Tender the Storm (37 page)

She stopped and leaned against the wall, trying to compose herself. Inhaling several deep breaths, she pressed her hand to the kitchen door. She heard

Samson's low tones say something about "hide and seek" a moment before the door gave way, soundlessly, beneath the pressure of her hand.

A young man of muscular physique was sitting on the kitchen table. One shoulder was encased in white bandages. Salome was helping him into a clean shirt. Samson was kneeling by the grate, stuffing some article of clothing into a fire which had been newly kindled. The curtains at the windows were drawn tightly against prying eyes. The only light came from a lantern set on the mantel of the huge stone fireplace. The tableau would remain frozen in Zoë's memory for years to come.

"Leon?" she whispered.

As he swung to face her, for the first time, she noticed the pistol in his hand. And suddenly, everything became clear to her. Even as she quickly crossed the distance between them and flung herself into his arms, even as he groaned some rough expletive before hugging her with his good arm, even as the tears of joy welled over, she knew who and what Leon was.

Salome and Samson hung back, hesitating to intrude on the tender drama which was unfolding.
As of one volition
they moved about the room, finding things to do, carefully averting their eyes from this very private and emotional reunion. Broken sentences, inarticulate murmurs, the occasional sob, filled the silence. From time to time Salome looked at the clock on the mantel.

Five minutes were to pass before she emitted a warning cough. Leon looked up. "Better get dressed," she said gruffly.
"Just in case."

Slowly Leon set Zoë away from him. He flashed
her an
amused grin. "Salome is right," he said. "I was mad to come here. They cornered me, you see. I didn't know where else to go. They might come looking for me. If they find me here, you'll be implicated."

"You're not leaving?" Zoë could not believe that fate could play such a cruel trick on her, that she had found her brother only to lose him again. Her mind frantically groped for reasons to keep him with her. "I have friends, Leon.
Powerful friends.
They can help you, protect you. Barras, Tallien. They will—"

"No!" The word had all the force of an oath. He winced, as Samson solicitously helped him into a dark coat. "I wish I could make you understand. I don't have the time."

He was going to leave her. Just like that. Already, he was stuffing the pistol into the waistband of his breeches.

"Make me understand," she implored. "Make me understand." Her voice cracked. She bit down on her balled fist to choke back the sobs. "I don't care what you've done. You're my brother. My brother, do you see? I know who you are and it doesn't mean that" —she snapped her fingers —"to me. You need me, Leon. I can help you. Please . . . oh God . . . please?"

In the act of reaching for his cloak, his hand stilled. "What do you mean, you know who I am?"

"You're
Le Cache-Cache,"
she answered at once.

He gave a derisory laugh. "What a romantic turn of mind you have, little sister. Nothing so fanciful, I assure you. I won't try to deny that I'm a wanted man —"

This time, it was Zoë who gave a derisory laugh.

Leon frowned and went on determinedly, "But you're letting your imagination run away with you.
Le Cache-Cache
is an assassin. Can you really see me in that role?"

She made a gesture of impatience. "I'm not a fool. I know how you came by that injury." As he started to answer her, she cut him off angrily. "You're wasting your breath, Leon. If you denied it on a stack of Bibles, I still wouldn't believe you. But, darling, it doesn't matter. Don't you see? I don't care."

He gazed at her in brooding silence. Zoë was painfully aware of the furious pounding of her own heart.

Salome moved between them. "Tell her," she said, giving Leon a very direct look. "All of it. Else she'll never rest till she finds you." She signaled to Samson. He nodded and followed her from the room.

"Sit down."

Zoë obediently sank onto a wooden chair and accepted the handkerchief Leon offered. She blew her nose, dried her eyes, and tried to compose herself. Leon leaned against the table in a posture of indolence which Zoë instantly recognized. It won a watery smile from her.

"What I can't understand," she said between sniffs, "is that Salome said nothing to me when she must have known that I was frantic to find you."

"Don't blame Salome. She did not know till tonight. It was better that you didn't know what had become of me." Before she could protest, his tone hardened and he asked, "What makes you say that I'm
Le Cache-Cache?"

"I . . . at the Swedish Embassy tonight there was talk of the attack on Tallien. I suppose I've been thinking of
Le Cache-Cache
on and off all evening. Then just before I walked in here, I heard Samson say something about 'hide and seek.' Everything fits."

A look of patent relief crossed his face. "Then no one else suspects my identity? No one suggested to you that
Le Cache-Cache
and your brother
were
one and the same person?"

"No." And then, as if the words were wrung from her, she cried out, "But what I don't understand is . . . oh God, Leon . . . why?"

For a moment, he studied her face. He gave an imperceptible shake of his head. "I'm a member of
La Compagnie,"
he said. "Have you heard of it?"

She'd heard the name before, but could not remember exactly what she had heard. "It's a secret society or some such thing, I think I heard?"

"You heard right.
And once a member of
La Compagnie,
always a member.
Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I . . .
I think so. They won't let you go?"

He gave a mirthless laugh. "They'll kill anyone who tries to break ranks. And those who are fool enough to try jeopardize not only their own necks but those of their friends and relations. My God, do you see what a hold they have over me?"

"No. I don't see. You're not on any proscribed list. You could take your place openly. Surely the authorities would protect you? You're a wealthy young man, Leon, and —
" His
harsh expletive cut off the flood of words.

"Zoë, listen to me." He leaned forward and gently touched a finger to her cheeks. "I've done things that could send me to the guillotine several times over.
I'm . . .
an assassin, for God's sake.
Your powerful friends —Barras?
Tallien?
Haven't you heard that
Le Cache-Cache
tried to kill them?"

'Yes, but . . ." She'd heard something else that very evening. It came back to her now. "You didn't kill them. What happened? Did you have a change of heart?"

He straightened at her words.
"Devil!
How did you . . . ?" He shook his head. "That's all I need! If they once begin to suspect that I've grown fainthearted, it will be all up with me. Oh God, it's hopeless."

Anger, hot and heedless, brought Zoë to her feet. "Don't ever say such words to me! I'm ashamed of you.
Hopeless?
How can it be hopeless as long as you have breath in your body? And when I think what Claire did so that you and I could have our chance, yes, and how our parents were comforted at the end, knowing that their children would survive them to live a better life. I left a husband in England—do you know? —and came back here to this
this
wasteland
to find you and Claire. Are you telling me it's all been for nothing?"

The fight suddenly went out of her. Wearily, she turned away from him, and took several paces about the room.

Very softly, he said, "Little Zoë, married?"

Abruptly, she answered, "I divorced him. He was English. No one here knows, not even Salome. And I want to keep it that way."

"Fine.
Whatever you say, little sister."

He was using his charm on her to get out of a scold. She tried to repress a smile and almost failed.

"I want to hear what happened to you after you ran away from the school in Rouen," she said. "I want to know exactly how you got involved with this secret society."

She settled herself on a chair, and looked up at him expectantly. "Well? Go on."

Smiling, he shook his head at the picture she presented. "You have a way of pursing your lips. You look just like
Maman,
do you know?"

"Thank you," said Zoë, "but let's not change the subject. You ran away from the school in Rouen. Where were you going? What did you hope to gain?"

A shadow crossed his face then was quickly gone. He shrugged carelessly. By degrees, his posture became more relaxed. "I thought, somehow, to rescue our parents. Don't ask me how. I had a plan, which I won't go into. It's not important." He stopped abruptly, and Zoë heard the quick rasp of his breath as he inhaled. In a quieter tone, he continued, "I made it as far as
Giverny
where I fell in with a band of
Vendeans
—a remnant of the Grand Army. We had a disagreement. I wanted to go to Paris. They wanted me to become one of them. They won, I lost. Good-bye Paris. Good-bye parents.
Good-bye everything."

For just a moment he lost the cool aloofness he had adopted and Zoë caught a glimpse of something, pain or passion, in the depths of his eyes. It was as if she had been granted a glimpse into his soul. She knew, then, that she would never be able to question him about his life with the
Vendeans
. They had suffered unspeakable atrocities at the hands of Revolutionary forces, and, in their turn,
had committed the most demonic acts of revenge.

"Oh, my dear," she said, her breath catching at the back of her throat.
"Oh my dear."
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and saw how mistaken she had been to think that she had found her brother Leon. This boy was not the negligent, carefree companion of her childhood. This boy was already a man, a young warrior molded by experiences she could not imagine, did not wish to imagine. This darkly good-looking youth with the lean, hard face was not her brother, and yet, strangely, he was the same Leon she had always known.