Chapter 3



co ornIF JACK THOUGHT THAT HE MIGHT CHANGE the girl’s mind, he was wrong. He watched as he set Catherine—Mlle de la Fer—through her paces. She was a gentlewoman indeed; everything spoke of it. Every movement of her body was well considered and delib-erate, as befitting someone groomed for the court of King Louis. Even the lifting of her hand to pour tea was done in the prescribed manner, but done as if it were second nature to her.

She was practicing the lunge now, again and again, sweat pouring from her brow despite the frost limning the edges of the inn’s stable yard. Her breath came from her in a fog, so heavy that it formed brief clouds in the air before they dissipated in front of her, sliced through by her sword and the fierce movements of her body.

“Now your defense,” he called out, and she moved her arm up, over and over again, as if to deflect a phantom opponent’s lunge. He could see her tiring; she began gasping for breath, and her arm became slower and trembled as she moved it up and down, up and down. Still, she did not stop. A reluctant admiration flowered in him. If she had been a man, he would have hired her gladly as a fighting companion, someone to help him regain his estates in England.

But she was not. Her legs now hesitated as she moved through the different fencing positions; it was not through lack of knowledge, for she was a quick student and memorized each step and movement as if it were a catechism. But it had only been a few weeks since she had begun practice, and she had been a skeletal thing when he had first found her.

In truth, she was surprisingly stronger than he had thought she would be, and her strength grew daily. But he sometimes cursed his idiocy in promising that he would train her to be a sword-fighter. Still, a promise was a promise, and a Marstone never went back on a promise . . . or almost never.

He moved away from the grim mood that would attend him if he went to those kinds of thoughts, and watched Catherine again. It would be cruel to work the girl further, and she would practice until she dropped, he was sure.

“Stop!” he called out. Catherine continued to practice—she clearly had not heard him, such was her concentration. He shook his head. If he did not stop her she would work until she literally dropped from fatigue—he knew, because he had let her alone once during her practice only to find her on her knees, near fainting from overworking herself. He shook his head and walked up behind her.

“Catherine,” he said, and touched her shoulder.

She whirled, stepped back, and he found the tip of the blunted sword at his throat. “Don’t touch me.” Her voice came out harsh and low, hissing between her teeth.

He put his hands in the air and raised his eyebrows. She had fast reactions even when she was fatigued; a good attribute for a sword-fighter. “My dear mademoiselle, you ask the impossible. When I called to you to stop, you would not. I then had two choices: either I wait until you dropped from exhaustion, or I tap your shoulder to get your attention.” He looked her up and down, and a sense of mischief made him linger over her thin body. “In either case, I would have to touch you, and I expect I will continue to do so if you are so inattentive.” She blushed, looking away, and he was suddenly certain her thoughts were not innocent, for there was fearful understanding in her eyes. Had she, then, known a man? His curiosity rose. If so, it must not have been pleasant for her.

He caught sight of Robert Fichet, Mme Felice’s husband, however, from the corner of his eye, and knew he’d have to wait another day to satisfy his curiosity, for Fichet was clearly as full of portent as the small man could be. Jack nodded to Catherine and gestured toward the inn. “Go wash, and have your luncheon, then rest.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off impatiently. “Don’t argue. If you truly wish me not to touch you, then you will obey me.” A rebellious light came into her eyes, even as she stalked off into the inn. He was glad, for certainly rebellion was better than the fear she tried to control.

He waited until Catherine disappeared into the inn, then strode over to Fichet, grinning. The man shifted from foot to foot, looking as pleased as a terrier that had caught a very large rat.

“It is as you thought, M. Sir Jack,” he said, whispering quickly. “Come, we shall talk inside, for la dulce Felice wishes to hear, as well.”

Jack’s grin grew wider—Fichet’s thin mustache fair twitched with impatience, and his chest puffed out just a little with pride. The man must have found something valuable indeed about Mlle de la Fer.

Fichet took Jack to a far corner of the common room, ignoring the cries for service from his customers who sat at other tables, or giving them a stern look if they were too insistant.

“You will lose your customers if you do not attend them,” Jack said, grinning.

Fichet waved an imperious hand. “They will wait. If I do not attend them, then one of our maids will, and if that does not satisfy them, then they may leave.”

“It is a wonder that you have any customers at all.”

Fichet gave Jack a haughty look. “They will return because there is no inn better than that of Robert Fichet. I have said it; it is so.”

Jack’s grin grew wider. “I think I have heard your own King Louis speak in such a way. It makes me wonder if there is not some blood connection between you two.”

Fichet appeared to be much struck by this notion, for he paused before he sat at the table and his mustache twitched again, this time into a contemplative frown.

“I cannot say,” he said after what seemed like a slight struggle. “On one hand, there is a nobility of character in the Fichets that speaks of more than common blood. On the other, my family is a virtuous one, and would not stoop to illicit affairs.” He gave Jack a stern look when a laugh escaped him. “It is a serious matter, monsieur, and a puzzle I must resolve in time.” He looked up, and his expression cleared. “Ah, it is Felice!” He rose again, and took his wife’s hand in his. “Ma doucement, ma chère Felice.” He sighed as if he were a youth with his first love, which brought a blush into Mme Felice’s cheeks. She clicked her tongue in a dismissive manner when her husband kissed her hand, but love was clear in her eyes. She sat down, and patted the chair beside her.

“Come, mon cher, sit, and tell us what you know of mademoiselle, for if you do not, you would burst with it, I know.”

Fichet sat, and seemed suddenly seized with indecision. He frowned, then handed Jack a folded paper, with a very recognizable seal on it. It was from King Charles. Jack’s heartbeat quickened. Was it good news? Perhaps Cromwell’s rule was over? He hastily broke the seal and read the missive . . . and nearly crushed the paper in his hand.

The king had written nothing of returning to England, but had merely summoned him to Breda, in Holland, where he held court. Hope rose . . . he spoke of funds, however. Of course, the king could not speak of any return to his homeland; there were too many of Cromwell’s spies about, and it was too easy for them to intercept a letter. Jack grimaced. The spies would not make anything of a request for funds; that Charles asked for money to support his poverty-stricken court was nothing new and all too frequent.

“Well?” Fichet demanded.

Jack looked up from the letter and shrugged. “I am summoned to my king, in Holland.”

“And what of mademoiselle?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What of her? I assume you have news of her family?” He grew conscious of a tension in his shoulders—he had felt sure she was who she claimed, but not entirely.

Fichet leaned forward eagerly. “It is as she said, M. Sir Jack. She is Catherine de la Fer, of Normandy, an old family, the daughter of the Comte de la Fer. They live not far from Rouen. She is thin now, instead of plump, but it is clearly the same lady, for her height and features are the same, and she has been gone for a good seven months. The mother is long dead, the brother and heir is away at school, and it is said that the father has been very ill.”

Jack sat back, the tension gone. So, she was not a fraud, but the lady he perceived her to be; Fichet had more sources of information than King Louis’s own spy-ridden court, and it was rare the innkeeper mistook his facts. “Would they welcome her back, do you think?” he asked, almost reluctantly. He would not like to see Catherine leave, he realized. He found he enjoyed teaching her how to fence, and her company was intriguing at best, bracing at worst, and even then her acerbic words amused him.

Fichet paused for a moment before speaking, giving Jack a measured look. “The father had been saying that after a brief engagement to the Marquis de Bauvin, she has gone back to the convent at which she was schooled. But the good convent sisters denied that she had returned, and so now the story is that she has run away. It is clear the engagement has gone awry.”

Jack remembered the weals on Catherine’s back. “Quite clear.” He sighed, but it sounded even to himself that it was a sigh of relief. Nonsense, of course—he was more exasperated than relieved. “They will not want her back, then.”

Fichet’s frown grew puzzled. “I would not say that. There is a younger sister, thirteen years old, but she will be fourteen in two months. It is said that the marquis is content to wed her upon her birthday. Nevertheless, the family has offered a reward for Mlle de la Fer’s return . . . and de Bauvin is behind the funding of the reward.”

“He is a rich man, then?”

“Very rich, M. Sir Jack.”

Jack tapped his fingers on the table for a few moments, contemplating the possibilities. A rich nobleman could have some influence at King Louis’s court. On the other hand, Louis trusted very few of the aristocracy and kept most of them at arm’s length. Either way, Jack could use the situation to his—and King Charles’s—advantage. If de Bauvin was a trusted courtier, then returning Catherine would not only garner him funds but perhaps the ear of King Louis, and help turn the king from his apparent appeasement of Cromwell’s government. If de Bauvin was not a favorite at court, then perhaps he himself could be persuaded to contribute directly to King Charles’s cause. Jack had heard that Cromwell’s son would be a weak and reluctant ruler. If Charles’s forces could not defeat Cromwell, they could surely defeat his son’s, and Charles would return in due course. There was always wisdom in supporting a triumphant king.

Even if the marquis was not interested in any king’s favors, there might still be some financial advantage to returning Catherine to him, for it was well known that young girls did not bear children well, and perhaps the marquis would prefer someone of more mature childbearing age.

“How old is this marquis?” he asked. Fichet still gazed at him intently, and Jack was sure that the innkeeper wished to impress something upon him, but did not want to reveal it outright . . . before Fichet had married Felice, he and Jack had been comrades on many military campaigns; there was little he did not know about the innkeeper.

“He is thirty-five, more than twenty years her elder.”

“He likes them young, I suppose?” Jack dismissed his disgust at the thought of the marquis’s cradle-robbing. Girls of the nobility made marriages as their parents thought fit, and clearly the de la Fers believed this was the best alliance for their daughter. Few would refuse a high title for their daughters, after all.

Fichet’s brows knitted together in a frown. “He has not seemed particular in the past, M. Sir Jack. And it is not as if the de la Fers had any great wealth. They are . . . how do you say it? In the basket.”

Jack grinned. “That’s the phrase. Down on their funds, then?” His grin turned into a frown. “Then there’s something else the marquis wants, and it’s not young girls, for he was content with Mlle Catherine when she was offered.”

Fichet nodded. “Oui. There is something else.”

Jack waited as the innkeeper paused, for there was a hesitancy in the man’s manner, and Fichet was rarely hesitant when relaying information.

“It is rumored—rumored, monsieur—that there is some power contained in, or possessed by, the de la Fer family. And it is rumored that the marquis desires this power, for he has an . . . interest in sorcery.”

Mme Felice gasped and crossed herself. “I have heard of such regarding the court; indeed, did not a lady at Versailles try to gain the king’s favor with black magic? But I had thought it was idle gossip—”

Fichet smiled warmly at Mme Felice. “Such is the goodness of my wife that she dismisses what could be base slander—” He kissed her hand again. “But though it is indeed rumor, the de la Fer family is an old one, and has been well-to-do and unusually lucky until this generation.”

Jack lifted an eyebrow. He did not believe in luck other than what advantage a man might make for himself. It did not matter, however; if a man believed a thing, it was as good as true if he acted on that belief, and perhaps the marquis believed he would acquire some sorcerous power if he allied himself with the de la Fers.

That, however, was none of his, Jack’s, concern. If de Bauvin coveted some power or secret that was somehow connected to Catherine or her sister, then it was all the more reason for him—or the de la Fers—to wish to have Catherine back.

An image of her thin, beaten back came to him, and he gritted his teeth. It was a family concern and none of his; a young woman belonged to her family and then to her husband once she was wed. It was the right thing to do.

The thought that money made the right thing to do more attractive niggled at him, but he thrust it to the back of his mind. Regaining his estate and supporting his king against the Roundhead usurper was more important than one mere girl. There was the missive from King Charles himself that Fichet had given him, requesting his presence two weeks hence at Breda in Holland.

Jack looked up and caught Fichet’s look again, and decided not to ignore it. “Very well, what is it?”

Fichet cast a glance at his wife, and she spoke up. “You did promise to teach her to fight with a sword, M. Sir Jack.” Fichet smiled and nodded approvingly at Mme Felice.

Jack let out an irritated breath. “And so I have. I never said for how long.”

He looked from her to Fichet and met only disapproving gazes. He cut the air with an impatient hand. “She is a runaway girl who belongs to her family. I am only doing the right thing, and if I gain a reward for her return, you know it will go to aid the cause of my king.”

Their disapproving expressions did not change, although Fichet’s softened with understanding. “Ah,” the innkeeper said. “So loyalty to your king is worth the sacrifice of a young woman—une belle jeune fille, non?—to a family who beats her?”

Jack felt a definite prick of guilt this time, acknowledged it, and gazed at Fichet and his wife with exasperation. “Very well. You have succeeded. I feel ill at ease about sending the girl back to what may be unpleasantness. But that is not my concern, as I have said. Her fate is her family’s business, not mine.”

Fichet nodded. “So said the good Samaritan when he found the wounded man in the ditch.” His gaze was blandly innocent, but his voice, ironic.

Guilt-fed anger forced Jack to his feet, tumbling his chair backward to the floor. “God’s blood, Fichet, I am no saint and you know it, so don’t expect me to act like one. I’m bound to my king, not some gutter-found wench, and a promise to my king is a far sight more important than what might happen to her.”

Fichet raised a calm hand. “Peace, M. Sir Jack. I only wished to see how far she has come into your affections.”

Jack sat down again, shaking his head. “Fichet, my friend, you pry too much.”

Fichet raised his brows haughtily. “‘Pry’? No, M. Sir Jack, it is more a concern about mademoiselle’s virtue. Did I not say we Fichets are of a remarkable virtue? Bien! It is natural, therefore, that I should act as a father to her, and my dear Felice as a mother.”

Mme Felice nodded vigorously. “Oui, it is true. Pauvre petite! Who is to take care of her, when she has not her family?”

“I remind you that I intend to return her to her family.”

“But she has not a mother,” Mme Felice said triumphantly. “Surely she needs that. Also, what kind of family allows one to be beaten so? She is not a bad girl, I am sure.”

“You know nothing of the sort, madame,” Jack said impatiently.

Mme Felice frowned, and Fichet gave him a look of offended fire. “If you were not my friend, M. Marstone, I would call you out for that. My dear Felice is a wise woman, and I defy anyone to say differently.”

Mme Felice smiled and patted the innkeeper’s hand. “Peace, husband. Not all men are as perceptive as you, mon chou. Eh, he does not even know he has fallen in love with the girl.”

Jack groaned and clutched his hair. “God’s blood, have you no ears? Have I not said she is not to my taste in women?”

Felice smiled complacently. “Perhaps. But we have eyes, M. Sir Jack. We have seen how you look at her. You have not looked at any woman in such a way.”

“So I have looked at her. Anyone must look at her to speak to her.”

The landlord and his wife exchanged a smug look. “What is it that your Shakespeare has said? You do ‘protest too much.’ ”

Jack clamped his mouth shut over more protesting words, then waved his hand in dismissive defeat. “Very well, you may think what fantasies you like. Mlle de la Fer’s fate must rest in your hands for the while, however, for my king has called me to Holland—I hope, to say we may go home to England.”

Fichet’s brows rose. “You will not be taking mademoiselle with you? You will be passing through Normandy, after all.”

Jack looked down at his fingers drumming on the table again before he answered. He would be rid of the girl sooner and gain his funds faster if he gave her back to her family on the way to see King Charles.

“She is not yet well,” he said shortly instead. “I would have her in full health before I return her to her family. She will fetch a better price well than ill.” He said it brusquely, so they would put off their teasing. It worked—almost—for though Fichet frowned and pressed his lips together, Mme Felice did not look away quickly enough to hide a wide smile. Jack decided to ignore it.

Mme Felice nodded. “You are right, of course, M. Sir Jack. La pauvre petite is still weak and thin, perhaps too much so to travel. We will take care of her until you return.”

He did not quite trust Mme Felice’s innocent gaze, for she was as canny as her husband claimed. But he let it rest; there was nothing she could do if he left on the morrow and without letting either her or Fichet know when he would depart.

He nodded. “It is settled, then. I shall leave in the next few days or so, and send word of when I shall return. Feed her well, madame—and Fichet, be sure to tutor her further in the art of the duel.” Fichet was as good a fencer as he was, and expert in both the French and Italian ways of dueling.

Mme Felice smiled. “But of course. I promise you we shall take care of her as long as you are away from her.”

Fichet only shrugged his shoulders. “Eh, if you are not here to protect her, we shall do so.”

Jack looked at him suspiciously, for they had given in too easily, but the man’s expression was bland. He rose. “I suppose I will have to tell the girl that you will be teaching her how to use the sword while I am gone.” The inn-wife only continued to smile at him, and Fichet’s brows raised as he bowed slightly in acknowledgment. “That’s all I am going to do, damn it.”

Fichet bowed again, and with a growl, Jack turned and went up the stairs.

 

Catherine often felt she was still the creature of the alley; she was painfully attuned to sound, taste, touch, sight, and any other sense that allowed her to survive. And food . . . dear heaven, food. She would have killed to have such food as she had now. She extended her hand from her bath and took a handful of raisins from the bowl on the table beside the tub, and pushed the fruit into her mouth. She closed her eyes at the sweet stickiness that flowed over her tongue, and groaned. Food. So much food. She still had trouble keeping herself from gorging on what Mme Felice provided her every day, but remembered that eating too much gave her the stomachache, and interfered with her training.

She sank down into the bath, newly drawn for her by the chambermaid, letting the hot water cover her like a blanket. Warmth, dear heaven, warmth. She had felt cold forever, it seemed, and now she could bathe and be clean and warm as she pleased. The heat soothed her muscles, sore from her fighting practice. She let the sounds of the hotel below flow over her: muffled voices of guests, shouts of the ostlers outside, the hesitant knocking and thump of closed doors out in the hall as chambermaids and bootblacks performed their duties. She had come to understand over the weeks that they were friendly sounds, made by people who wished her no harm, at least not at present. She had become good at ignoring them; she would ignore them now and let her creature-in-the-alley senses be flooded by the bounty she had before her. She never knew when it would be taken from her, after all.

She took a small slice of cheese and let it lie on her tongue and melt for a while, savoring the saltiness before swallowing it. She moaned again—the taste was exquisite. There was more food, a little farther away—little biscuits and slices of dried winter apple. She frowned. She would have to come out of the water if she wanted some of it, but she would be back in the warmth quickly enough. She rose and leaned over the edge of tub, ignoring the drips of water that fell to the floor.

A harsh sigh sounded a little behind her, and she turned lazily. Perhaps it was Mme Felice, come with her new clothes—

It was Sir Jack.

For one moment, she stared at him, at his eyes that were so very blue, and the silence stretched out long between them. The snap of firewood seemed to startle him, making him blink, and his eyes drifted lower. He let out another harsh breath.

Her gaze went to the food she had been eating. Perhaps he was here to take it away; she was still hungry, and she never knew when there would be food next. She looked at the knife she had been using to cut the cheese. . . . Quickly she slipped the knife into her hand and sank into the water. Food was important, more than anything else.

However, Sir Jack was not looking at the food but at her, as if she were something to be eaten, rather than the cheese and the fruit. She was not used to a man looking at her; her face flushed hotter than warranted by the heat of the bath. A flurry of words too numerous and confused to speak, stopped her tongue, and she sank farther into the water, up to her neck. She bit her lower lip, vexed. The silence aggravated her—what did he want of her? She should have heard him enter, but had ignored the sounds of the inn, to gorge herself on food.

“I—that is, I thought you were—” The words came out as scrambled as they had been in her mind.

“I-I did not know—” Sir Jack said at the same time. His voice sounded strained. Was he angry with her? She shrank farther into the water, up to her chin, and clutched the small knife with which she had cut the cheese, but she was not sure how much damage she would cause if she used it. If he were angry, and decided to hurt her . . . But he made no sound, and she dared to turn slightly to look at him.

He was gazing at the ceiling, breathing in deep breaths. He had not come any closer to her, however, so perhaps she would not need the knife for now. She glanced at him again. He was still breathing deeply.

“Are you well, M. Sir Jack?”

He gave a sidewise look, then nodded curtly. “I am well, thank you.” His voice sounded stiff, formal. “And you?”

“I am well, monsieur,” she replied, equally formal. He nodded again, and another silence stretched thin between them. Impatience niggled at her. The bath was still warm, but she was still hungry, and did not want to expose herself further while getting the apples. She eyed Sir Jack speculatively. He had not hurt her since he had come to her aid in the alley, and had not spoken to her in anything but a moderate tone of voice unless it was to shout an instruction to her in dueling above the clash of swords. He had not touched her since she had requested that he refrain—again, it was during the course of her instruction—but all the times he had, it was with gentleness. Perhaps he could be trusted . . . at least to bring her food. It would be a test. If he took it away instead of giving it to her, she could cut him and get it back.

“I am still hungry, M. Sir Jack. Will you bring me the plate of apples?”

“Of course.” He seemed relieved to have something to do; he walked to the table beside her, picked up the plate, and held it out to her.

She moved up a little to take the food, watching him closely. He watched her, as well, following the movement of her hand to the apple slices, to her lips, but did not move to take any of it away from her.

His gaze lingered on her mouth, and she looked back at him, feeling at once uneasy and . . . she did not know. She felt at this moment that he was not a threat to her, and that he probably would not be in the future. But she was not entirely sure if she wanted him to look at her. She thought of what she must have looked like when she had been half out of the water—well, she had overheard him say once when he thought she was not near that he preferred plump women. So she was safe from his advances, she was sure. But she remembered someone had said she was unattractive. Her gut twisted; it had not prevented her from being hurt somehow. She felt sure of that, but was not sure what exactly it meant. Not knowing made her feel unsettled . . . or perhaps it was the way Sir Jack was looking at her. She could not stand it any longer.

“Is there something you want?” she asked abruptly. She gestured meaningfully at her bath. “It is not a convenient time, as I am sure you can see.”

He blinked, and seemed to shake himself. “Ah, yes. My apologies. In truth, I should have left as soon as I saw—” He stopped abruptly.

Catherine wondered if she should ask why he had not, but she was still too unsure of him—of anyone, for that matter—to question. She crouched back into the bath and the knife in her hand gave her comfort.

He averted his eyes, gazing at the fireplace instead. “That is, I came to let you know that I will be leaving soon.”

She stared at him, a sinking feeling entering her heart. She did not want him to leave. “But you promised that you would give me lessons in fencing.”

“Fichet will do it instead; he is as good at it as I am.”

His reply should have satisfied her, for it kept the spirit of his agreement with her. But the sinking feeling grew, and she realized she wished to be taught by him, not anyone else.

“But you said that Fichet did not know some sword tricks you do, and you promised to teach me those tricks.” She frowned. It was not precisely what she felt, but it would work. She wanted . . . she was not sure what she wanted, but Sir Jack had brought her to this warm place that had food; perhaps if he left she would have to return to the alley.

She thought she saw guilt on his face before he said gruffly, “Fichet has other tricks with the sword; he can teach you those until I return.”

“Where will you go?” she asked, feeling desperate.

“Breda, in Holland. My king calls for my service, and I must go.”

Catherine nodded slowly. She remembered duty, suddenly, and understood it in her bones, though anxiety gripped her at the thought of his leaving. She had become . . . used to him. He was easy to look upon, and she admitted she liked to look at him, even wanted to see if she could bring the light of kindness and humor into his eyes that she had seen before. She had seen Fichet and Mme Felice bring laughter to him—they were his friends, he had said. Perhaps he could be her friend as well some day.

She drew in a long, slow breath at the thought. She had no reason to trust anyone, let alone men. It frightened her a little to think of it, but she had seen the affection and friendship between the innkeeper and his wife; perhaps it might not be an impossible thing for her to have a friend and that friend be Sir Jack.

“I don’t know how long I will be gone, Catherine.”

The sound of his voice took her out of her thoughts and she looked at him again. “No idea at all?” she asked. She wanted to know, suddenly, urgently. He smiled, then, and despite the cooling water, she felt warmed.

“A fortnight, a few months, perhaps.”

She shivered—how was she to find out if they could be friends, if he were to be gone that long?

“Cold, Catherine?”

She looked up at him—he had used her Christian name twice, but she didn’t reprove him. Perhaps he, too, wished to be friends. But she said nothing of that, and nodded slowly. “Yes, the water is definitely cooling.” She looked at her hands and grimaced. “And I am turning into a raisin—see?” She wiggled her fingers at him to show him the beginnings of wrinkles at the fingertips.

He stepped closer, a looming figure between her and the firelight, but she kept herself from flinching from him as he took her hand and examined her fingers. “Indeed,” he said, and though his voice sounded solemn, an amused light grew in his eyes. “When I return, and when we duel for money, we can advertise you as the amazing dueling raisin woman. People will come to see you from all the provinces, and you shall be famous. We’ll then be so exalted in wealth as to rival your king’s court.”

An odd feeling grew under Catherine’s breastbone, a bubble of lightness. She felt her lips turning up, and then a laugh broke from her. It surprised her; she did not remember when she had last laughed. “I would like to see it happen,” she said. “Except not the raisin woman part.” She looked at the large towel Felice had left nearby and hesitated. The water was definitely cool now, and even if she asked Sir Jack to fetch Felice or a chambermaid, it would take a while before either of them came to help her. She would be cold again, and she despised being cold. She glanced at Sir Jack—there was nothing in his eyes but amusement. He did not find her attractive, she was sure. There could be no harm in having him give her the towel. “I would be pleased if you brought the towel to me, M. Sir Jack.” Her nervousness forced the words out in a command.

His brows raised, but he bowed ironically deep. “I am only your lowly servant, mademoiselle,” he said, and came forward, holding the cloth out to her. She took it and then looked at him again. His smile had an ironic cast, as if he expected some challenge, or was challenging her in some way. Rebellion rose in her; she admitted that she did not like that he thought her unattractive. Well, then! What did it matter if he looked at her or not?

She lifted her chin, brought the soft linen towel up between them, then rose from the water. Slowly she wrapped the towel around her, stepped out of the bath, then walked to the fireplace. She turned to look at Sir Jack, giving him just as much of an ironic smile as he had given her. “Well? You said you were my servant. Fetch my clothes—they are there on the bed.” She knew she was being impertinent, knew she should remember to be grateful to him for all that he had given her, but she did not feel like being grateful to him. She felt she owed him something, and resented it. It put her into his power somehow, and she did not want to be in anyone’s power.

“And what if I do not?” One corner of his lips lifted in a slight grin.

She bit her lip to still the sudden feeling of laughter again, for she wished to hold on to her resentment a little longer. She tried to look down her nose at him, which was difficult, she realized, because he was so much taller than she. “Well, then, you are not a very good servant.”

A speculative expression came over his face. “A good servant needs to be paid, mademoiselle.”

“I will pay you in coin after a while,” she said. She turned away, facing the fire, suddenly conscious of her poverty. She had nothing but her rosary, her cross, and her dagger, and she did not want to part with those. She thought of the beads on her rosary . . . perhaps it might be possible to replace one or two of the beads with paste, and sell the stones for money. That was a possibility. She knew very well that she owed Sir Jack, Fichet, and Mme Felice a great deal.

A sound from him made Catherine look up, and she saw he was closer now, and his hands came up to her shoulders. She was proud of herself: She did not flinch at all this time, and the fear she felt at his touch was very, very slight and soon gone.

“There are other ways to pay,” he said.

Her heart grew suddenly cold. She knew from her time in the alley of the ways women paid men. She had chosen to starve rather than pay for food that way; indeed, she had even approached a man once to sell her body but had vomited so badly when he agreed that he had left quickly. If she was going to vomit every time she sold herself, she had thought, she would starve faster than if she did not do it at all.

“I will not lie with you,” she said bluntly. She felt his hands move from her, then return, his finger under her chin to make her look at him.

His expression was kind, and he touched her cheek gently. “I am not asking for that, Catherine,” he said. “Just a kiss. I am leaving soon, and would have something to remember you by.”

She wet her lips nervously. A kiss, that was all. She suddenly remembered long ago that her mother had kissed her on the cheek—there could be nothing wrong with that. If that was payment, she could do it. She nodded and presented her cheek.

Jack’s hands pulled her closer, and she stiffened—she could not help it—but he did not seem to mind, for he leaned down and kissed her cheek, a featherlight touch of lips to skin. He moved away, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She raised her gaze to his, and looked away from the warmth that was clearly there. “That . . . that was not so very bad,” she said, and glanced at him again.

Amusement was clear in his eyes. “Thank you. I have been told in the past that my kisses are somewhat tolerable.”

Obviously he had kissed other women . . . and, she suspected, not on the cheek. Her gaze lowered to his lips. She wondered . . . no. “When will you be leaving?” she asked instead.

“On the morrow—and don’t tell Fichet or Mme Felice! They will no doubt nag me about something or other, and I would rather not have to deal with it.”

She nodded, and crossed her fingers behind her back to negate her apparent agreement. She knew suddenly that she did not want to be left behind with the innkeeper or his wife, even though she was fairly sure by now that they would never complain of her presence.

They were . . . kind people, she realized with surprise. She did not remember meeting any such, but then, she remembered very little so far about her life before the alley. In fact, she felt reluctant to think at all, and had been content just to exist and survive these few weeks since the alley. She frowned. Weeks had passed, and she did not know how many.

“Are you displeased that I am leaving?”

Catherine looked up, startled out of her thoughts. There seemed a question in his eyes that made his words seem more than a trivial inquiry.

“A little,” she replied, honestly but cautiously. “You promised to teach me fencing, not Fichet, and I assumed it would be only you and not anyone else. But a king’s command is always his subject’s duty.”

He nodded, seeming both relieved and disappointed, but she looked away, not knowing how to respond. A chill draft drifted past her, and she shivered.

“I will need to dress now; will you ask Mme Felice to send up a maid?” She turned to her clothes set out on the bed. “I am still not used to dressing myself.”

No sound came from behind her, however, and she glanced at Sir Jack. A frown creased his brow as he stared at her, and he stepped quickly toward her and seized her arm, too quickly for her to flinch or step away. Anger flared in her.

“Take your hands from me,” she said between her teeth. Her hands turned into fists.

He did not; instead, he turned her so that she faced away from him. “Your back. Your weals are gone.”

She twisted so that she could stare angrily at him. “What of it? I imagine I heal quickly.”

His expression grew grim with suspicion. “No one recovers that quickly from such wounds. All you have left are pale stripes across your skin, scars older than those of a few weeks.” He took one of her hands and turned them palm up. “There is no scarring there, either, though I know I saw bloody cuts on them when I found you.”

She pulled away her hands and shrugged. “Perhaps you were mistaken in what you saw.”

Indecision stayed a moment on Sir Jack’s face, then disappeared. “Perhaps.” He turned abruptly to the chamber door. “I will fetch Mme Felice . . . to help you dress.” He strode to the door and left through it, closing it again with a decided slam.

 

Jack closed the door and leaned against it, breathing deeply and pulling as much control as he could gather through his heated body. Damn the inn-wife! She must have known Catherine was taking her bath, and had not told him, so that he’d get a good look at her without her clothes.

Very well. So he had not thought the woman—he could not deny she was a fully-formed woman any longer—was the sort he favored, and he was wrong. He had thought she was a skinny waif, but she had changed over the course of these weeks so that she had filled out, and her breasts had become full, her body lean but lithe. When she had leaned over the edge of the tub, her waist had curved in, then out to hint at trim hips, and the whole had stopped his steps toward her, stopped his very breath. It was worse when she had covered herself with the linen towel; it had covered everything, but the firelight had revealed a delectable silhouette that did nothing but bring him to wild imaginings.

He blew out a long breath. Very well. He was wrong. Catherine was indeed the sort of woman he liked; in fact, lusted after.

Then she had turned and gazed at him with her wary green eyes and he had felt . . . lost, as if he had mistaken his way after a long march and found another way to a new land. It had taken all his control not to seize her and make love to her right then and there.

But he remembered he was a gentleman, and hoped he sounded intelligent enough after his surprise to bid her a good farewell. He winced. Well, he had bid her a farewell all right, much more than he intended. But he could not at the end resist holding her, and thought he had done well only to kiss her cheek.

He pushed himself off the chamber door and went down the hall to his own room. He would not leave for Holland on the morrow, but tonight, for he was not sure if he could stand any more of Felice’s machinations, or the chance that he might just see more of Catherine than he should.

It was just as well, however. He opened the door and entered his room, looking immediately for his knapsack. He would pack lightly for travel, and bring as much money as he could spare for the king and his cause. He’d bring his musket, as well, in case he’d be required to leave for England and fight for Charles’s return.

It’d be a relief, truth to tell, for Catherine’s fast-healing wounds disturbed him. He’d been well educated in the lives of the saints, and he remembered mention of such wounds on those holy folk. But the devil could also cause marvels to aid his sorcerers. . . .

Jack shook his head. He did not believe in such things; he’d never seen any supernatural marvels that people had claimed to see, and what he had seen had clearly been the creation of disordered minds, or outright frauds. He’d grown from boy to man in the company of the king, and had seen for himself the very un-Christian strife such superstitious thinking had brought to both France and England. He was, in fact, not inclined to believe in the dogma of either the Roundheads or the Catholics. Give him the rationality of Sir Isaac Newton, or Galileo, over the ravings from the pulpits.

Surely there was a rational explanation for Catherine’s wounds and quick healing; perhaps it was as she said, that she had healed quickly.

At any rate, Catherine and her problems were a moot point; he was leaving, and as soon as he was gone from Paris, he could focus on his true duty, his duty to his king.