Chapter 9



co ornCATHERINE MANAGED ONCE MORE— after sleeping, then her sword practice, after winning another fight with a cocky musketeer and gaining more livres than she had at the first fight—to lure Jack into the bath with her after they came to an inn just outside of the city of Rouen.

Catherine had seemed to withdraw from him after their night in the mist. She was friendly, she was cheerful, and though she practiced her fencing exercises in excellent, amazingly expert form, she seemed distant from him until they entered their room at the inn again.

He protested very little, less than he had before. They had only a short time together; if his kisses had an edge of desperation, if he allowed her to kiss and touch him more boldly than she had when they had first made love, if it meant he had abandoned all honor, he cared not any longer. He said nothing as she moved her hand down his belly and grasped his manhood, only groaned and slipped his hand between her legs in return. I am a weak fool, he thought. A greedy fool. Most definitely a fool.

He did not care any longer. She would be gone from him this day, and he had nothing else to offer her but this worship of her with his body. He could feel her knees become lax and she shook with sudden heat when his fingers reached her woman’s parts. She would not protest if he took her fully, he was certain. He lifted her suddenly from the bath they stood in, the wet chilling his skin on the way to the bed.

He lay her gently on it, and followed her more quickly and held her more tightly than before, wanting to meld his body into hers. He kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts, and spread her legs, pressing his hips against her, hard.

This time she did not pull away or cry out in fear. She even allowed him to lay atop her, and she gasped when he entered her.

“You did not do this before,” she whispered.

“I know,” Jack said. “Dear God, I know.”

He closed his eyes and slowly moved upon her, and he felt her tightness around him in his retreat and return. His actions drew out the exquisite sensations she’d begun in him earlier, and she twisted her body against him, clutching the small of his back with her hands, drawing him close.

“Come to me,” he whispered in her ear. “Come, Cat. My Cat, my Catherine.” It was a chant, a prayer, holding hopeless wishes as he touched her and moved in her deeply, wanting to weep with longing and impending loss. He gritted his teeth instead, and thrust hard.

She stiffened suddenly, and he thought she might have done so in fear, but she let out a cry of pleasure instead, and his manhood was squeezed tight. He almost spilled into her, but managed to remember he would not put a child in her, and pulled out, pouring his seed on her belly instead.

He fell, gasping, beside her, and held her close and tightly. He heard her sigh, and felt her stroke his hair, then heard her make a disgusted sound. He looked up to see her expression marred by a wrinkled brow and a puzzled frown.

“What is this?” She pointed to the seed he had spilled on her. She stared at him a moment, then realization cleared her face. “Was this supposed to go inside of me?”

Laughter bubbled up inside of him, and came out in a chuckle. “I am sorry, ma chère, but I thought it best if I did not.” He rose from the bed and picked up the rough towel draped across the back of the tin bath. Carefully he wiped her belly.

“I might have had a child if you had,” she said thoughtfully. “I . . . would not have minded it.”

Frustration twisted inside of him and turned to anger. He threw the towel into the tub and moved quickly away from her, dragging on the clothes he had dropped on the floor.

“I have managed,” he said through gritted teeth, “to retain just a small shred of honor, ma chère.” Almost none, he thought. “You know my thoughts on this—I have already mentioned them. I will not go any further and ruin you totally by putting a child in you. I barely had the presence of mind to withdraw in time as it was. Thank God I did—at least I thought of the possible consequences, if you did not.”

His anger did not seem to have an effect on her except to make her smile smugly, and he snarled in frustration. “Put on your dress this time—I will not have you look like a ragamuffin when I return you to your family. Be ready in an hour. We will leave then.” He thrust his feet into his boots and, with one last yank to tighten his belt, slammed the chamber door shut.

Catherine’s smile faded slowly as she sat on the bed, and she sighed wistfully. She was glad she had seduced Jack this one last time. Of course, she knew it would be disastrous if she bore a child—her family was a noble one, and most likely she’d be cast off. She would not even be able to support herself by fighting duels for money.

But a primal, unreasoning part of her had wanted a child from him, and the discovery that she was not a virgin—she had felt no pain when he entered her, and there had been no blood—half pleased her and half worried her. Pleased her because their lovemaking had not been hampered, and it gave her one more clue to her past. Worried her because that clue did not speak well of either her, or what had happened to her.

Slowly she rose and unpacked the dress that Felice had given her, smoothing out the wrinkles as best she could. She put on her shift, opened the door, and called out to a chambermaid who had passed the room, and asked her to iron the dress.

She shoved her feet into her stockings, meanwhile, then climbed into the bed again, pulling the bedcovers over her shoulders for warmth. She smoothed her hand over the indentation in the mattress where Jack had lain. This was the last time they lay together, warm and comfortable. She had savored every minute of it, taken in every bit of heat she could, and hoped she had given as much to him. She would remember it, remember her time with him for the rest of her life, she knew.

A knock sounded on the door; it was the chambermaid with the ironed dress. Catherine thanked and paid the girl, who curtsied and left hurriedly to do her other duties after she helped Catherine to put on and lace her dress.

She looked at herself in the mirror and pushed aside the curling hair from her face. She looked different from what she remembered from before her time in the alley. She looked thinner and stronger. Perhaps her family would not recognize her, and perhaps then she could travel with Jack.

She bit her lip—it was a useless hope. Even if they did not recognize her, she knew she should not go with Jack, for she would not impose whatever curse she had on her on him, especially with his important duties to his king. She was obligated enough to him as it was, without putting more of a burden on him, whatever he might say.

A distant church bell tolled the hour. She should leave now. She stuffed her trousers and the rest of her belongings into the saddlebag, and left the room.

The coach Jack had procured for them was a good one, possibly the best the inn had to offer. He helped her into it, glancing at her only once, then climbed in, as well, after tossing her saddlebag within. He said little in what must have been at least an hour and a half in the carriage.

It did not matter. She had no words now, and could only take comfort in his presence. She looked down at the coach seat between them; his hand lay lax at his side. Perhaps Jack would not mind it if she put her hand in his.

He only sighed and looked at her with the loneliness she had seen before in his eyes. She grasped his hand and looked away, for looking at him would surely make her weep, and she would not let herself weaken in these last few moments with him. She gazed out at the soft hills near the Seine River instead, not truly seeing them, but too, too conscious of Jack’s hand covering hers.

The carriage took a slight turn to a narrower road, and soon they came to an iron gate that seemed vaguely familiar. The coach stopped for a moment as the coachman called out to the gatekeeper, who opened wide the gates.

She could not see forward, and she did not want to lean out of the window to look at their destination. It was enough to gaze out at the frosted green grass and the somewhat ill-kept grounds. She frowned. She had noted that the gatekeeper had not been well dressed, even for a gatekeeper, and the gatehouse was in some disrepair. She wondered if her family was either negligent of their tenants or not as well off as they should be for what was clearly a large estate.

The coach came to a halt at last, the wheels crunching over the gravel at the foot of the mansion’s stairs. Jack stepped out, then handed her down.

Catherine looked up—it was more chateau than mansion. It seemed a combination of an old Norman chateau and a later Gothic addition, and a web of ivy vines wove their way up a part of it, giving it a neglected air. The coachman knocked on the door, and when it opened he stepped back and climbed up on the coach again. The butler looked curiously at her and at Jack.

“Sir John Marstone,” Jack said. “And Mlle Catherine de la Fer.”

The butler’s eyes widened, and he stared at her, searching her face. “Mlle Catherine?” he whispered. He smiled. “Yes, I think I can see—” He stopped suddenly, his face taking on a respectful look. He bowed formally and moved from the door. “The Comte de la Fer awaits you.” Catherine glanced at Jack. Clearly he had sent word of their arrival from the inn.

Jack did not look at her; he merely bowed and indicated she was to go before him. She sighed, and stepped past the door.

She felt suddenly as if she could not breathe. The hall was covered in heavy dark draperies—obviously to help keep out the cold, but the effect was oppressive. It dimmed what light came into the room, and the fire that flickered fitfully in the hearth nearby only increased the impression.

She pulled her cross from her bodice and clasped it tightly, forcing a deep breath into her lungs. The feeling of oppression faded.

She glanced at Jack. Still he did not look at her, but followed the butler, his back straight and his steps firm, as if he were ready to march into battle.

The butler led them up a staircase and opened a door. “Sir John Marstone. Mlle Catherine de la Fer.”

This room was better. The afternoon light shone through open windows and the draperies had been drawn aside. A rustle drew her eyes to a corner of the room. A young, blond-haired man sat on a chair, turning the pages of a book. He looked up. He could not be much more than eighteen or nineteen, Catherine thought, and had a studious look about him. He looked tired and a little pale, but he rose from his chair and came forward, smiling and holding out his hands to her. He was well dressed, his hair well styled, and he was a good six inches taller than she. She could see the family resemblance in the shape of the eyes and the stubborn chin. His eyes were a deep blue, however, while her own were green.

“Catherine? Is it truly you?”

She did feel a nudge of recognition as he took her hand and gave an exquisite bow over it. His name . . . it started with an “A.” Antonine? Adrian? She sank into a formal curtsy, trying desperately to remember, feeling despair that memory seemed just beyond her grasp. “I . . . I am sorry,” she murmured. “I remember you . . . my brother, I think. Your name begins with an ‘A.’ ” She could feel her face heat with embarrassment.

“Adrian, and yes, I am your brother.” He glanced at Jack. “It is true, then, what M. Marstone wrote to me—that you do not remember much of your life beyond perhaps the last six or seven months.”

She nodded mutely, glancing at Jack, as well. He stood stiffly, formally in front of her brother, and for a long moment, an awkward silence sat in the room.

“I am much obliged to M. Marstone,” Catherine said. Her voice sounded small, even to her own ears. “I was starving and near death when he rescued me from vile men who sought to kill me. If he had not done so, surely I would be dead by now.” At the very least, she thought, Jack should be paid for what he expended on her, if not more. “En vrai, he has brought me back to health and provided me with clothes.”

The comte raised his brows. “A veritable good Samaritan,” he said, and smiled.

Catherine thought Jack had made a sound as if beginning to speak, but when she looked at him, his lips were set firmly together.

“As soon as I heard you had run away, I left the university and searched for you, Catherine,” her brother continued, his voice softening. He looked away, as if ashamed, then brought his gaze back to her, his expression hesitant. “Our father . . .” His face darkened for a moment. “After our father died, I sent our servants to search for you, as well.”

He did not like our father, Catherine thought, and wondered if she had. A flash of memory came to her—she had not, either, though she did not know why. The thought both encouraged and depressed her. She was glad she had regained another memory, but had hoped for pleasant ones. “What happened to you? What did you—” Her brother—she must remember to think of him as Adrian now—stopped his eager questioning and shook his head, smiling ruefully. “I am being a bad host. You are clearly tired. We will speak of this later.”

Catherine managed not to sigh with relief. His questions would be awkward to answer. She did not know how to tell him everything she had experienced without seeming half mad. If she had not Jack to confirm what she had seen and done, she would not have believed it herself. She had much for which to be grateful to him.

She smiled at Adrian. “You are kind. I am tired, indeed, and would be worse off if it had not been for M. Marstone.” She gave a quick smile to Jack, but he merely nodded gravely. “I would like to see him well rewarded, brother, for my safe return.”

The comte nodded and waved his hand in a genial manner. “Of course, of course. I will arrange it.” He smiled.

He smiled. “Meanwhile, stay and have dinner with us. We will have guests—let us make it a celebration of my dear sister’s return.” He looked at Catherine up and down. “I think your old dresses will not fit you, but perhaps one of the maids will be able to fix one of them in time.” He turned to Jack. “Monsieur, if you wish, you may refresh yourself in one of the bedroom I will have reserved for you.”

“I am afraid I cannot stay,” Jack said suddenly. “I have an errand to run for my king.”

The comte raised his brows, then smiled. “Understandable, but surely you can stay to sup, at least? I imagine you would have to do so anyway.” Jack hesitated, and the comte turned to Catherine. “Sister, perhaps you can persuade him.”

She smiled a little. “My brother is right that you will need to eat soon, Monsieur—Marstone, so I will add my pleas to his.” Her words were formal, but she gazed at Jack and put all the hope she had within her into her look, for she wished to hold him to her for at least a little longer. She returned her gaze to her brother, who looked from her to Jack and back again, as if trying to discern the quality of their relationship. She lowered her eyes to her folded hands in front of her. She felt, suddenly, that she should seem as indifferent as possible, other than having gratitude for her safe return to her family. She made herself shrug carelessly. “However, I doubt I can persuade him to anything, since he is a very stubborn man.”

“I thank you,” Jack replied, bowing. “I will partake of your hospitality, my lord, but will need to leave soon afterward.” His smile had a grim edge. “Duty calls, after all.”

The comte bowed again, formally. “I am glad.” He turned to Catherine. “Do show M. Marstone to the Blue Room—ah! My apologies, sister, you would not remember which room it is, I assume?”

Catherine shook her head slightly.

“Very well, I will have the butler escort you to your respective rooms.” He smiled at her. “We have kept your room very much like it was when you left. You will be pleased, I think.”

He summoned the butler and, after giving instructions to the servant, bowed them formally from the room.

Jack had become as formal as any French nobleman, she noted, as he bowed, said nothing still, and left for the room to which the butler led him. She did not like it, but she did understand; he was probably preparing himself to part from her, and wished her to do the same.

She would comply—for now. For now, she needed to find out who and what she was, and then find a way to see him again. She was determined on it. Their parting would not be forever.

The butler opened the door for her, and she stepped into a room of pale yellow walls and pastel green draperies. It was pleasant, she thought, surprised, and then wondered at her surprise. Why would not her own room be pleasant? The wardrobe was well made and richly scrolled, the escritoire dainty, and the papers and pens on it neatly laid out. The bed—

Bile flooded her throat and she wanted to vomit.

Catherine groped for the chair at the escritoire and sat before her weakened knees made her fall to the floor. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, calming her stomach and wildly beating heart.

She was being stupid. There was no reason for her feeling like this. The bed was just as pretty and well made as the rest of the room, and she felt certain it was indeed her room. She felt this way, no doubt, because her return home was overwhelming to her, such grandeur after living in the alley and then at various inns. That must be it—certainly she felt intimidated when she first entered this house.

She made herself walk to the bed, though she could not help touching the bedpost cautiously, as if it might have teeth and might bite her. It did nothing, of course. She made herself sit on the bed itself. The mattress was soft and the bedsheets fine; anyone would be glad of such comfort at night.

At night . . . she was not certain she’d like sleeping here at night, but that, too, was nonsense. She had made do with sleeping on cobblestones in the alley in Paris; she had slept under church pews; and she had slept on the floor and a good bed in the Fichets’ inn. This bed was finer than any of them. She would get used to it, she was sure.

A knock on the door roused her from her thoughts. “Entré!” she called out.

A maid entered and curtsied. “Mademoiselle, I have been sent to dress you.”

“What is your name?” Catherine smiled at her, half in apology, half in embarrassment. “I have lost my memory of much of my life, you see.”

The girl’s eyes held sympathy, and she smiled shyly. “I am new, mademoiselle. My name is Marie, and I have been told I am to be your maid.” She gestured to the wardrobe. “Your dresses do not fit you any longer, I hear, so I am to fit one to you as best as I can so you may go down to your dinner.”

Catherine let out a deep breath. This she understood and had dealt with before. She nodded, rose, and opened the wardrobe doors, which contained dresses that seemed familiar and whose colors suited her. She thought of the male clothes she still had . . . she would have to get them washed soon. Pushing aside one dress after another, she chose one that was of dark green wool and looked warm. The fabric was soft, not scratchy like the wool she had worn so far, and was delicately embroidered in silk along the edges. It looked simple enough so that it would not be difficult to alter.

The girl was quick with the needle, and the dress had a separate bodice and skirt, so it did not take long before it was ready to put on. Marie brought out a corset, and for one moment Catherine felt her back tense before she put it on, but the girl’s hands were gentle and she did not pull the lacings tight at all. It was only enough to keep Catherine’s posture straight and push her breasts up higher than she was used to.

A distant clock tolled the hour, and Marie moved more quickly. The maid pulled a light linen chemise over Catherine’s head, and then the skirt, then the bodice of the dress, again lacing the bodice lightly. A small lace fichu was tucked at the edge of the bodice, and Catherine thought it did less to cover her décolletage and more to enhance it and her bared shoulders. She wondered how highborn ladies managed to survive the winter, showing such expanse of flesh, but since her maid looked on the whole with approval, it was no doubt the usual thing for noblewomen to wear.

Marie was also deft with styling her hair and pulled most of it to the back in a knot, letting the rest fall in curls about Catherine’s face. A quick glance in the mirror showed a stranger, and made her shake her head at herself. Only her face was familiar, the rest . . . the rest belonged to someone else. Someone who was called Catherine de la Fer and whose family lived in this estate. Someone she did not know.

Her spirits lowered, but she turned and made herself smile at her maid. “You have done well, Marie. I thank you. You may go until it is time to let me know when to come down to dinner.” The maid grinned and curtsied, and curtsied once again at the door before she left.

Catherine wandered about her room again, looking at the china figurines on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, a needlework sampler above it, as well as a watercolor painting. She supposed she might have stitched and painted them, since her name was at one corner of each. She did not feel much connection to them.

She made a complete circuit around the room before she found she avoided the bed. She went toward it again, and again she felt nauseated. But she gritted her teeth and went to it once more, sitting gingerly on the edge of it.

Nothing. Nothing happened to her when she sat on it. Not even the prickling of her hands or an ache to her back. There was no evil, then, that existed here. But she wondered if something happened here that made her feel ill.

She remembered that she was not a virgin, and dread crept up from her belly. Perhaps whoever kidnapped her from this place had taken her virginity, and perhaps that was why she had been so afraid the first time she and Jack had made love. She thought of her betrothed—her former betrothed—the Marquis de Bauvin. Would he still wish to marry her if he knew she was not a virgin? Many men would not. Her heart grew lighter at the thought. If he did not, then she could persuade her brother as head of the household to let her marry Jack.

She loved him. Catherine let out a deep breath. He was not just a friend to her. She had thought she did not want to marry anyone, or that she would not know what love was. But she knew she wanted to be with him always and have children with him, if he wanted her.

She smiled a little. He did want her. For all his protests, he had made love with her, and still tried to preserve her reputation by pretending to be her husband during their travels. Perhaps even if the marquis still wanted to marry her, she could refuse and persuade her brother to let her marry Jack, if he would have her.

A knock sounded at her door again—it was her maid. She rose from the bed, smoothed down her dress, and walked out the door and down the stairs to where her maid led her.

She could smell the food, and her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten for quite a while, and hoped somehow she would remember the manners she had probably been taught from childhood, and not disgrace herself. She shrugged. If she forgot, she’d watch the other guests and do as they did.

The guests had not yet been seated, but the scents of chicken and savory beef almost made her weak in the knees as she entered the room. It managed somewhat to assuage her uncertainty at the unfamiliar faces of the people there, until she saw her brother smile at her, and then saw Jack, resplendent in an obviously borrowed and fashionably beribboned suit of clothes. He stared at her, then quickly looked away, and she lowered her eyes, feeling a blush come over her face, especially after the voices of the dinner guests had quieted. Her brother held out his hand to her and took hers in his, leading her near a seat beside him.

“May I present my dear, long-lost sister, Mlle Catherine de la Fer.”

She glanced up at the guests and saw clear curiosity and speculation in their gazes. It felt oppressive, but she lifted her chin and smiled at them, for she would not show her uncertainty. Anyone would feel curious about someone who disappeared and was returned to her family again.

Her brother lifted a glass of wine. “Let us drink to honor her safe return, and”—he gestured the glass toward Jack—“to her rescuer, Sir John Marstone.” The guests raised their glasses and gave the toast, and Catherine noted, with a small pang of jealousy, how the ladies looked admiringly at Jack.

She felt a touch on her sleeve, and she looked up at Adrian. “You will sit by me, sister, and beside you”—he smiled widely—“is one you knew once, and who is my friend.”

She turned to gaze up at a tall, handsome man. His brows were even, his eyes large, and a thin line of mustache lay just above his well-formed lips. His nose was neither too large nor too small, and his face was an even oval beneath the curls of his well-ordered formal wig. She did not recognize him, but she smiled warmly at him, for he was, after all, her brother’s friend. A look of surprise sat on his face, then quickly disappeared, his expression turning smooth and congenial.

“Catherine, I present the Marquis de Bauvin. Marquis de Bauvin, may I present my sister, Mlle Catherine de la Fer.” He gave an apologetic smile to the marquis. “My apologies for my sister; she has been ill during her absence and remembers nothing of her life here.”

A small shock went through her—this, then, was her former betrothed. She cast a look at Jack from under her eyelashes. He only glanced briefly at her, then returned to conversing with the lady who stood beside him. She looked again at the marquis and sank low in a formal curtsy.

“I am pleased to meet you again, monsieur, and am sorry that my late illness prevents me from remembering you as I should.”

He gave an elegant and precise bow. “And I look forward to reacquainting myself with you,” he said. His voice was deep, musical, and pleasant. He seemed about to say something more, but her brother gestured to the table and bade the guests to sit and eat.

Catherine sat with relief, a little too quickly perhaps, for she almost bumped into the marquis in her haste, but managed to move so that only the sleeve of her dress brushed his arm. She gave him an apologetic smile, then frowned as she turned to her plate and picked up her knife and fork.

Her hands felt odd and achy, and then began to prickle. She looked about her, but felt no other sensation of evil, not as she had felt in the alley, or just outside the church when the demon had attacked her and Felice.

Her brother leaned toward her, his expression both shy and curious. “I hope I do not cause pain when I ask—that is, I cannot help wondering why you disappeared. I had thought—” He glanced briefly at the marquis who sat on her other side. “I thought perhaps you had run away because you did not wish to marry. That is what our father said. But I cannot think it was for that reason, for de Bauvin is an exceptional man, as you can see.” He lowered his voice so that only she could hear under the other guests’ conversation. “I had thought it was because our father . . .” He gave her an apologetic look. “Because he mistreated you.”

Affection for her brother filled Catherine’s heart; he had cared for her—still cared for her. She felt at last that this was indeed her home, now that she knew she had someone in her family who was concerned for her welfare. She looked at Adrian’s pale, tired face and thought he had probably worked very hard to be the Comte de la Fer. She squeezed his hand.

“I do not know why I left, Adrian,” she said softly. “I do not remember. I assumed I had been kidnapped, for I cannot remember how I came to be in Paris, so far away from home.”

Sympathy and guilt showed in his eyes, and he squeezed her hand in return. “I wish . . . I wish I had been at home. I wish I could have protected you. I tried to find out what had happened to you, but our father—” A look of frustration crossed his face. “He told me it was none of my business.” Adrian looked earnestly at her. “It is my business now, however. I promise you, I shall do everything I can to restore our estate, and make sure you and Blanche marry well.”

“I am certain you will,” Catherine said, smiling.

He gave her another shy, eager look. “Are you glad to be back? I hope you are.”

She smiled at him. “I believe I am. Certainly I have not seen food like this while I was gone. It is pleasant to find I have a brother, and a generous one at that.” She indicated the dinner utensils. “You have provided forks and knives for all your guests.”

He grinned. “It’s the fashion at court. The king has done it, and has said that all his nobles must do the same. Isn’t that so, de Bauvin?” He looked across her to the marquis.

“Quite so,” the marquis said, and delicately pierced a piece of beef with his fork. “Do you remember going to court, mademoiselle?” He kept his attention on the slice of meat he was cutting, merely glancing once at her, but Catherine felt he was somehow testing her. Did he not believe she had lost her memory?

“No,” she said. “I have no idea if I have or not.” She turned to Adrian. “Have I, brother?”

He shook his head slightly. “No, you have not, nor Blanche.”

Blanche. She frowned; he had said the name before. It meant something to her. “She must be related to us, I think? Our cousin—or no, sister?”

Adrian beamed at her. “Yes, that is right.” He turned to the marquis. “We should all go to Versailles—what say you, de Bauvin?”

The marquis paused for a moment in cutting the piece of beef on his plate before answering. “I see no reason why you should not. It would be well, I think, if both your sisters and you were presented at court. Our king prefers to have his nobles close by.”

Catherine glanced at the marquis again, then at her brother. Adrian’s expression was eager, and it was clear he sought the older man’s approval. How much control does the marquis have over my brother?

The thought startled her. There was no reason to think that de Bauvin had any control over Adrian, though clearly her brother looked to the man for guidance and approval. And if the man did have influence over Adrian, then there was no reason for her to think that it would be anything but benign. The man had a cultured voice, though he said little so far, and he was well mannered. Indeed, that he questioned her about her memory could mean he doubted her identity, and if he was at all concerned about her brother, he would naturally wish to know if she were an impostor. Except perhaps for her hair and eyes, she had changed a great deal, she thought, for she did remember a little of what she had looked like before she had come to Paris. It would not be surprising for anyone to question even a little.

Adrian nodded and grinned at Catherine. “Yes, but now we have a dilemma.” His voice turned teasing. “The marquis was your betrothed, and then he became Blanche’s betrothed when you disappeared. Now that you have returned, I wonder if he will still choose Blanche, or decide to become your fiancé again.”

She could feel her face become warm and lowered her eyes; she hoped that the guests—and the marquis—would think she had become embarrassed at the teasing. She was, but it was overpowered by anger. She felt, suddenly, as if she were a broodmare put up for auction.

She glanced up and caught Jack’s gaze for a moment before he turned away. Anger lit his eyes for a moment, before a bland, cordial smile replaced it. She smiled at him; he did not like that the marquis might have a claim on her, whatever he might have said before. He need not fear; she would be quite content to have her younger sister marry de Bauvin. . . . She remembered then her resolution to let Jack go on his way, so that she would not be a danger to him, and looked away. She glanced quickly up and down the dinner table.

“Where is my sister?”

Adrian grinned. “She was to arrive before dinner from the convent, but no doubt she was delayed. I have noticed that girls are often late for their appointments.” He winked at a very pretty girl who sat across from him, and whose parents sat on either side of her. The girl blushed and smiled, and her mother looked smug. No doubt the girl’s parents thought to make a match with Adrian, Catherine thought, amused.

Dinner was soon over, and though the meal was delicious, Catherine was glad. She found she was not good at company talk, or at least not at this time, for she kept most of her attention on her manners. She was used to inn company, not nobility.

The party removed themselves to the drawing room, and more lavish refreshments were offered. Catherine wondered at it; the dinner utensils had been new and well made, and these refreshments could not be inexpensive. And yet she had seen for herself that the estate was not in good repair when she traveled through it. Had her brother come into money, then? She tried to remember what it had been like before she had left her home, but it seemed as if she tried to pierce a mist in her mind that refused to recede.

The mist she and Jack had gone through came back to her memory and she shuddered.

“Is there anything the matter, mademoiselle?”

It was the marquis. He looked down at her coolly, and she wondered if he had truly had any affection for her. It was not as if all or even most marriages were contracted out of love, of course, but she had hoped that the marquis had been the sort who would.

“No . . . I was very ill when I lived in Paris, and though I am much stronger now, I still feel the cold more acutely than most, I think.” She looked into his eyes and felt uneasy, for his expression did not change. She wondered if he cared for anyone at all.

A light, high voice sounded near the door of the drawing room, and a flustered and apologetic footman followed a small whirlwind into the room. “Oh, hush, Henri the Footman, it is well. I am in my own home, so it does not matter. Go, you, to your duties.”

The girl could not have been much more than fourteen, for her figure was still more straight than curved. But her eyes were a large, merry blue, her curling hair the color of golden wheat, and her cheeks pink with cold. She was still dressed for travel in a deep red cloak, but she looked about her at the guests and then let out a happy cry. “Adrian! See, I said I would be home today!” She ran to her brother and would have hugged him had he not laughed and held her off.

“Blanche, behave! We have guests!”

The girl looked about her and her expression became apologetic. The expressions on the faces of the guests were indulgent; clearly the girl had charm, and her good nature shone clearly in her countenance. She was a sort who would be forgiven easily for her errors. She made numerous small, hasty curtsies to them all, the way an errant schoolgirl might, and then turned back to her brother. “You must tell me, where is our sister? She is here at last, is she not? I must see her—it has been so long, and I have been so afraid for her!”

Adrian laughed again and turned to Catherine. “Here she is, Blanche. She is changed, but you might still recognize her.”

Blanche looked at Catherine uncertainly, clearly searching her face. A smile dawned, and she held out her hands to her. “Catherine . . . oh, Catherine, I do recognize you! And, oh—” Her lips turned down and trembled, and tears formed in her eyes. “Oh, I have missed you so much!” She ran to Catherine and threw her arms around her.

The guests sighed sentimentally, and Catherine pressed her lips together to keep back her own tears. The mist in her mind parted just a little, and she thought she did indeed recognize this girl. A fleeting memory came to Catherine of a small blonde girl sitting in her lap as she told a story. . . . It must have been this girl, when she was younger. Her heart melted, and she dropped all formality, hugging Blanche close.

“I am glad to be back,” she whispered. “Glad that you remember me.” She wished she could remember everything, for surely the memories of being with her sister had to have been pleasant.

They parted, and Blanche searched her face again. “You have changed—you are so thin, Catherine! Have you been ill?”

Catherine wondered how much Blanche knew . . . possibly very little, since it seemed she had spent much of her time at a convent. She smiled at her and merely said, “Yes. Very ill. It has affected my memory, you see, and so I must work to remember as much as I can of my life before I . . . disappeared.”

Dismay was clear on Blanche’s face, but a resolute look quickly replaced it. “I will help you, you shall see! You may go about with me in our house and on our lands, and I will tell you everything.”

Catherine smiled. “I shall be very pleased if you would, thank you.” She looked about her at the guests—Jack, who still refused to look at her, at the marquis, at her brother—and put a wider smile on her face. This was as good a time as any to leave and repair to her room; she was tired, and did not really wish to have more company. She glanced at Jack again; it seemed his expression had slowly turned to stone over the course of this afternoon. “Indeed, I am very tired from my own journey. If you all will excuse me, I think I shall rest for a while.”

Some of the guests looked disappointed, for curiosity had been rampant on their faces for the whole course of the meal. But she had not the stomach for questions, or for watching how Jack avoided her.

Her brother bowed elegantly, though he also looked disappointed. “Of course, I understand. M. Marstone did tell me you had been very ill. Go, then, and if Blanche wishes to go with you”—he nodded at his youngest sister—“she may, although you must let her know if she chatters too much at you.” He gave Blanche a wide grin.

The girl wrinkled her nose at him. “I shall not talk too much, for I can see for myself that Catherine is tired.” She gave another quick series of schoolgirl curtsies to the guests, then turned to her sister. “Come, let us go. I have much to tell you, and you must tell me everything about your adventures.” Catherine smiled and turned to follow.

“Mlle de la Fer.” It was Jack. He took her hand and bowed formally over it. “I am afraid I, too, must leave.”

Her heart sank. She had hoped that perhaps he might stay the night. But his mouth pressed together in a firm line, and she knew he would not.

“I have many miles to go before I reach Breda, and my king is impatient.” He hesitated. “I hope . . . I hope I might visit your family again at some time.”

He still held her hand—it was firm and warm, and she closed her eyes to memorize the sensation. She wanted to remember everything about him; for all that she was returned to her family and welcomed warmly, her life would be colder for the lack of his presence. She swallowed, and nodded, then sank into a curtsy.

“I am grateful for all that you have done for me, M. Marstone,” she said. Jack. Jack. She would never forget him.

He bowed once more and released her hand, and for a moment her hand seemed frozen in the air, half reaching for him. But she dropped her hand to her side and turned to her sister, who was watching with great curiosity. She heard Jack’s footsteps behind her as he walked down the stairs to the hall, and the doors to the mansion seemed to boom hollowly as the footmen closed them behind him.

“I, too, must leave.”

She looked up to see the marquis, who had moved toward the door, as well. He had little expression on his face, but she felt somehow that he was watching her.

“I shall return on the morrow, however, to see how you”—he bowed toward Blanche—“and your sister fare.”

Blanche smiled uncertainly, but gave a deep curtsy. He held out his hand to Catherine, and she placed hers in his as he bowed over it in farewell.

Blackness rolled over her mind and thundered in her ears. For one moment it seemed she was encased in the creeping fog she had encountered but hours before when she traveled with Jack, and pain pierced her, freezing her bones. She fought it, pulling in a deep breath against a force that seemed to squeeze her chest.

“Catherine, are you well?”

It was her sister, calling to her. She opened her eyes.

She was in her home, the home of the de la Fers. She was at the threshold of the drawing room. Her sister Blanche looked at her, worry clear in her eyes.

Catherine looked up. She still held the hand of the marquis. Slowly she curtsied low, as was proper for one in her station to one who was higher, and released his hand. Slowly she rose again, putting all the control she had in the precise rise from bent knee to a steady stance. She put a polite smile on her face and nodded cordially.

“I am well, Blanche,” she said, and was glad that her voice was steady and even. “I still feel ill from time to time, though you must not worry, for I grow stronger every day.” Blanche’s face cleared, though she still wore a small frown of worry.

“I will most certainly visit again, then,” the marquis said. “I will wish to see if you have fully recovered.”

She looked up at him—did he know? Did he know the effect of his touch on her? His face was just as smooth and uninterested as before; there was nothing in his expression to suggest he had noticed anything. She suppressed a sigh of relief. He must not know. He must not know until she was ready for him to know.

“Thank you,” she managed to say, and her voice even sounded pleased. “I shall look forward to your visit.” She turned to her sister and made herself smile. “Don’t worry, sister. I shall be well with some rest, and I am sure you will need to rest as well after your journey.”

Blanche nodded and, with a last curtsy to the marquis, led the way to their rooms.

Jesu, Marie, Catherine prayed silently. Help me bear this, for Blanche’s sake.

They came to her room, and Catherine thought she must have looked pale, for Blanche’s expression became concerned again and she did not stay long to talk. Catherine gave her a reassuring hug and a smile, but it did not erase the worried look from her sister’s face. She patted her hand.

“Blanche, do not worry. I shall be well. It is only my late illness, and the fatigue of my journey.”

Her sister looked doubtful. “If you say it is so, I will try to believe it,” she replied. “I have heard in stories of women whose faces have all the blood drained from them, but I have never seen such a thing until now when I looked on you.” She paused. “If you wish me to stay with you, I will, so that if you become more ill, then I may call for a maid and have our brother call for the doctor.”

A doctor. Fear crept into her. No, she could not have a doctor examine her. She had spent a long time away—more than seven months, at least. Of course her brother and sister would be concerned about her health, but her brother had already brought up the subject of marriage, and he would think also of her virtue, as any responsible relative would. She was no longer a virgin, but the blame would probably fall on Jack, not the marquis. Adrian clearly did not know the circumstances of her disappearance; he suspected their father as the cause, and her brother obviously admired de Bauvin. Should a doctor be brought to examine her? It would be natural to request that she be examined for damage to her health, but the doctor would no doubt bring a midwife to determine if any damage had occurred to her maidenhead.

Catherine gazed at the bed in her room, then at Blanche. It would be safe for now, she thought. The marquis was not a guest of the house tonight. She needed to think and rest. She shook her head.

“No, truly, you are very kind and sweet, sister, but I will be well. Indeed, I had excellent care in restoring my health when I was in Paris.” It was true; Felice had been an excellent nurse and knew much about herbal tisanes and salves. She doubted any doctor could do better. “If you insist, however, I will call for you if I do feel ill, I promise it.”

Blanche nodded reluctantly. “If you wish.” She shook her head. “It probably would not make much difference, for I do not think doctors do anything but give potions that do nothing.”

Catherine gave her a questioning look, and Blanche’s face became full of grief. “They did not help Tante Anna, after all.” Catherine looked sharply at her sister. “Tante Anna? What happened to her?”

Blanche raised hopeful eyes to her. “Do you remember her, then? She was very kind to me, and gave me presents. She . . .” The girl swallowed and shook her head again. “She fell down some stairs and did not . . . did not. . . .” She pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to weep. “She is in heaven now, I am sure.”

Catherine closed her eyes. Her aunt had suffered greatly under the hand of her husband. She was fairly sure it was not an accident. Her uncle and her father were of the same nature, though they were not of the same blood. “I remember,” she said. “She was good to us, and I am sorry. . . .” Her voice halted, choked by tears, then she swallowed and patted her sister’s hand. “Well, you are right, a doctor will do me no good, and I promise I shall call for you if I need you.”

Blanche smiled a watery smile at her. “If you promise, very well.” She gave Catherine another hug. “I am very glad you are home. I remember you told me wonderful stories when I was very little.” She went to the door and paused, looking back. “Good night, and rest well.”

“Good night, Blanche.”

Her sister closed the door quietly.

Catherine did not call for a maid to help her undress, but managed, slowly, to do it herself. She was glad her maid had laced her loosely and that the bow on her corset was easily undone. At last, she was free of her clothes and in her shift, and sat on a chair far away from the bed.

She closed her eyes and began to shake. Her hands trembled, and she closed them into fists to control them, but then her whole body shook. A low, keening sounded in the room; she realized suddenly it came from her and that she had crossed her arms and was rocking back and forth as if in deep grief.

Stop. Stop this. Control yourself. She took a deep breath and made herself stand and move to the bed. It is only a bed, something to sleep on, where you will get your rest.

But it was not.

It was where she had been forced, more than seven months ago, to lay, her shift pushed to her neck while her body had been violated. It was where she had knifed her attacker and left him for dead. It was where she had first felt the pain in her hands and her back as they bled and bled, and where her blood had joined the blood of her rapist. She remembered it all now, the instant she had touched his hand again this evening.

Her rapist.

The Marquis de Bauvin.