest papers. Your name, mademoiselle?”

She drew a finger along her cheek, touched her lips, and sighed. He sensed her sigh was more manufactured than true worry. She had slipped into a role. He knew it as he had learned from previous encounters with her sort. The average woman would have already been in frantic tears. This woman was far from average.

“Have you brought convincing evidence this time that I am this murderous and merciless woman you seek?”

Athos pulled the small silver arrow from his doublet and held it up. Her lips parted. Surprise or preparation to deny?

“I believe this fits that fine little crossbow you wield with such prowess.”

She jutted up her chin.

“It was found in the ashes of the chateau de Beaux. The dead woman’s home. Care to explain how it got there?”

“There must be any number of weapons that shoot such a small arrow.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“So you make assumptions?”

He sighed. How long would she play the innocent?

“I am on my way to Ribécourt to speak to the craftsman. Will he identify you? Never mind, this is nothing but a cherry on the cake. The valet who witnessed the crime has already identified you.”

“You said he was a—a mere child?”

She had faltered. Athos felt triumph roll closer.

“As you’ve already seen, I have a drawing fashioned from the details the valet gave to the lieutenant of the king’s Blacks. Child or not, the description was most accurate. You’ve long dark hair—”

“Ah! There must be thousands of dark-haired women roaming the countryside. And yet you choose me because I am” —she shrugged, then slid a knee out from her robe, making very clear her meaning— “the most convenient?”

He slid a glance up from her narrow ankle, following the sleek calf to her knee. The robe hid what lay above, but he needn’t a display. Wicked sweetness lived at the junction of her legs. And he was determined not to derail his thinking with memories of that bittersweet liaison.

“Your value of convenience lasted no longer than it took for me to come, mademoiselle.”

She smirked. “If you believe you were the victor in our little tryst between the walls you are quite mistaken, musketeer.”

Athos tensed his jaw—it still pained him, and he fought not to reveal a wince. Tightening a fist on his hip, he caressed his itchy palm over the jeweled gold hilt of his sword. He had striven to remain impartial, but the evidence was overwhelming.

“Mademoiselle sans Merci, you are under arrest in the name of King Louis XIII of France for the murder of Madame Josephine de Beaux and the Marquis Crist de Marle.”

She looked to him, utter stillness in her expression, save a glitter of moisture in the corner of one eye. The beginning of her surrender? “The marquis is truly dead? Are you certain?”

Shaken by that question, he nodded.

In fact, he was not certain of the marquis’s demise. His men had still not been able to locate a body. Though, Philippe, the young pikeman he’d ordered to search the left bank, had yet to report. But he did have a dead widow. He wasn’t about to spoil this opportunity over a technicality. The body would turn up, eventually.

“You are requested to accompany me to Paris.” Opportunity, yes, but he would stand firm on his promise to prove her guilty beyond a doubt. There was also the matter of proving she had wielded a pistol in addition to the crossbow. “Merely for questioning, mademoiselle.”

“But you carry the lettres de cachet. Is that not a signed charge for punishment? Without trial?”

“No, er…” She had him there.

It could be used in such a manner. This particular order was one of many documents pre-signed by the king that Tréville or D’Artagnan later filled in the specifics upon. It claimed the right to arrest la Belle Dame sans Merci.

Yes, and punish her.

But until he had exacted her confession, he would not see her punished. For perhaps with a confession he would learn the reason behind her long reign of terror. There must be a reason. And he would know it.

Why don’t you ask her? D’Artagnan had suggested.

He would. When she was dressed and not looking so…delicious.

“The lettre de cachet is but a formality. Trust me, mademoiselle, the intent is merely to question you. I give you my word it will go no further.”

“You cannot question me here?” she asked.

“No.”

Dark eyes fixed to his, searching, mining deep into his soul. Alas, he’d locked irons around his soul years ago. Try as she might, she would not know him. There were some things one should never know about him.

“You give me your word of honor I will not be sentenced for this ridiculous accusation?”

“Not without solid proof. As a king’s man” —he bowed, sweeping his hat and the frothy red plume across the floor— “you have my word of honor.”

“I give no credence to such an assertion, monsieur. If I truly am the woman you believe me to be, you must then believe I have reason to resist any who claim to be the king’s lackey.”

He bristled at the insult. “I thought it merely the aristocracy the Brotherhood hated.” A musketeer could just as easily be the son of a peasant.

“Indeed?” She shrugged. “Then you know more of this Brotherhood than I.”

He did not believe that. But if it turned out she spoke truthfully, then so be it. He would act accordingly.

Just questioning, he reminded himself. This woman would not suffer for his own faulty judgment.

No woman would, not ever again.

“If you will change into more appropriate attire, I shall escort you to Paris.”

She inclined her head, silently accepting, and turned to glide away. No tears. No protest. She did not act the least bit guilty.

Which, indeed, gave him pause. Was she innocent?

“Might I at least have a name to call you as we ride to Paris?”

She stopped walking, her fingers toying with the curly ends of her hair. A twist of her head revealed her profile as on a cameo, her gaze focused on the ceiling. She stood in the hallway catching the morning sunshine, looking every bit the fallen angel. Fallen into a tangled bed of deception and murder.

“Emmanuelle,” she said, and resumed taking leave of him.

“Emmanuelle,” he mouthed. How appropriate.

Indeed, a fallen angel.

* * *

“Oh, Emmanuelle! Mon Dieu.”

In no mood for conversation, Emmanuelle scurried past as Jeanne accosted her at the top of the stairs. Speaking with Monsieur Athos had dug her deeper into the very hole she had thought she’d finally climbed out of. He knew more than he could possibly imagine. Which made him a very dangerous opponent.

She had to play him carefully.

“I heard it all. That horrible man, that he could accuse you so! A curse on all the king’s men!”

“Worry not, Jeanne. I am only going to Paris to answer some questions.”

“Under arrest. Accompanied by one of the king’s musketeers.”

“Stating the obvious will not make it any easier.”

“But you are innocent. You— You are innocent, yes?”

Emmanuelle turned on her cousin with such abruptness that Jeanne veered away from her and clutched her throat. Seeing the girl’s fear, Emmanuelle pressed back her anger. She had only revealed her ugly past to Firmin; it was apparent he’d kept her secret from Jeanne.

Drawing in a breath, she said calmly, “I did not murder the Marquis de Marle, nor the widow de Beaux, Jeanne. I swear to you.”

She saw in the girl’s eyes the blind need to believe. Emmanuelle did not lie. So why did she feel as if she were? Did she even know the truth from the lies?

Do not deny your instincts.

She had left both the widow and marquis alive. Of that, there was no doubt whatsoever.

But how to convince the musketeer?

The man who waited below had a way of touching her without making contact. And his touch opened wounds. Old wounds, only recently begun to heal. She feared he would learn her truth if he pressed even a little.

“Help me to dress, will you?” she ordered Jeanne.

As her cousin rifled through the armoire for a skirt, Emmanuelle released her robe to the floor and stepped across the room to the window overlooking the back of the property. She wore but a thin Holland shirt and would add a specially designed corset she had sown years earlier from a fine piece of red and black striped satin. Shoulder straps held the narrow stays up, the entire bodice shortened to fall only to her lowest rib. Movement was impossible with anything longer. A high kick wearing a full corset resulted in an aching gut—among other parts of her anatomy.

Under arrest.

She gripped the heavy velvet curtain and squeezed her eyelids shut. She was under arrest for murder.

She scratched a fingernail along the windowsill as Jeanne tucked and tightened her into the corset. The design of the stays provided she could lace them up herself using extra-long ribbons, but at the moment, she couldn’t concentrate. Escape was but a climb out the window onto the red-tiled half-roof below, a slide down the back of the chateau, and a dash into the barn for Delilah.

Always escape. Never surrender. Wish for your death rather than surrender to the enemy.

Words drilled into her subconscious over the last ten years. Harsh words hissed by a voice that, merely conjured in her mind, still sent chills down her spine. Words a child of fifteen could not understand. Until she had been broken by her master. Reduced to a shell. Made empty and open for training, for introduction into a life she had felt destined for.

A life that had been a lie.

You are just like your father!

Emmanuelle let out a moan. “No.”

“Mademoiselle?”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. For, as much as she tried to evict it, that cruel voice from her past cleaved to her memory. A cold, merciless voice that had molded and mastered her with such ease.

Did he yet rule her? Even in his death?

“N’important, Jeanne.”

But it was of import. She was no longer the woman she had been trained to be. A few months away from that life had proven she could survive on her own. She wanted to experience all the things she had for so long been denied. She did not need her past. Did not want it.

Therefore, she must fight the urge to escape now. To run back to that which she had learned through bitter experience would only harm her further.

She would go with the musketeer. She would not run. She would bravely face justice, as she had forced so many others to do. The utter irony hit its mark. Her time had come at last. For if she did not face the truth now, she would never escape her past.

Jeanne displayed a deep burgundy bodice of plush that would match the skirt. It was old and showing signs of wear on the elbows. Emmanuelle nodded. She would wear a bodice instead of a doublet, presenting as feminine an appearance as possible. It may prove favorable to her plight.

Stretching out her arms to allow Jeanne ease to tighten the laces at the shoulders, she looked over the girl’s hopeful face. “You will tend the boy?”

“Of course! He’s a piece of sweetness. I love having him here.”

“Has he spoken?”

“Not much, but that is to be expected. He is warming to me. He actually smiled this morning when I danced his doll across the armoire.”

“Perhaps he will tell you his name. How old do you think he is?”

“Oh, probably three.” She gestured for Emmanuelle to turn around, and tightened the laces down the bodice back. “How will we locate his father? Do you think the man is looking for his son?”

“I hope so. But if not, as soon as I’m able, I will return and begin the search. I wonder if it is true, that his father is a count?”

“I would not doubt it. The child wears fine clothing. The buttons are real gold.”

“If not for that rag doll he carries with him.”

“Yes, that tatty old musketeer. I don’t much like musketeers.”

Neither did Emmanuelle. Especially musketeers carrying a lettre de cachet with her name on it.

“Jeanne, it is not Monsieur Athos’s fault I have been arrested.”

“Then why did he come?”

“He is following orders. From the king.” Which made her nervous in its own right. She had been taught an even more dangerous enemy lurked wherever royalists were found—Les Grandes. The king’s puppeteers, who had sworn to bring her down for her past infractions against them.

But was it still so, now that she had thrown off the yoke of le Pacte des Justice to claim her freedom in thought and body?

Freedom. The word shimmered in her mind, threatening to flicker to nothingness. Would freedom be lost as easily as it had been gained?

“I don’t understand,” Jeanne said. “Why must you follow his orders?”

“Because if I don’t, they will hunt me down.”

Jeanne stopped fussing with the bodice laces and shuffled around in front of her. Her freckled complexion wrinkled between her copper brows. “Why would anyone have reason to hunt you, Emmanuelle? What have you done? These past years… Father always said you were compelled to wander the world. That you couldn’t bear being here, where the memory of your parents—”

“Jeanne.” So Firmin had conjured a story to explain her sudden disappearance? Well, he hadn’t the truth until her return months earlier.

“I’m sorry, Emmanuelle, but you’ve told us nothing of where you were.”

“I can’t. I just…cannot explain. Not yet. Never doubt my word when given, Jeanne. I have murdered no one. Yet, there are still reasons the king may wish to see me hang.”

Jeanne’s mouth dropped open as wide as her eyes.

Emmanuelle tucked a strand of hair over Jeanne’s ear. “You want to ask what I have done, and I wish to tell you.” She kissed her on the forehead. “You’re so sweet, my cousin. Cling to your innocence for as long as you are able. Now there is no time, and I cannot begin to imagine where I would start my tale. Please, trust I would never do anything to bring harm to you or your father. The two of you are my family.”

“So then you know how much I worry about you.”

“I know. I don’t like running, Jeanne. Nor the secrets. I want to be free. Perhaps if I face my past, I can defeat it. That is my dearest hope.”