A Daughter's Destiny (14 page)

“Ah, the vase,” she said with a cold smile. “Now I understand. It always comes back to that vase, doesn't it? And, if I do not swallow the clunkers you told me with this story, Evan, what lies will you devise next time? Mayhap, you should tell me I am the lost daughter of King George. I could be Princess Brienne!”

He glared at her. “I am sick of your sarcasm.”

“Good, because I am sick of your lies!”

Taking a deep breath, he unclenched his hands and put them on her shoulders. “I am not going to convince you, am I?”

“No.” She brushed his hands away and pointed toward the door that must lead to the other room. “Why don't you go to bed so I can?”

“I will as soon as you listen to me.”

“I have listened to your nonsense.” She yawned widely. As she had before, she told herself that if letting him spin his cock-and-bull story would allow her to get to sleep, it was worth listening to it. “All right, but first I want you to explain a few things to me. Maman hated London. Why didn't we return to France after the Terror was over?”

His hands framed her face. “Before I answer anything, you need to know the truth. Lucile LeClerc was not your mother. Yvonne LeClerc is not your grandmother.”

“Are you mad?” Pulling away again, she folded her trembling arms in front of her as she went to the hearth. Not even the fire could ease the icy hurt left by his deception. “I could have almost believed you, Evan, but I should have known you are just embroidering a story to try to get what you want.”

He moved toward her in a silence that was suddenly threatening. When she started to edge away, he caught her arm and refused to release her. A smile twisted his lips as he shoved her to sit on the bed again. “Believe it or not, as you wish,
duchesse
. I found the tale unbelievable when your grandmother told it to me before I left to find you.”

“And you expect me to believe it?”

“I do not care what you believe! The truth is Lucile LeClerc was your nurse at château Tonnere du Grêlon. Madame LeClerc told me that her daughter adored your father, but the
duc
was very devoted to his wife and, after their marriage, never noticed any other woman.”

“Are you done with your story yet?” she asked when he paused.

“I do not know why I am bothering to tell you this.”

“Because you cannot resist the chance to lie to me?” She jumped to her feet again. Going to the door leading to the other room, she flung it open. She ignored the crash as it struck the wall. “Get out!”

“This is not L'Enfant de la Patrie, honey. You cannot throw me out.”

“Then, take this room! I shall use the other one.” She scooped up her cape and bag. “I have heard all I want to.”

“You do not want to know that you may have a sister alive somewhere?”

Brienne whirled to stare at him. She wanted to accuse him of lying, but his face was lined with strain. Sweet heavens, he believed what he was telling her! Grand-mère had no reason to lie to him. She shuddered as she realized that if she accepted Evan's story, then she had to own that her grandmother had been lying to her all her life.

“Evan, it is cruel to jest with me like this.”

“'Tis no jest. You may have a sister alive somewhere on the Continent.” He hesitated, then added, “Mayhap even your real mother is still alive.”

She let the cloak drop to the floor and the box fall atop it. “My real mother?” The words brought only one image into her head. Dear Maman. “Evan, if you are lying to me—”

“I am telling you the truth. Madame LeClerc was horrified to learn what her daughter had asked of you. She sent me to stop you from going to France without knowing the truth.” He crossed the room and took her hands in his. “Mayhap I should have taken you directly back to London and let her tell you. Then you might believe it.”

“It all sounds impossible. My father was a
duc?
”

“Your grandmother told me that he went to serve with the Estates-General, but was arrested as many moderates were. Your mother did not know that when she left for Paris to visit him. She took your baby sister, but left you behind because you were recovering from a light fever. When word came of your father's execution, the LeClercs wanted to protect you, so they fled to London.”

“Where Maman was always miserable.” She smiled sadly. “I cannot believe what you are telling me, because my heart tells me that Maman was my mother.”

When she yawned again, he led her to the bed and sat beside her. “Lucile LeClerc and her mother raised you, but you have another family somewhere that may be looking for you. Didn't Lucile LeClerc explain any of this to you?”

“No.”

“Then, why did she want you to find your father's grave at château Tonnere du Grêlon?”

“Château Tonnere du Grêlon? Castle Thunderstone?” Her eyes widened. “The design on the vase! Lightning cutting through a rock!”

He nodded. “I thought of that also. I was hired to find a vase with that design. The man who contacted me described it exactly.”

“But the vase is—was useless.”

“I realize that now. It is you he seeks. He is the ogre of my tale, and he knows where the thunderstone vase is found, you may also be found.”

Pressing her hands to her chest, she gasped, “Me? Why would anyone want me? Who is this man?”

“I know him only as Lagrille.” His brow rutted as he concentrated deeply. “He is French, and he may live in Paris or somewhere else on the Continent. I have met him only once face-to-face, and that room in Paris was kept dark, so I could not identify him later. Usually I deal with one of his men who brings me my instructions. That does not explain why he is seeking you.”

“Mayhap he is a shy admirer who has seen my beauty and grace and—”

“Be realistic, Brienne!”

She shook her head. “You tell me a tale like this, and you expect
me
to be realistic?”

“It is true. The vase proves it.”

“I am sorry, Evan. I wish I could believe you, but I cannot.”

He slanted toward her until his nose brushed hers. She leaned away, gasping as she fell back onto the bed. Softly he asked, “Do you believe this?”

Unable to evade his lips, she knew fighting him was foolish as the familiar thrill raced through her when she lifted one hand to curve along his nape. His body pressed her into the bed. He might be a rogue or a liar and a thief, but his kisses and gentle caresses were beguiling.

As she answered his fevered lips with her own desire, she stroked his back. His firm thighs against her teased her to be bolder. Her fingers slipped beneath his coat to touch him with only a thin layer of lawn between his skin and hers.

She pulled away when she discovered a crease along his ribs. “You were hurt?”

“Shot.”

“Shot?” she repeated in horror.

“Not by a jealous husband, if that is what you are thinking.” The tip of his tongue teased her earlobe. “I try to stay clear of romantic complications. That has been easy until now.”

“But what happened?”

“It was many years ago, honey. Another job. I try not to think about the past. I would rather think of right now.”

She moaned softly as his fingers glided over her breast. Drawing his mouth down to hers, she melted against him. As her breath came faster and shallower, she surrendered her mind to the ecstasy.

The sound of her name took several seconds to invade the rapture surrounding her. Slowly she opened her eyes as the bed moved beneath her. When she was about to scold him for being so forward, she realized he was standing. Knowing that she was being absurd when he was doing as he should, she sat up and asked, “Evan, where are you going?”

“To bed … in my room.” He smiled and stroked her unbruised cheek with the back of his hand. “Unless you want me to stay with you. I must own that I have never had the pleasure of sleeping with a
duchesse
.”

“So you believe all of this?”

“I believe that I need to go now before I give in to the craving to make love with you.” He grasped her chin and kissed her hard. “Good night, honey. Get some rest. In the morning, we need to start back toward London.”

She watched as he walked to the hall door, tested the latch to be sure it was locked, then went to the door to his room. “Don't you trust me?”

“Trust you?” He laughed. “Brienne, I would trust a she-tiger before I trusted you. You have claws as sharp and a killer's wit as vicious and a beauty as wild. Good night, honey.”

When she heard no latch slide on the adjoining door, Brienne jumped up to lock it. As easily as Evan stripped her of all sense with his kisses, she must keep him far from her.

There was no lock.

With a curse, she kicked the door. Hearing laughter from the other room, she muttered the oath again. She was so tired of Evan flaunting his control over her. That she had been a willing participant in his triumph this time added to her fear of the strong passions he aroused in her. They allowed him to govern her as nothing else could.

A soft sound encroached, easing her vexation. When a second pebble struck her window, she scrambled around the bed to peer out. It was so foggy she could not see anything. She threw open the window, hoping that would be better.

She gasped as she stared at Captain Marksen, who was crouched on the low roof. “C'mon, darlin'. 'Tis time to sail.”

“But, Evan—”

“If'n ye don't want to be goin', goodbye.”

“No! I want to go, but I am locked in here!”

“Not if'n ye climb atop the roof.” He held out his hand.

Brienne did not hesitate. It did not matter if she was the daughter of a
duc
or a cook. She had made a promise to Maman to take the vase to her father's homeland.

She tiptoed across the room. Grabbing her cape, she tied it around her neck. She clutched her bag as she went back to the window and flung one stockinged leg over the windowsill.

She glanced back at the door leading to Evan's room. “Goodbye,” she whispered. “I wish it could have been different.”

But it was not, she reminded herself as she slipped through the window. When she put her foot on the roof shingles, she heard a threatening creak.

“C'mon!” called Marksen as he edged down to the ground.

Sitting, she slid down the roof as if it were a snow-covered hill. When her feet dangled off the edge, Marksen held up his hands. She turned over to lie on her stomach and lowered her feet. She tried not to think about the immodest view of her limbs that she was offering him.

“Let go!” He grabbed her ankles.

Breathing a quick prayer, she obeyed. He caught her before she hit the ground, but the impact against him jarred her teeth. He set her on her feet and grasped her hand, tugging her to where a horse was tied by the road. When he had flung her in the saddle and mounted behind her, he turned the horse's head toward the shore road. They exploded out of the stableyard.

Brienne did not look back. Her future waited in a country she could not remember.

Chapter Nine

In dismay, Brienne stared at the small ship rocking with the waves in the deserted cove. She should be excited to be on her way to France. Instead she tried to figure out why Captain Marksen had sought her out in the inn. Not for the money, because he had considered Ł25 far too little for her passage. She suspected he was helping her to spite Evan. He had repaid his favor to Evan by allowing her to leave the hut, but had not promised not to come back to take her to France with him.

She stood on the strand and listened to the hushed song of the waves. Each gentle caress of the foam on her shoes reminded her of how sweetly Evan had held her. She shook her head. She must not think of his kisses now. Evan Somerset belonged to her past, not her future.

“Let's go, darlin',” mumbled Captain Marksen as he gestured toward the plank leading to his ship.

Climbing it, she discovered the darkness had played her false. The ship's deck could have held L'Enfant de la Patrie twice over. The craft shifted beneath her feet, and she fought to keep her balance. Marksen walked as easily as he did on land. He assisted her around dark piles of rope and crates lashed to the two masts which stretched up into the starless sky.

One of his men approached.

“What d'ye want?” Marksen asked. “Let's get 'er out into the Channel.”

“Cap'n, the cargo—”

Marksen waved him to silence. With a glare at Brienne, he ordered, “Sit 'ere. If'n ye get in m'way, I'll toss ye over the side.”

She nodded and sat against cases she knew contained contraband. A shiver cut across her rigid shoulders. For the first time since she had left London, she had a chance to contemplate what she was doing. France was a foreign country where she knew no one.

She leaned her chin on her arms crossed on her drawn-up knees and stared at the railing. Evan's story continued to haunt her. He had acted hurt when she had not believed it. Yet, if she accepted his story as true, her mother was not her mother, and her beloved grand-mère had spent a lifetime lying to her. She sought in her memory, but could find no nebulous hints of another family.

Through the bag, she ran her fingers along the box that held the vase. She was going home. It might be to Maison LeClerc or to Château Tonnere du Grêlon. She wanted to do as her mother had asked.

She gritted her teeth. Evan Somerset must be lying. He must be! If he had told her the truth, she was sailing blithely into danger. The man Evan had called Lagrille was French. How much easier it would be to hunt her in France than in England!

Mayhap she should go back. Go back to the shore and to London. Grand-mère would tell her the truth.

Brienne started to rise, but fell back to the deck as the ship lurched. Overhead, the sails filled with wind. It was too late. Captain Marksen would not turn back because of a passenger.