Tender the Storm (38 page)

Leon had looked away from Zoë when he had stopped speaking. When he glanced at her next, his expression was remote, almost indifferent. "We were ambushed one day and left for dead. As you see, I survived. I made my way to Rouen to look for you and Claire. You were both gone. I supposed that you had somehow managed to make your way to England."

"You were right, about me," Zoë interposed. "But no one seems to know what happened to Claire."

"Not an uncommon story in modern France," responded Leon bitterly.

'You've heard nothing?"

"I heard that she was Duhet's mistress. There have been rumors, but nothing of any significance."

"What rumors?" asked Zoë.

"That she went to the guillotine with her lover." At the look that came over Zoë's face, his tone instantly gentled. "Zoë, it's more than likely that, that's what happened. You must learn to accept it. I have."

Her eyes searched his face. "But you've heard other rumors about Claire, if I'm not mistaken."

Almost reluctantly, he answered, "I have a friend who swears that he saw her in Bordeaux."

"When was this?"

"The spring of '94.
Zoë, don't get your hopes up. Don't you think I tried to verify it? I went there in person. If Claire was there, no one knew of it. There's not a trace of her anywhere."

She bit down on her bottom lip, striving to contain the excitement his words had raised in her breast. It probably meant nothing, and yet, she could not help clutching at any hope, however faint. At length, she said, "What did you do when you found that Claire and I were not in Rouen?"

"I went on to Paris. By this time, it was too late to save our parents. I fell in with friends, people I had known before. They helped me."

"And . . . and
La Compagnie?
How did you come to be involved with them?"

"You misunderstand.
My friends in Paris?
They were all members of
La Compagnie.
So was I before we ever hid out in Rouen. Call it a boyish escapade if you like. Thank God, I wasn't quite crazy. I joined the society under an assumed name. No one knows me as Leon Devereux as far as I am aware, not yet, at any rate."

At the look of revulsion which crossed Zoë's face, Leon burst out, "I did not know then what I know now. It was all talk. How could I know that I was being trained to become an assassin?" Almost
defx
-
antiy
, he flung at her, "Yes. I've killed. And I did it without regret. I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve to die."

She tried not to let the horror show in her face. "I don't understand. What does
La Compagnie
hope to gain?"

"Power, of course.
When the time is right, they'll crawl out from the rocks under which they are presently hiding. In the meantime, the only sure way of thinning the opposition is by eliminating them one by one."

Zoë was silent, staring at him with huge unblinking eyes. The silence lengthened till Zoë thought she would break under the strain.

"Now you know," he said, and before she could stop him, he was- up and moving swiftly to the back door.

"Leon!" She was on her feet and running to catch up with him. "Where do you think you are going?"

His eyes gleamed brightly, but whether from tears or anger was not clear to Zoë. "My God, you never give up do you? I should have remembered that you were always a determined little thing." He smiled briefly. "Zoë, I'm going back where I belong.
Haven't
I just told you? No one leaves
La Compagnie
and lives to tell the tale."

"Do you really want to leave
La Compagnie?"

"My God!
If only it were that easy! Of course I want to leave. I'm sick of it all —the hatred, the killing!" He passed a hand wearily over his eyes.

"Who are these people? What are their names?"

"They are everywhere, at every level of society. I'm very small fry. I only know the members of my own cell."

She spoke quickly, brokenly, "We'll go to America, England. There must be a way to get you out of their clutches. I'll think of something. I'll ask
Varlet-"

"Zoë!
Don't do anything foolish. It could cost me my life. Do you understand? Look, I must go. I should never have come here. Forget about me. It's better this way."

It was the wrong thing to say. For the fraction of a second she looked as if someone had just doused her with a pitcher of cold water, and in the next instant she went for him.

"Zoë!"
Even with one arm, it was easy to subdue her. Leon winced as one wild blow caught him on the shoulder. It was all over in a matter of seconds. She collapsed against him, cursing him, pleading with him, lapsing into an incoherency which would have made him smile in other circumstances.

At the last, she took a deep, shuddering breath and said brokenly, "You can leave if that's what you wish, Leon. I can't stop you. But I promise you, I'll never stop trying to find you as long as I have breath in my body. And you know in your heart that if things were different, if our places were reversed, you would do the same for me. I'm thinking of
Maman
and Papa, I'm thinking of Claire and what they would want, don't you see?"

Their eyes held, and just for a moment she thought she caught a glimpse of that younger, softer boy who had once been her brother.

"You win," he said. "But don't come looking for me. I'll find you. Now douse the light."

She felt like laughing, she felt like crying. Her spirits soared. Together they would find a way of escape. There was a haven for them somewhere if only they could find it. She crossed quickly to the big stone fireplace. It took only a moment to re
move the shade and douse the lantern.

"Leon?" she whispered, and even as she listened to the sound of her own voice, she knew that she was alone.

She awakened in the middle of the night, cold and clammy, with her heart pounding as if she had just run a mile. Of course! In her dream, she had been running for miles. They were children again. The dogs were on their scent. She was clasping Leon's hand, dragging him with her. Safety lay just ahead. But Leon kept insisting they go back. He was stronger than she, and she refused to let go of his hand. Back, they were going back to be torn to pieces by the hounds. The dogs had faces.
Varlet, Lagrange, Madame de Stael, Francoise.
Oh God — all the people she had been with that evening! They all wanted to tear Leon to pieces. And the dream was so
real,
she could almost feel the warm breath of the dogs at her throat.

Shivering, she threw back the covers and reached for her robe. Suddenly, she froze. She hadn't been dreaming. She really could hear someone breathing close by. She acted instinctively. At one and the same time, she lunged away and let out several piercing screams.

"Hell and damnation!"

Rolfe dropped the tinder box with which he'd hoped to strike a light and went for Zoë with some idea of cutting off her caterwauling. He'd forgotten about his walking stick. It caught him smartly on the ankle. He let out a bellow of pain and went sprawling across the bed, on top of Zoë. At the top
of her lungs, Zoë screamed for help. There was only one sure way of silencing her, and Rolfe took it. He'd
been wanting
to do it since he'd first clapped eyes on her at the Swedish Embassy. His hands closed around her throat, holding her steady, and his lips came down hard on hers.

In the space of a single heartbeat, Zoë recognized the smell, taste, feel of the man who was attacking her. The hands which had been pushing him away suddenly dragged him closer. Vestiges of her dream clung to her mind. This was Rolfe.
Safety.
A haven.
Later, she would excuse her odd behavior by blaming it on the nightmare. For the present, she was too relieved to care. She burrowed under him, pulling him more securely on top of her, hugging him to her, reveling in the comfort she experienced in the shelter of his powerful muscular body. Lust was the furthest thing from her mind.

Lust was the furthest thing from Rolfe's mind, too. But when he adjusted the lower half of his body against the cradle of her spread thighs, the inevitable happened. He was, as he later philosophically consoled himself, only a male. And no woman had ever given him the warmth of Zoë's welcome.

Zoë felt the press of the masculine arousal and went perfectly still.

Rolfe pulled back his head and tried to gauge her reaction. It was too dark to make out her features. But the pulse at her throat seemed to leap up at him. The quick rasp of her breath feathered his lips. He could feel her body trembling all the way to her toes. Smiling, Rolfe lowered his head.

"No," quavered Zoë.

"Kitten, you know you want this," crooned Rolfe,
with so much masculine satisfaction that Zoë almost took offense.

It was the surprising tenderness which disarmed her. Lips, whisper soft, brushed over hers, tasting, nibbling, before settling to claim her completely. The pressure of Rolfe's mouth became bruising, demanding entrance for the thrust of his tongue. Surrender flamed through Zoë. She was boneless, helpless,
pliant
. His head dipped and the lash of his tongue at first one tight nipple then the other had her writhing with pleasure. She whimpered.

"I'm going too fast," muttered Rolfe, and he stilled, fighting back the rush of passion. Zoë moved sinuously beneath him. "Don't move," he groaned the moment before he lost control.

His hands were everywhere at once, sweeping over her soft woman's contours, roughly urgent as he yanked up her nightdress, gentling to probe between her thighs for the entrance to her body.

"Ah, kitten." He
sighed
the words into her mouth.

At the first touch of his fingers, Zoë jerked. Rolfe's hand spread out across the soft flesh of her bottom, kneading reassuringly. "Be still, love," he murmured. "I don't want to hurt you."

Not hurt her? Like a bursting bubble, Zoë's desire evaporated.
Not hurt her?
Belatedly, she remembered the pain of his possession. Instinctively she arched away, but one strong arm slid around her hips, locking her body more securely to his.

Sensing her alarm, Rolfe soothed, "I won't hurt you. I promise." Zoë trembled, undecided. That beguiling, incredibly seductive masculine voice went on, "Ah, kitten. There's never been anyone for me but you.
Only you."