Surrender to a Stranger (7 page)

Citizen Julien had removed his snowy-white hair and was raking his hand through a length of growth that was obviously his own, hair that held not the slightest tinge of gray. It was fair in color, not quite blond, and not quite brown, but rather an even mixture of the two, with threads of copper liberally mixed in. He stood with his back to her, and Jacqueline noticed that his stooped, fragile body was now perfectly erect and bore no resemblance to the hunched frame he had affected just moments before. Citizen Julien was actually very tall, with enormously broad shoulders. He had removed his jacket and waistcoat and stood only in his shirt and trousers, revealing a firm, narrow waist and long, powerful legs. Unaware of her watching him, he wearily rubbed the back of his neck and slowly lowered his head from side to side, grunting with satisfaction at the loud cracking sounds that rewarded his efforts. Then he undid the buttons on his shirt and began to shrug out of it, revealing a muscular, bronzed back and arms that contrasted sharply with the pale, spotted skin on his hands. He turned suddenly, perhaps finally having noticed that the room had gone very quiet, and found her staring at him, her eyes wide with shock.

“I am, perhaps, not quite as old as you seem to think,” he suggested. His eyes held just the barest hint of amusement as he met her gaze before continuing with the removal of his shirt.

“Who are you?” stammered Jacqueline, her mind racing with confusion. His face was still wrinkled and white like his hands, but it was no longer a face to match the body that carried it. His expression had changed, softened somehow. His eyes seemed larger and the deep grooves around them and in his forehead were now but hints of wrinkles that were yet to come.

He ignored her question and walked past her to the washstand. He took the bowl to the window and heaved its contents onto the ground before filling it from the jug and bending over to wash his own face, neck, and hands. He took his time, making sure to use the soap right up into his hairline and down his neck to his collarbone. When he had finally finished and stood there toweling himself off, Jacqueline could only stare, amazed by the transformation that had occurred.

Gone was the frail old man with the pale, wizened skin, white, scraggly hair, bent, arthritic frame, and slow, shuffling gait. In his place stood a handsome man of strength and vitality, who towered above her and seemed to fill the tiny room with an intense, restrained power. His eyes were an indescribable color, perhaps blue, but then again perhaps more green. His face was ruggedly cut, with definition to his cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, and a strong, square jawline. Fine lines were etched in his forehead and around his eyes, lines that had appeared far deeper and more numerous with the skillful application of cosmetics. They might have been lines of laughter, but something in the intensity of his gaze told Jacqueline they were more likely to be caused by anger, or perhaps pain. His massive chest and narrow waist were well defined by thick layers of muscle; his heavy arms looked like they could easily crush a person in their embrace. He ignored Jacqueline as she continued to stare, walked over to the bed, and drew down its covers.

“Who are you?” she repeated, having gotten control of some of her surprise.

He shrugged his enormous shoulders. “Tonight I am Citizen Julien. For now, that is all you need to know.” He lay down on the bed, pulled the covers up, and closed his eyes, obviously deciding the conversation was over.

“Why did you save me?” demanded Jacqueline.

“Because you needed saving,” he replied indifferently as he rolled over and faced the wall.

Jacqueline stood and stared in confusion at him. How could she not have seen that he was not what he appeared to be? Of course the cell and the streets had been very dark, and his voice and mannerisms were most convincing. But once they were well on their way, how could she not have noticed that despite his maddeningly slow and shuffling gait, his grip on her shoulder always remained firm, his steps never faltered, and he never seemed to require any rest. Most of all, why did she not wonder at the strength he exhibited when he brought his cane down on the thug who tried to rob them, or the ease and confidence with which he drew back his pasty fist to smash it into the face of the other? These were not the actions of an old, frail man. These were the actions of a young, strong man in an exceptionally clever disguise. A man who knew his way around a prison. A man who spoke easily with guards and jailers and could offer authentic-looking identification papers. A man who risked his life to save condemned aristocrats. Understanding plunged into her like a knife.

“You are the one they call the Black Prince!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “I heard the guards and prisoners talking about you. You snatch condemned and persecuted aristocrats and their families out from under the nose of the National Guard and the Committee of Public Safety and smuggle them out of France. You are never accurately described because you have never worn the same disguise twice. Your escapes are a legend among the ancien régime and counterrevolutionaries. They even say you are related to King Louis the Sixteenth himself, through the bloodlines of one of his grandfather’s secret bastards.” She stared at his massive form lying on the bed, her voice clearly filled with awe.

He turned toward her and carelessly propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes again reflecting a trace of amusement. “You flatter me, Mademoiselle. Although I must admit, at this particular moment I almost wish that I could be this character, this Black Prince you evidently so admire.” He paused and slowly swept his gaze over her from head to foot, as if he were trying to imagine what she looked like under her loose and filthy sansculotte outfit. “It would perhaps be interesting to see how a true aristocrat like you would show your gratitude to a man driven by such pure and noble intentions.”

His tone was grossly sarcastic, and the leering way he looked at her made her uneasy, embarrassed, causing her to fold her arms across her chest. She must have made a mistake. The man known as the Black Prince was rumored to be a distant cousin to the royal family, perhaps not a duc, but at the very least a marquis. A gentleman of noble birth would not speak so to a lady, nor was it proper for any man to ogle her in such a way. She lifted her chin and gave him a condescending look, determined to put him in his place. “If you are not he, then who are you and why did you put yourself in such peril to rescue me?” she demanded in a properly frigid voice.

Evidently finished with his scrutiny of her, he fell back against the pillow and wearily closed his eyes. “Unfortunately, Mademoiselle, I am merely a man of business, without any royalist sympathies or bloodlines lurking in my background to lend chivalry to my actions. And you, Mademoiselle, are my business.”

“What do you mean?” Jacqueline asked, still confused. “Almost all of my father’s properties and investments were confiscated by the revolutionary government when he was condemned. The Château de Lambert had already been transferred to Antoine’s name before my father was found guilty, but I am sure those crooks have taken it over by now as well. Since I no longer own anything and I have no money, how can my escape possibly aid your business?”

He yawned and rudely turned away from her. “I said
you
are my business,” he told her impatiently. “You are a package I have agreed to deliver.” He adjusted the blanket over his shoulder and prepared to go to sleep.

“A package?” repeated Jacqueline in confusion. Understanding dawned on her. “Do you mean to tell me that you are rescuing me for money?” Her incredulously haughty tone indicated what she thought of that reason.

“Not noble enough for you?” he drawled sarcastically. “Strange, but I would have thought that keeping your head attached to your neck would have been all that interested you.”

“Naturally I am grateful for your services,” Jacqueline allowed. “It’s just that you are making your living out of the misery and suffering of others, and such a career could hardly be described as admirable.”

“It could just as easily be said that I am making a career preventing the misery and suffering of others, and such a career is a hell of a lot more admirable than taxing hardworking peasants into a state of starvation so that you and your family can live in grandeur.”

Jacqueline gasped in outrage at his insolent remark. “It was a system that had been in place for hundreds of years, a system created by God!” she told him heatedly.

He turned to look at her. “How utterly convenient,” he drawled, “for you.”

She glared at him. That the man would dare to criticize her class, in the face of this evil revolution, and on what had been the eve of her execution, was simply unbelievable. It was obvious he was not of counterrevolutionary or royalist sympathies, and in her mind that made him dangerous. If he was only saving her for money, undoubtedly because Sir Edward Harrington, her father’s friend in England to whom she had entrusted the care of her sisters, had hired him, could he not just as easily be swayed to give her back to the revolutionary government if the reward was large enough? Of course that would damage his reputation among those who sought his services, but he might be clever enough to make it look like she was recaptured as they tried to escape Paris. She wondered if Sir Edward had been foolish enough to pay him in advance.

“Are you coming to bed?” he demanded irritably.

“You cannot expect me to share that bed with you!” she blurted out, momentarily distracted from her thoughts.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “Although I do not believe you will find the floor to your liking.” He raised himself up to blow out the candle and the room was drowned in darkness.

“I believe good manners dictate that I should have the bed and you should have the floor,” pointed out Jacqueline, deciding to leave the possibility of him betraying her aside for the moment. She was very tired, and if he did intend to return her, he would probably not do so tonight. He would wait to see what kind of reward was offered first.

“I believe logic dictates that since the bed is large enough, we share it,” he replied shortly.

The idea was preposterous. The act of lying down beside an ancient old man, whom Jacqueline had considered feeble and arthritic and incapable of posing any threat to her, was bad enough. But to stretch out beside a strong, vital man, who undoubtedly had the same uncontrollable, animalistic urges that Nicolas did, was utterly impossible. He might even interpret her willingness to share a bed as a sign that she would welcome his advances. “I will not get into that bed with you!” she snapped.

“Then don’t,” he remarked in a tone of complete indifference.

Jacqueline stood and stared at his dark form on the bed with growing fury. She knew that since the revolution, good manners had become suspect and largely a thing of the past, but the idea that this man, who was being paid to save her and should be considerate of her comfort, would not give up the bed for her was truly galling. Resigned to spending the night in the chair, she stomped toward it in the darkness, and let out a yelp of pain as she banged her shin against its hard wooden leg.

“Keep it down,” grumbled the stranger sleepily.

Infuriated beyond measure, at both him and the offending chair, she snatched his clothes and cane up from it and pitched them to the floor. The cane landed with a heavy clatter and rolled noisily to the other side of the room.

“Do you mind?” he muttered, half sitting up. “Some of us require at least a minimal amount of sleep,” he grumbled before settling down again.

“Pardon me,” bit out Jacqueline as she seated herself in the chair. It was hard and extremely uncomfortable. She twisted and turned in it a few times to see if she could find a more restful position. She could not. She curled her legs up onto the chair, but found this left her knees painfully wedged between the supports of the arm. She tried to sit in the chair sideways, with her legs draped over the arm, only to find the hard edge of the other arm digging into her spine. She repositioned herself again, leaned back, folded her arms across her chest, and gritted her teeth, determined that, comfortable or not, she was going to sleep. Within a few minutes her whole body began to quiver. Now that she had stopped moving, she realized the room was unbearably cold. She would have to stumble around in the dark again to find her jacket, which was coarse and filthy and smelled offensive.

Loud snoring was rising from the mound on the bed. It was quite evident that Citizen Julien, or whoever he was, had not encountered the least bit of difficulty in falling asleep. Despite the fact of his bare shoulders, he was evidently quite comfortable. Of course, he did have the advantage of a sheet and blanket.

Noiselessly slipping out of her wooden sabots, she crept through the darkness over to the bed. Citizen Julien did not stir, but continued his deep, even snoring. Jacqueline could see that he lay on his side, with one heavy arm casually draped against his waist, pinning the blanket to his body. She reached out hesitantly and grasped hold of the blanket below his arm. Slowly, carefully, she began to ease the woolen fabric down along the length of him, holding the sheet in place with her other hand so he would not waken with the sudden sensation of cold air. She was surprised and pleased to find she could feel his warmth retained in the blanket. Evidently he manufactured a great deal of heat on his own and would probably not miss the blanket at all. She had almost moved it down to his waist when suddenly he rolled over onto his back, made a low, irritated growl, and yanked the blanket back up over his chest. Jacqueline froze, terrified that she had been discovered. But he gave no sign of having awakened. His snores once again became deep and even, and his eyes remained firmly shut. Jacqueline let out a small breath of relief.

The problem was that now his hand actually gripped the blanket, making it impossible for her to move it without his knowledge. She would have to get him to release his hand before she could proceed. She took a step closer to him and bent down low. With one hand firmly grasping the blanket and her lips positioned just inches away from his ear, she shaped her mouth into a tiny circle and very gently began to blow, a soft, fluttering little breath that made the length of hair lying against his ear begin to dance and tickle him. At first he merely frowned, his eyebrows knitting together in profound irritation. She blew a little harder, and to her delight his hand released the blanket and moved up to scratch the offending ear. Quick as a whip she yanked down the blanket and clutched it to her chest. His tickling problem solved, the stranger sighed and contentedly laid his arm once again on his chest. Barely able to contain her smugness, Jacqueline turned from the bed to wrap herself in her prize.