The Misguided Matchmaker (9 page)

Instantly,
every man at the table was on his feet, sword drawn and murder in his eye.
Tristan yanked Maddy from her chair and pushed her and the whimpering serving
maid toward the door, keeping his body between them and the clashing swords
behind him.

“Supper,”
he yelled at the maid, who scooted for the kitchen the minute she cleared the
public room doorway. “And a basin of hot water for washing. If they are not
delivered to my chamber within five minutes, I will come looking for you.”

Maddy
pulled her arm from Tristan’s grasp with a muttered, “Keep your ‘clever hands’
to yourself.” Her back was rigid as a post and her boots thudded ominously on
the wooden treads as she made her way up the stairway. Stopping at the first
landing, she waited for him to indicate which chamber was hers.

He
pointed mutely to the stairs leading to the attic, and found himself thinking
longingly of the
mêlée
under way in the public room below. That kind of
male combat he understood and could handle with an aplomb gained from six years
of surviving on the streets of Paris. But what man in his right mind would
welcome confrontation with an irate female—especially one who thought she had
him dead to rights? Grimly, he followed her up the stairwell and pushed open
the door to the tiny attic room.

Maddy
poked her head in the door and stared at the narrow bed and the wooden packing
crate on which a single tallow candle dripped and sputtered. The anger already
simmering inside her burst into a full-fledged conflagration and she wheeled
around to face the man behind her. “What is this? Have you secured me a room in
the maid’s quarters?”

“Shhh.
Maddy, lower your voice.”

She
lowered it to an icy tone only he could hear. “You are carrying our disguise a
bit too far,
Father Tristan
. I agreed to pose as your assistant; I did
not agree to lie on straw-filled ticking while you sleep in a feather bed.”

Tristan
gave her a gentle shove, followed her into the tiny room and closed the door
behind him. “This was the only room available when we arrived.” He consulted
his watch. “And it is now half past the hour of ten. There is little likelihood
another will become available tonight. You may rant and rave all you like; it
will do you no good. It is either this or bed down in the stable with a dozen
or more coachmen and stable boys, an arrangement in which I, myself, have no
interest. But feel free to avail yourself of such accommodations if you wish.”

He
reached down and pulled a knife from his boot. “However, if you do, I would
suggest you arm yourself with this. As you may have noticed when we arrived,
they’re a rough lot. God only knows what use they might find for a pretty young
boy—and if they discovered he was, in fact, a female, it does not even bear
thinking about.”

“And
how much safer am I here with a lecher who cannot even think of a plausible lie
to cover his debauchery?”

Tristan’s
eyes chilled to two chips of silver ice, and anger thinned his mouth to a mere
knife slash in his beard-darkened face. “Never fear, mademoiselle, you are as
safe with me as if you were in one of your papist convents. Surely you realize
that if I had found you in the least bit tempting, I could have ravaged you as
easily in the hayloft as an attic—particularly when you draped yourself all
over me in the middle of the night. The fact is, I only lust after
warm-blooded, warm-hearted women; my lascivious urges do not extend to scrawny
females with boyish figures and waspish tongues.”

Maddy
reeled as if he had struck her. She ached to lash back at him with something as
vicious and insulting as his ugly denunciation of her. But before she could
gather her wits, she heard a knock and a voice that declared, “Here is your
supper, Father, and your hot water.

Instinctively,
she stepped aside as Tristan reached for the door handle. The plump, little
serving maid stood on the threshold, tray in hand, and behind her stood a pot
boy with a basin of steaming water and two linen towels.

The
maid smiled tentatively. “There’s not a spoonful of ragout left in the kitchen.
‘Twas the last of it that landed on the floor when you gave me such a start.
Nor is there much else left to eat with those hotheads below filling their
bellies like hogs at a trough.

“But
never fear, Father. You and your young companion need not go to sleep hungry.
For look what I managed to find for you.” She handed him the tray. “A nice bit
of bread and cheese.”

Morning,
when it finally came, was as pale and chilly as a tax collector’s smile.
Through half-closed eyelids, Maddy watched the gray light filter through the
narrow, dirt-encrusted window and seek out the shadowy corners of the tiny
room. She had slept poorly, though she’d had the narrow bed to herself. After a
silent meal, Tristan had wrapped himself in the blanket he’d brought in from
the carriage, stretched out on the floor with his head on the knapsack and
closed his eyes.

Long
after the single, smoky candle had guttered out, she’d lain staring into the
dark, remembering his disparaging description of her. “A scrawny female with a
boyish figure and a waspish tongue.”

She’d
tried to convince herself the hateful words didn’t hurt. He had, after all,
spoken in anger—anger she admitted to triggering. But she suspected there had
been more truth than temper in what he’d said. She’d always been painfully
aware of her small bosom. But a waspish tongue? If, indeed, she was guilty of
that failing, then at least part of the blame could be laid at his door. There
was something about the man that brought out the worst in her.

As
she watched through half-open eyes, Tristan stirred, stretched his arms above
his head, and yawned. A moment later, he rose stiffly from the floor and folded
the blanket. Rummaging through the knapsack, he drew forth the razor the St.
Bartholomew housekeeper had provided. With the remains of the wash water and a
sliver of soap left from the night before, he proceeded to shave himself before
the cracked mirror hanging on the wall above the packing crate.

Maddy
had never before seen a man perform his daily ablutions. Her grandfather had
been much too austere and formal a man to allow any female such a personal
glimpse of him. Even when he had become so seriously ill, he had demanded she
leave the room whenever his valet washed and shaved him.

Fascinated,
she watched Tristan scrape away the black beard that had darkened his lean
features for the past two days. Even in the dim light, she could see how
handsome he was without it, and she found herself wondering how many women,
like the little maid, had found him irresistible. The very thought made her
ache in a way she was certain no lady was supposed to ache.

His
task complete, he repacked the knapsack, picked up the blanket, and moved to
stand over her at the side of the bed. Maddy pretended to be asleep, rather
than meet his pale, knowing gaze and risk his detecting the embarrassment she
felt over their enforced intimacy. A moment later, she heard him slip quietly
from the room and close the door behind him.

She
sat bolt upright. Where was he going? Too late, she wished she had the courage
to face him long enough to ask. Quickly, she shoved her feet into her boots,
splashed water on her face, and finger-combed her short curly hair. He might be
the most exasperating man she had ever met, but once he was out of her sight,
she felt as if she were cut adrift from the only reality left in her life.

A
peek in the doorway of the public room told her he was not there. Nor was
anyone else except the little maid, who was busy cleaning up the debris from
the previous night. She looked up from where she was scrubbing vigorously at a
bloodstain defacing the worn planking of the floor.

“Men!”
she said disparagingly. “You are all alike. Drunken sods who rail at each other
like raging bulls, then crawl away to sleep it off while we women clear up your
mess. If I was you, lad, I’d follow in the good father’s footsteps and steer
clear of such was raising a ruckus here last night.”

Maddy
laughed. “Oh I intend to follow in his footsteps all right,” she said, lowering
her voice sufficiently to preserve her disguise.

“Well,
you’d best make tracks then,” the maid said, obviously taking her literally.
“For he come knocking at the scullery door a bit ago, bolted down a mug of
coffee, and rode off in that little black carriage of his.”

Maddy’s
heart dropped to her toes. “He left the inn?”

“
Oui.
Waved good-bye and threw me a kiss.” The little maid sighed. “What a shame he
had to be a priest.”

Gripping
the back of the nearest chair for support, Maddy recalled Tristan’s fury when
she’d call him a lecher, his cruel rejoinder that told her how unappealing he
found her. The very air in the little attic room had crackled with his
anger—but it had never occurred to her he would just walk out and leave her
stranded without a
sou
to her name. What tale would the black-hearted
devil weave to explain such infamy to her father? A clever one, she’d no doubt.
He had already proven himself a cunning liar.

“I
have to wonder why the good father left you here alone,” the maid said,
studying her curiously. “It seems an odd thing to do with the inn full of the
kind of men who would use a pretty lad like you most cruelly if they thought
you were without protection.”

Maddy
felt a chill slither down her spine, but she managed what she hoped was a
confident smile. “My sister and her husband live nearby,” she improvised
hastily. “Father Tristan merely offered me a ride to where I could walk to
their farm.”

“Ah,
so that’s the way of it.” The maid wiped her hands on her apron, which still
bore the remains of the ill-fated ragout. “Well, come with me to the kitchen
then. The father said I was to make certain you had a piece of bread and a mug
of coffee when you woke.”

“How
kind of him.”

“
Oui
,
you’ll not find many men in France as kind nowadays. They’re all too busy fretting
about who’ll be sitting on the throne to worry about such as you and me, lad.”

Half
an hour later, her hunger satisfied, Maddy bid farewell to the little maid and
stepped from the kitchen to find the courtyard strangely quiet and empty. The
sounds of grooms and horses stirring about came from the stable and the smell
of fresh hay filled the cool morning air, but apparently the inn’s contentious
guests were still sleeping off last night’s debauchery—a blessing for which she
was deeply grateful.

Blinking
after the gloom inside the inn, she stood for a minute in the bright sunshine,
collecting her wits. The first shock of finding herself abandoned had passed
and a numbness born of sheer terror settled over her.

Grimly,
she reviewed her options. There were only two that she could see. She could
walk back to Lyon and hide in the church as Father Bertrand had suggested. If
anyone questioned her en route, she could claim she was going south to join
Bonaparte’s army. It was by far the most sensible thing to do.

But
if she could somehow make it to Calais… She remembered a remark Tristan had
made in passing about her father’s ship waiting there to carry them to England.
All she needed was a ride. She could never walk that far—or even if she could,
the ship would be long gone before she reached the seaport town. But with all
the Royalists fleeing north, surely she could find someone with whom she might
safely travel. A man and his wife perhaps, or a noblewoman traveling with her
coachman and maid. If such a person still existed in southern France, she would
surely be anxious to stay out of the Corsican’s evil grasp.

She
made her decision. Squaring her shoulders, she started walking…north. Her knees
were still trembling, but the very act of making a decision lifted her flagging
spirits.

The
road was flat, bordered on both sides by peaceful green meadows, with sheep
grazing on one side, cows on the other. A warm breeze carried the scent of
newly turned earth and somewhere a lamb bleated for its mother. She found it
difficult to believe this peaceful countryside might once again be the scene of
a bloody battle over the throne of France.

Ahead,
a narrow stone bridge spanned a small stream and beyond that she could see the
village Tristan had mentioned, basking in the early morning sunshine. She had
just started across the bridge when she heard the pounding of hooves behind
her. Turning, she found a horse and rider bearing down upon her a breakneck
speed. With a cry of alarm, she climbed atop the waist-high rock wall bordering
the bridge just in time to keep from being crushed.

Swearing
profusely, the rider reined in his horse at the end of the bridge and shook his
fist at her. She recognized him from his flame-colored hair, as the young
Royalist who’d started the fracas in the inn the night before. He was hatless,
and one eye was closed and surrounded by a purplish black bruise that gave him
an odd, owlish look. A thin red line crossing his right cheek suggested he’d
come out the worst in at least one contest of swordsmanship.

“
Sacre
bleu
, you stupid
paysan
, my blooded stallion could have broken a leg
if he’d stepped on you,” he shouted, staring down his aristocratic nose at her.