Surrender to a Stranger (45 page)

He lifted his hand to trace the contour of her jaw. Jacqueline instinctively flinched and tried to move away from him, and he responded by snaking his fingers around the back of her neck to hold her still.

“It was most regrettable that you were arrested with your brother,” he commented. “As I tried to explain to you before, that was not the way it was supposed to happen. Antoine was to have been imprisoned, leaving you all alone here, except for a few servants. Then you would have seen how I could have helped you. Providing, of course, you were willing to make me welcome.”

“You are a fool if you believe I would have asked for your help,” Jacqueline assured him. “No matter how desperate I was, I never would have gone to you for help, Nicolas. Never.”

“It does not matter.” He sighed, sadly shaking his head. “We are far beyond my being able to protect you. You have escaped republican justice, and now you have been caught. It is my duty to turn you over so you can be questioned and executed. Regrettably, that is what lies before us.”

“And you will be commended not only for capturing me, but for finding the De Lambert jewels as well,” added Jacqueline bitterly, trying to think of a way to escape his grip without arousing any suspicion.

“Capturing you will definitely repair the damage your escape did to my career,” admitted Nicolas. “The jewels, however, are another matter entirely.”

“Do you mean to say you are going to keep them?” she demanded in disbelief.

He shrugged his shoulders and released his hands from her. “The small fortune spilled across this floor cannot begin to pull the government out of the enormous debt it has amassed with the war effort. I, on the other hand, could profit greatly from the investments these jewels represent.”

“So you are a traitor and a thief, even to the government you claim to support?” she taunted, backing away from him a step.

“This discussion is fascinating, but I believe we have talked enough,” remarked Nicolas irritably as he started to move toward her.

“I agree,” replied Jacqueline. She swooped down to snatch up the poker from the floor and brandished it threateningly at him. “Take one more step, and I will bash your brains in,” she warned.

Nicolas looked at her in amusement and laughed. “You do not disappoint me, Jacqueline,” he told her. “I have always known you would fight me right to the very end.” He took another step toward her, utterly unimpressed by her weapon. “Which makes the anticipation of finally having you all the more pleasurable.”

She swung wildly at him, but he grabbed her arm and easily knocked the poker from her hand. With a cry of rage she smashed at his face with her fist, but she had barely made contact before he had secured her wrist and wrenched her arms down to her sides.

“Now what, Jacqueline?” he demanded mockingly. “Would you like to give up?”

“Never!” she hissed. She pulled back her knee and drove it hard into his crotch.

Sensing what she was about to do, he turned himself slightly. Her knee landed hard against his thigh, causing him to wince in pain. “You little bitch,” he growled, releasing one of her arms to slap her hard against her face.

Her head snapped to one side from the impact of his blow, and she momentarily lost her balance. Nicolas used this opportunity to trip her leg out from under her and send her sprawling across the floor. Jacqueline immediately struggled to get up, but Nicolas was already lowering himself down onto her, pinning her against the carpet with his weight.

“Take your hands off me, you loathsome son of a bitch!” she swore as she fought to get him off her.

“Shut up!” he snapped, cracking her hard across the face again with the back of his hand.

Tears of frustration and pain sprang to her eyes as she felt him wedge his knee between her legs and force them apart. She fought to keep her thighs closed, she struggled to move out from under him, she beat his back and shoulders with her fists, but she was no match for his superior strength and weight. He pinned her down by squeezing cruelly against her breast while his other hand yanked up her skirts. Blindly she reached around on the floor for something to use as a weapon, but her fingers felt only carpet and fabric and stuffing. Her stockinged legs were exposed to the cold air, she was aware of him fumbling to release himself from his trousers, and then suddenly her fingers closed around something cold and smooth and jagged. Without pausing to see what she had found, she reached up and raked it against his face.

Nicolas let out a howl of pain. He looked at her in confusion. A brilliant ruby arc of blood was slowly seeping down his face. Somehow she had managed to carve a deep gash from his temple down to his chin. She raised her hand to slice at him again, but he was too quick for her. He grabbed her wrist and smashed it against the floor until her fingers opened and she dropped the broken piece of porcelain she held. He knocked it so it was out of her reach, then lifted his fingers to his cheek and drew them away, studying the warm blood that stained his fingers in horror.

“Goddamn whore—” he snarled viciously. He lowered his bloodstained hand to her neck and tightened his fingers around her throat.

Jacqueline clutched his fingers and tried to pry them off her neck. Nicolas tightened his grip and began to squeeze slowly. She gasped for air, but found she could draw none. She coughed and thrashed her head from side to side, but he held fast. She stared at him, her eyes caught between fury and pleading, and he smiled, a dark, savage, evil smile. She could feel him pressing his hardness between her legs, brutally forcing his way into the dry, delicate flesh, and she wanted to scream but she could not, and so she closed her eyes and sobbed inwardly, torn between wanting to kill him and wanting to die.

There was a sudden, sickening thud, and Nicolas’s entire body relaxed against her, releasing her throat and ceasing its brutal invasion of her. She choked and gasped for air before opening her eyes to see what had happened.

Philippe stood trembling above her, his bruised face contorted with rage. In his hands he held a heavy silver mantel clock, dripping with blood, and poised to strike again if Nicolas made the slightest movement.

“Are you all right?” he demanded, his voice taut and shaking.

“Get him off me,” she pleaded, her own voice thin and wispy.

Philippe threw down the clock, grabbed Nicolas by one arm, and roughly dragged him off Jacqueline. She pushed down her skirts and allowed Philippe to slowly help her stand.

“Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding!” he cried in horror.

She gingerly touched her fingers to the corner of her mouth and felt the warm seep of blood where Nicolas had struck her. “It’s nothing,” she assured him.

“Not there—your neck,” he qualified. “He cut you somewhere.”

She laid her fingers on her neck and then pulled them away. A smear of blood stained the skin. “That’s not my blood,” she said stiffly. “That’s his.”

They both looked at Nicolas, who was lying motionless facedown on the floor. Blood was seeping from a wound in his head and forming a huge wine-colored stain on the carpet.

“I—I think I killed him,” stammered Philippe.

“Good,” replied Jacqueline curtly. She felt like she was going to be sick. She turned away and quickly began to collect the scattered jewels on the floor and stuff them back into the box. Her hands were trembling, making her slow and awkward at the task. Philippe did not offer to help, but simply stood where he was, staring at Nicolas.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said urgently as she buried the box of jewels underneath the garments in her traveling bag. She moved toward the door and then turned. “Philippe?”

He tore his gaze from Nicolas’s body and looked at her. His eyes were huge, haunted, the eyes of a child who is suddenly uncertain and afraid. “I think I killed him,” he repeated hoarsely.

She put down her bag, walked over to him, and wrapped her arms around him in a fierce embrace. “You saved my life,” she whispered as she held him tightly against her. “Thank you.”

Philippe stood there stiffly, his arms rooted down at his sides, as if he did not know how to return a hug. But he did not move away, and so they stayed together like that for a moment, giving and drawing comfort from each other. And then Jacqueline felt his arms relax and gradually move up to wrap around her waist.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly.

She nodded, and slowly the two of them began to walk toward the door, leaving the motionless body of Nicolas bleeding into the carpet behind them.

The warden of La Force planted his elbows on top of the mountain of papers cluttering his desk and wearily rubbed his temples. He had not had a good day, and it looked like once again he would be here well into the night. His prison was already filled far beyond capacity, yet here was another stack of documents that had to be processed without delay. They were ordering the admittance of yet another fifteen prisoners, who had just arrived and were currently sitting outside his office crying and shouting and noisily protesting their innocence. Where in the name of God was he going to put them? he wondered in frustration. The cells and common rooms were overcrowded, despite the fact that there was a constant flow of inmates leaving each day to go before the Revolutionary Tribunal. Thanks to the services of several spies planted within the prison, the evidence against these former aristos was more than enough to send them directly to the guillotine. Yet a bed was not empty more than an hour before someone new had arrived and been assigned to it. How on earth did they expect him to keep up?

Running La Force was an ongoing struggle to feed and oversee hundreds of prisoners, all of whom were constantly demanding better food, clean linen, more blankets, letters that had to be sent, personal artifacts that were supposed to be documented and distributed, not to mention the continual parade of visitors, including husbands, wives, children, servants, mistresses, business associates, doctors, lawyers, and officials of the Committee of Public Safety. The sheer volume of human traffic that passed within these walls each day was astounding. How could they expect him to manage the daily activities of running the prison effectively, and see to all the paperwork that was required of him as well? Beyond the documents issued every time an inmate was admitted to the prison, there was the daily authorization of the roll call, which invariably did not match the names and numbers on the prison registers, the investigations into prisoners who claimed to be someone else, the reports on prisoners who required further evidence against them, the reports on prisoners thought to be actively plotting in counterrevolutionary activities, the reports on prisoners whose files had somehow gotten lost, the reports on the daily costs of the prison, including itemized accounts of how much food and wine was consumed at each meal, the daily ordering of food, wine, candles, oil, and straw, the records of payment to the guards and prison staff, the documents required to transfer an inmate to another prison—the list went on and on. He was always at his desk before daybreak, and never left until well into the night. And yet he could not seem to get caught up in his work. His wife had been complaining of his hours for months now, but what was a man to do? The number of arrests was accelerating all over France, and the Tribunal seemed unable to cope with the numbers awaiting trial. Somehow, somewhere, he would have to find room for the fifteen traitorous wretches who were waiting outside.

The sound of a child wailing interrupted his thoughts. He frowned. He did not believe in arresting children with their parents. Children had a tendency to grow sickly and die in prison, and that always looked bad in a report. Besides, there was no mention in any of these documents of a child being arrested. The wailing grew louder and more piercing, until it felt like each cry was a knife slowly carving its way through his brain. How the hell was he supposed to concentrate with that racket going on? He irritably shoved his chair away from his desk and went to see what was happening.

“I just want my mother’s things—you can’t keep them from me,” cried a small, thin boy who was struggling to free himself from the grip of one of the guards.

“What seems to be the problem here?” demanded the warden.

The guard looked at him apologetically. “Sorry to have disturbed you, warden, but the boy here says his mother was executed this morning, and he has come to collect her things.”

“Then why the devil don’t you give them to him and get him out of here?” he snapped.

The guard looked sheepish. “Truth is, we can’t seem to find any record of his mother being here,” he explained.

So what else is new? thought the warden irritably. “What was your mother’s name, boy?”

The boy looked at him with tear-filled eyes. His face was badly bruised, to a degree even the warden found shocking. He had two boys of his own, and although he was not averse to giving them a good smack every now and then, he did not approve of beating a child to a pulp.

“Her name is Claire Blanchard,” said the boy in a quivering voice. “Was, I mean,” he corrected himself. He dissolved into another loud wail.

The sound sliced like a hatchet through the warden’s head. “Are you sure she was a prisoner here?” he demanded, his voice tight with strain.

“Yes,” answered the boy shakily. “She was only here three days.”

Three days. It was possible her papers lay buried somewhere on his desk. She could have been admitted and discharged without him even knowing about it. Now she was dead, and this boy was entitled to whatever notes or locks of hair or other personal effects she may have left in the care of her guard. He sighed.

“Stop your sniveling and come in here,” he ordered brusquely.

The boy wiped his nose on his filthy sleeve, picked up the bag he had dropped on the floor, and followed him into his office.

The warden began to rifle through the mountain of papers on his desk. After a few minutes he realized it was hopeless. There were scores of documents here that he had not even seen, obviously added to the pile on those rare occasions when he was out of his office.

“Why don’t you go home, boy, while I look into this matter? If you come back tomorrow, I am certain we will have found your mother’s effects by then,” he suggested.

The boy gave him a wild, frightened look. “My father said if I come home without her things, he’ll beat me worse than he did the last time,” he told him, clearly terrified. “Please, Citizen, he’s awful mean when he’s mad. Couldn’t you try to find out where her things are?”

Judging from the boy’s face, if he were beaten worse than the last time, his father intended to kill him. He did not relish the idea of sending the boy home to that. Not when his mother had just been executed. He sighed.

“What did your mother look like?” he demanded.

The boy thought for a moment. “She was pretty,” he told him softly. “Her hair was brown, and her eyes were brown. She was not too tall, but then, she was not exactly short either. Her height was sort of medium. Do you know who I mean?” he asked hopefully.

Yes, thought the warden. You mean like over half the women incarcerated here. “Was there anything about her that was a little unusual?” he asked, trying hard to be patient.

The boy knit his brows together. “She liked to sing,” he said finally, as if he felt certain that would set her apart from everyone else.

She probably didn’t do much singing here, thought the warden acidly, but he refrained from pointing that out to the boy. This whole thing was impossible. “Look, lad, I really think if you can just wait until tomorrow we will be able to—”

The boy’s temporary composure dissolved and he began to wail louder than ever. The pain in the warden’s head immediately doubled, no longer like a knife, but like someone was using a heavy mallet to slowly bash his brains in.

“Stay here and don’t touch anything,” he snapped as he stomped out of his office and closed the door. He would look into this matter himself, even if it was just to get away from all this crying and screaming.

He returned about twenty minutes later. He had not been able to find a guard who recognized the name Claire Blanchard, but many of the guards didn’t bother to learn the names of inmates who were here less than a week. At any rate, his head was feeling somewhat better. That was something. He opened the door to his office, bracing himself for the wailing that would start when he told the boy he had been unsuccessful.

The boy was not there.

“Guard!” he barked. “What happened to the boy who was waiting in my office?”

The guard came running and looked around the empty room in confusion. “I thought he was in here,” he said blankly.

“He was,” snapped the warden. His head was beginning to throb again. “And now he clearly is not. Didn’t you see him leave?”

“No,” replied the guard. “Maybe he decided to come back tomorrow.”

The warden wearily closed his eyes. “Get out,” he ordered.

He shut the door and walked over to his desk. He quickly scanned it, and then went through all the drawers to see if anything was missing. Nothing appeared to be out of order. He sighed.

Maybe the boy had simply grown tired of waiting and decided to go home. He would probably be back tomorrow. At any rate, he had already wasted enough of his precious time. He still had a roomful of new prisoners sitting outside his door, and it was clear he was going to be here late. Dismissing the incident as unimportant, he picked up his pen and went back to work.

Armand lay on his trestle bed with his eyes closed, imagining he was sailing on
The Angélique.

He had been in La Force for twenty-eight days. During that time he had been refused even the simplest requests, such as the luxury of a book to read, or a walk outside in the fresh air. Nicolas had promised him an existence that was cramped, monotonous, filthy, and humiliating, and he had been true to his word. In a bid to keep himself from going mad, Armand had taken to meditating on a restful and pleasant image for at least an hour every morning, afternoon, and evening. This ritual, in addition to his two hours of daily exercise and his constant thoughts of Jacqueline, which had evolved into what he realized by now probably amounted to an obsession, helped to get him through the empty, miserable hours that now made up his life.

He hoped they would execute him soon.

In his mind he was no longer a prisoner confined day and night to a tiny, dark, frigid cell, surrounded by the stench and sound of human misery. For him the day was sunny and warm, the wind strong and steady, filling
The Angélique
’s enormous white sails and sending her flying across the water like a graceful, low-flying gull. The ocean was liquid sapphire, sparkling in the white glare of the sun and rhythmically crashing against the hull of his ship, surrounding him with color and light, movement and music. He leaned against the rail and breathed in the sharp, clean scent of the sea, filling his lungs with its crystal-clear purity. The cool salt spray brushed against his skin, his hair, his clothes, invigorating him, freeing him from the dank confines of reality as he sailed into an endless expanse of sapphire and light. He turned to see Jacqueline standing behind him, dressed in the silvery gown he had designed for her. The wind blew the gown against her body, revealing the lush swell of her breasts, the graceful tapering of her waist, the firm length of her legs. Her hair was tumbling wildly about her shoulders, dancing in the sea wind, brilliant in the sun, the color of champagne and firelight. She stepped toward him, slowly, gracefully, a faint smile on her lips, her silvery-gray eyes shimmering with desire. She stood in front of him, her exquisite body barely touching his, and languidly reached up to loop her arms around his neck and pull him down close to her, her lips soft and parted and trembling as she sighed and whispered, “So I’ve finally found you, you goddamn, good-for-nothing, son-of-a-bitch traitor!”

His eyes flew open.

A woman was standing before him, her face obscured by an enormous hat and the dark shadows of the cell. She wore a filthy brown coat, which had been tied around the excessive girth of her waist with a ragged length of rope. At first glance he thought she was simply fat, but a second look made it clear that her horribly swollen form was in fact very much with child. Her clothes were thin and poor, a faded yellow cotton blouse tightly pulled down over the waistband of a much-mended gray skirt, covered with mud stains. She wore a battered gray hat with a cockade pinned to it, over a badly arranged pile of greasy red hair. He was certain he had never seen her before in his life. He could not imagine why his jailer had allowed her into his cell.