Chapter 24 #2
He raked a hand through his loosened hair.
Come hell, high water, or Elizabeth Harcrest, he was going to sleep in a bed tonight.
He climbed in beside her, his back turned resolutely to her curves, and nudged.
She didn’t budge. James Dinsmore, scourge of society, heir to a duchy, lay on the edge of the mattress, without a pillow, one arm and half a leg dangling over the side of the bed, four toes exposed to the cold.
He nudged her again. She settled her back against his and sighed.
“Elizabeth,” he said firmly, “move over.”
“Just some hot chocolate, please,” she mumbled.
“Move over.”
Startled, half-awake, she scrambled over, taking the remainder of the covers with her.
“And give me back some of the damn covers.”
“You don’t have to be so cross about it!” She thrust the covers at him, her voice sounding, to his ear, unreasonably offended.
He moved away from the edge of the mattress and took a portion of the bundle of sheets and blankets she held bunched in her arms. “Thank you,” he said as politely as if she’d agreed to allow him to promenade her around a dance floor.
He made a great show of spreading them down the length of his legs and tucking in his toes. “Now a pillow, if you please.”
She tossed one at him. “If I’d known you were so possessive about your bedclothes, I’d have wrapped myself in a shawl.”
As he caught the pillow, he allowed his eyes to wander slowly over her.
He started with the rumpled chestnut curls that fell below her shoulders, moving to the laced vee of her oversized nightshirt, down to her hands covered by cuffs edged in lace.
He recognized the lace. Anne had stitched it.
“And this shawl, would it be yours? Or something you pilfered from my trunk?”
She flipped a curl over her shoulder in what was meant to be a gesture of defiance, but it only served to offer him a glimpse of breast between the vee.
Catching the direction of his glance, she snatched the nightshirt closed.
James felt the same sense of heavy regret as when the curtain fell on the last scene of a brilliantly sung opera.
“Since it is your nightshirt, I can understand why you would be interested in an explanation of how I came to be in it.”
He nodded.
“But it is your fault, really.”
James turned to her, leaning on one elbow. “Sorry? My fault?”
“If your men had not been so consumed with keeping that little trunk of yours dry, perhaps they might have noticed that the lids of my trunks were left gaping in the rain.”
He made a silent promise to himself to warn David to take better care to conceal his concern over the welfare of the little trunk. “I see. You have my deepest apologies. I shall speak to my men in the morning. In the meantime, while your things are drying, you are welcome to my nightshirt.”
“It’s not as if I enjoy wearing your things,” she sniffed. “Frankly, James, since we find ourselves sharing such intimate quarters, I feel compelled to tell you…well…your cologne…it’s…less refined than your usual choices.”
“You don’t like it?” He pretended to take offense, though he agreed with her; the stuff David had concocted to make the invisible ink on the interior of the trunk reappear smelled so noxious it made his head spin.
“It’s all the rage in London, but then you’ve been out of circulation these past months, and styles do change so quickly amongst the haute ton… ”
Her sharp intake of breath told him his attempt to change the subject had been successful.
It was a cruel thing to say. He knew it. But she was noticing far too many details about his belongings. And with her sitting so close and wearing so little, he was noticing far too many details about her.
Elizabeth pulled her pillow to the far side of the bed and turned her back to him, dragging the bedclothes with her.
Cold air chilled his toes, but James didn’t ask for the covers back.
The old woman stood uncertainly before the desk of the officer in charge of security for the department of Rouen.
She was unaccustomed to dealing with the authorities.
She’d spent most of her life trying not to be noticed by such people.
She’d long ago learned that if a peasant such as she lifted her head up, most likely she’d get her ears boxed.
Still, she’d walked all morning through the mud left by last night’s rain and the information she had was important.
The officer looked up from his work, his black eyes taking in her ragged skirt, her soiled apron, and the strings of gray hair hanging loose from her cotton cap. “You have business with me, citizeness?” he inquired, his voice skeptical.
She licked her thin, dry lips and managed a low, stuttering sound.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“Someone,” she said softly, then cleared her voice and started again. “Someone has been stealing my eggs.”
“I see.” The officer pushed his tricorne hat with its bold revolutionary cockade back on his head and scratched at an elusive flea.
“Not just one egg, but three.” She held up three wrinkled fingers to emphasize her point.
“And these eggs, is it possible they might have been stolen by a rat? Or perhaps a fox?”
“A rat would not have taken so many, and a fox, why, he’d have taken my chickens, not their eggs.” She shook her head. “No, it was a person; of this I am sure.”
“So,” he repeated, examining a speck between his thumb and forefinger, “someone has been stealing your eggs.”
“And my neighbor Jacques’s coat, right off the back of his wagon. A good coat it was, too, not more than two or three years old.”
He flicked the speck away. “And why do you think this is a matter for the Rouen Committee of Public Safety? Most likely it is the prank of some neighbor’s boy.”
“No, no, citizen. The neighbor’s boys have all joined the army.” She leaned forward. “I think, citizen, that there is a fugitive hiding in the area. I think you should send some soldiers to watch my coop.”
“We have arrested all of the fugitives in this area.”
“Perhaps it is some other enemy of the Republic who is stealing my eggs,” she insisted.
The officer reached for a sheet of paper and picked up a pen.
Dipping the nib in a bottle of ink, he asked, “Your name?” The old woman supplied him with her name and address, watching as the pen moved swiftly across the page, leaving marks she couldn’t read.
When the pen stopped, the officer looked at her.
“This is very interesting information, citizeness. You can be certain we will give it all the attention it deserves.”
She smiled, revealing several missing teeth, and thanked him.
The officer watched as she turned and walked away. As the heavy wooden door closed behind her, he picked up the paper and added it to the pile on the corner of his desk.