Chapter Nineteen

 

“Bloody saints, he’s been bandied about by highwaymen. Can you hear me, my lord?”

Suddenly conscious, Athos blinked. Damn, it hurt. But that was about all he could feel. Where was...his body? He could not feel anything below his neck. Oh, but that familiar throbbing in his jaw. Which went a ways toward proving his head was still there, atop his neck where it belonged.

He tried to wiggle his fingers. He could not feel them.

“You’re alive!”

Alive? A hell of a way to feel, if so.

Who was speaking to him? Vaguely aware, he realized a man was kneeling over him. And he lay flat on his back. Surrounded by wet and cold. He shivered, and now sensed his teeth chattering. Rain splattered his face, eyelids and shoulders, and he sniffed. Feeling gradually spread lower. Thank God. He opened his mouth and choked, then let out a yelp at the pain.

“Emmanuelle,” he muttered. She’d leveled him again.

“I must get you inside, my lord. Out from the cold.”

Why was someone speaking to him while he dreamed? No, not a dream. A nightmare. What was he doing lying in the middle of—

Where was he?

“You are frozen, my lord. Can you walk?”

Not in this position.

Where was Emmanuelle? She’d...fought him.

If I knock you out, he will leave you for dead.

Help the boy.

What boy? Dead? He wasn’t dead. Or... Was this what death felt like? As though a man the size and strength of Porthos had introduced him to his fist? Why did that woman continue to beat upon him as if he were the enemy? He was not the enemy.

She had ridden off with the enemy.

To protect Athos.

“That’s right. It’s a short jaunt to the notary’s shop. Were you lying out here all night?”

So he was walking now, alongside someone...who sounded familiar, but a voice he did not often hear. Ah, his faithful valet, Grimaud. Somehow the man had helped him to stand. Though Athos wasn’t too sure it was his legs that moved his body. Everything felt heavy and solid. Frozen.

Had he lain upon the ground all night? She had left him to freeze to death.

No, Emmanuelle had left him to live. Her sacrifice—her soul.

“I must ride.” He jerked his arm, thinking to push off Grimaud, but the valet held firmly. “She is in danger.”

“You are in danger, my lord. You’ve no color to your face, and there is blood dripping from your head. You cannot stand aright without me pulling counterweight. Let me take care of you. Your father would never forgive me if he knew I had left his son to die in the middle of the road. Damned highwaymen.”

* * *

A bit later, Athos sat shivering before a blazing hearth in the notary’s shop, clutching his flask. Grimaud scuttled about, stoked the fire, and brushed the wet and mud from Athos’s floppy boots. He then disappeared through a door that probably led to Jean-Paul’s work room.

The fire felt good with its wicked snaps and sizzling sparks. The smell reminded him of Emmanuelle’s hair—familiar, but as unpossessable as a cold summer’s mist. He shrugged a hand up and down his arm, relieved he could actually feel it. The freeze had literally set into his veins.

But now that his brain had thawed and his muscles had taken on the warmth, he could not forget he had allowed Michel Clément to ride away with his Emmanuelle. He mustn’t give them so much of a head start.

“Where are my clothes?” he called. “Grimaud?”

Grimaud popped his head in from the office and glared. But did not answer.

“Speak to me, man. My clothes?”

“I took them off you.”

“I can see that.” Athos clutched the plain wool blanket draped around his shoulders. He wore only his thin underdrawers. Even his stockings had been removed. Damn his frozen innards. He was good to ride. “Give them back. I need to go.”

“They are soaked with wet and mud.” Grimaud glided into the room. “And you are still mending. I patched the cut on your forehead.”

Unaware that he’d been injured, Athos touched the bandage wrapped around his head. Had Emmanuelle...? No. The back of his head ached. He must have hit a stone when he’d gone down. He peeled away the thin strip of linen, but a stern look from Jean-Paul as he entered the room stayed his movements.

“Your valet worries,” Jean-Paul said. “As do I.” The old man was only being kind. He could have no idea what was at stake—a woman’s life. “I have stew boiling in the kettle. No meat until the festivities in a few days, but plenty of turnips and onions. I’ll spoon up a bowl for you.”

“I’ve no time to eat.” Athos stood, but a rush of dizziness wobbled him on his feet. He landed on his ass on the bed.

“You see? You get some food in your belly, and finish that flask before you dash off anywhere. Musketeers, always thinking they are immortal. Besides, I have your clothes.”

“Bring them to me. Grimaud.”

His valet sighed and flung his hands to the air in a “Very well,” gesture.

Jean-Paul wiggled his spectacles down the tip of his nose. He eyed Athos. “You are as stubborn as your father. I will give you something of mine that’s clean and dry. We’re about the same build.” He clutched his sagging gut. “Well, if I were twenty years younger.” He shrugged and trudged out.

Stroking the finely engraved crest impressed into his silver flask, Athos closed his eyes, struggling against the dizziness that dueled him for reign.

Grimaud, his head bowed, sauntered in, sans clothing. Athos was prepared to admonish him, when the servant thrust something before him.

Athos leaned forward to study it, but did not take it. “What is it?”

“It was tucked in your breeches when I found you.” Grimaud tossed the paper onto Athos’s lap and said he would return with clothes and dinner.

Where the hell had this come from? The only paper he had been carrying of late were the lettres de cachet from D’Artagnan. He’d torn those up after rescuing Emmanuelle from the rope.

Then he remembered—the feel of Emmanuelle’s hand slipping next to his skin, and her whisper. Help the boy. He’s at my home in Ribécourt.

The boy?

His fingers unfolded the paper and he held it near his knee to catch the glow from the fire. A brown stain ornamented the center. Looked like dried blood. He touched his hip and smoothed a finger across his abdomen where he’d felt Emmanuelle’s fingers. No wounds there. Had she been injured? Was this her blood on the paper? Pray not.

Snow had melted into the paper fibers and smeared the first words—the salutation—but the remainder was readable.

…I have been called to Italy to serve the Lord in a new capacity. I do not feel it safe to bring Raoul with me. I have cared for him as long as I have felt able. I would have contacted his mother but she has fled France at Richelieu’s persistence. Raoul will be safe with you, his father, the Comte de la Fère. I have told the boy his papa waits, and that, indeed, the musketeer doll he carries is his papa.

Dried blood marred the priest’s signature.

Sangdieu.

Athos’s back hit the wall, jarring his open jaw.

Raoul? His son was coming home to him? `Tis what he’d been preparing for since mustering out. A soldier did not have the time, or the inclination, to take on the responsibility of a child. But now he did. Or, he would, soon enough.

He had inadvertently learned he’d fathered a child a year after he returned to the site of his liaison with Marie Michon, the indomitable Madame la Duchesse de Chevreuse. She had arrived at the abbey outside of La Roche, thought Athos a priest, and—vixen that she was—seduced him. `Twas a liaison he would never forget.

Chevreuse had returned to the abbey a year later, leaving Raoul on the doorstep with a brief note: OCTOBER 11, 1633. The date of the child’s conception.

Marie was not aware of the true paternity of her son. She’d thought a priest his father! Nor had Athos risked revealing himself to her. Despite his nobility, they were of different worlds entirely. He wore the king’s coat. The Duchesse de Chevreuse stood for everything against the crown.

The priest at the abbey had not known what to do upon finding an infant in a basket. But when he’d told the story to Athos a year later, Athos had known. He sent money to the abbey every time he was paid. He had wanted to take Raoul home and be a father to him. But a soldier’s life had too many demands. He often prayed Marie would send for her son, give him a mother. But that had not happened. And now, as he well knew, she had fled the country.

Never had Athos forgotten he was a father. He had merely been biding his time, until he was ready. His leaving the Blacks had begun the path to his son. He intended to fetch Raoul and bring him to Blois where they might become a family without fear of intrigue or adventure interfering.

The priest had sent Raoul to him.

“Sangdieu.”

Where was Raoul? This paper—blood had been spilled onto it. Something was terribly wrong. He stilled, remembering Emmanuelle’s words, his fists tensing around the edge of the bed.

He’s at my home. In Ribécourt.

Could it be? Was Raoul safe? But why was the boy at Emmanuelle’s home? And why had she not told him at once that she harbored his son? Yet how could she know the boy was his? Only he and the priest knew the truth. But she’d had the letter as proof...

He turned over the paper. Addressed to the Comte de la Fère. That was why she had not made the connection. And coward that he was, he had not revealed his true identity to her. She thought him merely Athos, a king’s musketeer.

What had his damned silence wrought?

Jean-Paul strolled into the room whistling a tune and set a tray with stew and bread on the bed near Athos. Sustenance enticed him to drawn in a deep breath.

Grimaud followed. He took clothes from over his shoulder and laid them across the chair. With a glance at Athos, his valet startled. “Is there something wrong, my lord?”

Jean-Paul looked up from the tray and also peered into Athos’s face. His whistling abruptly ceased. “You’ve the look of a man who has just stumbled into his own grave.”

Was his shock so horrific? He should be feeling joyous to know his son was safe and soon to be at his side. But at the moment, joy was far from his arsenal.

He pulled the notary aside. “Jean-Paul, that woman who came looking for me?”

“Yes?”

“Was she tall, with dark hair?”

“Yes.”

“Very pretty?”

“Indeed. I told you so, my lord.”

“Did you notice her clothing? Was it…manly? Leather skirt split down the middle.”

“Well, I don’t rightly remember—”

“Did she leave in a carriage or was she mounted?”

“I did not pay attention.”

“Did you not tell her who I was?”

“Of course, my lord. I told her the count does not live in La Fère, and to find you she must go to Paris and speak with D’Artagnan. I know the lieutenant is a very good friend of yours. Am I not correct?”

“Yes, of course.” Athos quickly reread the letter. He hadn’t a clue she was on such an undertaking. She had not once mentioned she sought the boy’s father. La Belle Dame sans Merci on a mission to see a nobleman’s child to safety. How ironic.

“What did she say about the boy?” he demanded quietly. “Was he in danger? How did this woman come to have my…my son?”

“Your son?” Jean-Paul shoved the spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. “I do not understand, my lord.”

Athos handed the letter to Jean-Paul, trusting him completely with his secret, as he had known his father would have. Grimaud stood across the room at the hearth, holding Athos’s shirt before the fire to dry it. He remained respectful of his position, which Athos appreciated. The valet did not know of his child, either.

“So, you have a son.” At the loud declaration, Jean-Paul gave him a look only proud fathers can comprehend. His smile twinkled in his eyes. “You were expecting your son and now he has not arrived?”

Grimaud looked wide-eyed to Athos. He nodded once, answering the unspoken question.

“Of a sort.”

Jean-Paul handed the letter back to him. “Is the woman dangerous?”

“No.” He eyed the fire where the flames danced as wickedly as the dark angel who had danced into his life.

Yes, she was dangerous. But not to him—beyond a bruised jaw and ego. And pray not to his son.

No, she could not harm Raoul for she was on her way to the coast with Clément. She had left Raoul in safe hands—with Jeanne and Firmin—and expected Athos—a man she still could not know was Raoul’s father—would ride for Ribécourt and see the child to the Comte de la Fère.

Athos pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. Action was needed. But must he go to the boy or to Emmanuelle? Had Raoul been in the chateau when he had stayed the night? Athos’s heart squeezed. So close. He’d not heard a single sound from the child.

Why would she keep the boy a secret?

She hadn’t trusted him.

She’d also had more pressing matters on her mind, such as saving her own neck.

“Grimaud.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Will you ride to Ribécourt for me?”

“At once.”

“Ensure the child is safe,” he instructed as he stood and reached for the shirt Grimaud held out to him. “Bring him to…La Fère, yes. He will be safe here. I ride to the coast. I’ll return as soon as I can. But first you will find me the fastest, sturdiest horse in the village.”

“That would be one of your own, my lord.”

“Have it saddled and ready to ride in ten minutes.”

* * *

“You say he’s letting his heart lead his head?” Aramis scoffed and splayed out a lace-encircled hand before D’Artagnan. The silver ring on his thumb caught the candlelight and glinted. “But that is Athos. The man believes himself indifferent to the indiscretions of the heart, and yet he, of all of us, is always the one to fall the hardest.”

“You speak truth, dear Aramis. But, then, you are a master of the heart’s indiscretions, eh?”

Aramis offered a magnanimous bow. He strolled to the window at the corner of D’Artagnan’s office and looked over the press of people below en route to the Comédie Français.

“So will you do it?” D’Artagnan asked.

“Ride to Ribécourt to spy on Athos? Sounds underhanded. He is our friend.”

“The woman is dangerous.”

“Is she pretty?”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and smiled. “Of course she is pretty. Do you think an unremarkable woman could turn our stalwart Athos’s head?”

“Another Milady?” Aramis cautiously wondered.

“Perhaps. Though I’m not sure. This one is different. Evasive, yes, and certainly cunning. But strong.”

“Sounds like de Winter.”

“And valorous.”

Aramis turned in surprise. “What?”

“She confessed to a crime she did not commit. And the only plausible reason I can determine is because she was protecting someone.”

“I see.” Aramis tapped his ring finger against the window pane, producing a delightful ting.

“All for one,” D’Artagnan started.

“And one for all,” Aramis finished with a smile. “I’ll do it, then. Ribécourt is on the way to the convent. I cannot refuse a thing you so wish, my dear Lieutenant.”

“Merci, Aramis.”

* * *

The rains increased, melting the snow into puddles, the mud into sucking traps, and reducing the trail they took to an ill-traversable disaster. There were no paved highroads this far from Paris, only carriage ruts and horse trails. It was difficult for Michel to remain at Emmanuelle’s side. He would not allow her the lead, for she might gallop off. And trailing behind her was even more out of the question for a man like him.

Resigned to her fate—for the moment, anyway—she had no intention of running. She ached inside with thoughts of Athos. The musketeer had been but a glimpse of happiness. A fleeting promise that fate granted for more than servitude and pain.

How she wished she could seize that happiness. Accept the promise. Indeed, he had planted hope in her breast. She must use that hope. When the time was right...

To her right, the crumbling remains of charcoal-burning pyres sat like pyramidal skeletons. She recalled her childhood fear of the charcoal man. His face blackened by soot, he would steal little children who strayed too far from home. Or, so went the story.

`Twas a different sort of childhood boogeyman who actually had stolen her from her home.

“Over here!” the boogeyman called.

The grassy ditch bordering the muddy trail offered firmer ground, though the horses still slipped and fought for footing. Their destination was not far off, but she judged at this rate they would ride through the night before finally arriving.

Michel’s roan nickered and snorted as Emmanuelle moved alongside him, continuing their arduous journey. Soaked to the bone, her leather skirts smelled sharp and she had long ago plucked the wilted plume from her hat. Michel had stopped her from tossing it to the ground. Mustn’t leave a trail.

But for all she suffered, she could not complain. For she had done well in winning Athos’s life.

“Tell me,” Michel said. His hated voice, absent from her soul for six months, fit back into the crevice in her chest like a wodge of mud stopping up a dike. “How did you happen to involve yourself with that musketeer? He’s not even a real musketeer.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, he serves the king, but only out of noblesse oblige. A count masquerading as a musketeer? Ridiculous.”

“Athos isn—” Emmanuelle gulped in shock. “A count?”

“You did not know? You’ve spent the entire day in La Fère without a clue? How rich! Your musketeer is, in fact, a count. Marle told me. The very nobility you have striven to punish over the years. Hell, why not masquerade as a common man, filching a fuck with a willing wench when he can? He did fuck you, didn’t he?”

She did not answer. It had only been sex. Fucking, as Michel so indelicately put it. She didn’t like that word. It was harsh. But it was the only way to describe the relations she’d had with Michel in the dark.

She and Athos fuck? No. Much as it had been urgent, unplanned, and wild, she would not reduce it to the distasteful moniker. She had relished the touch of him, the intensity of their coupling. The sadness in his eyes when he’d pleaded her to take her pleasure. How her heart bled now, agonizing over the lost moments she could have explored making love to that man.

But, a count?

“You needn’t answer.” Michel sniffed at the raindrops dribbling from his nose. “The mouse will play when she believes she has killed the cat.”

“Play? If you think I could ever enjoy sex with a man after ten years with you, you are quite mistaken.”

He straightened in the saddle, turning a grimace on her. “Six months away from the cage has given your tongue lease to a slickness I do not relish. Come, mon tombé ange, you fancied doing the carnal dance with the pretty count. Your face does not lie.”

She turned from his laughter. She would not let this vile man know her heart. He knew her body, her blood, and her soul. And he’d once held her heart in a gauntlet that had pinched more than protected. But no more. She wasn’t about to go back to what had once been. Things would change. She wasn’t sure how she would do it, but they would.

“La Belle Dame sans Merci,” Michel sang to the thundering sky, “and the Comte de La Fère! Such a ludicrous match.”

Her thighs tightened against Delilah’s withers. She blinked at tears of rain splattering her eyes. The Comte de la Fère?

By the saints! All this time she had been in search of the very man who had hunted her like a dog. The Comte de la Fère was Raoul’s father. Athos, that noble and valorous man, had a son.

He’d given no sign he’d been aware of his missing son. Did he even know he had a son?

He knew now. She had left the letter from the priest with him.

A flood of happiness filled her body, warming her shivering bones. She had done something good. So unknowingly.

She opened her mouth and let out a joyous burst, “Ha!”

Michel turned to eye her. She spurred Delilah past him, her mouth forming the first genuine smile she’d felt in years. “You did not win,” she said, confidence gifting her with a reckless amount of pride. “Your fallen angel who exacts merciless revenge has finally done something good.”

“And what, pray, could you possibly do to affect such goodness?”

“I gave the Comte de la Fère his son back.”

“Indeed?” Michel’s smirk was abbreviated by a snort of laughter. He heeled his mount to a faster pace.

And Emmanuelle, knowing that vainglorious smirk too well, wondered if she had celebrated triumph prematurely.